Jeffersonian Institute, West Wing

Booth ran up the long connecting corridor, praying the flip-flops in his gut would settle down. He still wore the goggles down around his neck, not wanting to put on the hot protective gear until closer to showtime. For now, this deep in the non-public bowels of the complex he should have nothing to worry about. He'd slow down and change modes as he neared the security doors, accessible only by card key, which would serve as his back door into the museum proper. Once he'd crossed over from the Lab building into the actual wing off the main building he'd only encountered a few stragglers on the staff. Of course he'd ordered the squints to get the hell out. The secretary types of course had already had the common sense to get the hell out of Dodge. He didn't have the time to go looking for anyone, he had bigger priorities, but he yelled at whomever he saw while he was on the run.

But one particular squint, who made him think of Zach in another thirty years, at least if the kid never got laid, wasted a few precious seconds arguing about not wanting to leave some computer model that was running as an experiment. Booth grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders and physically propelled him in the direction of the Lab. It was all he could do to keep from literally putting his foot in the man's ass for a little extra velocity, and he almost regretted not having taken the time to have changed into his boots which would have aided in the task.

He shook his head, muttering to himself as he turned around to continue his run, but the irritation vanished as he received a shock, his first up close brush with the results of the violence in the museum. It forced him to confront just how bad it might really be inside.

"Hey, which way to the Medico-Legal Lab? We need some help."

Booth sobered as if he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. The questioner was a haunted looking man who looked to be in his forties. Not wearing a staff ID, he had to be a visitor. His pink dress shirt and the upper part of his khaki pants were soaked with the blood of the unconscious girl he was carrying in his arms. She was dressed in a blue and white plaid school uniform, where it wasn't made dark by blood, and appeared to be a second or third grader. With her head lolling back and deathly pale skin she looked so bad she might be gone already. Booth couldn't see if she was still breathing, but couldn't bring himself to check her pulse. As a parent himself he rationalized that there was no point in taking away the other man's hope when he had no way to help anyway other than by answering his question.

Booth pointed back the way from which he'd come, "Just keep following the main corridor. More help should be getting there any minute."

The man nodded his thanks, and Booth felt helpless as he stood aside. The brief squeeze he gave the other man's shoulder as he passed was totally inadequate compared to the anger and guilt which threatened to flare to life again and consume him. Keep your head in the game! Other little girls and boys were still inside…

Booth stood there a few more seconds watching the trotting man as with great difficulty he battered the potentially crippling emotions back into box where they belonged for now.

He suddenly remembered something important. He called out to the man's retreating back, "Hey! How'd you get back here?"

Without stopping, the other man yelled back over his shoulder, "Some lady who works back there let us in with her badge!"

Booth turned and ran again, feeling a surge of hope. Perhaps the other fears he'd been trying to suppress were baseless. She's ok! But then the man's precise words sank in. His pace faltered and he nearly stumbled, "Lady." Singular. Doubt and worry racked him again, then guilt as he realized he was selfishly hoping it was Brennan. Angela was his friend, and she deserved his protection too. He shuffled to a stop and turned and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, thumping his helmeted head against the painted cinderblock. He didn't know if he could take this, could keep his shit together long enough to do them, do anyone, any good…

Please God, let them both be safe. Help me help anyone inside…

He wasted a few more precious seconds pulling himself together. Quit fucking around!

He took a few deep breaths, set his face in a determined mask, then began running again.

And ran head on into another shock just a couple turns later…

- - -

Angela prayed the man she'd told to run ahead could find help in time to save the young girl he'd volunteered to carry. Their little group and the dozens of others who'd got out of the IMAX had come under fire from the Rotunda one last time as they'd made their break for freedom in running from the theater exit, out of the Gallery, and into the west wing of the museum. Fortunately they'd not been followed, but they had not escaped without injury. Others in the crowd had fallen in the wild spray of machine gun fire including one of the girls from the school field trip they'd adopted after their chaperone had been killed. They'd somehow picked up a few stragglers and one man had taken charge of the wounded girl.

Angela wiped at her eyes again, trying not to cry in front of the children she was herding in the corridor as she hoped for the thousandth time Brennan had been right insisting they head for the Lab instead of going out the nearest fire exit on the side of the building. And then Brennan had been so damned hardheaded about going the other way when it was finally their chance to escape. She'd about screamed herself hoarse trying to stop her…

Angela was an emotional basket case, and was just trying to hold it together long enough to get back to safety before collapsing into a blubbering heap. The death of the grandfather had been upsetting enough, but she didn't actually see it. But she'd had a front row seat for the murder of the security guard from the lab, Duncan. She felt absolutely horrible. She remembered the day not long ago when he'd first started working in the lab. Jack had made a quiet crack to her remarking on his not so 'lean and mean' build, the typical cops-love-Dunkin' Donuts thing. She'd chuckled at the joke, then they'd both died laughing later when they learned his first name.

And he'd given his life to save them today. She felt like absolute shit.

Her recollections were interrupted by the sound of children screaming from up ahead. Janice had just rounded the next corner with a couple other children, the dead chaperone's granddaughter still on her shoulder.

Angela could just make out a male voice, "FBI! We're the good guys." And Janice's response, "It's ok, children. It's ok."

The noise from the children settled down as the agent came into view around the corner. Angela could understand why they'd screamed – they'd only seen men of the wrong sort with automatic weapons today. They were traumatized. She took in the armed figure, at first distracted by the incongruity of the black tactical gear over the remains of a business suit and the machine gun slung across his chest. Only as the man almost reached her did the face under the helmet finally register…

She couldn't help herself. She screamed, "Booth!" Then in a more normal voice, "Thank God!"

"Angela!"

She ignored the slung weapon and hugged him as the tears did finally come pouring down her cheeks. He returned the embrace for just a few seconds before startling her by shoving her back rather forcefully and staring her in the eye.

"Where is she!"

His vice-like grip on her right upper arm was almost painful, and the intensity in his eyes as he searched hers was actually frightening. She was so thrown off that it took her a second…

- - -

Impatient with her delay Booth gave her a shake, "Where is she!" His Bones was nowhere to be seen.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel such abject terror, but the almost frightened look in Angela's eyes got through to him. He realized he was hurting her, and released his hold on her arm. He tried to keep his worst fears, which seemed to be coming to fruition, at bay and apologized. He realized the hand he'd seized her arm with was shaking.

"I'm… sorry…"

He felt like an ass as she rubbed her arm, scrubbed her cheeks, and opened her mouth to speak, but whatever words she had to say went unheard as a teenaged girl came into view around the next corner just several yards ahead.

She was pulling a commandeered office chair.

An office chair serving as an improvised wheelchair.

One which carried Temperance. She was sitting side-saddle with her legs hanging over the arm rest. And she was somewhat awkwardly holding an AK.

"I'm right here." Somehow she managed to smile at him.

Booths heart did a 180, soaring. She's alive! Disheveled as she was, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

But then it did a 180 again, nosediving as he noted the horrific details of her condition. He stood there motionless, barely able to breathe as she approached.

One calf dangled, the lower trouser leg of her slacks thoroughly soaked with blood.

Her cream colored blouse was also marked with blood that was only just beginning to darken, with several small tears in places. Some of the marks on the fabric were still bright, indicating some fresh bleeding from the wounds beneath.

Streaks and spatters of blood, and what appeared to be partly dried… bits… were on her right shoulder and the same side of her neck, and her face, and even in her hair.

He swayed and the hallway swirled around him.

The successive shocks of thinking she might be dead immediately followed by the relief of finding her alive were compounded by the rising rage and guilt he felt. It was too much. He was angry at the terrorists, and possibly even angrier at himself for his role in letting them hurt her. Worse, the AK in her hands was a reproach. He'd failed to protect her, and couldn't even save her… there was no telling what horrors she'd been through because of him…

The surging emotions threatened to completely overwhelm him, and he did the only thing he could to protect his sanity…

He ignored her smile upon seeing him and the arm she began to raise toward him…

Instead he just took care of business.

He shifted his MP5 on its sling around to his back, out of the way. Then he closed the remaining distance and bent down, only allowing himself to briefly cup her cheek with his hand to satisfy himself she really was here. But he didn't trust himself to speak, or even really meet her eyes, as he gently pried the assault rifle from her grip. He stood up and safed the weapon – he removed the magazine, which he noted was full, and yanked the charging handle to eject the round in the chamber. It wouldn't do to have some green cop get panicky at the sight of the AK and shoot them. He told the teenaged girl, who was watching everything wordlessly, to put the mag in the shoulder bag she was carrying.

"Hold out your arm," he ordered. When she did he slung the AK over her shoulder so it was hanging on her back, pointing upside down.

Then he bent back down and went back to work checking Temperance's wounds, his mouth tight.

He quickly ran his hands over her torso to make sure none of those wounds were serious. As he'd hoped, a fair amount of the blood fortunately was not hers. She had a deeper gash on the back of her left arm, but it would do for now. He grabbed her head and examined her neck and hairline, nothing there either, thank God.

Bones started to speak, but he cut her off as he turned to Angela.

"Were you guys at the IMAX?"

The artist nodded.

"How many terrorists did you see?"

"I think there were three left."

Booth decided to file that report with a grain of salt. By his count there should be five – the original four plus the backpacker. There could also be one or more ringers just like the maintenance worker. He took a second and radioed in his status.

To be on the safe side, before he worked on her leg, he took Bones by the shoulders and pulled her forward so he could check her back. He grimaced at the sight of a dozen small cuts which had bled through the blouse, but none of them appeared to be serious although some glass might still need to be picked out in the ER. She must have been near one of the blasts. Goddamit to hell. He felt another stab of guilt he tried in vain to squelch as he squatted down to take a closer look at her leg. He didn't like the looks of all that still bright red blood. No, not at all.

She said something but he didn't hear her as he removed her shoe then pulled out his knife and cut the trouser leg off at her knee. He wiped away the smeared blood as best as he could for a better look. Nothing. He took her foot and raised the leg for a better look on the back side of the calf. As he did, fresh blood freely dripped on to the floor tiles. There. He wiped away blood again, and wiped his hands on his pants. A small slit entry wound, about a half inch long. Shrapnel, not a bullet. He didn't see an exit wound so it must still be inside, continuing to cut.

The wound continued to bleed as he watched. Looking closely he was pretty sure he could see her pulse in the flow, but fortunately there was no arterial spurting. At least not yet. But the shrapnel could still do some more damage with movement.

As he reached for the bandage in his gear Angela interrupted worriedly.

"I remember reading that suicide bombers dipped the shrapnel in rat poison…"

Booth turned to her. At least that was one thing he could handle.

"That's not a problem. When they do do it, there's just not enough chemical to actually have any effects. It's just a scare tactic."

"Well they succeeded." She had another question, " Do you think we'll be safe back in the Lab? The terrorists…"

But Booth was already back on task, and he answered without thinking.

"They'll get back there over my dead body."

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Temperance flinched at his poor choice of words, and he kicked himself. Idiot. He started to open his mouth to apologize, but then he closed it, nodding to himself. He wasn't going to take back the words after all.

Instead he'd realized it was a solemn vow he had every literal intention of keeping.

Back to work.

In his hurry to equip himself outside he'd missed the field bandage which should have been in the gear on his belt. Fuck.

He improvised. He stood up straight, reached under the edge of the vest and under the gun belt, and unhooked his leather belt which he pulled out of the belt loops of his pants. He squatted back down, and wrapped the belt around Temperance's calf a couple of times before tying it off somewhat snugly. He placed it a bit above the wound, not wanting the pressure of the belt to cause tissue to cut itself against the embedded piece of metal. That was already a problem. He didn't want an actual tourniquet either, but he wanted constrict the blood flow a bit just in case.

He was finally able to look her in the eye, just barely, and speak directly to her. She'd been quietly watching his every move. His emotions were still in turmoil beneath the surface.

"If your leg starts swelling you can loosen it. But keep your leg elevated. And for the love of God stay off it."

He started to get up, but she stopped him. She reached out and touched his cheek…

"Booth…"

- - -

When Brennan first heard Booth talking to Angela and then had rolled around the corner to where she could see him herself she felt like their ordeal was finally over. She knew he would come for them. Tactical gear and all, he was the best looking thing she'd ever seen.

She'd fully expected to be able to finally let go of the iron self-control she'd mostly successfully held on to, and melt into his arms around her, but for some reason it didn't happen.

Instead he was almost cold to her. As he'd examined her injuries, somewhat roughly even, she'd been put off by his distant manner. His body was stiff, and his face was a grim, rigid mask.

"Booth," she repeated. With her touch on his cheek, the mask finally slipped a little.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…" he half-whispered.

Even she could see the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he'd been too scared for her. She didn't understand it fully, but wasn't going to let it stop her.

She stroked his cheek and enjoyed the way he started to lean into it. She gently replied with a smile, "I'm ok. It's not your fault…"

But her words didn't have quite the reassuring effect she'd intended.

For a moment he looked like was about to break, but then the mask slammed back into place and he jerked back and suddenly stood up as if her touch had stung him.

"I have to go. I've been here way too long." He didn't look at her as he reached around his back and pulled the MP5 sub-machine gun back around to his front on its sling.

"What?" She didn't understand…

"I'm going into the museum," he explained.

She sat there with her mouth open, not knowing how she could have been so stupid. The crisis wasn't over yet. And it was what he'd trained to do. She wanted more than anything to beg him to go back with her to the Lab and be safe, but knew she couldn't. She was ready to celebrate still being alive after everything, and now he was going into danger…

- - -

Booth watched her as she processed what he'd just told her, and it tore at him, the way she suddenly looked so lost and vulnerable.

He turned away to leave, figuring he should just get it the hell over with and go, but he thought better of it. What the hell... He turned back to her.

Might not ever get another chance…

He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. Every bit as soft and warm as he'd hoped…

He realized he'd better cut it short, and he stood up.

She looked somewhat dazed, like she didn't know what to make of it. She started to open her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"You don't have to say anything…"

He had not meant to drop it on her like this… it was simply enough that she had some idea how he felt.

But she still looked lost and he felt he needed to do something about that. He remembered how tight her grip had been on the rifle and he had an idea… he flipped back the restraining band on his holster and drew his pistol.

"There's one in the chamber. Safety's on."

He put it in her lap and wrapped her hands around it. She looked at him gratefully.

"Gotta run." He lifted the goggles into place over his face and walked to the corner around which she'd just appeared herself. He turned around to look at her once more, and gave her his best smile before he disappeared from her view.

He ran.

- - -

After a moment Emily and Angela began pushing her chair toward the Lab again, after the others who'd gone on.

Brennan looked sadly back up the corridor toward the spot where he'd left her as it receded in the distance.

Her heart was in her throat.

In spite of what Angela had once said, he really wasn't a knight…

She knew from experience that the flesh underneath could be hurt, and the armor which protected it was all too small and inadequate.

…and not at all impenetrable.

- - -

In synch with the emotions of her friends, Angela's eyes were moist again, dammit.

"Angela," whispered Emily as she pulled the chair.

The artist gave her a questioning look.

"Is that him?"

Angela didn't understand the question. Apparently her confusion showed.

In response Emily simply tapped the signed book through the fabric of the shoulder bag she'd somehow managed to hold on to through everything.

Angela looked at Brennan, who was oblivious, still staring back in the direction from which they'd come, clutching the pistol.

Angela answered.

"Yeah… yes, that's him."

A/N

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