Chapter 13
"I will become an ocean and make you my greatest secret ever, I'll keep thousands of demons to guard my secret. I'll create storms that none has ever seen. I will lure everyone to the darkest sides and will destroy them if they try to reach you and see what I am hiding back in my heart."
― Akshay Vasu
Staring down at the phone in her hands, Dr. Temperance Brennan didn't know exactly how to take the text message she just opened from Booth. It seemed out of character given the beautiful way their relationship was progressing, both work and personal. It was abrupt for Booth, his messages usually felt casual and chatty.
My office 8pm - park in lot 3B - bring that ridiculous gun of yours
Eyes darting across the screen, she took a breath and tried to relax away the tension she felt rise up within her. She didn't know what to make of it and her concern prompted her to question rather than answer his demand.
Is everything okay?
Flopping his head back against the back of his office chair, Booth sat slouched, staring up at the ceiling as he rocked back and forth. Everything was definitely not okay, but trying to explain that through text message just wasn't the best way to talk to her about it. He needed to do it face to face. Letting out a loud huff of frustration he sat up and started his response, deleted, and reworked it several times before sending.
We'll talk tonight, k? Just be here at 8 and make sure you park in 3B, it's important.
Okay
Promise - 3B
Yes, 3B, I promise.
For years she'd been parking next to his SUV, his assigned spot was first level with street access and close to the elevators. It was just the way they did things, and despite its prime location, other agents left the parking spot open for her. She was never sure whether they accepted her presence and recognized the spot as unofficially belonging to her or if Booth told everyone to leave it open for his partner. Regardless, this was different, radically different and change wasn't her strong suit. She found the whole interchange unsettling.
Sitting at her desk, she attempted to occupy herself with the paperwork for the Duval Price case while she waited for time to pass. It was nearly two hours until she needed to leave for the Hoover. Minutes felt like hours, every glance at the clock punctuating how slow time was passing. Eventually, she set aside the casework and tried to concentrate on something else, anything else. Answering emails, writing on a short story she was playing with, fiddling with the story arch of her next book, reading the latest edition of American Anthropologist, nothing held her attention for very long. Finally, she gave up, gathered her belongings, and headed for her car. She would be early, but she couldn't wait any longer.
Turning into the sheltered garage at the Hoover, one thing was immediately obvious, his car wasn't in its regular spot. She looked, specifically, as she drove past the first level, trying to see if there was anything out of the ordinary that might prompt his insistence that she park on the lowest level. She didn't see anything. The sights and sounds of underground parking followed her as she drove further down, the hum of bright artificial lights, loud echoing car engines, the high pitched squeal of tires, the smell of exhaust and something she'd never been able to accurately name. With each progressive turn she felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
She didn't like underground parking, it felt claustrophobic. But, it was clearly important to him and she gave him her word. Then she saw it, there it was, Booth's SUV stood alone, only a few other cars on the whole level. An odd sense of comfort filled her when it came to view and she found herself letting out a long held breath.
Parking next to him, she was quick to gather her belongings and head to the elevator not far from her car. Anxious, but unwilling to show it, she stood up straight, tall and strong. It was the little things, the minutia that few caught, that nobody saw. The way she rolled her lip between her teeth momentarily and closed her eyes, listening intently to the elevator ding as it passed floor after floor, carrying her to Booth.
He was hunched over his desk when she entered the bullpen, which was mostly dark and lifeless. His body tense, and even though she wasn't close enough to see per se, she was sure his jaw was pulsing. She cleared her throat rather than tapping on the metal frame of his office door, she didn't want to startle him. He looked up, eyes wide, full of emotion, tension, relief, so many contradicting feelings that she couldn't read him at all.
"Hey," he spoke softly, standing and walking around his desk. "You're early." She thought he was coming to greet her and when he grabbed ahold of her arms just above her elbows, she anticipated a kiss, which confused her because she knew he'd never do that in the middle of his office, no matter what time of day it was. Instead, he moved her further in his office, looked out across the bullpen conspiratorially, and closed the door behind her.
"So, do you have it?" He asked, holding out his hand. "Did you bring it with you?"
"My gun?"
"Yes."
She nodded, digging in her bag until she found it, then stopped, hesitating to actually hand it over to him. Shoving his open hand out closer to her, he silently asked for it again, then followed up when she still didn't comply. "You gotta trust me, okay?"
But she didn't pull the gun out of her bag, instead, she pulled her empty hand out, taking a step back, folding her arms across her chest, and stared right into his eyes. "Why?"
"Why should you trust me?" He countered, trying to defuse the growing tension with a little bit of humor and charm. "Because you love me."
"Booth." Flashing his very best charm smile didn't work and she watched as he let out a long sigh, riddled with worry. Taking a step closer, his eyes searching for hers, his countenance changing, growing somber.
"Because you know I wouldn't ask for your gun without a good reason." A simple nod of his head completed his thought.
It felt like it was about more than just a gun, her gun, and she floundered, weighing her raging independent spirit against her need to show him the trust he deserved. Watching her internal debate play out in her eyes, he waited.
"Okay." She finally conceded. Booth took the gun, checked the cylinder and safety, then placed it in his office gun safe pulling out a Glock 17, running it through a similar safety check before setting it on his desk.
This decision weighed on him all week. He couldn't be with her all the time, not and do his job, and her gun was just, well, gigantic, certainly nothing you'd wanna bring to an actual gunfight. She was safer without it, he felt that way for a long time, years actually, but, you know, pick your battles, and before now, it just wasn't the priority.
But, now, knowing what he knew, things were different. The last thing he needed was her doing something reckless, which she was certainly prone to do. What if she ended up in a gunfight with Broadsky, nothing but that unwieldy Smith and Wesson revolver to protect herself. She'd lose. Her odds weren't good to begin with and she might lose regardless, but he needed to give her a fighting chance, right? He needed to do everything he could to keep Broadsky away from her and everything he could to make sure she was ready in case that didn't work, because the alternative struck absolute panic in his heart.
All this was a part of that.
"C'mere."
His movements were stiff and strong as he motioned for her to join him behind his desk, pointing toward three neatly laid out stacks of papers, a photo ID paper clipped to the top of each grouping.
"See this." He tapped the first set, a financial statement. "This is the credit card statement for Jamal Peterson. He was a member of the Fourth Brigade Combat Team, the same one Paula Ashwaldt was a part of, the unit Broadsky saved." Highlighted in bright yellow was a credit card purchase for two nights at the Kimpton Inn. "Just two nights." Booth moved his fingers to the second set of papers. "And this is Thomas Choat. He was a sniper, trained under Broadsky, Jake used to call him Tommy Boy, I know him, kind of know of him, Jacob used to talk about him all the time." His fingers dragged along a similar line, pointing to the information. "One night at the Renaissance Inn."
Booth pulled back as she leaned in to examine the documents, letting out a heavy sigh, and rubbing the back of his neck hard and fast. "And then there's William Preston, remember him?" She nodded. Booth picked up the last stack of papers, rolling it nervously in his hands as he spoke, before flopping it back down in front of her. "Charges were declined, Bill's in Houston, someone stole his card information and tried to use it, here in DC, to register at the Hilton Garden Inn yesterday, for two nights, like an hour after Bill paid for lunch with the same credit card in Texas, it tripped the fraud alert and froze his account."
Watching her eyes as they darted from one document to another, different names, different hotels, different, but consecutive days, he could see her start to piece the information together.
"When Bill was here, during the Gravedigger case he said something, talked about how Broadsky would buy stuff, using other snipers names, have the bill sent to them, stuff he liked, like the copper, a specific brand of flux, other stuff, you know, to make his own bullets. It kept him off the grid."
"You think he's back." Booth only nodded at first.
"I, uh, well, yeah, I mean I don't have proof, not what you would consider proof anyway, just this so far, we're checking with the first two card holders to see if the charges were legit, but, these guys, they feel a sort of allegiance to Broadsky. What did you call it, a closed community, elite members of a closed community always intersect, right? That's what you said. This is a pretty tightknit group. Soldiers, most of us started out as soldiers, a brotherhood, our lives depended on that. Just look at Jamal Peterson, he owes his life to Broadsky. They'll lie, they'll cover for him." Looking down at the floor he stammered around for a moment. "So, it's not much, but that's all I got so far, that and a feeling."
"Your gut."
"Yeah, I've been feeling it for awhile now. I mean, at first, I thought, I just felt like I was being watched and I dismissed it, but it just kept coming back, you know, until I couldn't dismiss it anymore, so I started looking into it."
"Watched?" Booth nodded. She didn't like the fact that Broadsky might be watching him. He increasingly made this personal, him verses Booth. And as much as Booth was worried about her safety, she was worried about his. "Oh." It connected for her, the scene outside the Founding Fathers, how quickly things shifted between them, how abruptly plans changed. "Last weekend, that's why-"
"Yeah." He cut her off before she could finish her thought. "We're following up, you know, showing Broadsky's picture around, but Jacob, he's smart, I doubt we'll find much." A sharp intake of air and Booth was momentarily distracted, this woman, the woman that he loved was about to lay into him, he could see it. She stood up a little straighter, squared her shoulders, as fire danced in her eyes.
"I get it, I understand, but what does this have to do with my gun? I'm your partner. I can't defend you if I'm unarmed, Booth." He smiled, which only angered her.
"I know...I know." Reaching for the gun he set on his desk earlier, he handed it to her. "This one, you'll carry this one for now. It's more your size, easier to handle, and more accurate." She held the gun, adjusting it in her hands, letting it settle, feeling the weight of it. It was a lot lighter and the grip felt more natural. "I reserved a spot for us down at the firing range, we're going down there in a few minutes so you can get a real feel for it, fire off some practice rounds." He nodded, one sharp, single nod. She gave him one back in return.
Manny was there, checked them in, gave them their safety goggles and ear protection, then watched as they made their way to toward the booths that lined the top section of the range, picking one. Those two, over 9,000 employees worked out of the Hoover and he was pretty sure every single one of them knew the history of these partners and he'd just about bet his retirement that all of them belonged to one or more pool betting on if and when they'd ever get together. Personally, he liked watching them. All his years at the range, he'd watched Booth grow up, her too, though not as closely. They were both just kids when they started coming down and sparing, always vying for dominance, those two. They were still kids to him, always would be, but, God, they bickered like an old married couple.
Booth gave her her space at first. Let her play, after giving her a brief tour of the gun. He knew better than to lecture her, she could hold her own when it came to firearms. A point she made abundantly clear over the years. Besides, that's not what this was about. He was more interested in watching her stance, her breathing, her accuracy. Which he did, stepping back, focusing, evaluating as he stood, arms folded tightly across his chest. And he did that for a long time before stepping up behind her and clearing his throat.
He didn't speak at first, just wrapped his arms around her and adjusted her grip, a little here a little there. The way the grip of the gun settled between her thumb and index finger, the placement of her weak hand over her strong one. He leaned in, talking softly, holding both her hands so he carried the weight of the weapon.
"Relax." He commanded. "And keep your hands relaxed. You're gripping too tight." She nodded, though it was so slight it was almost imperceptible.
Then he moved onto her stance, letting his hands drop from her hands to her hips, still behind her, he shifted them and her feet, encouraging her to move her left foot forward just a little in front of her right one by tapping it with his own and moving his hands along her hips.
"I know it seems like you should lead with your dominate foot, but that's not the case. Put your right foot forward just a little, this way you . . .," whatever he said next drifted away into nothing. His body pressed right up against hers as he kept talking and moving her into the right position, his warm breath tickling her neck as he spoke. She was trying to focus, trying very hard, but it seemed impossible.
And then his right hand moved from her hip where it rested, to her stomach, tucking up high, right below her breasts, spreading out wide, his fingers twitching slightly, moving, adjusting against her diaphragm.
"Go ahead, Bones, shoot." His voice cut through her addled haze, it was sharp, as if he was asking for a second or third time.
"What? Like this?" She sounded alarmed, in fact she was pretty sure her voice cracked a little but Booth was so focused he didn't notice.
"Yeah, is there a problem with that? I need to check your breathing."
Manny watched from his position in the Range Master's booth in amusement. Agent Booth was so focused on her stance, buzzing around her, and there was Dr. Brennan, the man chuckled out loud, shaking his head in disbelief. God, the woman was cocky as hell, he'd never, in all his years, ever seen her flustered like this.
"Booth." She whispered.
"Just shoot, Bones." She shot, several rounds in quick succession, then tried to pull away from him. He resisted, pulled her back firmly against his chest. "Your breathing's all off. Take a breath, exhale, just a little, like half, hold it, shoot, then let the rest of it out."
"I know." She said softly. "I know."
"You've gotta do more than know it, okay? This is important. You have to get it under control. It'll make your shot more steady, more accurate, it's critical . . . it's . . . it's everything." There was a unexpected sharpness to his tone. "Try again."
He couldn't explain the weight of this to her, not here, how he'd been lying awake at night worrying about this very thing, about her in a fight for her life with Broadsky. If he found out, if he knew what Bones meant to him, he'd go after her, he was sure of it, and if something happened, God, if something happened to her, he couldn't even consider that.
She was in the process of pulling it back together, finding her balance and focus, as instructed, when he tucked in closer this time, holding her tighter, a feeling beyond arousal washed over her, making it nearly impossible to resist the urge to slam him up against small partitions that separated the lanes of the range and plunder him right there in the middle of the FBI firing range.
Taking a breath, she closed her eyes momentarily, refocused, forcing herself to ignore his presence. Compartmentalize, she told herself, before opening her eyes and focusing down range at the target. One shot, she got off one shot before she felt his the warm palm of his hand move on her hip, squeezing it lightly, and everything about his proximity flooded her body and mind. His physicality, each taut muscle, rippling with tension, that hard body pressed up against her own, his breath, hot and heavy, that voice, deep, rich, vibrating through her. She got off a couple more shots then forcibly pulled away.
Pulling forward the target she just shot at and comparing it to the previous one, he didn't know what to think. On her own she got five solid hits, one a kill shot, for sure, the others, all torso, they'd slow him down at least. But, the the purpose of this exercise was to improve her chances. Broadsky was a professional and to think he couldn't, or wouldn't keep shooting accurately even injured, well, that was mistake. The one she did with him, the target that was supposed to be better after he adjusted her stance and grip, she only got in two torso shots, one other shot hit the paper, but wasn't within the lines representing the person, the other shots missed altogether, all of them.
It wasn't until he stopped studying the paper targets and looked back over at her that he realized how flustered she looked. Wild eyes darting around the room, observing everyone around them, her short, rapid breaths, the warm pink on her cheeks and that little triangle of skin right below where her collar bones met, which only drew his attention to her racing pulse. Pausing he stopped to take her in, really focus on her, not just her stance or grip or accuracy, her, the woman he loved. He watched as she set a new target up, got herself in position, adjusted according to all his counsel and instruction he gave her, aimed, and fired. He could tell, even from where he stood, still holding the other targets, that this round was dead on accurate. Five kill shots, all to the the core of the target.
"Hey," he called out to her when she was done, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently turning her around. "Sorry." She blushed, shaking her head slightly. "Why don't we get outta here, huh, Bones? Maybe grab some dinner." Letting out a long sigh of relief, she agreed.
They were on their way back to her car when he reached out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back abruptly.
"Argue with me." He ordered in a brusque, hushed tone. She looked at him for a second before starting to pull away again, marching forward.
"We don't argue, Booth, we never argue, we bicker."
"So now we're arguing over arguing." Chasing her, happy she was at least playing along.
Back and forth they went, escalating in intensity until it he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind a huge cement pillar, pressing hard against her, a hand on either side of her head. Reaching up, she met him in one long, passionate kiss that ended when neither could wait one more second for oxygen.
"God, I love that." He whispered against her lips.
"No security coverage?" She asked between shorter, but still intense kisses.
"No." He answered right below her ear, against the most sensitive skin of her neck. He was lost in the tender sounds of her acceptance as he slowly kissed his way down, and happy to be so until she regained just enough conscious thought to ask why he insisted she park down on 3B.
The weight of all his worries over her safety fall hard around him.
"Bones." He said pulling back just enough to really connect with her eyes. "I . . . God, I want this, I've waited for this for so long, we both have, but we can't . . . we can't . . ." She was flat out evil incarnated, leaning back in, softly kissing his neck, each kiss getting a little more open, a little more aggressive, firmer, pulling him back in, she didn't want to hear, we can't. She refused to hear it.
Not after all they'd been through, not after such a perfect week working together, feeling that connection with him through this terrible case, watching him support her when Sweet berated her, not by taking over, not by doing it for her, which she had an issue with, because she could defend herself, but by standing beside her, by touching her leg under the table in a show of solidarity, by reminding her that he knew she wasn't as cold as people thought she was, aloud, to Sweets and Caroline Julian. After all that, voluntarily admitting his fears of being like his father, speaking his determination to not be that man. After everything, the thought of waiting nearly killed her. He felt her hands at his waist, working on his belt and gathered them up in his own, halting her progress.
"We can't . . . we . . . we can't. I killed his girlfriend."
"You didn't kill anyone, she committed suicide, I remember, I was there when you got the call." She was easily as angry as she was passionate.
"In his eyes I killed her and, God, Bones, he wouldn't hesitate to kill you if he knew, if he even thought you were mine. I know it." She looked up at him and he was sure he saw in those raging eyes of hers what she must have seen in his when she first got to his office. "I know it. You aren't safe, not if he finds out, not if he knows. It has got to be business as usual until I catch him, Bones, has to be." Her heart was pounding and her eyes fell shut as she tried to regain her composure.
"Okay." She whispered. "Okay."
"I'll get him, Bones, I swear to God, I'll get him." He leaned in for another kiss, this one almost chaste comparatively. "Trust me," he said as he pulled a little farther away, "I'm very motivated."
One last kiss. That was it. Then they straightened themselves, each taking a deep breath.
"Motivated," she echoed. "Yes."
She went first. Walked to her car ahead of him, got in, got settled and started it. He followed, tapping on her window, reminding her that they'd meet at the diner for dinner, because that was business as usual, before separating for the night. She pulled away, circling her way up as she exited the garage. He got in his SUV and followed her. Chasing, he was always chasing her. He'd explain over dinner more of the ins and outs of his search for Broadsky and why he needed her to park in 3B until he was caught. She agreed outwardly as she cursed Jacob Broadsky inwardly.
They finished up, left the diner, and headed their separate ways, Booth more determined than ever to capture the man that was keeping him from finally catching her.
ooooo0ooooo
Author's Note: I appreciate you all so very much! I really do! I am sorry this is up so late, but, I swear, it's still Thursday here in California, at least for a couple more hours, okay, maybe just a little over an hour, but still Thursday nonetheless.
Anyway, I'll keep this short.
Thank you, by the way, for being so accepting of all the mistakes in the last chapter, I will hopefully get those corrected this weekend. Hopefully, you can be as generous with this chapter. I hate rushing to get it out, but after this crazy election cycle and the absolutely jaw dropping finale to it, I figured posting a distraction was more important than waiting to find and fix mistakes!
I'd love to hear from you. How'd you like this chapter? What do you think? Hate Broadsky just a little bit more?
Much love and hugs
DG
