It's Friday, and I'm here. Truly, this is about as good as I'm gonna get.

First things first, I want to thank my reviewers. I didn't really expect to get one review, let alone five!


Maplewolf

julianne

justanotherfr

ashes at midnight

Im dead inside


Really, it makes me so unbelievably happy to know there are fans out there of Angel and Bones. :}

FINAL NOTE! This will be the only chapter, (probably,) that uses an dialogue and plot from an episode. It isn't really my favorite style. I just didn't really want to write my own plot for this. (The rest of the series will be incredibly original, honest!)


I don't own the characters nor other affiliated materials. Just this fictional, non-profit story is mine.


Chapter 2: Misery: You Can Seem as Old as Your Omens


"I don't like cats and I hate clowns," Seeley Booth informed Dr. Sweets plainly.

The psychologist sat down across from him, making a small note on his clipboard. "Well that's consistent with the person you were before your brain surgery."

Booth resisted the urge to sigh. He was sitting in one of the two chairs across from the desk where Sweets sat. The two of them had been at it for hours.

"I am the same person."

(Because he was. Of course he was. Who else would he be? When an Irish brogue slunk past his lips to reply, he viciously stamped it down.)

Sweets nodded but gave him an open and understanding look, "After something as life-altering as a brain tumor, it can take some time to regain our footing. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Look, it's been six weeks since I put my brain box through the blender there, okay. I am back." Booth said, "Special agent Seeley Joseph Booth, at your service."

(He repeated the name again in his head wondering why it sounded wrong/right/wrong/right/wro—)

"Have you been in touch with Dr. Brennan since your release from the hospital?"

Sweets' question drew Booth's mind away from his identity issues.

"Huh?"

"Dr. Brennan, have you been in touch with her since your release?" The psychologist repeated.

Booth's mind scrambled to find the answer amid the crossed wired. "Uh, no. She's, you know, in Guatemala, digging up Aztecs."

"Very good," Sweets said, adding yet another note on his clipboard. Booth exhaled silently in relief. The repetitive nature of their session was very trying on his nerves. The stress of untangling three hundred plus years, (Hell was included in the count, though he'd never been there of course,) to find the right answers made him anxious and irritable. He was half tempted to pick-up the damn clipboard and snap it in half.

(But of course it wouldn't be as easy as breaking a pencil, he wasn't that strong anymore —never had been— it wasn't as though he could smash tables, break iron bars, destroy walls —)

"Will you talk to me about the people you confused Dr. Brennan, Dr. Hodgins and Dr. Addy with when you woke up?" Sweets asked.

There was a pause where Booth dithered.

"Uhm, yeah," Booth replied hesitantly. "They were friends from when I was a kid and teen." When first asked in the hospital, he said they were friends from before the war, but he'd decided to tweak it so it would be a little tougher to disprove. Kids made friends like fish breathed water. The idea of one of them figuring out that he was making it up was highly unlikely.

(Because he was making it up . . . right?)

"Were you close?" Sweets asked. When Booth hesitated again, he continued, "I only ask because I find it interesting that your mind brought forth those specific people."

"We were sort of close," he hedged, "I really don't understand it any better than you do Doc."

"Okay," Sweets said with a smile, setting the clipboard down, "I am certifying you as fit for duty."

"I am fit for duty," Booth said, inwardly exhaling in relief. He made it.

"That's what I'm saying," Sweets agreed amiably. "I'm glad the symptoms from the surgery have faded." He passed the reinstated agent back his gun and badge.

Booth nodded absently as he accepted the items.

"Me too." He bit back a dry, humorless smile at the words.

"If you want to talk about this, or anything at all, you know where my office is," Sweets reminded him.

"Thanks for the offer, but that's why God created Alcohol." Without another word, he gave the psychologist a wide smile before stepping out of the office with a light swing in his step.

His pace slowed after he left the federal building. He didn't quite feel like returning to his empty apartment at the moment, (he'd spent enough time there thank you very much.) After a couple seconds of thought, he got in his car and began driving towards the Jeffersonian. He knew Bones wouldn't be there, but he had the sudden urge to be close to her and if there was a place for that, it was the medico-lab at the Jeffersonian.

The lab was busy as it always was and he was tempted to go and say hi to all of his coworkers, but he found he didn't really have the energy at the moment. So without a word, he quietly slunk towards Bones' office. The squints were so occupied with their work that no one even noticed.

With a light huff he settled himself on her couch. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Instead he simply lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

(—Besides, his eyes were much more suited for the dark than the light. Sunlight, even indirect beams, had always irritated his eyes. When he was younger, it was all because of his drunken debauchery and the hangovers that followed. Later on in his life it was more to do with the whole vam—)

Booth squeezed his eyes shut and tried to banish the confusing thoughts.

Despite all his wishes and hopes, Booth's conflicting memories and thoughts had not resolved themselves with time. It had been six weeks since the surgery, and nothing was any different. He was nearly at his wit's end. Several times he'd picked up the phone with the intent of dialing the hospital and telling the doctors he was still crazy. But every time, the niggling feeing in his head won out. It was true that the feeling he got from these "memories" wasn't the same as the feeling he got from his hallucinations, but he wasn't sure how much he could rely on himself and his feelings anymore. But then what could he rely on?

He sighed and scratched his head.

The most concerning thing was the fact that the surgery had been a success.

The tumor had been successfully removed, so whatever going on in Booth's head had nothing to do with the cancer.

"So am I just plain crazy then?" He asked himself while sighing. He didn't feel crazy, but then again, what was crazy supposed to feel like anyways?

The work he did with Bones was important and that made him hesitate in turning himself over to the men in white coats. He didn't want to set himself back unnecessarily. Especially since, so far anyways, the "memories" were harmless. They didn't impair his judgment or impede his functioning.

"If it starts interfering," he said to himself, "then I'll call Sweets."

Until then, maybe he would just try and work it out on his own . . .

With that thought in mind, he allowed his eyes to shut and his strained mind to float.

His mind filled with images of dragons, slayers and Ireland.


He was dozing when the door to the office opened. It wasn't until he felt pressure on his chest that he startled awake.

"Woah— Booth?!"

He blinked furiously as he sat up. A wide smile spread over his face as he spotted his partner.

"Bones!"

"Hey!" She said before stepping forward to hug him.

"Hi there," Booth said and Bones laughed happily. When he pulled away he sent Brennan his biggest smile.

"Look at that, I'm reinstated on the day that you come home. That's the weirdest coincidence ever," He said.

"No, it's not even the weirdest coincidence today," She replied, making him raise an eye-brow curiously, "But if you were reinstated today why are you dressed like a furniture mover?"

"A furniture mover?" He asked, uncomprehending. Booth looked down at his jeans and t-shirt and realized that Brennan really didn't see him outside of his usual dress. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Well Sweets just cleared me for service. I've been off the job a while."

"I can see that," She said, her eyes on his stubble. He bit back a laugh. He knew she never meant to be mean by those comments. They were always just statements but nonetheless the blunt way she spoke was something he never realized he was missing.

(Thankfully it wasn't as bad as a certain vengeance-demon who —never— existed)

"You were just barely reinstated? What took you so long to recover?" Was that worry he saw in her eyes. He nearly teased her, but he hated when she was concerned about him. It made him feel inexplicably guilty.

"It was just bureaucracy, don't worry, nothing wrong with me. I'm 110%."

That drew a smile from her before she halted and asked him seriously. "You do know there's nothing more than 100%, right?"

Before he had a chance to respond, Angela entered the room.

"Hey, Brennan, and Booth. Together. It's been a while," She said by way of greeting.

"Hey Angela," He greeted before allowing a slightly cheeky smile to spread over his face, "Guess who just got cleared for service?"

The forensic artist gave an amused smile, "Let me guess . . . You?" Her expression quickly turned serious, "That's really good, because there are a bunch of bodies buried under the Taversham fountain."

"How do you know that?" He asked curiously. If there had been a case, they would have already called him.

"Avalon told me," She replied.

"Who's Avalon?" Booth asked.

"Avalon is Angela's psychic," Bones said with that particular patronizing and dismissive tone that came out whenever religion or the supernatural were involved

"Psychic?" He asked. In seconds his mind was capsized by conflicting memories of psychics that he never met before. He did his best to stamp them down and stay focused on the present.

"Booth?" Bones asked, concern lacing her tone.

Right, he was Booth. (Of course he was Booth.) What would Booth say? He loathed that he had to ask himself that, but the lines between all these people he never was (but always was, and had been) were blurring. It took longer than he should have, but he managed to assemble the appropriate response.

"Pfffffffft."

"See, even superstitious Booth doesn't believe in psychics," Bones said with a grin, her concern dismissed for now.

"That's interesting because she says that you two were linked in a very profound and spiritual manner," Angela said knowingly.

Bones looked awkwardly away for a moment and Booth gave her a confused and curious look.

"Pfffffffft." Bones eventually copied with a childish smile.

"Pfffffffft." Booth echoed.

"Fine," Angela said, though the knowing look didn't fade, "But Avalon also said she had insight into your guys' alternate lives." The artist shrugged her shoulders and left without another look.

Booth was clotheslined by the words "Alternate Lives." What did that mean? Was it possible that Avalon knew something of all these visions he'd been seeing? Could it be that the psychic was the genuine article?

(—Not that there was such a thing as a genuine article because all psychics were fakes. Including the one's he'd visited in Zimbabwe, and in Louisiana, Bohemia, Romania, Belarus, Istanbul, Tajikistan, Azerbai— )

He shook the train of thought away, resisting the urge to rub his throbbing temples. It was then that he noticed Brennan had her eyes trained on the carpet.

"Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yes." She said somewhat lamely. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

After the silence had stretched on for longer than he felt comfortable with, he made a snap decision.

"Let's go check it out."

"What?" Brennan shook her head, "Why?"

"Six weeks Bones," He said, holding up the appropriate amount of fingers, "I'm going stir crazy here okay? C'mon let's do it."

His partner hesitated, but Booth knew he'd win this one.

"Can I at least take a shower?" She asked in defeat.

"Yeah I need to shave and suit up too," He said, biting back the shit-eating grin on his face at his victory.

They were back in business.


The black SUV ate up pavement as the pair drove towards the fountain.

"So, what have you been up to?" Brennan asked casually, glancing at her partner from the corner of her eye.

Booth shrugged lightly, "Nothing really. I spent a lot of my time with Parker actually." It was almost funny how readily his ex-girlfriend agreed to let Parker spend time with him. Booth supposed that after hearing he had brain cancer, she probably felt guilt about limiting his contact with his son. What a pity that it took something so serious to make her realize. (—It felt as though the Powers That Be were always making it so he never had a normal chance at raising a child. By which he meant, the Powers That Never Were, because what the hell was he thinking? Besides, he only had one child. Dark brooding eyes sprung to mind and he resisted a shiver—)

"I'm sure he enjoyed that," Brennan commented, breaking his train of thoughts.

Booth shrugged before changing the subject, "How were the Aztecs?"

The rest of the drive was filled with pleasant chatter about the small things they had missed in each other's lives. Booth was almost sad when the drive was over. He had missed talking to Bones while she was away.

Taking the equipment out of the car, Brennan quickly set up the strange device.

"It looks like a metal detector," He said.

"A metal detector that's more expensive than your car," Bones she commented distractedly. "It takes images of what's below and transmits them to this viewfinder here," She said while holding the miniature screen up.

"So this thing can really see into the earth?" He asked skeptically as he began to move the not-metal detector around.

"Yeah, a lot clearer than a psychic," Bones replied snorting as she scanned the small screen. She paused and turned to him. "You're dressed very oddly."

"What do you mean? This is regulation FBI." It was, right?

"Well what about the garish socks and the gaudy tie?" She asked, "What, you don't remember? You resist regimentation with these tiny symbols of rebellion."

Her clinical words made him want to smile, but he couldn't muster one.

"Nah, I remember. I remember, okay?" He just hadn't felt like wearing bright colors like that. He liked black. Something in the back of his mind (—instinct, common sense—) warned him against bright colors and standing out (—after all, he needed to be able to blend in with the night. Why would he need to do that?—) "I dunno, I didn't feel like it," He said finally. At her concerned look he elaborated, "Let me just re-acclimate myself at my own speed here, okay? What is that?" He asked, pointing to her viewfinder.

"Nothing. Because there's nothing here," Brennan said exhaling, "Because there's no such thing as a psychic."

Booth found himself agreeing.

"Wait . . ." She began fiddling with the device, a look of sheer disbelief on her face.

"What do you see?"

"The psychic was right," She said incredulously, "It's human remains. Lots of human remains."


Booth listened idly as Bones talked eagerly to the lawyer, Caroline Julian, about getting a permit to dig up the bodies. Booth wasn't as interested in the bodies themselves, so much as the psychic that led them there. The idea of Avalon being legitimate was beginning to seem more and more likely.

(A part of him —that didn't existwas smug, because of course it was likely. It was entirely possible. He'd seen it —Never seen it— before.)

. . . Fuck.

"Listen," Booth said, trying to bite back the irritation he was feeling from his conflicting emotions, "Bones wants to start digging and I wanna go talk to the psychic who sent us here."

The lawyer held a hand up to stop him, "I did not hear psychic, I heard anonymous source," She corrected.

"Just get Bones the warrant that she needs so she can start digging," He said, exasperated with the bureaucracy.

He missed the good old days (—which never happened—) when he could ignore the law and do what needed to be done in the dark of the night by any means necessary.

The dark-skinned woman raised an eyebrow, "You are keen to get back to work. Got something to prove?"

"Well it is plausible Booth feels the urge to prove that he's no longer brain damaged," Bones said thoughtfully. Booth felt his eyebrow twitch. Had he really missed her blunt and inadvertently rude observations? He wasn't sure.

The lawyer gave and amused smile, "You can start. I can get the warrant in ten minutes."

Despite what had just happened, a smile spread over Booth's face, "Yes, we're back!"

Brennan watched him with amusement, "You're the one who told me never to look happy at a crime scene."

He quickly calmed down and cleared his throat, "Right. We'll look happy after we find out who did this horrible crime and get them behind bars."

Stifling a grin, Bones replied, "All right."


The metal table in the interrogation room was cool to the touch and familiar. Booth allowed himself a small moment to appreciate being back in this room. Having said that, dealing with unwilling and difficult suspects was something he was ambivalent about.

The psychic shuffled her tarot cards and replied slowly, "It's very hard for me to explain my process."

"Well you're gonna have to do better than, 'I'm a psychic.'" Booth kept his tone purposefully blithe.

The psychic's eyes narrowed. "You're the man who was in a coma, aren't you?"

His inwardly hesitated at the mention of it. Outwardly he forced himself to shrug noncommittally.

"Would you pick a card please?" She asked as she spread the deck out.

He stared at her for a long time before finally complying.

It had been decades, (—never—) since he had his fortune read.

He really wanted to ask her about what she had said to Angela about alternate lives. He was all-too aware of his partner on the other side of the glass, and the rolling camera so he stifled the urge.

She flipped over his card of choice.

"Oh, the Wheel of Fortune," She said holding up the card knowingly.

"The appearance of the Wheel of Fortune shows that change is not only likely to happen, it is certain to happen, and soon," She informed him, "The nature of that change and the effects it has really depend on how much you understand the concepts of Fate, and whether or not you can prepare for it. Generally the change shown in the Wheel of Fortune is a dramatic change from the established order."

"M—miss Harmonia," He interrupted, cursing himself for stuttering, "I'm not here for a tarot reading."

(—Looking into the future was something he'd had all too much experience with. Drusilla's mad ravings and Cordelia's screams filled him mind—) He shook the memories (—delusions—) from his head.

She gave him a look full of empathy, as though she knew about the mental game of table-tennis his brain was playing. "No matter which way the Wheel of Fortune throws you, it's impossible to try and change it. Recall that in every crisis lies opportunity. When you've been swept in new direction, know that every path leads somewhere, even if you don't know where it is," She said.

"I need to know how you knew those people were buried under the Taversham fountain." If he ignored the trembling of his hands, would it go away?

"Such events are just out of your control, and if you can accept that then the ride gets a lot easier," She continued as though she couldn't hear him.

He forced himself to stay calm. "Miss Harmonia, I—"

"If you struggle against the Wheel it will crush you," She finished softly.

He tried vainly to suppress the violent shudder that ran down his spine as she looked at him sadly.

"I'm sorry."

"We're done here," He said, standing up quickly. "She's not going to talk," He said to the glass.

He tried to tell himself that the disconcerted feeling that'd slowly been sinking into his bones since he woke up was just a side effect of medication and weariness.


Booth leaned back in the large and comfortable office chair as he watched the psychologist pace the length of the conference room. There were only three people in the room, he, Dr. Sweets, and the branch Lawyer, Caroline Julian. They were discussing what they each made of the psychic Avalon.

"Avalon Harmonia is her professional psychic name. Born Stephanie Susan James. No criminal history. No known criminal associations, and in my professional psychological opinion, not a nut bar," Sweets said conclusively.

"Law abiding and sane does not explain twelve buried skeletons," Caroline pointed out sarcastically from her spot across the table from Booth.

"She honestly thinks that she's psychic, I mean, she really does." Booth emphasized, leaving out his personal opinion of the matter. By this point he honestly had no clue how he felt about anything.

"If she's not psychic then she's involved. I don't believe in psychics," The lawyer said, simplifying the entire situation.

"Well, neither did I." Doctor Sweets hesitated, "Do I. Present tense," He corrected.

That made a smile spread over Booth's face, "She got to you, huh Sweets?"

The psychologist chewed his lip for a moment before deciding to divulge, his thoughts. "Okay, check it out, my Dad's watch goes missing three months ago."

"Right," Booth says, playing along.

"I have no idea where it is. She tells me it's in the pocket of a jacket that I forgot I owned in the unclaimed goods at the FBI drycleaner."

Caroline looked dumbfounded and Booth sighed.

"Yeah, that's exactly how I felt," Sweets said, looking slightly smug at Caroline's expression.

"She totally got you," Booth said with a slight smile.

(—Because Booth didn't believe in psychics. Angel was another matter, not that Angel existed—)

Booth rubbed his throbbing temples. He was really beginning to get sick of it all.

"Well what about yourself?" Sweets asked, "I heard she gave you a reading when you were interrogating her."

Booth winced, "She just said nonsense, really.

Sweets gave him a feline smile, "Your body language is telling me that she said something substantial,"

"Look, she said the generic 'Big change is going to come,' thing that all psychics pull," Booth defended, "And you know why they all pull it? Because it works. Because change is always coming."

"Okay," Sweets held up his hand in surrender, "I'm just saying she helped me find my watch, that's all."

Caroline grumbled at the psychologist left the room. Her disgruntled expression made Booth smile faintly, but it was cut off by the sound of a call from Hodgins.


Booth watched Avalon, Angela, and Bones chatter as he sat on the little patio chair above the room. The women were near the door, probably talking about the case or perhaps making plans to go to a bar.

Booth was exhausted both mentally and physically by the end of it all. The stress of working on a case and dealing with his conflicting memories (—delusions—) a part of him corrected again, and emotions was more taxing that he'd expected. The fact that this was his first case back after the brain surgery would have made it stressful enough without all the other bullshit piled on top.

Thankfully it was all over now.

The case had come together with stunning clarity, first with the revelation that Avalon's sister was among the bodies in the dirt, and second with the discovery of a cult being involved.

Booth shuddered at the thought of cults.

Then again, his opinion was colored by a chance meeting with Charles Manson, (—whom he'd never met —) in the seventies.

That guy gave him the creeps.

Finally, the assault on Bones and the final arrest of the cult leader concluded the mystery. He was just glad Bones was safe and sound. It felt like she got into dangerous situations more often than Booth did, and he was the FBI agent. (She reminded him of a certain spitfire blonde. Who definitely did not exist—) He banished his contradictory thoughts and instead resumed watching the group of ladies.

He smiled softly as he watched Bones' face light up. Truly, he was grateful she was back.

His eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to the psychic. It turned out that she hadn't exactly divined the location of the bodies, but there was plenty of other outstanding evidence that suggested the contrary of his natural inclinations.

This was what led to him watching Avalon and debating. Should he talk to her, or just pretend he didn't known about what she had said about him? He could just let her pass by and tell himself that he had no idea what she meant about alternate lives and the wheel of fate. He could blame it all on the brain surgery . . . He could continue to blame it all on the brain surgery for years to come if the memories— (delusions—memories—delusions—mem-) his brain corrected, didn't stop. In his stomach he felt as though they wouldn't just dissolve on their own. In fact, if anything, the more time that passed since his surgery the more vivid and realistic it all seemed. The more he attempted to keep himself grounded the worse off it became. Trying to keep separate what was real and what he knew logically couldn't be real seemed to make the line blur even more.

But could he deal with her answer if she said that he indeed was—

He didn't know. But he did know he couldn't continue living like this- second guessing his every thought, loving women who didn't exist . . .

He needed to know. By God, he needed to know.

Summing up his strength, he walked over to their little group and cleared his throat, making the three women turn to him curiously.

"Uhhm, Avalon?"

"Yes?" She asked, and from the look in her eye, he knew that she had been expecting this.

"Could I talk to you privately for a moment?" He asked her.

Without a word, the psychic moved towards the area where he had been seated before.

"Oh Booth!" Angela said delighted, "I knew you'd come around."

He gave her a weak smile before walking away, missing the concerned expression on Bones' face.

He sat down heavily, watching Angela and Bones muted conversation.

"What can I help you with?" Avalon asked with practiced calm.

"I just—" He found himself at a loss, suddenly feeling so lost and young. (Something that was ridiculous considering how he was hundreds of years old —was he?—)

He clasped his hands together so tightly he wasn't sure if something would break.

"I just need to know if something's real."

He knew that if she was what he thought she was, then Avalon would know what he meant.

"About that then?" She asked vaguely.

He nodded and she closed her eyes for a moment.

Silence reigned and sweat began to bead on his forehead and gather in his joined palms.

"Yes." She said finally after a few moments. "It's real." Her eyes opened, showing pity.

Booth ignored the pity, his mind in another place. An empty floating feeling began filling Booth's body. Was he relieved to know he wasn't crazy or madly upset that he wasn't crazy? He didn't know.

"You mean I am— I mean was An— " He choked on that last word.

"Angel, champion of the powers," Avalon said weightily, making his head feel like it was full of lead, "You are what you have always been— Just something more as well."

He knew it was true, but somehow, hearing that name said aloud confirmed everything with such finality that it left him stunned. He felt unprepared for the truth, even as everything slid into place. He remembered Liam, and felt like Liam, because he had been Liam— a small part of him still was Liam.

He remembered and felt Angelus, though less sharply thankfully.

And Angel . . . His body felt so heavy with his last moniker that he thought he'd collapse. The thread was untangled but the mess left behind was darker and lonelier than it had been before.

"Booth?" He was startled out of his inner musings by the soft, concerned call of his partner and he started. The agent was suddenly aware that Bones and Angela had joined them on the patio and that all of them had their eyes on him. Belatedly, he realized the steady stream of tears that were falling down his face.

"Booth, are you okay?" She asked again.

He hastily wiped the tears away from his face and gave them a watery half-smile that felt vacant.

"Yeah, I'm fine," He lied. "I'm still just a little emotionally unstable from the surgery."

That was something he didn't think Booth would ever say, but in this moment, he could have cared less.

Because he wasn't Booth anymore, was he? Not entirely . . .

Angela and Brennan exchanged looks and he knew that neither of them bought it.

Brennan hesitated before she said, "Alright, but let me know if you need something."

"That goes for me too," Angela quickly added.

He felt some level of relief that they had dropped the subject and he nodded absently. Deep down, he knew he could never fully confide in either of them again. He wasn't the same person he was five minutes ago. The realization of loneliness of the entire situation slowly spread through his body and sank deep into his pores. It wasn't fair, God, it just wasn't.

"I think I shall take my leave," Avalon said with a slight incline of her head.

Booth grabbed her wrist before she could leave.

"D—do you know why?" He asked. Why they returned his memories, why they decided to plague him so after he'd earned his freedom, why now, just why, why, why, WHY, WHY, WH

Avalon shook her head apologetically.

"No, I don't," She replied, "And please know I am sorrier for that than I have ever been in my life. Find strength. You won't always be alone."

With those final words, the psychic departed.

There was silence in her wake. He knew that Angela and Brennan were both looking at him with concern, but in this moment he couldn't bring himself to care. All he wanted right now was to sit in the dark and drown his sorrows in alcohol; his long-time tradition for coping, though it's been a lifetime since he'd done it. He barely bit back an unsteady laugh at the thought, because there were no forthcoming thoughts to refute the statement as there had been in the past few months. Because now he knew the truth.

"What— what did she tell you?" Angela managed to ask. She knew better than to ask about what Avalon had revealed, and yet she couldn't help herself.

Booth paused for a long while, and just when the forensic artist was certain he wasn't going to answer, he opened his mouth and replied.

"She said I would grow up to be a clown."

It was a lie. Such a thick, saccharine lie that spoke nothing about the sudden stabbing pain that had taken residence in the agent's eyes.

Despite that, Angela took it for what it was and gave a shaky, fluttering laugh. "That is terrifying."

Brennan didn't pretend to play along.

"You'll be okay Booth," She said, placing her hand on his shoulder, "The side-effects will fade over time."

He gave her a grim smile in return and chose to say nothing to that.

Because he knew that this change was here to stay.


Somewhere in Hollywood . . .


Cordelia's eyes snapped open from her sleep and she screamed. Pain drove into her brain like screws and she bit back the silent whimpers and sobs that built in her chest.

She was vaguely aware of the security guards and maids hovering anxiously above her bed, but mostly she was possessed by pain and the images she had seen in her head.

A vision. She hadn't had one of those in five years. She had seen the capital building . . . And Angel! She had seen Angel!

He was alive . . .

Tears of sheer happiness began falling down her face at the sight of him once more. It had been six years since she'd seen him. She'd thought he was dead.

Once he pain had abated enough, she opened her eyes once more and found herself surrounded by about five of her house staff, all looking very concerned.

"Water," She croaked, setting off a flurry of activity.

"Miss Chase, what happened?" Her head bodyguard, Gerald asked urgently, kneeling at her bedside. A maid returned with a tall glass of water, much to Cordelia's relief. He helped her up, and she gave him a small grateful smile.

"Migraine," She said, taking large gulps of water.

"A migraine?" the maid echoed in surprise.

"Do you need to go to the hospital? An ambulance should already be en route," The bodyguard explained.

"What?!" She asked, looking surprised, "No, I don't need an ambulance, what I need is enough advil to kill an elephant," Her voice was a little strained but her face was serious. "Cancel that ambulance," She ordered.

"Yes Ma'am." The bodyguard nodded towards one of the other staff members that was standing around.

Cordelia waited as patiently as she could for the maid to bring back her medicine, but the throbbing in her head made it difficult. Thankfully, it didn't seem that any of her staff looked hurt or offended when she snapped. Finally, the maid returned, and Cordelia knocked back a handful of small pills. The bodyguard looked like he wanted to say something about her dosage, but he pursed his lips instead.

She focused on her breathing while she waited for the drugs to take effect. The throbbing in her head muted, and she turned her attention back to the people congregated in her room.

"I'm alright, honestly," She said in response to their concerned expressions.

"For now perhaps," Her bodyguard muttered, "Shall I plan a doctor's appointment for you?"

"Look, seriously, it's not a big deal. I used to get migraines all the time," She said, "They went away for a while, but now . . ." Her sentence trailed off as she recalled the images her mind showed her.

"Now, I guess they're back."

That and more, apparently.

None of them looked very at ease when she ordered them out of her room, but they obeyed her and she found herself alone once more.

Cordelia stared at the ceiling and sighed. She loathed to think about what the return of her visions meant in the grand scale of things. Questions and concerns swirled around her head. All of which revolved around Angel . . . She knew that she wouldn't be able to focus until she rested, so she forced herself to lie still and waited for sleep to come.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would take action.


I repeat!

FINAL NOTE! This will be the only chapter, (probably,) that uses an dialogue and plot from an episode. It isn't really my favorite style. I just didn't really want to write my own plot for this. (The rest of the series will be incredibly original, honest!)

Kay, see you all next Friday for an important meeting. :}

Review?