I've never seen him like this before. He puts on the Kevlar vest, and though my rational mind knows that it's the very best protection, I do not believe it. How can I convince myself that woven fabric would halt a bullet in its tracks? On anyone else I would believe it, endorse it, trust it with all the conviction I could scourge up.
But not on Booth.
How could I trust the material to protect his skin, to guard his heart?
But the choice was never mine to make and certainly not mine to try and stop. His big shoulders shake with unresolved tension, and I read the panic in his eyes. There, in his liquid gaze was fear, fear, alongside with the steadfast determination I've come to know.
Back up is on the way, but he won't wait for it.
He could lose his job for disobeying the orders. I could lose mine for idly standing by. He could lose his life. I could lose my reason for it.
It didn't stop me from wordlessly scanning his vest with my eyes to double check that it was on tightly. And it certainly didn't stop him from straightening, the determination pushing back the fear from his eyes as effortlessly as he might push away a strand of my hair.
The strength radiates from him, and I know he's itching to go inside.
The madman is inside.
And Parker is inside.
We had reached a silent agreement a few moments ago. For once, I would not try and go with him. This was a battle I could not fight and I know that even through his worry hazed mind, he appreciates it. I help him dress in his Kevlar vest without him seeing me and though I'm terrified for him, there's no way I'm going to keep him from saving his boy.
He turns to go, his gun already in his hand.
I only have a moment. I suppose I am an essentially a selfish creature, because I take it.
I touch his shoulder, the corded muscle there so taut my brain, which has been exceedingly illogical since I received the news that Parker was in the building, feared it might snap.
"Booth," I whisper in my moment. It's the only word that penetrates through the thick haze clouding my mind.
He understands. After an endless second where he gazes in my eyes with that look I can never truly decipher, he shoves the gun in its holster and throws a hand to his neck.
A snap.
He grabs my hand and thrusts the medal in my palm with a certain gentleness that belies our tension.
Without another word he is inside the building, the door swinging shut behind him.
My palm radiates with warmth and I unclasp my fingers, having to send out individual messages to each finger to allow them to do so.
His Saint Christopher medal shines in my palm, still warm from his hot skin.
He told me once that he would die for Parker. He told me once he would die for me.
I never doubted him. On either.
A shot rings out from inside the building, cracking the still fall air. I sink to my knees, still transfixed by his medal. The medal warm from his skin. A sharp wind cuts through the trees outside the small house.
I want to move. I want to burst through the door to that house. I want to find Booth there, his arms around Parker and the bastard who did this to him on the floor.
I do none of these. I simply stare at his medal.
The hot metal pierces my freezing skin. Booth.
Booth's medal.
Booth's faith.
I hold a symbol of Booth's faith in my hand, a faith I take no stock in. A faith he believes with all his heart.
And I know he will do whatever it takes to come back to me. In the same way he understood the need in my voice when I spoke his name, I understand his action.
He was reminding me, in his own way, that he believes.
And though I might not believe in faith, I do believe in him.
I crush the medal, still warm from his skin, in my hand until it soaks up my own warmth and mingles the two.
Come back for me.
Thanks for the reviews I've gotten so far. Sometimes I get so into things I forget people can't read my mind. I meant for this to be a one-shot, meaning Booth and Parker are both A-ok. Sorry for any undue stress. How could I hurt Parker anyway? Or Booth for that matter? I love those guys to pieces. :)