Of Gifts And Honour
Author: BeTheChangeYouSee
Category: Bones
Rating: T, but could possibly be M for explicit murder scenes and teenage behaviour in later chapters
Summary: "The greatest gift and honour, is having you for a daughter." Juno E. Todd had heard this before in her most favourite movie, but it had never meant anything special - until she got pulled into questioning for witnessing the murder of an FBI informant, and her whole world fell into place.
The room was dark, filled only with a rectangular metallic table with two silver chairs facing another two chairs. On the left of the chairs closest to the door, the wall altered somewhat; instead of blank walls, there was a slab of reflective mirror placed about a third of the way up the wall and a foot down from the roof.
I knew what was behind that mirror, of course, since you'd have to be an idiot not to. I'd watched enough cop movies and murder mysteries with my Mum to know that the mirror wasn't a mirror at all; rather, it was a wedge of one-way glass. Behind that glass were police officers, or, in my case, a few FBI agents.
Don't ask how I'd gotten myself into this position, because I damn well had no clue. All I knew was that I was picked up not two hours ago by a man and a woman claiming to be FBI. Well, not claiming, since they had proof, so I s'pose you can call it ….
I can't think of the word.
Anyway, that was two hours ago. They picked me up in their black SUV and drove towards a building that I recognized as the J. Edgar Hoover F.B.I. Building. Then, they basically handcuffed me and led me towards the elevator, where everyone gave us odd looks. Mostly everyone cleared out from the elevator car, except this random guy who just smiled and chatted to the woman, who started rolling her eyes at everything he said.
At last, we reached our floor and the creepy guy gave us a wave as we left. The woman, yet again, rolled her eyes and said to the man, "God, can't Vickson just leave me alone for two frigging minutes?"
The man laughed.
"That wouldn't be Vickson, then, would it?" he chortled.
"True enough," agreed the woman. I could tell from her voice that she wasn't an American – perhaps an Australian or a Brit – and that made me wonder why she was in FBI Headquarters, acting as if she was at home.
The woman was about average height, maybe a little taller, at around five foot five or five foot six. She had blonde, curly hair that was expertly twirled into a bun, little coils bouncing across her face. Her eyes were a deep hazel that was matched by tanned skin and no freckles. She was very pretty. Like most agents of the FBI, she was well-toned, wearing a white shirt and a pair of denim jeans with her badge attached to the right-sided pocket.
The man was very different. He had dark brown hair that was cut short and eyes – a chocolate brown like mine – that matched. His face was very handsome, with his nose perfectly straight and his mouth just the right width. Alike the woman, he, too, was well-toned, but garbed in a different ensemble than her plain-looking clothes. He was wearing a suit, looking extremely official in it. While she was definitely not American, I could tell that this man was – he had a Philly accent, something I hadn't heard much in the past few weeks.
They steered me down the hall from the elevators and into another corridor. In this corridor were rows of plain black doors leading into what I assumed to be interrogation rooms. The man (he hadn't even thought to tell me his name) followed me through a door to our right while the woman smiled and went into another door. As he motioned to the seat opposite the door, his eyes met mine and he grimaced, and then left.
And that's where I sat for almost two hours.
Ok, so maybe I was a potential druggie in future years, but it doesn't mean they should take me in and treat me like they hate me or something! As far as I knew, I'd done nothing to warrant an arrest. Maybe, fine, I'd run away from foster care, but it isn't as if that doesn't happen all the time. Surely they didn't bring in the big guns for running away from foster care – I was eleven, for God's sake!
Besides, it wasn't as if I was dead or anything; I was pretty sure the 'nice' social worker didn't know my name and had never even filed a missing-persons report. After all, they probably thought that, since I had nowhere to go, I'd eventually make it back to them anyway. Well, I couldn't and I wouldn't.
I had to find my Dad.
Fine, I'll be the first to admit it isn't looking very likely. But I didn't want a foster family. I especially didn't want one like Evan Michelson's; they beat him all the time and didn't even try to hide it. Evan would come to school with bruises on his arms and the teacher couldn't be bothered to notice. Once, Evan had even come to me, the social outcast who seemed to hate everyone, for help. Me!
So, when Mum died in a car accident two months ago, I did exactly as she told me to – I went to Washington D.C. to find my Dad.
She hadn't exactly told me that was where he lived. In fact, chances were, he wasn't anywhere near there. However, by my reasoning, I would find a trace of him in D.C.
Reason one: he was an Army Ranger, who could've, possibly, been featured in a newspaper. It was common knowledge that the most accurate museum of history was the Jeffersonian, which is in D.C.
Reason two: Mum had said that he told her, before they got hopelessly drunk, that he was hoping to join FBI after he was discharged from the Army. The biggest FBI Headquarters that I knew of were in D.C., ergo, making it another good choice.
Reason three: she alleged that he told her to meet him in D.C. one day.
Now, I dunno about you, but to my eleven-year-old mind, these reasons were pretty convincing. Oh, sure, they were flawed. The basis of my logic was what my Mum knew about a guy she'd known in high school and had a one night stand with about twelve years ago. But to me, who was going to get into something I'd always despised, this was the smart thing to do.
And since I was told from an extremely early age that my mental capability was above average, I trusted what I reasoned to be the smart thing to do. After all, it worked for my Mum.
Till she died, that is.
My musings were interrupted by the door opening, revealing the woman accompanied by a different man than the on who'd brought me into the room. This one had sandy blond hair and pale green eyes with a crooked nose and very freckly skin.
"Hello, honey," said the woman, sitting down opposite me. She gave me what Mum would call an 'encouraging' smile. "I'm Tori Langheart and this is Special Agent Matthew Donahue. We want to ask you a few questions about this man here." Langheart put a picture on the shiny table.
That's that man from the other day!
You see, a few days ago, on Tuesday night, a gang of about four men came into the alley I was sleeping in for the night and started bashing up a fifth man. They said things like, "You never really did pay us back for Friday," and "This time, Vice, you ain't getting away." I was kind of afraid, but they never even noticed I was there. They didn't detect me, even when I let out a cry of fear when they put a gun to the man's head and pulled the trigger. After they'd left and after I'd checked if the man was still alive (which he wasn't), I ran.
Langheart and Donahue must've seen the recognition in my eyes or something, because they exchanged looks of anticipation (Donahue) and resignation (Langheart). The blonde woman sighed, then asked me, "What's your name, honey?"
"Juno," I answered, my mouth suddenly dry. Was I here because they found out I was there? Or was I there because they thought I killed him? "Juno Todd."
The Special Agent, Donahue, leaned forward, smiling in a weird way, and asked, "What do you know about this man in the picture?"
My heart started to race. Of course they think I killed him! What should I do, what should I do? I asked myself. I knew that they sure as hell knew I was there; my reaction had given me away already. Then, the little child genius that I was, I figured out a solution to all problems available. A solution to their problem, dealing with the murder of 'Vice' and a solution to my living arrangement.
Steady with it, Juni, the Mum in my mind whispered. It's all a drama, sweetie, and you're the main character.
"I don't know much about him," I answered honestly. Langheart smiled encouragingly, giving me comfort in the fact that she was, most likely, on my side. "All I know is that his last name is Vice or something."
Donahue's eyebrows rose. "Anything else?" he asked, putting heaps of emphasis on the else.
I nodded.
"He's dead," I added. Langheart's eyes widened. Donahue smiled triumphantly. Now for the twist, Juni… "He died on Tuesday in the alley next to La Fantaisie when a gangbanger shot him."
They both sat up straighter at those words. Neither of them said anything, although I saw Donahue open his mouth for a few seconds before closing it.
Finally, Langheart said, "What did the other man look like, Juno?" in a very nice, persuasive voice.
I had already made my decision though.
"I'll tell you," I said, "if you find my Dad."
"WHAT?" exploded Donahue, slapping his hands on the table. "You're blackmailing us? What the Hell? How old are you, kid?"
I didn't move a muscle, although my mind went into overdrive trying to figure out escape routes from the escapeless room. His reaction frightened me slightly, but I knew that he couldn't hurt me; Langheart would never let him and neither would anyone on the other side of the glass, because I was a kid and because I knew important information.
Despite wanting to appear aloof, I think Langheart noticed my … discomfort. Because barely a moment passed before she was ordering the Special Agent out of the room and through the door with a, "That's not how you behave around a kid, dumbass."
She turned back to me with a warm, but urgent smile. "Juno, me and the other officers really need your help," she explained. "The man in the picture, Declan Vice, was an FBI informant who had information on a lot of high up gang members. We really need you to identify them."
"I'm sorry, Miss Langheart, but I really want to know where my Dad is," I told her. I widened my eyes to give her my cutesy, innocent look. No one was impervious to it, even my Mum. "I can tell you everything, but you need to find him first."
Tori Langheart sighed in exasperation before smiling indulgently at me. "You're a genius in miniature, you know that?"
"So I've been told," I said, shrugging. I really had been told that. "Please Miss Langheart?"
"I have to go check with the other agents, but I think we can cut you a deal, Juno," said Langheart, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She got up from her seat and left the room.
Despite knowing that there were agents on the other side of the glass, I let a grin break out across my face. Finally. Finally! After weeks and weeks of fruitless searching and starvation, there was a high, very high chance of meeting my Dad. Thank God!
But when the door swung open again, I let the smile disappear. Even though I liked Langheart, I wasn't going to let her see that I was happy about the prospect of a deal. That would be stupid and pointless, since it could cause them to not trust me anymore. It was more of a privacy thing, though; because I was pretty sure she saw my face from the other side of the glass, where she was, doubtlessly, waiting.
"They said yes," she announced, spreading her hands wide. It didn't really register for a few seconds what she'd said until that little voice, like my Mum's, said, You're safe, Baby Girl, you're safe now.
That broad smile from before was barely anything compared to what I then did. I laughed. I know, gasp, she laughed, big whoop. But honestly, I haven't laughed for almost two years, ever since my Mum was diagnosed with leukaemia. So, for me, this is big. Really big. At least, assuming the FBI actually found him on the very little details I had to go on.
Langheart just smiled at me.
"What do you know about your father, Juno?" she asked. That kind of shut me up. At least, assuming the FBI actually found him on the very little details I had to go on. Langheart frowned. "Is something wrong, honey?"
"No," I answered, coming down from the high of my success and seeing the possibility of actually finding the man who shared my DNA. "It's just… I don't really know that much about him."
"Well," she said, smiling in that encouraging way of hers, "do you know his name or his job or something that might lead us to him?"
I nodded.
"He comes from Philadelphia," I said, "'cause I'm pretty sure the Flyers are the Philly team for hockey, but I never really watched it. He was in the Army, too: he was in the … seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment, I think."
"Really?" said Langheart, sitting forward, glancing briefly at the glass. "I have a friend who's in that regiment. He might know who your Dad is."
"Are you sure, Miss Langheart? Really?"
"Yes, Juno," she said, nodding. She pointed to the glass, making me turn my head towards it at the insinuation. "He's on the other side of th–"
Suddenly, the door burst open. In the entrance stood the agent from before, the American guy who'd helped to arrest me. He leant against the frame, giving me a strained smile before saying, "Miss Langheart, I would really appreciate it if you and I can have a little chat before you release this information."
"What?" said Langheart, a shocked look on her face. "Booth, you were the first one to agree to this; don't tell me you changed your mind. You know she's innocent."
"Yes," he said impatiently, giving me another one of his strained smiles, "I know the kid's innocent, but we really need to have a chat, ok?"
"Fine." Langheart stood up, the encouraging, reassuring smile back in place. "I'll be right back, Juno."
Even I couldn't disguise the jolt of fear that hit me at that moment.
~J*B~
Seeley Booth's Office
"Booth, what the hell is going on?" demanded Tori, hands on her hips as Seeley Booth dropped into his chair, a hand placed over his forehead. "First you tell me that that little girl should get everything she needs and now you're denying that? Have you suddenly lost it or something?"
"Or something," he snapped. He abruptly sat up, placing his palms flat down on his desk. "That girl, that little girl, is the daughter of my best friend's sister."
"How do you figure that?" snorted Tori.
Booth rolled his eyes, trying to find the humour in the situation, despite feeling extremely anxious to return to the interrogation room. He was dead sure that Juno Todd was who he thought she was, and that really made him feel odd.
"Look, Tori, Harry told me everything. Plus," he added, "that little girl looks exactly like Jolie."
Tori rolled her eyes. "How long were you out drinking last night, Booth?" she asked, smirking.
Booth's left eye twitched.
"I would know what Jolie Todd looks like, Tori, because, at one point, we went out," he barked. She raised an eyebrow. Then the expression changed entirely as a look of comprehension dawned.
"Booth, you knew Juno's name before you agreed to find her father," she said slowly. Booth made a keep-going gesture with his hands while rolling his eyes. But Tori wasn't even paying attention to him; rather, she was locked in her own little mind cell figuring everything out. Then… "Oh my God you're her father!"
"Give the girl a prize," he exclaimed sarcastically.
"Holy shit, Booth, what the hell?"
"Look, I didn't know till now either, so don't yell at me," he said, leaning back in his seat.
"How do you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, how do you know she's yours?" questioned Tori.
Booth smiled, and told her, "I'd know the kid of Jolie Todd anywhere. Trust me."
"Wait – wait – wait –wait," she said, waving her hands around, "lemme get this straight. You don't actually know whether your ex had a kid, yet you reckon that, just because this one comes waltzing in claiming to have a father in your regiment who comes from Philly and has a freaky, insane love for the Flyers, your ex had a kid and told you nothing about it. Am I right?"
"Just about."
"How the hell did this happen?"
"Well, you see, when a Mummy and a Daddy love each other very much–"
"Not literally, dumbass."
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