Instinct

9. A Thousand Goodbyes

The world rocked like a sailboat on a tumultuous ocean, the hands of those dead and robbed of futures clung at the sides, pulling the old, weathered boat downward. Pale, dripping hands grasping at the railings, tilting the boat dangerously-

"Stephanie."

The hands reached over, grabbing desperately at her arms, her shoulders, and closer to her face, her throat- clawing.

"Stephanie," the voice repeated. "Come on, we've got to get you up."

Then, there was only one set of hands, gentle- compassionate even. Warmth radiated through his skin into hers, rather than the chill of the dead slipping over her and spearing into her heart. Stephanie blinked, her eyes crusted with sleep and blurred with exhaustion. Her head ached something vicious, aggravated by his gentle shaking of her.

She groaned, shivering under the thin film of fever still hanging over her.

"I know," he lamented. "I know, but we've got to go."

If she weren't so tired, she might've been disgusted by the grunge sunk into her skin, the sweat dried on her, the oil in her stringy hair. She blinked her eyes open again, and a yawn died in her throat. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, a consistency like glue coating her throat.

She managed a breathless sound, painfully close to a whine, and then the world finally started to focus around her. Rather than the confusing mass of colors and indistinct shapes, she saw the clear form of a man looming over her.

His earnest eyes, his large nose, the soft voice of someone truly remorseful.

By the time she was fully awake, she was exhausted. She was shaking even just sitting up; a position the young man had pulled her into without much warning. Then, she might have missed him saying it- she had to focus so hard to keep her head upright on her neck.

It hurt to breathe. An uncomfortable tickling in her chest threatened to throw her into a coughing fit if she so much as breathed in more deeply than the feather light, shallow pants she was managing now. A metal band had wrapped itself around her lungs and squeezed, and she flinched against the act of coughing, though she knew she shouldn't.

"We're moving," Brennan explained gently.

Stephanie could feel herself staring at him, her chest heaving under her borrowed shirt. She blinked, but couldn't summon the will to speak. The cold was creeping in from everywhere it seemed. Leaching heat from her skin.

A door opened, adjacent from her place on the bed. Out walked someone Stephanie had never thought she'd see again. Dr. Powell had her patented scowl on, her posture too tense to be comfortable- she was out of her element.

Stephanie balked at the sight, bile rising in her throat.

The doctor froze, but Brennan leaned straight into Stephanie's vision, blocking her view of her. Her eyes nearly crossed as she brought her focus back to the moving lips in front of her face, but she couldn't hear him over the buzzing in her ears.

His expressive face, prematurely lined with responsibility, stayed in her direct line of vision and she concentrated solely on that until she could hear him speaking in low soothing tones, as if she were a spooked horse that needed to be placated.

"Dr. Powell told me where to come get you," he said. "You're okay here, yeah? I won't let anything happen to you."

She frowned and tightened her grip on his forearms- when had that happened? - and tried to see around him. What if this was just another fever dream? A dying brain's last chance to fabricate freedom in the face of oblivion?