Learn To Fly
By: a380fan
One particularly upset, depressed, and disheveled Special Agent Seeley Booth paced his apartment. He dropped down on his couch and poured himself another shot of whiskey. He looked miserable, an accurate reflection of what he felt inside. He still wore his work shirt, though the jacket was long since discarded. His tie lay undone, draping over his shoulders like a pitifully small shawl. His eyes were blood-shot, and dark circles were expanding from under them by the second. He'd been awake ever since it had happened, nearly fifty hours before. He knew this was a bad way to cope with his upset, but so far it seemed to be the only thing that had offered a small modicum of relief. All the praying in the world didn't help the guilt, so he resorted to vice.
He had been pursuing a subject the day before. The guy was wanted in the rape-homicide of three young women. The chase led them to a busy road, and the suspect, sensing entrapment, reached inside his pocket. Booth had his gun drawn already and had aimed at the man. He ordered the suspect to freeze, show his hands, and lie face down on the decaying asphalt that made up the parking lot. The suspect ignored Booth. He drew a .338 handgun from his pocket and pointed it at Booth, who at this point had no other option. The safety on his gun already disengaged when the suspect had stopped running, he squeezed back the trigger, once, twice, sending two .45 rounds into the suspect. One of them nicked the suspect's shoulder while the other found its way into his lung, tearing several arteries before it became lodged in his spine.
The round that had nicked the man however, continued into the road and hit an eight-year old girl, and gone right through her neck. She was still alive, fortunately, but in grave condition in George Washington Medical Center's ICU unit. All Booth knew was that she was alive. He only hoped that he would not be responsible for the death of another innocent person, especially a child. A child who'd never have their first crush, would never have a late-night slumber party, would never live the life she would have if not for him.
He poured himself another round of the fiery whisky and took a sip, savoring the burning sensation that coursed through his throat and soon after his stomach. He had lost count of how much he'd drank, though the one empty and one nearly empty bottle suggested he'd been quite liberal in his consumption of the fiery concoction. He groaned and leaned back, closing his eyes as yet another wave of images consumed his conscience; the suspect falling; the sound of breaking glass; the young, innocent, helpless child bleeding from his handiwork; the paramedics attentively on her as her mother watched and sobbed; the steady thump of the helicopter as it landed and the girl was strapped in; the officer asking for his gun… The previous days events, leading up to the point when he got home kept replaying in his mind.
His downward-spiral of miserable mental images was broken by soft knocking on his door. It was either the Office of Professional Responsibility or the media, neither of which he was looking forward to speaking to.
He stayed there, on the couch, the only sound coming from his mouth as he inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide. His chest rose and fell as the knocking started again, this time louder, with more force. He continued to ignore it, sitting there on his couch, drowning in guilt and self-hatred for being such a shitty shot. The knocking stopped, only to be replaced by the sound of a key scraping against a lock, then the soft click as his door was unlocked. Who had a key besides him? He looked over at the door and slowly rose, and when the door opened he was left wordless for a moment.
"Bones," He stated—his voice dry and cracked.
"Booth," She replied, her voice laden with empathy.