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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MY WORLD WITHOUT YOU

*

Don't turn away
I pray you've heard the words I've spoken
Dare to believe, over one last time
Then I let the darkness cover me
Deny everything, slowly walk away to breathe again
On my own

Carry me away
I need your strength to get me through this

-Darkness-

August 24th, 2010

She's back in the warehouse.

It's dark, calm. Shafts of light reveal the dusty air. Everything's quiet.

She's still, in the center of the room, where he'd found her before. Hands at her sides, she rotates her right until the palm faces up. Catching the sunlight on her fingers. Expressionless, though her eyes are sad. Never could hide the truth in that particular shade of blue. Especially not here, in this haunted place.

She closes her eyes and there's a troubled crease at her brow. Sighs so softly, barely enough to disturb the dust. "You're not here."

He fades out of the shadows behind her, stepping slowly. Curiously. "Of course I am," he contends, and she can hear that gentle expression on his face. The one he always uses when trying to explain something important she doesn't understand.

Everything is quiet.

She can feel him hovering right beside her, his presence claiming her every awareness. His voice is a soothing balm to her quivering nerves and numbed movements. "Fine," she relents, as always.

He stills, brow creased in concern. "You're unhappy."

She still doesn't look at him. But the corner of her lips upturns a fraction, eyelids fluttering. "What makes you say that?" His smile, she can feel it. If she looks at his face, she'll be undone and that can't happen. She needs to focus. But… so tired…

His voice, his smell, so relaxing…

"I know you, Bones." She can sense that smile grow. "Plus, you've got a thundercloud of gloom hanging over your head."

She shakes it the negative, provoked into their usual banter. Her own smile twitches, a little bigger. "Not likely."

"No?"

"Impossible."

Damn that grin. "Of course."

She sighs, shoulders slump. And it's back to counting dust molecules, watching the light play over her fingers. He doesn't say anything for so long she thinks that maybe he's gone. But he never leaves her disappointed for long, if at all.

"Why this place?" he asks.

Her gaze drops and she starts to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. Discomfited. After a moment of contemplation, she drops her hands, knocking against her sides. Looks around. "This was where it all began, wasn't it?" It's a gentle question, but rhetorical, nonetheless. He's quiet again. Everything's so damn quiet. "Maybe if I hadn't run in here…" her voice falls softer still, a broken mumble in the silence. "Maybe things would be different…"

The chain reaction had started here. Gull steals the serum, flies into warehouse. Girl runs in after it. Boy chases girl. They find a nest, a plan unfolds. Capture one. The lead monster replicates the trap, springs it on the two. Boy gets hurt saving the girl. As ever and always, this is the way of things.

He waits, patient. Thoughtful.

"Are you apologizing?" It's an honest question, not patronizing or smug.

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and for a frightening moment, she fears she'll lose the battle. As always though, she forges on. Forces them at bay.

A distant clatter interposes their moment. It's not long before the remote cries of their adversaries echo far away. This time her smile is sad. "They're coming." She still can't brave to look at him. Too afraid she'll see those hauntingly gray eyes staring back at her. Her head bows. "You'll be gone soon."

But he doesn't look away. Instead, she feels him take a step closer, draw nearer like an orbiting mirage–his world always did revolve around her. His voice is soft, almost as if he's afraid she'll break under the weight of it. "You're worried I won't be able to love you when it happens."

When he turns into one of those creatures that hunt her now, closing in.

She doesn't say anything. Her throat closes, refuses to acknowledge any intent to speak. It doesn't matter, though. She has nothing to say. Anything spoken would fall inadequate, somehow. Already she can feel him fading away. But somehow–always–that's never stopped him.

"You think too much, Bones," he smiles. Almost sadly, but not quite.

It's something.

Brennan tosses in her sleep, the darkness shadowing her form in a mentally suffocating shroud. The events of hours before frequent her mind, haunting and tormenting.

Dreams of guilt. Dreams of him. God, she doesn't want this to be happening.

It had been worse, yesterday.

August 23rd, 2010

She isn't sure how much more she can take of seeing him in this state. His condition is noticeably degenerating, even compared to last night. The paleness of his lips blends almost perfectly into the wan shade of his face. When she feels the erratic pulse point at his wrist, his skin is fiery to the touch. It's in his eyes, however, that she witnesses the foremost evidence. Around her favorite shade of brown is the infamous gray halo. Even more pronounced than her own mark of contamination.

Now, she finds herself settled yet again in front of that damn microscope, which refuses to spare her any answers. She's only been following this dreary routine for days, and already she's sick of it. It's getting her nowhere and no matter what she tries, remedy after remedy ends in failure. Her mind continues to draw a helpless void.

It takes her concerned voice to uncover festering wounds. A simple "are you all right?" combined with a worried frown to knit her brow when he shifts anxiously atop the exam table, looking lost. His prolonged silence has only concerned her more, so she says his name a little louder.

Appearing to pull out of his lapse for the time being, he clears his throat and glances down at his hands instead of looking at her. His voice is low and distant. She's never seen him so timid. It's wrong. She wants to believe this is a completely different man seated before her. "I can't stop shaking. I… it's hard to sit still."

He hasn't said much since the day before. When she'd questioned him on symptoms he'd possibly been feeling, he'd been quiet.

"The nights are harder," is all he'd divulged. She can't conceive what it's like to go through. She only sees how he's affected from third person. What he's experiencing first hand, however, she can't imagine. He avoids each question she presents on the subject.

On the outside, the creeping transformation is painful. She's had to up his doses of muscle relaxants since the evening before, just to keep him stable. Several times, she'd had to support him as sporadic coughing fits seized him. He always pulls out of them quickly, but each time takes a piece of her. A piece of him.

It's torture.

She feels the rising burn behind her eyes long before she can no longer see the sample past the lens of the microscope through the moist fog. Guilt eats at her, rotting away her resolve, her drive. Not only for what's happened to him. It's the weight of the world again, but her Hercules is quickly fading. Unable to stay herself, she says it. Bursts from her lips before she can swallow it back down to be forgotten.

"You should have killed me."

This was where it all began.

The quiet confession hangs in the air like a heavy poison, corrupting the air. She wishes he'd killed her.

Though he'd been unfocused by silent reflection, his head snaps around at the devastating sentence her small voice had thought to speak. He inhales like she'd slapped him, looking absolutely stricken. Mortified. Even in his fleeting state of delirium, he'd heard the utterance–spoken so softly as if she'd hoped he'd never hear. When his eyes rest on his companion, her face holds no evidence she'd spoken except the tiny glimmer of emotion that's causing her eyes to shine.

A cold fist closes around his pounding heart and a mental fog attempts to deny him the sight of her. He'd had to be delusional. Nevertheless, imagined or not, his ears still ring at the hurtful resonance the remark leaves hanging in the air. He finds his voice.

"What?" It isn't much, but there's more emotion in that one word than anything he ever recalls speaking.

When he'd talked to her earlier that day, each time his voice had been uncharacteristically weakened, rough. Heavy. Weighted down by burdensome and plaguing thoughts, by the corruption in his blood. Though quiet, she's surprised now at how clear his voice sounds. She dares to meet his eyes, taken aback by the wounded intensity in which he regards her. Unspoken, he's waiting for her to confirm what she's just said.

Looking away, she bows her head. She's weary of this thing called bravery. Her lack of denial will surely be enough. The only sound to follow are the soft beeps emitting from the medical equipment and monitors. Chest aching, she intends to focus back on the new remedy.

But he won't have it. "So this is my fault?"

Again, his voice is stronger than she's ever heard it today. With renewed courage, she meets his eyes. He gapes at her incredulously, and the hurt in his eyes racks up further remorse. She's so sorry. So sorry for everything. She doesn't know where to begin. Doesn't know how to atone for any of her faults. All of them are too great and offensive for forgiveness.

"Because I didn't put a bullet between your eyes?" His voice gains volume, but he doesn't shout. He's clearly waiting for her to answer, but she looks away from his eyes, gazing unhappily at the dull hue of the tabletop where she works.

"No," she whispers, finger tracing small lines on the smooth surface. All around her, she feels the empirical equipment, her notes, and all the research closing in. Crushing her. Failing her. Proving her own collapse. She is a volcano to the fostering magma of emotional trauma. She wants this to end. "It's mine," she says, halfhearted even in her solitary accusation. "All of this is my fault."

She doesn't cry. She's too tired. Too empty. She's been neglecting her own health, and in fleeting consideration, she's certain she's dehydrated. Doesn't care. She'd almost fainted twice today, grateful he hadn't noticed where in other circumstances, he would've immediately.

"Christ, Bones." She winces a little as he's set off, barely hearing him through the clouded fog and the soft rushing in her ears. He isn't angry. He's frustrated, desperate. Pleading that she might escape her self-blame. She wishes she could do so, for him. But it isn't imagined fault or conceived imperfection on her part. What she faces is only truth.

As she'd told him before, one can't repudiate fact.

He doesn't stop. Even standing now, she can picture the anguished expression on his handsome face, not understanding.

He feels a tightness in his chest, sad to raise his voice to her, but praying she'll listen. He's furious–so furious. So aggravated at her and so completely in love. Opposite and raging emotions vie for dominance in his thoughts and he's too fractured to try and tame them into placidity. Why does she insist on punishing herself? Through his inner maze of tangled thoughts, he vows that if he ever finds those fool scientists who'd brought this damn cure before her and hung the heavens on her shoulders alone, he'd knock them clean into the next country.

Considering though that the likelihood of them under the contagion of their own program is fairly high, he supposes it's a rather empty threat. If they were present, however, he doesn't doubt his strength. Though shaken and faint, his taut muscles feel ready to snap.

"I don't want you to die!" she suddenly cries, interrupting his heated words. It's desperate and it's made of agony. He stills, hearing the banked pain in her voice, mirrored in the watery surface of her eyes. She forces her gaze downward again, slamming her fist against the surface of her work desk. "Nothing is working. I've tried everything, Booth. I know it's out there, but I can't think!" Overwhelmed, she buries her face in her hands, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Whispering things made of remorse. "I never wanted anyone to die…"

For a moment, she's alone, miserable and just so very tired. Staring at the inside of her eyelids though, she suddenly feels his hand on her shoulder. Though a little unsure on his feet through the dark haze that now and then assaults him, when in her presence, when touching her, he feels a mitigating peace prevail against the internal storm that he rarely feels anymore. The damaging cobwebs lessen, and for a moment, feeling her, he can almost taste the sunlight again.

"You were planning to save me all along," her quiet voice pulls him from his thoughts. "There's a reason you wore that vest. In your subconscious, maybe, but the thought was always there."

Despite the somber situation, he feels a sad smile fade across his pale lips. "You hate psychology."

"No," she counters weakly. "Logic is the villain. It lies with the truth."

He watches her in disbelief at her words, but knows it's what she must be feeling. He has a devastating request of his own. "Just… promise me something?" His voice is smaller than before. Weak again, that strength diminished.

"If it's what I think it is, absolutely not." Just as he had done when she'd confessed her dark secret earlier, her lost voice is stronger now.

"Please," he presses. "Bones… don't let me turn into…"

She's infuriated with him. Angry that he would ask such a thing of her. "Why not just do it yourself?" she snaps, bitter with heartache. Hurt flashes across his eyes and he ducks his head at the intensity of her glare, her words. Unwilling to speak, embarrassed to look at her. Dawning realization shows on her face, which softens in regret. "Booth, I'm sorry." She shakes her head, clear eyes genuinely contrite. A pain twists in her stomach. She struggles for the words, but he speaks before she can.

"I can't become one of those things, Bones. I can't." Bravely, his eyes meet hers. "I can't live with the idea that I could hurt you. Without being able to stop myself," his voice cracks at the sickening thought. "Without caring."

She touches his hand. "I need you to trust me. I need you to trust that I can fix this. Even if it gets to the point when…" A pang of dread rises in her midsection. Summoning her voice, she goes on. Her voice quiets, speaking low. "I would be able to contain you." He cringes at this, painfully sickened. Face contorting in uncertainty. "At least until I could find something. And there is something." Fragile determination lights her eyes, and she gives him a single encouraging nod. "There has to be. Every major phenomenon has an opposite. Plus and negative, light and dark, disease and cure."

He trusts her.

He wishes he can believe her. "You're using logic, Bones."

It had been worse, today. Oh God, so much worse...

She'd barely survived through the following moments.

It isn't long after her promise to him, as the sun sets, that he falls victim to the first episode. It isn't uncommon. It's part of the Change. When the victim first begins to lose a part of who they are.

Puzzle pieces erased from the soul.

He's sitting, his elected spot where he resides as she works. It starts small. A whispering elegy foretelling of the inescapable conclusion. A tingle in his nerves. A slow rush of lightning in a bottle. He says her name, faintly focused on his person–feeling that something's wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. As soon as she looks up from her microscope in response, eyeing him with a measure of concern, she knows what's happening.

She's at his side the instant he slides to the ground, the overpowering surge of pure adrenaline and carnal instinct forcing him to his knees. His entire frame shakes as he places his palms to the cool floor, fingers splayed, barely feeling her hands on him. He never hears her cry his name. Heart pounding against his ribs, reaching impossible speeds–like the tempo of a butterfly's wing with the force of a sledgehammer–he wires his eyes shut. Overwhelmed. He's a strong man, but this is incredible.

Any average human being's body couldn't possibly tolerate such a thing without respite, and would quickly experience cardiac arrest, eventually leading to death. But the infection transforms the internal.

Brennan kneels at his side, holding him, panic coursing through her veins. In this singular moment, his life at severe risk, her rational mind goes dreadfully blank. Forgetting all protocol procedures and losing herself completely. Blinded, to the danger posed to him.

He shouts, low in his throat, sounding decidedly less human and more guttural than it should. He clutches the lowest steel railing of the table for support which now gives a low metallic moan at the extreme strength his grip deals. "Stay with me," she breathes, struggling to calm him. Rubbing soothing circles across his back through the t-shirt he wears. His contracted muscles are like stone under her hands, seized by the effects of KV. "Stay with me, Seeley…"

A strangled cry rips from his chest, and she witnesses the steel bar crushed under his grip. Sometimes the patient would pull out of it. Sometimes the effects were too severe.

"Focus on the pain," she tells him, words trembling past her lips. "Maybe you can suppress it. Focus on something tangible. Booth! I need you to do this! I need you to hold on!"

Her name whispers past his lips. Another whimper. "I can't…"

She knows the direness now. He's never uttered those words, ever. If this episode intensifies any more, he'll become a danger to both himself and her. Snapping back into science mode at his words, she rises up on her knees, peering over the counter's edge. Frantic, she scans the surface until she finds the syringe she's looking for.

No neuromuscular-blocking drug will pull him from this state of hyperreflexia. Quickly squeezing out a small drop, she lowers herself back down and inserts the needle into the flesh of his arm, injecting the heavy tranquilizer. Such an amount of sedating toxin would kill any normal person. She hopes it will at most ease him out of consciousness.

She wraps herself around him, grip tight. "Breathe with me, Booth. Feel me, here. I'm right here. Breathe. Slow. Slowly…"

Suddenly, she's awake.

With a shallow intake of air and a flutter of her eyelashes, clear blue eyes appear in the darkness. After this, she remains silent. Her breath is barely a whisper in the stillness. She lies there, unmoving, deep in thought.

Staring emptily at the ceiling above her, she'd known the moment her eyes opened she'll be unable to welcome sleep again. Yielding to the inexorable disposition, she glances at the glowing numbers on the clock nearby. It's early morning. Depending on the weather, the sun is most likely preparing to peer over the horizon.

Eventually, her eyes fall on the empty bed across from hers. A sadness reflects in her eyes, but doesn't reach her face. Slowly, she sits up, running fingers through her auburn hair. She's still tired, but sleep doesn't come easily. Not anymore.

Rising from the bed, she pads over to the door, limping, haunted by memories of that night which are yet to be remembered.

The air is quiet now. The lonely bleep of the monitors is all that disturbs the aching silence.

She stares ahead, eyes glazed and unfocused on no particular point. Slowly, the sedative had begun to take effect, easing him gradually into unconsciousness where his body and mind could be at rest. Only his breathing betrays his true condition. Though soft, his takes come shallow and irregular.

The beeping continues.

She sits now on the floor, back propped up against the cabinet with her partner enfolded in her arms. His long legs stretch out against the floor, beside hers. The crown of his head rests just below her chin. One slender arm wraps around his upper body, holding him to her. Her other comes up so that she can run her fingers slowly, soothingly, through his dark hair. Asleep in her arms, he looks no more than a sick boy. Features slack and calm with rekindled youth. Even with the ailment of his appearance, he's still devastatingly handsome.

She doesn't know how long she's been sitting here with him, but it seems like forever.

The silence is too much. The beeping too tormenting. She swallows past the lump in her throat, empty stare never abandoning her. Softly at first, tentatively, her voice breaks the stillness. "I've been drinkin' now…" Barely a whisper heard in the din of peace. "Just a little too much."

His voice fills her head.

Anyway, Bob Marley, he had this idea. Kind of a virologist idea.

She feels the moisture on her face, crying silently with no one to see. Delicate features hold no emotion. She is numb.

He believed you could cure people–literally cure them–by injecting music and love into people's lives.

Her voice grows a little stronger, more clear. "And there's only one thing for me to do," she sings tearfully, fingers till tracing calming patterns through his hair. "That's to keep on tryin'." Sniffing, she dips her chin so that her cheek rests gently against his head.

She's losing him.

Not only her rock, but her dearest friend, her partner, her connection to the living world. And something more… something she can never seem to put a name to. In a fleeting moment, she doesn't know how she will survive without him. If such a thing is even possible.

The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking a day off. How can I?

"To get home… to you."

Who is going to hold her until she stops crying? Tell her that everything is all right?

Who's going to save her when she gets herself into trouble–teasing her about independent female tendencies? Pick her up from the lab when she works to late? Make sure she eats enough? Who's going to watch old movies with her? Hold her shins when she does sit ups? Sing and dance with her, do the dishes with?

Who's going to help her learn useless cultural references or play catch with her while waiting for answers? Who's going to annoy her and chase her around with well-dressed mannequins? Who's going to stay up all night with her until she falls asleep? Shelter her from lurking shadows?

Who's going to kiss her when she finds the cure?

She bites her lip to prevent the sob from escaping. Who's going to call her Bones? Who's going to call her anything?

Who will she have to talk to at all?

Closing her eyes, she chokes out the words, the melody almost lost. "Keep on tryin' now… I'm through with cryin' now. I've got to find a way…" Taking a breath, she ends in a whisper. "To get home to you." She grips him tighter, eyes wiring shut. Tears spilling into his hair.

She'd been wrong before. If he turns into one of those things… he won't die.

He'll leave her.

Somehow, that's worse.

She hates being away from him.

Moving purposefully toward the basement, she expects to see him where she'd left him. Lying peacefully atop the exam table, intravenous needle in his arm supplying the high-dosed sedatives to keep him comfortable. Blissfully unaware. When she enters the formulated lab, however, only desertion greets her. She feels a horrible, horrible weight sink in her middle.

The exam table is vacant–the needle dangling uselessly from the thin tube connected from the hanging pouch.

He's gone.

Cover my eyes, cover my ears
Tell me these words are a lie
It can't be true that I'm losing you
The sun cannot fall from the sky

Stop every clock, the stars are in shock
The river will flow to the sea
I won't let you fly, I won't say goodbye
I won't let you slip away from me
Can you hear heaven cry tears of an angel?

-Tears of an Angel-