Title: These Days
Rating: T, for subject matter and a few colourful language choices
Disclaimer:I don't own Bones; I merely toy with them for my own amusement. If I did own them, do you think I'd put them through this?
Also, the title of this fic comes from the Powderfinger song of the same name, though this is not a song fic. If you haven't heard of Powderfinger, look them up. You won't be sorry.
Pairings:Bones and Booth, eventually. Also a little Angela/Hodgins
Warning:This story deals with sexual assault. If you are particularly sensitive to this, I would suggest not reading this fic. While I will not be going into graphic or gratuitous detail, most of the procedural information is accurate, and people who have experienced it may find it distressing.
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She came back to herself only slowly, floating up through a haze of grey and black. Sensations returned, fragmented, broken images and half sentences firing at random into her mind. Cold. She was cold. And there was pounding, in her head, through the floor… music? A voice… muffled, but there, as familiar to her as her own. She tried to open her eyes, tried to move limbs that felt strangely disembodied, hers and not hers, tingling and heavy. A burning fire raced its way through her arms, across her belly, through her chest, almost pushing her back down into the blackness. She tried to open her mouth, to speak, to cry out, and found nothing but a croak. Fear. That was there. Pain. That too. She lay still, fighting the nothingness. The voice. There was something important about it. It meant something. Her mind reached into the darkness, closing on the name, and then retreating. She was tired. Fight. The word came to her through the haze, inside her head, thumping with her heart. It came to her unbidden as she lay, alone and not alone, in the cold, living dark.
And then something else. A murmur, low and soothing, like melted honey, far away and so close, beside her and around her. Inside her. Warmth, heavy and thick, as something covered her, bringing with it a scent…of what? She reached for the answer, grasping. She knew it, but couldn't place it. But she did know what it meant. Safety. She clung to that thought as the haze deepened and she slipped back under.
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"What have we got?"
"Female, late twenties to early thirties, head trauma, probable fractures of the anterior ribcage, possible shoulder dislocation, open wound on the abdomen, multiple lacerations and contusions. Unconscious at scene. Blood pressure is one ten over sixty, two mils morphine given on route. One bag saline hung, blood type is o-neg."
"Pupils are equal and responsive."
"Can you squeeze my hand, sweetheart?"
"Shaw, call CT and let them know we'll be coming down shortly."
"How long was she out for?"
"What happened to her?"
"Name, does anyone have her name?"
Seeley Booth grasped the last sentence amid the whirling chaos and flashing lights.
"Brennan. Dr Temperance Brennan," he said quickly, not knowing who to address or who had even asked the question. He took a step closer to the gurney, and was abruptly shoved out of the way by an orderly bearing another bag of saline. A woman – a doctor, judging by the lab coat, glanced up at him briefly, taking in the blood that covered his shirt.
"And you are?"
"Booth. She's my… I'm the… I'm FBI. Is she…?" He was stuttering like a fool, and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking.
"We'll
do everything we can. Anything else we need to know, Agent Booth?"
He
swallowed hard. There was a lot of blood.
"Yeah. You'll need to follow SAP." He could feel his throat close, his body fighting the words as he spoke them.
All at once, the doctor's expression changed, and her mouth opened slightly in understanding. With a weary sigh, she turned from him to address the swirling mass of activity around the gurney.
"Okay, people, sexual assault protocol needs to be implemented. Can we get some bags for her hands, please, and let OBGYN know that we'll be sending her down for a rape kit when we've got her stabilised."
He looked away as they gently lifted her hands and fixed clear plastic bags around them.
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They were pushing through a set of double doors.
"Sir, you're going to need to wait here."
Not a fucking chance.
"I… no… I'm going with her." He tried to side step the nurse, a heavyset older woman, but she was surprisingly fast. Planting herself in his path, she looked up at him with kind eyes.
"Sir, you need to let the doctors work on her. Let them do their jobs," she said firmly.
Booth pressed his lips together, feeling a wave of something akin to panic bubble in his stomach. With an effort, he controlled himself and reached into his pocket. He held up his badge.
"And I need to do my job. Please. You've got to let me in. She's my…. That's my partner, and I need to make sure she's okay. Please." He didn't recognise his voice, the pleading note to it. He was not a man accustomed to begging.
"I'm sorry, sir. But there's nothing you can do for her right now. I'm going to have to ask you to stay in the waiting area until they are finished with her." She patted his arm, apparently in a gesture of comfort. He pulled it away. Fighting down the urge to physically throw the woman out of his way, he turned from her, trying to control the sudden burst of white-hot rage.
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His pocket was vibrating. Phone. On autopilot, he flipped it open. His hand was sticky, and he noticed with some detachment that it was bleeding. He wiped it on his shirt absent-mindedly, and switched the phone to the other hand.
"Booth."
"Booth, it's Cullen. I just heard. How bad is it?" His boss's gravely voice was lower than usual.
"I don't know, sir. They wouldn't let me go in." He tried to keep his voice even, but he suspected he wasn't doing that great a job. He sounded shaky, even to his own ears. "She's alive. But…I think… they, uh, think it could be pretty bad."
"Jesus." There was a sharp intake of air on the other end. "Can you call me, when you know something more?"
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes, sir."
"Booth, I'm going to send Streiger and Black down, I don't want you on this one."
"Sir…"
"Don't argue with me, Booth. I want to catch this, and I don't want to give the defence any possible reason to throw out a case. You're too close to this." His voice was firm.
"Sir, I wasn't going to argue. I know I can't work this case." In fact, he knew that even if they'd wanted him to, he couldn't do it. And not only because he would not even try to stop himself shooting the evil son of a bitch responsible when he was caught. "I was just going to say, could you send Pullman instead of Streiger?"
"Why not Streiger?" The confusion and tiredness were evident in the older man's voice.
"Because Bones has met Streiger before… and because … we may need Pullman's expertise, for this."
"But Pullman works Special Victims… Oh."
Clenching his jaw, Booth waited. A cough and some rustling papers sounded through the phone, tinny and distant.
"Oh, shit, Booth." His voice was heavy with regret. "Okay. I'll send Pullman. Call me, soon as you get more info."
Booth leaned up against the wall, hard and cold against his back. The fluorescent light above him hummed quietly. He knew Cullen was waiting for him to say something.
"Mmm-hmmm." He gritted. "Will do, sir."
"And Booth?"
"Yes sir?"
"Are you okay?"
Absurdly, for a moment he felt like laughing at the clichéd predictability of the question. Okay? No. He really wasn't. He wasn't even in the same hemisphere as okay.
"I'm fine, sir."
He hung up without waiting for a response.
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A clipboard had been pressed into his hands, and he stared down at it dumbly.
"Sir, we need you to fill this out."
The nurse was gone before he could ask a question. Sinking down into an uncomfortable plastic seat, he tried to read the form through tired, blurry eyes.
Medical Insurance. Social Security. Full name and date of birth of the patient. He wondered briefly what they would do if he hurled the board straight into the plexi-glass window of the nurses station, then took a deep breath, trying to find a shred of calm. Fumbling for the pen, he began to write.
Dr. Temperance Brennan. Born 28th April, 1976. 2B/461 Hanover Terrace, Wilson's Grove, Washington DC 20068. Emergency Contact: Seeley Booth, 0445 5446 0040
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Someone was calling his name.
"Booth! Booth! Oh, thank God."
Turning, he saw Angela rushing towards him, white-faced and wild haired. Her cardigan wasn't buttoned properly, and her eyes were puffy. He felt a surge of protectiveness, wishing he hadn't had to call her in the middle of the night for something like this.
"Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay. Where is she?" She asked, pulling him into a hug, noting the tense set of his shoulders.
He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, wondering what to say. Wondering if he could get the words out, again. Did he tell her? Was it his place? He had no idea.
"She's with the doctor's now. They, uh… they wouldn't let me go in, but she… I don't know, Ang."
Her eyes filled at his words, and he looked away. He didn't have enough in him to handle her tears, not right now.
"Oh…" she whispered. She sounded very young at that moment, nothing like the vivacious, bubbly artist he knew so well. Then she looked carefully at him.
"What… what aren't you telling me, Booth?"
He could hear the rising panic in her voice, and wished there was something he could say to comfort her. He had nothing. Hating himself, the situation, everything, he opened his mouth again. He knew he had to tell her, knew she would kick his ass six ways from Sunday if he didn't.
"I… we don't know for sure yet, but… Ang… it looks like she was probably…" He dug his nails hard into his palm.
"Probably… probably what, Booth?"
"Ang… they're pretty certain… she's been raped."
The word waited between them, ugly and stark, like a profanity in a church, and then the implication of what he'd said hit her. She looked like she'd been punched in the stomach, and a tear traced its way down her face. And he found he hated her, just for a moment, just in that second, for making him say it.
"Oh my God. Are you sure?" she asked, in a small voice.
He was shouting before he even realised what he was doing.
"Jesus Christ, Angela! No. Okay? No, I'm not sure, and I hope to God that I'm wrong. But I don't know anything more that what I'm telling you, because they won't tell me anything! Nobody's telling me anything! What do you want me to say?" His fists had clenched, and he was breathing hard.
She took a step back, eyes hurt, and a wave of prickly shame washed over him. He could feel the eyes on his back, the occupants of the waiting room watching avidly, but didn't turn, just pressed a hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ang. I'm sorry. It's been a long night."
Nodding slowly, she reached for his hand and squeezed it.
"It's okay, Booth. I get it." She looked him over, her concern evident in her eyes. "Has a doctor looked at you, yet? You're bleeding."
He glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his white tee shirt was smeared with blood. He wasn't about to tell Angela that most of it wasn't his.
"I'm fine. Have you got… Is Hodgins here?"
She nodded, obviously trying to get herself under control. Wiping her eyes and squaring her shoulders, she responded.
"Yeah. He's just parking the car. He'll be here soon."
"Okay. I'm going to be just outside the door. I need to wait for these… the agents that Cullen sent. It's probably going to be a while before they send the doctor out to talk to us, but… if they do, come get me. And…" he paused, debating what he was about to say. He knew it wasn't fair to her.
"Ang, don't tell Jack." He massaged his neck briefly. "Okay?"
Her face fell, but he could see that she understood why he'd said it.
"Got it."
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The night air was cold, raising goose bumps on his bare arms. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted over to him. He wasn't a smoker, not any more, not since Parker was born, but the craving hit him suddenly, stronger than it had been for many years. He glanced to his left. Sure enough, a young guy, no older than twenty-five, was leaning against the cinderblock wall, exhaling the last puff of his cigarette.
"Excuse me?"
The young man looked up, eyes widening in alarm. Belatedly, Booth remembered his appearance, and lifted his hands, as though to prove he wasn't about to knife the kid.
"Yeah?" The stranger's voice was, understandably, cautious.
"Do you think I could steal one of those?" Booth asked, gesturing towards the Marlboro packet, clutched tightly in the kid's hand.
A moment's hesitation, then he held them out.
"Sure, man. You look like you need it."
Booth smiled tightly, more of a grimace than anything else, and extracted a cigarette. It took him three tries to get it lit. Exhaling the acrid smoke, he handed back the cheap plastic lighter.
"Thanks."
"No worries."
Watching as the kid ground out the butt, and walked back towards the glowing entrance doors, he took another drag, waiting for the nicotine to work. To calm him, like it had, so many times before.
There was an air of unreality about the whole situation, a kind of all-pervading greyness to the sky that made him think that this couldn't actually be happening, not really. Any moment now, any second, he would wake up, sheets tangled around his feet, his bedroom black around him, and he would thank God that it was all just a dream. Except the moment didn't come, no matter how hard he willed it to.
The head spin came first, and he stood very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It didn't work. The nausea came quickly, roiling up from his gut, and he turned quickly towards the trashcan.
Straightening a few minutes later, feeling empty, hollow, he wiped his mouth. A clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead, and the air was cool. He was still holding the cigarette in his hand. With a sigh, he dropped it to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his boots. Just as disgusting as he'd remembered. For a moment, he stood, motionless, wondering what the hell to do next. The words were on his lips before he even realised what he was doing.
"Hail Mary, full of grace…"
