Chapter Text
There's a sniper loose in DC who has a tendency to hit targets recently investigated by the FBI. Special Agent Jared Booth was put on the case but kept ending up in dead ends. Frustrated by the lack of progress, his boss FBI Assistant Director Hacker enlisted the Jeffersonian Institute's Medico-Legal Lab to aid the investigation. They worked with the remains, particulates, and other evidence to try and pin down the sniper, getting closer than ever before.
In another place, Seeley Booth was lining up the angle for the perfect shot. There's an apartment that just overlooks the falsely-exonerated criminal's home, and it didn't take much to break in. What Booth didn't plan for was the apartment being occupied in the middle of the day. Instead of an empty room, he found a woman with a nasty left hook who took quite an exception to him breaking into her place.
Seeley rolled with the hit and sent a little prayer up for remembering to keep his mask and hat on. Now's not the time to get sloppy. He's able to subdue her, gag & bind her, and lock her up in the bathroom so he could do his work in peace. It took a few hours of patient waiting (and ignoring the intermittent kicks at the bathroom door), but he got his perfect shot. It's quick work to pack up his rifle and get his ass out of there before anyone notices something's amiss. He was a gentleman, though, and unlocked the bathroom and dropped a knife beside the absolutely furious woman. Pretty blue eyes glared daggers at him, but he figured with a mask, a hat, and a bulky jacket, there's not much to see. He took off, not realizing he'd made a huge mistake.
Temperance Brennan was furious. After a decade of personal defense training, being pinned and shushed like she was just a child throwing a tantrum was beyond the pale. And for it to be the very man they were hunting for in the lab? Completely unacceptable. As soon as she's able to free herself, she's on the phone with Jared, getting the apartment scoured top-to-bottom for evidence. Security cameras yielded nothing of value, the man clearly an expert. What he didn't account for was the fact that she was an expert, too.
Working with Angela and her own exceptional memory, Brennan was able to sculpt his likeness. It took a lot of tweaking from Angela and back-and-forthing, but they're able to pull together a decent likeness. Paired against the military records of advanced snipers, there's only one close match: Sergeant Major Seeley Booth.
Suddenly Special Agent Jared Booth's lack of progress on the case didn't seem so much like an accident. It all of a sudden became very remarkable that, while all the sniper victims were from FBI cases, not a single one included Jared's cases. Without explanation, a new agent was assigned to the Jeffersonian and Jared isn't seen again.
Seeley Booth was used to dodging the FBI. He'd been doing it for years now. Admittedly, having his face blasted across every news station was a new and exciting wrinkle to his efforts, but he could lay low. What he's not used to is attracting the attention of local lowlife Max Keenan, who turned up in Booth's garage hidey-hole one night. Now, Keenan doesn't sink so low as to report him to the feds, but he does have a word or two to say about putting his daughter in danger. With a few friendly threats, Keenan suggested Booth could make things right by dealing with a certain Robert Kirby.
Always a good man for taking orders, Booth doesn't ask questions. He just gets the job done. He really shoulda laid low, though, because on his way out of his sniper's perch, a cop recognizes him. Booth took a nasty shot to the hip before he's able to disappear into an alleyway and lose the tail.
He did his best to zigzag his way through the city, leaving no obvious trail to follow. Unintentionally or not, he realized he's wound his way back to the damn apartment where all this mess started. It's a stupid idea but he's losing blood at an alarming rate. He climbed up the back balcony, slipping in through the sliding door, pistol in hand.
Out in the living room, she wasn't facing him when he creeped in.
"Temperance, right?" His voice was low.
She jumped, spinning around, whipping her phone out.
"Easy, easy. Just drop the phone and everything will be alright." He gestured with the gun from her hand to the floor. She dropped the phone with a clatter. Her eyes were big and wide, hands raised in surrender.
"What do you want?" There's a quaver to her voice but she held herself upright with a steel spine.
"I just need a quick favor, that's all. I swear I'm not gonna hurt you."
"You're pointing a gun at me."
"Yeah, cause I know if I don't, you're gonna try to kung foo my ass again."
"Judo." She squinted at him disapprovingly.
"Whatever." He's starting to feel dizzy. That was not great. "Y'got a first aid kit or something?"
Her scowl deepened. "Why should I help you?"
"I got shot doing your father a favor." She flinched at that.
"I don't owe him anything. He's a criminal."
"Yeah, well, here we are anyway. Just... all I need is some gauze and a hand, alright?"
"I could wait you out until you pass out." She jutted her chin up in a stubborn glare.
"I'd really rather you didn't." He gestured with the gun towards the kitchen sink and, reluctantly, she moved that way. "You must have a first-aid kit around here somewhere. You seem the type."
"'The type'?"
"Yeah. Girl scout. Over-prepared."
She knelt, pulling a box with a big red cross on it from under the sink. Brennan plopped it on the table in front of him, crossed her arms, and glared.
"I'm not going to help you."
"Please don't make this difficult?" He gestured with the gun at the plastic box, but she didn't move.
"If you shoot me, everyone in this building will hear it." Her petulant frown dared him to try.
"Yeah, and if I knock you out, my life will be much easier, but that big ole brain of yours isn't really going to appreciate the damage." Her scowl deepened.
With every move clearly telegraphing her disapproval, she set to work putting him back into one piece. She roughly tugged his t-shirt up, revealing a bloody mess. His gut flinched as her hands traced over scarred bare skin. Capable hands harshly pulled padding and gauze around his middle, covering the wound. He hissed in pain as she pressed down firmly, probably firmer than she really needed to. Still, it was good enough. It would do.
She sank back down into one of the kitchen chairs, still glaring at him with arms re-crossed. Booth collected himself pulling his shirt back down with a grimace and smoothing his hand over the bandaged wound. He gave her a long, considering look.
"What would you do if I needed to rest here a while?"
"Call 911." Her look was all grumpy disapproval.
He exhaled a frustrated sigh. "Have you considered not being a pain in the ass?"
"Why in the hell should I help you?" There was disgust in her voice.
"I did take care of your good friend, Heather Taffet."
"The judge was... 'taking care' of her just fine. Legally."
"They were going to let her get off. Everyone knew it."
"Well, now we will never know if that's true or not."
"So that's it then, complete and utter faith in the judicial system? The system that lets criminals go and jails innocent people?"
"It's not faith." She apparently didn't like that word any more than she liked him. "My job hinges on adhering to the logics of evidentiary proof, allowing a jury to deliver correct verdicts in the court of law." She regarded him with a sneer. "Society cannot function with arbitrary, extra-judicial killings as a means of providing justice."
"And police shooting up anyone they feel like is different because...?"
She scowled. "Police reform is not under my purview. Evidence, and its use within the justice system are my only responsibility."
"So the fact that I pick my target utilizing evidence you personally compiled means....?"
That earned him a death glare. "The quality of my work does not excuse appointing yourself judge, jury, and executioner." She huffed. "You're no better than my father."
"If the person with the better lawyer always wins, rather than the better evidence, then--"
"I am done speaking justice theory with you. Sleep on the couch, clearly my opinion has no bearing on the matter. I am going to sleep." She shoved past him, stormed into her bedroom, and shut & locked the door.
Alone in the empty kitchen of a stranger, Booth pondered his next move. What were the chances that she would climb down three floors of balconies to escape? It wasn't impossible, but it wasn't easy either. Probably she'd stay where she was. Picking her phone off the ground, he scrolled through her texts until he found Max.
It's done. Took a hit. Laying low here. She's pissed but fine, Booth typed and sent off the text. Max wouldn't be pleased, but this meant the old criminal would be stopping by in no time.
Taking the lady's advice, Booth laid himself out on the couch and dozed off. Hopefully when he woke up, it would be to Max with a back alley surgeon, not the bone lady whacking him in the face with a frying pan. Hopefully.