A/N: This is the scene from "The Man in the Cell" at the end where Epps dies. I have always wondered if Booth let go or if he slipped. This is my take on the scene, what I thought the characters might have been thinking, mostly Booth's POV.
The Blame Game
Booth crept down the hallway, gun held straight out in front of him. His heart nearly stopped as he saw Epps standing in his partner's living room with a crowbar in his hand. Then he saw her standing there, holding that stupid cannon of hers, several feet to his right.
"Dead end," Booth said to Epps, hoping the slimeball would just give up.
"You won't let me shoot him, will you?" Brennan asked sullenly. Booth didn't even dignify that question with an answer.
"You knew he was gonna be here, didn't you?" he asked, pushing down the anger that she would use herself for bait.
"It's the only scenario that made sense," she said calmly, her gun steady.
Epps turned toward the balcony. "Oh, what, are you heading for the balcony, Howie? Hope you can fly, 'cuz that's about a fifty foot drop, right?" he asked Bones.
"Yeah," she replied. Booth thought she was probably wondering if Epps had the guts to try it—and hoping he would.
"How did you know?" Epps asked. He'd been so clever, so certain that he'd outwitted them.
"Plaster dust in the poison," Brennan replied with satisfaction. He thought he was so brilliant, it felt good to prove him wrong.
"Renovations to the apartment next door," Booth said, slowly moving to stand next to his partner. If Epps was stupid enough to make a move on her, he wanted to be there to stop the bard.
"You're not all that smart, it turns out," Brennan said with a little wry smile.
"One minute…all I want is one minute alone with you," Epps said to her, rage vibrating in his voice. Brennan recalled what Booth had told her the other day, about why Epps hated her so much.
"Fine with me," she said, obviously itching for a throw down.
"Don't provoke the lunatic, alright?" Booth said to her, then focused on Epps once more. "You got nowhere to go."
"I'm not going back to jail," Epps warned.
"Oh, you see, that's really not your decision, Howie. Put your hands up," Booth ordered. Epps raised his arms. "Drop the crowbar," he said, hoping the a$$hole wasn't going to try anything. At the same time, hoping he would just to give him an excuse to pop the little weasel. Suddenly Epps arm swung out, flinging the crowbar and dashing for the balcony. The lamp shattered and Booth scrambled to stop Epps.
"Line of fire, Bones," Booth called. All he needed was to get shot by his partner as she tried to take down a serial killer in her home. She didn't need the guilt, and he didn't need the paperwork, not to mention the harassment from his fellow agents, if he survived.
He reached the balcony just as Epps started over. Diving over the railing, he just managed to catch his hand. Epps was dangling, nothing but the strength of Booth's grip between him and a fifty foot drop to his death. Booth panted with the effort it took to hold on.
"You're not getting away, Howard," he said grimly. This slimeball was gonna pay, but Booth didn't want it to be quick or easy on him.
"Look who the killer is now, Agent Booth," Epps taunted unwisely.
"Can I get a little help here, Bones? I got nothin' but dead weight here," Booth grunted, the muscles in his arm screaming with the strain.
Brennan leaned over the railing, stretching, trying desperately but falling inches short. "Sorry, I can't reach," she said. She didn't know what to do. She didn't want Epps to fall to his death, she wanted him incarcerated for all the horrible things he'd done.
"Grab the railing," Booth growled at Epps. He could see fear in the killer's eyes and that gave him just a little satisfaction.
"You're gonna drop me anyway. Just get it over with," Epps jeered.
"You son of a btch," Booth said through gritted teeth. What really made him angry was he wanted to drop the ahole, but he couldn't allow himself to do that. He would only be lowering himself to his level.
"You saying you don't want me dead?" Epps said, anger starting to overcome his fear. If he had to die, he wanted Agent Booth to do it. He knew his ultimate revenge would be the guilt over his death that he knew would torture the agent for years to come. That's what guys like Booth did, torture themselves for things that happened that they had no control over. He personally had no problem with guilt. Everything he'd done wasn't his fault. It was his mother's, if she hadn't been so harsh on him.
"Yeah, but I'm not you," Booth said angrily, a strange, detached part of him amazed that Epps was provoking the one who held his life in his hands—or hand, as the case may be.
"Oh, really, you're not thinking of the world without me still in it, going after Dr. Brennan…your son…?" Epps sneered, pushing Booth to edge of rage.
"I'm not you," Booth bit out. This guy was just begging for it. But he wasn't going to play his game. Death was the easy way out. No way was he getting off that easy…
Then it happened. His grip failed, Epps' hand slipped and Booth made a useless last grab to try to catch him. They watched as the killer fell, seemingly in slow motion, and Brennan grabbed Booth, unable to tear her eyes away from the broken body below. Booth straightened, hands gripping the railing as guilt and shame followed the surge of exultation he felt.
Booth sat at the table, staring blindly at the coffee cup before him. The agent in charge walked over. "Unit on the ground saw what happened, so did the sniper across the street. You tried to save him," he said, trying to assuage the guilt he knew Booth was feeling.
"Yep," Booth said grimly. He didn't want anyone to make excuses for him. He should have saved him.
"No one could have helped him," Brennan said, leaning forward, trying to get Booth to look up. He continued to stare at the table.
He nodded. "Yep," Booth repeated, reaching for the cup.
"You can take off now, Booth," the agent said. "The department might want to assign you a shrink, on the job death like that." Booth took a sip of the tepid coffee as the agent turned and left and Brennan leaned closer.
"You didn't have your full strength. Your wrist was hurt from pulling Zach away from the explosion," she said, trying to comfort him. He finally looked at her and she ached at the grim look on his face.
He shook his head. "My wrist wasn't hurt, Bones," he argued, refusing any attempt to place the blame anywhere but firmly on his own shoulders. He should have saved him.
She sighed with frustration and looked away. "I wish you had let me shoot him," she said.
Fresh anger surged up in him. She had no idea what she was talking about. He knew how it felt to take another person's life like that, and he hoped she never had to live with that kind of guilt and pain. "No, you don't," he said, getting up. He needed to leave. He couldn't handle any more attempts to shift blame, make excuses or otherwise try to make him feel better. He understood why she was doing it, but that didn't make it any easier to take. He punched the door on his way out, using a fraction of the force he wanted to. Right now he needed to be alone, to examine what had really happened. Had he let him go? Or had his grip really just finally slipped?
BBBBBBBBB
So what do you think? Accident or not? Click the little blue button and let me know your thoughts. And thanks so much for reading.