Author's Note: Second chap up!
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CHAPTER TWELVE
THESE WHISPERS IN THE DARK
*
My love is just waiting to turn your tears to roses
No, you'll never be alone
When darkness comes I'll light the night with stars
When darkness comes you know I'm never far
Hear my whispers in the dark
-Whispers in the Dark-
August 16th, 2010
"Booth!" exclaims his eager comrade, aiming a finger far before them down the absent street. Having just come from the lab, she's returned the treated solution back to her duffel and shouldered it once more. He glances up at her declaration, trained eyes following her discovery. "There," she directs, pointing just off his nose.
He hauls up his rifle, zeroing in through the scope in her decided path, scanning the area. Through the high-powered lens, he catches the passing flicker of a tail as the solitary deer disappears behind an eighteen-wheeler. A boyish excitement splits his previously lax face. "Alright," he affirms, grinning and holding up his fist. She complies, knocking it with her own. "Grab your six-shooter, Bones. Lock and load, baby."
Her cheeks glow appreciatively and she shifts her pack around, securing her own rifle so that it's snug against her shoulder. She follows after him past the remains of a fallen helicopter, aged with oxidation and flaking paint.
Here, they enter the labyrinth of abandoned vehicles strewn and occupying each lane. Shattered bricks and split concrete make up most of the pathway. Slanted street signs, crumbling edifices. Stop lights hang uselessly from their posts.
The entire block looks in ruin.
The stag has appeared to realize it's being followed, and quickens its leisurely pace. It snorts with concern, trotting hastily towards an old warehouse that occasionally would occupy the airborne sort in precarious shelter. Overhead, a congregation of seagulls squawk aimlessly, investigating the area for food.
Booth bounds nimbly up a taxi trunk, straight onto the roof, taking steady aim over the maze of autos. Losing the animal behind a humvee, he whistles at his partner, jerking his head to the side.
She issues him a quick nod, jogging around two jeeps and a city bus, preparing to head the creature off. He's swift to follow and steps off the roof onto the windshield, the glass spider-webbing loudly under his boot as he leaps off in pursuit.
A flash of gray-brown speeds past her line of vision. She quickly discards her pack for better mobility and chases after the retreating animal, rifle poised. Jumping over a fallen lamppost, she utilizes her footing to spring herself onto the box of a semi. Gripping the roof rail with one hand, she draws herself up in one adroitly facile maneuver. KV makes her more agile, gives her an edge. And as was expected, the field training Booth has been coaching her in–added to her own dexterity–is something to crow about. Not to mention that having a sniper-trained partner works wonders when tracking a moving target.
She wants to learn.
And so he teaches.
"Now, your breathing is just as important as a level pulse rate, but there's something even more crucial than anything else I've taught you up to this point."
That is difficult for her to accept. For the past hour, he's been running her through multiple exercises to help her improve the two areas he's just cited, combined with judging wind velocity and distance calculation.
Two hours, everyday. This is what they do.
She knows he's not all that keen to train her like this. In how to take a life with such ominous skill and precision–in a manner that leaves a person an invisible shadow, a tool of destruction. She fears that if she causes one delay, he might abandon his lesson altogether with another "I'm your gun" speeches that leave no room for dispute.
She'd asked him once. Knowing how he despises this skill, this curse–duty–so much, why had he done it? Why exercise something that causes you such pain? "Why do it?" she'd asked. "If you hated it so much?"
His answer had been simple. Heavy. Maybe regretful, but all the same firm. "Because I have a gift."
A gift his country had needed. And so he'd served.
"What's that?" she voices now instead of any hindering comments.
They're both perched on an apartment rooftop, the healthy sunshine beating down on them lazily. Several makeshift targets dot the area far below. She's knelt at the ledge, positioned just as he's shown her, flaxen cheek pressed against cool steel.
He hovers behind her in close proximity, chin brushing against her shoulder so that he can gaze with her through the large scope. "Focus your aim. The more you confine it, the more accurate your shot will be. The smaller the target, the lesser chance you'll leave for a bad shot."
"I don't follow," she says uncertainly. She knows that concentration is paramount, but what she doesn't understand is how to further that pinpoint accuracy. The deadeye skill he personally displays with envying proficiency.
"Don't aim for the heart." She's about to protest, but he quiets her with an unguarded look. He's telling her these secrets. He's not holding back–because she's asked that he not. So she listens. Hangs on his every word. He hasn't yet decided if that's a good thing or bad. "The center of the chest is a vague objective. You aim for that one loose thread on the breast pocket just over the heart. Same with a headshot. Instead of the forehead, you zero in on a skin blemish or a speck of dirt." His voice is cool, precise. "A single piece of hair. If you can eliminate it further, do it."
She shivers involuntarily. The clipped tone he executes his words with produces the effect. Sometimes, she forgets just how dangerous this man really is.
He can never teach her everything. A healthy portion of such a lethal talent is just that: talent. Not all of it is acquired, learned. For he is right.
He has a gift.
The latent power was a part of him long before it had been called upon and examined. It's harnessed almost always, but can be unleashed in the blink of an eye, with devastating effects. Though she's eager to learn from him, Brennan wonders if she truly desires to know every dark secret of this gift he possesses.
"When the moment comes, you have to lose yourself."
She knows his words travel far deeper than any exterior or mental reference. This is something he'll never allow her to experience, not if he can help it. She is to be protected–from the deeper evil lying dormant. Teaching her such a thing is playing with fire. And he's already sworn she will never be burned. Tainted, by this dark power that has broken him.
"Nothing else exists. Not me, not the wind, not sound. Tunnel vision, Bones. Embrace the silence."
So she does. Feels her focus shift with deadly preface through the high-powered scope. His voice in her ear becomes distant and weighed down. A brief fog settles in her ears. Only because she allows it to, calls on it. She draws a single breath.
"Take the shot."
The sharp discharge is like a thunderclap.
The accuracy is impressive. A breath from perfection. A small tear in the paper target shows far below them. Three hundred feet is a humbly notable distance. Though, what he was accustomed to is nearly decupled to that. She knows that even from a broader distance, he could obliterate the target's innermost circle if he wants. She's nowhere near his skill.
But still, he'd almost felt the impact of the bullet himself. His features are hollow, devoid of pride. He's glad she can protect herself if she must–if he's not there to do it. But the ache is no less, no less real. Painful.
Over time, the more her aim improves, the more each shot she takes begins to suffer him with an almost physical illness.
Sniper: killer from afar.
She sees a shadow of pain race across his face, and then it's gone.
Taking immediate aim on the now sprinting stag, she fights to curb her disappointment as it ducks under a steel overhang, skids to a halt, and dashes into the unobstructed entrance of the warehouse. Into the darkness.
A disquieting sigh shudders through her as she lowers her weapon. Harsh unease settles over her thoughts. The poor creature doesn't deserve such an ugly fate. Off to her right, she hears Booth catching up from his more extensive route. Gauging the expression on her face, his broad shoulders slump. Lowering his rifle, he glances back at the warehouse before focusing his attention on her.
"You need help down?" he offers.
"No," she replies, squatting down and grabbing the rail again. She lowers herself carefully, minding her weapon until her feet touch the steel trailer below. He waits patiently close by, ever the partner willing to please, and makes sure she arrives at the ground safely. "I lost it in the warehouse," she mumbles distractedly, obvious defeat etched into her posture.
He nods in a vague but acknowledging way. Eyes roam her features as her expression eases back into serenity, but her face becomes too quickly shadowed by a wisp of hair that's fallen over her eyes as she bows her head.
He casts another onceover at the open gateway defaced by graffiti and carvings. "Not your fault." His need to keep her mood light withstanding, she throws a troubled pout his way. He merely chuckles, throwing an arm around her shoulders as they move. "Aw, come on, Pooky," he treats, charm smile in full effect. "No need to mope."
"Pooky?" She sends him a look of skeptical criticism, arching a sculpted brow in his general direction.
"Only trying to be cute," he reassures, slinging his rifle over his opposite shoulder. "Won't happen again. Hey," he hesitates and looks her over, "where's your pack?"
"Oh." She halts beside him. "I left it back a ways–over there." Turning and pointing, her features quickly twist into an expression of vehement disgust. "You can't be serious." A small congregation of seagulls have gathered curiously about the duffel they'd thought deserted. A couple peck away harmlessly at the seams, and another has its beak buried within, rummaging about. Brennan growls and sets her rifle on the hood of a car, whirling and swatting her comrade on the arm, who's begun to laugh. "Booth, it isn't funny!"
"Simmer down," he chuckles, eager to go scream at some birds. As he watches the object of his partner's grief, he briefly catches something about how her appreciation of nature has never extended to those 'airborne freeloaders'. "They can't hurt anything."
She isn't about to do any such thing as she watches the delving gull draw back with a plastic evidence bag between its upper and lower bill. Clearly attracted to the combined aroma of spaghetti sauce and fresh blood, it scuttles away, taking flight. "Dammit!"
Her sudden alarm quickly amends his erroneous assumption. Mirth dissipates. He immediately deposits his rifle and goes for the Glock at his thigh holster. "Easy, Bones. I got it."
A momentary flush of relief blossoms over her face as she watches her companion take steady aim. There's nothing to fear.
Both partners blanch as the gull flies into the broken second story window of the warehouse.
She gapes in abject shock, jaw pooling around her ankles. He watches the terror and denial fill her eyes. The two of them stand in stunned silence, rooted to the spot. But it doesn't last.
Discarding all rational thoughts of self-preservation, Brennan sprints for the side entrance the deer had fled through.
His face loses all color and he feels his heart slam up into his throat. "BONES!"
Sidearm forgotten, he races after her, fear digging its claws into him.
"No, no!" This becomes his mantra, and his lips repeat it over and over again in desperate command. Upon catching her, his arms lock around her from behind, hauling her back. She fights frantically against him, kicking her legs and screaming for her release. "Bones, stop!"
"Booth!" she cries in devastation, struggling with all her possible might. She's impressively strong for her size, but his guardian shield and obdurate will hold her back. Thwarting her every attempt.
She screams, begs.
She's desperate. So is he. His protective strength outweighs her own.
And she's left only to watch in helpless despair as their only possible hope disappears into a construct of their worst fears. In this, she sees the colors draining from the world as the very thing that could save him–cure him–is lost. "Let me go, let go! Booth, please!"
"Dammit Bones, I need you! I need you here." The double-meaning in his words strike her full force. He punctuates them by bringing her cheek flush with his, holding her tight. He takes no pleasure in hurting her, denying her. The desperate pleas spewing from her lips break his heart. But his voice lowers, quiet yet firm beside her ear. Eyes wire shut, conveying, imploring her to understand. "I can't do it alone."
She blinks past the unshed tears that have gathered behind her eyes, feeling a fruitless sinking in her abdomen. Everything has been wasted then–all for nothing. The rats never live longer than a week, and Compound Six had been her godsend. "No…"
Slowly, he feels the ire drain from her. Her coiled muscles begin to slacken under his hold. "Calm down," he tells her gently. "It's gone."
"Please, Booth," she whispers pitifully, head lolling back against his shoulder, her voice a broken flutter in the silence.
"I'm sorry," he says, his shield quickly molding into an embrace. He holds her tightly, meaning every word. "God, I'm so sorry." Her knees start to buckle but his strong arms hold her upright against his chest. His face pulls away and she feels his forehead against her hair, bowed in apology. "Bones, I'm sorry." His eyes slide shut as he nestles his face closer against her. "I can't let you."
Her breathing is erratic, but he feels her nod against him, stifling a sob that threatens to escape. His grip relaxes. They stand there together, his arms entwined around her. Trying to convey his deep regret. He's sure in this moment she hates him.
He can live with that if he must. He can't live with her gone.
"I know," she breathes, and he can sense the anguished emotion as she says it. How much it hurts her.
He also catches the nuance of guilt in her voice. The change is infinitesimal. A warning caught too late.
"Don't follow me." She knows what must be done if she can ever fully save him.
Before he can question her, he feels her hands close around his forearm and suddenly he's flipping end over end. Having been thoroughly blindsided, the maneuver is flawless and he's rendered prostrate on his back with the breath knocked from him.
She takes the choice out of his hands.
Before he can register what's happened, she's disappearing, weaponless, into the shadowy abyss of the warehouse.
"Shit!" Panic seizes him.
Without another thought, he's on his feet, grabbing his rifle, and sprinting for the gateway. His own rational mind screams at him to turn back. Begs…
…is ignored.
His feet fly, facing clouding over. Aiming all directions within before entry, he makes an instant decision and steps through the opening where shadows swallow the light. Quickly, he switches on the flashlight of his rifle. The tool only provides a narrow beacon in the absolute darkness that opposes him. It illuminates the empty space ahead, reflecting splinters of light over patches of broken glass. He calls her name, a harsh whisper above the silence that beckons.
Swearing again, he takes another step, feeling his pulse pounding in his ears. His breathing is rapid, ragged. Teeth gritted. "Please, Bones…"
This is bad, bad, bad…
He shouldn't be here.
Seeley Booth is not afraid of many things. Nor does he scare easily. This is one of those anomalies. Feeling an unsettling tremor snake down his spine, he tries to ignore the way his hands shake as he takes yet another step. His fear for her wins out by a landslide.
Damn her.
Of all the harebrained, idiotic…
He adopts a careful pace, chest cramping with unease. He mentally goes over what he'll do to that goddamned bird once he finds it.
Passing through an unkempt hallway, light beam passing over the stained walls, his sensitive hearing is on high alert. Further through, he checks out a small room to his left. The light on his rifle only reveals a low-rent bathroom. His own reflection in the mirror gives him a start, but he otherwise maintains what little calm he's since upheld.
He fights to steady his respiration level as he comes around another corner, finger resting on the trigger. "Bones…"
Two more rooms, another corner.
A sudden, animalistic shriek breaks the dead quiet chased by a distant struggle. He feels his stomach lurch painfully at the notion that comes with the racket, heart rate spiking in alarm. Quickening his pace, he inhales slowly.
He feels the breath catch in his throat as he comes around the corner and sees the blood. It's pooled thickly on the floor ahead and smeared all along the wall. The light from his flashlight bounces off the surface and reflects towards the ceiling. He grips the rifle tighter, knuckles paling as a deep, inconsolable ache seizes his chest. There's so much blood.
Drawing slowly closer, he turns and follows the dark scarlet trail all the way up a flight of steps with his flashlight beam. The sounds of dripping water from leaking floors and pipes enters the back of his mind as he begins to ascend, unable to tear his worried gaze away from the red. Each creak of wood that sounds seems impossibly magnified and holds a twisted desire to haunt him.
As he follows the trail, he makes out a small shadow resting against the floor. The remainder of whatever it is hides within the room it juts from. He prays it's not a human hand, a beautiful human hand wrapped in pale flesh. Velvety soft to the touch, delicate and studious. With each step he takes, dread lies heavier and heavier upon him. He feels his heart twist viciously with fear. He closes his eyes, tears pricking at their corners.
Please, no…
As he approaches, he can begin to make out a more discernable silhouette. And finally, color and depth.
The snout of a deer.
His pulse flutters and a wave of temporary mitigation assaults him. He's gasping relief. But even still, she's no more found than she had otherwise been. "Bones," he calls again, too afraid to raise it above a whisper. If she's nearby, and not alone, he can't dare alert anything else that lingers in the vicinity. Once more, he comes around a corner, flashlight beam dutifully paving the way.
In the room: a small horde of the Infected.
With snapping reflexes, he brings the palm of his hand over the tool's face, dousing the light. Swearing inwardly, he spins and presses his back against the cold wall beside the room's entrance. Fights away the panic that pervades him.
Always a gambler at heart, he chances another look into the room, heart slamming against his ribs. Though standing, they appear to be at rest. At least twelve of them, formed in a huddle and facing each other. Their heads are bowed. Chests heave rapidly and without pause. Their adrenaline-packed veins pulse through the sickly, translucent skin under the tattered clothing they wear–if they wear any at all. Most of their attire hangs in ribbons over their shoulders and legs.
Forcing himself into a more composed state, he slowly begins to back away from the room, careful of his footing. Knocking against a discarded metal plank the light neglects, he cringes, squeezing his eyes shut. Once the dull clang fades, he moves on.
Finally clear, he finds himself in a large expanse. An open floor, cluttered with junk and useless scrap that threatens his upright posture with one false step. A surfeit of gossamer veils hang in languid fashion in each and every corner, dust brushing the tiny lattice work of cobwebs.
Suddenly, in the darkness, a sharp intake of breath perks his ears. He spins around, flashlight aimed. "Bones?"
His heart leaps. She's found. He's found her.
Under the white light of his searching, there she is. Squinting across the room, he sees her huddled under a large desk, a pistol she must have unknowingly had on her person now clutched tightly in her hand. In the fingers of her opposite hand is the serum. A busted lamp and stacks of muddled files litter the surface of the obstruction. Silence on her ears, except for the frantic beating of her own heart. Dread swamps her. Fear clogs her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe.
The naked terror in her eyes startles him. She isn't looking at him, though. He's located far to her right, while she stares straight ahead, lips parted around frantic breaths. Clear eyes are moist, dilated. She's paler than natural.
"Bones," he calls, moving closer. Still washed over with relief at the sight of her, unharmed. Carefully, he hefts his rifle to one arm, reaching out for her with his left, fingers outstretched. "Bones, come on," he urges quietly, a fracture to his voice. "Take my hand."
She can't look away from her point of attention. Now closer to her, he can see the unmistakable sheen of tears in her eyes. "Booth…" she whispers, so faint he doesn't hear, but rather sees his name form on her lips.
A shuffle behind him snares his attention. Blood freezes as he hears it again, the low rumble of a provoked predator. His stomach knots, plummets, a vice clamping around his throat and suffocating him with newborn dread.
His eyes flicker behind himself, straining to their limit as his neck turns barely a notch. His breath stops.
It's too late to slip away. Hopefully, he can get a shot.
Facing the inevitable, Booth finally whirls, aiming the beam of his rifle. The ferocious scream he's met with is deafening. The thing crouches under the light, baring its filthy teeth. All in less than a second, it leaps forward.
In one swift motion, he pulls her up and behind himself and begins unloading ammunition into the infected male host. It screeches as bullets slam into its torso and render it to the floor in a heap.
All around them, loud wails begin to echo throughout the warehouse in an emergent chorus. No longer do they sleep.
"Move!" He pulls her away from the fallen creature as the shrieks begin to close in around them. Doesn't need to tell her twice.
Run.
She keeps pace with him without any trouble, tearing forward, hand in hand. It isn't long before they hear the additional footfalls pounding against the grimy floor behind them. She grips his hand tighter, adrenaline pumping through her veins, flashlight leading the way. Her lungs burn with the intensity of the effort. Her trembling limbs are becoming taxed by the combination of fierce epinephrine and swelling fear. He squeezes her hand in urgency, encouragement.
Keep moving.
In their mad race for freedom, he glimpses a shaft of light out of the corner of his eye. Far to their left. One of them will escape, and he knows which of them it has to be. "Bones–go! Go, get out!" he orders, shoving her towards the light.
She doesn't waste time arguing, but is no less sick to leave him. They both know he's undoubtedly too broad shouldered to fit through the small space. Stifling her gasping protest, she dashes for the light.
He presses onward, hearing the wails closing in, willing his strong legs to carry him faster. His heart beats madly, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles.
At last, he can see daylight ahead. Willing himself one final surge of speed, boots pounding the hard floor as he sprints full out, he reaches what he'd so desperately sought. A microsecond later, he feels a steel grip close around his shoulder. The thing leaps on him.
He barely has time to throw his arms up to shield his face and, suddenly, they're crashing through glass and tumbling towards the street below. Himself, and three infected citizens.
Fighting to ignore the thing screeching in his ear, he grits his teeth and quickly maneuvers himself in the air, positioning the rabid mass beneath him as they plummet. Upon their violent landing, the screaming creature immediately releases him and begins to flail. Clutches at itself, moaning in agony under the sun's glowing light.
Booth scrambles away over the shards of glass, drawing a second pistol. His rifle lies just feet away from the three bodies. The other two are motionless, but the one to grab him bellows away. He assumes aim incase it poses any further threat and sees Brennan rushing for him out of his peripheral, her own pistol still drawn.
"Are you all right?"
She doesn't respond. His concern for her is evident and ironic to her, seeing as he should be concerned for himself.
The thing writhes and screams, banging its head on the ground repetitively until it's at last still. The body lay on its side, curled in a frozen echo of agonizing pain. Steam rises from it, blisters forming on the sickly flesh. Lowering his pistol, Booth releases the breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. He can't look away from the scene.
Feeling her heart pounding desperately, her mind reels with feelings and emotions. Clear in her mind with stunning intensity. She slides the gun back into the holster with more force than necessary, clearly indicating her unhappiness.
She's furious–furious–at him.
She shoves him, hard. He stumbles back in surprise.
"Idiot!" she accuses, eyes hard and penetrating. She attempts another assault, but he catches her arms and holds her back. "It's my job!"
"Our job, Temperance!"
"No! This isn't your cross, it's mine!" Emotion fills her once severe, angry eyes. "We make mistakes, people die!"
She knows they can't risk a life for only themselves–save only each other. It can't work. Doesn't work like that.
"I'm always going to take risks for you, Bones! I'm not going to stand back and let you endanger your life for some tablespoon of rat blood!"
"I…" her throat catches, dry and raw. And she's looking at him. Looking at him. He watches as the anger seems to slowly leach from her until she's colliding with him, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching at him in relief, streaming out apologies. In their fraught embrace, he pulls the both of them away from the three motionless forms on the street. She draws back, looking him over, concern etched heavily on her face. "Are you hurt? Are you cut anywhere?"
Settling his nerves, he wordlessly shakes his head. Taking no chances, she inspects his face and hands, feeling for any sign of damage. Her fingers run swiftly and methodically over his shoulders, chest, and back in search of any abrasions in his coat. There are a minor few, but none reach his flesh.
"I'm okay," he says finally, assuring her. "I'm okay. Did you get it?"
Breathless, she nods. Her following expression is one of intense relief and she suddenly doesn't care about the serum, no matter what possible salvation it holds for him. Seeing him alive and breathing is so much more alleviating, she remembers this well.
Apologizing once more, she pulls him in again, hugging him tightly.
Too close, she thinks. Too close. Too close.
Louder, louder, and we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
Have heart, my dear, we're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess
Light up, light up, as if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you, dear
-Run-