A/N: Yay, new fic! People who have me on author alerts, I'm sorry for the alert a few days ago but I had some issues with posting...

This fic is going to be another kabundle of oneshots (I know, surprising, right?) but each one will be written from the view of a minor character who is in some way involved in the action of an episode. I know it sounds odd but give it a shot, and hopefully you'll enjoy it! In theory, there should end up being one for each episode but we'll see how it goes - updates will probably be slow as I want to finish 'You're Lovely to Me' first.

Huge gigantic thanks to bella-mi-amore for giving me the idea for this series last January - sorry it's taken me so long to start it!

Spoilers for Killer in the Concrete

The EMT in the Airport Hangar

Chris Foster's favorite superhero was Superman.

After eliminating Batman (too skulky), Wolverine (too hairy), and Spiderman (too prone to spontaneous ejaculation), the five-year-old Chris had spent a good three hours weighing up the merits of Superman vs. The Incredible Hulk as his future role model. The Incredible Hulk had initially won out, as looking like the love-child of Frankenstein and Arnold Schwarzenegger was evidently an appealing prospect for a small boy, but he'd quickly changed his mind when his older brother, Raymond, had started singing "It's Not Easy Being Green" whenever he'd dressed up in his large squishy Hulk costume to fight imaginary crime.

Despite that early misdirection, he'd proceeded to whole-heartedly embrace Superman as his guide for life, doing his best to step up, help out, and generally save mankind in whatever small way he could manage. Therefore, it came as no surprise to his parents when he decided to leave the family business of garden gnome production to train as an EMT (although at the time, Brenda and Mike Foster were still dealing with the revelation that Raymond had decided to move to San Francisco with his long-term boyfriend Juan, and so were a lot less easily surprised than usual.) Nevertheless, he trained, qualified, and began to work happily as an EMT, safe in the knowledge that he was saving the world, one fractured hip at a time.

As his career progressed, Chris' belief in himself as Superman never faltered. Sure, he couldn't leap buildings in a single bound, or change efficiently into tights and Spandex in a telephone box, and his speed wasn't so much "faster than a speeding bullet" as "marginally quicker than an overweight hippo" but in his mind, it was the thought that counted (and his lucky pair of blue Superman boxers didn't hurt either).

Sadly, this thought was not shared by the rest of the world, with the possible except of his girlfriend, Sue, who'd been the one to purchase said lucky blue boxers. Chris and his borderline-narcoleptic partner, Ernie, were widely regarded as the Special Needs class of the DC ambulance department, being generally too slow, too asleep or too much like a bull in a china shop to do their job effectively. It was for this reason than the wannabe Superman often found himself dealing with old ladies who had fallen down the stairs and small children who'd got parts of their anatomy stuck in furniture, rather than gunshot victims, heart attacks, or people who'd been semi-digested by a stray and hungry python, nicknamed Chewie.

However, tonight was different.

Half an hour earlier, Dispatch had radioed that two ambulances would be required by the FBI to deal with a Hostage Rescue situation.

This in itself would've meant nothing to Chris except that Dispatch had also radioed forty-five minutes earlier to ask that multiple ambulances be sent to an address in Georgetown where a group of students had smoked something inadvisable and decided that jumping naked off the top of their building would be the best way to get in touch with their inner Peter Pan. All the more competent ambulance teams had therefore been dispatched to deal with the losers of the Cannabis vs Gravity battle, leaving Chris and Ernie with the chance of a lifetime.

Ever ready to do his superhero duty, Chris had seized the opportunity, carpe'd the diem, and pulled on his pair of lucky boxers before heading out to save a possible damsel in distress. (Ernie had been equally excited but had expressed it via the medium of drool.) Following the other ambulance down the freeway toward the airfield in question, he hummed the Superman theme happily in his head, already picturing his victorious yet heroic strides across the hangar to tend to the helpless victim he'd been sent to rescue.

This picture was momentarily interrupted by the query as to why the FBI required two ambulances to rescue one hostage.

Perplexed, he wrinkled his nose and glanced over at his partner, asking in confusion, "Ern, are you sure they needed two amb-"

His question was cut off by an enthusiastic snore from Ernie, who'd fallen asleep with his face smushed against the glass of the passenger window, providing excellent acoustics for his slumbering grunts and snorts.

Sighing in disappointment, Chris reached for the radio and tried again with the men in the vehicle in front, "Foster to Samuels."

There was a crackle before Tim Samuels' jolly voice sounded through the car, "Samuels here."

Soothed by the Santa-esque tone of his colleague, he inquired outright, "Samuels, why do the FBI need two ambulances for this if there's only one person who needs rescuing?"

Samuels' chuckle sent vibrations through the front seat. "They like to be prepared for all eventualities, son."

Chris frowned, his mind running through 'eventualities' that would require two ambulances. Further injuries caused by...? People falling into jet engines? Attack dogs getting off their leash? The return of Chewie? Swallowing hard at the thought of DC's favorite python making a guest appearance, he radioed nervously, "Eventualities?"

Another chuckle. "Yep, that's what I said, son. The kind of eventualities that several FBI agents with guns might inflict on the people who kidnapped one of their own. All in the line of duty, of course."

Oh. Relieved to hear that there would be no large snakes involved, he murmured a brief, "Thanks, Samuels", before inwardly cursing at the fact that he might have to save the bad guys. Damn it. Superman just handed the villains over to the cops. He never had to administer first aid to Lex Luthor...

Heart sinking a little, he followed Samuels' vehicle as they turned off and headed for the airfield which was already filled with the flashing lights of a SWAT team. A very, very large SWAT team. If Moses had led a SWAT team out of Egypt, it would probably have been this size.

Pulling to a stop, he gaped briefly at the multitude of armed men standing in the floodlights and pointing guns at one lone sweaty criminal, realising the FBI apparently made a habit of over-ordering on SWAT teams as well as ambulances, and kind of wishing he could go to the Hoover building Christmas party if they applied the same policy to alcohol purchasing.

Stop it, he rebuked himself firmly. Superman focuses on the innocent lives at stake, not on how much beer the Feds probably get as an end of year bonus. Go find somebody to save.

Decision made, Chris jumped smoothly from the ambulance after giving Ernie a quick nudge to inform him they'd arrived, and scanned the hangar carefully for the sight of blood, not unlike a safety conscious vampire.

The most obvious source of blood was that trickling from the nose of the aforementioned lone sweaty criminal, whom Chris swiftly nicknamed Curly Fries and then regretted it as the thought of food made his stomach grumble. However, since Curly Fries was being dragged away in handcuffs by a pair of sour-faced agents, he guessed that the man's nosebleed was not high on anyone's priority list and turned his attention elsewhere.

Elsewhere turned out to be a man lying on the floor of the hangar with a screwdriver in his stomach and an expression of mild consternation on his face.

Before Chris could take more than two steps in Shish-kebab's direction, he was nearly steam-rollered by the burly Samuels and his partner as, like a well-oiled machine, they ran past with a stretcher, dropped to the floor beside Shish-kebab and began the somewhat difficult process of reassuring a man whose insides had been introduced to a DIY kit for the first time. Satisfied that Shish-kebab was being taken care of and that, judging by the lack of concern from the milling agents, he was also a kidnapper rather than a kidnappee, Chris began the search for the 'hostage' part of the 'hostage situation'.

It didn't take him long, although the fact that the hostage was still duct-taped to a chair could be considered a bit of a give-away.

Hiding his disappointment at the realisation that the hostage was neither a damsel nor apparently in much distress, Chris set off on what he imagined to be a suitably heroic jog over to where Agent Hostage was attached to his chair and deep in conversation with a slim brunette woman. As he got nearer, he saw that the agent was in more distress than he first thought, his shirt spattered with blood and his face swollen and starting to bruise.

None of this had fazed Little Miss Priority Fail, Chris noted with slight contempt as he watched the woman continue to argue with the downed agent without making a move to get him loose from the chair.

"It wasn't helping a fugitive escape!"

"What would you call it then, Bones?" the agent asked in annoyance. "'Cause he is a fugitive, and giving him a car definitely counts as helping him escape."

Interest piqued, Chris edged closer to the conversation as Priority Fail, aka Bones, responded calmly, "If you're going to be technical, he stole my car. I didn't give it to him and so am without fault."

Agent Hostage gave a long-suffering sigh. "Alright, Mary Poppins, have it your way. Why was your father even here anyway? I thought you were mad at him after what happened at the monastery..."

Priority Fail, aka Bones, aka Mary Poppins, put her hands on her hips. "I needed to find you, and accepting help from my father was the most time-efficient way of doing that. There are still lots of issues that need to be resolved, but finding you was more of a priority today."

But getting him some medical attention falls somewhere between 'take out the trash' and 'do laundry' in your priorities? Chris thought sarcastically before steeling his nerves and interjecting cautiously, "Uh, Miss?"

Mary-Bones-Poppins turned quickly round to face him, saying matter-of-factly, "Doctor."

Chris frowned. "Actually, Miss, I'm just an EMT. If we can get him to hospital, I'm sure a doctor can-"

"She means she's a doctor," Agent Hostage helpfully contributed from his position on the ground. "Dr Temperance Brennan; she's my partner."

Thoroughly confused by the amount of names one woman needed, Chris started to back away, mumbling, "Oh, sorry, Mis- Sorry, Doctor. Did you want any help with his injuries or should I go-"

"PhD, not MD" the agent chimed in again, sounding as though this happened a lot.

"Oh," Chris commented, wrong-footed by the knowledge that the woman beside him had a doctorate but lacked the common sense to detach an injured kidnap victim from his confinement. Falling back on well-used phrases, he asked politely, "In that case, could you step back please, Dr Brennan, so that Agent..."

"Booth," Brennan filled in, making the two of them seem like a double-way ventriloquist act. "Agent Seeley Booth."

"So that Agent Booth can be checked out for injuries," he finished smoothly.

There was an exchange of glances between the two partners and Chris shifted uncomfortably, thinking that Superman never had to deal with people who were so reluctant to be rescued. Eventually a silent decision seemed to be made and Brennan stepped back, allowing him access to her partner as she instructed firmly, "Be careful with him."

The EMT nodded nervously, unconsciously edging back at the approach of a daughter of a fugitive. "Yes, Ma'am."

A small smile crossed her lips and she looked down at her partner, making Chris feel like he was missing out on some sort of inside joke. "I wasn't talking to you."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Go give a statement, Bones. Cullen'll be wanting to know how you found me here and I'm thinking telling him about your father's help wouldn't be the best idea."

Another indefinable look passed between them before she departed, finally leaving Chris with his charge.

About time. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's the medical attention you should've been given a while ago.

Crouching down beside him, he began to cut through the thick silver tape, asking routinely, "Can you tell me where you're in pain, Sir?"

Booth raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

Chris amended, "Do you have any other injuries than the contusions on your face?"

Booth shrugged remarkably well for someone whose limbs were attached to a chair. "Few bruises on my chest and a burn on my leg. Nothing a hot bath won't fix."

He looked quickly at the leg in question and let out a low whistle. Unless there's been some radical new development with the water in this country, hot baths aren't going to heal a second degree burn. Choosing a more sympathetic response, he instead replied, "We're going to have to take you into the hospital to get that looked at, Sir." With the rest of the tape removed, Chris moved back as Booth fell the rest of the way to the floor with a quiet 'Oofh' of pain. "I'll just go get a stretcher."

Walking off before the agent could object, he found Ernie sitting sleepily on the back of the ambulance using a bag of IV solution as a pillow. Giving his ever-alert partner a slap on the back of the head, he grabbed one end of the stretcher trolley and between the two of them, they wheeled it over to where the agent was lying.

Or rather, where the agent had been lying.

For the love of God... Superman definitely didn't have to cope with disappearing rescuees. Scanning the room, he saw the runaway agent limping painfully over to his partner and headed after him, murmuring dejectedly, "Take five, Ernie."

Work-boots pounding on the concrete, he plodded over to Booth, pondering miserably, What does he think my job description is? Maybe I should rename my career EDTR rather than EMT - Emergency Duct-Tape Removal is apparently all I'm good for in the eyes of the FBI.

Irritation rising, he tapped the agent pointedly on the shoulder and said with forced politeness, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down so I can examine your wounds. You might be concussed and I don't think it's doing you any good to walk round on that leg-"

Booth gave him a brief smile. Oddly, that didn't help with Chris' urge to slap the stubborn agent. "Really, I'm good. I just need to-"

He gestured to the opposite side of the hangar and the EMT turned to see his favorite non-MD speaking quickly with an older, gray-haired man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere than here. (Chris sympathized.) Not convinced that joining a conversation was a good enough excuse to get out of a medical examination, he turned back to the agent only to find that he'd snuck off when his back was turned and was now making wobbly but determined progress toward his partner and the older man.

Give me strength...

"Sir! Sir!" he yelled helplessly as he dashed after the fleeing agent. "Sir, would you please sit down?"

Fortunately, a large burn on the thigh was not conducive to fleeing and Chris quickly caught up with him, this time taking a firmer approach and physically guiding the resisting agent to a seat. Nowhere in the medical or superhero guidebook does it forbid using reasonable force on a stubborn cripple. I'm just doing my job, he reassured himself as he began to inspect the bruises on Booth's face, prodding and poking with just a little more force than necessary as he established that nothing was broken.

He was about to move down to the ribs when the agent once again tried to make a break for freedom with the slightly premature comment, "Well, thanks for the exam. I'm just going to-"

Chris' patience failed.

"Sit. Down."

Booth looked at him in surprise, and he added reluctantly, "Sir."

Apparently speaking in words of one syllable was an effective tactic as the rebellious former hostage sank back to the seat, lips tightening in a sulk when his arms were gently nudged away from his body so that he could examine his ribs.

Relieved to have a silent, compliant patient at last, Chris ventured into the new and exciting realms of conversation, making what was essentially medical small-talk. "So, do you know what kind of instrument was used to strike your ribs?"

"A foot," Booth answered shortly and Chris' eyes widened at the thought.

"There's a foot around here somewhere? Do you know whose it was? Was it frozen or just severed at room temperature?"

Booth stared at him with the same expression of pitying despair one would give a small child who'd just announced it could fit its entire foot in its mouth and then demonstrated said feat. Chris lowered his eyes in embarrassment, asking awkwardly, "The foot was still attached to someone's body, wasn't it?"

The agent nodded slowly.

Chris remained convinced that even Superman made mistakes sometimes, and forged bravely on with the small-talk, "So, this foot. What kind of shoe was it wearing?"

"What?"

He looked up with a cheerful grin. "What kind of shoe? Sneaker, loafer, boot, steel-tipped mining shoe, clog..."

The agent's eyes met his for the first time and Chris found the experience scarier than he'd anticipated, especially when he asked slowly and disbelievingly, "I was tied to a chair and kicked repeatedly in the ribs, and you seriously think my attention was on what type of shoe did the kicking?"

"Uh..." He floundered for the right answer and instead came out with a question. "No?"

Booth slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Good call, kid." With the smoothness of a highly trained pickpocket, he used his grip on the EMT's shoulder to pull himself to his feet before easily reversing their positions and heading off towards the wild blue yonder (which was neither wild, nor blue, nor yondery, but that was beside the point.)

Flushed with a strange sense of pride at the Manly Pat of Friendship, Chris was momentarily distracted long enough for Booth to gain a small head-start but regained his senses in time to grab the injured agent brusquely by the upper arm and haul him to a sitting position on the back of the ambulance.

Wondering at what point his Superman duties had moved from comforting a victim to physically apprehending a runaway, he gave Agent Houdini a stern glare before glancing longingly at the tranquilizers in his kit and debating whether sedating a hostage was covered by any sort of protocol. He soon decided that Booth should probably remain conscious (although he hadn't yet ruled out restraints of some sort) and turned his severely-tested attention to the burn on the agent's thigh which was looking more painful by the moment.

He sighed. "I'm going to have to remove your pants, Sir."

"No, you're not," Booth answered with bright confidence.

More floundering. (Chris was feeling increasingly fish-like as the conversation progressed.) "Huh?"

"You're not going to have to do anything. As far as I'm concerned, you've done your job and can leave me in peace." He slipped a five dollar bill in his shirt pocket as he moved to stand. "Here, have some donuts."

Chris gaped. Superman was certainly never faced with bribery and donut-based mind games from a rescued citizen. Humph.

"Agent Booth, I'm not going to be bribed to let you go!" he stated, a little louder than intended. "This'll go a lot easier for both of us if you just co-operate."

"But I-"

"Sir!" he interrupted loudly, blood pressure reaching an unstable high. "Sit down and let me take your pants off!"

There was a sudden awkward silence throughout the airplane hangar.

If Chris had been in possession of a shovel at that particular moment, he wouldn't have stopped digging until he could see China. As it stood, however, he was shovel-less and China-free so instead resorted to adding in embarrassed explanation, "For medical reasons. So I can examine you." His words reached his brain and he amended, "Examine your leg. Which is burned and needs to be examined. Without pants."

Cheeks a fetching shade of lobster red, he looked up at Booth in the hopes that the agent would take pity on him and strip off without any further argument.

Booth remained unmoved. As did his pants.

Chris took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rising anger and wondering if he'd made the wrong choice at age five. It was times like these that he wished he could double in size, turn green and rip apart something shiny and metallic. Feeling the straw hovering precariously over the camel's back, he opened his mouth to make a last-ditch attempt at persuasion when he was distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Hopeful, he turned around and his heart sank a little further. Dr 'Priority Fail' Brennan was not who he wanted to see right now, even if he did have to admit that leaving the agent fastened to the chair didn't seem like such a bad idea in retrospect. (He'd briefly considered grabbing the role of duct-tape, tying up the stubborn agent, and forcibly removing his pants, but then decided that was too close to sexual assault for either of their comforts.) Resigned to further harassment from the other half of the duo from hell, he faced her with a forced smile, "Dr Brennan, I was-"

Once again, she ignored him, speaking firmly to her partner, "Let him take your pants off."

Chris' mouth fell open in a very un-Super way. Wha-?

Booth's mouth was also struggling to stay closed. "Bones, listen, I really don't need any help with this. Just slap some Burn-eze on it and I'll be good to go."

She fixed him with a glare that would put death-rays to shame and also employed the one syllable tactic. "Booth, you are hurt. You need help." Chris stepped back as she stepped nearer, voice softening a little, "Look, I'll drive you to the hospital if you let him look at your leg." She gave him a small smile and offered temptingly, "I'll even buy you pie afterwards..."

"And how're you planning on getting to the hospital, Bones?" Booth asked with a good-natured smirk. "Your car was 'stolen', remember?"

Brennan shrugged, unfazed. "Cullen said he'd give me whatever transportation necessary to get me out of here as quickly as possible." She cocked her head to the side, remembering the conversation. "He was very helpful."

I bet he was, Chris thought sarcastically before realising he was missing a prime opportunity. With Agent Houdini distracted by thoughts of pie and a ride with his partner, the EMT grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting up his pant leg to gain access to the burn.

"Hey!"

Chris instinctively flinched at the shout, half expecting to be roundhouse-kicked by the agent's non-toasty leg. Fortunately the protest was countered by a stern warning from the doctor, "Booth..."

Like a puppy receiving a bop on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, Booth reluctantly sat, stayed and played dead as his ruined pants were sliced in half. Snipping with enthusiasm, Chris quickly worked through his mental list of Tasks to Complete Before He Would Never Have to Deal with the FBI Ever Again. Remove pants, check wound, give painkillers if needed, assist him into car, throw small party as Double Trouble drive off, die happy. He allowed himself a small inward smile. The end is near.

"Bones, could you-"

Damn, he's talking again. If I can't tape him up, maybe I could at least cover his mouth? Chris mused. I think Superman could stretch to that.

However, a few more chops provided an partial explanation as to why he and Booth hadn't seen eye to eye (and also went some way to explaining why the agent was suddenly so uncomfortable with his partner's proximity.)

Whereas Chris favored Superman, Booth's top choice for novelty superhero boxers was apparently Batman.

Feedback would be fantabulous and thank you for reading! Next up should be Aliens in a Spaceship...