Disclaimer: Bones is the property of Twentieth Century Fox et al. I do not own any part of the characters or the plots that have been adapted from the show.
A/N: The structure of this story will be built around episodes, and I'll be rewriting some history as we go. That means there's going to be a bit of repetition - This chapter has a lot, but future chapters won't have as much overlap. This is going to be my take on what's going on in our characters' heads, and what's happening during the times between the action we've seen.
I'll try starting out with a summary of the episode, so you can center yourselves in the story in case it's been awhile since you've watched these older seasons.
Chapter 2 - Pilot
Summary: Brennan returns to DC after a two-month project in Guatemala. Booth requests Dr. Brennan's assistance in identifying a body discovered in a lake. Brennan agrees to work with Booth only on the condition that she gets to be fully involved in the case, including field work. Booth reluctantly agrees, despite protests from FBI Deputy Director Cullen. Booth and Brennan argue, and Booth tells Brennan that if she wants to work in the field, she needs to work on being able to relate better to people - live people, in the real world, not just skeletons.
Brennan and her team discover that the body is that of Cleo Eller, an intern who worked with - and was suspected to have been sleeping with - Senator Bethlehem. When the Jeffersonian team discovers that Cleo Eller was pregnant at the time of her death, Brennan convinces Booth to get a warrant to search the Senator's home for evidence of Cleo Eller's murder. Despite heavy political pressure from his boss, Booth pursues the warrant, only to find a lack of evidence at the Senator's home. That evening, during a discussion with her team, Brennan realizes that there is potential evidence to link Senator Bethlehem's aid, Ken Thompson, to Cleo Eller's murder - she goes after Thompson herself, receives a confession, and shoots him in the leg before Booth arrives. Booth and Brennan attend Cleo Eller's funeral.
Wednesday, 11:27 AM
The man who'd been sleeping on Dr. Brennan's shoulder for the past four hours woke up just as the wheels made contact with the runway.
He'd managed to remain sleeping, and salivating excessively onto her white button-down, even as the captain proclaimed the weather in DC was 79 and sunny and prepared for touchdown. Against all odds, he'd even managed to remain sleeping while the petulant child seated behind them wailed her distress for the entire cabin to hear. The commotion had carried on for two full hours before the child was abruptly quieted about twenty minute sago. Brennan couldn't bring herself to care enough to turn around to determine whether strangulation was the cause of the welcomed peace.
"Welcome to Dulles International Airport," a perky flight attendant proclaimed. "It's about 11:30 AM local time, and we hope you've enjoyed your flight. Please remain seated until we come to a stop at the gate."
The man who'd been lying on her shoulder sat up slowly, bleary-eyed, and casually wiped the side of his mouth with his fingers before smearing his palm against his seat cushion. Brennan resolved at that moment to never fly coach again, and particularly never for flights longer than six hours.
The plane pulled up to the gate and she waited patiently for the rows in front of her to empty, then finally for her drooling neighbor to clear the way. She gathered her jacket from under the seat and pulled her bag from the overhead bin, then followed the other passengers to the terminal.
She'd always found airports to be a fascinating place to study human nature and interpersonal communication. The emotional overtones were sometimes overwhelming at airports, with families and loved ones parting and reuniting across the premises.
Take, for instance, the man walking a few paces ahead of her. Outfitted in Army fatigues, he carried a large duffel bag in one hand at his side. There was dirt under his fingernails that Brennan knew from experience would take more than several showers to clear - some things only faded with time and distance. He walked with heavy steps. His gait and movement spoke volumes about him. Airports were fascinating, indeed.
Brennan tore her attention away from the soldier to scan the crowd. She didn't see Angela, but her focus was caught by a girl with long blonde hair whose green eyes were welling with unshed tears. The girl was running toward the gate, and Brennan saw that she had patellar tracking disorder in her right knee.
The soldier in front of Brennan broke into a light jog, heading straight toward the barrier between the arriving flights and baggage claim. Rather than change course to walk around the barrier, he vaulted himself over it in one smooth motion. Brennan watched as he met the blonde girl, dropping his duffel bag and embracing her so tightly that her feet barely touched the floor.
Yes, airports were definitely rife with emotion.
Watching the two lovers reunite gave Brennan a strange sort of sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't have a name for the feeling, so rather than focus on it, she studiously ignored it. She realized she'd stopped walking only when a small child rammed a stroller into the back of her legs.
"Jordan, be careful!" the boy's mother chastised. She glanced up at Brennan and offered an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not a problem," Brennan replied. She continued toward her baggage claim carousel, skirting around the young couple who were still entwined.
It took Brennan only a few minutes to locate Angela, and she couldn't decide whether or not she was surprised to see her friend flashing an airport employee.
"Sweetie!" Angela exclaimed, pulling Brennan into a hug.
As they made their way to Brennan's baggage claim carousel, she answered Angela's questions about her time in Guatemala, making sure to gloss over some of the more unsavory aspects.
Brennan had noticed a man following her from the counter where she'd met Angela, and when he was still behind them when they turned to her baggage carousel, she spun around to confront him.
"Is there a reason you're following us?" she demanded.
The man was a head taller than Brennan and about forty pounds more muscled. She saw his shoulders tense in preparation a millisecond before he reached for her. Adrenaline kicked in and she reacted instinctively. There was a chance she was still a bit on edge, after having had soldiers standing over her shoulder for the past two months while she worked in the jungle.
Either way, the man was on the ground in a shoulder lock before Brennan had a chance to consciously think about her actions. She knew that that with a bit more force, she could easily dislocate his shoulder and probably break his humerus. Angela was shouting for security, who turned up moments too late to be of any help.
The man on the floor was shouting, too, and Brennan sighed when she heard him. "Homeland Security!"
She felt the man struggling beneath her, and she loosened her grip enough to let him use his free arm to pull his badge. When he brandished it to airport security, the guards turned their guns in her direction. Brennan reluctantly let go of the man and spread her hands wide, indicating she wasn't a threat.
"Alright, there's been a misunderstanding, everything's fine now. You can put up your guns," she told the gathered security guards.
The Homeland Security agent apparently took offense to her instruction. When he looked in her carry-on bag and saw the skull she'd brought back with her, the situation escalated, and that was how she found herself being escorted in flexi-cuffs through the terminal of Washington Dulles.
Two and a half hours later, she was still sitting in a small room in the back hallways of the airport.
"Once again, my name is Dr. Temperance Brennan." She knew that her impatience was evident in the tone of her voice, but given that this was the fourth time she'd been asked the same questions, she wasn't too concerned with veiling her impatience. "I've just returned from an anthropological dig in Guatemala, where I was helping to identify victims of genocide. That male skull you're holding was one of the victims."
Officer Delaney set the skull carefully back on the table but didn't take his eyes off her. "And you work with the FBI?"
"I have worked with the FBI in the past," she confirmed carefully.
"What is an archaeologist doing with the FBI?"
She waited a moment before answering to try to get a grip on her mounting frustration. "I'm not an archaeologist, I'm an anthropologist. And I've worked with the FBI to identify human remains pertinent to their investigations."
If they hadn't found her Hoover Building ID pass in her wallet, maybe they wouldn't suspect her of whatever dubious activity they had associated with her. An anthropologist who just got back from the jungle is less threatening than one who works for the FBI. Most people were not familiar with the concept of forensic anthropology.
"If you could give us a name of who we could contact at the Bureau to corroborate that, maybe I'd believe you."
"Whom you could contact," she corrected quietly.
She raked her fingers through her hair, exasperated. They'd been in this room for hours and she still hadn't been able to figure out what exactly the problem was. It wasn't her choice to be dragged in to work for the FBI. She was a scientist, not a criminal, nor a cop, nor a bureaucrat. Why couldn't they understand?
"You've been caught smuggling human remains into the country," Officer Delaney repeated.
Yes, he'd said that before. She recognized this opening line in his tirade, and probably could've repeated the next line from memory, but at that moment she was distracted by the door opening and someone new slipping into the room.
She spared no more than a glance over her shoulder before turning back to Delaney. With her gaze fixed on the tabletop in front of her, her eyes narrowed. What was he doing here?
Her mind worked quickly to piece the situation together and it finally clicked. He'd set her up. That was what all of this had been about. That bastard.
"Look," she interrupted Delaney, no longer concerned with diplomacy. "I'm sorry for defending myself in such a manner as to make you feel inferior, but I must point out again that you were following me. Next time, you should really identify yourself sooner. This whole situation could've been avoided."
However, despite her words, the looming presence of the newcomer at her back told her that the situation had likely been inevitable. She could practically feel the weight of his gaze on her, making her feel flushed and warm.
She whipped around to face him. He was leaning casually against the wall, and didn't bother averting his eyes when she'd caught him staring at her. His lips turned up in a smirk while he held her gaze defiantly. She felt her jaw clench and her blood heat in her veins.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Booth pulled his badge to identify himself to the other officers in the room and Brennan ground her teeth together. Her frustration at his obviously staged 'rescue' only mounted when he called her by the nickname that she'd once found charming.
"She's all yours," Delaney said.
"You set me up," she stated coldly. She wanted Booth to know that she was on to him. Brennan turned back to Delaney to confirm her suspicions. "You got a hold for question request from the FBI, didn't you?"
His silence was all she needed to hear.
"Come on, Bones, you heard the guy. Grab your skull and let's vamoose." Booth picked up her bags and she reluctantly followed him out of the airport.
She really wished she could just kiss that cocky smile right off his face.
No, wait, slap. She'd definitely meant slap his face. Slap would be better.
. . . . .
Thursday, 1:17 PM
Booth couldn't believe that he'd agreed to let Bones come into the field with him. How the hell had that happened? What had he been thinking? Squints belong in the lab, not in the field. Everyone knows that. He'd just gotten done breaking the news to Cullen, and his words reverberated through Booth's mind.
You take a squint out in the field, and she's your responsibility. Understand?
Of course, what had his response been? He'd told Cullen that there was nothing to worry about.
Ha! Nothing to worry about. That was laughable. Booth could only imagine the kind of trouble he was in for. He'd seen firsthand the kind of damage that woman could do. He stretched his jaw, recalling how stiff it had been after she'd slapped him that one time. Not to mention there had been that other time when she'd punched a Federal Judge in the face. Twice.
Yeah, he was going to have his hands full.
He parked his SUV at the Jeffersonian and headed over to the security checkpoint. Booth would bet a crisp Ben Franklin that Bones was the reason he didn't yet have security clearance to the Medico-Legal lab. Every time he arrived, he had to check in and receive a visitor's pass at the gate.
"Hey Jimbo," he greeted the guard. "Fancy meeting you again. Whaddaya say you get me a clearance badge, eh? We really don't need to do this whole song and dance every time I stop by for a visit."
The guard just regarded him stoically, and finally Booth sighed, handing over his ID. The guard typed in his information and handed Booth his visitor's pass with an icy stare.
"Could at least be nice about it," Booth mumbled, walking into the building. He only got slightly lost on the way to Angela's office, and he still managed to arrive before Bones.
"Hey team," he greeted jovially. The weird assistant and the bearded conspiracy theorist were both seated on a couch.
Bones waltzed in moments later, and didn't spare a glance to Booth as she headed for the machine in the middle of the room. "Does Booth know how this works?"
Booth bristled at the insult. Angela explained her machine and Booth tuned it out for the most part. He didn't care how it worked, but was curious to see what information it could give him.
"Angela, input the data from the skull I gave you," Brennan instructed. She eyed Booth as the holographic image took form. He was impressed, but he kept an impassive expression, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.
Curious, Booth walked over to what looked like a control panel. He reached out to fiddle with some buttons, but Brennan grabbed his arm and pulled it away. He gave her a sidelong glance and held her eyes until she removed her hand from him. Brennan cleared her throat and moved around to the other side of the machine.
"Reduce the tissue depth over the cheekbones," she instructed. The image transformed before their eyes. Booth thought the image looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't place the woman. "Angela, could we see the skintone with mixed-race values? Half African-American and half Caucasian?"
The picture of the girl transformed again and Booth stepped closer. Was he seeing what he thought he was seeing? This couldn't be real, could it?
He looked across the holograph to find Brennan watching him with serious eyes. He had a feeling she might always be serious.
"Whoa," he said. That about summed it up.
. . . . .
Monday, 4:45 PM
Booth took a deep breath, steeling himself for what could very well be a career-killing move. He wasn't sure if Brennan's evidence had convinced him to take this step, or if he was just responding to her challenge. Likely a bit of both.
He knocked quickly on the judge's open office door. "Hello, Judge Davis. Got a minute?"
"Sure, Agent Booth, have a seat."
He walked in, but didn't sit. Damn it, he was nervous. That wasn't like him. He spit out his request boldly, as if to prove to himself that he could. "I'd like a warrant to search Senator Bethlehem's house."
Judge Davis raised his eyebrows. "And what makes you think I would issue such a warrant?"
"We have reasonable suspicion that Bethlehem killed Cleo Eller. We know she was killed with a sledgehammer on a cement floor that had traces of diatomaceous earth. Some kind of sand, basically," Booth provided. "We also expect to find blood on the floor. Physical evidence, Your Honor, that would link Cleo Eller with the crime scene."
"That's all well and good, but what reason do you have to consider the Senator your prime suspect?"
"Cleo Eller was pregnant. We found proof of that, and asked Senator Bethlehem to submit to a DNA test, which he refused. Turns out, we didn't have enough DNA from the child to actually perform the test, but Bethlehem didn't know that when he refused."
Booth could tell from the judge's eyes that he was considering it. They may actually have a shot at this.
He pressed on. "You know that we suspected from the beginning that Cleo Eller and Bethlehem were having an affair. We were never able to substantiate that at the time. But Bethlehem really didn't want us to get that DNA."
The judge was silent for several long moments while Booth continued to look him straight in the eye. Judge Davis finally sighed and shook his head. "Fine. I'll get you the warrant within the hour."
"Thank you, Your Honor." Booth turned his back and started to leave, not wanting the judge to see his smile. Booth was starting to think that he'd finally be able to catch this bastard, and the thought was appealing. Very appealing.
The judge called him back, and Booth turned to face him again, making sure to wipe the smile from his face.
"I hope you know what you're doing."
Davis's tone made his warning very clear, but Booth was already all too aware of what he was cautioning. If this didn't work… Booth grimaced. He didn't even want to think about the earful he was going to get from Cullen. That is, assuming he would still be employed afterward if this all went to hell.
"I hope so too. Thank you, Judge Davis."
Back in his office half an hour later, Booth sifted through files on his desk, going over the evidence just one more time as home videos of Cleo Eller played in the background. He sure hoped Bones was right about this.
He'd gone to the shooting range to try to apologize for demeaning her team's conclusion earlier, and he'd found her there just as he expected. Only instead of issuing an apology, what he'd ended up doing was accepting a challenge. Alone in his office, he thought back to their confrontation a couple hours earlier.
He took a step closer to her, and then another. It was his usual tactic for intimidating suspects - using his stature to physically invade their space - but he was quickly learning that Bones just didn't intimidate. Instead of backing away, she leaned in closer to him, never taking her eyes off his. He leaned in even closer and placed a hand on either side of her head, effectively pinning her against the wall. He could feel her breath on his neck as she craned her neck to maintain eye contact.
"You're great at what you do, Bones, but you don't solve murders. Cops do," he growled.
He was so close to her now that he could feel her body heat. His breathing was just a bit more shallow than normal, and his blood pressure had spiked. Damn it, he was hoping that she wouldn't still hold this power over him. He should've known better.
"Cleo Eller was killed on a cement floor sprinkled with diatomaceous earth. Traces of her blood will still be in that cement," she insisted. Her cheeks were flushed and he noticed with satisfaction that her breathing was shallow as well. Her eyes were fierce as she continued. "One of us is wrong. Maybe both of us. But if Bethlehem wasn't a Senator, you'd be right there in his basement looking for that killing floor. You're afraid of him. Your hypothesis is that squints don't solve murders and cops do. Prove it. Be a cop."
She had a dangerous smile on her lips, clearly issuing a challenge, and the gambler in him was dying to take it.
They stayed like that for several long moments. Her breath on his neck had definitely increased in tempo, and he watched as her tongue swept across her lower lip in an unconscious gesture that was sexy beyond belief. In that moment, they both knew they had two options.
A knock on his office door snapped him out of his memory and he looked up to see a courier with the warrant for Senator Bethlehem.
Time to go to work.
. . . . .
Monday, 9:22 PM
Hours later, Booth sat alone at Wong Fu's, partaking of a much-needed drink. Wong Fu's had been a favorite hang-out for years, and not-so-coincidentally also happened to be the home of a lively backroom poker ring. He'd kept coming to the place even after he quit gambling, and only on special occasions did he ever think about heading back there again. Tonight was one of the special occasions. He felt just shitty enough to think that maybe he could bury his sorrows with a big win.
He took another long draw of his beer. They hadn't found anything substantial at the Senator's house. He could only imagine what kind of trouble he was going to be in for in the morning.
Booth downed the rest of his Sam Adams as he heard his phone ringing. He dug it from his jacket pocket as he caught Sid's attention from across the bar, indicating he'd like another beer.
"Booth," he answered gruffly.
"Booth this is Angela, Brennan asked me to call you," the voice on the line explained hastily.
Booth didn't know Angela very well, but she was clearly stressed, and his reaction was instantaneous. His pulse quickened with the first traces of adrenaline. Why couldn't Bones call him herself?
"She just ran out of here," Angela continued, answering his unspoken question. "She said something about how Ken Thompson kept tropical fish, and diatomaceous earth is used in filters, and… Oh, I don't know, she just said to call you. Does this mean anything to you? Do you know what's going on?"
Booth was already out of his seat and headed for the door. "Yeah, it does. I'm on it. Thanks."
He hung up, sorry to be abrupt with her since she was one of the people at the Jeffersonian that he actually didn't mind, but he was pretty sure that her message meant that Bones was headed for Ken Thompson's house. And if Ken Thompson really was the one who killed Cleo Eller…
He had to get there. Now.
He called for backup on the radio in his SUV, reciting Thompson's address from memory. Wong Fu's was only ten minutes from Thompson's house, but even that was too far away. Thompson lived north of the Jeffersonian and Booth was coming from the south, which meant that Bones had a big head start.
He was approaching a red light, but he glanced both ways and knew he could make it, so he stepped on the gas and sped through. His siren threw lights and shadows across the dash, and Booth couldn't stop himself from glancing at the clock every few seconds. Damn it, he had to be there now! If anything happened to Bones because he'd pulled her in on this case, he'd never forgive himself.
She just had to go and solve the damn case. When would she understand the he was the FBI Agent and she was the anthropologist? He was the one with the gun, the one trained to handle these kinds of situations and to do his best to not get killed. She didn't have that training. Anthropologists are supposed to lead safe, boring lives in labs and museums. They're not supposed to go running off after known killers in the middle of the night.
What had he gotten her into?
He turned off the siren and his headlights as he pulled up to the house, not wanting to alert Thompson, just in case. His tires crunched on the gravel as he came to a stop. Just as he opened his door, he heard a gunshot.
His heart leapt into his throat and adrenaline pulsed through him, making the blood in his veins feel like ice water.
He vaulted himself from the truck and ran to the door. Window broken. Door open. He registered these thoughts as they came, but paid them no attention. He'd been in combat, he'd been held at gunpoint, and he'd been in full-on firefights, but he wasn't sure he'd ever been as scared as he was at that moment. His sole focus was to get to Brennan.
He was approaching the back of the house when he heard Brennan's voice yelling. He turned the corner and saw her, with her gun on Oliver Laurier while Thompson writhed on the floor. Booth was so relieved that his knees felt weak, but his training helped him maintain composure. She had Laurier covered, so Booth kept an eye on Thompson until he could see that the fallen man was not a threat.
"Did he kill Cleo?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah, he killed her," Booth replied. He convinced Oliver to go over and apply pressure to Thompson's wound as Bones had suggested, then Booth turned his concentration to her.
"The evidence said he did it, but I don't know why!" She seemed pretty shaken up, and Booth thought it would be best to get the gun away from her as soon as possible.
She had alcohol on her breath. Was she drunk?
"He did it to save his job," he guessed. Booth eased the gun from her hand, made sure he clicked the safety on, and stuck it in his waistband.
"His job?" she repeated. He looked at her semi-dilated pupils. It could be from the adrenaline, or maybe she really did solve a case while tipsy. He had to admit that he was impressed, but it sure was going to make the paperwork a joy.
"If the Senator were involved in a scandal, Thompson here would lose his ride on the political fast-track. It's that simple." Booth could hear the commotion of reinforcements arriving, and decided to leave the mess to them while he got Bones out of there.
He walked around to her right side so he could use his left hand to guide her away, keeping his gun hand free. He led her away from the scene, weaving through the men who were moving to secure the house. When they were through the crowd, he removed his hand from her shoulders and moved it to the small of her back. He didn't want to stop touching her, reassuring himself that she was warm, and solid, and okay.
Booth leant down and whispered into her ear, so the men who were moving to secure the scene couldn't hear him. "How about next time, you let me do the shooting, eh?"
. . . . .
Thursday, 1:26 PM
Brennan carefully laid a rose on Cleo Eller's coffin. She was surprised at how moved she'd been by the funeral service. She felt like she'd gotten to know this girl. There were only so many secrets that a person could keep in death.
Maybe Booth was right, and she did need to learn to open up to the living rather than play it safe with the dead. Angela had been telling her the same for as long as they'd known each other, and yet this was the first time that Brennan let herself wonder whether they could be right.
As she turned away from the burial service, Brennan remembered the young couple from the airport. She wasn't sure what triggered the memory. The blonde girl had obviously been completely overwhelmed, right there in the middle of the airport, and yet she hadn't seemed to mind. She hadn't even tried to hide the depth of her emotion from her returning lover.
Brennan couldn't remember the last time she'd felt emotion that strong for another person, let alone been prepared to show it. Over the past several years, she'd begun to wonder whether she was even capable of that. There had been those few moments, a little over a year ago, when she'd wondered… But no. Look how that had turned out.
She could sense Booth walking behind her without having to look. She heard him chuckle to himself in that cocky way he had as he fell into step with her.
"What?" she demanded.
"I told you it wasn't the Senator."
She looked up at him, indignant. "And I told you who it was, so we're even."
He grinned ruefully. "Yeah, I guess that's fair. We're even. Although I did put my job on the line to chase down that whole Senator theory of yours."
"But we caught the real killer. Sometimes trial and error is the only way to test a hypothesis and reach a conclusion."
"Trial and error may be fine in a lab, Bones, but in the real world, sometimes you don't get that many chances to get it wrong."
She looked at him sharply, and had to remind herself that was no way he could've known what she'd been thinking about just moments ago. Logically, she knew there was no such thing as telepathy, but sometimes Booth's ability to read people was unnerving.
They gazed back toward the burial service, where the Sharon and Ted Eller were saying goodbye and paying their respects to their daughter.
Brennan sighed. If she was going to give any credence to the concept of opening up to people - live people, in the real world - she had to start somewhere. Why not dive in to the deep end?
"I know exactly how the Ellers felt about Cleo, during all that time that she was missing," she admitted. "My parents disappeared when I was 15. Nobody has ever figured out what happened to them."
She held her breath after her confession, waiting for his response. The air was suddenly so still between them. Booth averted his eyes, and for several heartbeats Brennan thought that he wasn't going to respond. She began to feel indignant - he'd told her earlier that sharing personal information was a two-way street - but then his gaze met hers again and held it.
"As a sniper, I took a lot of lives. What I'd like to do before I'm done is try to catch at least that many murderers."
She smiled. "Like some kind of cosmic balance sheet?"
She watched his face fall, and his lips formed a thin, tight line. She got that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach again. She still wasn't adept at reading people, but she knew enough to be able to tell that she'd said something wrong. This human connection endeavor was going to be harder than she thought.
She tried again, tentatively. "I'd like to help you with that."
He looked up and met her eyes again. She watched him paste on his cheeky smile, and knew that she was forgiven. Booth shrugged his shoulders, feigning indifference. "Meh…"
She remembered something he'd said to her in his office, a few hours before she'd gone to Thompson's house. She wasn't sure if it was something he'd still want, but she was willing to find out where this would lead them.
"So," she ventured tentatively. "Are we partners now?"
"Yep, we're partners," he agreed. They walked a few more steps before he added, "The rest of the squints have to stay in the lab."
Brennan shoved at his shoulder, and he feigned stumbling to the side. He chuckled as he righted himself, and Brennan couldn't help smiling in response.
. . . . .
