A/N
REVISED 5/6 – added some more key recap bits of Servare Vitas in the first chapter.
This first chapter is parts of Servare Vitas' chapters 6, 24, 27 and 28 re-visited in order to recapture the mood WITH ONE KEY MODIFICATION. If it has been a long time since you read SV you may wish to stop now and re-read the entire story up through chapter 27 before coming back here.
This will be disturbing at times. One chapter in particular may be rated M. I'll make that clear when the time comes. As a character piece this may also be a bit more fragmented than you were used to from me in SV. I expect it to be a handful of chapter long.
You have been warned.
- - - -
Brennan's office in the Jeffersonian…
Booth finally spoke first, looking down at her hand still lying in his. "Tessa thought me being an FBI agent was glamorous, exciting. And a former Army sniper? Dangerous, exotic. But she never wanted any of her illusions disrupted by the whole uncomfortable truth, the reality of it all."
He looked up into her eyes, "Thank you. I really mean that."
Brennan nodded, "You're welcome."
She gave him something else.
"About that number… forty-three…"
Apparently she said it to show she was holding nothing back. Her acceptance warmed him. "Yes?" His eyes were locked on hers again.
"I hope it never goes up…"
He looked down, nodding his agreement.
"…Unless it needs to", she added.
He looked back up at her again, his eyes questioning hers.
She clarified, "You are not a soldier any more. I know you will only be pulling that trigger to save lives, and you will do your best to make the hard choices in terrible situations. Who better to be in that position of responsibility than someone who thinks about right and wrong, life and death?"
"I know that, otherwise I wouldn't have volunteered," he objected.
"Then let yourself believe it," she chided gently. He nodded again.
"Killer with a conscience, eh?" he joked wryly.
"No," she squeezed his hand, "Protector with a conscience."
Months later on a Saturday…
He thought she looked incredibly cute with her hair in a ponytail again and a couple dark smudges of oily powder residue she'd unknowingly put on her face as she intently broke down and reassembled the MP5 again like an addictive puzzle. He couldn't decide how he preferred her hair. Screw it, he thought, she was gorgeous to him either way. Then he noticed the time.
"The pizza should be here any minute. Let's get cleaned up."
He'd already put everything else away so he went on over to the kitchen sink to wash up. She finished putting the MP5 back together and joined him at the sink where he was drying his hands. He moved to make room for her as she started washing, and he looked at the smudges on her left cheek. He decided to give into an impulse and push the envelope a little. He wet the end of another clean hand towel and put a dab of soap on it.
"Here, let me get that off your face."
She turned while drying her hands, "What?"
He lightly tapped her cheek, "You wiped a little gunk on yourself."
She smiled, "I can get it myself."
"Don't be silly, there's not a mirror in here." He didn't give her a chance to argue anymore or head to the bathroom where there was one. He went ahead and stepped closer and started softly wiping at her cheek with the cloth. His presumption paid off as she made him happy by giving in after rolling her eyes with a smirk. She looked over his shoulder, chin up, and closed her eyes. The smirk left and her expression became peaceful as he softly rubbed.
The greasy residue tended to shift around on her skin, resisting his efforts to wipe it off, but to be honest he wasn't trying too hard as he was enjoying the rare opportunity to once again take care of her. Then he noticed her incredible blue-green eyes were open again, examining his face from just inches away, and he tried to stay focused on her cheek. They were too close. Easy boy… don't… but he was drawn in anyway. Their eyes met for an intense moment, and his apparently betrayed too much. She shied away from the unexpected intimacy and looked away, breaking the connection. She grabbed the cloth from his hands and backed up a step.
Fuck! He'd spooked her in spite of himself.
"I can wash my own face. I'm not a child." She said it with a small grin, her tone lightly mocking, but he could tell she was a bit flustered as she finished washing her own face with the cloth. But she surprised him while he was still mentally kicking himself. She seemed to collect herself as she laid down the cloth, and turned back to him.
"How do I look now?" she asked, playfully presenting herself as if for his inspection.
He was so thrilled that her retreat was temporary, that he almost screwed up again. He was too honest with the answer that just popped out.
"Beautiful."
The following Monday, in a corridor at the Jeffersonian…
Inexplicably, Booth was almost cold to her. As he'd examined her injuries, somewhat roughly even, she'd been put off by his distant manner. His body was stiff, and his face was a grim, rigid mask.
"Booth," she repeated. With her touch on his cheek, the mask finally slipped a little.
"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…" he half-whispered.
Even she could see the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he'd been too scared for her. She didn't understand it fully, but wasn't going to let it stop her.
She stroked his cheek and enjoyed the way he started to lean into it. She gently replied with a smile, "I'm ok. It's not your fault…"
But her words didn't have quite the reassuring effect she'd intended.
For a moment he looked like was about to break, but then the mask slammed back into place and he jerked back and suddenly stood up as if her touch had stung him.
"I have to go. I've been here way too long." He didn't look at her as he reached around his back and pulled the MP5 sub-machine gun back around to his front on its sling.
"What?" She didn't understand…
"I'm going into the museum," he explained.
She sat there with her mouth open, not knowing how she could have been so stupid. The crisis wasn't over yet. And it was what he'd trained to do. She wanted more than anything to beg him to go back with her to the Lab and be safe, but knew she couldn't. She was ready to celebrate still being alive after everything, and now he was going into danger…
- - -
Booth watched her as she processed what he'd just told her, and it tore at him, the way she suddenly looked so lost and vulnerable.
He turned away to leave, figuring he should just get it the hell over with and go, but he thought better of it. What the hell... He turned back to her.
Might not ever get another chance…
He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. Every bit as soft and warm as he'd hoped…
He realized he'd better cut it short, and he stood up.
She looked somewhat dazed, like she didn't know what to make of it. She started to open her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
"You don't have to say anything…"
He had not meant to drop it on her like this… it was simply enough that she had some idea how he felt.
But she still looked lost and he felt he needed to do something about that. He remembered how tight her grip had been on the rifle and he had an idea… he flipped back the restraining band on his holster and drew his pistol.
"There's one in the chamber. Safety's on."
He put it in her lap and wrapped her hands around it. She looked at him gratefully.
"Gotta run." He lifted the goggles into place over his face and walked to the corner around which she'd just appeared herself. He turned around to look at her once more, and gave her his best smile before he disappeared from her view.
He ran.
- - -
After a moment Emily and Angela began pushing her chair toward the Lab again, after the others who'd gone on.
Brennan looked sadly back up the corridor toward the spot where he'd left her as it receded in the distance.
Her heart was in her throat.
In spite of what Angela had once said, he really wasn't a knight…
She knew from experience that the flesh underneath could be hurt, and the armor which protected it was all too small and inadequate.
…and not at all impenetrable.
Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall
Booth could only think of one diversion even though he didn't much care for it. But it should definitely work. The hostages couldn't wait all day for them to come up with a better one because at any moment the terrorist might realize the jig was up anyway and decide to 'Allahu Akhbar' himself into the arms of those promised seventy-two virgins.
He waved for Davis' attention then gestured...
You. Head shot. On me. Understand?
Davis nodded and gave a thumbs up. From the look his in eyes he really did understand.
Booth took stock of himself. He carefully stretched and flexed his limbs to the limited extent that was safe then he rechecked his weapon. He took one more peek using his mirror to confirm the position of the bomber. Still the same. But the praying had resumed a bit more fervently this time, and Booth still thought that was a bad sign.
He grimaced then nodded as he pre-positioned himself as best he could given the need to stay hidden just a little longer. He owed the women on the other side – he was the one who'd been too slow to stop the first batch of assholes to which this bomber and the one he'd already whacked belonged. No one else was going to die if he could possibly help it. Anyway, who knew? He might even get lucky.
He gestured to Davis, Ready?
He got a thumbs up in return. Davis had flattened himself against the wall to make room for another man beside him who was already turned to his right, the butt of his weapon up to his shoulder at the ready. Must be his best close quarters man…
Booth let go of the pistol grip of the MP5 with his right hand briefly.
He made the Sign of the Cross.
He gripped his weapon again and reached across it with his left and gestured On Me! Go!
Rising up to stand was every bit as awkward and slow as he'd expected.
The woman saw him move a split second before the terrorist and screamed just as the man's eyes widened behind her. Just as Booth had hoped, he couldn't resist the provocation and violently elbowed the woman aside as he aimed his AK from the hip, only a small change from its currently slung position…
The woman and her daughter were falling to the floor…
Booth's weapon was only starting to come to bear, in his case having to come all the way up to his shoulder for an aimed head shot…
Not even close. He took his finger off the trigger so it wouldn't accidentally go off, but continued to raise the weapon maintaining the charade…
The terrorist's eyes narrowed as he squeezed his trigger...
…on full auto.
Booth's old sergeants were wrong. Even half deaf he distinctly heard the muzzle blast of each and every shot.
The first two rounds missed him low to his left, but the recoil made the AK's barrel rise as the shooter corrected his aim laterally.
The rest of the burst stitched diagonally across Booth's armor from his left hip up toward the right side of his rib cage.
The Teflon-coated tungsten tipped armor piercing rounds bashed and slipped their way through the Kevlar fibers of the vest.
Burning sledgehammer blows knocked the breath out of him as he staggered back until a final deep lance of fire took him to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
But on the way down he heard the double bark of the SWAT shooter's M4 assault rifle blowing the other man's brains out on to the wall beside him.
- - - -
Funny, he didn't even feel hitting the hard tile of the floor.
He was on his back, one leg awkwardly bent back up underneath him, but he barely felt it given everything else that was wrong with him. All of his senses were tinged with a red haze of pain, but his gut felt like someone had speared him with a white-hot poker and given it a good stir.
Women and children were screaming and male voices were trying to sooth them, but one shout stood out over the ruckus, "Clear!" He tried lifting his head to see what was going on, but the effort was too much. Instead he was stuck with a view of the small dusty cobwebs between the light fixtures on the ceiling.
He could barely breathe. It almost felt like he was drowning. He tried to crack open the vest but his fingers didn't seem to have any strength and he gave up.
Afraid of what he might find, he reached under the edge of his vest and carefully touched himself… hot and sticky wet. With difficulty he raised a bloody hand into view then let it drop at his side.
He felt like someone was sitting on his chest, and the struggle to breathe was taking its toll. His vision began to narrow with oxygen deprivation.
But his hearing, at least in the good ear, was fine. He heard running footsteps, then felt tugs at his vest as others shouted in the background.
"Oh shit…" That one was nearby.
He didn't recognize the SWAT trooper who appeared over him. He turned his head and shouted, "Man down over here!" He repeated it into his radio, but Booth couldn't make out the response. "Hang in there buddy, help's on the way."
With what little strength he had Booth grabbed at him with his left arm and gasped out a warning, "…hostages… bomb…"
"They're all ok, they're clear. I'm gonna drag you farther away from the bomb for the EMTs so they can work on ya."
He'd done it. This time he'd managed to save her and her child. He'd saved all of them. If he didn't make it he could die happy. He ought to be smiling.
But why were his cheeks wet?
The other man disappeared from his view. Then a second later he felt rough hands at his shoulders.
"This is probably gonna hurt."
He struggled to speak, "Tell her I… tell Bones…"
He was moved and sure as fuck it really hurt. Seized in a vice-grip of pain, he couldn't finish the words. He was getting cold. Hell, he couldn't even breathe. He closed his eyes…
Oh God, this must really be it…
Stark fear almost displaced the pain. He so wanted to live. In dying he would let down the people he loved most…
I'm sorry, Parker. Sorry, Temperance.
He was forgetting something else... oh yes, the Act of Contrition he learned back in parochial school…
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended…
Something jarred him again, sending more waves of pain cascading through him, and he heard himself cry out.
"Sorry, EOD says we're still too close. Gotta move you one more time, just a little farther…" The interrupting voice sounded further away now.
This time it was even more excruciating. Muscles seized in agony, forcing the last air from his lungs.
He didn't get to finish his prayer…
Instead, his very last thought was the half-formed, absurd realization that he'd pissed all over himself, and then he died.