Notes from a Zombie Apocalypse (Bones/Angel) - Pinch-hit
Title: Notes from a Zombie Apocalypse
Author: daffybroad
Recipient: beckyh2112
Fandom: Bones/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, and I do not harbour any misconceptions of ownership or creative control. This is a derivative work of fiction. Please refrain from suing me. I would consider it a kindness.
Spoilers (if applicable): None.
Warnings (if applicable): Brief gore.
Pairings: The slightest hint of Angel/Sweets
Summary: For the prompt: After the end of the world, Dr. Brennan has a mystery to solve in the form of a man who looks exactly like her dead partner.
Note: I’m not the only pinch-hitter who wrote for this prompt; check out missmara 's wonderful story, The Good Fight.
Note 2: Unbeta'ed (ran out of time); apologies in advance for any mistakes or glaring issues.
Casefile 84605 - Preliminary Observations: Dr. Temperance Brennan
Body discovered in Jeffersonian laboratory hallway, 3:26 am, March 14th, 2010. Body was approaching quarantine glass when it was subdued with taser blast (X26, police issue, ref. BOOTH, Seeley, req. 3827D) and retrieved for further testing.
Body was clothed: denim jeans, European size 48; belt, leather, silver pegging; maroon cotton shirt, button front, collar, unbuttoned to the third hole, size L; leather jacket, duster length, black, size XL.
Body was armed: wrist-mounted sawed-off shotguns, 4-gauge rounds; .410 bore shotgun, intact; machete, 21 inches, in belt-hung scabbard; four sharpened wooden dowels, 13 inches, purpose unknown.
Physical description: Caucasian male; medium brown hair, short but not shorn; deep brown eyes, soulful; 38 years old, according to birth certificate recovered from Jeffersonian records (ref. BOOTH, Seeley, deceased January 2nd, 2010.)
Initial examinations reveal no pulse, nor demonstrable breathing, though the retardation of decay or rigor mortis suggests muscle use and continued bodily functions on a level we are unable to detect. Body displays abnormally developed speech patterns and cognitive abilities, based on prior observations of infected persons. In all previous encounters with Homo sapiens mortis (subspecies classification as yet unreviewed) subjects have displayed low levels of motor control or higher brain function. Body 84605 is able to converse, or at the very least, to shout in recognizable English language. However, body refuses to acknowledge name as Seeley Booth or memories of Jeffersonian staff. It is logical to conclude that this is a mutated form of infection.
Autopsy notes to follow.
***
“The night dripped from the walls like ichor, hideous and wet. With every breath, I drowned in it. This was no place for man. I clutched my shotgun to my chest, reveling in its steel caress, its metallic confidence. Here was my lantern, my guidebook. It was me against the hordes, and I was ready. With my sweet, sweet Angie in my mind, I watched the doors, flipped the safety off, and prayed to the Gods I knew, by now, weren’t listening.”
***
From the Desk of Dr. Lance Sweets, Ph.D.
Day 78: I’m starting to have serious concerns about Jack.
***
TRANSCRIPT: Autopsy notes, Casefile 84605. Primary: Dr. Temperance Brennan. Attending: Jack Hodgins, Dr. Lance Sweets.
[Transcribed, with annotations, by Dr. Lance Sweets]
Dr. Temperance Brennan: Is it running?
Dr. Lance Sweets: Yeah, I… test, test… okay, Hodgins, play that back?
Jack Hodgins: I did as Sweets had asked, my fingers dancing across the keys, until…
[At this point, we hear a repeat of the last exchange.]
TB: Excellent. Alright, this is an autopsy on the reanimated body of Seeley Booth, initially deceased -
LS: I’d like to restate my objection to this.
TB: Noted. Initially deceased -
LS: Brennan, listen to me, please. Please. I’ve talked to him.
JH: The stunning doctor recoiled visibly at this, her wide eyes filled with betrayal.
TB: You spoke to it? Alone?
LS: I spoke with him. We had a conversation.
[There is a pained groan.]
TB: That’s a clear violation of protocol, Dr. Sweets.
LS: What protocol? There’s no, you know, handbook for dead bodies that talk back. All we have to go on is our own humanity, and mine is telling me that you can’t perform an autopsy on a living being.
JH: My eyes followed the dangerous conversation intently, like a tennis match played with live ordnance.
TB: All evidence indicates that this body is dead.
[Another groan.]
LS: Except for the fact that he’s currently waking up.
TB: No heartbeat, no breathing, that’s -
LS: What about healing response? His body repairs itself, that’s not something we’ve seen.
TB: I am open to the possibility of a mutated strain of the disease that retains the body’s natural -
LS: It’s supernatural! You hit him with yet another taser blast to the chest twenty minutes ago and there isn’t even a burn!
TB: Very well, then, a strain that amplifies the body’s natural healing processes.
JH: Sweets was momentarily struck dumb, a look of insensate disbelief plastered on his soft, childlike face.
LS: …Thanks for that, Jack.
[At this point, I will commence transcribing the contributions of Subject 84605, abbreviated as A.]
A: Wha…
LS: He’s coming around. He’s waking up.
TB: I note for recording purposes that the subject appears to be reaching consciousness, although this does not preclude…
LS: Angel? Angel, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s Lance.
A: Why… am I still strapped to the gurney?
LS: It’s okay, you’re fine. I’m talking her out of the autopsy.
TB: He’s doing no such thing. He’s merely causing a delay.
LS: But he’s awake now, you can’t!
TB: It’s a dead body. It’s my job to perform this autopsy and-
LS: Cam wouldn’t do it.
TB: Cam’s dead.
LS: All the more reason.
TB: I don’t follow your logic.
LS: Booth wouldn’t…
[There is a hard, fast clap of sound.]
JH: Lance Sweets recoiled, appalled, as the imprint of Dr. Brennan’s tiny but fierce hand purpled on his cheek.
TB: Don’t talk to me about Booth. Not in front of… of that…
JH: Brennan’s eyes filled with tears as she glared, hatefully, at the monster wearing his face. The thing looked back, perplexed but defiant, and in that split second a softness, even an affection, came over Brennan.
TB: Shut up.
A: Look, I know you’re confused.
TB: You don’t know anything and you need to stop talking immediately.
A: I am, too. Lance showed me the pictures, I don’t… I don’t understand it. But I’m not him.
[I step forward at this point, having made a brief but, I admit for scientific thoroughness, cowardly retreat]
LS: Brennan… Brennan, I have the autopsy notes for Booth. Cam documented every scar, every mark on his body, some of them only from memory.
TB: Memory isn’t reliable.
LS: If anyone knew his body -
JH: Dr. Brennan stepped forward again. Sweets flinched automatically, like a scared puppy.
LS: Seriously?
JH: A hungry, mewling, beaten puppy dog.
LS: Oh, come on.
JH: With big, sad, retarded eyes.
LS: Temperance, I’m begging you. I checked Angel’s entire body against every note Cam made, and they don’t match.
JH: At the revelation that Lance had spent hours poring over a naked man’s body, I felt obligated to point out how very, very gay that was.
LS: Psychological breakdown or not, I will hurt you, Jack.
JH: … I managed to quell the urge.
LS: That’s right.
TB: You’ve just said yourself that the infection causes unforeseen healing abilities, who’s to say his scars didn’t…
LS: He’s not Booth. He’s not.
TB: I know it’s not Booth now.
LS: He never was.
JH: Brennan gripped the scalpel menacingly, but in an unexpected show of balls, Lance raised his chin and pushed forward.
LS: Believe me, I want him back as much as… I want him back too. But he’s not Booth.
TB: Then what is he?
A: I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.
[There is a clatter of metal as Dr. Brennan spins to face Angel, knocking over the instrument table.]
JH: Brennan, breathing heavily, pressed the scalpel to the exposed throat of the grotesque impossibility.
A: ‘Grotesque’?
TB: I have accepted the reality of zombies. Actual zombies, that hunger for brains and roam the earth spreading their sickness to anyone they bite. I’ve lost loved ones. My family is dead; my best friend went out two months ago and left her husband here to go insane with worry. I have witnessed the man I love devour the brain of his only son and I was the one who blew his head off. Do you honestly think there is anything left in the world that I wouldn’t believe?
[Until this moment, Dr. Brennan has never spoken of the circumstances surrounding Booth’s death, or her part in it. There is a second of stunned silence. Then:]
A: I’m a vampire.
TB: Fuck you.
[The tape recording gets confusing here. There’s shouting. What I remember is this: a flash of silver, a lot of blood - like, a lot; I slip in it and cut my hand when I fall - and Jack coming, albeit briefly, back to himself for long enough to pull Dr. Brennan away from Angel and keep her restrained until she calms down. I stand back up and put a hand on Angel’s face to calm him, I say… something stupid, I don’t know, but I pull the scalpel out of his throat as quickly and cleanly as possible. He is pallid, probably from the blood loss, but he’s still conscious, and he turns his face to my palm, where I was cut, still covered in both our blood.]
TB: God damn you…
[Soft sobbing]
JH: She turned to me and buried her face in my shirt, wetting it with -
LS: Jack, shut up!
***
From the Desk of Dr. Lance Sweets, Ph.D.
Day 79: It doesn’t come across in the transcript, but I get it. What Brennan did, what she needed to believe, why she wanted so desperately to think it was him, even if that meant he was a monster again. I watched Angel sleep, and thought about having Booth back, telling him how sorry we are, how much we miss him. And I thought about Cam, finding her in the autopsy room, a bite mark on her arm and the barrel of her gun in her mouth; about Zach, who trapped himself with a hospital full of the infected and MacGyvered a bomb out of cleaning supplies. I though about Angela, strapping herself with the weaponized test antivirus, kissing Jack furiously, promising she’d make it back, him promising he’d wait.
Angel asked me - that is to say, us - to go with him, but we can’t. I’m surprised how much I want to, but Jack wasn’t going to leave, I said, and neither Brennan nor I would go without him. I think he wanted to argue, but instead he just took my hand, my injured one, and said he’d come back for us. I turned away, self-consciously, as he got dressed, and he left when I wasn’t looking.
The cut on my hand is almost completely gone now; it can’t have been as deep as I thought, since it’s only been about a day. I keep running my fingers over it, the way he did just before he left, remembering the look on his face. It was… intent. Sad. Almost apologetic.
I feel different, strange, thinking about him.
I probably just need to eat something, though.
Author: daffybroad
Recipient: beckyh2112
Fandom: Bones/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, and I do not harbour any misconceptions of ownership or creative control. This is a derivative work of fiction. Please refrain from suing me. I would consider it a kindness.
Spoilers (if applicable): None.
Warnings (if applicable): Brief gore.
Pairings: The slightest hint of Angel/Sweets
Summary: For the prompt: After the end of the world, Dr. Brennan has a mystery to solve in the form of a man who looks exactly like her dead partner.
Note: I’m not the only pinch-hitter who wrote for this prompt; check out missmara 's wonderful story, The Good Fight.
Note 2: Unbeta'ed (ran out of time); apologies in advance for any mistakes or glaring issues.
Casefile 84605 - Preliminary Observations: Dr. Temperance Brennan
Body discovered in Jeffersonian laboratory hallway, 3:26 am, March 14th, 2010. Body was approaching quarantine glass when it was subdued with taser blast (X26, police issue, ref. BOOTH, Seeley, req. 3827D) and retrieved for further testing.
Body was clothed: denim jeans, European size 48; belt, leather, silver pegging; maroon cotton shirt, button front, collar, unbuttoned to the third hole, size L; leather jacket, duster length, black, size XL.
Body was armed: wrist-mounted sawed-off shotguns, 4-gauge rounds; .410 bore shotgun, intact; machete, 21 inches, in belt-hung scabbard; four sharpened wooden dowels, 13 inches, purpose unknown.
Physical description: Caucasian male; medium brown hair, short but not shorn; deep brown eyes, soulful; 38 years old, according to birth certificate recovered from Jeffersonian records (ref. BOOTH, Seeley, deceased January 2nd, 2010.)
Initial examinations reveal no pulse, nor demonstrable breathing, though the retardation of decay or rigor mortis suggests muscle use and continued bodily functions on a level we are unable to detect. Body displays abnormally developed speech patterns and cognitive abilities, based on prior observations of infected persons. In all previous encounters with Homo sapiens mortis (subspecies classification as yet unreviewed) subjects have displayed low levels of motor control or higher brain function. Body 84605 is able to converse, or at the very least, to shout in recognizable English language. However, body refuses to acknowledge name as Seeley Booth or memories of Jeffersonian staff. It is logical to conclude that this is a mutated form of infection.
Autopsy notes to follow.
***
“The night dripped from the walls like ichor, hideous and wet. With every breath, I drowned in it. This was no place for man. I clutched my shotgun to my chest, reveling in its steel caress, its metallic confidence. Here was my lantern, my guidebook. It was me against the hordes, and I was ready. With my sweet, sweet Angie in my mind, I watched the doors, flipped the safety off, and prayed to the Gods I knew, by now, weren’t listening.”
***
From the Desk of Dr. Lance Sweets, Ph.D.
Day 78: I’m starting to have serious concerns about Jack.
***
TRANSCRIPT: Autopsy notes, Casefile 84605. Primary: Dr. Temperance Brennan. Attending: Jack Hodgins, Dr. Lance Sweets.
[Transcribed, with annotations, by Dr. Lance Sweets]
Dr. Temperance Brennan: Is it running?
Dr. Lance Sweets: Yeah, I… test, test… okay, Hodgins, play that back?
Jack Hodgins: I did as Sweets had asked, my fingers dancing across the keys, until…
[At this point, we hear a repeat of the last exchange.]
TB: Excellent. Alright, this is an autopsy on the reanimated body of Seeley Booth, initially deceased -
LS: I’d like to restate my objection to this.
TB: Noted. Initially deceased -
LS: Brennan, listen to me, please. Please. I’ve talked to him.
JH: The stunning doctor recoiled visibly at this, her wide eyes filled with betrayal.
TB: You spoke to it? Alone?
LS: I spoke with him. We had a conversation.
[There is a pained groan.]
TB: That’s a clear violation of protocol, Dr. Sweets.
LS: What protocol? There’s no, you know, handbook for dead bodies that talk back. All we have to go on is our own humanity, and mine is telling me that you can’t perform an autopsy on a living being.
JH: My eyes followed the dangerous conversation intently, like a tennis match played with live ordnance.
TB: All evidence indicates that this body is dead.
[Another groan.]
LS: Except for the fact that he’s currently waking up.
TB: No heartbeat, no breathing, that’s -
LS: What about healing response? His body repairs itself, that’s not something we’ve seen.
TB: I am open to the possibility of a mutated strain of the disease that retains the body’s natural -
LS: It’s supernatural! You hit him with yet another taser blast to the chest twenty minutes ago and there isn’t even a burn!
TB: Very well, then, a strain that amplifies the body’s natural healing processes.
JH: Sweets was momentarily struck dumb, a look of insensate disbelief plastered on his soft, childlike face.
LS: …Thanks for that, Jack.
[At this point, I will commence transcribing the contributions of Subject 84605, abbreviated as A.]
A: Wha…
LS: He’s coming around. He’s waking up.
TB: I note for recording purposes that the subject appears to be reaching consciousness, although this does not preclude…
LS: Angel? Angel, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s Lance.
A: Why… am I still strapped to the gurney?
LS: It’s okay, you’re fine. I’m talking her out of the autopsy.
TB: He’s doing no such thing. He’s merely causing a delay.
LS: But he’s awake now, you can’t!
TB: It’s a dead body. It’s my job to perform this autopsy and-
LS: Cam wouldn’t do it.
TB: Cam’s dead.
LS: All the more reason.
TB: I don’t follow your logic.
LS: Booth wouldn’t…
[There is a hard, fast clap of sound.]
JH: Lance Sweets recoiled, appalled, as the imprint of Dr. Brennan’s tiny but fierce hand purpled on his cheek.
TB: Don’t talk to me about Booth. Not in front of… of that…
JH: Brennan’s eyes filled with tears as she glared, hatefully, at the monster wearing his face. The thing looked back, perplexed but defiant, and in that split second a softness, even an affection, came over Brennan.
TB: Shut up.
A: Look, I know you’re confused.
TB: You don’t know anything and you need to stop talking immediately.
A: I am, too. Lance showed me the pictures, I don’t… I don’t understand it. But I’m not him.
[I step forward at this point, having made a brief but, I admit for scientific thoroughness, cowardly retreat]
LS: Brennan… Brennan, I have the autopsy notes for Booth. Cam documented every scar, every mark on his body, some of them only from memory.
TB: Memory isn’t reliable.
LS: If anyone knew his body -
JH: Dr. Brennan stepped forward again. Sweets flinched automatically, like a scared puppy.
LS: Seriously?
JH: A hungry, mewling, beaten puppy dog.
LS: Oh, come on.
JH: With big, sad, retarded eyes.
LS: Temperance, I’m begging you. I checked Angel’s entire body against every note Cam made, and they don’t match.
JH: At the revelation that Lance had spent hours poring over a naked man’s body, I felt obligated to point out how very, very gay that was.
LS: Psychological breakdown or not, I will hurt you, Jack.
JH: … I managed to quell the urge.
LS: That’s right.
TB: You’ve just said yourself that the infection causes unforeseen healing abilities, who’s to say his scars didn’t…
LS: He’s not Booth. He’s not.
TB: I know it’s not Booth now.
LS: He never was.
JH: Brennan gripped the scalpel menacingly, but in an unexpected show of balls, Lance raised his chin and pushed forward.
LS: Believe me, I want him back as much as… I want him back too. But he’s not Booth.
TB: Then what is he?
A: I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.
[There is a clatter of metal as Dr. Brennan spins to face Angel, knocking over the instrument table.]
JH: Brennan, breathing heavily, pressed the scalpel to the exposed throat of the grotesque impossibility.
A: ‘Grotesque’?
TB: I have accepted the reality of zombies. Actual zombies, that hunger for brains and roam the earth spreading their sickness to anyone they bite. I’ve lost loved ones. My family is dead; my best friend went out two months ago and left her husband here to go insane with worry. I have witnessed the man I love devour the brain of his only son and I was the one who blew his head off. Do you honestly think there is anything left in the world that I wouldn’t believe?
[Until this moment, Dr. Brennan has never spoken of the circumstances surrounding Booth’s death, or her part in it. There is a second of stunned silence. Then:]
A: I’m a vampire.
TB: Fuck you.
[The tape recording gets confusing here. There’s shouting. What I remember is this: a flash of silver, a lot of blood - like, a lot; I slip in it and cut my hand when I fall - and Jack coming, albeit briefly, back to himself for long enough to pull Dr. Brennan away from Angel and keep her restrained until she calms down. I stand back up and put a hand on Angel’s face to calm him, I say… something stupid, I don’t know, but I pull the scalpel out of his throat as quickly and cleanly as possible. He is pallid, probably from the blood loss, but he’s still conscious, and he turns his face to my palm, where I was cut, still covered in both our blood.]
TB: God damn you…
[Soft sobbing]
JH: She turned to me and buried her face in my shirt, wetting it with -
LS: Jack, shut up!
***
From the Desk of Dr. Lance Sweets, Ph.D.
Day 79: It doesn’t come across in the transcript, but I get it. What Brennan did, what she needed to believe, why she wanted so desperately to think it was him, even if that meant he was a monster again. I watched Angel sleep, and thought about having Booth back, telling him how sorry we are, how much we miss him. And I thought about Cam, finding her in the autopsy room, a bite mark on her arm and the barrel of her gun in her mouth; about Zach, who trapped himself with a hospital full of the infected and MacGyvered a bomb out of cleaning supplies. I though about Angela, strapping herself with the weaponized test antivirus, kissing Jack furiously, promising she’d make it back, him promising he’d wait.
Angel asked me - that is to say, us - to go with him, but we can’t. I’m surprised how much I want to, but Jack wasn’t going to leave, I said, and neither Brennan nor I would go without him. I think he wanted to argue, but instead he just took my hand, my injured one, and said he’d come back for us. I turned away, self-consciously, as he got dressed, and he left when I wasn’t looking.
The cut on my hand is almost completely gone now; it can’t have been as deep as I thought, since it’s only been about a day. I keep running my fingers over it, the way he did just before he left, remembering the look on his face. It was… intent. Sad. Almost apologetic.
I feel different, strange, thinking about him.
I probably just need to eat something, though.