A/N: This was inspired by a verse from a song by The Script called 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved'. I think it goes great with this fic (hint hint).
Policeman says "Son, you can't stay here,"
I said "There's someone I'm waiting for," if it's a day, a month, a year
Gotta stand my ground even if it rains or snows,
If she changes her mind this is the first place she will go
You and Angela are walking through downtown DC, trying hopelessly to find a place to eat. She's a nice girl, and you really can't thank her enough for what she's done for you.
Four months ago, you were given a position as the new forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian. It was tough, because apparently everyone loved Dr. Brennan and still misses her a lot. Angela's been kind to you, and bared her shoulder to your crying eyes when everyone else was baring their teeth. It's obvious she's lost quite a lot, and you are grateful for and admire her strength. She seems like the only one around here who has it together.
You've heard stories about the crime-solving Jeffersonian forensics team, who, paired with their sharp FBI liaison Agent Booth, indentified bodies and wrapped up cases before the average person could wrap his head around it. Now, all the fire seems to have disappeared. They laugh and joke around on the platform, but you can tell it's not like it used to be. People tell him of the chemistry between the colleagues. You could light a match in the air and it'd ignite the entire lab. Now, there's none. No fight, no fervor. Dr Brennan obviously took all the energy with her.
You're walking down Independence Avenue, marveling at all the lights and crowds outside at this hour. As a country boy from a little speck on the map called Easton, Maryland, the hustle and bustle of DC never ceases to amaze you.
From within the crowd, one face calls out to you. You do a double take, then stop, leaving Angela to walk on and talk to your shadow. She stops, then falls back to where you stand, mouth slightly open.
Her hand goes to her mouth and she shakes her head pitifully. "Poor guy," she mutters. You can't help but stare, and you know that whatever he is thinking about has grasped him so tightly he couldn't see you through its thick fingers anyways.
He flips a poker chip between his fingers, then envelops it in a white-knuckled grip. He looks around at the crowd, though not picking out any faces in particular (including yours and Angela's), as if expecting someone. His head turns down again as he pockets the poker chip and flips it inside his pocket.
You look at Angela with inquisitive eyes. She peels her gaze away from him to look at you, but doesn't speak, so you must:
"What is Agent Booth doing?"
She sighs, drops her hand, and starts to talk.
"Do you remember how Dr. Brennan disappeared?"
Of course you remember. She left for Haiti to assist on an archaeological dig. She told Agent Booth that when she got back, she would meet him at the diner, Tuesday at nine thirty. Within four days, a whole week and a half before she was supposed to be back, Dr. Brennan was found dead on a riverbank two miles from the dig site. A group of religious extremists had attacked the group of scientists who were 'defiling their sacred land.'
Her beautiful cat's eyes flick to your watch, then back. You pull your arm up and check the time: nine thirty nine. Your face contorts into a grimace.
"Every Tuesday, at nine thirty on the dot, he shows up at this diner..." She trailed off, but as quick as the hesitation came it went, so she started again. "...waiting for her."
You look to the sullen agent leaned up against the doorjamb. "Why?"
Angela gives a sad smile. "Sweetie," she started to say, but stopped halfway through the word, blinked, then resumed speaking. "He's not ready to let go yet."
Your gaze turns back to Agent Booth, still dutifully standing by the door. There is a long pause as you both stare, wanting to turn away but unable to do so. Eventually, Angela's graceful fingers come to rest on your shoulder, and she looks at you with sad eyes.
"Come on, Alex. Let's leave him alone." As you peel your gaze from his slumping form, he scans the crowd for her, and his footsteps seem to echo as he dejectedly straightens out and heads for his car.