Author's Note: Since I was gone over the weekend, and because ffnet was being a loser for the past like 3 days, I've decided to upload two chapters on this fine evening!
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!
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CHILD IS LOST
*
In my dreams there's a place without war
No more guns, no more pain, no more hurt
It's a world full of joy without sadness
People sing, people dance, with all happiness
So this place will be pure and all healthy
You can live your life in heaven
Take me to my dream, love is everything
Where there is no war, and the children sing
But I know it's just a dream
Will it every change this life?
Hope one day it'll turn around
Into the place that I dream about
-My Dream-
July 29th, 2009
The streets are quieter now.
Lately, very few opt for conversation in their daily schedules. Many wear the protective breathing masks, simple though they are. Those who don't wear the masks are disfavored just as greatly as those who are required to, by law. Those without them are, to some extent, safe. Others are spiteful of this. America was considered a land of equality. This immunological divergence is the origin of many recent and heinous crimes against fellow citizens. Another quickly spreading crisis to add to the numbers.
The atmosphere is a sad reflection of the world and the souls who call it their home. The skies above are gray, the weather just as bleak. The rain hasn't come, but it will. It's common now. The sky–always in mourning. Heaven's tears falling down upon the nation's first city.
Routine quarantine inspections carry out endlessly on the streets. They are indiscriminate, but the families they tear apart are more than a simple number in a study. Real people suffer. Children taken away from their parents at the park, husbands and wives separated, family pets shot and killed in plain sight…
What had once been the archetype of achievement, illustrates now only devastation. All because of one invisible assassin.
He feels a slight resistance on his hand and glances down. "Hey," he prods gently, stopping beside his much smaller companion. "What's the matter?"
Parker doesn't abandon his resolute study of the ground beneath his tiny sneakers. Never releasing the larger hand that guards his own, he leans into his father. Blond curls frame his cheeks, shadowing downcast eyes.
Both father and son wear green bands around their wrists, signifying their purity.
Finding his voice is difficult.
"Where's Bones?" he asks quietly at last, nudging the sidewalk with his toe. He's been afraid to ask, fearing the answer.
They've been to their favorite merry-go-round, but he'd asked to leave when they were the only two there. It feels wrong to hear the music alone, with no laughter or cheering to harmonize the mechanical notes.
Booth feels a sudden ache blossom in his chest and immediately battles away any unwelcome emotion that swells behind his eyes. His son cannot see him cry.
He's known this question would come. And God, what it does to him. To hear it voiced aloud. A large crack appears in his stoic mask that he's been donning every day. The brave face, for his son. Soldiering on. Clearing his throat against the burgeoning lump, he lowers himself to a kneel. Two sets of identical brow eyes align.
He struggles, searches for an explanation. He loses count how long they remain there, staring back at each other evenly. Words are not needed when a deeper bond promises more, but the younger Booth is not satisfied.
The boy's small face holds an innocent sadness, humble mind fighting to understand. "Is she sick?" he tries, large eyes blinking slowly.
Booth releases a ragged breath, another stab of pain burrowing in his chest. He shakes his head. "No, Parker. Bones isn't sick." The frailty of his own voice makes him frown.
Parker gazes back at him sadly, eyes round and pitiful with welling tears. "I miss her."
A fist clenches around his heart, twisting in agony. An influx of emotions surges to the surface, and he's left choking back a cry at his son's unbridled grief. A simple nod is the only movement he can conjure. "I miss her, too."
And yet it's Parker, always a constant surprise with his youthful wisdom, who nods in agreement. His tiny lips press together in determination, and his fingers tighten around his father's hand. "You protect her, Dad." It's an order. The boy will settle for no less. "Make sure she'll be okay. I would," he ducks his head in disappointment, "but I'm too little."
The child speaks.
Booth feels his voice catch in his throat, fights to see his son through the moist fog in his vision. He squeezes his small shoulders affectionately.
"Yeah, buddy," he breathes tearfully, pulling his son into a bracing hug. He squeezes his eyes shut, grazing his cheek over the blond head of curls. "Daddy'll protect Bones."
October 2nd, 2009
Parker sees the news, too.
Watches the event unfold, as if he were there in the flesh.
His rapt attention is wired to the small screen, the reporter's voice echoing in his ears. Coursing through his tiny body, setting every nerve on fire. He doesn't know quite yet what this feeling is. A combination of fear and restrained wrath. He's inherited his father's will to protect those close to him. If he lives long enough, he'll become a great man.
He stands before it, still. Brent has tried to lead him away from the room, away from the secondhand screams and gunshots. The child resists, refuses to move. His eyes never stray.
This is devotion.
The grown up instead hurries to the kitchen to comfort the boy's mother, who's fled, who can't stop saying "Oh my God." It's her mantra. To repeat this, it calms her. Yet it doesn't. She doesn't know what else to do.
The boy watches. Sees the elder Booth fill the screen. Bones is with him.
People will speak badly of his father, but he knows better. He knows. This child can see.
He blinks back the tears in his eyes, stills his trembling lip. He won't see him for a long time. If ever again. A sob breaks from his pursed lips. Just one.
But he's proud. Proud that his father–his father–has done right against the overshadowing current of bad choices. His father has broken no promises.
The outcast is the hero. Everyone else is wrong.
August 15th, 2010
CRACK!
The foreign entry door swings open, snapping at the hinges from the force of the blow. Booth enters weapon first into the home, Brennan at his side with her own drawn at the ready.
"Line of fire, Bones. Keep focused."
"And stay behind you?" she further supplies without breaking concentration.
"You're with me."
She barely contains her smile at his corrective remark, calling her as his equal. Together, they push forward. Treating the supposedly abandoned residence as if hunting down a criminal, they coast swiftly through, ready for anything. She does as he does, learning from him wherever she can. And if she's willing, he's only too happy to teach and feels flattered by her interest.
Satisfied at the result they're met with, they begin searching the rather luxurious house. The rooms are made less classy by the amount of scrap dirtying every space and counter. Booth scoops up a nearby remote lantern, turning it in inspection and checking the batteries.
"Am I improving?" she queries hopefully of her developing skills from another room.
"Oh, totally," he enthuses, stuffing the lantern into his duffel. "You pick things up pretty fast."
"I am a quick study," she agrees, reentering the room, coloring shyly at his praise. She approaches a coffee table littered with pill bottles and newspaper clippings.
She's entreated to a teasing version of the charm smile. "Pretty soon you won't need me anymore, huh?"
She shoots him a quelling glance in disapproval. "Don't say things like that."
Besides just the small table, the clippings are riddled throughout the entire home, cluttering walls and cabinets alike. He walks into the room, boots thudding against the hardwood floor as he steps up to a window. Large, stifling curtains hang oppressively from the crest all the way to the floor. Taking up the copious fabric in his grasp, he yanks it completely from the rod. Brilliant sunlight instantly bathes the home. He repeats this act on two more windows. "Anything we can use?" he asks, nodding at the pills before heading to the kitchen.
She reads carefully over the labels, shaking her head the negative. "No."
In the kitchen, Booth rummages through the nearest cabinet. A large article had been stapled right onto the wood, the bold words burned on the page.
Infected dogs can come out at dusk. STAY IN THE LIGHT.
Tossing aside a box of stale cereal, he digs further. Brennan comes over to him, peeking over his shoulder as he retrieves two small cans. "Red salmon," he reads of one, then grins excitedly of the second. "Actual spam." A little ha! of laughter. "Nice."
"I have to agree with you," she concurs, smiling.
He hands off the two cans for her to place in her duffel and sweeps past, taking notice of the shelf covered in CDs. Tossing away the ones of no interest to him, he occasionally comes across one worth mentioning. "Here you go, Bones," he calls with mocking enthusiasm. "Catpower's greatest hits." He sees her poke her head around the corner, aiming a dirty look his way. He chuckles before going back to his inspection. "Wow. ACDC, Back in Black," he reads aloud, turning another one over to examine the backside. "Grateful Dead." Stuffing the CDs into his pack, he cranes his neck in her general direction. "Hey, and I'll nab this Catpower just for you!"
She joins him in the dining room, narrowing her eyes at him, though disregarding his previous comment. "Are we done?"
"Yeah, looks like it," he decides, hand resting below her shoulder to guide her along. "Let's go."
They make it all the way to the entrance hall before he notices the ajar door. Something settles over him, numbing every reflex and previous motivation. He hesitates, glancing back.
"What is it?" she asks, catching his look.
His brow creases, but his face is unreadable. Nevertheless, she follows him when he slowly approaches the space. Reaching out, his fingers brush the wood and nudge open the door. With a lazy swing, that's all it takes, a flood of deep sorrow consumes him.
Inside the simple bedroom, an indiscernible body lies in the bed. A plastic biohazard sheet hangs from the ceiling like a mosquito net.
The body is small. Too small.
He looks over his shoulder at the closed door beside them, focus eventually resting on the note attached to it.
Happy Birthday, Matty! Don't open until Saturday! Love, Mom and Dad.
He opens the door and takes a hesitant step in, gazing around at the brand new room–full of spaceships and dinosaurs and hockey memorabilia. Every little thing a boy should have.
The room hits him with devastating force. She observes as his face falls sadly, unable to look away from the picture residing on the nightstand. Father and son, posing happily on the ice rink. Smiles light up the entire frame. He stares, unwavering, unblinking, and Brennan can only watch as the man she'd come to believe personified strength now looks as if he's just taken an excess of damaging, physical blows.
His expression is haunted, pained.
Booth feels her hand rest gently on his arm.
"Come on, Booth." Her voice sounds softly at his side, thick and laden with emotion. She's sorry.
Faltering slightly, he blinks, trying to erase the images from his memory. Clearing his throat, he gives a distracted nod. Her touch has yet to leave him as he turns away from the child's room. "Yeah," he whispers, following her out. His voice betrays the fatigue that's settling heavily over him.
After gassing up their vehicle–which involves siphoning it from the pump itself–they make a calming visit to Christine Brennan's grave. Eat their lunch at the Diner, head for the Lincoln Memorial.
She's set her laptop out on the steps, allowing it to replay their recording. Even after a year's time, he's still encouraged her to keep faith, to keep trying.
Now, the two of them toss a baseball back and forth atop the white steps. The dull thud of ball hitting mitt is the only sound that fills their ears. She laughs freely as she throws one over his head and he has to jump for it, nearly losing the ball.
She knows he'd be irked if he'd had to chase it down those steps. He chuckles and tosses it back at her, decent to not make her work for it. Brennan is not so forthcoming. She makes a mad dash for the top steps, the prize tucked safely in her mitt. She can hear his weak laugh far behind her. Determined, she refuses to give up there.
She needs her partner back. The fun-loving, energetic charmer who can make her smile even when she wants to cry. It's her turn now to do the cheering. To be the shoulder. Whirling, she jabs her tongue out at him, blows a raspberry for added trigger. Abandoning his gentle brooding, this is the only provoking he apparently needs.
She squeals as the distance between them is quickly erased by the bounding of his long legs up the steps. A further escape attempt proves futile as his arms close around her, hauling her back, their laughter mingling.
My name is Seeley Booth. With me, is Doctor Temperance Brennan. We are survivors living in Washington DC. I am broadcasting on all AM frequencies. We will be at the Lincoln Memorial everyday at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there… if anyone is out there… we can provide food. We can provide shelter. And we can provide security.
Her voice adds to his promise.
If there is anybody out there—anybody—please… you are not alone.
Hope is faith, holding out its hand in the dark.
-George Iles-