Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. Had a going away party for my friend last night. Got to bed at a rather ungodly hour. Guh.
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 TWENTY-ONE
THINGS TOO LOST TO SAVE
*
It doesn't hurt me
You want to feel how it feels?
You don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder
There's thunder in our hearts
Come on, angel, come on, come on
Let me steal this moment from you now
And if I only could make a deal with God
Get Him to swap our places
Be running up that road, running up that hill
Be running up that building
If only I could
-Placebo-
She's certain it's the worst moment of her life. Though her rampant mind seeks to cling to any possible sliver of hope, in the end, the conclusion is always inescapably the same.
She constrains her movements into a robotic autopilot. Battles an internal war. She can barely persuade herself to breathe, has to focus on the simple task alone while the remainder of her body labors to get him first to the vehicle, and then safely home. Amongst it all, she must run through his routine to nauseating extremes in her mind, so that she might not forget anything vital.
Not to park by the house. Expel any traces of blood. This includes scent–she'll have to douse the area with ammonia. This is the most important. The Infected don't know where they live. Barricade all entrance points.
It's too much. No matter how hard she tries, she's unable to concentrate on their–his, she reminds herself–constructed protocol.
He's not gone, he's not gone, he's not gone… She gasps suddenly for air, apparently unable to even recall how to breathe. Isn't your body supposed to do that on its own?
She blinks away fresh tears, still victim of shock. She's too diverted to even notice the way her injured leg flares with pain. Too many things assail her all at once.
Breathe, Temperance.
In. Out.
It's his voice, somehow, speaking to her. A small conciliation.
As she tries to remember this, he shifts beside her when the truck makes a dangerous turn. He's slumped low and drifting in and out of consciousness. He's losing blood, fast. As she tries to transfer between her focus of him and the road, her hand searches him out, closing over his arm. Attempting to reach him in whatever way possible.
"Stay with me."
It's a plea, an order, a prayer. She needs him to fight. Hold on, her touch tells him. Please please please, hold on...
She's at last found her voice–though only able to utter vague and sometimes incoherent sentences. If the words form a sentence at all. She drives now at eyebrow-raising speeds, racing for home.
Home is where he'll be safe. If she can just get him there, she can stem the flow of blood and dress his wounds and everything will be fine. He'll be fine. She just needs to get him home, to their shared refuge. Her mind keeps relaying this over and over in her head, sometimes spilling from her lips.
He'll be fine.
Everything will be okay.
She just has to get him home.
In this scenario, there's always that tiniest flicker of hope she can cling to.
August 21st, 2010
A shroud.
Everything is dark. A single, great, suffocating shadow fells him, interweaving with his thoughts. Sounds are distorted and incomplete. For a moment, he believes he's upside-down again. When he tries to move, he instantly stills, burdened by the overwhelming tautness of his muscles. Everything aches, and he can't recall why. Brow creasing tiredly, he slowly blinks open his eyes and finds himself squinting up into a bright, luminescent light.
Governmental experiment program? He'd better have gotten x-ray vision and a batmobile or he's going to be pissed.
Wincing, he shifts more comfortably and discovers he's stretched out onto an exam table. But instead of the icy coolness he expects, he feels the warmth of the blanket layers beneath him. He briefly considers this to be a dream. He can't recall how many nightmares he's had of being one of his partner's desiccated remains. The rather alleviating fleece and cotton seem to cancel out the possibility, however. Raising his hand to his face is a chore, and he rubs his eyes.
"You're awake."
Her quiet voice slightly startles him. His head falls to the side to find her standing still against the wall, in a small corner not far from him, curled in on herself. Her arms are folded tightly over her chest, and despite the vulnerable posture, she looks quite relieved to see him cognizant. He feels a pang in his chest at the look her eyes carry. She's been worried. It doesn't look as though she's slept at all.
He realizes he hasn't said anything then because her voice prods him gently through the metal fog. "Do you remember what happened?"
Grunting, he tries to sit up on the padded table. He's clad only in his black cargos and muscle shirt. There's a large bandage covering his right shoulder. The side of his face burns slightly when he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. Tentatively, he touches his fingers to his cheek, feeling the undressed wound. There are a few other abrasions on his form, but nothing severe.
"Everything's fuzzy," he replies, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. He can't understand why only bits and pieces return to him, and he's also noticed his vision to be slightly distorted under the low basement lighting. Despite being dry and parched, he's frustrated that he seems to be faintly slurring his words. "There's not much pain, though. I feel okay aside from the hangover-y part, minus the headache."
Despite the wave of grogginess that hasn't seemed to pass, he suspects he shouldn't be able to move about so effortlessly as he is.
"That's because I've loaded you up with painkillers."
There's a slight upturn to her lips that provokes one of his own.
"Oh," he says, in a spectacular display of eloquence. He blames the drugs. He's never responded well to medication.
"And you shouldn't aggravate that cut." Nodding at the facial injury he's inspecting, she goes on. "We're out of butterfly bandages, so I couldn't dress it properly. It stopped bleeding though, so I think it may be fine. And your drug haze should wear off soon."
He huffs a short laugh, already feeling some of the effects percolating. Things are starting to come back to him as well, now that he's awake and aware. Fragments. He can tell by the deliberate way Brennan shuns awareness of the largest injury on his form that the topic will not be initiated by her.
"Sorry about the… less than accommodating space," she says quietly, barely audible even in the tacit space, speaking of the exam table. "I tried to make it more comfortable."
"It's fine," he replies softly, catching her gaze, attempting to hold it. He ducks his head when she looks away. Swallowing hard, his stare eventually falls on the bandage over his shoulder inflicted by the infected canine's teeth. It isn't his current location that concerns him.
A sobering silence descends over the room, and despite the fleeting trace of fear that tugs at him, he knows he wouldn't take anything back. Dragging his eyes back to her, he notices her hands shaking a little. She looks deep in hooded reflection. Tentatively, he braves the unknown. "So… what now?"
She visibly tenses at his unavoidable question, knowing it has to be addressed. A range of emotions travel through her, and she feels her throat seize up. Her arms tighten their hold around herself. Forcing her eyes to meet his, she releases the breath she's been holding. "Now," she says, still in a world of her own, a barely discernable fracture to her voice, "we wait."
He nods distractedly, looking down at his hands. A gloomy ache wraps around her heart.
"Booth." He looks up as she struggles for the words, voice slightly choked. "You're… your case is unique. There's a decent chance that… that you'll be unaffected. The likelihood is slightly more than fifty, in your favor." She's rambling–grasping–and she knows it. He knows it. But that doesn't stop her from trying.
There's a quieter silence that breaks the calm.
"Are you sure?" The timid hopefulness behind his spoken reply causes another swirl of grief to overcome her. A lump forms in her throat, and she tears her eyes away from his and locks them fiercely on the floor. She could kick him she's so furious–so shattered internally. Always so damn protective…
He says nothing. And though her leg still throbs severely–she's made sure he'd received the majority of the pain medication–she remains standing and still in the slight corner. Refusing to look at him. It takes another minute more for her to find her voice, so quiet he can't be sure she'd even spoken. But he knows her well enough.
"You saved me." Accusing.
"I'd do it again." Fierce, adamant. The gentle force behind his words warrants her focus back on him.
She stares at him. Shakes her head only a fraction, voice soft and void of malice. She's so tired, defeated. "Fool."
It's a moment they share, eyes pouring answers and questions–not always matching, not always completed. But it's them.
"…Maybe," he relents finally. There is no regret, only surrendered agreement. He's tired of fighting it.
He knows she's upset with him. And though he might be dreading what lay ahead, he wants to make damn sure that this is straight. He would sacrifice himself for her in a heartbeat. No looking back. No hesitation. If he has to die so that she can live, so be it. He is a fool for her.
Her eyes shine in the low light, lips pressed tightly together. Knowing she can only accept his loyal devotion–what's done is done–she battles down the instinctive urge to throw her arms around him. It's only natural for them. One would grieve and the other would comfort, sometimes both comforting and grieving at the same time. But this is different. If she hugs him now… it will be because she knows he's already lost.
She won't surrender yet. And she knows he won't either. There's still hope left. And if that hope were to fade, it isn't a close embrace Seeley Booth needs.
It's a cure.
Brennan relinquishes being angry with him, for now at least. She realizes that, if given the chance, she would only have done the same. As she turns her attention on the many beakers and research data littered amongst the room, it's his heartening voice that breaks through her distanced thoughts. "You did great, Bones," he says, gazing at her in calm assurance. Conveying his praise. "Handling yourself. Taking care of things. I'm proud of you."
There's a lifting in her chest, fresh emotion in her eyes. Nodding, she fiddles with her hands nervously before addressing him. She doesn't want to do this. "I'll go out today and take the routine. You're still injured so–"
"So are you," he reminds softly. "I can manage it. I'll go with you."
"Booth…"
A pleading look appears behind his eyes that he struggles to mask. "Temperance, I can't stay here."
And there it is.
The scientific haven will crush him. All the technical hums and unending bleeps joined by the unavoidable question yet unanswered will drive him mad. Hospitals had always left him mentally broken. He needs to be distracted. He wants to be with her.
She closes her mouth as an understanding calm sweeps over her features.
"I can't just lie here and…" Swallowing hard, his trepidation prominent, he goes on in a quieter voice. "I don't want to think. I just want to go out there and carry out the day. Live our life–with you. That's what I want." Knowing the gravity his words hold, combined with the look of tension on her face, he quickly lightens the topic. "Just like every other day. C'mon, I'll take you hunting." A pale comparison to his natural charm lights up his handsome face, earning a brief twinkle in her eyes for his effort. "Two handicaps are better than one."
After a time, the small glimmer melds into a real smile, brightening her face. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it's something.
As they prepare for the day–her nursing her hitched footing and him gingerly pulling on his coat–she watches as he loads up his pack.
"I suppose you'll need another gun," she presumes sympathetically.
In the scramble to get to safety, she'd forgotten his weapon lying only feet away. Her only concern had been him. Though she supposes they can easily go back for it, he speaks up before she can say so. "I'd just decided on a name, too," he sighs regrettably.
"For the gun?" She tries to hide her smile with limited success.
A grin splits the side of his face and he glances at her over his shoulder. "Athena."
"The one I suggested?" She's surprised. A flattered yet puzzled glow rises in her cheeks. "But, I thought you liked Jackie?"
Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he shrugs noncommittally at the name he'd favored. "Eh. You liked Athena."
Give and take, Bones, she can almost hear him say.
He moves past her, his hand reflexively falling to her lower back to guide her forward through the door. Though it's habit, he's certain this time she just may need assistance because of her leg.
And suddenly she's numb.
Unwittingly, the blood drains from her face. Breath hitching painfully. She tries not to notice when he visibly flinches under the sudden light of the sun as they exit the house. A sinking ache develops in her abdomen, a cramping in her chest. He pretends as though it's nothing, but she'd caught the way his step had faltered that brief second. It only and ever always takes a second. She knows him too well.
Too well.
She half-expects him to utter some lax explanation such as: It's bright out. But he doesn't bother. He knows her eyes are like hawks'. Arctic and swift. And they're penetrating him now.
Instead, he silently places his sunglasses over his eyes, jaw set and brow drawn. His face betrays no emotion. The sunglasses hide his eyes, leaving his gaze opaque in a way that disquiets her. She presumes he knows she'd only call out any formulated excuse he might conjure. Despite this upsetting discovery, she follows him out into the light. The acceptance of kismet and the breaking of hearts will come with nightfall.
The day will be theirs.
But she knows. He hadn't flinched because of the brightness. He'd flinched because of the light itself.
The alerting newscast informs billions across the globe:
"Routine quarantine sweeps will be made every seventy-two hours. You are urged to stay indoors. If you, or any member of your family, begin displaying symptoms associated with the Krippin Virus, we ask that you contact the authorities immediately.
Symptoms and signs of the infection include: discomfort under ultraviolet light exposure, sallow and sickly complexion, fever, desaturation of the eyes, aggression, unhealthily elevated heart rate, intense tachypnea, extreme flesh translucency, spasms of nervous system control, spasms of mental control, spasms of severe adrenaline, abnormally heightened strength, delusions and mental confusion, lack of rational thought and recurring forgetfulness.
Any of these signs in a subject will eventually lead to complete loss of memory and knowledge of personal identity. The subject will become hostile and instinctive, and they will seek to feed.
Again, we beg any sufferers of these symptoms to turn themselves in to their local sanatoriums. God help us all."
Their last day is perfect. They make certain of that, at least in manners they can achieve.
Come tomorrow, it will be utterly impossible for him to venture outdoors into the sunlight. Despite being injured and broken, they give it their all. Hunting and chasing and waiting together, a calming picnic at their favorite diner, a visit to her mother's grave, and lastly, he takes her to the Jeffersonian. Where everything still makes sense. Where their family's presence still lingers, comforts.
It's a past life. Never forgotten, forever mourned.
It had been them. So long ago, that the time once spent here in tandem feels only a dream.
They sit and watch the many tropical fish they'd released into a large aquarium, larger than any sport utility vehicle. The lights have been switched off, the aquatic blue reflections dancing off their faces, running patterns across their eyes. A spectrum of softened and promising hues, always and forever changing direction.
They gaze in silent tranquility from the divan found in the Egyptian exhibit. The muted glow and unconcerned sea life going about their floating provides a cathartic calm, soothing them both. Brennan leans against him wordlessly, relaxing into lulled contentment when she feels his arm curl around her gently and draw her closer. She reaches for his hand, covers it with her own. She's thankful when he doesn't pull away, but instead intertwines his fingers with hers. His skin still bears that comforting warmth, without any trace of looming sickness.
"Let's stay here forever," she whispers. It's impossible. Illogical, but she doesn't care.
"Okay," he replies, voice just as soft. It's a lie.
But it's something. It serves their dreams.
For now, it's enough.
Later though, it isn't.
When night comes, he goes below. Removed from her.
It had been different with everyone. Some had taken days–even weeks–to Change. Some took only hours. An unpredictable storm. Either way, she's alone. Without him.
The look he'd given her before disappearing into the basement had been devastating. A combination of every suffering emotion there was. The only thing that had kept her from breaking down was the soft goodnight he had given her, his lips lingering like a moth's wing at her temple.
There had been no goodbye in his voice, in his actions.
Still, she can't hug him. Not yet.
Not yet.
Nonetheless, she needs something to hold on to. An intrinsic piece of him. Hope is fast slipping away, virtually nonexistent. So, she grasps the only thing she can find. In their shared-person room, her slender fingers curl around the trinket, small in her hand. In the darkness, the sudden solitude breaks her. The tears are on her face long before she's even aware she's weeping.
Her strength threatens to abandon her now, too–the faintness only doubled because of the injury she wears on her leg. She collapses back against the wall, tipping her head upwards and choking back a cry. Her knees give finally and she slides slowly to the floor, back pressed against the hard plane of sheetrock. She draws her knees up to her chest as great wracking sobs begin to break through her pale lips, causing her shoulders to quake.
She wraps her arms tightly around herself, trying to imagine someone else. But there's no warmth, no softly whispered words. Burying her face into her contracted form, she clutches helplessly at Bob the Caveman, begging the night to swallow her whole.
Booth is infected.
On the floating, shipless oceans I did all my best to smile
'Til your singing eyes and fingers
Drew me loving into your eyes
Here I am, here I am, waiting to hold you
Now my foolish boat is leaning
Broken lovelorn on the rocks
Oh my heart, oh my heart, shies from the sorrow
-This Mortal Coil-