The Reluctant Guide
folder
AtS Crossovers › Misc - Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,606
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
AtS Crossovers › Misc - Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,606
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own AtS, Bones or The Sentinel. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
chapter 3
One week earlier.
"Booth." The FBI agent barked into the phone, making no effort to hide one iota of his irritation. He did not need to be disturbed right now. Another half hour and the paperwork for the Craddock case would be done. One more serial killing asshole put away for good.
The powers that be never seemed to kill the madmen who carved their twisted, bloody paths through the world; there was always someone who felt it was inhumane, or not civilized to eliminate the worthless husks. Human? Not by a long shot. Humans didn't drool over watching men and women die by slow inches. They didn't beat off while sliding the blade of a very sharp knife into a screaming victim's guts. Just thirty more minutes and he'd wash his hands of Craddock forever. Then he'd never have to think about the sick bastard again.
Serial killers were demons in human form. Which wasn't fair exactly to the demons. Booth had met demons who were far more human than a lot of the humans he encountered day to day. And some who were not. His job was tracking down the human monsters, not the demonic ones. Men like Craddock, who had at least twelve kills to his credit. Twelve lives snuffed out over the years, probably more, but Booth expected never to know who they were. Craddock guarded his victims' in his memory. He didn't share the visual recall with anyone. He didn't brag about what he'd done. He just savored it.
Booth thought the way to handle Craddock and men like him was not gathering evidence, holding a trial and eventual incarceration until the motherfucker was dead. It was a bullet to the brain. No muss, no fuss. Fast, clean, necessary, and so not going to happen. Instead, he had paperwork to do. Reams of it, and he was almost done...almost.
But the phone, predictably, had rung. Damn it. Well, no need to hide how he felt about it.
"Catch you at a bad time?" The voice on the other line was unmistakable, one Seely Booth would never forget or fail to recognize even over a crackling phone line. Probably the one of the few voices he could tolerate hearing at a time like this without wanting to kill. Someone who understood exactly how he felt. He leaned back in his chair, momentarily speechless. He could be hallucinating. It had been that long and the call from the other was that unlikely. He'd have been less surprised to receive a call from the President of the United States. Which had happened. Once. Years ago. But....
"Christ...Ellison?" Booth ran out of words again after those two. James Joseph Ellison, his former commander, the man who had saved his sorry ass from certain death twice. Who he hadn't seen in eight years. Or talked to in just as long. Tall, hard as granite, tough as steel, and good-looking to boot. Not that Booth swung that way. Not any longer. Not since he'd been honorably discharged, out of Black Ops, and once again had access to women who were neither victims, or enemy combatants.
"In the flesh." The tone was dry, precise. And Booth almost closed his eyes, remembering. He managed to keep his eyes open, his gaze fixed on the window opposite, just barely.
"Jesus." He said. Yeah, it was Ellison. And he didn't need this right now. But there was no way he could go back to what he'd been doing either. His mind was way back lost in time eight years ago, ankle deep in mud, automatic rifle braced at his hip, cammo paint all over his exposed skin, waiting for.... He scooted his chair back, stood, needing to hear the discordant scrape of chair legs across cheap linoleum. His crisp white shirt was damp under his pits. What, fifteen seconds? That was all it took and he was sweating. He was screwed.
"Where are you?" Booth asked the man waiting on the other end of the line, needing to buy time to think. Why was Ellison here now? The Craddock file was forgotten. Hell, he didn't care if he ever finished it. He'd walk out right now if he was asked. Come back later, and put the bullet in that sorry brain.
"Downstairs. Meet me?" It wasn't a question; there was a tone of urgency in the calm, even toned voice. Booth reached for his gun and badge, clipping the latter onto his belt one handed, and seated his gun in its holster. Meet him? Not a question that needed asking. His body was answering before his mouth caught up.
"Sure, yeah. On the way." Booth pushed the papers further away, clicking off his computer and grabbed his coat, heading for the lobby. This was going to be good. He worked on getting his shaking ass down the stairs in record time.
"Booth." The FBI agent barked into the phone, making no effort to hide one iota of his irritation. He did not need to be disturbed right now. Another half hour and the paperwork for the Craddock case would be done. One more serial killing asshole put away for good.
The powers that be never seemed to kill the madmen who carved their twisted, bloody paths through the world; there was always someone who felt it was inhumane, or not civilized to eliminate the worthless husks. Human? Not by a long shot. Humans didn't drool over watching men and women die by slow inches. They didn't beat off while sliding the blade of a very sharp knife into a screaming victim's guts. Just thirty more minutes and he'd wash his hands of Craddock forever. Then he'd never have to think about the sick bastard again.
Serial killers were demons in human form. Which wasn't fair exactly to the demons. Booth had met demons who were far more human than a lot of the humans he encountered day to day. And some who were not. His job was tracking down the human monsters, not the demonic ones. Men like Craddock, who had at least twelve kills to his credit. Twelve lives snuffed out over the years, probably more, but Booth expected never to know who they were. Craddock guarded his victims' in his memory. He didn't share the visual recall with anyone. He didn't brag about what he'd done. He just savored it.
Booth thought the way to handle Craddock and men like him was not gathering evidence, holding a trial and eventual incarceration until the motherfucker was dead. It was a bullet to the brain. No muss, no fuss. Fast, clean, necessary, and so not going to happen. Instead, he had paperwork to do. Reams of it, and he was almost done...almost.
But the phone, predictably, had rung. Damn it. Well, no need to hide how he felt about it.
"Catch you at a bad time?" The voice on the other line was unmistakable, one Seely Booth would never forget or fail to recognize even over a crackling phone line. Probably the one of the few voices he could tolerate hearing at a time like this without wanting to kill. Someone who understood exactly how he felt. He leaned back in his chair, momentarily speechless. He could be hallucinating. It had been that long and the call from the other was that unlikely. He'd have been less surprised to receive a call from the President of the United States. Which had happened. Once. Years ago. But....
"Christ...Ellison?" Booth ran out of words again after those two. James Joseph Ellison, his former commander, the man who had saved his sorry ass from certain death twice. Who he hadn't seen in eight years. Or talked to in just as long. Tall, hard as granite, tough as steel, and good-looking to boot. Not that Booth swung that way. Not any longer. Not since he'd been honorably discharged, out of Black Ops, and once again had access to women who were neither victims, or enemy combatants.
"In the flesh." The tone was dry, precise. And Booth almost closed his eyes, remembering. He managed to keep his eyes open, his gaze fixed on the window opposite, just barely.
"Jesus." He said. Yeah, it was Ellison. And he didn't need this right now. But there was no way he could go back to what he'd been doing either. His mind was way back lost in time eight years ago, ankle deep in mud, automatic rifle braced at his hip, cammo paint all over his exposed skin, waiting for.... He scooted his chair back, stood, needing to hear the discordant scrape of chair legs across cheap linoleum. His crisp white shirt was damp under his pits. What, fifteen seconds? That was all it took and he was sweating. He was screwed.
"Where are you?" Booth asked the man waiting on the other end of the line, needing to buy time to think. Why was Ellison here now? The Craddock file was forgotten. Hell, he didn't care if he ever finished it. He'd walk out right now if he was asked. Come back later, and put the bullet in that sorry brain.
"Downstairs. Meet me?" It wasn't a question; there was a tone of urgency in the calm, even toned voice. Booth reached for his gun and badge, clipping the latter onto his belt one handed, and seated his gun in its holster. Meet him? Not a question that needed asking. His body was answering before his mouth caught up.
"Sure, yeah. On the way." Booth pushed the papers further away, clicking off his computer and grabbed his coat, heading for the lobby. This was going to be good. He worked on getting his shaking ass down the stairs in record time.