Chapter One

2:14PM

"C'mon, Sweets. Don't do this to me."

The truck was long gone before they ever reached him.

"The world is a lot better than you think it is. It's…"

"Don't talk, don't talk. It's okay, buddy, we're here."

A rasping choke. Blood on the kid's lips. The words couldn't make it out, but Booth could see him struggling, swallowing, trying to make the sounds.

Not him. Not the kid. Why did it have to be Sweets?

"Wait, Sweets? No, wait, no, don't stop talking! Lance? Lance!"

All it left behind were smudged tire tracks, still warm. And a body, growing colder.

Lance closed his eyes. His mouth stopped moving.

Panic. "No, no, no —"

Not like this. Not like this.

He pressed both hands to Lance's chest. This is what people do to save lives. But as soon as he put pressure, Lance groaned, and Booth felt the sickening crack of already-broken bones giving out under his palms. Booth recoiled, horrified, barely containing a gasp. Oh, God, did he just make it worse?

His hands shook. Covered in blood.

"Lance, c'mon man, don't do this, don't do this to me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry —"

There had to be a way to fix this. There just had to be. Please, God, don't let this kid die, he's too good, this wasn't right, they weren't fast enough, it was all his fault —

"Booth."

Her voice.

Her hand, squeezing his arm. Temperance Brennan, the bedrock in a swirling sandstorm of chaos that was now Booth's life. The tears in her eyes matched the burning in his. At the sight of it, Booth couldn't hold back anymore, letting out a half-strangled sob. She said something, but he couldn't hear it over the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. He could only shake his head, already knowing what she was trying to say.

Brennan spoke again, in a lower voice, "Booth — Seeley. Seeley, look at me. We can't help him, it's too la—"

"Don't say it's too late!" Booth shrugged of her arm. She was already shaking her head, and Booth understood what it meant. But he refused to believe it. "Don't say that! It's not — it can't be, we're here, it's what we do —"

Booth would've gone on, forever if it he had to, if it meant everything would be okay; but his voice broke. He dropped his head, shame heating his face. He failed Brennan. He failed Lance. He swallowed, forcing down the lump in his throat. All my fault.

Brennan put her hand back on his arm — not bracing or reproachful, but gentle, comforting, just as sirens appeared. Distant at first, but getting closer fast. He picked up his head, wondering what a godsend it was that had the ambulances arriving so soon.

(It was Brennan, of course. Booth didn't realize he knocked the phone out of her hand until later, and reminded himself to apologize for it).

Lance's chest rose and fell rapidly. Blood from his nose, all over his face. It started to pool beneath him. It was too much, just too much.

Booth had been in this job long enough to see the myriad of ways a man could die.

It didn't always take a bullet. There were far more brutal ways to go.

He just wished he didn't have to see them all.

"What happened?"

A new voice. A paramedic? The world was a blur beyond Lance. Booth couldn't make out the newcomer's face, couldn't even remember the color of the man's skin later.

All he knew were the words he heard, the hand he had wrapped tightly around Lance's arm, his hand. It was already growing cold. Lance's fingers stopped responding minutes ago. But Booth didn't let go. It was as if he could somehow hang on to the kid's life, keep him here just a little bit longer. Just long enough. Please, let it be enough.

"He was hit by a-a car — no, a truck!" Booth shook his head, frustrated as he stumbled over his own words, stammering, slowing the paramedic down. Another one kneeled down by Lance's head, pressed a finger to his neck, had a bag-valve in her hand. She said nothing as she checked her watch, before wrapping the end of the bag-valve, a mask, to Sweets' face. Something bright orange flashed in the corner of Booth's vision, and he looked down, startled to see the male paramedic carrying a backboard.

Hands pulled on his shoulders, and Booth could only watch, helpless, as Lance's life was taken into new, strange hands. Could he trust them? Could they save them? Did they have any idea what was going on, what was at stake here?

Did they know who to blame?

"Booth, we have to go."

"No, no, I have to stay. I have to make sure he's okay —"

"Let the EMTs do their job. You're in their way." Somehow Brennan managed to sound calm despite all of this.

Booth had no idea how she did it, how she wasn't choking down tears, how she didn't seem to feel any pain. But if he looked at her face, it would only make it worse. Instead, Booth kept his eyes on Sweets — watching with a painful twist in his gut as the paramedics strapped him onto the backboard and, in one smooth move, lifted him up and into the waiting ambulance.

Before Booth could even think of the idea of following them inside, the ambulance was already taking off, sirens screaming.

He stumbled to his feet, reaching out with one forlorn hand at the fast receding vehicle as it peeled out of the garage. His hands were bloody, gravel stuck to his palms. His knees were wet, too, dark red stains — suit ruined, not like he didn't have enough of these anyways...

Booth's words weren't much more than mere babbling. "N-no, no, I have to go with them, I can't leave him alone, Sweets, he's — he's just a kid. I-I-I don't want him to be scared, he's all alone, he doesn't know — he doesn't know…"

"He knows, Seeley. He knows."

Brennan had taken his hand, was already pulling him the other way. The wrong way. Yet Booth had no energy to resist her, could only watch helplessly at the empty exit. He ran a hand through his hair, down his face — didn't even care that he had blood smeared all over him now. It seemed fitting, in a horrible way. Booth had killed Lance just as much as that truck had.

Brennan was ushering, pushing him into the car. Booth didn't resist; he was more mannequin than man now, all his parts just movable, useless pieces.

He slumped against the hood. His hands were numb. That's when his cell started to ring — which he answered automatically, not even checking to see the caller ID. His voice was dull. "H-hello?"

"Agent Booth, I was just informed of what happened with Dr. Sweets," he recognized the voice of his boss instantly. Of course the director of the FBI would be alerted, when one of their own was attacked. Because that's what Lance was. He was one of them. "I got everyone on high alert, looking for the son of a bitch who did this."

"Good, good, that's good." Booth could only nod dumbly. "What do you need me to do? We know who he is, wh-where he might've gone, we can go after him —"

"No, Agent Booth. I need you to go home."

Booth blinked, his mind going blank at those impossible words. "…What? No, s-sir, I can't, I can't go home, I-I got work to do —"

"You're not chasing no serial killer while you're crying like a goddamn soap opera," was the retort, which Booth humbly accepted. It was only now he felt the tears, and wiped half-heartedly at his face. At least he was spared the humiliation of being seen like this by his colleagues. "I don't want any backtalk, just go home, Booth. That's an order. You're no good to anyone this way."

Booth hated those words, hated that they were right. Brennan had paused beside him; could she hear the director? Could she see what it was doing to Booth? But not even his own pride stopped him from following an order. "…Yes, sir, I understand."

"Good. I'll keep you updated on the situation. Just get some rest and recollect yourself, got it? I need you at your best tomorrow."

Tomorrow? There was no tomorrow. Booth didn't even know what was going to happen in the next five minutes, although he certainly didn't want it to be spent at home, doing nothing, being utterly fucking useless.

The call ended, and Booth's arm dropped, hanging limp at his side. What was he going to do now?

Brennan, of course, took charge of the situation, as usual not asking for his input. She held out her hand. "Give me the keys, I'll drive."

"What? No, it's my car —" and yet Booth somehow remembered himself long enough to know he didn't like Brennan behind the wheel.

She came to an abrupt stop, pressing her hands to his chest and keeping him back even as Booth tried to make for the driver's side door. "No, Booth! You're in no state to drive. I heard what your boss said. You're emotionally compromised!"

"What? And you're not?" He demanded, searching that face, those hazel eyes, for the weakness he felt. "Is Lance lying on the ground, bleeding out, not goddamn good enough for you?"

"Seeley!" her snap was sharp, and full of hurt, and Booth immediately regretted saying that. Her hands dropped from his chest, shoulders slumping, and she shook her head. Her dark hair, usually so well-kept, was askew and frazzled. It was the first time he looked at her. Really looked at her. Brennan's eyes were red. There were tear tracks down her cheeks. There was blood on her hands, too. "That's not fair, and you know it. Of course I am, but this is not the time to be debating who gets to drive. Just give me the keys. I promise to be safe."

Reluctantly, Booth relented, pulling the keys from his pocket and handing them to her. She was right, after all. Temperance was always right about this sort of stuff, and Booth couldn't help but feel a little relieved when he slid into the passenger seat — his thoughts were everywhere, his ears were ringing, and his hands were shaking, covered in blood — not like Brennan's, whose hands were steady as she put the key in the ignition and smoothly reversed the car.

Instead, as she hit the road, she took the wrong turn, and Booth switched his head to her in surprise. "W-what? Bones, where are we going?"

Her eyes met his. "The hospital, of course."

So this is mostly a cathartic piece. I was not happy with Lance's death or the way he was treated afterwards and it actually made me stop watching Bones altogether for a while. This is me resetting a personal slight lol.