Booth swore quietly under his breath as he flipped on his lights and siren, making a barely legal U-turn on Vermont and Twelfth Northwest. He gritted his teeth, jaw bulging, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, as he sped east on Logan towards DC General Hospital . Seeley James Booth, former Ranger sniper, FBI field agent, starting forward on his hockey team, and father of a third grader, a man of total self-control and commendable personal strength, fought the urge to panic and floor it to the ER. He had just gotten one of the most frightening phone calls of his life.
Just a few minutes before, Booth had been on his way home after a long day at the office—even field agents had desk days--and if that field agent was a champion procrastinator, those desk days were packed solid with four months' worth of paperwork. His cell phone chirped in his pocket, and Booth dug it out as he signaled and made a left onto Riggs.
"Booth."
"Is this Seeley Booth?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Mr. Booth, my name is Amy. I'm calling from DC General. I'm afraid there's been an accident."
The world stopped. Booth's heart screamed for his son, his mother, his brother, his sister. Blood pounded so hard in his temples, it drowned out the tinny voice.
"—Briefly lost consciousness, but we were able to—"
"Wait." Booth interrupted, breathless, his mouth dry. "Could you repeat all that?"
"Of course. EMTs brought in Miss Temperance Brennan about twenty minutes ago. Her vehicle was broadsided, and although she did lose consciousness for a brief period, our doctors are confident that she did not sustain any permanent damage. We'll be putting her under shortly for a reduction of a displaced comminuted fracture to her left tibia, and she requested that we call you before her surgery."
"I'm coming." He swallowed, his tongue sandpaper. "I'll be right there."
"Thank you. I'll relay that to Miss Brennan."
Booth slowed in caution, but continued through a red light. He kept seeing cars, trucks, SUVs, Hummers, crashing into Bones' BMW. By the time he reached the ER visitor parking lot, he was surprised he hadn't ground his teeth into dust.
Seeley Booth jumped out, slamming his door, and locking the black standard FBI-issue SUV with his remote starter as he jogged to the glass-door entrance of the massive hospital. He was greeted by a blast of air between two sets of motion sensor doors. Once inside, Booth rushed to a large reception desk. He dug out his FBI credentials while demanding of a slightly obese secretary: "Temperance Brennan. Where is she?"
"Brennan…Brennan." The woman consulted her computer.
"Yes, Brennan. Dr. Temperance Amelia Bre—"
"Curtain Area Five. Go to the right, past the nurses' station, third bed."
Booth nodded his thanks and strode down the wide ER hall. He soon passed a semicircular corral with two nurses discussing an open chart.
The first bed held an elderly man, electrodes on his chest trailing wires from a screen registering irregular blips, a doctor shaking his head, lips pursed. The second bed was empty, sheets being stripped and bundled into a linen cart by a man in salmon pink scrubs. The third bed…
"Bones…" he croaked. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut, bruises beginning to form down her cheek and neck. An IV line snaked from her arm up to a mostly full bag hanging from a pole. Her left leg was in a trough-like brace, an ugly purple bulge a few inches below her knee. Her pant leg had been cut halfway up her thigh, and she was unraveling a deep red string from the frayed edge.
"Booth—you came." Brennan smiled tentatively. The simple action looked painful and Booth cringed.
"Of course I came. Did you think I wouldn't?" He crossed the small "room" and pulled a cheap plastic chair up to her bedside, sitting down and taking her left hand.
"Booth—don't look so devastated." She chuckled lightly and winced. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'm fine."
"What happened, Bones?" Booth's voice was full of concern, and when she gently squeezed his hand, he realized that Brennan was comforting him.
"A Tahoe, I think, ran the intersection and hit me on the passenger side. It pushed me into the path of an oncoming car. EMS got there pretty quickly, but I think I passed out in the ambulance on the way here."
"The woman I spoke to mentioned you did. And you're going up to surgery?"
Brennan nodded. "I asked them to wait. They wanted me to go right away."
As if on cue, a dark haired woman in a lab jacket and light green scrubs joined them. "Hello. I'm Dr. Halloway."
Booth stood, and they shook hands. "Seeley Booth."
The doctor nodded in greeting and turned her attention back to the bed. "Ready Miss Brennan?"
Temperance glanced up at Booth before answering. Booth thought he detected a twinge of uncertainty in her blue eyes. "Yes," she answered, a bit waveringly.
"Okay then." Dr. Halloway smiled confidently and signaled two orderlies to come near.
"I'll see you soon, Bones. You're going to be fine."
Brennan's eyes searched his, and Booth gently laid a hand across her forehead. "I'll see you soon," he repeated. Booth slid his hands into his pants pockets as the orderlies unlocked the bed's brakes with deft kicks to the wheels and began their trip to surgery. A third orderly kindly directed Booth to the surgical waiting room. He nodded, and after a moment, followed the orderly's simple instructions, past the ambulance bays to a bank of elevators, up to the second floor, and all the way to the end of another double wide hallway to a glassed-in room, where about a dozen worried faces sat pretending to read magazines. Booth collapsed into one of the blue vinyl chairs, suddenly exhausted. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and began to pray.
Almost two hours had passed before Booth realized his selfishness. He stepped out of the waiting room, flipped open his cell, and entered a now familiar number.
"Hey, Booth!" Angela Montenegro greeted the agent in her usual pleased and somewhat suggestive voice. "What's up, cutie?"
"Angela—I should've called you sooner. It's Bones."
"What is it? What happened? Is she okay?"
"She's in surgery." Booth went on to explain the accident. "She should be out soon. I think she'll want you here when she's done."
"Okay, I'll be right there. And Booth?"
"Yeah?"
"We'll talk later about whether or not I will ever forgive you for waiting hours to call me."
Booth sighed, reentered the waiting room, and was about to sit back down in the hideous, squeaking chair, preparing himself to endure untold hours in the fear-infused waiting room, when a nurse opened a door leading to the recovery ward and called out, "Family of Temperance Brennan?"
Booth shot up and nearly tripped in his rush to reach the nurse. "Yes ma'am."
"Just you then?"
"For now, yes."
"Okay. Follow me." As the nurse led Booth past rows of curtained beds, some occupied, some not, but all equipped with TV screens to monitor vital signs, she explained Brennan's condition.
"Miss Brennan is stable, the surgery was successful, and her leg is casted. She'll have to keep off it for two to three days, but other than that, she should be fine with crutches. She'll have to see an orthopedist and physical therapist initially, but any further treatment will be determined at future office visits.
"She's still coming out of sedation. She may be confused; she may exhibit some minor muscle twitching, possibly a little drooling. This is nothing to worry about and should wear off very soon."
Booth nodded.
"Also, Versed was used in addition to the general anesthetic, so she may have some lapses in memory from immediately before and after the operation. Any questions?"
The nurse had stopped and was looking pointedly at Booth, but he barely noticed her. They were standing at the foot of Bones' bed. She was pale. God, she was pale. It was the first thing he saw looking at her. She still had an IV, though Booth didn't know if it was the same one as before. Her index finger held a small black clip, and a blood pressure cuff hugged her upper arm on the other side.
"Sir?" the nurse prodded him. "Do you have any questions?"
"She's—" Booth took a ragged breath. "She's okay, right? I mean, she looks…" Still? Small? Helpless? He couldn't form the words.
"I know it looks rough." Compassion flowed from the nurse's eyes to her gentle smile. "I can assure you, she did excellently in surgery; she's going to be fine. She'll be waking up soon. You should talk to her, let her know where she is, what's going on. Believe me, it'll help." The nurse gave Booth's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze, then turned and left.
The chairs here were just as uncomfortable. Booth pulled up a metal folding chair. This hospital seemed to be designed to keep people from sitting very long.
Booth tentatively reached out and brushed a few stray hairs from Brennan's damp forehead. He cleared his throat. "Bones, uh, the nurses here say you're waking up. I'm right here, okay? And you're going to be great. Up and playing kickball in no time." Booth's hand was still at Brennan's forehead, and he found himself absently stroking her hair.
"They said you were awesome in surgery. Of course, you're such an overachiever, I should've expected that.
"I called Angela. She's coming to see you too. She's—" Booth stopped as Brennan suddenly groaned and shifted.
"Bones? Bones, can you hear me?"
"Booth," she slurred.
"Yeah. It's me. You okay? You doing all right? Are you—is there any pain?"
"What—what time is it?" Brennan asked slowly.
Booth grinned, elated and relieved. "What time is it? You're barely out of surgery, and the first thing out of your mouth is 'what time is it?' It's 8:30."
Brennan nodded and closed her eyes.
They passed a few minutes in silence before Booth asked again, "Hey. Bones, you all right?"
She opened her eyes. She still looked drowsy, uncertain. "I think so. Is there…water?"
Booth spotted a pink plastic pitcher, four cups, and a handful of wrapped straws waiting on the bedside table. "Comin' up." He poured her a glass, stuck in a straw, and held the tip to her lips. She tried to sip, but water dribbled from the straw down her chin, and she coughed as she tried to swallow.
"Jeez, Bones, I'm sorry." Booth grabbed paper napkins, also stacked on the bedside table, and dried the water from Brennan's chin and neck.
"No, it's ok. I think it was me."
"You want to try again?" Booth asked.
"Please."
Brennan sipped, successful this time, then nodded her head, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Booth was reaching across her, placing the cup back on the table, when Angela parted the half-drawn curtains and joined them.
"Oh my God, Bren, honey, are you okay?"
Brennan opened her eyes and smiled. "Angela—hey. I'm fine."
"You're nowhere near fine. And you." Angela turned to Booth. "I'm going to kill you for waiting so long to call me." He stood, as Angela laid a hand over her eyes, and, in what Booth decided must be nervous, emotional energy, heaved a sigh almost on the verge of tears.
"Ange, I'm sorry. She's doing great, though." He moved to touch her shoulder in what he hoped was comfort, but Angela took it as an invitation and pulled Booth into a tight hug.
"I'm sorry. That phone call just scared the crap out of me, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
"Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you got here so fast."
"Are you kidding? My tires are practically in flames."
Booth grinned and handed her a second folding chair. The three of them talked, Brennan's speech improving. She gradually stopped slurring her words, and was soon talking at a normal pace.
It wasn't long before a middle aged, male doctor joined them. "Well, hi there. You look well." He greeted Brennan.
"I'm feeling pretty well."
"Excellent. I'm Dr. Fenway." Introductions were made all around, and Dr. Fenway continued, "Your vitals look fantastic, Miss Brennan, and if things keep progressing as they are, you should be on your way home in the morning. Provided you have someone to drive you."
The last statement was more of a question, and Booth quickly answered with a firm, "Absolutely."
"Excellent." Dr. Fenway said again. "I'll be checking back in on you later, Miss Brennan. Mr. Booth, Miss Montenegro ." Dr. Fenway left Brennan's "room" and continued on to check on his next patient.
As the evening and Brennan's recovery progressed, she was transferred to a standard room on the medical-surgical floor. Visiting hours were long over, and, though exceptions had been made while Brennan was regaining herself, nurses soon chased out both Booth and Angela, sending them home so Brennan could rest.
Early the next morning, though, Booth was more than ready for his new gig as chauffer. Booth knocked on the doorframe of Room 3104. "Rise and shine, Doc. Whaddya say, you ready to ditch this popsicle stand?"
Booth heard Brennan spit, then run water in the bathroom. "It's 9:30, Booth. I've already risen. Whether or not I'm shining…" Brennan emerged from the bathroom in a hospital gown, hair in a ponytail, and without makeup.
"Well, you look great to me. Really getting around on that thing." Booth gestured to her heavy cast. "But aren't you supposed to stay off your feet for two or three days?"
"I am not calling for a wheelchair just to use the bathroom. Besides, it's only Saturday. I have all weekend to rest."
"Whoa. You are not coming back to work on Monday, are you? Bones, you've got to take it easy."
"Why? After I allow a little time for the osteons to begin to reform, I'll be perfectly fit for work. It's not as though my brain was in any way damaged."
"Well, yeah, but…you know, I don't want you to overdo it."
Brennan sighed. "I won't. Now, did you bring me clothes?"
"Oh, yeah." Booth handed her a plastic bag with a loose-fitting outfit inside.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. I'll just wait in the hall a few minutes until you're ready." Booth stepped out and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against the wall. All hospitals were the same, he reflected. Was there a manual somewhere, a book of guidelines that said the walls had to be some pasty, nauseating shade of pink or green or lunch-tray tan? Did they have to build the place with cinderblocks? The floors so slick, the windows so thick? Booth didn't like hospitals: they always left him with a vague sense of being trapped and a nagging feeling that awful things were about to happen.
Brennan's door opened and she stepped out, clad in a baggy jogging suit, leaning on crutches.
"Ready?" Booth asked.
"All set."
As they turned and began their slow walk down the hall to the elevators, Brennan noticed that Booth's hand was hovering just behind her lower back.
"Booth, I've used crutches before, you know. I'm not going to fall."
"You're right. You're not."
Brennan rolled her eyes. "Because you'll catch me if I do?"
"Damn straight." Booth flashed her his charm grin.
"You and your alpha male tendencies."
"Oh, admit it. You like me, alpha male and all."
"Of course I like you, Booth. Our partnership would be a very strained one if I didn't."
"Fully recovered from the anesthetics, I see."
"What do you mean?"
"Back to the witty banter."
Brennan smiled, but said nothing. Her walk was fairly smooth with the crutches until they reached Booth's SUV. Brennan eyed the step up she would have to make. "Booth…"
"No problem, Bones."
Booth took her crutches and placed them in the backseat. Then he put one arm around Brennan's waist, the other steadying her in front. "Now just step up with your good leg, put all your weight on me, and just pull yourself up." Brennan easily did so, and was snapping her seatbelt in place as Booth hopped in the driver's seat.
"You okay?"
"Booth, yes, I'm fine."
"Okay, okay. I'm just checking."
Booth started the engine and they drove to Brennan's apartment in a comfortable silence. It wasn't long before Brennan drifted off to sleep, head lolling to the side.
Booth shook his head and sighed. She would definitely strain herself this weekend. Temperance Brennan was the queen of overdoing it. 'Bedrest' probably wasn't even in her vocabulary.
When they pulled up to Brennan's apartment, Booth looked at her for a moment, thinking. Should he let her sleep, carry her up to her apartment? No, he decided. He'd have to maneuver the SUV door, her seatbelt, the locked door to her place. There was just no way to do that with anyone over six. Booth got out and walked around to her side.
"Bones. Bones. We're here." Brennan's eyes fluttered open.
"Oh. Yeah." She undid her seatbelt and looked down at the ground. "Booth…I'm sorry, but I don't…"
"You have absolutely no faith in me, do you?"
Brennan sighed.
"Okay, just put your arms around my neck and lean out." Booth slipped one arm under her back and one under her knees, lifting her easily. Brennan blinked in the bright sunlight and turned her face to Booth's neck for a moment, closing her eyes, relaxing against him. She felt him breathe. His pulse beat butterfly wings against her cheek. She could've stayed there forever.
"Bones? You okay?"
"Yes. Sorry."
Booth set her down, steadying her a moment before removing his hands altogether.
"I guess I'm a little more tired than I thought."
Booth said nothing at first, studying her. "Let's get you inside, then." He handed her the pair of crutches. She was acutely aware that his hand resumed its previous position, hovering protectively, but she didn't comment. Wearily, she walked down the hall with Booth and unlocked her apartment door.
"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? Nothing you need help with?"
"Booth, for the last time, I'll be fine." Brennan stifled a yawn. "I'm just going to go to bed. Doctor's orders, after all." She started to close the door, but Booth braced his hand against it, holding the door open.
"Bones, wait. Promise me, at least, that if you need anything—anything—day or night, you'll call me. I mean it, Temperance. Promise me."
"I promise."
Booth nodded. "Okay, then. Get some rest, Bones."
"I will. And thank you, Booth." She eased the door closed, felt and heard the latch click, then turned the deadbolt. She paused, then, still leaning on the door, and allowed herself to remember the feel of his arms around her, the closeness of the moment, his scent, his touch. Dr. Temperance Brennan shook her head, dispelling the image. She was tired. Brennan hobbled into her bedroom and, not bothering to undress, gingerly lied down and fell asleep almost immediately.
Booth sat in his SUV. He hadn't even put the key in the ignition. He wondered if he'd done the right thing, allowing her to dismiss him so easily. Oh well, he thought. She's a big girl. She'd call if she needed help. Booth shifted in his seat and pulled out his cell phone, checking to be sure the volume was up. As he stared absently at the tiny glowing screen, his thoughts wandered back to that moment of helping Bones out of the SUV. How light she was, how trusting in his unspoken promise not to hurt her, and how, when she'd buried her face against his neck, he felt his heart beat harder, her warm breath across his Adam's apple. He shook his head. Dreaming on the job, he chastised himself. He started the engine and drove home.
Brennan's leg ached more than she was willing to let on. She had stifled not a few groans from the constant throbbing, but she was by no means ready to call in sick and neglect her work at the Jeffersonian.
Her endurance paid off when she saw Booth enter the lab with his trademark walk and triumphant prepared-for-anything grin.
"Bones!" Booth's eyebrows shot up. "Guess I can't say I'm surprised to see you here. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine. You seem to be in a good mood this morning."
"I am in a fantastic mood. You know why?" Booth swiped his ID card at the foot of a low stairwell leading up to the lab proper. "Because we have a case, and, since you're back, I don't have to use Zack."
"Hey," Zack called, looking up from a tank of white mice. "I heard that. And I am fully qualified as an anthropologist."
"Yeah, but you're also fully qualified as a geek. And would you even want to be out in the field, Zack? Really?"
"No. The question is moot, anyway, as Dr. Brennan is available. I just want to be considered a viable substitute."
"Okay, Zack, sure. You're viable." Booth elbowed Brennan conspiratorially. "Now whaddya say we check out a body?"
"Sure. Lead the way." Brennan began pulling off the latex gloves she'd been wearing.
"No need. It's coming to you." Booth flipped open his cell, punching a few quick digits and said, "Bring him in, boys." A moment later, the large main doors to the Medico-Legal lab opened and two men with a gurney came in. Booth glanced at Brennan and caught her questioning look. "I'm a man who plans, Bones. I wasn't sure you'd be here and I really didn't want to drag Zack out into the real world."
By then, the men had arrived with "their" body, and Brennan hobbled down a few stairs on her crutches to meet them halfway and swipe her card so they could come up to the lab platform without setting off the alarm system.
When the body was transferred to a metal exam table and the delivery men had left, Booth pulled back the sheet covering the corpse.
"Male." Brennan said, mostly to herself. "Between forty and fifty years of age."
Booth was always impressed with his partner's calm in the midst of horrific images and bodies, and this was no exception.
The body before them had been brutally mutilated. The vast majority of the flesh of his face had been burned away--a few fragments of musculature remained and the eyes were present, though charred. His eyelids were gone and much of his nose was burned to destruction, with portions of the flesh curled up into the nasal cavity. Without lips or cheeks, his teeth were bared in an unholy grin. Booth knew and Brennan would soon find that the palms of the man's hands and the soles of his feet had also been roasted to the bone. He was dressed in unscorched clothing, though: a white dress shirt, maroon and brown striped tie, black pants. His shoes and socks were gone, and besides that and the red blossom of bloodstain on his side from a stab wound, his attire was unblemished and ordinary. The whole body gave off an odor of burnt skin and hair: a sharp, hot, singed-dust smell, with an undertone of roasted meat.
"He was found in Elmira Park near the pond. Old lady, name of Agnes Billings, followed her dog to what he thought was dinner. Scared the woman half to death. She called 911; the rest is history. So, you know, don't be surprised to find a couple Bichon Frise hairs in there."
"That would be very unlikely. Breeds like the Bichon Frise have been bred selectively to minimize shedding. I doubt that the dog's presence will impact the evidence."
"Albert."
Brennan looked up at him. "What?"
"Dog's name is Albert."
"How could that possibly be pertinent to the investigation?"
"Just trying to be thorough, Bones. Doing my job."
Brennan finished her initial inspection quickly--after all, very little of the skeleton was visible, then she called in her team.
"Angela, please search missing persons databases for possible matches and begin facial reconstruction. Hodgins, search his clothing for particulates. Zack, see if you can identify the instrument used for this wound." They each set about their separate tasks. Brennan got out the Jeffersonian's autopsy camera and began taking pictures, then she adjusted the table lighting and started a finer investigation of the hands, feet, and skull.
"You know," Hodgins called over from his microscope. "The pattern of mutilation could be extremely significant."
"How so?" asked Brennan.
"You've got to recognize the symbolism." Hodgins returned, then waited for a response. "Nothing? People, come on. Booth, you, out of everyone here, should see it."
"See what, Hodgins? That the guy was roasted like franks on a barbecue?"
"The hands, feet, face. The wound in his side. It's a stigmata." Seeing everyone's skeptical looks, he elaborated. "There are literally hundreds of recorded cases in which the victim bleeds or manifests wounds spontaneously in a manner that mimics the way Jesus Christ was wounded in the crucifixion. According to tradition, anyway. Booth, every Catholic in the world has heard of the stigmata phenomenon."
"Sure, I've heard of it. Saw the movie and everything. It's always been a little too hocus-pocus-y for me."
"Jack," Angela began. "You're not suggesting that this poor man magically burst into flames to, what, supernaturally honor Christ?"
"No. No, not at all. What I'm suggesting is that he was tortured in a way that would mirror stigmata. It's not without precedent. For St. Francis of Assisi and Padre Pio, it's miraculous. For practitioners of Theosophy, it's self-inflicted. In Santeria and Yoruba, it can be used as a forced initiation of faith. It's all in your point of view. It's a small step from there to move on to stigmata imagery as torture."
"Yeah," Booth said, "Or maybe the killer was just going for sensitive body parts. Hands, feet, face. That kind of mutilation would be pretty painful. Taking advantage of specific areas is much more efficient torture if you want reliable answers to your questions. Palms, soles of the feet--lots of nerve endings there."
Angela closed her eyes and shook her head. "Booth, that is disturbing on many, many levels."
Booth shrugged. "It's not Fun Facts on the back of a cereal box, but it is useful information in a combat situation."
Angela held her hand up in a 'stop' gesture. "Please. No more, Booth. I really don't want to hear this."
"Or," interjected Brennan, "the victim died from the wound in his side, and the killer was merely trying to make it harder to identify the victim: no fingerprints, no face."
"But if that were the case," Zack broke in, "Why not remove the clothes too? They can be used in identification."
"Yeah, but this casual business wear isn't exactly distinctive," argued Booth. "And good luck tracing this." He fingered the striped tie. "The whole outfit screams Wal-Mart. Pretty generic."
"My point is, there's just no way to discern motive yet. All this conjecture about torture and religopolitical significance is just guesswork until we can identify our victim."
Booth grinned at his partner. "True. So how about a walk in the park? Check out the scene, see if anyone knows anything."
"Sounds good."
"You are up to it, right?" Booth eyed her cast and crutches. "I mean, I don't want you to…uh…to…" Booth tapered off as Brennan glared at him.
"If you ask me that one more time, Agent Booth…"
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."
"Thank you. Can we go?"
"We can." Booth fished his keys out of his pocket as the two of them started out of the lab. The squints returned to their examination of the body, with Hodgins muttering, "This is going to turn out to be some kind of sacred Illuminati ritual. I can feel it."
"Only you, Jack." Angela started to her studio to begin a rendition of the victim's face. "Booth brings in some horribly disfigured, maimed human being and you're like a kid on Christmas morning."
"Better believe it, baby."