Disclaimer: I still don't own anything but too much time on my hands!
A/N: Midnight666-thank you for the review and the story favorite—I honestly wasn't expecting it! Sweets definitely deserves all the love he gets ;D.
2
Sweets had been to New York a couple of times before. The first was when he was a freshman in high school, aged eleven. Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding his high school career, he'd taken a standardized test usually reserved only for juniors and a few seniors. He scored the perfect score on the test, no surprise to him or his parents. The school district made a big deal out of it; as if they were responsible for the exceptionally high IQ he'd exhibited since the age of six. He was flown to Manhattan for a meeting of the twenty high school students "Destined to Change the World." He didn't understand why he'd been selected to attend this gala, as he seemed to be the least qualified of all the students. Many of them had already started their own nonprofit organizations to send shoes to children in developing countries, or were high school seniors who'd started projects to help their communities that now brought in millions. And here he was, on the cusp of turning twelve in a scratchy tie, with a chaperone (upon his mother's insistence) and nothing to show but test scores.
The other kids were welcoming enough, although juniors and seniors seemed to steer clear of him if only on principle—no matter how much of an awesome person one is, younger kids are never welcome. The freshmen talked to him and asked him a lot of questions about what it's like being eleven and in high school; the sophomores commended him on being able to handle the hell that is high school at such a young age.
The second time he'd been in New York, was a year earlier as he completed his dissertation for his Ph.D. After he'd given a presentation at the Governor's Ball he had another day to spend in the city, doing whatever his heart desired. He visited Ground Zero to pay his respect to the thousands of people who'd lost their lives there, visited Times Square, the Virgin Megastore, and other touristy things. He'd visited the Strand bookstore, thinking that in this way he would standout from all the other tourists as a seasoned New Yorker. But this made him the biggest tourist of all, for the Strand has long been a tourist hotspot (especially for those who want to seem like seasoned New Yorkers) and Gossip Girl had made it even more popular amongst the teenage girl set. The "real" New Yorkers were instantly recognizable amongst the throngs of people, and they seemed to be smirking at Sweets as he tried to browse the books nonchalantly.
Today there were no touristy pursuits or somehow feeling awkward when surrounded by kids covered in pimples. No, when he got off his 3pm flight at John F. Kennedy airport, the only thing on his mind was finding this girl and hopefully—quickly, figuring out why she wouldn't talk to Bones or Booth. Sweets knew that the two could make someone feel a little confused—after all, Booth's interrogation method of being "understanding yet tough" could leave anyone not knowing what to say. And Bones' to the point approach carefully presenting all the facts could leave you feeling that she was cold when she was not trying to be.
Sweets had went over the case file while on the plane, after the third romantic comedy had become unbearable and he felt self-conscious about lurking around on facebook. The case file included a picture of the young woman in question, a pretty girl. Her name was Brighton Rivers and in the picture she was smiling with her long black hair pulled into a ponytail and bangs falling into her eyes. Her skin was brown and the color of cinnamon, freckles sprinkled lightly across her face. She didn't look like someone who was so troubled, who'd witnessed something so horrible they wouldn't even speak. But if Lance Sweets had learned anything in his study of the human mind, it was that looks could be the most deceiving of all—especially photos.
He read her file; Brighton Holden Rivers ("really? 'Holden', like Holden Caulfield?" he thought dubiously while smirking) was an eighteen year old undergrad at Columbia University. The file did not say what she was studying, as it didn't pertain to the case. It did however give a full history of her life until that point: grew up in California with an investment banker father and lawyer mother, two younger siblings a boy and a girl. And oh yeah, the little fact that she was present when her father died as proven by evidence, her father was murdered from blunt trauma to the head as determined by his bones and Dr. Brennan. What Sweets found odd and intriguing is that his bones were discovered in a cellar approximately three months after his death, meaning the girl had known he was dead the whole time and not said anything. Sweets would've thought her a suspect herself if she had not been ruled out. He sighed; Dr. Brennan and Booth owed him big time for this favor.
He hailed a taxi and made his way to the university; outside in a nearby café students were enjoying each other's company, reading books and studying for tests, on laptops doing research or just IMing one another. He spotted a girl out of the corner of his eye, and turned around just in time to see Brighton Rivers sitting at a table. The taxi was almost around the corner when Sweets yelled for him to stop, apologizing softly and thrusting $30 in his hand, telling him to keep the change.
He turns and starts to walk back to the café. The girl is clear in his vision now; she is reading a book studiously and looks to be engrossed. He sits at the table across from her and orders a sweet tea. She is reading On the Road by Kerouac, a book Sweets read himself as a high school junior when he was yearning to leave the woes of high school life behind. He wonders why she is reading it, if there is something she's yearning to leave behind. When the waitress arrives with his tea he thanks her and stands up, with the intention of speaking to the girl.
He stands there for a moment, not sure what it is he should say. Does he immediately introduce himself as Lance Sweets, FBI and risk her not speaking to him as she did the others. Or does he go up to her and flirt, hoping it works and that she isn't mad when she learns who he really is? Both ideas seem like a disaster waiting to happen, and he settles on playing it by ear, and doing neither.
"Enjoying the book?" he asks.
She doesn't look up when she answers, "I guess."
"I liked it a lot," he says, still standing as the sun beats down on his neck.
"That's nice," she says in a clipped businesslike tone.
Sweets stands and waits for her to look up. After five minutes she does so as she takes a sip of her lemonade. She takes one look at him in his suit and cobalt blue tie and rolls her eyes. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. And I am not interested in discussing with you why I should make the Lord Jesus my savior, but thank you."
"What?" He asks, and then he realizes how he must look. He thinks that he should've worn a t-shirt and jeans, something he often wears on his days off but decides he mustn't worry about something that can't be changed. Instead, he thinks on his feet, "Oh! I uh, wear a suit for my job but I'm not a salesman or in a seminary." It wasn't a lie.
She looks up at him again, "in that case…why don't you have a seat. I mean, it's really hot and you're kind of pale and the umbrella is probably far more inviting."
He sits across from her and looks at her. She doesn't seem to be stressed or traumatized, and despite her initial reaction to him, she seems to be warming up. He takes the opportunity to again ask her about the book.
"It's okay. I'm interested in counterculture and the Beat Generation and things like that so I thought I'd read the book. And while it's not horrible or anything, I find I prefer reading about Mr. Kerouac and his associates via the Internet and photos more than I do his novel. Maybe I just don't "appreciate" his greatness." She grins, "You never introduced yourself…and I think you should since you just invited yourself to start talking to me and everything."
Sweets pauses. Does he introduce himself as Dr. Lance Sweets and discard the minor but positive process he's made? Or does he simply give his name so she let's her guard down more? He thinks of the plastic card in his wallet and how Booth said if it took longer than two days, just call for more money. And although Sweets wanted to get back to D.C., his life, and his girlfriend as soon as possible, making sure the witness came out of this OK and not more messed up than before was his priority.
"Lance" he said, extending his hand, "my name is Lance Sweets."
She shakes his hand; her nails are painted candy apple red. "I'm Brighton, and that's all you need to know for now." She winks. Her hair is different than in the picture; it is down and hangs to her shoulders. The tips have been bleached a brown color by the sun while the roots remain black. Her bangs are constantly falling in her eyes and she keeps blowing them away. Sweets would think that it'd be frustrating, but she is probably used to it by now. He doesn't let on that he already knows her last name—and her interesting literary middle name, and let's her continue to believe she is mysterious to him.
"So" she asks after she's marked her page and closed the book, "what do you do that requires you to wear a suit all day?"
"Office drone" he says, partially because it is the first phrase that pops into his mind and partially because he's always wanted to say it.
She nods sympathetically and looks him over again. "You don't look much older than me, if it weren't for the duds I'd take you for an undergrad at my school.
Sweets pretends to be oblivious, "I just graduated last year, myself. What school? NYU? Columbia? Barnard?"
"Columbia. What do you do in that office of yours, might I ask?"
"Economics" he says. For someone who studies people and their body language, and frequently decodes when they are lying and when they are being truthful, he was hilariously good at the former himself.
She makes a face, "sounds terribly boring, sorry."
Sweets laughs out loud, because he feels the exact same way. He is enjoying this alternate version of himself he has created, and goes on to vehemently defend economics and its importance for the next ten minutes. "Anyway, miss fun and adventure, what is your area of study?"
"Archaeology with a minor in history" she says, smiling.
"Interesting; I wouldn't have pegged you for an archaeologist, more like a librarian."
"A librarian!"
Sweets senses her shock in her voice. "Hey now, the days of the plain, old, boring librarian have far been replaced by kickass librarians. I've known awesome librarians with piercings and almost all of them sexy and interesting in that quietly subdued kind of way."
"I am neither quiet nor subdued" Brighton clarifies, "though I am sexy and interesting."
And Sweets doesn't disagree.