Author's Note: Apologies in advance. I suck. And lol, sorry for making everyone cry! I know it's supposed to be a good thing, but I always feel guilty, haha.
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-TWO
CURE THIS TRAGEDY OF MINE
*
It's buried deep within the past, I hope it doesn't last
It's something I already chase
I try to give it all away, but it's never going to fade
I know you feel it's all the same
But I promise that'll change
You know I'm trying to believe
That you're never going to leave
It's something I don't want to face
When my heartstrings come undone
I will wait for you, pray for you
Before I make my final run
I will stay with you, decay with you
I know I'm not the perfect one, this pain has just begun
If you fade out without me, you'll know all about me
-Heartstrings-
August 22nd, 2010
For the next hours, days, time infinitum, she feels as if floating through the world untethered. There is nothing holding her in place and sometimes it seems like she's watching herself move from the outside of her body with no real feeling of being there. A specter, a pitiful echo of the woman she'd used to be.
She hasn't slept. She can't remember if she'd even tried. The darkness had been too encompassing, too terrifying. Unable to at least switch on a small light for concern of alerting the roaming Infected of their residence, she'd been forced to lay still and quiet. Their wails and hungry screams had reached deafening volume, haunting her through the night, as if they had been right beside her. Always so loud, so primal.
What had been worse was that she'd been alone to face the monsters that prowled the night, even if a secure structure separated her from them. She curses all the times she'd said she could take care of herself, didn't need anyone else. The one who'd always guarded her fears at night is now gone away, far below, for her own safety. The very idea that he could possibly cause her any harm is appalling, to say the very least. She knows his Christian sensibilities would scold her, but any thought that he could possibly hurt her was utterly blasphemous. It's impossible to imagine. But then, he never would. Booth wouldn't.
The disease will change him–transform him into one of those monsters that craves only the darkness and her blood. An animal of pure, carnal instinct. The thought that he would be rendered to such a creature elicits an unbearable pain to swell in her chest. She pushes the living nightmare away with a force.
She needs to focus.
Brennan, hesitant, allows her eyes to brush over his hunched form. He's not far from her now.
This morning had been cruel though to them both.
Braving the stairs and her fears, she watches him sadly as he sleeps–concealed away behind a Plexiglas barrier in the corner of the room. Fully clothed in his black attire, seated with his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Lodged as closely to the wall as attainable, in the back corner of the cell. She winces at the word.
The ultraviolet light emitting from the overhead source had crept near to him during the night, and he'd positioned himself just as far away from the persecuting light as he physically could. Wilting against its eminent glow. She wishes he'd allowed her to disconnect the fixture. The light over the stairwell is more than enough. She hates to see him suffer needlessly. Hates to see him suffer at all.
When she approaches the containment shelter–this term is no less horrifying than the other–she switches off the overhead UV lighting, heart tugging painfully when he eases a little in his slumber.
Unlatching the vacuum sealed lock that keeps him within, slowly sliding open the sliding barricade, she kneels quietly beside him. Calculating eyes study his form with calm discontent. His visage is pale in the low light of the basement, lacking in the usually warm glow that only brightens when a smile splits his face. His breathing's a fraction above normal, especially for one lost to the realm of sleep. The eyes which she adores so much and seeks comfort from on a daily basis are closed, shrouded. Hooded under a dark hollow, where shadows gather under their base.
Closing her eyes against the onslaught of dooming thoughts, she reaches a hand out to him, touching his shoulder gently. Barely a brush of skin on clothing. "Booth," she summons in a quiet voice. He doesn't stir, but his eyelids flutter, and the dark wings of his brow draw together in a passing frown. Softly, she shakes him. Speaks a little louder. "Booth–"
He flinches away from her without warning, with such velocity, that she gasps. Startled, she shies back, staring at him worriedly when his breathing comes in even shallower bursts. Slamming in and out of his lungs. When he looks back at her, slight confusion hides beneath the pooling brown of his eyes in the muted light. It takes too long for her liking for him to realize what happened and that he's safe in her constructed lab.
"Bones…" he trails off uncertainly, voice graveled and fragmented. He blinks and sits up a little. "I'm sorry."
She offers him a supportive smile that really can't be called one. Touches his arm in reassurance. "It's all right. I didn't mean to wake you so suddenly."
He frowns at her words, but doesn't say anything.
Now, he sits hunched over on the exam table, feet propped on the lower railing running across its metal stalk. His vacant stare stays centered on the floor as she peers through the microscope in front of her at a sample of his blood.
The evidence magnified before her brings about a sick feeling in her gut she tries to expel. Aims to stay objective. The monochromic viral cells clinging parasitically to their healthy red counterparts leave her miserable and restless. She needs to be the scientist now–for his sake, at least. All the signs had pointed to the inevitable conclusion of his… condition. But there's something about witnessing the concrete proof that taints his blood.
He'd been poisoned. Contaminated by this infectious disease. How can such a loving and good man deserve such a fate? Blinking against the sudden sting developing behind her eyes, she reminds herself once again to focus on the task at hand. Compartmentalize like she's never done before. She has remedies to test.
Booth finally turns his eyes to her as she works, concentrating desperately on the only thing she knows will save him. The science.
There's a troubled frown on the mouth that's really meant for smiling. He hates to see her like this. What he's going through he can deal with. He isn't afraid to die. But he's terrified of leaving her. Right now, it only feels like he's catching, or in the throes of, a harmless flu bug. And while, admittedly, he's a wuss when it comes to colds, what scares him most of all is the lack of control–that split second when she'd woken him and he'd thought he couldn't recognize her. That thought alone is enough to break him.
Lose control… you lose control, you'll be just like him, just like him, just like him. Just like Dad. Living off instinct and drink. Hurting the ones you love without giving a damn one way or the other…
He realizes he'd been deep in thought when he suddenly feels her skin on his cheek, grazing him with the back of her hand. "You're a little feverish," she observes in a quiet voice, meeting his eyes with only inches separating them.
She isn't wrong.
He'd felt the heat sometime last night, unable to squelch the internal furnace growing inside him as he'd curled himself up against the wall corner. Away from the light that had once made him flinch, but now burns upon contact. "You should drink a lot of fluids. To maintain your body's natural moisture." Her voice is soft and questioning. "Can I get you anything?"
He clears his throat, nodding vaguely as she looks away, but doesn't step back. "Water, I guess," he replies, frustrated at the callousness of his voice. He tries to be jovial, but he's mad. Not at her of course, God no, but at the situation. At the thing that did this to him... the thing whose actions put that frown on her face.
"Alright. I'll take your half of the rounds today as well. I won't be gone long," she reassures him at the muted look of unhappiness in his eyes.
He can see her visibly retract thereafter, closing him out as she makes to move away. An urge of timid desperation rises and his hand reflexively reaches for hers, closing around it. "Don't," he begins, begging her with his eyes. "Don't go yet." Feeling a lump form in his throat, he tries to steady his voice. Barely enough to be called a word. "Please?"
She feels a gentle wash of emotion swell in her chest at his quiet plea. "Oh." Shaking her head, she steps away and retrieves a syringe from a metal tray, holding it up for his eyes to peruse. "I wasn't–I was… just getting this. It's okay, Booth, I'm not leaving."
Though the relief is immense at her staying, he observes the needle uncomfortably. "What is it?"
"It's an imidazoline compound similar to Tizanidine," Brennan explains. "It prevents against symptoms not unlike hyperreflexia by depressing excitatory feedback from muscles that would normally increase muscle tone and high epinephrine levels, thereby minimizing spasticity." At his meager expression, she catches herself. Ducks her head in embarrassment. "It's… a muscle relaxant," she clarifies.
Upon his halfhearted laugh she thinks sounds more like a sigh, he offers his arm to her, his jacket recently discarded. He says nothing as she introduces the antispasmodic drug into his infected bloodstream, counteracting against the slowly emergent adrenaline that now and then befalls him.
As the quiet engulfs them, she runs through every technical calculation and remedy theorem she's gone over, all the while wondering what he's thinking. This part isn't new, but the circumstances surely are. She herself is frustrated, tired, and determined. Too many emotions struggle for dominance within her psyche, leaving her with a slowly increasing headache. She both wants to scream and burst into tears in unison, torn between fury and calamity.
Her emotions fascinate her.
She concedes that she's only upset with herself, and her inadequate abilities. Her repertoire doesn't carry into this level of scientific research. When they'd come to her with the pretested Krippin cure, her only task had been to oversee the drug and modify the sensitive solution when required. And she'd done just that.
She'd been the chief observer, and the head researcher on the case, but there is still so much about the now-virus that she doesn't know. The basic, original structure being one aspect. KV is elegant–unlike any typical contagion. It thrives on elevated temperatures and high levels of combined amino acids, phenylalanine and tyrosine.
These, concurrently, produce catecholamine, a sympathomimetic monoamine. Simply put, highly severe adrenaline. She has to counteract these effects. She'd virtually cured Compound Six, but when subjected to human blood, the results forever remain less than satisfying. Either it kills the host, or is ineffective. She has to contrive a way to drastically weaken the points of infection she's discovered.
Booth's roughened voice disturbs her thoughts. "This morning," he says. When she looks up, he won't meet her eyes. "I didn't recognize you this morning."
Drawn features alleviating at the ashamed tone he's assumed, she sets the syringe aside softly and touches his hand. "For how long?"
He shakes his head, one broad shoulder lifting in a shrug. "Not long. Barely a second."
"That's not all that uncommon. Especially if you were under a stressful sleep. Plus, waking up in an unfamiliar space, it's only natural that–"
"Bones," he says, voice firmer. His somnolent eyes gravely meet hers, pouring desolated emotion. Begging her to understand his grief. "I didn't know who you were."
She gazes at him in silence, seconds unspooling, not saying a word. Through the unhealthy scarlet rim under his eyes and the pale complexion of his normally tanned skin, she sees what plagues him. Both physically and mentally. It maddens her that such a strong and able man can be left so helpless and weak at the hands of this invisible villain. And then be made into a monster thereafter.
It's unacceptable. Evil.
She nods sadly at his words, wishing for anything she can do to help him. She knows what terrifies him isn't the physical toll KV will wreak upon his system. He's terrified he'll hurt her. And be unable to stop himself. Her searching eyes travel over his face, solemnly taking in the consequences of his actions days previous. Her fine brow creases unhappily, her voice faint and low. "God, if you hadn't…"
"Don't."
A stubborn resolve rises within her, unbidden. She can't help yet feeling livid at his measures. "You knew it couldn't have infected me."
"But it would have killed you." Barefaced disbelief at her argument shows in his tired eyes. She stares back at him persistently, the sweetest, most saddest pout on her lips. Even though she fights against them, he can see the slight glimmer of moisture filmed over the bright shade of her eyes. He gazes purposefully into them, his voice low and questioning. "If it were reversed… would you have saved me?"
The instinctive answer is already on her lips, but she catches it before it can manifest. She knows that he will see through any lie she conceives and so, without blinking, she nods once. Forfeits the argument. "Yes."
His expression softens. "Then how can you be mad at me? We all make sacrifices for," there's a brief hesitation in his voice, almost indiscernible, "for the people we care about. Those important to us. You're important to me." She seems to accept this, but doesn't look away from him. Unable to meet her eyes any longer, he bows his head, still drawing comfort from the contact of her touch. "It's going to get worse… isn't it?"
The question stings. But she is brave, impenetrable. She can hear the defeat beginning to creep into his voice and feels her protective instincts taking over. "Not if I can help it.
Booth raises his eyes to hers again, feeling his lips upturn slightly at her quiet determination. Her own face is considerably more ashen in the low light of the basement, and soft shadows have gathered under those captivating eyes. Though not taking away from their beauty. Reaching up, he traces a finger gently a long her jaw line.
"You look tired." At his touch, her eyelids briefly flutter closed, lashes brushing at colorless cheeks. His thumb gently massages the skin at her temple, easing the pounding headache into a dull throb. She breathes deeply, fatigue spilling from her. "Wearing yourself out won't do any good, Bones." Those brilliant eyes reemerge again to look at him, and she releases a soft sigh. Leans into him, consciously unaware of her actions. Something flutters in her middle when his hand feathers over her hair, and she impulsively takes a step nearer.
She places a gentle hand on his chest, frowning at the quivering heartbeat beneath her palm. It's quickening already, and she's saddened. He watches her apprehensively as the seconds lengthen and she doesn't move away. Her hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, radiating her affection. Resting her opposite hand over his knee as he sits quietly on the exam table, she finds it increasingly harder to control her emotions. "I wish time was on our side."
His dark stare seeks hers longingly as she'd closed the distance, but after another moment, he drops his hand away. "It never is."
The moment is not gone, but simply delayed.
A disappointed frown tugs at her lips, and it wounds him–those lips meant only for smiling. He hasn't see his favorite smile since he can remember, and he prays he'll see it if only one more time before he forgets what it looks like. And everything with it. He offers up one of his own, a sad representation of his usually boyish enthusiasm. "You should go do the rounds, huh?"
Despite her severe forestalling to leave him, Brennan nods reluctantly. "I won't be gone long," she promises. Backing away briefly, she returns to his side a moment later with a handful of objects in her hand, retrieved from a back counter. "I thought you might like something to pass the time. Occupy yourself?"
He can tell by her tone that she's nervous, hesitant if she's done the right thing. Pleased him. As he looks down at what she's placed in his hands–a book and a handheld video game–he finds himself grinning. It isn't full-wattage, but it's something. "Crash Bandicoot?" he questions hopefully, calmly eager brown eyes darting to hers.
Surprised by his chosen inquiry, she feels a brief flicker of mirth pass over her lips. "For you, yes."
Anything to see that smile.
July 30th, 2009
He's hardhearted towards the steady knock at his door. Ignoring the late visitors never works, so he decides he may as well humor them. They can talk if they wish. But he won't promise to listen.
Hair mussed and jaw roughened, he takes the knob in his hand and yanks open the door, scowling at the two suit-wearing agents waiting on the other side. "Evening, Booth," the one on the right, Agent Patterson, greets. The older man is neither pleased nor upset. The man on the left, Agent Tucker–younger and more suave–only offers a brief upturn of his eyebrows and a sideways grin. "Can we come in?" Patterson prods casually.
Booth's heavy dark eyes regard them offhandedly, but wordlessly steps aside to allow the two fellow agents access into the home. After they're inside, he nudges the door shut with the heel of his foot before moving past them.
"You look like hell, Seeley," Patterson observes, stuffing his hands into his pockets and proceeding to look around the room from his position. He lifts a thick eyebrow as Booth goes around to stand before the small bar in the kitchen, tending to his previously abandoned bottle of scotch. His dark overshirt is rumpled and hangs loosely off his broad shoulders on top of the black t-shirt. His jeans are notably wrinkled, and Patterson also takes notice of the state of the couch in the living room. He surmises unhappily that his fellow agent spends his nights there instead of a warm bed. "I can only imagine how you must–"
"I don't know where she is."
Booth's gruff voice cuts him off, and he withholds a sigh.
Turning around while momentarily neglecting the warm alcohol he'd been about to indulge in before being so rudely interrupted, Booth sends a disgruntled look at his colleagues. While Patterson was getting comfortable by taking a lean against one of the counters, Tucker has nonchalantly stuck a cigarette between his lips and retrieves the trademark Tasmanian Devil lighter from his suit pocket.
He casts a glance at Booth, the question in his eyes before it reaches his occupied lips. "You mind?" The cigarette bounces lightly as he speaks.
Booth rolls his eyes, turning away from the doubtful duo and says nothing. Taking this as a sign of indifference, Tucker promptly lights up.
"Booth, we know you're her likely contact," Patterson calmly informs, not looking for a fight.
"I haven't seen her."
Patterson can tell by the tone in his younger colleague's voice that he's suffering at his partner's absence. The relationship and emotional bond between the two unlikely cohorts had been legendary in the Hoover Building. So had the devotion. There had always been rumors of an even deeper connection, hidden intimacy, but nothing had been confirmed one way or the other.
Despite questionable loyalties this younger man held towards the now-fugitive Temperance Brennan, Patterson believes him. And feels sympathy.
"She call?" Tucker hints past the possible loophole in Booth's words, taking another drag. Patterson withholds the retort on his lips for his partner's lack of delicacy. Booth fixes him with a dark look, for which Tucker puts his hands up in surrender.
Booth turns back to the older agent. "Are we done?"
Patterson heaves a heavy sigh, running a hand through his graying hair. "Sure, Booth."
As the two agents make for the door, Booth follows after them, intent on seeing them out so he can be left alone again. Feeling a little pissed that he'll also have to sweep his place once again for any bugs, he casts a wanting look back at the tempting scotch bottle.
Tucker steps out first, leaving a lissome trail of smoke behind. Patterson turns around after exiting. "If she does contact you… you'll let us know?"
"No. I won't."
Booth slams the door.
She hates locking him away.
As if he's some sort of beast. He isn't. He's Booth. Will always be Booth.
She'd offered to bring him something more comfortable to sit on, but he'd languidly shaken his head. Intent on bringing him something anyway, she makes for the cell's door with an armload of pillows.
And she stills in her tracks.
The sight of him looking so lost and so thoughtful all at once as he stares down at the Beretta sidearm in his hands paralyzes her. The pillows thump at her feet and she slides open the clear barrier. "Give that to me."
Her voice quavers. Cracks under the stipulation. He looks up in surprise at her demand, eyes questioning. Her expression brooks no argument. "I'm just cleaning it, Bones," he tells her quietly, nodding at the small tools near his thigh.
She stares him down, resolute. A fist clenches around her heart when, after a moment of challenging silence, he slides it over the smooth concrete toward her feet. She crouches to his level, looking him in the eyes. She knows what he's thinking, even if he doesn't yet. If she's harmed in the process of this search, so be it. It is her choice alone. He will not be a sacrifice again. She knows he won't, but the chance is too devastating to take.
Even if he certainly won't now, his mind is already starting to deteriorate. His good judgment will begin to suffer severely. The risk is unacceptable. Calmly, she picks up the handgun and in one smooth movement, takes her other hand and draws the slide back, disengaging it from the barrel.
With the two halves tight in her grasp, harmless, she tells him tersely, "It's clean."
The days following pass like broken glass.
Remember me when I have gone away
Gone far away into the silent land
When you can no more hold me by the hand
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning to stay
You remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned
Only remember, you understand
It'll be late to counsel then, or pray
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of thoughts I once had
Better by far that you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad
-Christina Rosetti-