"If I die like this, I'll go down as the most pathetic time traveler in history."
Christian stared down the barrel aimed at his chest, lips twitching into a bitter smirk.
His nerves were frayed, but his thoughts spun out like smoke in a storm.
"Could be worse," he muttered under his breath.
"At least I can still feel my legs. Better than that hellish door I stepped through."
He laughed—dry and humorless—thinking how absurd it all was.
Still, he found it hard to ignore the way Sally's hand shook as she pointed the gun at him.
The safety was off. Her knuckles were white. Her breath came hard and fast.
She's scared. Furious too. Can't say I blame her.
Christian's mind flicked back to last night like a broken projector playing the wrong kind of memories.
She had been drunk—messy, glassy-eyed drunk—and Christian, being the unlucky bastard he was, ended up with her half-conscious weight slumped against him.
He got her back to her place, guided by slurred directions and instinct.
But something had been off.
Not the alcohol. That was real, sure—but not enough to knock her out like that. No, there was something else, something darker.
And Christian had felt it the moment his fingers brushed the inside of his coat and came away sticky with guilt.
A vial. Cracked. Empty.
He knew what it was before he even saw the label. Something vile.
Something illegal. Something that hadn't been sold over the counter since the Reagan years.
He didn't put it there. He hoped he hadn't.
But he had touched it. It was on his hands. On her glass.
And suddenly, he remembered the feeling. Not lust—no. Something primal. A craving that didn't belong to him. That was the real horror.
Not that Sally was passed out in front of him, but that some part of him had wanted it to happen.
He'd fought worse things. Demons. Curses. The occasional specter. But this?
This was human.
"Don't blame me. I did it for your own good."
That line came out of his mouth unbidden as he helped her to the bed, her vomit staining his coat. Even as he said it, he hated himself for it.
Jesus, that's exactly what the villain says before things get real dark.
He froze, staring down at her.
If this were a novel, the hero would be kicking down the door right about now.
Unless, of course, it's one of those stories where no one gets saved...
He looked at the half-dressed woman sprawled across the sheets, and for a second, he didn't see a person—he saw an opportunity.
A temptation. His fingers twitched.
No.
He backed away. Shaky. Furious at himself. At whatever force had nudged this into motion.
He clenched his fists, knuckles cracking.
Get it together, Booth. This isn't who you are.
But the truth was... he wasn't so sure anymore.
He whispered the words, voice low and hoarse.
"The night gave me black eyes... but I use them to find the light."
It wasn't a holy chant or sacred spell. Just a line from a forgotten poem. But it anchored him. Grounded him.
Old ghosts had taught him that the power wasn't in the words—it was in believing them.
Focus. Intent.
That's where the magic lived.
Self-hypnosis. That's what modern psychology calls it. He'd studied enough of it to know the brain could be tricked into moving mountains-or into lighting candles in the dark.
He breathed deeply. Steady. Centered.
In this age—this godless stretch of time where monsters were myths and miracles were rare—magic had become unreliable.
Faith didn't guarantee results. The old ways? Rusty. Faded.
Two successes out of a hundred on a good day.
But still... he tried.
Because when all you have left is willpower and broken tricks, you either give up—or you bluff hard and pray the darkness blinks first.
This time, everything went surprisingly smoothly.
Even though the spiritual energy in 1997 wasn't much stronger than the dry magic of the years ahead, something else—something unseen—seemed to be pulling strings in his favor.
Christian could feel it: that slippery current of power from a world half-forgotten. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
"Come," he whispered, placing two fingers lightly on the girl's forehead.
He deliberately switched the incantation to English—not that it mattered much to the spell, but it might resonate with her subconscious.
Language had power, especially when wielded by someone who knew how to cut with it.
"Rise."
The girl's body twitched. A shadow passed across her face as her expression contorted into something caught between agony and nightmare.
Her brow furrowed deeply, then twisted until the beautiful symmetry of her face became grotesque.
Then she screamed.
A raw, guttural cry—half-pain, half-soulbreaking confusion.
She jolted upright like she'd been shocked back to life, eyes wide and glassy, limbs jerking like a marionette with tangled strings.
"Where... where am I?"
Her voice was cracked and dry, her pupils blown wide, her gaze unfocused—somewhere between staring at the far wall and looking straight through it.
"You're in the hospital, miss."
Christian kept his tone steady, casual. Not because he believed the lie, but because she would.
The room was clearly a bedroom—hers—but her mind wasn't grounded. It was slipping like a dream at dawn.
"Oh..."
She blinked, as if trying to reorient herself. There was no recognition in her voice.
No memory of where she was, or who he was, or who she was.
"Why am I here? What happened?"
She rubbed her arms. Her skin had gone pale, and her once-vibrant hair hung limp, stripped of its glow.
"You were drinking. Fell. Got a bit banged up."
He studied her, noting every microreaction. She was following the suggestion perfectly.
That confirmed it—the spell had taken. His gamble had paid off.
Still, he kept his voice neutral, measured, masking the dark thrill rising in his gut.
"This is Dr. House. I'm your attending. How are you feeling?"
She grimaced, clutching her side.
"It hurts," she muttered.
"Feels like my whole body's shattered... Doctor, am I dying?"
Christian gave a slight shrug, offering her a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Pain means you're alive. Dead people don't complain, do they?"
He watched the irony land in his own mind more than hers. There was no grin.
No sarcasm in his voice.
Just the lingering weight of someone who'd seen too many people not wake up.
"One more thing," he said, casually, almost as an afterthought.
"Can you tell me your full name? We didn't get it when you were brought in."
She hesitated. Long enough that Christian began to suspect she didn't know.
Then, finally:
"My name is... Alexis Rachel Hyden."
The words came slowly, like she was reading them off a foggy mirror.
Then something shifted.
Her eyes locked onto something invisible. Her lips twitched.
"Alexis," she whispered again.
"My name is Alexis."
Her tone changed. Urgent. Repetitive. Like a scratched record.
"I am Alexis."
"I am Alexis."
"I'm—"
Christian didn't wait for the rest.
"Sleep."
His voice dropped like a stone into a still pond. He pressed two fingers to her temple again and whispered the phrase like a commandment from a higher power.
Her body stiffened... then dropped.
Silence.
She collapsed onto the mattress, exactly as she had the night before—like a marionette with its strings cut.
Christian exhaled.
The spell held. But he knew better than to celebrate.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.