Author's Note: Onward and upwards, folks! The light is upon us!!
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TO RESTORE IS SOMETHING WORTHY
*
Imagination is stronger than knowledge
Myth is more potent than history
Dreams are more powerful than facts
Hope always triumphs over experience
Laughter is the cure for grief
And love is stronger than death
-Robert Fulghum-
With some difficulty, she ushers him quickly into the basement. All muscle and solid weight, he's a challenge to manipulate.
He's in and out. Mind fast degenerating, he'll be lost soon. The morning might beget better response from him, but tonight is pivotal. Pulse hammers, throat is raw and parched, but it's not her priority. Her injured leg throbs, screams with neglect as she ignores cautious movement and lumbers downward with him. She holds him steady, leading him. "Come on, almost there."
Her mind tears ahead, shamelessly leaping from one conclusion to the next. If this is going to happen, it has to be executed fast. She'll settle for nothing less. Now, now, there's no time to lose! Her breathing is frantic with fed stimulation. Thousands of tiny voices demand notice in her ears.
Listenlistenlistenlisten… you have to listen…
The cooling shelter isn't enough. The host itself needs the near-freezing temperature to strengthen the effectiveness of the compound. The Infection cannot survive the cold. It strives on heat.
A fever.
She guides him into the Plexiglas cell in the corner of the basement. Lowering him to the floor, he sits in compliance, looking up at her shaking form. Excitement heats her blood, but she fights it. Any guarantee is transparent. This may not work.
Listen, the voice commands, belligerent against her doubt. She shakes her head distractedly to clear it, kneeling at his level. Her hand seeks out his skin, pressing against his forehead. He's burning, the fire in him is worse than before. Gray eyes seek hers, uncertain and lungs overworked. She braves the eyes that are not his, looking further. Beyond. For a moment, she's calmed. "Do you remember why you went to the bridge?"
"No."
Her confidence flags. She feels something collapse inside her gut, like a dying star pulling all the hope from her body. He looks detached, but honest. He doesn't feel well. Doesn't know why. His stomach is empty, craving sustenance. She smells good. Always smells good, but something…
The red on her face is inconceivably alluring.
His eyelids flutter, mind grasping at stability. He's on the edge of madness adrift, gravity urging him further away. It's hard, but he tries to answer her questions. Tries to please her. Tries to ignore that tempting call of her pulse at the base of her throat. "I just… I remember it was... important."
This is the truth. He remembers this. Won't soon, but does now.
And the star brightens, and she can breathe again. That spark of hope is nourished, and she's back on course. Pulling away, she moves to leave. His hand snaps out before she can blink, closing around her wrist. She labors over the gasp, his grip painful. She knows he doesn't mean it to be.
"Sorry," he says quietly. Slowly, he releases her hand, looking embarrassed.
She watches his face, grievously apologetic, but knowing she has to leave. "I'll be back," she promises.
He's obeyed her commands, though it's difficult to keep still. Almost impossible. He contracts his form, forcing stillness to assume his muscles. When she returns, she's out of breath, a cooler in her hands, making her arms sag under the weight. With a slam, she heaves it onto the floor. Movements fast but calculated, she removes the surface plate of the exam table, hurrying it into the containment shelter.
It meets the concrete with a bang, clattering upon impact. He watches her in scattered curiosity. Squirms uncomfortably when his pulse quickens under an influx of epinephrine. It's happening again.
This is bad, he remembers. This isn't supposed to be happening. No... no, no. Not... not good.
She leaves the cell, rushing back to the cooler and dragging it loudly into the space. She cranks it open, begins to dump the cubes of ice into the steel bed of the surface plate. Her fingers have become pink and numb with the chill.
His chest rumbles with the groan, blunt fingernails digging into the concrete. "Bones…" he whispers, wiring his eyes shut. His breathing intensifies. In less than a second, he's shuddering under the pressure. Barely able to discern up from down.
Her motivation snaps to him, eyes widening. She falls to her knees beside him. "Hold on," she tells him, squeezing his hand, touching his face. "Just hold on."
Ice dispensed into the bed, she's at his side with two syringes a moment later. The muscle relaxant is first, shooting into his bloodstream with purpose. He convulses under the harsh counteractant, sinking lower against the wall. It's an extreme dose. "Hold on," she says again. Determined, commanding. He can't possibly realize how badly she needs him to come out of this, to fight against every malignant and carnal pull that assaults him. She can hardly recognize her own desperation.
She's so close. He can't fail now. Can't surrender.
"Center will hold," he murmurs, faint. He collapses back, head lolling against the wall. He's fading. "Center…"
She doesn't think he even realizes he's saying it. His memory is erratic now, not unlike a broken record. Instead of a constant river of time, flowing sure and precise, it's an ocean in a storm. Fragmented and strewn out of sequence. Her eyes see vivid images replayed of gifted tokens, diner chats… late hours of paperwork… takeout… Stop! Remain focused!
Compound Six is next.
Her blood pumps faster, racing. Reaching around, she cradles him against her, peeling his t-shirt from his shoulders, over his head. The first layer of his skin has become nearly translucent. She can discern the intricate patterns of blue riddled under hot flesh. His veins that burn with the devastating disease. Muscles are like coiled steel. Mounting latent power is suppressed barely by the relaxant.
The second needle pierces his flesh, discharging the fabricated cure into his bloodstream. It's not a cure without assistance. It's not the ingredients that can save him–it's how they are combined. She's a genius, but still learns things wherever her travels take her. With the final syringe, she essentially mixes their blood. It is perhaps essence of her own life that will save him.
"Here, here," she instructs, aiding him upright. She positions him until the ice-covered bed is below him, then directs him into a supine position atop the ice. He seems disoriented, but meets her eyes when they seek his attention. "I need you not to move from here. Please, Booth–this is important." Her words are rushed, her own adrenaline lacing her actions and trembling voice.
"Okay."
The heat of his flesh will melt the ice too quickly for results to surface. She hurries from the cell, snatching the cooler and running up the stairs, leg protesting violently under the abuse.
Returning with more, she pours it around him, cranks down the thermostat of the basement. The house, too. She hauls the small air-conditioning unit from the upper level, heaving it onto the floor inside the cell. She maxes it.
This will work, she thinks, repeats it over and over again in her head. It has to, it has to. God, please.
She bolsters her heart with the notion. She needs this to work.
He's asleep now. Fitful, breathing irregular and express, but asleep. The muscle relaxant acts also as a sedative–the heavy dosage to thank. Muscles slide under the skin of his back, shifting against his shoulder blades. His chest expands rapidly, eyes dancing beneath their lids. The ice reallocates beneath him, thawed ones glistening his skin with moisture wherever it touches. His St. Christopher's medal suspends from his neck, the chain loose on his bare form, catching the light now and then.
Hours pass with nothing.
The subsequent kiss of failure is near, but not yet consented. She watches him from across the cell, tucked into the corner with her knees pressed against her chest. She doesn't move, her breathing is almost still, slow. Her hair hangs straight and errant strands hide her crystalline eyes. It's difficult to watch him so helpless, so subdued.
Her eyelids flutter, drooping. She's exhausted. Maybe she's attained five hours of sleep over the past three nights. She doesn't want to sleep, but her body protests differently. Doesn't want to leave him, but logic prevails. Slowly, gently, she gets to her feet. Her leg is in agony she barely recognizes, but knows rest will do it good. Her fingers splay against the Plexiglas for support, and she limps forward, picking up the cooler.
She makes one last trip upstairs to the freezer's icemaker, arranging the cubes around him with care. She shivers at the frigidness of the house she's achieved and pulls on a zippered hoodie from the cabinet at the other side of the room. She walks slowly back into the cell, looking down on him with sad, unreadable eyes. His fingers curl into fists as he stirs in his sleep, frown creasing his brow and lips. She kneels carefully, bringing her hand forward to stroke his cheek.
Her spirits wilt just a little, watching him one last time before the need to sleep becomes reluctant priority. He doesn't react to her touch, as he otherwise would. Her eyes scan over his form, taking in the damage, feeling the tears welling at their corners. She bites her lip, lowering her gaze.
Listen… the voice is fainter.
She closes her hand over his larger one, intertwining their fingers as best she can. And then she does something incredible.
She closes her eyes, and prays. Calls upon that faith he so often wears with choking anguish.
August 25th, 2010
Awareness arrives slowly today.
Her body is one stiff mass of discomfort. The wound on her forehead brings a dull, sometimes burning ache. Her leg is dead weight, tight–as if compressed by a single great force. The car wreck the night previous probably doesn't benefit her, either. But she will rise, nevertheless.
She wears sweatpants and the same hoodie, burrowing further under the covers in response to the frigid air awaiting her. Gingerly, she draws back the blankets and duvet, slipping her sock-clad feet into the pair of sneakers dumped bedside. The colors are purple, yellow, and blue. Striped in fashion. The socks are not hers, but they'd kept her warm.
Pain shoots up her leg when she stands, delaying course at her quiet hiss. Carefully, she makes her way from the room. His pistol lies forgotten on the nightstand, though she'd given it a timid glance.
She'd never use it–not really. But the possible need for protection… She forces the thought away, focusing on descending the daunting staircase. She's yet to fully take care of the injury associated with her motor function, has neglected it impenitently. More important things have beleaguered her mind of late.
She's glad of the shoes on her feet. Even the socks she doesn't think would have protected them against the skating rink temperature of the tile flooring in the kitchen. She's thirsty, throat parched and dry. Her stomach grumbles emptily in protest as she overlooks the fridge during her pass-through.
Shadows spill over her as she enters the cramped hall leading down into the basement. The stairs creak, their grievances lost on her ears. Her vision has tunneled, and so irrelevant sound is muted. She holds her breath at the base of the stairs, closing her eyes against the blackness that surrounds her. Summoning her courage, she switches on the light and gradually, all the fluorescent fixtures flicker to life.
Stepping in, surrendering control, her eyes are not ready at all for what awaits. Her breathing has grown shallow, quick. Her heartbeat skips undecidedly. Moving slowly, she approaches the containment shelter. Sees that the door is still sealed. Faintly, she hears the quiet whir of the air-conditioning unit. Pressing her hand against the Plexiglas, her stomach plummets in response to the sight. The ice bed is empty, mostly melted. Her pulse speeds faster, concern clawing at her until she arrests in disbelief.
He's curled himself into the far corner of the cell, and he's shaking. Shivering–so badly that the fierce tremors make his body absolutely shudder. The air rushes from her lungs. Her heart somersaults through her body before returning to its rightful place to thud against her ribs.
Snapping into action, she cranks open the vacuum-sealed lock, tearing into the cell. Collapses to her knees beside him. Her quivering hands press against his back and shoulders, searching. He's ice to the touch, that terrible heat miraculously vanquished. "Booth? Booth? Can you hear me?" her voice is frenzied, octaves higher than normal.
His teeth are chattering violently, and he tries to make himself smaller. Incoherent words slip past his lips, but his speech is lost amongst the shaking. His eyes are wired shut against the fasciculations brought on by the extreme dropping temperature his body's assumed. Quickly, she turns off the cooling unit. Hurries into the outer room, cranking up the thermostat. Tearing open cabinets and shelves, she loads her arms with blankets.
Dropping beside him again, she enfolds his large frame in cotton and fleece, stimulates circulation in his chest and arms with her hands. She pulls him against her smaller body, cradling him, holding him tight. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," she whispers frantically, rubbing her arms over his back. "It's all right." He is still very pale–possibly from the temperature of his body–but nothing like the severity it had been. Lips show off an almost blue shade. All other symptoms are impossible to test due to his current condition, but she's adamant about the most crucial. "Look at me. Please, Booth–I need you to look at me," she breathes desperately, holding his face. Inches away, yet miles apart. "Open your eyes!"
Struggling, he folds against her, the warmth of her body drawing him in. Slowly, his eyes strain open, immediately locking on hers. Focusing on her, clinging to the tangible.
And it's Booth.
Him. It's him, him, it's him! Those brown eyes hold her gaze, concentrate, seek out the blue. The tremors continue, muscles contracting repeatedly, his breathing abrupt. Teeth chatter. His forehead presses against hers, hair in damp spikes, and her eyes fill with something alive. She seizes him to her, gasping into the blankets. "Oh God, yes! It's gone, it's gone, it's gone..."
Her hand presses against the nape of his neck, fingers buried in his dark hair. She laughs with unequivocal, irrevocable joy. She doesn't stop, can't. She rocks him, laughing wildly until the bell-like sound eventually transforms into something like breaking glass.
She cries over him, holds him. Kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his face. He's cured, the cure works, it works! He's safe. Safe.
Booth is cured.
I will be the answer at the end of the line
In the burning of uncertainty
I will be your solid ground
I will hold the balance if you can't look down
If it takes my whole life, I won't break, I won't bend
It will all be worth it in the end
Because I can only tell you what I know
That I need you in my life
When the stars have all gone out
You'll still be burning so bright
Cast me gently into morning
For the night has been unkind
-Answer-