Title: Still Waters
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: T, for language, violence, drugs and eventually M for sex.
A/N: It's been a few days since I posted – but I have really lots going on. I wish I had more time for this, because the ideas haunt me if I don't get them out.
Also, for those of you who are worried – Booth is not going to be kissing/sleeping with or having sexual feelings for Carissa. Relax.
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"Did Zach offend you?" Booth asked when they stepped out into the parking lot, the summery air pleasantly hot. It had just gone midnight, and Carissa muffled her yawn with her hand.
"Hardly. The guy is so clueless, I just wanted to hug him." Booth drew his brows together, shaking his head, their feet clicking on the asphalt as they walked.
"They've turned you into a monster," he said, unlocking the SUV, "in a few short hours, too. By next week, you'll be a fully fledged member." Carissa pulled her seat belt around her waist, clicking it in place, heaving a sigh as she did.
"They're not so bad. Dr Brennan… she's a tad eccentric." Booth turned the radio on, filling the vehicle with soft rock. Carissa noticed he never changed the channel. "Angela, she's nice." As the Jeffersonian faded from sight, she realised it was easy to see why the scientists there had become such good friends. There was no brown-nosing, no competition. They had their individual fields, and they were all equally good. At the FBI, friends were few and far between.
"She's had a hard life," Booth said at last, as if in defence. "The detachment is a way of dealing." Carissa pressed her head against the window, watching as he meandered through the streets of D.C. "Where do you want to be left off tonight?" Booth asked, shattering her silent reverie.
"I'm staying with friends," she replied vaguely.
"Not one of your criminal friends, Carissa?" he sounded disappointed. "You can stay at my place… I can't have you jeopardising the case." She threw her head back, no more comfortable with her choices in life than he was. Perhaps she could act sophisticated, but she wasn't. She lived in two bedroom apartments, on mattresses, with drug addicts. Her current room mate was called Nigel and he smoked and injected heroin.
Tucking a strand of silken dark hair behind her ear, she crossed her legs. "I'm not a victim, Booth," she said with soft reprimand. He glanced sideways at her.
"I didn't say you were," he replied, "but Liberante is a massive case for me. Everyone is involved, Carissa, even the squints. I'm not having the whole thing fucked up because some druggie sold you out for a fix." It sounded so seedy when Booth said it, all righteous and moral.
"No one is perfect," Carissa sighed.
"Some more than others," Booth said. "But you're right. We all make mistakes." She didn't recognise the area, and when he stopped outside a four storey building with red-brick and high rectangular windows, she was momentarily perplexed. "Lets go," he said, the lights extinguishing when he pulled the key from the ignition.
"Hey," Carissa complained, "you didn't even ask me…" His expression stopped her protest mid-sentence and she wondered how Brennan coped so well with his hard determination. She had a rapid fire tongue, excellent responses. "Fine," Carissa said, pulling on the hem of her camisole. "But just so you know, this is not so you can hit on me." Booth scoffed, locking his SUV, shaking his head.
"As if," he said. "You're not my type." Climbing the steps to the front door, pushing his entrance code, he smirked at the suggestion and she felt marginally irritated.
"Yeah, from what I see, you prefer your women with red hair and fair skin." His hand froze over the key pad, his forehead marring. If he was stunned with this observation, however, he recovered quickly.
"Over the line," he warned, "tread carefully." The foyer to his building was cool and clean, with two leafy green plants flanking the staircase and another next to the elevator. The floors, tiled with alternate ivory and grey slate tiles gave the building an almost masculine feel.
"Is this a bachelor pad for several men?" Carissa asked, following him as he opted for the stairs. When he didn't reply, she sighed. "You're just a barrel of laughs, aren't you, Booth?" He stopped short, his shoe squeaking on the tiles, throwing his head back as if he were praying.
"Carissa," he said slowly, "I'm tired. It's late. How about a little bit of quiet, huh?" She huffed, hurrying to maintain his long striding pace. Hadn't he suggested she stay?
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Brennan felt her hands tremble on the steering wheel as she parked outside his apartment. She always felt this way whenever they delved into a case that excited her – and Liberante, with his cocky media appearance, thought he was unstoppable. What had Booth once said, whenever they were in New Orleans? That she made them unsafe.
Stepping out of her car, she noticed that the light burned in his living room – and at just past twenty to four in the morning, she suspected he was pacing the floors, wound up from the investigation, imaging the glorious moment when the judge would sentence the bastard to life. Or death.
The last case they'd worked together, had ended in victory and she could still remember the look that came across his features when he realised that their hard efforts and sleepless nights had amounted to something. He'd offered to buy her dinner – but she'd had a date that night. Things with Oliver had been going well – especially after the stalemate with David. But he'd been annoyed earlier when she'd cancelled their reservation because of work.
Locking her car, she supposed some people would never understand the importance of crime fighting. Or the importance of having a solid team. Brennan smiled. Her team, which included Booth, worked together with such brilliant efficiency, it felt as though they were pieces of a jigsaw, fitting together – making a shambles become a clear, irrefutable picture.
Liberante might have been a shambles at the moment – and perhaps their clues didn't quite make a picture yet, but it would. If they all pulled together, she had no doubt that they were equally intelligent enough to get the evidence they required.
She heard the television, a late night movie, from outside the apartment door. Lifting her hand, she knocked, listening to the telltale shuffle of feet, and when he pulled the door open, he wore navy sweats and a grey t-shirt, no socks. "Hey," she said, "sorry it's late…" He shrugged, broad shoulders lifting inside the worn cotton. His biceps flexed with his crossed his arms, leaning against the door.
"It's okay," he said, "what's up, Bones?"
Glancing beyond him, she saw a duvet on the sofa, and a body shift beneath it, and suddenly she felt like a fool. "Oh," she whispered, taking a moment to recover from her naivety. "This is very presumptuous of me, isn't it…?" she dropped her eyes, toeing the wood flooring.
"Not unless you come for sex," he joked, "and it's not what you think. Carissa is-"
"Carissa?" Brennan lifted her eyes, her cheeks burning with humiliation. Why hadn't she noticed it earlier? Hadn't she been all over Zach? God, her ability to read sexual attraction had failed her. Not that, she mused, she'd ever had it before. "Oh…" Booth waved his hand.
"She's no where else to stay…" he said.
"Yes I do!" a voice came from the living room, and the television was on mute. "I have friends, but apparently Booth doesn't want to, and I quote, 'fuck up this case'." Booth threw a glare over his shoulder.
"I said jeopardising not 'fucking up'. Come in, Bones," he turned his attention back to her, slipping his arm around her shoulder and ushering her into his apartment. "Ignore her," he warned. "Carissa has no sense of discretion, which is probably why she was staying with a heroin addict." Brennan blinked, surprised that the beautifully groomed woman she'd seen earlier, could possibly have lived in anything except from comfort. "Is everything alright?" he asked again, and she caught a glance of Booth's colleague, tousled and sleepy.
"Yes," Brennan said, "I just called to let you know that our victim isn't your Mario Antinozzi. Zach and I," she paused, "we stayed on and worked on the body. Matched dental records and…" Booth's expression had taken on a kind of interest that signified he was no longer thinking about anything except his job. "He's records matched that of Brent Williams. A known-"
"Brent Williams?" Carissa swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and it was now that Brennan noticed she was wearing an oversized navy t-shirt – not her own. "Are you… sure?" Stiffening her chin, Brennan cleared her throat.
"Certain," she replied, "he was a known heroin addict. He disappeared awhile back-"
"Yes," Carissa whispered, "I knew him." Booth turned, hands on his hips, fingers splayed across his bones.
"Jesus Carissa," he said, "was there anyone from the gutter you didn't know?" She looked wounded, her fingers trembling as she raked her fingers through her hair. "Was he involved? With Liberante?" Brennan watched their eyes meet, a silent battle of wars, and she wondered if there was a little jealousy in Booth's tone – or whether it was imagined.
"Yes," she whispered, "briefly. He bought crack from him. Just crack. Twice. I knew him before I got involved with the Columbians. Our relationship was volatile because… I hate drugs… and… Brent couldn't resist the high." Her voice trembled. "He had so much potential. I can't…" Booth released a hissing breath.
"I don't ever remember a heroin addict who didn't have potential," he said, his tone weary, "it's not like they are started out as train wrecks." Brennan felt her resolve melt in something approaching compassion for the woman on Booth's sofa, whose shoulders trembled silently. She wasn't crying, but her eyes registered a kind of deep shock. "Bones?" Booth broke her reverie. "What else do you have?"
"Just this," she dipped into her pocket, removing a plastic evidence bag which carefully sealed a bullet. "Zach found it when he was working on the bones. It's the only thing we have. But with a name…" she shrugged helplessly.
"Do you know where Williams lived?" Booth asked, turning back to his house-guest. Carissa lifted her head, pressing her unsteady fingertips to her lips.
"I know where he used to live. But it was awhile ago… and addicts… they don't stay in one place for long." Brennan shifted.
"He'll have friends. It's a start." Booth clicked his fingers.
"Exactly. It's a start. Bones and I will work on that. You just make sure you stay close to Liberante, and for Christ's sake, don't tell him you're staying with a Fed." Carissa made a noise that sounded like a click and a hiss.
"Do you think I'm naïve, Booth? Fuck off and let me sleep."
With the television off, the room was plunged into semi-darkness and Brennan stumbled into him, making her way to the door. "I'll pick you up in the morning," Booth said, his hands holding her biceps tight. "How about seven?" With only a few hours to go before then, Brennan saw no point in heading home.
"I'll be at the Jeffersonian," she replied, pulling his front door open. "Sleep well, Booth."
"I doubt it, Bones. I really doubt it."
She didn't know whether it was the case on his mind, or the stunning twenty four year-old Italian on his sofa, but as she got behind the wheel of her car, Brennan decided she didn't want to muse on the subject. At least not yet. There was still much work to be done.
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