Author's Note: Aaaand here's an update for you.

Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive critcism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!

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CHAPTER ONE
MY LOYALTY IS MY DOWNFALL

*

The child without a name grew up to be the hand
To watch you, to shield you, or kill on demand
The choice he'd made he could not comprehend
His blood a grim secret they had to commend

He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life
He prayed for both but was denied

-Hand of Sorrow-

6:45 pm

He allows his gaze to fall, an emptiness settling over him. Fragments of memory, although vivid, flicker across his vision. He still faces the world through droplet-studded window, but sees nothing of the outer life. Presses his hand against the glass, if only to feel something. The damp cold radiates from the surface to his skin, reminding him he's not asleep.

He fists the acquired liquor bottle at his side, bringing it to his lips and swallowing several gulps without emotion. Naturally strong and confident posture is now slack and defeated, and he has failed to muster an expression to decorate his face.

His own voice, foreign to his racing thoughts, fills his ears as if from a great distance.

"I swear to God, Sam, I'll see this building in ruin. I'll burn it to the ground myself if I have to." His tone is hoarse. His jaw is rough with neglect, as if reflective of his internal state.

Thunder rumbles from outside.

"Christ, Booth–who else? Who else has to die before you wake up?" Samuel Cullen recesses only to draw a breath before delivering the killing blow. "Parker? Is that whose death would open your eyes? To see him suffering, surrounded by plastic sheets in a sealed box? Being jabbed with needles all day and night by men in Hazmat suits?"

Images shift. He takes another pull from the bottle, suppliant that his consciousness be seized and put to rest. Damaged as he is, inner torment wins the battle. But what of the war?

In the reflective surface of the glass, he sees his own distorted image. He doesn't recognize the face looking back at him.

"It's not her fault," is his soft insistence, breaking the pregnant silence, if barely.

Cullen's hard countenance lessens significantly. "The worst decisions are always made with the best intentions. You think I encouraged this course of action? Maybe we didn't get along much, but that woman was one of the most damn decent persons I've ever met."

He bows his head, staring at his feet but never actually seeing the shining luster or stitching. All his eyes see, all his head is filled with, are glimpses of the future. And what it will bring. What it asks of him. Nightmares dance and shadows taunt.

"But she started this mess," Cullen eventually continues, "and she pressed forward with these trials from day one. We've tried bringing her in. She's evaded us for months, now. She's destroyed entire labs, put multiple men of ours in the hospital." The Deputy Director hesitates in pressing on, but knows his best agent has to hear the inevitable. "How many lives is she endangering by simply existing? She's patient zero. These infected citizens: men, women, children… she's responsible. Some have developed an immunity, yes. But not everyone is so fortunate as you, Booth. How many others have only the luxury of becoming a corpse?"

His jaw trembles. Outrage blossoms in his chest. He blinks once, realizing that he is seeing through a red veil. Turning a sickened glare on his present company, his restraint finally cracks and his temper splits wide open.

"You can justify this? After what they've done? Asking me to carry out a formal hit on my own partner?" Voice rising considerably, he barely registers that he's seriously deliberating coming to blows with the man before him–who is not only a superior, but a friend. He's too enraged, too afraid, to care. Righteous anger laces his every word. "She's not some genocidal threat to mankind, she's a goddamn human being!"

With an understanding expression, the elder man offers no challenge to this. He sighs unhappily in agreement. As if reading his mind, Cullen speaks. "Fear makes people do stupid things, Seeley."

The remark hits home. It's too close.

"To them, she's a sacrifice that must be made. In order to save a greater people. You know she would agree."

"She can fix this," he weakly defends, unwilling to accept her already sealed fate. He looks up at his superior with pleading eyes that shine with emotion, anger falling away to desperation. "If she only had more time…"

"We're out of time," Cullen's tone is regretful, sympathetic, but firm. "She refuses to come in. She's a danger to everyone around her. We've been trying to track her down for weeks now. And it doesn't help matters when you lie to me and say you haven't seen her. Everyone knows it's you she'd run to. Now, we're out of options. The shit hit the fan with this airborne spread, and DOD finally snapped. They're out for blood."

He looks away, burying his face in his hands and collapsing into the nearest chair. Too many emotions assault him at once, and it's overwhelming. He's always in control, always has a plan.

He hates being helpless.

Rationally, as she would say, he knew that one day the numbers would catch up to him. He's protected her too many times, saved her once more than acceptable. Worse, it appears his past sins have finally caught up to him. And she is the one to pay.

Cullen tries to rein in his own compassion, forcing down the boulder in his throat that has formed without warning. "I can't force you to do this. Lord knows they'd want me to try. I'm disgusted to ask it of you. But you have to understand… I only forwarded this to you because…" he trails off uncertainly, staring at some point unknown on the floor.

The dead silence in the room only allows Cullen's words to sink deeper into his being, making his chest constrict painfully.

"They're bringing a team in from Langley," the Deputy Director says finally, and out of his peripheral, he sees the younger man look up. "A few agents, I think." He looks uncomfortable. "It took me awhile, but I convinced the Director of OOS of your particular skill in this area. They know you're the best."

They know he can track her–like no one else could. And they know by his seamless record… that he can get the job done.

The look he gives the other man is utterly murderous. Clouds darken his already bottomless eyes. His entire demeanor is so dark and predatory that Cullen finds himself rightfully intimidated. Sometimes, he forgets just how dangerous this man is.

"The best at what? Killing?"

"Booth–"

"So you just volunteer me to take out Bones?" To actually say it aloud is enough to finally break him, and the reality of it all sets in. His voice fractures and his eyes glitter in the low light.

Shrapnel in his heart. Knife in his back.

"Booth," Cullen says firmly. He must be allowed to continue. "I thought you might…" He lets out a breath, sinking into his own chair. "Jesus, I didn't want it to be one of those cowboys from Intelligence. I didn't want it to be a job–just another name to erase. I thought you'd want…" Finally meeting the agent's eyes in earnest, a moment hangs between them.

An unspoken truth. A silent battle.

"She deserves to matter."

He feels himself choked with emotion, and a crack appears in the floodgates. His gaze is set rigidly against the unremarkable sheetrock that lines the room.

"It should be someone who knew her. Who doesn't see her as a threat, or just another mark." Hesitation. The weathered man's own eyes are shining now. "I thought it should be you."

The warrior strength the FBI Special Agent has previously carried, without end, finally crumbles. If he attempts to speak, he knows he will only fail. Throat closed, cheeks moist, he can only be still. He stares into nothing, a picture of remorse. The pain is unbearable, the grief too suffocating. He can't fathom the way it will only intensify.

If he were to do the unthinkable.

He can hear Cullen speaking again, and it sounds far away. But it reaches him, nonetheless. It's too important. Too pivotal.

"When you killed that father in front of his son… wiped out an entire village… racked up those perfect shots… you did what was necessary. For the greater good. For the betterment of mankind."

Sometimes, he knew, you had to give up the things you want the most. Had to be steady, and defend a greater cause. Defend the faith.

Paladin.

Defender of the people.

Another tear falls. And another.

Not defender of one.

"That's a formal order from our District of Defense, Agent Booth," Cullen's voice rings in his ears with an agonizing finality. "I believe you recall what to do with them."

Do what must be done. A cause greater than one life.

"If it had to be anyone… I think that's what she'd want."

It's then that he knows. He's really going to do it. Because he won't allow it to anyone else.

Defender to the bitter end.

October 2nd, 2009

It doesn't take him long to find her.

The benefit of truly knowing someone, being close to them–he can feel her. He doesn't need to spend weeks shadowing her from under the cover of sundown and harsh elements, thickets and burs assaulting his face as he stalks. Hunts. The smell of mud and sweat and blood filling every one of his senses.

Only her does he see and perceive.

When he'd first caught sight of those loose auburn waves, he'd felt like crying out with relief at finally knowing she was safe. And then the sting of grief. The ache in his chest that assails him without pity upon remembering why he is here. He will not admit that he'd wished failure on himself, or mistrust from her.

He'd inwardly begged she wouldn't show.

Stay away, he'd willed. Please, Temperance–just stay away. Run, hide, leave the city.

But she is too devoted for that. She'd made a mistake, and will not cease until everything is solved, and everything makes sense again. She needs this.

Order. She needs to right her wrongs.

He watches her drift toward an alleyway, her coat pulled tightly around her slim shoulders, withdrawn. She's thinner than he's remembered. And she seems smaller, somehow. So small, so vulnerable now.

God, he grieves miserably, feeling emotion choke the air he tries to draw into his lungs.

She's scared.

His eyes scan the sparsely populated area below from his position on the roof, and he is soon able to identify four inconspicuous agents from Intelligence. He knows why they are here. They know his expert proficiency denies the possibility of missing the target.

They are here in the event he doesn't follow through.

They eye her subtly from behind the pretense of nonchalance–whether it be a newspaper stand or tinted windshield of a vehicle. Always on the move, but never breaking distance.

These are professionals. Expert hunters of the human animal. Just like him.

Booth bows his head, feeling a swell of shame spread over him. They are no better than the mercenaries he was trained to destroy. These men lack the emotion she so deserves. They don't really see her. He finds himself infuriated by this.

They will never know her. They will never understand what an honest and truly generous human being she is. Or how her eyes crinkle when she laughs. How her delicate brow knits together in that way that makes him secretly smile whenever she's "squinting" at something, intrigued by life's questions. The way her bottom lip juts out just the smallest fraction when she cries. How she's let him get close to her. Let him be a constant in her life.

Or how, somewhere down the line, she'd stopped demanding he not call her "Bones"–an effort by him intended purposely to annoy–and started responding as if it really was her name.

Or all the other thousand things that now fill his mind in such a desperate hour. They will never know.

Not like him.

And he knows they won't wait forever.

Morality comes in shades of gray. The end, in their minds, justifies the means. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck, smothered a second later by the drizzle of precipitation and the sheen layer of rainwater that already coats him. In the faraway distance, thunder is heard.

A tremor rocks his form. And he knows it's not from the tame autumn chill.

How had it come to this?

Each time she'd turned up at his apartment in need of temporary shelter, a place to hide, he'd never imagined it would come to this. In the morning, she was always gone. Cullen never really knew–he had only just assumed, like everyone else. Booth would never mention her staying to anyone. She was his secret.

His lost angel. And she'd trusted him.

Now, the country he honored and swore to defend had instructed him to murder the woman he cherishes with all his being. His dearest friend.

What he feels for her cannot be described by words alone. They've grown too much, been through too much, together. He… and this woman… who he has no desire to live without. He isn't certain he can.

He is torn in too many directions. He can only save so many. His loyalties between her, his country, Parker…

If he saves one, another will have to die.

He is without control–powerless, and begging God to heal the world. To save his Bones from her own creation, her own madness.

Necessary, a voice whispers in his ear.

Down below, she looks ready to depart.

With trembling hands, he takes hold of the stock of his Barrett M82, drawing up and easing it against the coarse ledge of the roof on its bipod. He slides the bolt forward, locking the single bullet into place. The sound is hollow and final and echoes in his ears, twisting the knife in his heart.

Skin is pale and ice to the touch.

He is soaked now from the rain that has begun to progressively intensify. His hair gleams wet and black, droplets coursing down his cheeks, mimicking tears. His eyes threaten to spill over with the tears he doesn't want to give credit to.

He doesn't deserve to grieve. He's made a choice–dared to tempt fate. The decision is not his to suffer.

So he weeps in utter silence, forcing his features into a stoic mask. His jaw clenches tightly, face muscles flexing, and he tries not to feel the burning in his vision or the way his throat closes over every breath he tries to take. The chain of his St. Christopher's medal feels hot around his neck instead of cool.

The rim of his scope rests against the hollow of his right eye, lashes brushing the domed glass. Everything feels delayed thereon, as if dragged through a time warp. Guilt and remorse stain the smooth steel of his weapon in salty condensation.

A sea of auburn fills his scope, and it takes all of his training and all trace of control to force back the sob that catches in the back of his throat.

Not her… not like this…

He sends up a final prayer, pleading. He swears he'll give his own life if she only be allowed to live.

Keep breathing, he tells her, silently.

His finger slowly finds its way to the trigger, the cool metal biting into his skin. Little by little, everyone else begins to fade away–the people below, the other agents, the cars, everyone. All disappear until only they remain.

This is between them. Anyone else is intruding on a private moment.

It's so familiar that he's almost deceived into comfort.

Silence falls. Seeley Booth is not the only one who can feel his other half.

A tranquil wind picks up, swimming between the raindrops. Slowly, her neck cranes, her features come into his view, and all at once–her eyes are fixed with his. Those eyes, so radiant and full of life and undiscovered mysteries. The breeze catches a few loose strands of auburn across the blue.

He feels his breath catch in his throat. Her face, pale as ever and without makeup, appears unexplainably calm. Even through the slight evidence of sickness–with what lay inside her, her body giving off invisible toxins and poisoning the air–she's never looked more beautiful.

Her expression is knowing. But her eyes, those all-seeing eyes, hold something foreign altogether. Deep in their depths that only he can see. It isn't long before emotions he recognizes, to his great dismay, surface.

Fear. Hurt. And finally, acceptance.

Her eyes tell a story, and he watches as that familiar flicker of pain flashes across them. Disappointment. But also understanding–an odd combination.

The moment holds, suspended. He can hear her voice whispering in his ear as if she were right at his side, where she belongs.

Are you going to betray me?

He forces back a final sob. Tells her everything through their locked gaze. Everything he can. If he's honest with himself, he's mad with her. She could attempt to run–flee–like human instinct demands. He'll fire off a shot to make it look good.

Dammit, Bones! Run!

But she doesn't.

She remains rooted to the spot, ever loyal to him and what he must do.

If it had to be anyone…

Her guardian reaper. There is something tragically poetic about it.

Sometimes, a single life can save countless innocents. That's what he'd been told–had even told himself–before every mission when he'd been a Ranger. Always for the greater good. It was a silver lining to the devastation that lay beneath.

It was an excuse.

Mindlessly obedient.

Steeling himself, he sets his position, pulling his weapon tight against his shoulder. With a single breath that breaks the silence, he takes aim, finger curling around the trigger and squeezing.

Make a choice.

But it was never his choice to make…

The sharp discharge of the sniper rifle shatters the everyday quiet that fills the streets, which erupt now with chaos and blind panic. A drove of birds flutter to life, calling out in their distress and taking flight.

His mark lurches back with the force of the shot and falls to the frozen earth, lifeless before impact.

With every sacrifice, came a betrayal.

One should rather die than be betrayed.
There is no deceit in death.
It delivers precisely what it has promised.
Betrayal, though... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope.

-Steven Deitz-