Author's Note: This will be a series of short oneshots/drabbles pertaining to "Hero in the Hold." There will be some spoilers, some only speculative, some enhanced by artistic liberty. Song referenced is "Swallowed in the Sea" by Coldplay.
Thrill. Nervous anticipation. Not for the party itself, of course. He hates parties. But she asked that he attend as her date.
He never could deny her.
It's a curious thing. Why should this feel so… different? In a fashion, he's weightless. So high from the butterflies foraging in his stomach – since when does he get butterflies? – that he fears he'll be sick. Flying and falling.
Strange. But not. Unexpectedly exquisite.
It's an exhilarating sensation. Maybe he might not feel so anxious if it weren't for their skating lesson a few weeks ago. Ever since then, things have changed. Things have been changing. More rapidly, more profoundly. Even their banter has become lighter, more flirty. Earlier today, for example, during their phone conversation.
Their looks linger longer. Eyes aren't as guarded.
Braving the unknown, rented tux form-fitting and smooth, he steps into the large ballroom. Brown eyes search and expertly scan every face and figure.
For her, of course.
There had been no other reason for him to be here.
Tonight had been so important. Why, he hadn't been sure. But he'd felt the heat, the shift.
And so he'd sought her.
Tall and elegant, commanding the entire ballroom unknowingly with her radiant presence alone, he sees her. Hair curled in waves, twisted loosely up at the top of her head. Skin pale and milky, inviting. Her brilliant smile stretches a mile wide when she finally sees him, and he's on the moon. Waving, she beckons him over.
The artist floats to his side, smiling knowingly, but not in a pressuring way. "Looks nice, doesn't she?"
No hesitation. No break of eye contact.
Angela's smile stretches until the dimples appear, and she touches his arm once. Encouraging. Moves on.
Brennan becomes lost in the crowd, but he'll find her. Follow the intoxicating scent of her perfume.
They'll share a dance, maybe two. Smiling, bodies closer than usual. Cheeks might brush. Her gloved hand might linger on his shoulder, the nape of his neck. His hands will stray to their place at the small of her back.
The knowing is mutual. Things are happening. Everything's… happening.
He'll offer to get her a drink. Smiling shyly, she'll accept.
On his way to the champagne stand, he'll stop by the restroom to fix his bowtie. And maybe to settle his nerves.
On the way back, the halls will be dark. He'll weave his way through the shadows, not fearing the danger he doesn't perceive. The sounds from the ballroom will call to him. Whisper tantalizing promises of the night to come.
And then he'll feel the chloroform cloth clamp over his mouth. Disoriented, faint. He's a big man, trained in the art of war and combat. One method of capture won't do it. Initial attempt needs to throw him sharply off his game, from the very start.
He'll fight back, elbow his assailant blindly. Released, he'll stumble. Vision swimming, ground falling away from him. He'll think of her, only and foremost. He has to make sure she'll be safe.
Get to Bones…
He'll feel the bite of the Taser. And then his world is black.
She'll never get her drink.