The look on her face as she sat on the couch in the lounge was all too familiar to him--he had seen it in his own mirror after his first mission as a sniper. He had seen it in the expressions of the baby soldiers he had commanded later when they first killed. And some of his fellow agents, too, especially the newer ones, and he estimated anywhere from a quarter to half of those requested a transfer into a less violent division.

He wasn't sure which way she would jump just yet; he rather thought she would keep coming into the field with him, though if he were lucky, she'd stop harassing him about getting a gun. But he had to poke at her a bit, find out where she was going to stand, make her think about it, too. There might be a next time. Hell, if she kept coming out in the field, there would be a next time, and she had to be ready. His life might depend on it again, or, more importantly, her own.

"Vodka?" he asked, indicating the clear liquid in the glass she held.

She chuckled ruefully. "Water. But…it's on the rocks," she added with a wry smile, shaking it so the ice cubes rattled.

"You know, Bones, I'm not sure you grasp the basic theory on how to get drunk." He let a little amusement show as he walked across the lounge for a chair. "Hey." He groaned as he raised his left arm just enough to hold his jacket. He grabbed a chair with his good hand and brought to the couch. "What you need to do is order a shot of hard liquor from a bartender named Shaky." He chuckled briefly. "And tell him to, uh, leave the bottle on the bar."

That was better…a little amusement on her face. He settled in; despite that flash, they weren't done yet.

"I'm fine, Booth," she said, looking down briefly. "I'm sitting here thinking about it, and…" She set the glass aside. "I'm fine," she repeated, clearing her throat.

"Okay," he replied, openly skeptical. "What I'm getting from you here, Bones, is that you're fine."

She didn't answer right away, but couldn't maintain eye contact. He knew what that meant, and avoidance never helped. She looked away and picked up a photo that had been on the table, staring at it as though it held all the answers.

Craning a bit, he could tell it was a picture of Sarah Koskoff.

"He murdered Sarah. He was about to murder Helen." Her eyes flickered up to him and then away. "You know, why should I feel upset about shooting him? You know, I mean, if I was going to be upset, which I'm not, it would be because Epps thinks he beat us, so--"

She was trying to rationalize it now, trying to make everything fit. Probably didn't even realize what she was doing. "He didn't," he said, because that that's what she needed just for a moment.

"I know."

He kept his gaze on her, evaluating her reactions, just like he had done so many times before with everyone else who had depended on him, those he had had to depend on in turn. "You're upset because you think he beat us. You know what? He did."

"Beat us?" She looked up in shock.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Well, you just said that he didn't." Now she was confused. He could work with that.

"Well, I changed my mind," he said with a half shrug.

"What, in the last three seconds?" His deliberate illogic was only confusing her more, but he had a feeling that it was the only way to make sure she listened to the most important thing he had to say.

"You know, you're afraid that Epps turned you into him – into a killer. You have to come to grips with the fact that you killed another human being." If she were any other woman, he would have thought she was about to cry.

His own memories rose then, and he looked away for a moment. "Because when you kill someone, you know, there's a cost." He let the shadow of his own memories show, to let her know she wasn't alone in this. "It's a steep cost. I know. I've done it."

There was a subtle shift in her expression. Acceptance?

"I did the right thing."

"I know. I was there."

There was an edge of tears in her eyes, but her mouth was curving in a effort to keep them at bay. But one fell anyway, landing on the photo she still held.

She sighed, disgusted, as she wiped it away. "Oh. Look what I did." She sniffled just like Parker might, making him want to offer a tissue. He refrained, knowing she wouldn't appreciate an acknowledgement of she undoubtedly saw as a weakness.

"It doesn't matter."

She sighed again, this time in exasperation. "It does. It matters." That was better--her voice was almost back to normal. Even if they weren't talking about the picture anymore. If they ever had been. She looked back down and he decided it was a good time for his little present.

"I got something for you," he said, reaching into his pocket.

"A bottle of hard liquor?" she mocked.

"The next best thing." There it was. He pulled it out, smiling, and held it out to her. "Hmm?" He leaned in close, the little pig between them. He chuckled as she regarded it dubiously. "Meet--Jasper." He offered her a variation on his charm smile; she smiled back in a I can't believe you way, then huffed a laugh.

He admired the curve of her fingers as she took it with her usual precision, barely grazing him, then pulled his hand back as she looked at the little pig.

Finally she chuckled.

"You're gonna be OK."

She stopped running her thumb along Jasper's snout. "Yeah?" she asked quietly, seeking some last reassurance.

"Definitely," he said firmly, quirking a half-smile. Her mouth echoed his as she ran her thumb over Jasper again and her body seemed to relax a little.

Yeah, she'd be all right. And, dammit, she'd be asking for a gun again within a month, too.