Hello, hello, here we go.
His car lurches into the gym car park, hastily pulling into an empty space and breaking heavily to bring the vehicle to a stand still. He sits there, his hands clutching the wheel, his knuckles whitening, his stare blank and his breath short and sharp, like he's having a panic attack. He tries to focus his thoughts away from his nightmare as he forces himself to get out of the car, grabbing his bag and heading into the building. Considering the hour, it's almost empty, although Londi is seated at reception, a curious look on her face when she sees him.
"Hey, Booth. What're you doin' here are this time of the mornin'?"
"Need to blow off some steam," he says curtly, his expression tight. "Any trainers in?"
The blonde scans the computer screen in front of her. "You usually have Aaron, right? He'll be here in about 45 minutes if that's-."
"Nah, I'll get started by myself, if that's all right," he responds, throwing his hand up in a half-wave as he takes the familiar route to the men's locker room. He's been coming here for years and he always uses the same locker. Walking over to number 447, he unlocks it and stuffs his bag inside (having already changed into his gym gear back at home). He locks it back up and enters the main area of the gym.
Glancing round, there are very few people working out so he decides to hit the treadmill first. Stepping up onto the machine, he enters the required information. Height. Weight. Length of workout. Difficulty. He chooses a twenty five minute run and sets the level to the highest, thinking that will help him calm down. He usually prefers to run outside with Bones, but they haven't been able to do that lately, so the gym equipment will have to do. It takes him a while to even break a sweat, the supposedly "gruelling" workout no match for his ranger-trained body.
By the end of the session, his mind is beginning to clear and he's feeling more relaxed. Still, a tinge of pain torments him and he decides the only suitable relief would be the punching bag. Making his way over to them on the other side of the gym, he notices there's only one other person working out. The woman's fighting skills appear to be impressive, the bag swinging in all directions. Switching the volume of his music up a notch, he arrives at the bag and begins swinging his arms, gently at first so he doesn't pull anything, then more intensely, the bag jerking at each fiery punch.
He feels the hand on his shoulder before he hears them calling his name. He turns, popping an earbud out of his ear. "Yes?"
"I'm Dr. Aline Dunn," she says, a smile creeping onto her face as she sticks out her hand. Booth shakes it warily, still not knowing who she is. "I work with the FBI. I'm a profiler," she expands, realising he has no knowledge of her existence.
"Oh. Hi. I work for the FBI, too."
"I know. Special Agent Seeley Booth. Liaison to the Jeffersonian Institute. Former Sergeant Major in the Army. I've read your files."
He furrows his brow. "Um. OK."
"I notice that you're married to Dr. Temperance Brennan, too. I love her books; I've read them all. Three times!"
"Three times?" His lips quirk. "I haven't even read them that many times." Other than page 187, he adds silently. I know that page off by heart.
"I'm a very big fan," she explains. "It's so great to meet Tempe's husband!"
The woman's eyes are wide, overly eager and, honestly, she's starting to sound a bit creepy. "Do you need anything, or? I'm kinda busy here."
"I just wanted to introduce myself."
"Right," he replies, putting his earbud back in place and throwing a few more punches, his fists jabbing he bag violently, letting out his frustrations. He feels another tap on his shoulder, growling in annoyance. He spins around to find the weird FBI woman still stood there, watching. "Can I help you?"
"I'm not stalking you. I thought you should know; I'm not cr- creepy or anything like that. Just interested. Wait, that sounds bad. I'm working your daughter's case. Christine Booth? I'm the profiler they assigned."
Realisation dawns and he nods slightly, uncomfortable with the topic that seems to be brewing.
"If you – or your wife – need anybody to talk to-."
"No, no, no," he interrupts, shaking his head. "There will be no shrinks. Bones and I are just fine."
"Bones?" She questions, confused.
"It's my nickname for Brennan. Bones. Because she works with bones, she loves bones, all she talks about is bones."
"I'm noticing a hint of resentment," she says, raising an eyebrow at him.
He rapidly backtracks. "I love her and there is no resentment at all. This is why I hate shrinks," he murmurs to himself.
"I heard that. You didn't hate Dr. Sweets."
Is this woman trying to hurt him? "Sweets was different, but I don't want to talk about him."
Curious, she asks, "why not?"
"He was my best friend – no, my brother – and I don't like to think about him dying. It gets me down and I'm having a hard enough time as it is." He punches the bag once, twice, three times.
"Is that because of your biological brother Jared dying recently?"
He pulls back, his face filled with surprise. "How'd you know about that?"
"Everybody at the DC field office knew. I worked the case."
"Right." He throws another few punches. "Can you leave me alone now? I need to punch stuff."
"Substituting your emotions for violence is very common during times of intense emotional stress," she recites, clenching her fists and hitting her own bag. "I myself like karate, particularly after a tough case."
Booth nods absently, no longer paying attention to the profiler who refuses to leave him alone. The temptation to call security is overwhelming. He jabs at the bag, his anger easing as he takes out his frustrations.
"You know, it's been nearly a week since-."
"No shrinks," he asserts.
"You haven't even given me a chance! Clearly the bureau thinks I'm good enough to work this case!"
"I don't care about what the bureau thinks!" He retorts. "All I care about is my family and the fact that one of us is missing. That's all I care about."
"That's understandable, I'm just saying-."
"Don't." He pummels the bag then turns on Dunn. "Leave. Me. Alone."
She nods slowly, walking to a far area of the gym. At that moment, Aaron arrives, his eyes wide with surprise.
"What was that about, Booth?"
"Nothing," he mutters. "She was just lecturing me about how I need a shrink. Wouldn't leave me alone."
"Ah. Everything OK?"
"No. Just spar with me."
"He had a nightmare?" Angela repeats Brennan's words, an expression of surprise crossing her face. "That's unusual, isn't it? For him."
"He'll occasionally get nightmares on anniversaries of big events – like when Sweets died or things that happened in the army. Nothing like the one last night though." Brennan chews on her lower lip, bouncing little Hank up and down on her lap.
They're sat in the diner together at one of the tables by the window. Brennan had called Angela up when Booth left for the gym, inviting her for breakfast before work. Hearing the anxious tone to Brennan's voice, she'd agreed immediately.
The artist glances out of the window, unsure of how to reply. The situation is difficult, heartbreaking and all she wants is for Christine to come home. She watches as everybody rushes past the window, some adorned in suits, clearly headed to the office, others in casual clothes, jeans, shirts, sneakers, others in sports wear as they go on an early morning run. Her eyes skimming through the crowd, she knows the person who has Christine could easily be amongst them. They're sick, so she wouldn't be surprised if they're watching, taking pleasure from her best friend's pain. She spots a small girl in a throng of people, her short brown hair exactly like Christine's and wearing an outfit she's pretty sure the young Booth owns. She's reaching her hand out to smack Brennan's excitedly, point her in the direction of the girl, when she turns around and is clearly not Christine. Angela lets out a disappointed sigh, her eyes returning to Brennan's.
"How bad was it?"
"It was horrible. He was screaming and writhing in bed. I've never seen him look so distressed."
"The gym will help."
"Yes, it will," Brennan agrees as she plays with little Hank.
"Maybe you two should do something, take your mind of this for a day or two."
Brennan shakes her head determinedly. "I won't rest until I find her. Neither will Booth."
"But sweetie, you're both exhausted. You can't concentrate on finding Christine if you don't get any sleep," Angela says, worried about her the wellbeing of her stubborn best friend and her equally stubborn husband.
"We'll be fine," she assures her, grabbing for her cell when it rings. "Hello? Cam? What? When? On our way." Within seconds, Brennan is on her feet, buckling Hank into his stroller and throwing a couple of notes on the table. She's out of the door when Angela finally catches up to her, her face filled with concern.
"Brennan, sweetie, what's going on?"
"There's been a package delivered to the Jeffersonian. It's addressed to me."
This is where everything really starts coming together. Booth and Brennan ARE getting closer and closer, but they've still got some hurdles to jump before they're reunited with Christine…
Review? :)