Author's Note: Continuing on, then.
Quick note: I'm sorry I couldn't reply personally, as it was anonymous, but some people were wondering why BB don't just move a mattress into the bathroom at night. Several reasons: The first being that they don't stay in there all night, as you'll see in this chapter. Mostly just when night is at it's strongest, when they need to be alert. Which brings about the second reason. They can't be too comfortable. If by some miracle they were able to fall asleep, it would leave them even more vulnerable should a possible break-in occur. Hope that helps!
PS: Oh! And some more anonymous reviewers were concerned about Parker. I don't want to give anything away, but no worries. *wink* I love the little nipper too much to bring him any permanent, if any, harm.
Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!
Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!
CHAPTER NINE
IT IS A SAD SALVATION
*
If all the flowers faded away
And if all the storm clouds decided to stay
If loving her is a heartache for me
And if holding her means I have to bleed
Then I am the martyr and love is to blame
She is the healing and I am the pain
Tomorrow will be as it always has been
And I will fall to her again
For I know I've come too close
Cause if right is leaving, I'd rather be wrong
She is the sunlight, and the sun is gone
-She is the Sunlight-
July 31st, 2009
His couch isn't as soft as he's remembered it being. The television's on, but he doesn't hear a word of what's being said.
Three days ago, there was an arrest warrant put out for Dr. Temperance Brennan. The last time he'd laid eyes on her was two days before that. His superiors tell him it's for her own safety. DC citizens have tried more than once to take justice into their own hands. They lash out against the one who has tried to save them.
He knows there's little truth to their promises. It isn't about protecting her. Their desires lay in guard of the greater people. The broader outlook.
He knows it's going to get worse.
Sleep is out of the question. Days worth of facial hair roughens his jaw and adds depth to the already dark shadows on his face. He feels like a shadow. Inadequate. Balancing on the edge of existence, one douse of the light and he'll vanish. Taking another pull from the bottle in his grasp, his clouded gaze soon falls on the small figurine occupying his coffee table. About five inches tall and sporting a cartoonish appearance.
A caveman.
His attire is mostly primal–as Neanderthals often preferred. The dark mop of hair is a ruffled mess. Behind his back, he holds the time-honored club, as if trying to conceal it from sight. On a round and scruffy face, big white teeth bare a wide and goofy smile. The dwarfed cave-dweller also presents a humble little daffodil between two sausage-like fingers. Large brown eyes reflect the same smile.
Booth loves the little bastard.
A gift. From her.
Delivered with that secret smile she often saves just for him. And along with her favorite teasing remark: "Alpha male."
This only makes him cherish it more. At the sight of the tiny knuckle-dragger, he feels the ire drain from him. It's quickly replaced by a more real, tangible feeling. One that swallows the remainder of his energy like a marauding black hole.
He's tired.
Physically, yes, though he's not sure why. He hasn't had any cause for exertion. His problem has been the precise opposite, as a matter of fact. For the past several weeks, he's been forced to sit and do nothing. Emotionally, he knows he's spent.
God, is he tired.
He sinks further into the overwhelming cushions of his sofa, trying to ignore the burn behind his eyes as he downs another healthy swig, transferring the blaze to his throat. This is better.
He's hoped this one would finally seize his consciousness and lay it to rest. If only for an hour.
He hates drinking. It's too much like his father. But he just wants to forget. He doesn't know anything else. It numbs him. This is what he does know.
His weary eyes attempt to focus on his watch to learn the time, but after a moment of struggling, he realizes he doesn't really care. What he is certain of though, is he's sick and tired of getting drunk every night and wallowing in his sorrow. He hates that he can't do anything–can't fix what's gone so horribly wrong. The lack of control brings about an aching, physical pain. The alcohol's supposed to erase the pain. It doesn't.
Assuming an intensely pensive frown, he's just about to attempt a decision as to what he's going to do next when there's a knock at his door. If he'd been paying any attention to the television, he probably wouldn't have heard it.
Angling his head to glare at the offending piece of wood, he debates answering the thing. More than anything, right now, he just wants to be left alone. Gradually though, a deeper frown creases his brow. There's no second knock. Either the person's waiting–doubtful–or they've already left. Deliberating, he finally huffs an irritated sigh and rises from the couch, beer in hand, and stalks over to the door.
So much for getting ass-over-teakettle drunk. He can still walk a straight line.
He privately admits that the callous "What?" issued to the person on the opposite side of the door as he tears it open is a little indecorous, but isn't in the mood to care.
Until he sees those eyes waiting from behind the oak.
He stills immediately, drawn expression losing all trace of hostility. He feels his chest constrict at the deep vulnerability pooling in the depths of those twin blue stars. Her hair is slightly disheveled and her face is ashen in the glow of the hall lights. Somehow, she looks smaller. Fragile, like a dried rose petal. Her eyes beg him what her face leaves already exposed.
Help me.
For a split second, he sees a pang of fear glisten in her brittle stare, and he's realized he hasn't said anything. Has offered no response to her arrival. He tries, then. Tries with all his strength to form the words, offer some sort of acknowledgement. His lips part to do so, but his voice doesn't comply. So he does the only thing he knows to do.
Instinct forays. This is what he knows.
Discarding the bottle and taking a step closer, he seizes her against his chest, freeing the relieved breath he hadn't realized he's been holding for the past week. She gasps into him, an influx of emotions surging to the surface as total peace and security envelopes her.
For now, she's safe. To him, she isn't some fugitive he'll be harboring against his government's explicit commands. She's his partner–he's been deprived of this woman's presence for what feels like months.
For now, he has hope.
October 2nd, 2009
Panic is broadcasted. Total upheaval fills the small television screen. A newscaster unveils shocking events.
"Not two hours ago, the streets of DC became an interagency warzone. An informal capital punishment gone horribly wrong. Dr. Temperance Brennan, initiator of the Krippin Virus that's been infecting the entire East coast, carrier of the virus herself, was ordered to be terminated on sight today in protection of American citizens and national security. Law enforcement officials remain mute on the subject, some denying the allegations.
The quarantined hit was initially supposed to be carried out by a highly-trained SAC within the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but this sad tale quickly fell to violent retribution when the agent turned on his own team.
Special Agent Seeley Booth, former elite sniper with the U.S. Army Rangers, abandoned those orders and promptly took out four Intelligence Agency field officers. A young man has come forward with footage of this gruesome incident, but wishes to remain anonymous. Be advised… the content is disturbing."
A cell phone-quality video fills the screen. Audio is a lost cause.
The gun is already resting in his palm, weight familiar. The metal is smooth and cold. She's tucked against his side.
The decision is already made, no matter how much he hates killing. No matter how much pain this will cause him. It cuts him, deeply. But he cannot sit back and watch the looming atrocity. Cannot allow her to be killed. Executed at the mouth of some alley.
It's a standoff. Shots fired. The last Intelligence agent drops like a stone.
The rekindled screams distort the audio even further.
There have been casualties, but she's still alive.
Painful. Sickening.
But it's enough.
The shaky video glitches, snows. It's done.
"It's said that Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan had been professional partners–the subtext of just how close they were isn't known. Clearly…"
He drowns out the rest, hanging his head. His eyes close. A slow hand covers his face, a breath expels shamed despair. The weight is heavy on his shoulders, the hollowness of his stomach intense.
The haunting call of the television is too much. He switches it off.
He feels responsible. Knows he's not.
He'd risked everything telling him. Assigning him–vouching for him. Had he really expected a different ending?
"Go with God, Seeley," Cullen speaks quietly into the empty office. "And may He forgive us all."
August 15th, 2010
His eyes slowly open against the sunlight warming his face, watch trilling at him that his nap is over. Mumbling a tired groan, he shifts on the soft mattress supporting him and rubs an arm over his eyes. Dark hair sticks at odd angles. He fingers the St. Christopher's chain around his neck.
Yawning, Booth rolls over onto his side and lets his hand find the nightstand where his Beretta rests faithfully. Beside the pistol are several photo frames that keep pictures of Parker, the Squints, and random family members. Nearby, Bob the Caveman keeps watchful guard over Jasper the Pig, as if the little porker were his own misbegotten young.
Shifting his attention past the nightstand of memories, his eyes finally rest on her sleeping form. The nightstand sits between two full-sized beds, dividing the space in the open room. He watches her with drowsy eyes as she sleeps just a short reach away.
Several errant tresses of auburn have strayed to brush along the fair expanse of a cheekbone with feather-light care. The sun highlights the outline of shimmering hues, giving her an ethereal halo.
She is the reason.
He's done unspeakable things. For her. For this woman. He'll do them again if he must. He can't not. He's never been willing to deny her safety.
People never really change.
The graceful curve of her neck is partially hidden by the more obedient locks fanned out across her slender shoulders. Her features are facing him, slack and peaceful, but with the tiniest of frowns on her mouth. No matter how badly he longs to kiss that worry line away, he constrains himself to silent stillness.
He'd reset her own wristwatch on the nightstand near her pillow so she'd be allowed just a few more minutes of rest. Knowing he'll get an earful for that later, he doesn't really mind. Watching her sleep is a privilege–the most cathartic and calming exercise he's ever engaged in.
She's close enough to touch, but so far from his reach. A tragedy he'll accept if only he can watch her at peace.
Despite having heard her murmur something softly in her innocent slumber, her husky voice breaking the quiet manages to take him by surprise. "You set my alarm back again." There's no malice to her voice. The lightly evident trace of amusement isn't lost to him either.
He can't hide the grin that forms. And with her eyes yet comfortably veiled, he doesn't see a reason to.
"Good morning, Booth," he happily pesters. "How did you sleep?"
This is what they know.
Eyes still hidden beneath their lids, a ghost of a smile curves the corners of her mouth.
Their daily morning routines carry on without alteration. Ten minutes spent side by side on separate treadmills, jogging forward into their own fabricated daydreams, commences the schedule. Both wear comfortable gray sweatpants and white tank tops.
He dons the twin beating gloves as she punches and kicks away at them, glaring harmlessly when he holds one just out of her reach and claims it unintentional.
They both share in damaging the large, swinging heavy-bag which rattles merrily on its chain. Hold each other's shins while doing sit-ups.
Towards the closing of their early morning workout, she sits and reads with her feet resting atop the small of his back while he performs his pushups.
When she partakes in her yoga, he massages the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. His hands are a fascinating thing to watch. She does the same for him. Her favored technique is neuromuscular–reducing pain and releasing pressure on nerves caused by injuries, old and new.
There's often little talking during these sessions, unless it involves a prescheduled bicker. Mostly, they train in silence and bask in the relaxing ambiance of the other's company.
In the mornings, they're often still striving to forget what transpires during the nights previous, until the ugly circle can begin again.
"Do you want company?" he asks between chews, poking at his breakfast with his fork.
Swallowing some orange juice, she finally shakes her head. "I really don't want you down there." It's the truth. Her truth. She meets his eyes from across the table. "I'd rather you stay here, where it's…" The words die off, lost on her tongue. Her gaze falls.
"Safe?" he finishes for her, smiling gloomily from behind his own glass. A silence settles around them before he continues. "I get it, really. Just curious."
"Can you keep yourself busy?" She diverts the topic, rising from her seat, her plate clean.
He sends her a crooked grin. Inclines his head toward the television. "Bandicoot."
Her laughter is light, easy. This is familiar. It's better. "Are we through with the movie, by the way?"
"Yup. We should bring it back today, though. Otherwise Fred will make us pay the late fee."
Her nose wrinkles in distaste. "He's creepy. I don't like him."
Brutally honest, forever and always.
A secret smile slowly spreads across his face. The mischievous glint reclaims his eyes. "He's got a crush on you, you know."
She snorts and swats him on the arm as she passes. Carries her plate and glass to the sink and deposits them. "Fred can go fly a plane."
"Kite, Bones. Fred can go fly a kite."
"I stand by my metaphor," she asserts, moving for the doorway under the staircase. "Piloting a plane is a great deal more perilous than piloting a kite."
"What if he was standing in a thunderstorm?"
He snickers while simultaneously ducking the dishtowel aimed for his head as his partner disappears into the basement.
Descending the steps leading below the house, Brennan dons the white lab coat hanging faithfully in wait at the bottom. The room is rather spacious. Blue ultraviolet light soaks her in the small entrance pass where she fills her hands in sanitary cleanser. Scrubs them clean.
Metal shelves contain various scientific solutions and equipment paves her way into the full room. She switches on the entirety of the illumination source, and several fluorescent lights flicker to life to reveal a smaller version of her work station that still exists at the Jeffersonian. The walls are lined with notes, trial photographs, metal cabinets, and other scientific apparatuses. In the center, a desk houses the main computer–her preferred work station of the entire space.
Drawing her hair back into a tie, she clicks a few sequential keys on the keyboard until her monitor comes to life. Her reflection appears on the screen, thanks given to the small camera perched atop, and a red record signal blinks at the bottom half of the display.
Brainy Smurf peers up at her from beside the keyboard, ever questioning. Plastic curiosity.
Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, she turns her attention back to the screen.
"Doctor Temperance Brennan," she begins formally in her clinical tone. "August fifteenth, two thousand and ten. GA-series serum 391, animal trials. Streaming video." Moving away from her desk, she approaches a back area of the room, arriving at a small hollow space in the wall.
It's covered by a thick black veil of fabric that lines to the floor. The protrusion it conceals is nearly as tall as she. Reaching over, Brennan flips another switch, lighting up the small area. Overcoming her nerves, she stares for a short time at the sable barrage. Bowing her head and taking a deep, settling breath, she reaches over and yanks the two halves of black apart like curtains.
All at once, eighteen small transparent cases welcome her. Six across, three tall.
Within, infected carriers in the form of rodents leap at her, hissing and baring their teeth, attacking the barriers that contain them. Their beady gray eyes glare fiercely with only instinct and malice. Hairless bodies quiver. Through their sickly, translucent skin, she can discern the tiny blue veins pulsing with feral rage. Little jaws snapping, some fissure the surface of their cases with the force behind their collisions.
Brennan, face falling, shakes her head in sad disapproval. "GA-series results appear typical," she surmises for the recording. Pacing along to examine each infected rodent, she taps at the exterior which earns her another snarl from her current subject. "Compound one, three, four, six, eight, nine, ten, eleven…" she trails off, feeling her spirits drop in discouragement, "fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, did not kill the virus."
She tilts her head, observing. Eyes calculating.
"Compounds two, five, seven, twelve, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen…" Her eyes slide closed. "All killed the host."
She looks on sadly at the motionless ones which she can no longer help. Even if they were only rats, they are still innocent and have died because of her studies.
She's ready to leave the small creatures to their peace when her skilled eye catches something unusual. Angling her head, she slowly makes her way over to the center of the compounds, stooping over slightly.
"Hold on…"
Inside compound six, the assigned rodent–while its appearance resembles its brothers and sisters–does not attack its container. It doesn't hiss or screech until its throat is raw. Instead, it's content to sniff at the air of its housing box and shuffle around within.
She feels an odd flutter in her middle. "Compound six appears to be showing decreased aggression response. Partial pigmentation return." Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she withdraws a small flashlight, shining its narrow beam at the critter inside. "Slight pupil constriction." Unable to help the fascinated smile that forms on her parted lips, she breathes a small laugh of wonder. "GA-series 391, compound six. Next candidate… for human trials."
This is less exciting, by the way the buzzing in the pit of her stomach indicates. Yet all the same, it is.
Hesitating, she permits her smile to grow. Feels a brief sense of accomplishment flood over her. Much better.
Reaching out, she taps fondly on the glass.
"Hang in there, number six."
July 31st, 2009
She allows him to hold her, recalling again how it feels to be in his arms.
Remembers this.
For a moment, everything is right again. They're back in time.
She knows she should get inside, so as not to be seen, but can't bring herself to withdraw from him. To her dismay, tears have started to form, making her surroundings turn blurry. Ignoring the world, she buries her face in the confines of his shirt, feeling her failures evaporating from the moment of his contact.
She unravels.
She's been so afraid. Lost, alone. Without direction. On the run, but unable to fully leave. She can't abandon him. Couldn't possibly.
The feel of him gently caressing her hair and back is overwhelming, soothing away all things hurtful and mending her wounds. "It's all right," he whispers. And she believes him.
She holds him tighter, grips his upper arms. She can feel the power, the strength, poised there. If she can somehow feed off that strength, his arms around her will make her stronger. Somehow, they must, because she's not crumbling into pieces.
This comfort he now provides slowly melts into her, filling her with new life and restoring her hope. All those nights isolated and on the run, forced on her knees by desperation, are forgotten in his embrace.
She knows this. It's peaceful.
It feels like home.
I didn't want you to see me cry
I'm fine, but I know it's a lie
Look me in the eyes so I know you know
I'm everywhere you want me to be
The last night you'll spend alone
I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go
I'm everything you need me to be
-The Last Night-