Author's Note: Apologies. I was so busy drooling over the new TVGUIDE that I forgot to post a chap, lol.
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 EIGHTEEN
LIGHT UP THE DARKNESS
*
I am outside, and I've been waiting for the sun
With my wide eyes, I've seen worlds that don't belong
My mouth is dry with words I cannot verbalize
Tell me why we live like this
Keep me safe inside your arms like towers
We're at war, we live like this
Because we are broken
What must we do to restore our innocence?
Give us life again, we just want to be whole
And I'll take the truth at any cost
-Paramore-
"Teach me."
"No."
It isn't easy for her to ask, but his even refusal still leaves her feeling rejected. She remains unable to shake the uneasiness from the week before, but can't decide if it's because of the constant danger or because she'd had a firsthand glimpse of just what her partner is capable of. Combined with what she'd seen of him in that fight with his former comrade, she knows he's proficient in several martial arts and a former champion boxer. There's more she doesn't know of his skill, of this she's certain. He's a walking arsenal even without a gun in his hands.
She needs to learn. Doesn't want to, but knows she must. Cold blue steel burns into smoldering black coals. Defiant.
"I can't survive like this," she tells him, and he flinches, all too aware of this painful truth. She isn't trained to handle expertly consummate soldiers in combat. He is. He's one himself, even if the soldier title no longer remains. If he were to become distracted, detained, rendered unconscious–she wouldn't be able to protect him or herself.
Nevertheless, he makes a weak attempt. "You know how to fight, Temperance. You're an incredible fighter. You got your martial arts and yoga and all that other stuff. You'll…" his eyes fall downcast, attempting the lie even though the bitterness of it tastes altogether wrong, "you'll be okay." It's just above a whisper. A desperate whisper, almost as though he's trying to convice himself of what he says.
"That's not true. You know it," she insists. Reaching out, she takes his hand, transferring confidence and need. Her eyes seek his, and for a moment, he's gently mollified. It had been her eyes, he thinks, that first drew him to her. An intoxicating blend of gray and blue that change as mercurially as her moods. He could always see her drive and determination housed in those eyes and knows that once her steely resolve reaches them, nothing would stand in her way. Those eyes that can make him do anything, summon actions within him before he can even blink. "Teach me."
His expression is very grim. A deep frown darkens his face to stunning degree. But eventually, he relents. For her. It's a double-edged sword, so he seizes the lesser evil.
The training he puts her through is brutal. She'd always believed she was in excellent condition–ready for anything with impressive combating skill. But now her hair hangs in tendrils around her face, immobilized strands sticking to her forehead with a coat of sweat. Her breathing is harsh, rapid. Gasping, she dodges away from his frontal attack. He's evaded her every advantage, and her frustrations have begun to get the better of her.
How'd he get so damn fast?
Shouting out a cry somewhere between rage and physical anguish, she presses the attack. Determined to prove him wrong, catch him with his guard down. That expression on his face doesn't help matters. He's smirking, mirth fueled by her banshee outrage she's failed to leash. Impressed, however. Pleased by her will. Though amused for now, he's never imagine she'd hold out this long today. A bitter internal sarcasm berates him that he should've known better, of course.
He never strikes her. Refuses to, despite her argument that she must learn from experience. He always stops just short of contact.
His fatigue is also grating, wearing him down, but he doesn't stop. So neither does she. One-upmanship to the extreme. The practice they engage in is more intense than any fight she's ever been in. "Train like you fight," he always tells her. "The more you sweat now, the less you bleed in combat."
The quote is familiar, but she's too distracted to pinpoint the name to go with it, so she fights. Summons resilience and stamina she hadn't even known she had. Her hair is tied back, and errant strands, damp with sweat, hang in her face. She's too exhausted, too distracted, to brush them away. Her legs feel like steel weights, arms too, and her chest heaves beneath the tank top. His own is noticeably less coated in sweat, but the muscles moving beneath his skin are a fascinating thing to watch.
Science falters briefly as she finds herself observing the deadly skill and strength through different eyes. This costs her.
He ducks her spinning kick and catches her behind the knee, delivering her to the ground. It's late in the afternoon, so the snow is absent, but the ground is hard from the frost and knocks the wind out of her.
She doesn't move. Just lies there, sun on her face, breathing heavily. She wants to continue, but if she moves another muscle, she fears she'll collapse. Stars dot her vision, but a shadow passes over her face and she looks up to see him smiling down at her. The first he's cracked all day. She wants to laugh, make a teasing remark, but her lungs refuse her. Finally, a gasping chuckle escapes her as he reaches a hand down to help her up.
Hair fanned out around her like a halo, smiling up at him, cheeks rosy and sun-kissed, she's beautiful. And despite his reluctance, he's proud of her.
"Not bad, Tai Kwan Bones," he says.
August 20th, 2010
With a faint flutter of her eyelashes, Brennan's awake for the day. Still haunted by disheartening dreams of failed experiments and untold victims, she tries to focus on the time, holding her wrist before her eyes. Glancing to the right, bland gaze falls upon the empty bed across from her. It's neatly made, each sheet and corner tucked in. The army's made him such a neat-freak. She frowns at the word; she finds his little quirks and tidiness soothing. Wordlessly, she rises from her mattress, already clothed since the day before in a violet t-shirt and jeans. She moves languidly into the hallway, feet shuffling over the floor.
He's sitting quietly at the small round table in the dining area, pouring over an almanac with a pen and ruler. Normally, she'd study him when in such relaxed concentration. The particular mode, the expression, does something to his face she finds pleasantly curious. Instead, she remains quietly seated beside him, staring into her coffee. In the background, the clock ticks incessantly and the small kitchen television rattles off, mocking her with the newscaster's report.
"…and we will be taking a closer look at the ongoing mutations of Doctor Temperance Brennan's once hailed miracle cure for cancer…"
Taking a bite of his eggs, Booth turns his attention back to the almanac. He's learned to tune out the tinny voice coming from the celluloid, wishing that she do the same. It bothers him that she continues to torture herself with the tapes, but a part of him also accepts it. It helps create the illusion that there's perhaps something going on in the world, and that just maybe the future can be changed, despite already knowing how the story ends.
"…so far, almost five thousand patients treated with the retrofitted virus have begun exhibiting symptoms resembling the early onset of rabies…"
He bookmarks his page with a Joker playing card. Finding where he's left off, he traces his fingers smoothly over the crisp page, sliding the ruler's edge along the data. Under the City of DC, Maryland log, his brown stare scans through the sunrise and sunset markers.
Obtaining the knowledge sought, he reclines back slightly in his seat and brings his wristwatch up to date with the new times. Glancing back to recheck his work, he takes a passing interest in the date marked. Blinks.
"It's my birthday."
It isn't the fact that he'd forgotten which surprises him. It's more the knowledge that he doesn't really care. It's like commenting on the color of paint in the room. It's just another day. Birthdays for him have never really gone well, anyway. Brennan, however, looks up from her coffee at his sudden revelation. Her expression changes little, but the new information reaches her, nonetheless.
Oh.
She's a little upset that he hasn't made a bigger deal out of it. She wishes he'd reminded her sooner. The fact that he's completely disregarded his own birth date saddens her, if she's honest. Yes, she doesn't give much credence to antiquated traditions or most of the American holidays, but a person's date of birth is uniquely special and worth a little salutation.
Feeling her stare, he turns to regard her.
"…twenty-five patients have already died. In a brief message, Doctor Brennan has strongly advised local hospitals to stockpile antiviral drugs and to begin preliminary quarantine protocols…"
Seeing her expression change from calm surprise to rekindled guilt at the recitation the television provides, he feels a pinch in his chest. He meets her eyes and tries to exude a little of his patented charm to cheer her up. "You gonna sing?"
A startled smile spreads briefly across her lips at his sudden inquiry. To Booth, it's like seeing the sun breaking through the clouds on an otherwise stormy day. But after a moment, the brightness fades and she goes back to staring into the contents of her cup. Deflating slightly at her reflexive turtle-into-shell maneuver, he withholds a sigh and relaxes back into his seat. His shoulders slump. As he sits in the shared silence, however, the words eventually come to him. It takes another minute or so more to put those words to voice.
"Do you know Bob Marley?"
She blinks, clear blue eyes flickering to his. "What?" When he doesn't elaborate, she lowers her cup away from her face slightly. "You mean personally?"
A deep chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head. "No, not personally." He hesitates, weighing his response. "Anyway, he had this idea. It was kind of a virologist idea." She waits for him to go on, shifting in her seat to better look at him. The relative comparison piques her curiosity. And her instinctive reaction to always hear what he has to say, with honest interest, makes him smile. "He believed that you could cure racism and hate–literally cure it–by injecting music and love into people's lives. When he was scheduled to perform at a peace rally, a gunman came to his house and shot him down."
He can see the contained shock in her eyes and waits before continuing. Holds her gaze with his, showing.
"Two days later… he walked out on that stage and sang. When they asked him why, he said: The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking a day off. How can I?"
Her lips part slightly in reverent amazement. Still though, she knows her partner is hoping she might take something from what he's said. But she isn't this great man he speaks of. She isn't even sure she has the strength to switch off the television spouting the words that nearly break her into a thousand pieces.
She looks away from him, blinking away the sudden sting behind her eyes.
But he doesn't turn from her. Reaching over, he covers his hand with hers. "We all have a purpose, Bones. We're all given a second chance to light up the darkness. Sets things right. No matter how lost we become–I know it's impossible to see–but God has a plan. We're all a part of it. You just have to listen."
Booth tries to sound cheerful, but Brennan can sense the profound sorrow in his voice. Taking a moment to contain her ragged emotions, she pulls her hand away from his and rotates to look him in the eyes again. Breathing a quiet, humorless laugh, she slumps slightly in her chair. "God's plan?" she repeats sadly. Bitterly.
Frustrated tears spring into her eyes, but she won't let them fall. Her throat clogs with painful emotion, but she soldier's on.
"Might I give a little insight into your God's plan?"
Booth doesn't reply, but calmly holds her gaze.
"Six billion people on the earth when the Infection hit. KV had a ninety-percent kill rate. That's five point four billion people dead. Dead," she snaps, tone biting and jagged. "Less than one-percent immunity, whether it be airborne, contact, or blood borne strain. That left twelve million healthy people, like you and me. The other five hundred and eighty-eight million turned into those things, and then they got hungry and they killed and fed on everybody." Leaning forward in her seat, her clear eyes pool desperately into his. "Everybody, Booth. Everyone… is dead."
Because of me.
She stares at him in utter frustration, though the anger leaches from her when there's no rebuttal. Though he hasn't looked away, she can't read the expression behind his eyes. The deep brown that makes them up is softer somehow. Weaker.
A prolonged silence stretches between them, the air heavy and thick. Self-esteem plummets to unfathomable new depths. He inhales deeply and lets it out around a slow sigh. His attention shifts back to his breakfast, saying nothing. He seems to sink lower into his chair, avoiding her incisive gaze, but she catches the sadness and disappointment vying for control of his countenance.
A painful tug in her chest alerts her that she's hurt him. What bothers her more is that he hadn't even defended himself.
She regards him with an almost grateful shame. She'd needed to say those things–get everything off her chest and out of her mind and sleep. Maybe he'd known that. But still, it isn't fair that he always allows her the privilege to vent, when he just sits back and takes it. Absorbs everything she throws at him. Apologizing probably won't make anything better. And she does feel terrible–for trampling on his feelings and his beliefs when he had only been trying to comfort her.
She's furious at herself. But her gaze warms as she watches him, deep in thought and taking the time to go back over his words.
Listen, he'd said. You just have to listen.
She doesn't hear anything. But maybe she does take something out of it. Maybe… somewhere in the darkness… she feels the words he'd meant for her to hear.
Setting her cup gently onto the table, she rises from her seat, lips curving into a cautious half-smile as she makes for the back hall. She stops beside him though, resting a hand on his shoulder before placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "Happy birthday, Booth."
Stilling in surprise, he looks up momentarily from his breakfast. Behind him, he hears her footsteps moving away. His lips upturn slightly and he closes his eyes, humming a quiet sigh that's almost a laugh.
The newscaster brings the report to a final close.
"…we are fully confident that Doctor Brennan can see us through these dark days, end quote."
Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.
-Clarence Darrow-