Seeing the Monuments

By: Lesera128 & dharmamonkey

Rated: M

Disclaimer: We still don't own anything...and it's still pretty obvious that we don't—at least to us. And, yes, our permanent mailing address has now been changed to the sandbox—you know which one.

Summary: Booth is honored for valor in Afghanistan at a formal banquet, Brennan attends, guilt rears its ugly head, and Booth has to resort to drastic measures in the limo on their ride home to get rid of Brennan's melancholy. Sequel to "When She Ran Away." Set during early season 6. Very AU, and very, very M.

A/N: This story is a sequel to "When She Ran Away." It's set approximately two weeks after the conclusion of that story. It was inspired, in part, by the opening ten minutes of the 1987 movie "No Way Out." Similarities between the opening scenes of that movie and this fic are most likely deliberate.~

Part I: Setting the Scene

As he wound his way through the crowd of people towards the front of the reception hall, Booth glanced down at the slender, white-gloved arm threaded around the crook of his elbow and couldn't help but smile. It wasn't the black-tie nature of the event, or the medal he knew he would be awarded that night, but rather the woman at his side that made him feel ten feet tall. Brennan looked absolutely stunning, for lack of a better word.

An hour earlier, when Booth had arrived at her apartment to meet her so they could ride over together to the Marriott Crystal City in Arlington, he'd stood in front of her door and straightened his bow tie for what must have been the fiftieth time before he rang her doorbell. Moments later, when she opened the door, his mouth fell open and he felt himself wobble a little on his feet at the sight of her. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.

As she opened the door, Brennan tucked a small wisp of hair behind her ear. She'd just finished pulling on one of her elbow length white gloves and held the other one loosely in her hand. She stood in front of the door wearing a full length evening gown in a color that was a cross between royal blue and a peacock blue. Sleeveless, it hugged her tightly across her chest as the sweetheart bodice accentuated her breasts and the creamy white skin of her decolletage. Intricate beadwork, a mixture of lighter blue seed pearls and darker blue reflective beads, was designed to draw the eye to her chest, so a necklace was unnecessary. The tightness of the bodice eventually gave way to a looser and more flared satin skirt. Although Booth couldn't see them, Brennan wore a simple pair of relatively modest two-inch close-toed heels that had been dyed to match the dress. Her hair had been styled in a messy chignon, while a dark smokey eye, heavy mascara, and light apricot lip gloss completed her ensemble.

For Brennan's part, when she opened the door and saw Booth standing there in his full blue evening mess uniform, she couldn't help but stare and smile, open-mouthed, for several long seconds while she took in the sight of him. She'd always known Booth to be the kind of man who wore a tuxedo very, very well, albeit as infrequently as he could. While she'd seen him in a tux at least a half-dozen times over the years—both at Jeffersonian events as well as at various private social affairs, including Angela's and Hodgins' cancelled-at-the-altar church wedding—his current attire was still something quite...different. When Brennan had opened the apartment door, she was slightly unprepared for what she saw standing on her doorstep that night as he stood slightly fidgeting as he awaited his date's attention.

Booth was clad in a short, dark blue gabardine jacket, lighter blue, high-waisted gabardine trousers with a gold braid running from the bottom of the waistband to the bottom of his trouser leg, a white shirt with French cuffs, gold cufflinks, a black cummerbund, and a black bow tie. On the sleeves of his jacket, he wore his Sergeant Major's stripes and, just above his cuffs, four campaign stripes to denote the length of his Army service. A group of medals hung from his left lapel, including the Bronze Star he'd received for gallantry in action in Kosovo and a Purple Heart (which Brennan knew he had been awarded several times), and above them, miniature versions of his Ranger tab and Combat Infantryman's Badge (the latter with two stars, indicating he had received the award for three separate wartime deployments). On his right lapel, he wore the crest of the Third Special Forces Group.

As she visually inventoried all of the uniform's accouterments, Brennan realized that his uniform was like a wearable resume, easily read by any other serviceman as a quick summary of Booth's background and accomplishments. She finally brought her gaze up and observed a wide grin break across his smooth, perfectly clean-shaven face. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed to a very—and, Brennan noted silently, strokably—short regulation-length on the back and sides. He wore a black service cap with a shiny patent-leather visor the shape of which, she observed, seemed to accentuate his high, prominent cheekbones.

Not often at a loss for words, all Brennan could say upon seeing him was a quietly-squeaked, "Wow."

With a short laugh, Booth nodded at her as he said, "Hey, that was supposed to be my line."

The wow of the moment had admittedly faded a bit as they waited for the limo service Brennan had hired to finally show up and whisk them off to the event. Once she'd disappeared back into the apartment only for a minute to finish pulling on her other glove and to grab her evening clutch, she'd hastily locked up and took Booth's arm as he offered to escort her down stairs to wait in the lobby for their ride. The limo was at Brennan's insistence, obviously, not Booth's. She'd insisted for several different reasons, not the least of which was the fact that she didn't want them to have to worry about driving on such an important night. However, the main reason—even if she wouldn't have admitted it to Booth—was because there was no way she was going to show up at an event like that in a dress like this in Booth's SUV, where the dress could be unduly wrinkled, or a dirty old taxi cab, where something much worse might happen. Booth had grumbled loudly at the idea of not being able to drive, and the driver's tardiness did nothing to warm him to the idea. However, after lounging in the back of the stretched-out black Lincoln Town Car on the twenty-minute drive from Georgetown to Arlington across the bridge that separated D.C. from Virginia, stroking his fingers along the dark blue satin covering Brennan's thighs, Booth's grumbling was duly silenced. The longer he looked at her in that dress, the shorter he prayed the evening would be, because he swore he wanted nothing more than to slide that very lovely dress off of her delicious frame the very second they got home.

Booth shook off the thought, however delicious and arousing it was, and tried to bring his attention back to the present. Thankfully, the matter was made easier on account of two loud and slightly intoxicated colonels who stood in their way as they tried to make their way to their assigned table. He tried not to eavesdrop, but overhearing terms like resupply and aerial reconnaissance and acronyms like PCS and FAC quickly reminded him where he was and among whom. He'd been to a formal military event or two in the past, and he'd been to a number of formal events with Brennan over the years, but this was the first time those two worlds had collided for him. It was strange, in a way, but he was grateful to have her with him that night.

"Bones—"

As they waited for the pair of full-bird colonels to step aside, Booth leaned over and pressed his lips lightly on Brennan's exposed shoulder. "Have I told you that you look absolutely incredible tonight?" he whispered to her, inhaling a deep whiff of her perfume—a complex blend of peony, freesia, violet, bergamot, jasmine and roses—as his lips brushed past her ear. "Absolutely amazing, Bones."

She turned her head slightly and smiled. "Yes," she whispered back. "I believe that you've conveyed that sentiment several times to me this evening."

"Hmmm," he mumbled, kissing her temple softly and then leading her past the chatting colonels and towards the front of the room. "Well, just so you know, it doesn't make it any less true..."

Brennan leaned into him and squeezed his forearm. "Thank you."

"And, I might just say it again...just FYI," he chuckled.

"Duly noted," Brennan smiled at him. She paused and then said, "You know, Booth, you've always looked very attractive in a tuxedo, but I must admit, there's something particularly handsome about how you look tonight." A wide grin broke across his face at her remark. "I believe the old saying about a man in uniform might be appropriate tonight."

"Why?" Booth asked, teasing her lightly. "You've seen me in my Class-A's before, Bones," Booth pointed out, his voice bright as he spoke through his irrepressible smile. She arched her eyebrow and shot him a nonplussed look at his words, her nonverbal clues clearly conveying to him that she was seeking clarification of his words. "You know, the dark blue dress uniform I wore—" He cut himself off, suddenly realizing that if he continued to speak he'd do something that probably wasn't the best of ideas given Brennan's recent tendency to subsume herself in guilt about their past. Booth let his words trail off as he didn't want to remind her, or himself for that matter, about the two weeks she'd spent two years earlier thinking he was dead because the FBI faked his death when Sweets deliberately failed to inform her that he was not, in fact, dead. He saw her purse her lips, turn her head slightly as she shook off the memory—clearly remembering the event despite his efforts to circumvent that happenstance—and then look over at him again.

"Booth," she said quietly, trying to flush away the negative emotions conjured up by his reference to his staged funeral. She stroked the smooth fabric of his wool uniform jacket and toyed with the gold service stripes above his cuffs. "I believe it to be an accurate statement that you look even better tonight given the formal black tie aspects of this particular uniform variant. I think you look even more—what is the term? Ah, yes: dashing. You look very dashing in this attire."

He raised his eyebrows and was about to respond when a sonorous baritone called out from behind him. "Sergeant Major Booth!"

Booth turned his head and smiled at the familiar voice.

"Captain Robinson," he said as Brennan unhooked her arm from his, freeing him to salute. He brought his arm up to salute the officer, a tall black man in his late twenties with high cheekbones and intense eyes.

Robinson returned the salute lazily with a relaxed grin. "It's good to see you again, Booth," he said, letting some of the strictures of decorum fall to the side. Robinson's eyes darted over to Brennan and back to Booth, and he arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Booth turned to his partner, snaked his arm gently around her waist , and brought his hand to rest on the small of her back. "This is Captain Robinson," he said as Brennan extended her hand to him. "He was the commanding officer of my Special Forces detachment when I was in Afghanistan," he explained. "Captain, this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan."

Robinson raised his chin and smiled in recognition, remembering all the times he'd heard the Sergeant Major talk about his partner, and all the times he wondered about what the precise nature—or, rather, extent—of Booth's relationship was with his FBI partner. "Ahhh, of course. Who else would it be, huh, Booth?" He turned and nodded at Brennan. "It's a pleasure finally to meet you, Dr. Brennan," Robinson said. "Booth's told me quite a lot about you."

"All good, I hope," she said with a wry grin, flinching slightly as Booth pinched her playfully. "Booth's also spoken very highly of you, Captain."

The captain shrugged, smiled, and then turned back to Booth.

"So, you clean up pretty good, Sergeant Major," he said with a smirk. Booth laughed, but Brennan cocked her head and gave the captain a strange look.

"Sergeant Major Booth observes very good personal hygiene," she noted with a tilt of her head at both men. She turned to Booth as she said, "Unless you were forced to deviate from your normal extensive grooming habits when you were deployed for some reason?" Booth's eyes widened a little at her question, and he couldn't help as he coughed at her remarks.

"Bones," he whispered, blushing slightly. "It's just an expression," he explained in a low voice. "It's the captain's way of saying I look good dressed up in the formal mess uniform."

Brennan raised her chin and considered his words. "Oh," she said, with a nod at Robinson after a few seconds. "Of course. Booth is one of the few men I know who can actually tie his own bow tie."

Robinson narrowed one eye and looked at Booth with a smirk for a moment before the captain began to laugh. "Indeed, there's no doubt that Booth is a man of many talents." Brennan felt a pinch in her side as her partner signaled for her to keep any clever responses to that observation strictly to herself. "Dr. Brennan," the captain said, his voice and facial expression suddenly drawn into a tighter, more serious mien, "I must tell you that Sergeant Major Booth is one of the bravest soldiers that I've ever had the honor to serve beside, and without a doubt, the most outstanding non-commissioned officer I've ever worked with in the six years I've been in the Army."

Booth blushed a little at the compliment and glanced over to see Brennan's reaction. He was relieved to see a smile form on her lips and couldn't help himself as he cut off her response as he looked at Robinson with a nod of his own. "Those are very kind words. Thank you, sir," he said gratefully.

"It doesn't make them any less true," Robinson said with another nod. Wondering, perhaps, if he might be able to use Booth's companion to help him in his earlier quest that had failed so spectacularly thus far, Robinson tilted his head back at Brennan. "You must be very proud of him, Dr. Brennan."

"I am," she nodded with a smile. "Very."

"Then," Robinson continued. "I have to tell you, though, that even though I understand all the reasons why Booth wishes to leave the Army once and for all—" His gaze fell to Brennan's narrow waist, and he watched Booth's fingers move slightly as he seemed to grasp the round swell of her hip that much more tightly. "There's no doubt that Sergeant Major Booth's separation from the Army represents a great loss to it as an institution, and particularly to the Third Special Forces Group of which he was a valued member."

Brennan narrowed her eyes at Robinson as she tried to discern the meaning of the subtle shift in his demeanor as she considered his words. A great loss? Brennan thought to herself. Of course, it's a great loss. A man with Booth's set of skills isn't common. But, even still, if I didn't know any better, I'd say the good captain is laying on the accolades a bit thick—metaphorically speaking, of course, she thought, carefully reflecting on the captain's words. Many questions raced through her mind at that moment, but she knew none of them were appropriate to verbalize under the circumstances, so she bit her lip and merely nodded with a smile.

"He's the best," Robinson nodded at Booth and then turned his attention back to Brennan. "But, of course, you already know that."

"Yes, I do," Brennan said, as she tried to keep the suspicion she was feeling from creeping into her voice.

Robinson took that moment to take a breath and was considering how much to press the Sergeant Major's date when Booth himself noticed the change in the younger man's demeanor. Not 100% certain of what Robinson might speak next, Booth decided it was better to not take a chance where Brennan was concerned and did his best to end the conversation.

"That's very kind of you to say, sir," Booth said again, as he nodded at Robinson. "Thank you."

Reluctantly turning his head to Booth, Robinson replied, "You're quite welcome. And, I meant every word, Sergeant Major." Robinson held Booth's gaze for a moment.

Forcing himself to maintain a casual demeanor, lest Brennan read a change in his body language, Booth smiled. "Yes, sir."

"Well," Robinson said, knowing his point had been conveyed. "I think I'll stop monopolizing your time."

"It was good to see you, sir," Booth said, feeling a bit of relief at the man's impending exit. "And, the best of luck to you as well, sir, in your new assignment at the Pentagon. I'm sure your wife is glad to have you back stateside for a while."

Robinson shrugged, wondering how much Booth had meant that particular comment for the captain and how much for his partner. Although Booth had never told him as much, the captain wondered if the stunning woman in front of him was in large part the reason the numerous entreaties in the last four weeks seeking to convince the Sergeant Major to reenlist all failed miserably. Robinson couldn't say for sure.

"Yes, she is," he responded with a faint smile. "Indeed she is...we both are, actually." Glancing once more at Brennan, he said to Booth, "Enjoy yourself tonight—both of you. You deserve this, Booth. And, if I don't talk to you between now and the end of the night, congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," Booth nodded again.

"And, hey—once you're all outprocessed and everything, you know, and all back into your FBI gig, give me a ring and let's do lunch, alright?" Robinson shook Booth's hand heartily and added with a grin, "Hooah."

"Hooah,"Booth grunted back before the captain disappeared back into the swirling crowd.

Seeing Brennan's arched eyebrow, he said with a sheepish grin, "It's an Army thing. I'll explain it later."

Booth stood up from his seat at the table near the front corner of the stage and slowly walked up the stairs, glancing back over to Brennan, whose incredible blue dress reminded him of the color of the locally cut, hand-polished, sapphires he'd seen for sale in the bazaars in Qūryah and Marjeh. He nervously flexed his hands into a fist as he stepped onto the stage, taking one last glance at his partner who he swore simply shimmered as she sat there, her pale eyes gleaming against the bright blue fabric that framed her shapely, silky white shoulders. The sight of her, seated so elegantly at their table next to a general's silver-haired wife, filled him with a heart-swelling pride that propelled him across the stage. Once he judged he was six paces away from the podium, Booth stopped sharply, snapped his feet together, and crisply saluted the four-star general who stood before him, flanked on one side by the Secretary of Defense and on the other by the Afghan Minister of Defense.

"Good evening, sir," Booth said evenly, holding the salute firmly against his brow.

"Good evening, Sergeant Major," the general replied, quickly returning Booth's salute. "At ease, Sergeant Major."

Booth dropped his salute and let his hands fall to his sides, crossing his hands loosely behind his back and relaxing his stance so that his feet were set a more comfortable distance apart. He glanced once more at Brennan out of the corner of his eye—his jaw twitching as he struggled to suppress a proud grin as he saw her thin-lipped smile, her pale gray eyes twinkling as she watched him from her seat—then swiveled his eyes forward again and looked at the general, whose lip quivered into a fleeting smirk as he noted Booth's not-so-subtle glance over to his female companion.

The general gave Booth a quick nod and turned to the podium to face the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "Thank you all for coming here this evening. Tonight, I have the pleasure of presenting a soldier with one of the highest honors given for gallantry in combat." He looked over at Booth, who still stood at ease, facing the podium with his shoulder to the audience. Stepping away from the microphone, the general said to Booth with a slight jerk of his chin, "Please turn to face the audience, Sergeant Major."

Booth, who had been awarded medals before, but not in this kind of setting, swallowed nervously and complied, turning slightly on his heel to face the assembled crowd, all of them seated with their eyes watching him as they raised their glasses and slowly sipped their drinks. One among them, a ravishing woman in a brilliant sapphire gown with shiny auburn curls framing her square, slender jaw, toyed with the stem of her champagne flute, rotating it back and forth over the slippery surface of the damask tablecloth. Booth smiled at her briefly, trying to catch one last lingering look at his partner's beautiful gray eyes before he had to put his game face back on. Brennan looked up, met his eyes only briefly with a faint smile quickly pasted on her face before she quickly looked away again. He blinked, unsure of what to make of her sudden reticence, then swallowed once, lifted his chin, and refocused his attention as the general began to read the citation.

"It's my honor," the general said, his gravelly voice resonating though the banquet hall, "on behalf of the President of the United States of America, to present the Silver Star to Sergeant Major Seeley J. Booth, United States Army, for gallantry in action on April 4th, 2010 while serving as the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge for Operational Detachment Alpha 3447 (ODA-3447) assigned to Special Operations Task Force South in Helmand Province, Afghanistan in support of Operation ENDURING FREEDOM."

Booth's eyes again sought out his partner's for a moment, and he again observed a certain hesitancy in her slack-jawed expression as she listened to the beginning of the general's narrative. He took a breath and swallowed once more, but otherwise remained perfectly still as he stood before hundreds of dignitaries—and above all, before his very much loved partner—while the general began to read the citation.

"Sergeant Major Seeley J. Booth heroically distinguished himself by gallantry in action in the face of the enemy while engaged in combat operations with ODA-3447 in Marjeh, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, in support of Marine Corps Regimental Combat Team Seven and affiliated Coalition forces."

Gallantry in action, Brennan thought wryly, the words echoing in her mind as the general's voice rang through the hall. Huh. That's not how it started out though, was it? It wasn't supposed to start out like that at all.

"After six days of heavy direct fire contact against insurgent forces, the ODA received information from local nationals that a platoon-sized element of insurgents were patrolling in the vicinity. On April 4th 2010, a combined, dismounted reconnaissance patrol consisting of an Afghan National Army (ANA) company, a United States Special Forces Headquarters element, a Marine Route Clearance Squad, and an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Team departed Marjeh for a two-kilometer reconnaissance patrol. During this patrol, Sergeant Major Booth was the sole combat advisor to a 69-man ANA Company."

As the general continued to read the citation narrative, Booth couldn't help himself as a flood of memories invaded his mind's eye.

"So what exactly would I be doing?" Booth remembered asking Colonel Pelant point-blank as they sat at the diner. "Who exactly would I be training? American soldiers, right?"

"This assignment would be to the Third Special Forces Group," Pelant replied opaquely.

"So you'd be sending me to Fort Bragg," Booth said. "Right." His time in the Rangers, when he wasn't deployed, had been spent at Fort Benning, Georgia. This time he wouldn't be a Ranger—he'd be a Green Beret. He'd spent enough time in fatigues to know how the Green Beret gig would go: small units, big responsibilities, total secrecy, not unlike being a sniper, really, except the whole concept was a bit more—well, vague.

"You'd be sent to Fort Bragg for a brief course of training in local language and customs," the colonel explained, "and then deployed into theater with your Special Forces detachment."

Booth sighed and looked up at the ceiling as he mentally thumbed through the organizational structure of the Special Operations Command. "Is this your way of telling me I'd be training Afghan soldiers and not American ones?" He knew, from his time in the Rangers and his own knowledge of military history, that the Green Berets deployed in twelve-man detachments and often served as advisers to indigenous military units in the country where they deployed.

Just advisers, Booth thought grimly. Right.

"Halfway into the movement, the patrol came under intense small arms, Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG), and mortar fire from 25 to 30 insurgents hidden in unidentifiable locations. Although unknown at the time to Sergeant Major Booth and the other Coalition forces, the enemy fire originated from three bunkers, reinforced with sandbags and logs that were concealed in the thick vegetation of the canal system around. These bunkers were so effectively concealed that they were unidentifiable at distances greater than 20 to 30 meters. There were two additional fighting positions, reinforced with bricks in a mosque and a Red Cross clinic. The bunkers were armed with three machine guns, one RPG, and stockpiles of ammunition. To add to the complexity of the situation, the engagement area was tied into the canal system which included a 15-foot canal as an obstacle between the Taliban fighting positions and Coalition forces' nearest available cover."

"Lieutenant Dawar!"

Booth held his open hand next to his mouth and hollered to the twenty-one year-old ANA officer who crouched against a wall thirty feet away with his M-16 braced against his thigh as he stared at another young man, a recent recruit newly arrived from Kunduz province, who lay bleeding and lifeless in the sand. "We've gotta move this company!"

Booth narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he watched the young officer succumb to panic. He adjusted his grip on his M4 carbine, keeping his trigger finger flush against the side of the rifle's receiver, grunted, and glanced to each side before stepping out from behind his cover and sprinting over to Lieutenant Dawar's position. A bullet whistled over Booth's right shoulder as he dove into the dirt next to Dawar. "Look, lieutenant, that position over there," he said, nearly having to yell as he struggled to be heard over the constant crackle of automatic weapons fire. "It's totally defiladed," he explained, his words coming in short, heavy pants as he caught his breath. "We can't hit 'em back from here, Lieutenant. If we don't out-flank it, we'll never—"

The young officer slowly turned his head and looked at Booth with a blank, slack-jawed expression, the kind that gave meaning to the term 'a thousand yard stare.'

"We've gotta move the company," Booth told him again. Dawar opened his mouth to speak, but after several precious seconds, no words ever came out. Booth took a long, deep breath and then suddenly smacked the lieutenant in the chest with the back of his hand.

"Ashraf—snap out of it, man! These boys need you. We've gotta move outta here before that insurgent element tears us apart." Dawar blinked and nodded, shifting his weight from one hip to the other as the knelt in the sand, his shoulder pressed against the sun-baked clay wall. "Ashraf!" Booth growled, grabbing the young lieutenant's shoulder and shaking him, but still the young man gave no indication of being capable of any movement other than a quiet shiver, or, more importantly, of being able to communicate with his men.

"Shit," Booth whispered under his breath. Holy Mary, sweet and blessed mother of God, he murmured, crossing himself mentally. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death...which may be imminent if he doesn't get his shit together and move. Damn it— He brought his thumb and forefinger to his lips and whistled to get the attention of the dozen nearest ANA troops. As soon as they swiveled their heads in his direction, he grabbed the lieutenant by the strap of his backpack and yanked the young man to his feet.

"Ze mā sara rāzāh!" Booth called out in broken Pashto to the Afghan soldiers.

"Follow me!"

"The insurgent forces fell back across the intersection adjacent to the mosque. ODA commanding officer Captain Robinson then directed Sergeant Major Booth to assault forward. Sergeant Major Booth rushed forward into the insurgent forces' assault to physically take control of his lead ANA elements who desired to maintain their defensive positions and feared crossing the mined intersection that had enemy fire oriented down the two roads."

Although Brennan often considered one of her many strengths to be her ability to process and analyze information conveyed to her in an auditory manner, as the general continued to speak, she couldn't help but start to feel a certain de-sensitivity emerge the longer he talked. God, Booth—what did you do?

"Sergeant Major Booth's fearlessness inspired his ANA Company to disregard their own personal safety and follow him into the insurgent forces' stronghold without the assistance of an interpreter. Sergeant Major Booth so aggressively maneuvered through the enemy stronghold that insurgent fighters abandoned their positions and dispersed into small bands of individual fighters. The ANA struggled to maintain Sergeant Major Booth's pace through the fight. Sergeant Major Booth first cleared the Red Cross clinic using only rifles since he recognized it may have contained civilians being used as human shields by the insurgent forces."

Brennan had no doubt, as the general continued to regale the crowd with the story of Booth's gallantry, that every word of the citation was, in fact, true. His respect for innocent life is profound, she told herself. She remembered how her partner had once jumped into a swimming pool to save the life of a young boy whom the Gormogon killer had pulled into the pool with him in order to escape Booth's pursuit. Booth would do anything to save what he views as an innocent life, she thought. He's done it with the FBI and, clearly, he did it over there in Afghanistan when he and his soldiers went through that clinic with less than the full complement of lethal weaponry in order to ensure that no innocent persons were injured in the process. But, even still, oh, God—Booth...if this is true...it means you didn't keep your promise. Remember? I asked you not to be a hero over there, and it seems that not only did you not do that...it's almost like you went above and beyond the call of duty just to prove my words wrong. Damn it, Booth—

"Inside the clinic, Sergeant Major Booth found bloody bandages, bloody clothing with bullet size holes, ammunition and IED components that had been left behind. Sergeant Major Booth continued to move towards the source of gunfire. Approximately 15 insurgent fighters attempted to regroup around several structures, including a mosque approximately 200 meters to the north of the Red Cross clinic. Sergeant Major Booth's constant pursuit and pressure kept the insurgent forces from reorganizing their platoon. Despite having pursued the enemy 100 meters past the Red Cross clinic under fire, Sergeant Major Booth continued his relentless assault an additional 200 meters against the repositioning insurgent forces. The ANA, spurred on by Sergeant Major Booth's undaunted drive towards the enemy, hurled themselves against the enemy in an apparent effort to match their mentor's bravery and aggression."

Booth heard the general's voice, but his mind was no longer grasping the words of the citation. He glanced down at his partner, seated at their table just thirty feet away in front of him, and he felt his breath catch and a wave of nausea sweep over him as he saw the expression on her face. Oh, damn it—not now. Please, Bones, he begged her silently with his eyes. It's not as bad as it sounds—I swear. I mean, it was, but, shit—don't do this. It's not your fault. It's not your fault I went there, and it sure as hell isn't your fault that I did what I did. I made the decision to go—me, not you—and you know that, once I was there, I had to do my best to fulfill my duty to the men I was serving with, which in this case meant not just other American soldiers and marines but also the Afghan men I was training. You know that. You know I couldn't have lived with myself if I didn't do my best to bring every one of those men back with me each night. So, please, Bones, whatever you're thinking over there, just stop it—

"Facing this united front of almost 70 ANA led up to this point by one Special Forces soldier, the insurgent fighters began to run from their alternate positions leaving behind a machine gun, ammunition and radios. With the intersection and surrounding area secure, Sergeant Major Booth rapidly reorganized his ANA to security positions facilitating the EOD clearance of the bazaar and checkpoint construction. As Captain Robinson was directing the operations in the bazaar, an IED detonated killing two Marines and wounding three other Marines as well as their Afghan interpreter. Hearing the explosion and the situation report over the radio, Sergeant Major Booth rapidly identified that the continued enemy contact would jeopardize the incoming Medical Evacuation (MEDEVAC) aircraft."

"Men down!" Booth remembered hearing his captain say, his voice crackling over the radio. "This is Timber Five, over." He could hear the ragged, rising pitch of Captain Robinson's deep voice and he knew something very, very bad had happened. "I've got men down, over. IED just went off on the northeast quadrant of the Ghuncha Gul bazaar, approximate location Tango-Seven, over. Tango-Seven. Two known KIA, four WIA. I need immediate MEDEVAC to Tango-Seven. Please acknowledge, somebody, over."

Booth felt the blood roaring in his ears as he looked around him, his mouth hanging open as he quickly took inventory of the situation around him. He knew the insurgents were in partial retreat, but there were still plenty of them in close enough proximity to threaten the safe evacuation of the four wounded men. He'd seen enough men wounded by IEDs that he knew some or all of these four men could be wounded gravely enough that minutes could spell the difference between survival and bleeding out in the sand. He'd also seen helicopters taken down by small-arms fire of the kind that had been raining down on the ANA company for the last forty-five minutes. He knew what he had to do.

"Knowing his Commanding Officer was physically managing a mass casualty situation and that approximately 15 insurgent fighters were still within RPG and small arms range of the bazaar, Sergeant Major Booth voluntarily resumed his assault north fully knowing he was moving beyond the range of supporting fire or contact with adjacent friendly units. Sergeant Major Booth again inspired his ANA Company, members of which were shaken by the IED explosion in the bazaar, to continue the pursuit of the enemy despite their massive casualties. Sergeant Major Booth continued to fight canal by canal, across open fields for an additional fifteen hundred meters north of the intersection, pushing insurgent forces fighters out of small arms and RPG range from the helicopter landing zone."

"Come on!" he shouted to his men, who had begun to hunker down behind the protective defilade offered by the steep slope of the second canal.

He whistled loudly and, unable to remember how to say what he wanted to in the broken, pidgin form of Pashto he'd been taught at Fort Bragg, he pointed at a group of twenty of them, made a horizontal circle in their air with his finger, pointed his thumb back at himself, and then gestured with his arm in the direction of the next canal. Some of the ANA men looked at each other with brows raised and eyes wide.

"Come on, let's go, motherfuckers," Booth whispered under his breath, not that any of them would have understood him, never mind been able to hear him, over the incessant crackle of automatic weapons fire and the loud chatter of a nearby, belt-fed machine gun. "Let's go, boys!"

"Come on!" he shouted again as he double-checked to ensure he had a full magazine loaded, then clambered up the sloping wall of the canal. "Hooooah!"

"This put Sergeant Major Booth, as the sole ANA mentor, nearly two kilometers from the nearest friendly unit. As insurgent fighters attempted to regroup, they called in supporting fires from a heavy-caliber crew-served weapon from a nearby insurgent checkpoint."

Two kilometers from the nearest friendly unit? Brennan stared into her champagne flute as she felt a pounding in her head that had made it's presence known at the beginning of the general's speech reassert it's presence with a painful vengeance. Not able to meet Booth's gaze, she had to consciously keep herself from biting her lip or allowing any other clear sign on her face of her distress to manifest itself, lest she embarrass Booth—something she never wanted to do. God, you ran straight into it, didn't you? That's what it really comes down to, doesn't it? Once you strip away all the names and details, God, Booth—what did you do...go out and look for trouble? You just can't help it, can you? No, despite your promise to me, you couldn't just do your job and come home, could you, Booth? You always have to be a fucking hero.

"Due to the intensity of the enemy contact, Sergeant Major Booth could've pulled back several times throughout the fight, but he maintained his position to allow for the evacuation of the three critically wounded Marines and their Afghan civilian interpreter. Sergeant Major Booth's unwavering courage and absence of self preservation inspired the ANA to perform their own feats of valor in the face of a determined and prepared enemy. Additionally, Sergeant Major Booth's aggressiveness and initiative prevented the damage or loss of three rotary wing aircraft, allowed for the evacuation of the three wounded Marines and their interpreter, prevented further casualties, and resulted in the complete rout of a combat-hardened enemy."

The whole experience was such a blur that, no matter how hard Booth tried to remember individual details, he couldn't quite tease them all out of the heart-pounding, dizzying memory of that two-hour period. But, he always remembered the tally. In this case, of the sixty-nine men in the ANA company he'd been seconded to, they had suffered only nine casualties, including three dead.

One of the casualties was the young lieutenant, Dawar, who'd taken a large-caliber machine gun round to the lower leg. Booth had been five paces in front of him when Dawar had been hit, and had stopped his own advance, turned around and found the young lieutenant lying face-down in the muddy canal. He slid down the dusty slope of the canal and reached out, pulling Dawar up by his backpack's grab handle and dragging him up the side of the canal. Booth barked at one of the young ANA men to help the lieutenant so Booth could rejoin and rejuvenate the faltering advance. The young ANA soldier stared at him dumbly for a moment. Booth narrowed his eyes and, recalling one of the few phrases he could readily rattle off, pointed at the lieutenant and growled in Pashto, surprising the soldier, who quickly complied.

"We leave no man behind," he'd told him.

"His courageous actions are in keeping with the finest traditions of military heroism and reflect distinct credit upon himself, the Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force - Afghanistan, the Combined Forces Special Operations Component Command - Afghanistan, and the United States Army."

Brennan watched intently as the general accepted the Silver Star medal from the Afghan minister, who held the presentation box and watched gratefully and silently as the medal was pinned on Booth's jacket lapel next to this other decorations. For the first time in several moments, her eyes met Booth's. Instantly, they seemed to try to convey something to her, but Brennan wasn't certain as to what Booth was trying to tell her. However, she did note the straight-lipped, almost sad expression on his face. I figured he'd be happier about this, she admitted silently. I really want to throw up right now, Booth, but it's not like you know that. I would've supposed that you would be happier to be recognized like this for your skill and bravery as a soldier.

She forced a smile as the general stepped away, leaving Booth standing somewhat alone, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he looked ahead uncomfortably amid the loud applause that sounded from the assembled crowd. Oh, Booth—

He watched her eyes and wanted nothing more than to walk off that stage to go to her in that moment. Oh, Bones—

After a few seconds, the loud applause faded. Booth then turned, saluted General McKee, who dismissed him with a return salute and a reassuring smile. Booth took a deep breath and walked off the stage, nearly jogging down the steps at the side of the stage as he made his way back to where his partner sat. As he came around her side of their table, Brennan stood up and greeted him with a warm kiss on the cheek. He snaked his arm around her waist, turned his head and placed a soft, quick kiss on her lips.

"Hey, are you okay?" he whispered, lifting his brows expectantly. "Nothing's wrong, is it?"

She smiled sweetly and said, "No, of course not." Reaching out, she brushed a non-existent piece of lint off of the shoulder of his dress uniform.

"You sure?" Booth asked, the hesitation clear in his voice.

"Positive," she said with a firm nod. "I'm very proud of you, Booth."

He nodded and they kissed again, his lips holding her lower lip between his for the briefest second before pulling away.

"Okay," Booth said with a grin as he breathed a bit easier in that moment. Maybe I was just reading into things too much, after all. God, she's great—.

"Sergeant Major!" a voice called out from behind them.

Nodding in the direction from which the voice had come, she smiled and said, "I think you're being paged."

With a sheepish grin, Booth nodded and turned around to face the fresh crush of well-wishers leaving Brennan to her own devices.

-TBC-

A/N2: This is the first of five parts in this story. Thanks for reading, and if you're so inclined, we always love to hear reader responses. Again, we hope you've enjoyed...and stay tuned as there's lots more to come...~