Title: Captive Souls
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the main characters within this story.
Rating: This chapter is rated T. Future chapters shall be rated M.
Summary: When Brennan's new love interest proves to be a deceitful crook and his plans for wealth turn violent, he's Booth's, not Brennan's neck that's on the line.
A/N: Well this is my newest story idea. Filled with angst and action, much like A Dangerous Aficionado, only a lot less clandestine. But, people loved the hero in Booth and so did I – so let me know what you think. Thanks!
"Is Bones playing with her new friend?" Booth asked, passing his security pass through the decoder, tucking the card into his top pocket, pulling his shoulders back and surveying the scene of quiet scientists, sans Brennan, with acute interest. Only Angela Montenegro looked up, a wavy curtain of black hair hiding her mischievous eyes.
"By 'new friend' I would assuming you mean Professor Franklin?" Angela asked, her fingers smudged with waxy lead.
"By new friend," Booth said, his jaw aching light as he maintained the smile that he'd been forced to show since Brennan decided to get better acquainted with Lewis B. Franklin from Oxford, "I mean exactly that, Angela." Zach slid the broken remnants of a femur into place atop the light table, his brown eyes made enormous by the shielded glasses he wore.
"Rumour has it that she got tired of waiting for a date," he said, his gloved hands moving across the bones with expert precision.
"No," Angela said, "she got tired of the back-and-forth because Booth doesn't have the balls to ask her out."
"Um, hello? I'm still here…" Booth said, waving his hands in front of Angela's eyes, shooting a glare at Zach. "I'm not interested in a date with her. Platonic is a word you guys don't understand." He straightened his tie, arching his neck. "Where did she go, then?" Hodgins, filtering soil through a tiny sieve, shrugged his shoulders beneath his blue lab-coat.
"I personally thought they were headed for bed. She totally digs the accent, man." Booth felt his eyes narrow and while he had convinced himself that his annoyance was due only to how Brennan's afternoon wanderings greatly inconvenienced him, he suspected the squints had different ideas. "Haow naow braown caow and all that," Hodgins continued, a smirk playing at his lips.
"Whatever man," Booth said, recalling with all too perfect clarity exactly how Professor Hawkins had sounded during his lengthy spiel about archaeology in the Middle East which Brennan feigned interest in. How did he know she was just pretending? Because no one with ears could actually listen to him for more than five minutes without lapsing into catatonic depression. "So," Booth continued, "I'll have to wait until she returns from lunch aka bed."
Angela stifled a chuckle. "I'm fairly sure it's just lunch," she said. "For now."
The squint squad were Brennan's personal matchmakers, scouring the city for any suitable candidate. One day it was Booth, the next it was David and then it was Booth again and now it was Hawkins, the perfect partner for Temperance Brennan because he was sophisticated, intelligent and… boring.
Not that Brennan was boring, Booth thought, elbows on the bench. Brennan was actually very interesting, but she tended to feel comforted by those who could effortlessly spurt scientific nonsense. If it weren't so irritating he would have been amused by it. But since it was two thirty and he had a set of two remains waiting to be examined, he found few things funny – least of all Brennan's dysfunctional love life.
"So," he said after a suitable lapse of time had expired, "when is the good doctor going home?" He didn't want to sound aggravated or threatened by the Oxford educated professor. He wasn't.
"Oh sweetie," Angela said, as though she felt a touch of sympathy for his lack of knowledge. "I think Goodman is going to offer him a job. He'd be a valuable asset to the Jeffersonian. He has extensive knowledge of world treasures, with a degree in history and politics." Booth took the news with all the reserved composure of a professionally trained sniper. Yet inwardly, he found himself wondering if Hawkins could use a rifle and, if not, how easy would it be to gun down the annoying son-of-a-bitch.
He dropped his forehead to the counter, inhaling deep, rolling his eyes inwardly. "Well," he said, "yippee."
Angela actually laughed, throwing her head back and drawing curious glances from her two colleagues, who found her joyful chuckles both amusing and surprising. Working within their specialised fields, hired out to the FBI, there was rarely reason to laugh. But Angela was a startling woman – she was easily amused, especially by Booth's plight.
"Booth," she said, scooting her chair towards him, "it's okay to be jealous. He's handsome, intelligent, charming…" she could easily have went on, listing the pros to being with a man like Lewis Franklin. Unfortunately for Booth, he couldn't see through the façade of uptight British roots – and in general, he liked British people. Just not him.
"Jealous? Psssh," he dismissed with a wave of his hand, "no way. Sounds like they're well suited, I'm just frustrated by the bodies I have that need identified." He opened his mouth to continue, certain that he could easily have convinced Angela of his blasé attitude to the new recruit, but Daniel Goodman strode along the metal gangway overhead, his shoes clicking against the metal with a fast paced, furious determination that made Booth slip off their stool and stand straight, much like he did in the military. Goodman just commanded that kind of respect.
He didn't need to take the stairs two at a time to reach the lab in record time, his wide strides brought him face to face with Booth in less than thirty seconds, his black eyes brisk and impatient, cool and emotionless, yet glimmering with something… annoyance? Worry?
"Agent Booth," he said, "glad that you're here. We have a situation, over in Baltimore." Booth slipped his hands into his pockets, quite sure that Goodman should have went through Cullen if his services were required. But he was, in a strange way, fond of the man. He didn't relish pissing him off, either.
"What kind of a situation, sir?" he asked.
"It's about Dr Brennan. She's in danger."