Author's Note: I lied. Bad Scarlett. I told you I'd see you all on Wednesday and it's Friday. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! I apologize profusely. I have had the heaviest of heavy weeks, and I reckon if it weren't for you all having expectations, this tiny chapter wouldn't even be here. Special thanks to Steph, my bloody awesome beta (she's been swamped recently as well) and to all of you readers and reviewers. I promise long, angsty, punctual goodness next Wednesday! As usual, a disclaimer: I don't own Bones (if I did, I would be even more stressed than I am now... and that's hard to top) all characters go to Hart Hanson and FOX. Again, I'm so sorry, and I hope you like the chapter! See you all on Wednesday (for real!)
Fix You by Coldplay
When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Chapter Seven: Lost
"White-collar job, average lifestyle, no children. Good looking, proficient, highly intelligent. Sporadic, intentional, pattern-no-pattern objectives. Anger management, control complex, intermittent-"
"My God, would you just tell me what it means?" Booth exclaimed, at his wit's end. The psychologist had been spouting three word phrases and squinting in a very Jeffersonian-esque manner at case files for the past two hours, with not a word on what all of it meant. Cliffe frowned at Booth imperiously, and then smirked.
"Impatient, snarky, unappreciative," he laughed at Booth, with a wink. Booth scowled. He was not having a good week at all. He hadn't heard once from anyone, not Parker, Jared, Hank, Hannah…
At least not in person.
He'd paged Hannah a few times, and told Parker he was on a business trip. Parker, being ten years old at this point, had paged back in a patronizing manner, and with appalling punctuation. If this were a normal week, Booth would've shown the text message to Bones, who would've been torn between feeling aghast at Park's grammar, and proud of his deductive skills. However, this was not a normal week- Booth was stuck in a drab room with an irritating profiler and large amounts of pie. He couldn't so much as look at a fry without thinking of Bones, and had stopped eating pork for fear of pondering Jasper's condition.
Cliffe sensed Booth's frustration and acquiesced.
"It means," he explained, "that Harley has a mental disorder. 'Pattern-no-pattern objectives' is a term used to describe the intention of killing spontaneously simply for the purpose for killing spontaneously."
"So… his pattern was no pattern?" Booth echoed, a bit confused. Cliffe smiled.
"Exactly. I suspect that Harley may have had intermittent explosive disorder, commonly referred to as IED, which is a severe form of anger management issues, with a component of a control complex. Pretty much, when this dude gets angry, he gets angry- and likes to shoot people to act as a sort of God."
"Choosing who lives, and who dies," Booth murmured, "That's… I have no description for how twisted that is." Cliffe nodded his agreement furiously, and Booth was struck at how similar he was to Sweets. Except for decidedly more authoritarian. And… squinty.
Booth sighed. He had to wrap up this case as quickly as possible.
"Okey-dokey, Cliffe. Now what do we know about his habitual preferences?"
o-o-o
She stared at her phone in the morning, expecting a volley of missed calls, text messages, and voicemails from Angela. Instead, she received one message from Hodgins- Told everyone, don't worry about it.
As impersonal as it may be, Brennan felt a rush of warmth when she read the message. She had known Hodgins longer than she had known any of her 'family'. They'd had a silent bond that had only ever been acknowledged once, but was appreciated on both sides. Without one or the other, the lab was fruitless. The way they worked, Hodgins calling out CODs (sometimes based on facts, other times based on nothing at all) and her confirming (or refuting) his theories with the steady aid of her bones… it was a system that worked. And it worked well.
Hodgins was more her brother than Russ.
He was one of the few people she truly knew inside and out. So when she received the message, she didn't read it as taciturn and emotionless. She read in between the lines, so to speak (this was a colloquialism Cam had taught her).
Hodgins knew Brennan was struggling. He'd told everyone, which was hard on him, but he was holding up the fort. Angela was clearly indisposed, and this was of course stressful. He didn't want Brennan working herself up, and he would be upset if she went to work. Also, he wanted her to expect calls from Cam, Sweets, and possibly Zach.
Brennan almost smiled and began to text Hodgins. She had to delete the message a few times till it was acceptable.
Thanks. I'm taking a few days off; you and Ange should, too. How is she?
She pressed send, and resumed gazing blankly at her mobile. She didn't know what to do. She wondered how Hodgins was doing, considering all his efforts, and was worried about Ange. She felt for Cam, and Michelle, and also Daisy and Sweets.
Sweets. Of course.
Getting ready with a vengeance, Brennan threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, pulled her hair into a neat ponytail and secured her bangs with a clip. She tossed her phone in her handbag, grabbed her keys out of her Egyptian lotus bowl and practically flitted out the door. Within minutes (so what if she was speeding?) she was at the J. Edgar Hoover building. In less time than it took for her to recite all the bones in the inner ear (and that was a very short amount of time) Brennan was in front of Sweets' office. Gathering up her courage, she prepared to enter, but was surprised to see Sweets and a group of other FBI personnel rounding the corner to her right. Eyes glimmering, Brennan stalked up to the young psychologist and shoved him up against the wall. He squeaked, surprised and terrified. That may have been a bit much, her rational self reminded her. Brennan pushed all rational thoughts to the background and tightened her grip on his clavicle.
"Doc-Doctor Brennan?" Sweets spluttered, shocked. The other agents stood uneasily, unsure of what to do. Sweets wondered if Booth's death had made Brennan go wonky- a very non-psychological comment that was erroneous and exorbitantly imprecise, but that ran through his mind nonetheless.
"You tell me now. You tell me and you give me the fucking number Sweets," Brennan fumed, her sharp gaze piercing him like an arrow, "I'm not a test, okay? Because if I am, you've won. I'm not compartmentalizing. I'm losing it. So give me that number Sweets, or just tell me. Just. Tell. Me. I'm on that list, Sweets, I'm on that list."
Sweets staggered back as her grip slackened, and tried to muster up the nerve to tell her that there was no list.
o-o-o
