AUTHOR'S NOTE: And it is Thursday again. How quickly time flies. I'll keep my A/N brief because a) I am absolutely exhausted, and b) I know you want to get to the romance I promised. Just keep in mind that it's written "Niah-style".
Many thanks to Faux Maven. As always you've been a great support, an excellent beta, and absolute fun to bounce emails back and forth with. Strappado wouldn't be the same without you.
- V -
-- THE MUTE'S BRIDLE --
The title of this chapter is the Mute's Bridle, also known as the Iron Gag. It was used to muffle the screams of the victim during the Spanish Inquisition's 'auto da fe' (meaning 'act of faith') which was the ritual public penance that took place after the Inquisition had decided what punishment the victim would receive.
The Mute's Bridle looks a bit like the Branks or Scold's Bridle. It's an iron collar with an oblong box in the front. The box is forced into the mouth while the collar is securely fastened around the victim's neck. There's a small opening in the front allowing air to pass in and out, but stifling all screams of distress at the same time. If the torturer felt like it, he could press a finger against the hole, making breathing for the victim extremely difficult.
We've skipped a bit forward in time. Two weeks down the line Brennan is feeling highly uncomfortable and is trying to deal with the emotions raging inside of her. But as always she refuses to openly discuss what's bothering her and thus chooses to wear an imaginary Mute's Bridle so no-one can find out about the anguish that's troubling her.
Thursday November 29 - Brennan's hotel room - 06:44
Morning crept silent and unstoppable as ever over the city of Washington D.C. It would be a surprisingly bright day, as there were only three or four in the month of November. Sunlight shyly peeked around corners and dabbed the faces of buildings and neatly lined out pavements with golden spots and shimmers revealing owners of newspaper stalls cutting and unpacking bundles of fresh newspapers. Here and there in every street were a handful of people going home to rest from a long, exhausting night of going out and dancing until their feet could no longer carry them. Or some of them were heading to work, filled with resolve to take care of all the work that would surely be dumped on their desks.
On the sixth floor of Park Hyatt Washington on 24 and M Streets, in a spacious 'Park Deluxe' room, Brennan watched morning light pour through the open slits of the wooden blinds in front of the bedroom window. She lay on the right side of the bed, closest to the window and right next to a three-tiered, open bookshelf. A modern lamp, a small piece of art, an alarm clock, and a set of books had been strategically placed on the shelves to give it a sophisticated look. The same decorating style had been used in the entire suite. Ornaments were put at the most random places, the walls were painted in rich colors, and comfortable and expensive seemed inadequate as descriptions of the hotel room's furniture.
Despite there being a door to separate the suite's bedroom from the main living area, Brennan had no trouble visualizing how the same morning sun spilled through the living room's window and washed over the very large couch, oversized work desk, and splendid looking flat screen television. She normally wasn't prone to imagining such scenes, but she needed something pointless to concentrate on in order to keep her from thinking about John. It was no use. Simple visualization exercises couldn't stop the thoughts of John toppling through her head.
His funeral was today. First there would be a memorial service at the church; afterwards close friends and relatives would gather at the cemetery to see the casket being lowered into the cold ground. Brennan inwardly cringed. Though she wasn't religious, John's body being put to rest affected her. It was over; John was dead. She would never see his face nor would touch his warm, inviting skin again. She couldn't bring him back and was having a hard time dealing with that fact. Though John had never gotten close enough to leave an indelible impression on her, Brennan found herself grieving over his untimely death. He had been sharing her bed, not her heart, but somewhere along the way she had become used to his presence. Enough to notice the emptiness he left behind.
John's family obviously knew about the superficial relationship Brennan had had with him because she hadn't received an invitation to join them in the mourning over John's loss. But that didn't stop her from going to the funeral. It didn't matter that the resentment his family felt on her behalf had been nearly palpable, even over the phone. The only proper reason to go to the burial service Brennan was willing to admit to herself was the unlucky fact that John had been shot at her apartment, in her presence. All the other reasons --the striking feeling of loss, a need to express her sorrow, and the guilt weighing down heavily on her shoulders weren't relevant. She pretended attending John's funeral seemed like the only logical thing to do. In a time of confusion and emotional struggle Brennan desperately wanted to cling to whatever little rationality she could get her hands on. Facing the dark spiral of inner turmoil wasn't something she was ready for.
It had been two weeks now. Two weeks in which nothing unusual had happened. On some days it nearly seemed like everything was completely normal. But then Brennan would see Angela's slowly fading bruises or careful movements and everything would come back to her, including her resolve to find whoever had done her best friend such harm. Every hour Brennan put into both cases and every lead she mercilessly pursued, she did it all for Angela's and John's sake. Though he had spent three days a week for three months in her company and she had become used to him, John was now as dead as a man could be. He deserved to have his killer found. Angela was still alive and kicking, but she deserved justice just as much.
But finding justice appeared harder than Brennan had initially thought. Evidence and law enforcement seemed to work against her. The empty apartment across the street had been a perfect hide-out for a sniper, but not a single fingerprint had been found. The only trace the sniper had left was an SV-99 sniper rifle and a couple of smudgy foot prints in the living room, probably from when he left the patio to place the rifle on the coffee table. Unfortunately, thanks to excruciatingly slow police procedure, none of the evidence had yet been properly examined. What made matters worse was that no-one, not one single witness, had noticed an unfamiliar man enter or leave the building. All they had now were smudged shoe prints, an urban sniper rifle with the serial number filed off, and no key witnesses who could describe the killer.
Angela's case was looking even worse. The only concrete things they had to go on were scrapings from under Angela's nails with DNA traces they had yet to match to another sample, and a very abstract drawing of the man Angela claimed to be her attacker. Sadly enough the drawing wasn't of much use. During the attack Angela's vision had been obscured by blood leaking from a deep cut in her forehead; ultimately she couldn't really see his face. Of course, the little box Booth had found at the scene was a crucial piece of evidence that had made it possible for them to link the two cases, but in the end it was pretty much useless as well. Because the killer used a standard baby nipple, retracing the package to where it was purchased wouldn't be of any importance. And the killer had made sure to wipe the package clean of all fingerprints. He had been that careful unfortunately.
All in all, both cases were looking pretty depressing. Though Brennan and her team hadn't officially been assigned to work on this with Booth, they did all they could to help. What little progress they made angered Hodgins while Brennan appeared to remain untouched by it all. Denying how much the stabbing memories affected her had become a habit. She did what she always did; she turned her emotions inwards and appeared to study the facts from the outside. Truth was, that besides working relentlessly until she could no more, she hurt every single day. Not a morning passed without waking up in cold sweat, and not a night began without remembering the pop of the gun followed by the lifeless thump as John's body crashed to the floor. Pulling up a façade of indifference and cold concentration was easy and necessary for her survival. If she didn't distance herself from the world around her, she might accept the silent comfort of Booth's presence and break down in front of him...or worse, in his arms.
Brennan rolled onto her side and thoughtfully regarded the other side of the bed, empty and inviting at the same time, when her partner came to mind. In the two weeks that had passed since the shooting, Booth had insisted on staying close to her just like Hodgins never let Angela out of his sight. To Brennan it seemed a repeat of the Cugini-Hollings case. During the day, whenever she turned around, she saw Booth either sitting in a chair or leaning against a wall or even pretending to have an animated discussion with Zach, always in the neighborhood in case something went wrong. She was only alone at night.
As time progressed, Brennan began to find these precautions more and more irritating and frightening. Nothing happened; no-one tried to kill her. An exotic mix of guilt, longing for comfort, and an irrational fear that she could be next on the sniper's list was raging inside of her. Dealing with it was tiring, but she refused to make Booth or anyone else party to her inner turmoil. Ignorant of her feelings, Booth was only filled with concern. His need to protect had grown out of proportion. Brennan could clearly see he was constantly preoccupied with their tormentor. Whoever was toying with them like a cat with a dead bird, was a very dangerous man. A reckless murderer would've struck again as soon as he was offered a decent opportunity, but the man hunting them had just disappeared---gone up in smoke, vanished from the face of the earth. They couldn't find him or any clues as to who he was. He had planned the whole thing out extremely carefully and that was what worried Booth.
She sighed, rolled onto her other side, and eventually threw back the covers. Staying in bed until her alarm clock announced it was 07:00 in the morning was not an option when thoughts, memories, and assumptions were swirling in her mind. She got up and made her way to the bathroom. There she quickly shed her clothes, ignoring the goose bumps created by suddenly leaving the warmth of her bed, before getting in the shower. Once warm water slipped down her body in steady streams and steam enveloped her like a second skin, Brennan felt the tension being eased from her muscles. She could almost forget Booth had insisted on the FBI placing her in a special hotel where they could watch her.
A small, satisfied smile played over her face as she remembered how she had refused Booth's offer and had personally paid for a place to stay at as long as her apartment was an active crime scene. Booth hadn't like it, but had expected such a gesture from her side and had gone effortlessly along with it. The only concession Brennan had to make was giving Booth a spare key and the promise she'd call him first before anyone else should something go wrong. The fact that she had called local police instead of him hadn't gone down well with her partner. If Brennan didn't know any better, she could have sworn her action had wounded more than Booth's pride.
Brennan had barely wrapped a towel around her body when she picked up the distinctive sound of shoes on the hotel suite's parquet living room floor. Immediately she froze. There was someone in her room well before 07:30 in the morning. This could only mean Booth had been right to worry. The sniper had not forgotten about her. An uncontrollable fear came over her. John's startled grunt and the sound of his corpse hitting the floor resounded loudly in her ears as she willed herself to calm down. Panicking and letting her disturbing memories get to her wouldn't help her if she stood face to face with her attacker.
Lips pinched to a determined thin line and her bath towel tucked firmly around her body, Brennan silently opened the door and tiptoed into her bedroom. Because of the layout, bed- and bathroom were adjacent and separate from the living room. Whoever was snooping around couldn't see her unless he decided to peek through the small gap the open bedroom door provided. Brennan's skimpy attire didn't bother her in the least; changing into something else would take time -- something she didn't have with an intruder in the vicinity. In her bedroom, she grabbed the bat she had once used to smash her television into pieces when one of her ex-boyfriends had come to collect it unexpectedly. When she had left her apartment, she had taken it with her for some unknown reason. Now Brennan knew why. Wielding it around would pose no problem; it would be a useful weapon.
As swiftly as possible she moved to stand next to the door leading to the living room. Because she was barefooted, she was able to cross the room without making any more noise than the soft pat of feet on rug. Her silence contrasted the amount of noise the burglar made. He walked around undisturbed, as if he owned the place. Brennan waited patiently with her back against the wall until he came close enough to be within reach of her weapon. Her grip on her baseball bat tightened. She breathed in and out steadily, calmly collecting enough nerve to jump out of hiding and beat him senseless.
The moment his footsteps sounded impossibly near, Brennan briefly closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, violently shoved the door open with her foot, and jumped around the corner, her bat held up at waist height. As soon as she had jumped out of hiding, Brennan realized she had made two mistakes. The first, and by far the worse mistake, was that she had angled her bat in such a way that she could seriously damage a person's spine if she hit hard enough and that was exactly what she had originally intended on doing. The second mistake was that she had acted irrationally. Instead of logically enumerating the people who could be in her room at this hour, she had boldly jumped out with a weapon at the ready. Fortunately Brennan had recognized the back she had planned to strike and stopped in time. The clothes clinging to his frame betrayed the shape of a lower back she had studied numerous times and had occasionally fantasized about touching. How tempting it had sometimes been to let her fingers wander over his back in an excuse to examine his spine for irregularities.
There was no doubt to whom this back belonged, but before she could properly react, he swung around and effectively pinned her to the wall with one arm across her neck, close to her throat. A gun aimed precisely at the center of her forehead was in his other hand. Brennan cringed when he grunted. She avoided blinking as he stared at her. Fully aware of her error, she let the hand clutching the bat hang down limply beside her side. Seeing it still raised in the air would only irritate him more. Not that attempting to beat him to a pulp would put him in a good mood anyway...Not that either of them was paying attention to her bat at the moment. Tingles frolicking down her spine and a sudden ache to run her finger up his arm, over his elbow, and finally circle his shoulder confused her momentarily. In a flash of irrationality, Brennan wondered how she had ever found satisfaction in John's arms when Booth could evoke such feelings in her by simply manhandling her as if she was a dangerous criminal. Just when Brennan was considering how to work her way out of this lustful predicament, Booth backed away as though stung by a bee.
"Bones, damn it!" Booth cursed as he blinked before holstering his gun. "What the hell is up with the bat?"
Brennan tilted her chin up defiantly. Though she knew the mistake was entirely hers, she had a good enough reason to attack him. How else was she supposed to react to someone breaking into her apartment early in the morning? "I thought you were a burglar." She lifted the heavy piece of wood and poked it at him. "What are you doing here, Booth? I specifically told you to stay away. I'm going to John's funeral alone."
"And I said no," Booth countered.
He gritted his teeth as he unconsciously rubbed the parts of his wrist where Brennan had touched him. Next his hand went to his lower back. Good thing she had recognized him before she had had a chance to swing at him. Booth imperceptibly shook his head. One of these days he was going to strip her and her surroundings of everything that could serve as a weapon, starting with that bat. He should've known the woman couldn't be trusted with it, nor with any other weapon. Brennan possessed an unhealthy talent for weapons, be it a bat, a gun or simply her hands and feet. He valued her ability to protect herself, but he would have to keep an eye on her. Otherwise she'd end up shooting him one day. He shook his head again and concentrated on frowning and sounding dominant and irritated.
"There is no way in hell that I'm allowing you to go alone. The killer is still out there."
"You're not allowing me?" Brennan exclaimed outraged.
"You heard me."
They stared at each other, both determined not to be the first to turn away. Over the course of the last fifteen days they had regularly had this argument. Brennan's determined yet distanced attitude was an act Booth could not comprehend. They had a killer on their tails and she didn't seem to be seriously bothered by that. She ignored all safety precautions and she constantly challenged him -- ordering him to back down -- which he refused to do time and time again. If something happened to her, God forbid, he would never forgive himself. She was dearer to him than any woman had ever been. If she ever died, part of him would die.
As Booth stared at her, it became crystal clear to him that Brennan understood perfectly why he was being this protective of her. The way and number of times she tried to shove him aside contradicted his realization, but Booth now saw it was all a part of her defense mechanism. The killer had gotten to Brennan and she didn't want Booth to see her weakness. Booth smiled ruefully in silent mockery. He was doing the exact same thing as his partner. Only it was Brennan who had gotten to him and she was his weakness. He curtly shook his head to rid his mind of thoughts of exactly what it was he felt for Brennan. This was neither the time nor the place to sort through those feelings. His goal was to get her to agree to let him accompany her to her boyfriend's funeral. John's family hadn't asked her to come, but Brennan insisted on going anyway to pay him her last respects.
Booth was all for respecting the dead, but not when his partner's life was on the line. John's life had been taken in a split second, only because a mad man had thought of it as fit. He could send Brennan to another world just as easily. If Booth could, as much as possible, prevent her from going to unknown places where he couldn't properly protect her, then he'd happily go through a hundred heated discussions. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy them...especially not when the anger was blazing from her eyes like it was now. Was she even aware of how striking she looked when she sent those pointed glares his way? Booth cleared his throat to mask how his breath hitched when he took in her hair dripping with water from the shower he had heard running when he had entered her hotel suite.
"I am coming with you. Discussion closed," he snapped, a bit harsher than necessary because of his confusion about how fast she could turn his anger into lust. He had to get away from her right now, before he started fantasizing about how he'd peel off her clothes -- was a bath towel even considered a piece of clothing? -- and pull her longs legs around his waist. He shoved his mental images aside and quietly wished Samantha was still around, if only so he could release the sizzling tension Brennan caused.
"Stop testing my patience, Bones," he added. "Get dressed...now."
Brennan glared at him, jabbed her bat at him again, and opened her mouth to speak, but in the end thought better of it.
"Fine," she snapped back at him.
Then she turned on her heel and stormed off, unaware of the effect her towel which came only to mid-thigh was having on her partner. Booth followed her with his gaze until the door of the bathroom slammed shut. He ran a hand through his hair and over his tired eyes. Their arguments had been confusing before the incident, but now they were downright brain twisters. He was growing tired of the palette of emotions Brennan painted for him. One of these days he'd either strangle her or kiss her. Whatever he chose, it would be fiercely passionate.
Now what did I tell you...It's probably not what you expected, hmm?