AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing. I had hoped to post before now but work has been kicking my arse these past few weeks. Sorry for the delay.
As promised, we delve a little into the cause of Booth's recent run of panic attacks. I was also planning to examine what he thought of Brennan's speech about believing in love (as seen at the close of DITD) but have held this over until the next chapter.
Given that we're only 3 weeks into an 8 week hiatus on the show, I thought it was a good time for Booth to take a little break. He's going to take a vacation from work because Sweets reckons he needs one, and I agree with him.
Now, before you start to worry about what this means for our favourite crime-fighting duo...fear not! He's not going far and he won't be gone for long. Besides, serial killers don't give a flying fig if you're on holiday (whoops...I mean 'vacation') - they'll keep on with the murdering and the mayhem. They're dependable like that. :)
Would love to know what you think.
Thanks again for reading.
I Find no Peace – Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Booth was running late, ridiculously so. He pictured Sweets sitting in his office, pen poised at the start of a new line on a clean sheet of paper, staring at the empty sofa in front of him. The young shrink was normally a patient man but Booth had pestered him into rearranging a prior appointment with another patient and seeing as he was now running close to an hour late, he figured Sweets would be in a flat out sulk. And sulking was way worse than anger. Anger he could handle.
He pushed the button to call the elevator and tapped the toe of his left shoe against the highly polished grey marble floor that covered the entire lobby area of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. It was almost 10:00 a.m. – he'd overslept and couldn't remember the last time he'd done so. He wondered if Sweets had waited around for him. If the roles were reversed, he knew what he would do. Booth grimaced; Sweets was likely to have come to the same conclusion – but would the younger man have the balls to bail on the session before their allotted hour was up? He wasn't sure. He'd done a pretty good job of putting the fear of God into the kid over the past couple of years but recently his powers of intimidation had taken a hit.
Booth cursed under his breath as a group of analysts he identified from the Bureau's Cyber Division, or the "Cyborg Division", as Charlie had taken to calling it, wandered over and stood next to him.
"It's Agent Booth, right?"
"Yeah. Morning." He said offering a cursory nod to the tall balding man to his right. He hoped if he kept things brief, the conversation would end there.
"So, what did you think of the symposium last week?"
Jeez, why didn't people call it a "conference" anymore? He turned his head, barely making eye contact with the man and assured him that he'd found the day-long waste of time: "informative" and that it "gave him something to think about".
"You'd be amazed at all the positive feedback we've gotten. I don't think people realise just how much computer intrusions cost the taxpayer each year."
Booth remained silent. Was the guy waiting for him to comment? Bad luck if he was.
"So, I saw Assistant Director Hacker's press interview – you guys found another body?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I..."
"I can't discuss an ongoing investigation." He interrupted, hoping that this would stifle the man's curiosity.
"Sure. Sure. It's gotta be exciting though...hunting down a serial killer. Nelson here was only saying the other day that he thinks the killer might..."
"Hold that thought." Booth said as the white light that illuminated the elevator call button flicked off. He marched quickly into the empty space and pressed the button for his floor. He took a small step to the side, allowing the four men room, but he made no effort at conversation.
He maintained silence as they climbed upwards into the belly of the building. He could tell that the quiet was bothering the other men and he wouldn't be surprised to find that some major eye-rolling, or worse, was going on behind his back.
As he stepped out and the elevator doors closed behind him he heard someone inside say: "Man, what's eating that guy?"
Booth hurried along the warren of achromatic corridors until he reached Sweets' office. He rapped on the door a couple of times before turning the brushed-chrome handle. The room was empty. So the kid had balls after all. He allowed himself a small smile before he closed out the door behind him and made his way over to his own office.
Once seated behind his desk, he dialled Sweets but the call was forwarded to the psychiatrist's voicemail. He left a short message of apology and asked if the session could be rescheduled for another time soon.
"Morning, Boss, I have an update for you." Booth looked up to see O'Hanlon in the doorway.
"Okay."
The younger man made no move to move beyond the doorway. He seemed to be frozen in place. Booth didn't have time for niceties – was the guy actually waiting for an invitation to enter his office?
"You gonna come in, O'Hanlon, or just throw the report at me from there?"
"Oh...of course. Here you are." The young agent said as he walked over and handed him the report. Booth took the thin file of neatly typed pages and ran his eyes over the headline points. There was nothing of any note. Just an update on personnel issues and some media spin – words that he was expected to trot out should he get collared by the press.
When a few minutes later he looked up again, O'Hanlon had gone. Booth dumped the pages in the trash can reserved for confidential waste and gave the agent and the report no more thought. He found his brain could only process one subject, one thought...Bones. Everything else was a distraction, nothing more.
Two nights ago they had fallen asleep together on his couch. She had chosen to stay. She had stayed the whole night. He swivelled his chair round so that the black leather backrest hid him from the enquiring looks of an office full of junior agents and he closed his eyes. Never in his most vivid dreams had she felt that good in his arms. He wasn't proud, but as she'd lain against his side, his arm draped across her shoulder, he had breathed in the smell of her hair until he couldn't discern a scent any longer. He had breathed in the lingering hint of her perfume until he was sure he had breathed every remaining trace of smell from her neck and throat. He had swallowed her scent within him and as he sat there oblivious to the bustling, hectic atmosphere that existed beyond the door of his office, he tried to summon the memory of it.
"Agent Booth." He jumped; unaware that anyone had entered the room. He spun his chair around.
"Sweets! Hey. Listen, I'm sorry about this morning."
"What happened?"
Booth noticed that he looked decidedly put out. "I overslept. I went to your office but you'd gone by the time I got there."
"I waited for forty five minutes." Sweets said as he approached the desk.
"You did? Sorry." Booth motioned for the other man to take a seat.
"So, you left a message asking if we could reschedule. I wanted to let you know that I have some time tomorrow afternoon or failing that, I'm free most mornings next week."
"I can't make it tomorrow." Booth said as he found himself unable to resist the urge to bounce his pen against the pile of papers on his desk.
"Next week then?" Sweets asked eyeing the agent in front of him. Booth swore he could see the cogs turning in the shrink's irritatingly brilliant brain. "Of course, if it's urgent, I can try and move something around?"
"It can wait." He replied as he trapped the pen under his hand. The urge to fidget, to release the tension that wracked his body meant that at the moment his hand stilled, his foot started to tap in time with a steady, silent beat. He was normally highly adept at hiding his emotions – had to be given his line of work. But there he was jumping about in his seat and telling Sweets all he needed to know.
"What about we talk over lunch?" Sweets said as he relaxed back in the chair.
"Um...okay, I can do that. Where do you want to go? The Diner?"
"Sure."
"Okay then...so I'll swing by your office later?"
"Later? What about now?" Sweets said as he continued to study him.
Booth looked at this watch and was stunned to find the time was fast approaching one o'clock.
"Man, where did the morning go?" He asked even though he knew full well where his morning had gone – he'd just spent the best part of two hours daydreaming about Bones.
The Royal Diner:
Twenty minutes later, Sweets looked across at the agent and tried to mask the concern he felt. Booth looked like he needed to sleep for a week and it seemed he'd lost even more weight. Sweets knew that emotional recovery from the type of surgery Booth has undergone would come in fits and starts and that it might take years even for the other man to feel like he was back to normal, if indeed he ever felt that way, but knowing something and then seeing evidence of it were entirely different.
"So you said you overslept...am I to take it that you're sleeping better than the last time we spoke?"
"I guess." Booth muttered as he perused the menu laid out on the table in front of him.
"How's your appetite?"
"Why would you ask me about that?"
"I noticed that you've dropped a couple of pounds." Sweets said neutrally.
"Hey, I sat around on my butt for six weeks after the surgery – I needed to get back into shape. I've been running most evenings after work."
He persevered. "So, would you say your appetite is the same as it was before your surgery?"
"Didn't I just say that?" Booth bristled.
"No. You didn't answer my question; you simply stated that you've started running after work. I want to know if your appetite..."
"What are you, my mother?"
Sweets ignored the warning tone that sounded clearly in Booth's interruption and held the other man's stare. "Booth, I thought you wanted to talk?"
"Yeah. I do. But I don't see why you want an insight into my eating habits."
Sweets let the matter go. He had a feeling he'd have to pick his battles wisely over the course of this lunch break-come-therapy session.
"Okay. So what about you tell me what's bothering you?"
Booth looked around at the occupied tables nearby and leaned forward in his seat. He planted his elbows on the table and raised one hand to cover the side of his mouth. Sweets shunted forward in his seat and also leaned in closer.
"I had a panic attack...I mean; I guess it was a panic attack."
"When was this?"
"Two nights ago." Booth said keeping his hand cupped to the side of his mouth.
"Was this the first time it happened?"
"No. Um...it's happened before. This was the third time." Booth finished quickly as their drinks order arrived.
"What can I get you, Hun?" Sweets returned their waitress's broad smile and ordered a plate of fries. Booth ordered a burger and fries, a chocolate shake and a slice of cherry pie - Sweets had to wonder if the heavy calorie-laden order was made for his benefit. Or maybe the guy was genuinely hungry. He'd spent plenty of lunch times discussing cases with Booth to know that the man had a prodigious appetite.
Halfway through his burger and fries, Booth hit a wall. He didn't want to eat another bite and just the smell of his food was making him nauseous. The chocolate shake didn't help. It was thick with ice cream and had done nothing to quench his thirst. Why the hell had he felt the urge to prove something to Sweets? Now if he didn't finish his meal, he'd look like an idiot! He took another healthy bite of the densely packed meat and chewed like his life depended on it. By the time his plate was clean, his jaw ached.
"Is there a pattern to the attacks you've experienced? Did they occur when you were alone or maybe when you were confronted with a high stress situation?"
"Both." Booth replied as he silently cursed the large slice of cherry pie which was placed in front of him.
"I cut you an extra big slice, Agent Booth. Now, you let me know if you change your mind and want a scoop of ice cream with that."
"Thanks, Vera." He flashed his charm smile at the middle-aged woman standing over them. Vera always gave him extra pie. Booth had always been grateful. Today he wasn't.
Vera walked away and Sweets moved forward in his seat again. "Panic attacks are fairly common and given your recent surgery and the nature of your job, I am not unduly concerned." This wasn't the total truth. But Sweets felt sure that if he appeared worried in any way, the other man would close up, for fear of hearing something that would send him spiralling down again.
"You're not?" Booth queried.
"No. Many people experience panic attacks without further episodes or complications. It's fairly common for people to experience one attack in their lifetime, sometimes more than one. Recurrent panic attacks are often triggered by a specific situation, such as crossing a bridge or speaking in public – especially if that situation has caused a panic attack before."
"Okay then." Booth said as he dug into his pie.
"Usually, the panic-inducing situation is one in which you feel endangered and unable to escape. Where were you when these attacks occurred? What were you doing?"
"The first time I was at work - well at the Jeffersonian. The second time I was at a crime scene."
"And the third time?"
"I was at home. Alone."
Sweets found it interesting that he'd felt the need to add that he was home alone. He resisted the urge to mention this because he knew Booth hated it when he did that.
"What form did these attacks take? How did you feel?"
"I...I couldn't catch my breath. I felt out of control...disconnected, I guess. You know, like I was hovering above myself and watching as I tried to get it together."
"How long did the attacks last?"
"I don't know – it's not like I thought to keep a stopwatch handy!" Booth snapped.
"Okay...so are we talking a couple of minutes or longer than that?" Sweets clarified calmly.
"Minutes. No more than that. It's no big deal though, right?"
"While a single panic attack may only last a few minutes, the effects of the experience can leave a lasting imprint. Such attacks have the ability to shake us to our core." Sweets was regretting his earlier attempts to downplay the issue – clearly, Booth had decided that his attacks were nothing to worry about. And while they might not be in a big picture kind of way, he'd be remiss if he didn't point out the potential for them to get worse.
"The first two times, were you alone when the attacks occurred?"
"No. Angela was there the first time and Bones was at the crime scene with me when I...when I lost it."
"So, both times you were focused on work stuff – is that right?"
"Of course. What else would I be focussed on?" Booth said impatiently.
"And what about this last time? You were at home – were you thinking about work when the attack started?"
"Yeah. I guess. So are you saying that's the cause of the panic attacks...stress at work?"
"Booth, you have a wicked stressful job; I think it's most certainly a factor. But there are other reasons we should explore: your continued recovery, any medications you might be taking, intake of stimulants and your personal life."
"Sweets, my personal life has nothing to do with this. Also, my personal life is by definition, personal, and so..."
"I've noticed in our recent sessions that you have been reluctant to talk about Dr. Brennan. I wondered if perhaps..."
"Sweets, don't make me repeat myself." Booth warned, his eyes darkening.
"You don't want to talk about it, right?" Sweets said knowingly.
"I don't want to talk about it." Booth said as he placed a forkful of the sweet fruit pie in his mouth and engaged his aching jaw. His gag reflex thankfully appeared to have calmed down. Full stomach or not, he loved pie.
"Look, at the moment I'm not overly concerned but I want you to tell me if you have additional attacks, especially if they increase in frequency and or potency." Booth's expression told Sweets that he was waiting for him to continue. "Booth, some people who've experienced panic attacks go on to develop something called panic disorder. Panic disorder is characterized by repeated panic attacks, combined with major changes in behaviour or persistent anxiety over having further attacks. This will inevitably take an emotional toll on the sufferer because the memory of the intense fear and terror felt during the attacks can negatively impact on a person's self-confidence and cause serious disruption to their everyday life. "
"But you don't think I need to worry, right?"
"Based on what you've described, no. That's not to say that I think we should ignore the fact that you've had three attacks - definitely not. Regardless of the cause, panic attacks are treatable and I think we should revisit those cognitive behavioural techniques we discussed a few sessions back. We can adapt and add to the coping strategies we covered to help you deal with the symptoms of these attacks.
"I'm beginning to feel like your pet project, Sweets." Booth said, mostly good-naturedly.
"I do have one suggestion – something that doesn't involve therapy."
"Shoot." Booth said setting his fork down on his plate, which was now empty, aside from a few crumbs.
"I think you should take some time off."
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm in the middle of a major murder investigation."
"I'm not saying you should go away for two weeks, or a week even. Just take off for a weekend. Get out of the city. Go somewhere that has nothing to do with your work."
"Sweets, I work weekends. Like I said, I'm in the middle of an investigation, I can't just take off. You might be able 'clock off' at five o'clock on a Friday afternoon, but I can't - it doesn't work like that."
"Okay, so go somewhere not far out of the city and take your laptop with you. Find somewhere with internet access and check in from time to time. You can work remotely and if something happens and you need to make it in, you can."
"I don't know." Booth said pushing his plate away. But truthfully, he'd already made up his mind. The thought of getting out of D.C. for a couple of days suddenly made the best kind of sense. He needed to clear his head. He needed some distance.
When Vera came back over to clear their table, he paid for their meals and left a generous tip – the pie really was outstanding. He drove Sweets back to the Hoover Building and once he was back in his office, he searched through his computerised address book until he found the number he was looking for. Punching the digits into his desk phone, he waited four rings before someone picked up.
"Hello, Neptune Boat Charters."
"Riley?"
"Yeah. Who's asking?"
"It's me, Seeley."
"Booth...hey, good to hear from you, man. To what do I owe this pleasure? No, don't tell me...you finally wanna take me up on my offer and come out sailing with me."
"Actually, that's exactly what I'm calling for. I was hoping to swing by this weekend – you gonna be around."
"Sure. Come on by. You remember where we are, right?"
"Yeah. What time's good for you?" Booth said as he leaned back in his chair. He should listen to Sweets more often, he felt better already.
"Well, I'm here on site from 6 a.m. but I'm guessing that's a little earlier than you had in mind."
"I'll be there at six – maybe we can get out there early."
"Heh, you're keen! Sure, weather permitting; we'll head out for an early spin around the bay and then you can buy me breakfast. Deal?"
"Deal. See you in a couple of days." Booth said before hanging up the phone.
Wednesday had finally given way to Friday and Friday afternoon had quickly given way to Friday night. Booth was running late, again. He'd planned to leave work hours earlier but Charlie needed to run through the latest developments in the Jackrabbit case – not that there were any of significance. After he was done updating Charlie, he got pulled into an impromptu meeting with Hacker and some 'suits' from State. Once the meeting had concluded, he grabbed the Jackrabbit summary file and made a break for home. He'd got within maybe two feet of the elevator when O'Hanlon caught up to him.
The kid was waiting on his approval of a couple of case reports. Booth took the files from him and stalked back to his office. O'Hanlon, then, much to his annoyance, spent most of the next hour hovering outside his office. Despite his desire to get on the road, Booth read every word and made corrections where necessary. Finally done, he looked up to find the space in front of his office empty. He leapt out of his chair and marched over to the door. Leaning round the doorframe, he saw O'Hanlon making his way back down the corridor, towards him. Booth wordlessly beckoned the young agent into his office.
"You know, when I walk, I expect you to follow."
"Sir."
"I haven't got time to hunt you down or invite you into my office. You got something for me; you follow me wherever I go. You want to me sign off on your reports; you follow me in here and wait till I'm done, okay?"
"Yes, Boss."
"Also, I asked for these reports yesterday." Booth said, his voice rising by the syllable.
"You did, but when I tried to give them to you yesterday afternoon, you told me that you didn't have time to look them over and that I should give them to you the following morning."
"So why didn't you?" Booth asked pressing his pen down hard as he signed his name to the file cover pages.
"Sir...the files... I put the files in your in-tray like you asked. When I saw that you'd left for the day, I remembered that you hadn't given them back to me and so I checked and they were still there."
"You put them in my in-tray? This in-tray?" Booth pointed with his pen to the deep mahogany tray on top of his desk which was overflowing with paper.
"Yes, Sir."
"Fuck, kid! You got something important for me, give it to me in person. I couldn't tell you what half the stuff is in that tray. Never put anything in there that you want me to read straightaway. Every agent in this office knows that. You should know that."
"I'm sorry. I thought you said to put the reports in your in-tray. I misunderstood. It won't happen again." O'Hanlon took the files from him and walked quickly back to his own desk.
Booth ran his hand over his stubble-rough jaw and sighed. He was being hard on the agent. Maybe too hard, but he just didn't have the time to babysit some rookie kid. He turned off his desk lamp for a second time that night and made his way back down the corridor to the elevator. He knew O'Hanlon was still working. He heard the steady tapping of fingers on a keyboard as he walked by and remembered that it had become a common sound over the past couple of months. The kid was still working after everyone else, bar him and Charlie had left for the night. Now he was leaving too. Yeah, he'd been too rough on the guy. He'd make it right when he got back on Monday.
Annapolis, Maryland:
By the time he'd made it home to pack a bag, it meant he didn't leave the bright lights of D.C. behind until 10 p.m.
Booth drove down Severn Avenue and swung a right onto 2nd Street. At the end of the block he turned right again and shortly after pulled to a stop outside what was to be his home for the next couple of days. Booth climbed out of the SUV and grabbed his two bags from the back seat. He'd stayed at the quaint little Bed and Breakfast a few years before and saw no reason to try anywhere different. The rooms were clean, if a little fussy in terms of the decor, but the breakfast was second to none and as the building was set back off the street, it was blissfully quiet.
After checking in, Booth made his way to his room – politely turning down the offer for someone to carry his bags for him. He turned the heavy brass key in the lock and let himself into the room. A small lamp had thoughtfully been switched on beside the white-wood queen-sized bed. He was tempted to throw himself down on the bed and pass out for the night but he wanted to check his emails first and at the very least brush his teeth before turning in. He set down the case that carried his laptop on the bedside table and then reached around inside his top-loading military issue duffel bag for his toothbrush and toothpaste. Finding what he needed, he tossed the olive green bag onto the bed and walked through to the en suite bathroom. At the sight of the large claw foot tub, he wondered if he had the energy to take a bath – deciding that he didn't, he made do with taking a leak and then brushing his teeth.
Booth folded his clothes and placed them on the pillowed seat of the rocking chair that sat in the windowed reading nook, to the side of the bed. Wearing just his boxers, he took the laptop from its case and set it down on his lap as he rested on top of the plum coloured comforter. The wooden bed frame pressed hard into the bones of his back and so he pushed back the blanket and grabbed a pillow which he secured behind him.
He'd gotten twelve emails in the hour and a half since leaving his office. Four were from Charlie and Booth wondered for the first time since knowing him, if the agent might be putting in more hours than he was. The others were general messages – round-robins' that had gone out to all FBI staff. He saved her message until last.
RE: This weekend.
From: Dr. Brennan
Sent: 19 February 2010 21:09:07
To: Agent Seeley Booth
Booth –
I'll be working here at the Jeffersonian if you need to reach me over the weekend.
I'm glad you've decided to get away for the weekend.
B
He liked to think that in signing off as "B" she was signing off as Bones, not Brennan - but he knew if he asked her, she tell him that he was the only person that used the moniker. He read the brief email over twice more before deleting it from his inbox.
Booth powered down the laptop and climbed off the bed. He stored the computer away in its case and turned out the light. His last action before closing his tired eyes was to set his watch alarm for 5 a.m. the next morning.
AN: Oookay, so we didn't get to the bottom of Booth's panic attacks – that's maybe because I think he has one or two more left in him. Also, he's been pretty mean to O'Hanlon – he'll atone for this but right now the man is suffering.
