Author's Note: Sorry for the lack of update yesterday. Wasn't home.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRIDGES TO BE BURNED
*
Fountain, fountain, we are the same
You with the water, and me with the pain
Turning it over again and again
Don't you wish you could throw
Your pennies back at them?
All that anyone ever has for you
Are the things you reflect back at them
It is so beautiful how you remain
-Sarah Lov-
August 19th, 2010
"Day three hundred seventy-seven."
The large laptop in her office reflects her image back to her. She's no longer able to stay below, can't be in the basement. It's too painful. So she finds transitory comfort in the rays of fresh sunlight leaking through the partially sealed blinds. Gazing past the windowed glass, she watches a few stubborn leaves cling desperately to a brittle tree limb against the breeze. Finally giving up, they're released into the wind and lost along the way.
And another year is lost. Her eyes flutter downward, seeking solace in the earth. While his would go heavenward, seeking answers in a different place.
She remembers last night. The sun hadn't quite gone down yet. He'd gone up, allowing her time with her thoughts. He knows her too well.
When she'd returned from below, he'd been waiting. Patient and sweetly constant as ever. He'd opened his arms, both a request and an invitation. She'd barely given it a second thought, accepting his extended comfort immediately. As his arms held her steady, stabilizing and giving, she hadn't cried. She couldn't find the strength to do so. She'd kept silent, heartsore and depleted.
Before she'd realized it, he had lowered them to the couch and had drawn her onto his lap. She'd tensed briefly at the rather intimate contact, but had calmed as his hands began to ease all of the tension that had been building in her back and shoulders throughout that day. She had been asleep in minutes.
She'd woken this morning in her bed. He'd left her a note saying that he'd gone for a walk. And now here she was. The reflection staring back at her from the screen, slightly pixilated, is a face she barely recognizes.
She sees her face every day. More so now due to her sessions with the recording monitors. But lately she feels a stranger to her own eyes. Sees the dark circles collected under them, and the worrisome pale façade making up the surface of her skin. She's a fair creature mostly, but lately it's become worse.
The woman on the computer screen is a sad, weary being. She can only summon the effort to simply stare back, slouched apathetically in her rotating office chair. "We came in close contact with a hive yesterday afternoon," she goes on, glancing away from the screen to find an interest in the unremarkable desktop. "Blood tests confirm that while I still retain the KV virus within my system, I remain immune to each the airborne, blood borne, and contact strains. Mammals remain immune to airborne strains only."
She holds her breath for a moment before allowing it to gradually leave her lungs. Blinking slowly, she shifts in her chair. Deep in thought, she speaks in autopilot. Detaches.
"Agent Booth continues to be impervious to both airborne and contact strains of the virus. It is unclear whether any blood borne infection would yield the same results." Before she can dwell too much longer on that disquieting avenue, she catches movement in her peripheral.
"Morphine," he entices, waggling a stout ivory mug before her eyes. "For the pain."
Shifting her attention between the offering and her companion, she allows a halfhearted smile. "Is it on the rocks?" she teases hopefully, mirroring a previous exchange, glad of him for the thought. She's glad he's back.
Booth tsks, blowing out a sigh. "Nooo…" he trails off, settling it in her hand before taking up a seat next to her. "Actually, it's just coffee." He gives her a kind smile. "The caffeine will keep you nice and twitchy, though."
"My sudden lack of interest isn't at all surprising." She can't even form a proper banter.
"Twitchy is better than mopey, Bones."
Conceding that, in the greater outlook of things, he's right, she surrenders to his bequeathed mug of coffee. Knowing he's made the warming brew–alcohol or not–just for her, somehow makes it taste a little better.
She finds herself soothed almost immediately, allowing the homey smell to fill her nose as she inhales deeply. The blinking red light on the monitor reminds her that she'd been in the middle of something. "Vaccine trials continue," she informs, relaxing further as she watches him settle in more comfortably beside her in his separate chair. Though she doubts his interest of her current undertakings, she's aware he knows the importance it holds to her. That's apparently enough for him. A smile flutters briefly across her lips, but it disappears just as quickly. "I am still unable to transfer my immunity to infected hosts," she discloses quietly. "KV is… elegant."
Upon speaking the word, she feels her mind begin to wander. She becomes lost in her thoughts, swaying back and forth slightly in her chair, zoning out of the present. Beside her, he sits hunched over, staring aimlessly into his own coffee cup. A drowsy silence descends between them. As he studies his muted reflection in the black liquid surface, his expressive eyebrows raise slightly.
His voice is a barely audible mumble. "Cards are war in disguise of a sport."
She blinks, fading out of her daydream to look at him. Sadly curious. "What?"
His lips part to release another sigh, but he shakes his head absentmindedly, poking at his cup. "Nothing. Charles Lamb."
Turning her focus onto the mug in her hands, she stares into the surface of the coffee as if it holds great wisdom. "I… a subject was lost yesterday." Her voice is very quiet. After another moment, upset and torn, she breathes a small and humorless laugh. "The rats lasted longer."
Guilt traces every line in Brennan's face.
"Bones."
He wastes no time. His directive voice reaches her, even through the draining fog that's recently encompassed her. His tone is firm, but nowhere near a command or retort. A lasting security comes with it.
She'd once told him that discovering the antidote for KV would be the equivalent of trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack–if the needle knew you were looking for it, and was trying to hide. He'd smiled, laughed. And then he'd reminded her that she didn't believe in metaphors. She was the metal detector to this widespread hayfield. She would succeed, because she wasn't weighed down by allegorical nonsense.
Taking a redeeming breath, she allows herself to be consumed by full Squint-mode–delves back into the science. Back to what she knows. Looking at the facts instead of what lies before her always makes it easier. "Behavioral note," she remarks, sitting up straighter in her seat. "An infected male exposed himself to sunlight. Now, it's possible decreased brain function or growing scarcity of food is causing them to…" she narrows her eyes, a furrow developing in her brow as she tries formulate an explanation that her companion can also comprehend, "ignore their basic survival instincts. Social devolution appears complete."
He feels the sudden urge to leave the room, suddenly restless and left with a lingering unease towards the findings she's recited. Staring off into nothing particular, he remembers the Infected she speaks of.
Something about this specific host causes the unsettling shiver creeping down his spine that he can't explain. Nevertheless, he maintains his silence and schools his muscles into stillness. Even if she doesn't say it, doesn't show it, she needs him here.
Ever the partner willing to please and comfort and lend his support, he stays. Refuses to leave her.
"Typical human behavior is now entirely absent."
October 26th, 2009
On the run is not a place Seeley Booth likes to be. Being behind enemy lines or a prisoner of war is one thing, but being a fugitive of your own country is an entirely different colored horse. It's not something he enjoys, that's for certain. Especially in times like these, when they've been found out.
Nevertheless, action is the antidote to despair.
While Brennan is currently engaged in close combat with another agent–and winning, he notes thankfully–he's currently busied with a battle of his own. Fire ignites on his jaw, but he ducks the next fist that sails at him. He sidesteps and throws an elbow into his opponent's face. Though he's further disturbed by the situation, he's glad of the fact he doesn't know these men. Recognizing their faces only adds to the guilt.
Brennan had always felt this, too. "Us or them," he'd told her firmly. There was only ever one choice to the matter.
Recently disposing of her adversary, she stands aimlessly now. "Booth?"
Unarmed, she's helpless and can't do much in the way of aiding him. All their weapons reside in the truck parked just a short jaunt away. The sidearm she'd possessed has since been knocked away by the skilled agent she'd fought. The best had been sent after them. Always and only ever the best.
It's never enough, though.
Booth's sidearm remains untouched within his shoulder holster, having yet been given an opening to retrieve it. And he's reluctant–he doesn't want to kill these men. The single moment of attention he'd spared her sacrifices his advantage and now earns him another sharp blow across the jaw. Quickly shaking it off, he tries not to notice the fresh bruising that's begun to develop over her fair cheekbone, focusing instead on his opponent.
"Get to the truck!" he tells her over his shoulder, swearing inwardly as his attacker draws a knife. This one is army-trained. He's sure of that–even if the military dress isn't evidence enough.
There had been two agents, and three soldiers.
Brennan, despite knowing it best to follow her partner's instructions when in situations such as these, neglects his advice. Stays to help him. She's ineffective without substantial artillery, but he isn't fairing much better. The second agent brings up his flank, ready to pounce, and this is the one she confronts now.
Evading the swipe of the blade, Booth makes a quick decision. If he's to perform the maneuver he's considering, he'd be unable to prevent his opponent from drawing a second knife. If he does, he knows it won't be long before he'd feel that spare blade slipping between his ribs in quick execution. Ever the gambler, he goes for it.
As the man jabs straight out with the blade, Booth catches the offending arm between his own and his side, trapping him. With his other arm, he snaps the heel of his hand forward against the soldier's shoulder joint and spirals full around. With a lurch and a heave, the man is sailing over his shoulder and connecting with the cold wet earth in a heap.
It's early morning, and the first trace of snowfall has yet to thaw from underfoot. About two inches blankets the ground–strange yet for so early in the year.
With the rookie on the ground, Booth still maintains a firm hold on the arm with the knife and twists hard, earning a yelp for his efforts. Apprehending the knife away, he leaves the man alone with a battered face and dislocated shoulder. Brennan's opponent is discarded as well.
Behind him though, he hears something that makes his skin crawl, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.
"Made my life in the face of danger, living as a kick ass Ranger. Did all my killing with hate and anger," the soldier's cadence is intoned slightly, rolling off the deep voice. "Lived a life of blood and danger…"
Booth slowly turns, chiseled face darkening.
"…because that's the only way to be an Army Ranger."
A single soldier challenges him. The basic breathing mask hinders his view of the man's face, but he knows already who it is. The voice, conceited and patronizing, can belong to no one else. Reaching up, the soldier pulls off the unnecessary breathing mask, the revelation delayed until those dark green eyes appear from under its shadow.
His build is strong, an inch or so taller than Booth and slightly broader shouldered. His square-frame is more hulking, rather than leaning toward slender. "Rangers lead the way." The quietly taunting voice strikes a nerve in the former Army sniper, and Booth feels his muscles tense.
"Cortman." By the way the name is spoken, it is not a pleasant greeting.
Brennan stills. Does Booth know this man?
Benjamin Cortman. Ex-Army Ranger. Also a former sniper. Currently demoted to what Booth guessed was the National Guard.
Racing through the fault-finding memories associated with his former comrade, Booth isn't happy with the situation. Though the hinted dislike had been there from the beginning, they had been assigned to the same outfit on several occasions. The man was an excellent soldier. Sometimes too good. A hammer with no nail. Always an excellent shot, but never good enough. Never as good as the less temperamental sniper.
Cortman's eyes crinkle with amusement at the situation, however. "Never thought I'd find myself in this position." The smile fades, green eyes darkening as he points the muzzle of his M-14 at Booth in lazy contemplation. "Can't say I'm too broken up about it, though."
Words are spoken with all the humanity of a dial tone.
A cocky bastard who had liked getting his way, enjoyed a good brawl. If field combat yielded no action, that sometimes had meant picking a fight with the taciturn Sarge. The reason behind it was irrelevant, though it could be assumed that it had been because of their relative size. The two "big guys." And Ben Cortman was not tolerant of being runner-up.
Booth almost has to laugh. If Bones thought he suffers from overplayed alpha-male tendencies…
There is a difference though, he inwardly defends of himself. His tendencies tended to lean towards over-protectiveness and safeguarding those he holds dear. Cortman was all about superiority. He'd often looked down on those beneath him–only one of the reasons why Booth had felt it so difficult to get along with him. Teamwork had been a foreign concept to the guy.
Skipping to the end, Booth recalls hearing of the Ex-Ranger sniper's dishonorable discharge. Both on and off the battlefield, disorderly conduct was common with him.
Cortman had always been his darker half. The Eddie Brock to his Peter Parker.
"Orders are to drop you on sight," Cortman continues. "Same goes for your little scientist bitch."
Booth feels his jaw tighten. The snow cracks, crunches under the weight of his boots. The tips of his fingers are already turning pink, burning even as they curl into fists. Knuckles pale. Brown eyes narrow into black slits.
Booth can't speak. If he does, he'll get into a verbal toss up with him and get distracted. He can't afford that.
"All this is her fault anyway, right?" Cortman spreads his arms in an encompassing gesture, voice bitter and accusing. "I sort of hoped to thank her in person."
"Not going to happen." His promise is dark, flat.
"Yeah, we'll see." The cockiness is back, rampant. Waiting. Anticipating. Brennan strays closer to Booth, lost on how to handle the situation. "Back it up, Doctor," Cortman snaps.
She watches her partner closely. She's never seen him like this. He'd been a consummate agent in many ways, and when not in the thick of a chase or the natural attendant altercations resulting in the capture of a suspect, he rarely, if ever, resorted to violence. He'd always kept whatever anger he felt leashed, behind a mask of disinterest, or disdain and contempt of the suspects. But now he radiates a dark fury that leaves her breathless, chilled.
Old wounds reopen, deadly and venomous. Tourniquets are torn away, merciless.
Cortman's aim wanders away from Booth, slowly searching out a more satisfying target. "Either way, she's dead before noon."
"Don't, Ben," Booth says, hearing the banked anger in his own voice. It's not a plea, but a warning.
A smile tips Cortman's lips that speaks of malevolence and callous intent. He has the cold look of a predator, one that Booth recognizes instantly because he'd used to see it in the mirror, years ago. Booth meets his eyes with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly, gaze contrasting sharply with his outwardly relaxed pose. Inwardly, muscles are coiled, ready to spring. Ready to unleash damage.
"I'm not the bad guy, Booth." The enlightenment is almost laughable, but grating. "Just had some lesser moments of shining glory."
Booth's eyes narrow, but Brennan sees a subtle change come over him. He becomes calmer, steadier. She suddenly realizes she's seeing the sniper he'd been coming back into action. More than that, the soldier he had been. It's an insight she isn't sure she wants to witness. She knows little of his actions and methods overseas, but the look in his eyes speaks alone.
"You, on the other hand," Cortman takes a casual step forward, shaking his head. "Always the cowboy. Big strapping hero. Whining about all the people you had to snuff out, crying over the onslaught of senseless guilt. Every damn perfect shot. Well, look at you now." To Brennan's surprise, the soldier drops his gun, forgotten at his feet. "A waste of a soldier. You don't get to go easy."
"Bones, get to the truck."
Her attention snaps to her partner in surprise. This is an order. He doesn't look away from the other man, but she can almost feel the burn of his stare on her. "What?"
"Now."
The force and quiet intensity in his voice is enough to move her. Reluctant, she obeys, but doesn't look away as she retreats.
The two ex-snipers slowly circle. Booth is otherwise still. Cortman's fingers twitch at his sides, adrenaline racing. He stares coldly, silently. Booth meets his drilling gaze with equally cold and determined eyes. He knows Cortman. If he doesn't stop him, he'll kill Bones.
When Cortman speaks, his voice is deadly calm. "Still remember all those moves, Seel? You still that fast?"
Booth's voice is low and quiet. Darkened with purpose. "Faster than you." His lips barely move around the words.
Cortman bares his teeth, lip curling into something between a snarl and a grin. "Egos need to be bruised sometimes, to remind the fools they are not gods."
Booth, consumed by anticipation of the upcoming fight, recalls briefly the Churchill quote: "I like a man who grins when he fights." He tends to disagree. Lunatics were loose cannons, something Booth hadn't come up against for some time. At least not at this level of deadly skill. Dammit, but this isn't going to be pleasant.
Dormant muscle memory refocuses, sparking to life in his mind and limbs. Time to cut loose, then.
There is something to be said about rage. Vision tunnels, focusing on that sickeningly self-assured smile. Brennan, yards away, gasps as the two former snipers engage into action. Mirror images collide and when they do, it's something like thunder.
Arms bend and crack. It's fast, brutal.
She's always known Booth downplayed his hand-to-hand combat abilities, but she's never imagined this. Was that Maui Thai?
The two men, each trained by Israeli Army instructors in Krav Maga–a fighting style concentrating on the natural reflexes of the human body, go at each other in unarmed combat. Cortman takes a hit, ducking the next and delivering two rapid blows to Booth's ribcage. They block each other's strikes, blows–all snapping limbs and solid shields. Cortman stumbles back when Booth locks his elbows and kicks forward, boot catching his opponent in the chest.
Across the snow, drenched and freezing, they fight.
It's primitive, feral. Graceful in ruthless execution. She's never seen anything like it. Two men–so equally matched in skill–exchanging harsh, bone-breaking blows. They shout, curse, but mostly they fight.
Cortman receives another strike, side crunching against the beaten snow. Rolling away from the boot slamming at his face, he kicks out with his leg, catching Booth behind the knee. He lands hard on his back, lungs constricting as the air rushes out, but a second later, he's jumping back to an upright position.
The battle intensifies. Both panting, the blows become stronger, more determined, less merciful. Cortman bleeds from the nose and lip, Booth from a laceration above his brow and his own split lip. Cortman jerks his arm up behind his back, shoving him into a tree. Throwing him to the ground, his boot slams against Booth's bad shoulder.
Capitalizing on the advantage, Cortman makes for his fallen firearm. His orders haven't changed. Kill the woman, deal with the rogue agent later.
Priority One.
Just as his fingers close around the stock, Booth tackles him to the ground, snow flying and dusting their bodies. He knees the bigger man in the stomach, pounds his face into the cold ground.
Knee on his back, holding him down, he tears the pistol out of its holster. He bounds to his feet and kicks Cortman over onto his back, pistol trained with deadly and unwavering aim. He can feel his Ranger heart beating again, and after suppressing it for so long, it beats ten times more powerful than ever before.
One shot, one kill, it thumps, loud in his ears.
His breathing is ragged and he is spent–with just enough fight left in him to make sure his former ally won't harm his partner. All he sees is red. Cortman stares up at him defiantly, breathing just as heavily.
Seconds later, his breath hitches when he feels her hand on his shoulder. His aim doesn't break, but his attention is snagged. "Don't," she tells him, voice soft and beseeching. "Please, Booth."
He glances at her, strong features less hardened by provoked anger. Her eyes are wide with insistence and concern. His actions–that power he'd unleashed, revealed–have startled her.
He's scared her. That's unacceptable.
He turns back to Cortman, flicking the safety off but keeping his finger on the trigger. Blackness clouds over the brown, warning. Daring.
He lowers the gun, ready to leave with her. Choosing light over darkness. "You follow us, I'll kill you."
Cortman stays down.
Through the clouds of fallen ash
Among the fields of broken glass
The loyal few will arise, faith now regained
Finding strength within the void, a raging fire ignites
And conviction to fight, pride be your name
Armed with resistance and blind to the cost
They say your purpose is mindless and lost
But we don't adhere to the slander they spill
These tears we spill, they haunt us still
The cries of the weak lie quiet in sleep, beneath our feet
We are the sons of holy wrath, a shining light in the dark
The ones who walk amongst despair
No sign of fear in our hearts
Open your eyes to the truth
Believe the words that stand the test
You're not what they say
Turn over the tables and watch them run
You'll be the weapon they can't outgun
-Song of the Soldier-