TITLE: Consecrated Ground
SUMMARY: A glimpse into the decline of a partnership and the events leading up Agent Booth being temporarily replaced with Agent Sullivan and forced into therapy.
RATING/SPOILERS: T to be safe – although I think it's much milder. Vague reference to some events of for the next two episodes.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Italics Flashback. It's a short start but I thought an intriguing subject.
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She must be feeling guilty, because she offers him a ride home. That or she pities him. Either way, he finds the idea upsetting and doesn't even consider it.
The Bureau took the SUV along with his gun and as Cullen put them both in the top drawer of his desk he gave the young agent a stern look and clipped warning.
"She may have vouched for you – but I know better."
As long as he was a desk jockey, he had no need for the car – or the gun.
Looking down at his new suit, bought and tailored for the occasion, he idly wishes he had spent the money on a down payment for a vehicle as he flips open his cellular and orders a taxi while she drives away.
Ten minutes later he slips into the backseat of a Diamond cab and asks to be taken home.
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His eyes are frantic as they scan up and down the corridors of Washington Hospital. Despite the O2 signs, his weapon is drawn and uncocked, giving him a sense of control in a situation where he has been utterly powerless. She looks at him expectantly, grabbing his arm in an attempt to hold him back and telling him with her eyes that he is needed here.
He hands a battered Dr. Brennan – who assures him that the suspect couldn't have gotten far in his condition – the spare pistol that he keeps attached to his calf.
"Stay here Bones," he growls, leaving no room for argument or response, and stalks down the hall, following an irregular trail of blood.
Clutching the firearm, she knows back up is on the way – she also knows that Booth will not hesitate to take out his man. Ignoring his warning, she shoves the gun into the artist's hands, leaving her wide-eyed and worried, and breaks for the stairwell – running straight for the top.
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Sitting on a well-worn couch, Dr. Brennan gently fingers an official looking document in her hand while mentally crossing off 'Seely Booth' from the short list of people who have never let her down.
Feet crossed beneath her, she studies the memo as if it was an artifact written in an alien language. Running her eyes down the page one last time, she folds it in half and sighs – dropping gracelessly into a supine position and propping the note over her eyes. She can't decide if she's angry or hurt or disappointed – or all three – so she opts to focus on her breathing and mentally regroup.
Toying with the oversized beads of a characteristic necklace, long legs crossed at the ankles and right foot bouncing up and down in unease, she stares at her eyelids and counts to ten. Her head lolls to the side and she eyes her cell – arms lengths away – and contemplates calling him, just to see if he's ok. Looking at the LCD display, the previous events come back to her once again.
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"Dr. Brennan, they're ready for you."
Uncrossing her legs, the anthropologist stands, self-consciously smoothing her skirt and brushing the hair away from her tired eyes. As she walks towards the door, Booth's head snaps up and he grabs her forearm, wrinkled sleeves and dark bags under his eyes. She looks at his hand, still tinted a light red, as if they were alien to her, and pulls her arm away.
She smells of gunpowder and something indescribable which puts the young agent, who escorts her into a conference room, at ill ease.
Taking carefully measured steps, she approaches the long desk and takes a seat in the middle of the room – on display for five stern faced big wigs.
"Dr. Brennan, I'm sorry about the wait – we all know you must be exhausted." The one female on the panel eyes her sympathetically, no doubt feeling some sort of comradery with the young anthropologist based on a shared gender – a feeling Dr. Brennan does not reciprocate.
"This is a high-profile case, I understand your need to take swift action." Nodding in agreement they ask her to recount the moments leading up to the death of Howard Epps.
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He's standing at her office door, wondering how he ended up at the Jeffersonian. The silence of the lab unnerved him as he passed empty workstations, reminders of the recent tragedies. Steeling himself, he opens the door with his right hand, still dusty from the funeral, and finds her in a very un-Brennan position; sitting on the couch, her back to him and her chin resting on one knee.
"Hey," she mutters softly, continuing to stare in the general direction of her desk, forcing Booth to walk around her to catch her attention. Taking a seat beside her, she's close enough to touch him and he almost wishes she would, but that's a desire he's buried so deep it's almost as unrecognizable as the paper she reaches for, offering it to him with a shaky hand. He stares dumbly at her trembling, trying to reconcile this vulnerable image of a woman he once though was a firmly rooted as the trees that lined the yard of his childhood home in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
"How long?" she asks, her eyes on the floor, the table and finally looking up to regard him.
"A few weeks," he says while stretching towards the table, sliding the paper along its surface until it reaches the center.
She nods, rising from the couch, taking deep breathes and crossing her arms. "Agent Tim Sullivan," she says aloud, her words somehow making it more real. "I wish you would have told me." It comes as an afterthought and she sighs, tired of the heavy atmosphere that seems to follow her everywhere she goes.
"Maybe this one will give me a gun." She muses out loud, shooting him a crooked smile, which is met with his scoff but it seems so pathetic she wishes that she had kept her mouth shut.
His eyes are glued to the wall and his back is hunched forward – he feels something soft against his side, taking his hand.
"I'm sorry," she apologises simply, her fingers sliding into his, "Let me take you home."
This time, he lets her.
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tbc
Next – conclusions. R&R, please!!
