I have been gone for a time; school and such does that to a person. This is the conclusion to my tribute to Vincent. I love him dearly, and now I can put him to rest. :) If you do not want to hear the end, do not read. For those who wish to finish the journey: please read, please enjoy, and if you are willing, please review.
The song quoted at the end is called 'Vincent' by Don McLean. It truly is a marvelous song, if anyone is interested.
He's not sure what happened. There was a phone call and glass tinkling like rain into his hair, and he was tackled to the ground, but he still isn't quite sure why all that happened. He can't put the events in his head in the right order. He looks down and there is red all over his chest and Booth. Booth must have been shot, he thinks suddenly. But Booth is pressing on his chest and Bones, ever calm and levelheaded Bones, is looking so panicked. He was shot, he realizes. Though, that doesn't make sense to him. He doesn't hurt at all. There is a feeling in his chest like a popped balloon, but he feels no pain. And then he is terrified. People live when they hurt. He doesn't hurt at all.
He definitely doesn't want to leave. He has to tell someone, tell Dr. Brennan. He needs her to know that he's not giving up, that he's always trying. Always, always trying.
He's breathing faster. When did that happen? He hasn't been running, he thinks dimly. He hasn't been climbing stairs, having sex, or kickboxing. All of which, he thinks, are good reasons to be breathing hard.
He wants to shake his head back and forth, hard, to knock some sense into him. What is happening? Why is he thinking such things when he could be dying? He pales. He is dying.
There is suddenly an acute pain in his side, in his head, in his eyes and he thinks the tears are coming now. His breathing is faster and there is more and more red on Booth. He feels like there is a knife slicing straight down his chest and he wonders frantically why they have begun the autopsy; he isn't dead yet.
The ceiling is sparkling above him and the pain is fading. He realizes that he is being silly; of course they wouldn't autopsy him yet. His blood is like sickened water, trickling down his sides. He wonders if it tastes like pomegranates. It is so very red.
He wants to shake his head again. He is panicked. His thoughts just won't reflect it.
No matter how hard he gulps down air it feels like he isn't getting enough. His vision is clouding and he has to find something to keep him here. Dr. Brennan! She can keep him here; she knows everything. She is the goddess of the dead; she must know to keep them from coming to her.
"Please don't make me go!" His voice sounds too pleading to his own ears, even if everything coming in his ears seems a little distant.
"You don't have to leave, you're my favorite!" He thinks Dr. Brennan says something along these lines. But he can't really tell, her voice is too faint, his brain won't comprehend her words exactly. Perhaps the bone lady can't save him after all. He can feel his heart beating faster and faster; sooner or later it will either shudder to a stop or implode. He needs something concrete, to hold him here, he thinks. He needs a tether.
If anything could hold him here forever, it would be her.
"I don't want to leave here…" It's like she's right in front of him, all of the sudden. "I love it here."
The phone is ringing. Perhaps it is Vincent, she thinks.
He hasn't called in two days.
There is something broken inside of her. It hurts so badly she collapses. There is a terrible screaming in her ears that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. It tears through her ears and echoes in her head, bouncing off her skull and rattling down her spine. There are dry, choking sobs that sound like despair and misery. There are gut-wrenching, throat-tearing screams. They are hers.
She needs to find where she dropped the phone, to beg the woman (Camille? Cameron? she doesn't really care right now) on the other end of the phone to tell her it is a lie. Just a lie. Just a story. And to please, please put her Vincent on the phone NOW. She cannot find the phone, she cannot find the floor. They have both deserted her in favor of someone who has a handle on reality.
Her temples are pressing in on her consciousness and her eyes won't focus on anything solid. Shapes are blurry and spinning and all the sudden…
The floor finds her.
When she wakes up, she cries.
She sees the coffin and freezes.
The wall of false hope and security she built around her heart clatters and falls into rubble. Her blood feels like electricity, slicing down her veins at the temperature of ice.
This is really happening, and she didn't think it would.
The lady from the phone (she still can't remember the woman's name; it just doesn't seem important enough) has a hand on her back. It radiates warmth, but she feels like ice. She cannot look, but she has to. She has to see him, has to save him in her head for eternity, because this is her last chance. He is going back to England. Broken. Forever.
She walks forward. It is probably more of a drunken stumble, but she is indifferent to herself. To everything. He is five feet away.
A foot, maybe.
But her eyes are closed. She reaches out a hand. She opens her eyes enough to barely see through the shady curtain of her eyelashes. Her hand is trembling. It rests on his hand, and her eyes jolt open.
It is wrong.
He has always been so warm, just so naturally comfortable. She leans onto his still chest and he is cold. She has the strong urge to vomit and her body is wracked with waves of nausea. He isn't warm anymore. She needs to hear his voice, his beautiful wonderful voice with an accent to keep her from fainting or falling into oblivion. But he won't talk anymore. She heard his last words were, "Please don't make me go, I don't want to leave here. I love it here." He begged. He begged to stay. Another wave of nausea hits her.
The love of her life is gone.
Her vision blurs with tears but they freeze over her eyes and her eyes crack. A bullet of pain tears through them and her cracked eyes rain like diamond glass onto a dead lover. Of course, everyone else only sees tears. Her throat is sandpaper. It is desert. It is raw. Her throat must be bleeding with these screams that seem to grip her insides and clench them over. She cannot tell. She cannot care.
The woman (Camille! she realizes in a sudden moment of terrifying clarity) grips her hand and everything she sees is abruptly sharp and crystal clear. She whips around to face Camille. Her face must be startling. Why would Camille look at her that way otherwise? She frantically wipes under her eyes, but it turns out like clawing. There must be mascara there. Doesn't that happen?
She needs to leave. She needs to stay. She needs forever with someone who isn't, anymore.
She turns back to Vincent. He is so pale. She presses a kiss to his forehead. There is more nausea. There are more tears. She looks at him one last time. She wishes she were blind, she wishes she were dead, too.
Now she leaves. She doesn't just leave, she runs.
When she gets to where she wants to be, she is breathing hard.
She doesn't sleep for two days.
When she does, it's from exhaustion. She is somewhere between being awake and sleeping. It is her favorite place these days. There is music in the back of her head, it is playing louder and louder as she gets closer to real sleep.
But for now, she is not quite asleep. She knows she is lying in her bed, but her Vincent is walking towards her, lying down next to her. He is smiling and warm, he is kissing her nose and her closed eyelids.
"Keep going," he says. He has a British accent. A British accent.
The music is louder and louder. She can even hear the words now.
"…I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."
She fell asleep.
They loved forever.