(-a/n- This has been bugging my consciousness for the last two days, having sprung from nowhere. I'm writing it down in the hope that it will remove itself from my brain and I can get on with writing my other fic…)
Confusedknight xx
He can feel the scales tipping against him, unable to stop their downward motion; the consequence of his actions. Booth drops his head into his hands, hating the feelings of guilt and remorse that have built up inside of him. His mind flicks backwards like a video recorder to the scene that haunts his thoughts.
Ritch is down there, in the street full of ordinary people all unaware that ill fortune has placed them in terrible danger. Beneath Ritch's dark oilskin coat is poorly concealed gun, capable of firing three rounds a second.
Booth and the squints all knew the man's plan; they'd read the suicide note, the last words of a bitter, angry man, a man who had been shunned and ignored his whole life, a man who now wanted people to sit up and take notice of him.
Bones was tugging on his arm, anxiety displayed in her every movement.
'Booth he's there,' she pointed out Ritch's figure unnecessarily.
They watched the man in horror, from the first floor window of the office building. Angela had her hands pressed across her mouth, clearly terrified at what might happen. Hodgins and whatever lab tech Bones was hiring this week, stood on his other side, their faces practically pressed to the glass.
'Booth we have to stop him,' Bones was saying next to him, again needlessly. In a way he'd known all along what this would come to.
The window was wide open, giving them a clear view into the street below. Ritch had slowed, unaware of his five observers. One hand reached under his large raincoat.
'Booth!' Bones hissed.
He watched in slow motion as the gun started to appear from under the sorry man's coat.
The lab tech swore and Angela gasped, any second now the slaughter would commence, round after round of lead pumped into innocents.
Booth's gun was already resting in his palm and he felt it's familiar weight, the metal smooth and cold.
The decision was already made, no matter how much he hated killing, he could not sit back and watch the looming atrocity.
He aimed and fired, Ritch dropped like a stone, a small well of red appearing on his forehead. It had taken less than three seconds.
He holstered his weapon; he wouldn't be needing it anymore. His hands on the windowsill Booth leant forward and dropped his head, defeated. The screaming and panic had started in the street below, but at least there was only one casualty.
Vaguely he could hear Hodgins and the newbie talking excitedly, comparing Booth's shot to that seen in the movies. Angela wasn't joining in the conversation, unusually quiet, perceptive of the fact that Booth wasn't celebrating.
To his surprise though it was Bones who laid a hand on his arm.
'I'm sorry,' she muttered.
'Yeah,' he said, straightening up, 'Me too.'
And now he sits alone in his apartment. He'd left work promptly, phoned Parker as he'd promised, speaking in a falsely cheerful voice, all the time wondering what Parker would think when he heard how many people his daddy had killed.
Booth's cell was now switched off, buried in a pocket of the jacket that had been flung carelessly over the chair. Tonight Booth would be alone with his thoughts, wallowing in the self-loathing that accompanied taking a human life.
He'd seen "monstrous" serial killers who had claimed three, maybe four lives. But what was he, when his own number stood at fifty-six?
Booth was certain that if he put his mind to it could recall every single one of those deaths; the place, the distance from which he shot, the target…
The balance was definitely tipping, fifty-six kills was weighing down against him. He had half a mind to go down to his church and pray, or speak to Father Roberts, but he couldn't bring himself to go somewhere so holy, not when he felt so dirty.
Possibly hours later, the doorbell rang and he ignored it, not in the mood to confront a happy salesperson trying to sell him car insurance. The bell rang a second time, and then a third, insistently.
Grunting, Booth stood up, and opened the door to see Bones waiting on his doorstep. She scrutinized him with those unreadable eyes and invited herself in.
Booth returned to the dip in the couch and refused to meet her eyes. Bones said nothing, but seated herself next to him, taking hold of his hand in an effort to comfort him. He appreciated the gesture and marvelled at how different this Bones was to the one he'd started working with all those years ago, but tonight, Booth was beyond comfort.
He sat immersed in thoughts, wondering how many kills it would take before he was beyond redemption, before the balance was too thoroughly weighed down.
Fifty-six, fifty-six; the number that was consuming him. It pulsated in his head, relentless, occasionally slipping out through his lips to be uttered aloud.
Bones ordered a Chinese takeout and over sticky rice and prawn crackers they made awkward, stunted conversation. Shortly afterwards Bones took the hint and left him to his depressing thoughts.
Booth awoke the next morning, stiff and sore from sleeping on the couch. He made himself a coffee and checked the time. Today he would be back to work, all smiles and charms, soldiering on.
He heard something fall through the mail box and padded over to the front door, scooping up the large envelope. He opened it there in the hallway and pulled out the stapled sheets of paper.
The paper was split in two by a line down the centre. On one side, the number "fifty-six" was printed. It was a number that had taken on all too much meaning in the last twenty-four hours. And on the other side…on the other side…
It was a list, a long list of names. Some names jumped out at him, Penny Clearidge, Jonathon Stouton, Howard Epps, even Bones' own father Max Keenan.
This list ran on over several sides of paper and slowly a smile grew on Booth's face. On the very last sheet the number 82 was ringed, and in Bones' neat handwriting a simple statement. "I think the balance is still tipped in your favour.'
Gratitude flooded through him. She must've been up all night looking at all of Booth's arrest records. Eighty-two murderers caught and sent to jail. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He and Bones really were the best crime solving team in America.
And as he readied himself for work, and strapped on his gun holster, it was with a settled heart. He knew that Ritch would not be the last kill he made; he would protect Bones, her squints and the people of America at all costs, no matter what the personal sacrifice.
And his "cosmic balance" may wobble, the number of kills rising higher than fifty six, but Booth knew now that it would never tip against him, not whilst he had Bones propping it up.
(-a/n- So what did you think? I'd really appreciate some reviews as this is my first time branching out of the Tamora Pierce genre…)
Confusedknight xx