A/N: Apologies...I'd hoped to post this during lunch, and encountered technical difficulties in the form of the internet taking an hours' long break.
Although intellectually Brennan knew that the hours between midnight and 6AM had no more minutes in them than did any six hours during the day, they felt endless.
During the days, there was a never-ending stream to details to keep her busy. During the night, there was only fear and doubt.
She tried to use the time in a constructive fashion by unpacking more of the boxes remaining from the move. But no matter how disciplined she attempted to be in finding homes for their belongings, she'd wind up pacing from room to room, while telling herself that that's not what she was doing. Booth was the one who paced occasionally; she didn't. Or hadn't, at least.
Had she done the right thing? Had she trusted the right person? Too late to take it back now.
Too late to remember that she wasn't always the best judge of character.
Four days had passed since she'd made the call that set in motion events which could not now be changed, risking everything on the integrity of someone she really didn't know that well.
Indulging in doubt wasn't constructive. You made the best choices you could, and went forward, accepting the consequences, positive or negative.
But this time, the consequences could either be the desired outcome of his freedom, or, if she'd trusted wrongly, his death.
But not taking any action at all hadn't been an option, not when it was clear it was a matter of days before someone in the jail would succeed in killing him. But she'd thought there would be a faster response, whatever it was.
She waited. And paced.
B&B
He'd been damned lucky. Booth knew that. If the homemade weapon had been a little higher, he'd have been in trouble. Instead, he'd spent the night in the hospital, and now, five days later, was mostly just irritated by the twelve stitches across one of his left ribs. They itched.
He was alone again. After the attack, Barron had pressured them to put him back in a cell by himself, so Wright had been moved. He wouldn't go so far as to say he missed him, but Wright, still pissed at being manipulated, had warned him that other inmates were plotting to kill him.
Not that the warning was news. Booth accepted that he was going to die here. Just not this week, apparently. T
The door in the hall outside his cell clanged open, and a deputy appeared at his door. "Get your stuff together, Booth."
He sat up, reached for the bag that held the items he'd been able to keep with him - toiletries, mostly, and a picture of Brennan, Christine, and Parker. "What's up?" He didn't expect the deputy to tell him, but the man's tone had been less hostile than usual, so it was worth a try.
The deputy shook his head and opened the door. "Your lawyer is here."
It was more than that, but he'd know soon enough. The deputy led him through the heavy doors, down a hall way, through another locked door, and finally into what looked like a small conference room or unused office. He then stepped out, closing the door behind him. Booth stared at Barron. The other man looked as unflappable as always, but for a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes.
"What's going on?"
"All charges against you have been dropped."
Booth simply stared at him. Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped thinking about freedom. It had made focusing on survival easier. And after he'd been stabbed - while a deputy stood by, watching - there had been no point at all to hope.
He had never doubted Brennan would clear him, but had, after nearly four months, accepted it would be after his death.
Home. No, not the one they'd shared for three years, but home would always be wherever Brennan was. That, and a chance to sleep without fear was all he wanted in the entire world. One hundred and four days, and now, it hardly seemed real. "She did it. The squints did it."
"They had some help." Barron handed him a newspaper.
It was the front section of The New York Times, and midway down on the front page was the headline, "Evidence mounts that decorated FBI agent was framed by his own agency." He skimmed it, saw references to DNA matches, missing files, evidence the dead men had never been FBI agents, and CIA files that proved bureau files had been tampered with. Danny.
The focus was on the facts related to his arrest, with very little about the motivation behind it, and nothing about the conspiracy.
"The media has been hammering you," Barron said. "In a way that doesn't make sense, even for them. Being friends with the Chief International Correspondent for the Associated Press is handy."
"What?" Puzzled, Booth glanced up at him and then back down to the newspaper, where he finally noted the byline: "By Hannah Burley."
Well, shit. 'Friends' was way too complicated a term. But she was a damned good journalist.
They both looked up when the door opened, Booth automatically tensing against the fear that it was all a mistake. But he saw the same deputy who'd escorted him, and then every other thought was eclipsed by the woman standing there. "Bones."
"She's got a change of clothes for you," Barron said. "I'll wait outside."
He stepped out, and Brennan came in and closed the door, then simply stood there, studying him. The room was small, and he barely had to move before she was in his arms, a warm weight against him. From her position with her head in his shoulder, she whispered his name, but he couldn't find any words beyond repeating hers. His talisman during so many dark, endless nights. Finally, desperate to reassure himself that she was there, and that this was happening, that it wasn't part of some complicated nightmare, he kissed her. It was a little rough, rather wild, and was completely without finesse. Bones.
When they parted, they were both out of breath. He rested his forehead against hers, and said. "Hannah?"
Brennan pulled away, just a little, and looked at him. "We didn't know who to trust. The media has been so uniformly biased, refusing even to question the obvious holes in the bureau's story..." her voice trailed off. "If we gave the evidence to the wrong person, we were afraid they would destroy it or twist it to use against you. I trusted her," she ended simply.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. "Smart move."
"She wants a one on one with you."
The idea of being the focus of that kind of interview made him want to squirm. "I guess I owe her that."
"You do. She's flying in from Hong Kong and should be here tomorrow." Brennan looked at him, once more studying him, and he felt uneasy. Exposed in a way he seldom did with her. But for well over three months, his every thought had been guarding himself.
Brennan picked up the bag she'd dropped when she came in and handed it to him. "I didn't know what you'd want to wear, and didn't have much time to consider it."
"As long as it's not orange, I'm good."
Consternation settled onto her face, and confused, he opened the bag and pulled out his favorite, bright orange, Flyers t-shirt. He couldn't manage a full laugh, but the chuckle that escaped was at least honest. He brushed her lips with a kiss. "Flyers' orange is never a bad choice."
Although he'd never say so, though, he sort of wished she'd brought him a suit. It would be nice to walk out of this place as Seeley Booth, Special Agent.
Only he wasn't an agent, and might never be one again. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be one, for that matter. But he would never not be Seeley Booth, Flyers fan.
He stripped, his head jerking up when Brennan made a noise. She was staring at him in distress, and that was when he remembered the patchwork of bruises and new scars. At least with most of the old ones, some thought had generally been given to scarring. But not this time. No point in taking time on a body destined for life in prison. "I'm fine, Bones."
"You will be now." She sounded quiet, and very determined.
He dressed, and yes, being in jeans and his Flyers shirt felt as good as he'd expected it to.
There was a knock on the door, and Brennan opened it to Barron. "Are you about ready? I have some paperwork for you to sign, and the effects they've been holding for you."
Booth took the envelope, and looked inside. Generally, it might have a wallet or a watch; whatever personal effects a prisoner had on him when he went into the system. But Booth hadn't had anything like that on him during the firefight, so his envelope held only one thing. He shook the wedding ring out into his palm and then looked up, met Brennan's gaze as he slid it on. Better than Flyers' orange.
He signed the papers Barron had and tossed the pen down. "Now what?"
"The media is here in force, so I recommend you go out the back."
Booth nodded. He had no desire whatsoever to deal with the press.
"I'll go get my car and bring it around to the service entrance," Brennan said. "Will they allow me back there?"
"Yeah. They're expecting you."
With a glance at Booth, she walked out, and it took a concerted effort not to call her back. Don't go. Don't leave me. He grimaced. He was one fucked up man if he couldn't bear for his wife to leave him long enough to go get the car. He hoped her confidence that he would be okay wasn't misplaced.
B&B
Brennan sat in her car behind the jail, watching the door.
She was afraid. Her body was exhibiting all of the biological markers of fear: increased heart rate, heightened awareness of her surroundings, palms slippery on the steering wheel. It was irrational to be so afraid that something would go wrong, that whoever was behind the conspiracy would find a way to keep Booth in jail.
They might have wanted to try, but Hannah's article had caused an uproar being felt all over the world. The director of the CIA was standing firm on the accuracy of their files which proved the men killed during the attack on Booth had never been in the bureau, which was resulting in the FBI and the DOJ desperately pointing fingers at one another in an effort to find someone to blame while members of Congress, unable to figure out how to blame the opposing political party, were bizarrely united in their angry response. The President was promising a 'thorough investigation' and even other nations were trying to figure out if there were implications for international relations.
None of it mattered. Knowing that the people involved were far too busy trying to figure out how to keep from going to prison themselves to worry more about Booth didn't reassure her that someone wouldn't try.
And she couldn't bear the idea that they might prevent him from walking out that door. Not now. Not when they were so close. She'd told him once that she wasn't sure she could survive without him. Now, after the last few months, particularly the endless days since he was stabbed, she'd come to understand that without him, she could function, after a fashion. For Christine. For their daughter, for his child, she could go through the motions. Even find a smile for the little girl. But there was nothing for her. No joy, no laughter. No hope.
They could deal with whatever came next once he was free. They'd find a way forward, would get to the root of the conspiracy, and then figure out what came next. But his freedom came first.
The door opened, and he and Barron, with one of the deputies, stepped out.
B&B
Booth had told himself he'd relax once he was in the car, driving away from the jail. That his release would stop seeming like a fluke. But even as Brennan turned out of the alley onto the main street, away from the madness of the news trucks, he kept looking in the mirror for a tail.
"Where do you want to go? Christine is with Dad. He picked her up from daycare."
He stared out the window, tried to absorb the views of something other than cement blocks and iron bars. He'd missed a season, he realized. When he'd gone in, it had been early summer, and now, they were passing trees starting to turn. Three and a half months would be a lifetime to a three year old. What if- He pushed the thought aside, but another question remained: How many more months of her life was he going to miss due to consequences of their work?
"Let's go to the house, Bones. I want to wash off the stink of that place before I see her."
"Of course."
She changed lanes and turned right at the next light. He should probably be paying attention to where they were going, but the oddest thing in his life right now was not that he didn't know where his house was. It was that he didn't have a clue what came next. More than his next breath, he wanted to take down whoever was behind the conspiracy. But he wasn't an agent. He wasn't sure what he was.
He was free, and with Brennan. He forced himself to relax, and leaned his head back against the head rest. Desperate for something to fill the silence, he asked, "Are the squints working any cases right now?"
"Not really." She told him about the twin brothers. "We're not sure what it means. It wasn't that difficult to recognize that there were two sets mixed together. Sweets thinks they're just desperate not to have anyone questioning them. Caroline acknowledges it could be a test of some kind, but I don't understand what they were trying to prove besides the incompetence of their own technicians."
"I heard about that case even in jail, Bones. Maybe what's easy for you was hard for them."
"If so, then they need us more, not less."
He had no argument for that. "How's Christine?" Even as he asked the question, he acknowledged that he'd been afraid to, earlier. When Brennan didn't respond immediately, his gut clenched.
"She's doing better since we moved into the new house," she finally said. "But she's still urinating in her bed at night occasionally, behavior which Sweets says is not uncommon when a child's life has been severely disrupted."
Severely disrupted. Way to understate the obvious, Bones. "But she's happier now that she's back in a room of her own, with her books and toys, right?"
"She will be now." Brennan looked over at him. "She's missed you, Booth. The last few days she's been asking if I was sure Jesus hadn't taken you to heaven."
Breath left his lungs. "Maybe we should go straight to Max's." What the hell had he been thinking, to delay?
"We're almost to the house now. I'll have Dad bring her home while you shower. It will be good for you to be relaxed when you see her."
He was tense again, every muscle rigid. He grimaced, and forced his muscles to relax, one at a time. She had a point.
They were driving through an area he wasn't as familiar with, a mix of older and newer houses in the western suburbs, far enough out that some of the lots were twice the size of what they'd had. Off a side street, Brennan finally turned into a long driveway. Ahead of them, the house was obscured with trees. "It's an old farmhouse," she said. "Structurally sound, Wendell says, but it needs updating and some cosmetic work."
The drive split, one branch going into a detached garage, the other looping around in front of the wide porch. Brennan parked, and Booth exited the car, and then just stood there. Could he see himself living here? Was this home? He watched Brennan walk toward him, and saw anxiety in her eyes. She was worried about his response. He held out his hand, entwined their fingers, and took a deep breath, appreciating the scents of trees and grass. "It feels very private, Bones. I like that." More now than he would have a few months ago.
She relaxed, and he tugged her to him for a kiss before walking up the steps with her. As she unlocked the door, he began to see what she meant about the work it needed - the paint was peeling in spots, and as they stepped inside, he saw the wood floors were badly scarred. He could fix that.
The entry opened to a living room on the left, a dining room on the right, and stairs going straight up. Through the large arch, he could see that someone had modified the dining room so that it flowed into the kitchen, a breakfast bar between the areas.
There was a sofa - similar in design to the one they'd had in the old house - in the living room, but the TV, new in its box, sat next to the wall.
"We've not unpacked everything that the restoration company placed in storage for us," Brennan said. "Hodgins was going to help me hang the television, but-"
"Bones, stop." He turned toward her, irrationally angry at what was clearly an apology. "It's fine. It's great." It's not jail. Aware that his tone was sharper than he intended, he reached out, touched her cheek. "You're exhausted. We'll unpack together."
"I didn't know how to find a house that would suit both of us. But this has many of the features that were important to you before."
How many of them would really matter to him now? The only thing he cared about was how distressed she sounded. "I like that the yard is so big. I like the privacy." He walked into the dining room, motioned toward the breakfast bar. "I like that. It's fine, Bones. It's all fine." He turned back to her. "All that matters is that you and Christine are here."
She studied him, then slowly nodded. "If you eventually decide you'd rather live elsewhere, we can probably resell it at a profit once we've repainted it."
How the hell did he know where he'd want to live, when he didn't know what he'd be doing? Maybe they'd move to California and he'd take that security job at the studio. "I like this house, Bones. It's got character." He smiled, and knew from her frown that the effort fell flat.
"Let me show you upstairs, so you can take a shower." She turned, and he followed her. "There's one bathroom and five bedrooms upstairs, though one is very small. It's positioned next to our room, though, over the laundry room, and Wendell thought you might want to turn it into an ensuite for us. He says he doesn't think the plumbing would be difficult to do."
"How is he?"
At the top of the stairs, she hesitated and looked back at him. "He's participating in a trial for a new drug being piloted by his doctor, and while there are no guarantees, the results so far are encouraging."
They passed a room with boxes labeled 'Parker' - of course she'd made sure there was a place for his son - across from an empty guest room, a bathroom on the left, and then two more rooms across from one another. "Christine's room is fully unpacked," she said, motioning to the left before turning into their room. It was bigger than the others, nicely sized for their bed and furniture. Boxes and suitcases were everywhere, and he was struck by the lack of organization she'd been living with while trying to free him. Knowing how much it would be bothering her, he bumped 'get completely unpacked' to the top of the list.
There were two closets along one wall, and Brennan pointed to one. "Your clothes are in there, mine are in the other one. They were all professionally cleaned to eliminate the smell of smoke from the explosions." She hesitated, and then said, "I'll let you take a shower, and will go call Dad."
He blinked at the abruptness, and reached out for her, tugging her to him. "Bones, it's all great." He rested his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry you had to cope with this."
"I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out how to get you out," she blurted.
He closed his eyes for a moment. "Don't do that. Don't go there. I knew you were doing everything you could."
She relaxed against him, making him aware, again, of how tense they both were. "We'll be fine, now."
There was a plea in her voice, and for one of the first times in their relationship, he knowingly, consciously lied to her. "Yeah, we will be."
Maybe saying it would make it so.
B&B
His soap was in the shower, waiting for him. Booth pondered that as he stripped. Much of the house was in boxes, she'd had little warning before his release, and yet, his very practical, rational wife had opened a fresh bar of soap and placed it neatly in the corner. Because it reminded her of him? It was the only explanation he could come up with, possibly because as the hot water beat down on him, he realized that the scent most prominent in the room was of the shower gel she used.
Water. Steam. Her scent.
He turned the water to cold and ducked his head under the water. Christine would be here shortly. Reunion of the kind his body was interested in would have to wait.
Shower complete, and re-dressed in his Flyers shirt and jeans, he went looking for her. Brennan was in the living room, unpacking a box of books. "Did the shower help?"
Trying not to feel foolish, he nodded. "Yeah. Hot water, my own soap...it's the little things, Bones." And if he said that often enough, maybe they'd both believe it. He was about to ask if she'd contacted Max when he heard a car. Telling himself it was Christine didn't help, and he stepped over to the window to make sure, though what he'd do if it was someone there to re-arrest him, he didn't know. Go on the run?
Then the door burst open and every thought fled but one. She was taller, his little girl, and had grown in the months they'd been apart. And she'd stopped mid-rush, to stare at him. Dread curled in his stomach as she frowned for just a moment before shrieking "Daddy!" and launching herself at him.
Nearly dizzy with relief, he caught her, happily absorbing the little body smacking into bruises. "Hey there, baby girl."
They held that way for a full minute, Christine clutching him, her face in his neck, while he took in the little girl scent of her, the texture of her hair against his cheek. When she pulled back to look at him, she was frowning again. "You're scratchy," she said, rubbing his cheek.
He was so used to the scruff, he'd not even thought of shaving. He moved his head, scratching against her fingers. "You're right. I need to shave."
"Can I watch?"
"Sure thing." With a final tight hug, he set her down, and looked over at the man standing behind her. "Hey, Max."
His father-in-law studied him. "It's rough on cops." With a glance at Christine, he said no more, instead lifting the bags he carried in both hands. "I thought you all might want to stay close to home today, just the three of you. So I stopped and got Viti's. Salad, two types of pasta, and enough garlic bread to counter the salad." He winked at Christine. "Might be dessert in there, too."
Brennan went to take the bag. "Thanks, Dad. I've not gone to the store in a couple of days, so it's good not to have to think about a meal." She turned toward the kitchen. "Do you want to help me put away the food, Christine?"
Her arms firmly wrapped around Booth's leg, she shook her head. "No. Daddy."
Brennan's eyes met his, and then she continued on to the kitchen.
"What about this?" Max swung the other bag, and Christine laughed.
"My Legos! Look Daddy!" She took the bag, and pulled out a toy set. "It's like Mommy."
"'Research Institute - ages 10 and up.' Really, Max?"
"She's fine with it, though I told her she can only play with it with a grown-up."
"Daddy, will you help me?"
He touched her head. "Of course. It looks like fun."
She sat down on the floor, so close to his foot he was afraid he'd trip over her, and examined the box.
"I'll be going now. Call if you need me."
Booth held out his hand. "Hey, Max. Thanks."
The other man clasped his hand. "Anytime. You know that. Bye, Christine."
She waved at him without looking up, her focus still on the toy, and Booth shared an amused look with Max, both recognizing the distracted look as one they'd seen regularly on Brennan.
B&B
Brennan leaned in the doorway of Christine's room, watching as her daughter sleepily protested, "Again, Daddy. Read it." He'd been doing just that for over an hour. She'd seen their daughter fight sleep, but never before like this.
Booth gave her a helpless look, and then said, "One more time, and then I'm going downstairs with Mommy, okay?"
"Will you be here when I wake up?"
She saw him react to the question before he leaned down and kissed their child's forehead. "Yes."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He hesitated before answering, and didn't look at Brennan as he turned to the beginning of the book again. "Last time."
Leaving him to it, Brennan went downstairs to pour them both some wine. After doing so, she settled on the sofa with hers and, noticing her phone blinking on the coffee table, picked it up.
Despite her private number, the reporters had caught up with them while Booth was in the shower that afternoon, and after answering three calls in succession from journalists she had no interest in talking to, she'd texted Angela so the others wouldn't worry, and turned it off.
Now, looking at the list of missed calls - twenty-six, from six different numbers - her annoyance grew. As she started through the list, deleting them, she heard Booth coming downstairs.
"What are you doing?"
"Deleting calls from journalists. They didn't want to talk to me at all while you were in jail unless I was willing to confess on your behalf, and now-" she made a noise of frustration.
On cue, the phone vibrated with another call, and she grimaced, recognizing the number as one of the recurring ones.
Booth plucked the phone out of her hands. "Booth." He listened for a moment, and then said, "Leave us the hell alone." He turned, flung the phone into the fireplace, where it shattered, and stalked out.
Brennan watched him go, aware of her pounding heart. Not in fear of him, never that, but in fear for him.
He'd been off all day. At times he'd seemed nearly himself, only...not. As if he was only acting the part of Seeley Booth. At other points, he'd been as distant as she'd ever known him to be. He'd been most himself with Christine - though even there, she'd caught that remoteness in his eyes when their daughter's attention had been focused elsewhere.
Sweets had warned her, weeks ago, that there would be damage, but she'd been so focused on just getting him out, that she'd not really listened.
Now she could think of nothing else.
B&B
She considered following him, but thought he might need some time alone to process the changes the day had brought. So... an hour. She'd give him an hour, and then she was going after him.
Forty-five minutes later, the door opened, and he came in, a frown on his face. "You should have locked the door after me." He did so, then turned to study the mess in the fireplace. "I owe you a phone."
She shook her head. "Talk to me, Booth. I understand it's not easy, but I don't know what you need."
He stared at the remains of the phone. "Neither do I." He finally sat down across from her, though there was nothing relaxed about the pose, and studied his hands dangling between his knees. "I want to kill them."
He'd said the same thing about Pelant more than once, but this felt different. It had always been so important to him, given his personal beliefs, to draw that line between killing only when ordered to by the government he trusted, and killing to save lives in immediate jeopardy. Never because he thought it was a good idea. He would never be Broadsky.
His hands were no longer clasped loosely, but instead were knotted together.
"I don't have the same reservations about their deaths that you do," she said carefully. "We can't begin to calculate how many lives have been damaged, destroyed, or ended, by those involved with the conspiracy. But I understand why it can't be a simple matter for you."
"I want to kill them," he repeated. Standing, he paced over to the window, moved the blinds just a fraction so he could see out.
He doesn't feel safe here, she thought. And why should he?
"Wanting to and doing so aren't the same thing."
"I know that, Bones." He turned again, but again looked down at his hands, watched them flex into fists. "I don't know if I could stop. I wouldn't want to stop."
Rage. She saw it now, realized it had been there all day, just below the surface. What did she know about dealing with that kind of anger? It wasn't that she wasn't capable of uncontrolled fury, but she handled it so differently from how he did.
"They have to be stopped. But I'm not FBI," he said. "And..."
"What?"
"I don't know if I want to be. I don't know if I can be," he said quietly.
Years earlier, she'd read an article theorizing that Western men took much of their identity from their vocations while women tended to self-identify according to their relationships: wife, mother, friend. The article had angered her in its sexism, but leaving aside the gender question, Booth had always viewed himself in light of his career. Ranger, sniper, FBI agent. A patriot, always.
She went to him, slid her hands up to meet behind his neck. "Do you have to know tonight?" She nearly wept at the lost look on his face. "I believe it's fine to give yourself what Sweets would call 'breathing room'. This morning you were in jail. Now you're free after nearly four months of torture. We'll get to the bottom of the conspiracy, whether or not you're an agent." She emphasized the pronoun. "And then we'll see what happens next."
He relaxed, fractionally, and then his arms banded around her, pulled her tight against him. "I need you." His voice was raw.
Rather than telling him that that desperation went both ways, she showed him, taking his mouth with hers. With a groan, he allowed her the lead even as his hands began to move, pulling up the back of her loose shirt to reach skin.
He broke the kiss, his mouth streaking down her neck, where he paused to nibble on her collar bone. "God, Bones." They tumbled to the sofa, wide and soft, and every fear, every shadow, every grief, fell aside. Their lives were broken, he was broken, but together, they would find a way back.
B&B
She never quite slept, didn't know if he did, but after their loving, they laid there for a while, curled together in quiet. Finally she said, "We should go upstairs. Christine might come looking for us."
He shifted, looked down. "Definitely a bad idea," he muttered. Getting to his feet, he held out his hand, pulled her up. In silence, they gathered their clothing and went upstairs, where the quiet continued while they got ready for bed.
But once there, he curled around her again. It wouldn't last, she knew. They both tended to sprawl out into their own space once they were asleep. But the closeness felt good as sleep claimed her.
B&B
She was alone when awoke, though. Not just not curled next to him, but alone, and for a moment, panic that it had been a dream, that he was still locked up, clouded her mind. But no, her body was too relaxed, still too satiated from their earlier lovemaking for it to have been a dream. She pulled on her robe and went looking for him.
The door to Christine's room was open, and she slipped in to check on her. The little girl's covers tended to tangle around her as she moved, but they were smooth and even as she slept. Booth hadn't been awake long, then.
The stairs creaked, as old houses were wont to do, so she knew he'd hear her. There were no lights on, and as she reached bottom, he quietly said, "In here, Bones."
He was in the dark living room, standing in front of the window. The blinds were open, and his position before them was one of a sentinel, standing guard. She walked up and put her arms around him from behind, absorbing his warmth, his presence. "Do you really think they'll attack us?"
His hands came up to clasp hers for a moment, and then he turned, drew her toward him so he could wrap his arms around her. "I don't know."
"It wouldn't be rational. When your being framed has been exposed in such a public fashion, something else happening to you would only draw more attention to them."
"They've gone unchecked for a long time. Entitlement, rage over being caught...being rational might not be their priority."
She turned, to peer into the darkness with him. "Barron says you won't get your guns back. No matter who was at fault, a crime was committed and men died." Against her cheek, she felt the muscles of his chest tense, then relax. "But I have my two locked up upstairs, and another handgun down here. I bought it when we moved in here." Though three handguns wouldn't have made a bit of difference the night of the Delta Force attack, and they both knew it.
He sighed, and rubbed his chin against her hair. "I want to rethink our security here. And maybe it's time for a dog."
"That would please your daughter a great deal."
He smiled, and kissed her, and turned back to stare out into the darkness.
A/N: For those who are curious, I didn't set out to write a story where Hannah was part of the solution - not because I minded her all that much, but because she's in the past. But as I considered the setup they gave us in the finale, the question of why the media wouldn't be poking holes in the FBI's story kept bothering me and this was where my mind went in response. Last chapter will be up tomorrow. :)
