A/N: CHAPTERS 8 AND 9 WERE POSTED AT THE SAME TIME, SO CHECK TO MAKE SURE YOU DIDNT SKIP CH 8 :)
A thought I had a few weeks ago, thrown messily together in an attempt to sound deep: What exactly is canon? When you think about it? It's what's official; it's essentially what's "real" in a story. But the story itself is fake, see. When we talk about canon, we're talking about what's real in a fake thing. And its opposite, fan fiction - it's what's fake in a fake thing. But real or fake, official or unofficial, it doesn't make any difference. Because it's all just a story. The fact that it's all fake levels everything out; because "official" stories are no more real than my stories are, no more real than your stories, than everyone's.
And why do we tell stories anyway? Three reasons that I can think of. We tell stories to entertain, that much is obvious. We tell stories to warn people. (I could tell plenty of stories that would warn you to always check your gauges while driving, for instance.) And then we tell stories to say something, to give meaning. As my old lit teacher said, all writers have something to say. The story is just how they say it. That's why we read, watch: to find that meaning.
So because they're all just stories - whether it's Stephen Nathan writing it or some nameless writer online - I advise you to "believe" the story that gives you the most meaning. Whichever it is. That's the whole point, after all.
Okay. I guess I'm done being deep for now. Epilogue coming soon, whenever I write it! Enjoy the chapter, leave reviews, you get it by now. ;)
"You stopped the case," Sweets' voice is accusatory as he says it, a stark contrast to the flat tone he's had since January. This time there's inflection. This time there's anger.
Booth looks up from his computer to see the psychologist suddenly standing there – off the clock as he's been, dressed in casual, everyday clothes, looking outright betrayed. And the older agent responds with a pitched hum, a wordless sort of "huh?" that does little more than give him an extra second.
"You heard me. You stopped the case." Sweets comes right up to Booth's desk, leaning against the edge with his palms pressed hard against the wood.
It takes a second, but Booth collects himself. He nods.
"Yeah. I did," he says plainly, almost as if it was obvious from the start, and the tension in the psychologist's jaw is suddenly unmistakable. And all at once, Sweets rounds on him, having barely given him time to finish his last word.
"When do we ever stop cases, Booth? Huh? It's a conspiracy, one that's been getting people killed from the very start, and you just step away?"
Carefully, Booth stands from his seat and walks around the desk, so the two are face to face.
"Yeah," is the beginning of Booth's offered response, but before he can finish it, the other man goes on.
"So you're just giving up. Is that it? It got too hard and too close, so you just gave up, while people keep on getting killed and shoved away like it's nothing, and you're letting everyone responsible get away with it!"
"Sweets –"
"Where's your sense of justice, Booth? You signed on for this job so you could help people, so why the hell are you –"
"Sweets!"
Booth shouts Sweets into silence, but the agitation, the anger, the challenge in his everything – it all remains.
"They were going to kill you," Booth says, soft but deadly serious. And what follows is just a few more ticks of brewing quiet.
Sweets is firm as he answers, "It's not a safe job. I knew that when I signed up for it. That was always a risk! It was one I took every day because I knew I was helping people, just like you! You have no idea –" He takes a breath. "Do you know what kept me sane for four months, Booth? You can only spend so long in a dark cement room covered in your own blood without going absolutely fucking insane, and do you know why I didn't?"
Booth doesn't answer, but instead looks away. His eyes find the floor in no time.
"Because every time I closed my eyes, I knew why I was there. I knew that as long as I was alive, you had the chance to get somewhere. You could have! And now everything I went through for four months, the brand new scars on my back, it's all for nothing; and not just that! They're getting away with it! And you know they're just going to go back to their game. So tell me, is that justice? How can you –"
"What was I supposed to do, Sweets?" with an edge to his voice, the older agent brings his head up. "Was I supposed to leave you there to die?"
"Yes!" is the first response. Thought comes shortly after, however. "I don't know."
And before either of them can blink, Booth's voice has risen considerably, and they're both acutely aware of the open door across the room. This doesn't stop him, though.
"Well, Sweets, I'm glad you value your own life so little! You're willing to get yourself killed over a case that never would have been solved, but you know what? I'm not! We can't win everything, Sweets, and I'm not willing to get you killed before you turn thirty, got it? Especially when you'd be dying for nothing."
There is a breath, then, a half-pause. But Booth doesn't continue.
Instead, Sweets just shakes his head at the floor and says, "That's what I signed up for. We need to open it again."
And Booth practically feels the anger moving through him in that moment; he could yell. He could scream at the top of his lungs, but rather than that, he goes quiet again. The intensity in his voice, though, is not lost.
"You don't get it, do you?" he says. "The people behind all of this, they're prepared to do anything to make sure they'll never lose. Anything! You think it would've ended once they killed you? You're just another game piece! We're all pieces to them, and once they can't use you as leverage anymore, they'd move on to someone else – someone far more vulnerable than you or me."
Sweets still does not look at him. He doesn't lift his gaze from the carpet, instead finding his shoulders tight and his body stiff; he doesn't want to hear it anymore.
"Everyone is at risk. Not just you and me and the rest of the team, but everyone. Christine. Michael. Hell, even your son. Your four month old son, Sweets! Did they sign up for any of this?"
No.
"Tell me what you would have done, Sweets. If they touched a hair on that little boy's head, if they touched a hair on any of their heads – what would you do?"
"He's great with him, really," Daisy Wick says softly to Brennan, as if the walls of the lab somehow could hear her. The whole time, she doesn't look up from the femur in her gloved hands. "Lance spends almost all his time with him. And the baby can't tell something's changed."
She pauses, gently placing the bone back on the table and moving to the next one. In the silence, Brennan offers nothing.
"I can, though. I mean… sometimes I think he tries to pretend he's fine. Like he'll wake up in middle of the night and try to act like it wasn't a nightmare that did it. He'll give me a smile in the morning like waking up in our bed is as normal now as it used to be, like he thinks I don't notice. But I do."
A beat.
"I do notice."
April
Three months and a day after he was found alive, the FBI is more than willing to allow Lance Sweets to return to his work – just with a single caveat. An evaluation by a peer psychologist is entirely necessary before he can return to any facet of his job, and then, once that's passed, shorter monthly tests to make double sure he's fine.
Unfortunately, he doesn't even make it that far.
He fails the very first psych exam, and no one is quite sure why they're surprised about that fact. The man can hardly stand to be touched; he avoids the lab like it will kill him to step inside, and he hasn't spoken a word to Booth in weeks. No one has ever brought themselves to ask how he's sleeping, but they're sure that Daisy can attest to an answer of not well.
If Sweets had passed the exam, they'd all be severely questioning the examiner.
He's a barely contained mess, in other words. It hurts to think, even more to say; but they see it. Everyone sees it.
Towards the very end of slow work day, Seeley Booth looks up from his work to see a man standing in the doorway, uncertain. Sweets is leaning into the room with his feet still in the hallway, both hands gripping the doorframe to keep him upright. His eyes are on the floor, and he makes no sound.
He only looks up once Booth speaks, offers a soft, "Hey."
"Hey," the reply comes, but nothing follows.
They stay like that for a moment, respectively curious and hesitant. Booth looks the kid up and down, noting everything from the slight darkness under his eyes to the folds and creases in his too-neat button down that seem far too pronounced.
"Everything okay?"
Sweets shakes his head slowly.
"No," he says after a few moments. "But you knew that already."
And Booth just nods, a solemn motion of his head. He starts to say something else along the same lines, but immediately pauses. The psychologist is seeking him out for the first time in God-knows-how-long. This is their first real conversation in weeks, and he's not inclined to take backwards steps.
"What's up?" he finally says, deciding that it will work just fine.
This time, Sweets finally lets go of the doorframe and takes a few slow steps into the room. He ends up meeting Booth in front of the desk, the two of them standing just above the two chairs facing it.
"I, uh…" the shrink's eyes find the floor again, and his hands find the insides of his pockets. "I failed the psych exam."
A nod, a soft-spoken, "I know."
After another drawn out stretch of silence, Sweets continues. "Daisy and I were talking… and…"
Booth wonders, just for a second, what could be so hard to say that Sweets has to force it through his teeth. He finds out as soon as Sweets finds the voice to continue.
"We think it's probably better to be… not here. Somewhere else. Since I can't work, or… and there's no case."
It takes a moment for that to sink in.
"So you're leaving," Booth says, not quite believing it as he does. But the more he thinks about it – the less shocked he feels about it.
It takes a long time, but Sweets eventually nods. "Yeah."
"Where would you go?"
And the other man lets out a pent up breath and says, "Well… Daisy's parents live on Long Island, in Manhasset. They took care of the baby a lot before I came home, so somewhere around there wouldn't be a bad place to go. Plus I grew up not far from there, so I know the area. There are a few forensics labs that Daisy says should take her almost right away, since she worked with Dr. Brennan for so long."
He trails off.
"Will you come back? Ever?"
Booth says it, and Sweets very nearly cringes at the uncertainty in his voice, the uncertainty in his own head.
"I don't know."
They both find their way to look at the floor, avoiding each other's eyes.
"When are you leaving?"
"I don't know. Soon. Maybe in a few weeks."
And they stand there in silence again for the longest time, the truth out and unpolished. They stay like that until Sweets holds out a hesitant hand, his fingers hovering and waiting for the connection. Booth grabs it immediately, gives his hand a firm shake.
Without warning – though this wasn't exactly the best thing to do, he's sure – he pulls the younger man close and wraps his arms around his shoulders. It takes a moment, but Sweets' arms eventually come up to return the hug, to just barely brush Booth's back.
When they finally pull apart, it's a final, wordless goodbye. Sweets walks out the door, and Booth considers the fact that this case was never going to have a happy ending.
He knew it from the start.
A/N: The confrontation scene with Booth and Sweets was difficult to write. I had such a clear picture in my head, but I'm sure it didn't come out that way. Let me know what you thought of that, please!
Alrighty, epilogue's up next. I'm excited for it. Thanks for reading!