A/N: Back to this story at long last. I'm excited by the first part of this. I think it ends kinda weak, so some help there would be nice. Thanks for continuing to read, sorry my update frequency sucks! Enjoy the chapter!
(Edited and reposted July 15, 2015)
September, 2014 | Location Unknown
If he were to take a moment and really think about what brought him here, perhaps he'd decide that it was him. Perhaps it was his own foolishness that got him here, really – his over-confidence, his unawareness. It's a government conspiracy for God's sake; he should know by now to look around, be careful, to not get ambushed by whoever. The whole Pelant case should have taught him the importance of covering his tracks and embracing the paranoia, but of course, he'd thought the hardest part of his career was over. But it's never over.
Hell, if he just let Booth go get the damn documents, he wouldn't be here.
But then – maybe Booth would be here.
And he wouldn't have that. So Lance Sweets, sitting on the floor with his back leaned up against the lone cot in the room, his legs loosely crossed, decides that the situation is perhaps not the worst in the world. Sure, he'd rather be anywhere but wherever he is right now. He'd much prefer to not still be bleeding from a knife wound in his side, to not feel the throbbing pain in his left wrist, his ribs, the sharp ache in his head.
But he's alive. He's here, not Booth or Brennan or Daisy or anyone else, so he thanks his stars for that.
Always the optimist, of course.
The door swings open fast and bangs against the wall, and as soon as the guards outside – all masked, nameless, faceless – step aside, a woman walks in. In stark contrast to everyone else in this place, she doesn't wear bulletproof clothes or masks. In lieu of all that, all she's got is her strict face and a fierce demeanor about her that suddenly sets Sweets on edge. She seems to notice.
"Doctor Sweets," she greets, coming to stand just in front of him. The clicks of her heels echo through the tiny room. "A pleasure."
"Yeah, I'm sure."
He surprises himself with that, but the corner of the woman's mouth just twitches up into an amused smile.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Dr. Sweets," she continues. Sweets detects a few different things in her voice; slight hints of an accent she must have worked hard to get rid of, a stiff roughness that demands respect, submission. But not a single bit of remorse. "But that brilliant team of yours – perhaps they're just a bit too brilliant. They got too close."
He huffs an indignant breath and looks her in the eye, unwavering. Keeping his voice even and calm, perhaps the slightest bit accusatory, he manages to put it together.
"You're behind this. You're behind… all the murders. The payoffs. All of it."
She smiles again. Not of happiness, nor of pride, but of the disparaging triumph a snake must feel before it bites off the head of a mouse.
"We all take our orders from someone, Dr. Sweets. Until the chain ends. That's where you'll find me, surrounded by piles of broken links."
"How poetic."
He surprises himself yet again, but this time, he just wishes he had the self-preservation to stop. It was the same stupid over-confidence that got him into this mess, and he's got the vague suspicion that it's what's going to get him killed.
"Very. One of those links, it seems, bears your name. And as soon as your team agrees to stop investigating – all of theirs will fall as well. They'll be out of the game, and this will be over for you."
And because he's decided that he can't stop himself, that he's just going to keep being absolutely stupid until someone finally kills him, he lets out a sudden, quick laugh.
"That's your angle?" he asks. "Use me as bait to get them to stop investigating?"
She nods, smiles, says, "If they're smart, and if they don't want to see their friend come back to them in pieces, they will."
And Lance Sweets goes on, shaking his head, maintaining the confident air that will no doubt be the death of him.
"No. They won't," he smiles up at her in spite of the nervousness growing in his chest. "They wouldn't stop their search for the truth, not for anything. Not even for me."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he keeps on.
"And this game you're talking about? You think this is all just one big game, with all of us players, but –"
Her smile disappears from her face, replaced by an angry pout. She does not do well with being interrupted, so she raises her voice and squats down so she is face-level with her prisoner.
"Not all of us players, Dr. Sweets. You are players. Your whole team. The guards outside this door, the Bureau, the agents, all playing the game. But me? I'm the master. The dealer. I'm the one who wins in the end, who collects. Every round. Every single time. I win. And anyone who tries to change that fact – they lose. And you'll find the losers must pay a steep price."
She stands and takes a few echoing steps to the door.
"I'm offering your team a way out. They'd be wise to take it."
Sweets merely considers this, turning his face down as she walks the rest of the way. As her fingers just barely touch the knob on the door, he looks back up.
"Will I be having the privilege of knowing the dealer's name?"
She turns her head. And she smiles again.
"I've heard much about you, Dr. Sweets. Much about your brilliance, acuity for lies. My name is Naomi Waller."
She opens the door, steps out, and throws a few more words over her shoulder as the door closes behind her.
"But tell me – am I telling you the truth?"
The door closes with a final click – and Sweets is alone.
January, 2015
Sweets is alone on the other side of the door, and Booth is visibly uncomfortable with that fact. Sure, the psychologist is dead asleep, unlikely to wake up any time soon, but solitude means being vulnerable – both to danger and to yourself. And while Booth was once a betting man, he's no longer one to take a risk with that much weight.
So, leaning against the wall, face to face with the attending doctor, he tries to rush the conversation. Get the words out as quickly as possible and hope that she matches his pace, because as soon as it's done he can return to that worn-down chair by the bed.
"About what time was it when he woke up, Agent Booth?" the doctor is saying, her eyes moving back and forth between Booth and the file in her hands.
"About a quarter to four. It was still dark outside."
She nods. "Did you interact with him at all?"
"I tried," he answers, almost nervously. "He was looking at me when I woke up, but he seemed really… scared. Almost like I was there to hurt him. The heart monitor was going crazy, and I tried to talk to him, but after the first few seconds, it was like I wasn't even there anymore. He didn't say anything, but he fell asleep again a few minutes later."
Another nod, another note scribbled down, another hurried explanation as she says, "It sounds like clear evidence of a minor panic attack. Based on whatever his reality was over the past four months, this sudden change is almost like a culture shock; only in his head, the meaning and results of it are likely far more sinister."
"You mean he thought I was there with him as like – another hostage?"
"Possibly," she says. "He could have thought that. Or maybe he wasn't sure if you were real. Or, depending on the level of psychological sway his captors had over him – maybe he thought you, yourself, were one of them."
Booth is lost for words, breath, as if he were just thrown a punch to the gut in that single moment. A flare of aimless anger crops up somewhere in his chest, because just the very idea – it's insane. He's been spending the past four months searching for Sweets day and night, working around the clock to bring him home safe. Even the smallest insinuation that he would ever cause the younger man harm feels like a direct attack.
And what can he say? It hurts like one. But he knows full well the skewed logic that people can have when the walls are caving in on them. And no matter where that logic really took Lance Sweets, Booth is entirely willing to help guide him back.
But first, he's satisfied with just walking back into the beeping hospital room and taking his seat back by the side of the bed. And he does not intend on leaving it anytime soon.