A/N: I suuuuuuck at updatiiiing. I'm just continuously sorry for that fact. On an upside, if anyone's interested, I've started working on a rewrite of The Shot at the Target. Mainly because I read over it and was purely disgusted at my old writing style. The plot to that one was also kind of ehh. But not to worry - that one's going on my growing list of stories to be written/updated. I might write infrequently sometimes, but I never stop. Ah, whatever.

Enjoy the chapter! Leave some reviews! :)


"You make yourself strong because it's expected of you. You become confident because someone beside you is unsure. You turn into the person others need you to be."
― Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Acts

Day Eleven

One would think, perhaps, that as the days grow colder, inch towards that freezing point, the DC area would have seen some snow by now. Just a week from December, certainly, it seems about time. But that, of course, is not the case; rainy days and muddy fields are the case, and that makes the hope for a snow day – admittedly after a four-day Thanksgiving weekend – a very empty one, indeed.

The result of that is a group of grumbling high school students climbing and sliding up a muddy incline in back of the building, leading up to the woods, with their steadfast teacher leading the way. At barely eight o'clock in the morning, the experience is far wide of pleasant.

"Thin sticks will be best," a wiry man with thick-rimmed glasses calls out as the students disperse. "You can fit more of them in your bag that way. And grab some dry pine needles for kindling!"

Amid the grumbling and groaning, he can't quite here the heavy sigh across the path.

"This project is ridiculous," one girl is saying to another, attempting to pull a twig from a fallen tree with one hand. It remains where it is, however – stubbornly and proudly. "Shouldn't our AP Physics projects have, I don't know, actual physics in them? Making stoves out of a bunch of damn cans and lighting fires in them is literally the stupidest thing ever."

The other runs a hand through her hair before bending down and grabbing a few damp sticks from the ground. As she straightens back up, she is in complete agreement, keeping her voice low as she replies, "Right? And I don't know if he notices –" She shakes some water off of her finds. "But there isn't a dry branch or anything out here! That's sort of what happens when it rains the night before."

There's another sigh as the first girl keeps working on pulling that stubborn twig from the fallen tree. She pulls it from side to side, draws circles with it like on a joystick, and yanks – but to no avail. There it stays, and the idea of just giving up on it is tempting. But it's a matter of pride now, so she keeps on pulling until –

"Oh, fuck –" she pitches backwards, her hand having slipped from the branch, and goes tumbling on down a slight decline in the path, and finds herself covered uncomfortably in mud. Among other things.

Across the way, that man with the glasses may not have heard the grumbling complaints just moments ago, but there was no way on Earth that he could miss the terrified shrieking of a student who just found herself covered in muddy, decomposed human remains.


The drive up to Maryland is not long by any FBI agent's standards. Roughly half an hour in traffic, it's nothing compared to some of the drives Seeley Booth has taken on any obscure case of the week. Some cases will take him to Virginia, driving an hour both ways; others bring him even deeper into Maryland, taking far longer.

Still, the ride up the interstate feels like forever. Like a death march, almost. The passenger in the car has to keep reminding himself that this is not, in fact, the case, but he can still feel his nerves eating away at him as they go. Uncertainty and vague fear are all he is as they pull in, and it is with pure willpower that he forces himself inside. Think closing your eyes and running through the rain in a downpour, gritting your teeth and bearing the cold, and you'll pretty much hit the mark. Except he's not running towards the promise of a warm, dry house; he's dragging his feet to a reception desk in a cancer center lobby. Very different things.

He hears Booth's phone go off somewhere behind him, but he pays it no mind as he flashes a soft smile at the woman behind the desk and starts talking before his nerve fizzles out.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Lance Sweets. I'm here for my appointment?"

She smiles back in greeting, a perfect little grin, and answers, "Hi, Lance Sweets! Let's see… P6?"

He nods.

"Okay, awesome! You just have a short form to fill out, so you can just take a seat over there and someone will be with you in just a few minutes. All good?"

He nods again and takes the clipboard from her hands before going to sit down in a small black chair by the far wall. Booth sits down beside him, absently nodding while continuing to talk on the phone.

It's a case. Sweets can tell that much by the strictly informational tone of Brennan's voice on the other end and the short fragments of answers Booth is responding with. From what he gathers, there's a new set of remains being sent to the Jeffersonian as they speak.

It's a case, he thinks, that he probably won't be a part of this time around.

The P6 protocol, as it had been explained to him, is an inpatient procedure. The first course of it is to last roughly five days, hopefully no more, and he can't help but think, perfect. Of all the terrifying, life-threatening illnesses he could have developed, he gets the one that demands the longest chemo rounds and longest time out of work. Even he can recognize when a vice has just been ripped from his own unwilling hands, and he doesn't like it one bit.

Nevertheless.

He fills out his forms while Booth talks beside him, and as soon as he hands them back to the receptionist, he sits back down and waits for what his life and the cancer center all have in store for him.


The nurse's hands are gentle and practiced as she sets up the drip, and after a few minutes, he's seated awkwardly in a chair with his sleeve rolled up to the elbow, hooked up by his vein to two bags of medicine that could potentially save his life hanging on a hook.

Once she's finished, she smiles at him, at Booth – who's standing just to the side, leaning against the bed in the room, staring on – and promises to send someone in to speak with him. She floats out of the room as quickly as she came in, and Sweets and Booth are alone once again.

It seems near impossible for them not to stare at the fist-sized bags on the hook for the longest time. Filling such an intimidating silence seems so threatening – but when Sweets finally turns his head, notices the suddenly-nervous look in Booth's eyes, he musters up the words to do it. He's certainly seen Booth nervous before – scared, angry, excited, and just about every emotion in between – but never quite like this.

Never about him. And he decides he doesn't like it. Not a bit.

"Hey," Sweets says, drawing Booth's attention. He gestures to the cell phone still held loosely in Booth's fingers. "Case?"

It seems to take a moment for the question to register, but once it does, Booth regains his composure. He nods.

"Yeah, yeah. Body found in the woods in back of a high school. When Cam called, Bones was busy picking bone fragments off of a teenage girl who fell on top. And from what they can tell, it's a woman. About forty-five. That's all they have so far."

Sweets nods, imagining the crime scene in his mind's eye. He never thought he'd feel such a strong need to be back at work, profiling away, but he supposes he'd feel that way about anywhere that wasn't here.

"You should go. They need you there."

"No," Booth says far too fast, almost automatically. "It's fine. I can stay a while longer."

And Sweets almost takes him up on that. Because he's quite certain that, excluding the few times he was almost killed by armed attackers, this is among the most terrifying things he's had to face. To go it alone is a frightening prospect.

But Booth is nervous as all hell, it's clear as day. And if Sweets is honest, he knows where the man is needed.

"You could, but think of the drive back. A pain, especially with the tourist-traffic heading into DC right about now. And they do need you there."

Booth seems unconvinced at first. So Sweets pushes on, the slight beginnings of a lighthearted smile on his face.

"I'm not about to kick you out, Booth, but you know where you need to be. Besides, I'm the one taking the sick days. Not you. You need to at least make it look like you're trying to be on time."

Booth pushes himself off the bedpost, takes a few uncertain steps across the floor. And he pauses, considering this.

After a long few moments, he slowly nods his head.

"I guess…. But you're sure? You're feeling alright and everything?" he gestures to the chemo bags on the rack and Sweets can't help but give a quick laugh.

"Yes," he says. "I mean, I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure neither doxorubicin nor vincristine starts working in the first ten minutes. Now go – I'll be fine."

Booth steps towards the door, slowly, almost unwillingly. He pauses once more, and Sweets just sighs.

"Honest, I will. Besides, if you haven't noticed," Sweets holds up the arm with the IV attached to it, wiggles his fingers. "I'll be here for a while. You can always come back later."

And Booth hesitates, shifting his weight back and forth by the doorway. Eventually, he looks at Sweets and says, "Okay. But… I'll be back later. And just give me a call if you need anything, alright?"

"Deal. Now go. I'll catch you later."

Booth finally leaves, and Sweets is alone.

Neither of them particularly likes that fact. But that's how it must be.

They know this.


A/N: Kind of a weak ending, but I'm eager to move forward. Fun fact: that physics project was my final project last year. Absolute bullshit. But I digress. Hope you liked it! :)