Author's Note: Hi guys, it's Wednesday! I just wanted to acknowledge I've broken 50 reviews, which may not seem like much, but to me it means that people care enough to critique me 50 times. It's ace, thanks. And yeah, I got to 50 so long ago, but I only really remembered to thank you all now. Yeah, I'm not forgetful or anything... :) Anyway, this is the first part of a two-part chapter- which will be really intense. I don't have much to say to preface this chapter, so I'll just let you all read. Thanks to Alex, Candi, and my beta Steph :) And before we continue, a disclaimer: Bones is property of Hart Hanson and FOX.
I'm So Tired by The Beatles
I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink
No,no,no.
I'm so tired I don't know what to do
I'm so tired my mind is set on you
I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do
You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind
Chapter Twelve, Part One: Resolution
The material felt uncomfortable on his skin; thin, lightweight cotton, a barrier between the cool, unrelenting texture of the bulletproof vest. The fatigues he wore were all too familiar, reminiscent of his daily garb while in Afghanistan. He shifted, feeling the frigid metal of the weapon in his hands. The rest of the squad was gloved, but he was exempt. He needed to feel every curve, every nook of the rifle to make his aim precise. The feeling was overwhelming, holding the sniper rifle in his bare hands. Just the feel of the gun focused him, his brow furrowing in silent concentration. The feeling was exhilarating- power with a tinge of horror. He controlled life and death with this weapon. He wondered if this was how Harley felt.
Booth rolled his shoulders and tilted his head right and left, cracking his neck and easing the muscles, sore after a month of bed rest. He was already in the zone, and he was only in the military van. He glanced over at Hacker and opened his mouth to ask-
"We're forty miles away, Booth," Hacker sighed, having answered Booth's one question so many times he could anticipate it. "Give it another hour. We've got to go in slow."
Booth wilted, nodded and returned to his statuesque composure for the fifth time in an hour.
o-o-o
She rubbed her knuckles, sore already from the pinching motion (her poor metacarpophalangeal joint was aching in protest). She tightened the ice around her hand defensively, aware of the constant gaze of the occupants of the apartment. She slowly walked towards her kitchen, keeping an eye on everyone in the lounge, simultaneously disturbed and glad for the adjoining rooms' visibility. Not turning her back on her frozen audience for one second, she slowly poured some water into her electric kettle, set it to boil, and opened a cabinet to get a mug. The noise of the cabinet opening was loud in the room.
No one flinched.
Brennan was eerily reminded of the wax figures in a museum she'd had a book signing at once. She poured the boiling water over a tea bag and dropped an ice cube into the mug so she wouldn't have to wait. She needed to calm herself down. She weaved her way between Paul and Daisy, who both sucked in a breath as she passed. Finding an empty space of couch, she replaced a pillow (she hated when they weren't on the couch- taking them off made them almost impossible to replace properly), picked up her latest Anthropology Journal, grabbed a throw off the back of the couch and snuggled up to turn to the Table of Contents. Hey, she thought as she read, deciding that her friends were either mute or a figment of her imagination, I wrote that a long while ago.
She waited for someone to talk- to say something- anything, but not a single voice spoke. She skimmed her article and moved on to one by a so-called "forensic podiatrist" she vaguely remembered. She scoffed at the dissertation that took up five pages and ran her hand through her hair. I wonder when they'll leave…
o-o-o
The building looked quite homey for the lair of a homicidal maniac. Booth concluded that either Adjutor was a false lead or Harley was a very strange criminal. The two weren't mutually exclusive. From the brush on his squad's outlook, he could even make out a vegetable garden. Weird…
Booth shoved the bud further into his ear, as if he'd missed his signal. What was the delay?
And then- gunshots.
Five of them. Booth listened with horror. This was a popping noise, not the crack of the FBI rifles or pistols. This was a totally different kind of handgun. And if he was correct, it was the same gun used at the Diner.
Shit.
"Burns; Burns, Burns can you hear me?" Booth hissed into the microphone frantically. There was no response but rustling. He waited with baited breath, the rest of his squad completely terrified.
"Abort!" Burns whispered, his voice loud in Booth's ear, the microphone transmitting a lot of static. Booth sighed in relief, and then strengthened his resolve.
"Hell no. We're finishing this. I'm finishing this." He set up the stand, positioning the rifle.
"Where is he?"
"Two o'clock from me would be the best shot," Burns rasped from his hiding position. "So… Four o'clock for you."
"Four o'clock," Booth repeated. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
That was all Booth needed- he unlocked the safety and squinted through the viewfinder.
"Three… two…" he whispered into the microphone. This was it. Booth screwed his eyes shut for a single second and opened them with a fierce determination.
"One."
o-o-o
It had been a good two minutes of peace. Brennan sighed and got up to face the group. Then she walked up to Angela.
"What's your name?" she said. Angela looked baffled.
"Sweetie, my name is…" Brennan had heard enough. She huffed in relief, the gust of air gently blowing her bangs up and out of her face.
"Good. You're talking. About time," she said curtly and severely.
Then she nodded at the rest of them, raised an eyebrow at Sweets' expression, and headed to her room, magazine and tea in hand, locking the door behind her.
o-o-o
It was over.
He could hardly believe it. It wasn't a perfect shot, but it was damned good- straight in on the occipital lobe. A month of tracking, therapy, and tribunals, a month without friends, family, and forensics- Booth was glad it was over. He stood behind the rifle, blinking furiously to erase the centering lines of the viewfinder imprinted in his vision. Someone clapped him on the back, and Booth turned to see Burns smile tightly at him and dip his head in respect.
"Thanks for keeping me going, Agent," the younger man commended. "I was about to… you know." He ducked his head in shame. Booth felt a streak of sympathy for Burns.
"Hey, I know how you feel… sometimes it just gets to be too much and you can't handle it," Booth confessed. "God knows how many times I've wanted to quit."
"Well you've got your squints to get back to, now don't you?"
Booth closed his eyes and inhaled.
"Yes, yes I do… after I fill out paperwork."
Burns grinned cheekily.
"The FBI isn't all the glitz and glam, is it Agent?" Booth laughed.
"No," he admitted. "But it's good work we do here, Burns. We do good."
"Yeah," Burns echoed pensively, "Yeah, we do good."