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sinkwriterA long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... I really wanted a Tenth Doctor / David Tennant user pic, and the marvelous ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
greatbriton made several gorgeous ones for me, per a creative meme offering she posted to her LJ.
In exchange for her generosity (and great patience), I promised my own creative offering, to write up to ten stories or TV episode reviews to those who commented to my post here. I still have more stories to write, but at long, long last, the first one is complete, the one I wrote for Briton.
She requested a Bones fic involving the characters Seeley Booth and Angela Montenegro, with no other major instructions except to say that it didn't need to be "all shippy." (Heee.) She especially liked their flirty banter and wanted a scene or story in which they were the main focus.
This is that story.
Briton, thank you so much for all the work you put in on those icons! I can now safely say that in exchange I put in a ton of (very fun) work on this thing, and I hope you find it was worth the wait.
Side note: story header notes can be found at the end.
The Truth In The Art
Booth: You have something to hide?
Angela: Better believe it, bucko.
Booth: What kind of something?
Angela: The best kind.
~ Bones, "The Woman In The Car"
As I made my way up the stairs, I could feel a bass line thrumming under my feet. The hammering rhythms of steel drums and a whining guitar reached my ears seconds later. Sounded like the joint was jumpin' so I had to wonder if maybe this wasn't the best time for me to show up unannounced. My second thought was, why didn't she invite me? I could bring it better than any of her squint buddies. I'd been to one of their dorky office Christmas parties; most of 'em probably didn't even know how to dance. Well, maybe Hodgins could, but that was a big maybe. The dude sometimes raced beetles on Friday nights. Anyway...
By the time I reached her door, I realized the music -- was that Spanish-language rap? -- was way too loud for anyone inside to hear me knocking, so I took my chances and eased into the apartment.
And had to laugh.
There was no party. It was only Angela, painting alone in her studio, blasting her tunes loud enough to rattle the windows. She didn't even hear me come in.
Instead, she stood in front of a tall easel, tapping a brush handle against her palm with the beat. As she studied the canvas, she danced in place, her bare feet firmly planted while her hips made smooth, loose figure eights. Sexy woman, that Angela. She was a lab tech who knew how to dance.
I watched as she squinted -- heh, she really was one of them -- at her work. She boogied back a few steps, as if she needed some extra space to get a full view of whatever it was she was painting. Looking at the thing, I sure as hell couldn't figure it out. But once she saw what she was looking for, she nodded, let the music pull her forward again, and swiped her brush across the image, blending a hard edge, forcing it to dissolve into the background colors.
Smirking, I leaned against the doorframe with my arms folded, watched her work it to the music for a few moments, then cleared my throat as loudly as I could.
She spun around to face me, eyes wide.
I hollered above the noise. "Why didn't you tell me you were having a party? I would've brought dip."
Her mouth stretched into one of those gorgeous, toothy smiles. "Boooooth!" She set down her paint brush, balancing it on the edge of a plastic plate smeared with shiny acrylics, and shimmied my way, hips swiveling, hands coiling through the air, beckoning me like one of those goddesses with many arms. "Come on, G-man! Dance with me!"
I laughed but stayed where I was. "You're lucky I don't arrest you for disturbing the peace."
As she got closer, I noticed her fingertips were stained with a mixture of colors. She reached out to hug me.
"You get paint on my clothes, and I'll take you in on charges."
"For what? Finger painting a federal officer? Don't be such a starched shirt, Booth. You gotta live it up a little."
"Oh, I can live it up with the best of 'em, Angela. But this is a nice shirt."
"It sure is," she drawled.
I straightened from my place against the doorway, hands up in defense.
"Relax, the paint on my hands is dry." She wrapped her long, slender arms around me and gave a squeeze.
I rested my chin against her temple and breathed in. She smelled like something spicy with a hint of vanilla. As I breathed out, I patted her on the back and pulled away.
She grinned up at me. "So, Booth, what brings you by?"
"How's about we turn the music down so I don't have to yell at you?"
"Let's see some of those moves first, Mister Live-It-Up," she laughed.
I was tempted to show her my best Philly pop-lock moves, but this was supposed to be a quick visit. "Angela..."
"Okay, okay." She danced over to the stereo and switched it off. "God, don't you just love that song?"
"More than life itself," I said dryly.
"Seriously, Booth. Less starch, more fun. I'm starting to doubt you have any good moves."
I gave her a little mock-shock. "Are you kidding? I've got -- I've got great moves."
"I'm hearing a lot of talk, G-man." She arched an eyebrow at me and smirked.
"Yeah, well, you know, maybe next time."
"So," she headed back over to her easel, "what's up? Do you have a new case, or did you come by to purchase a painting?" She winked at me.
"Purchase a--" I laughed. "No offense, Angela, but I think your stuff is a little bit out of my league."
She looked a little surprised by my comment. Still, she chuckled. "Why? They're just paintings, Booth."
"Well, like this one, here, that you're workin' on..." I gestured at the canvas. "It's got all these swirly things goin' on, and then there's this sharp, arrow-like thing going all the way up to the top corner, and this bubble bit, what's that about? I guess I just don't get it." I rubbed the back of my head and glanced at the scuffed hardwood floor. "I don't know, maybe doing coloring books with Parker is more my style."
She smiled at me and reached out, patting my shoulder. "Actually, crayons can be a fun medium. I'd highly encourage Parker to color. Preferably outside the lines." She laughed. "But seriously, Booth, art is... what you make of it. You don't have to 'get' anything specific from my work. There are no rules."
"No rules, huh?" I eyeballed the painting again.
"Sure! Why do you think I like art so much?" Her voice dropped to a smooth purr. "You know me, I like to break the rules."
"Hmm..." I kept studying the painting. "I know. I've seen your security clearance file."
"Hey! You said that was confidential!" She slugged me in the arm.
"It was! It is."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then how did you get to see it?"
I tried my best to look innocent, rubbing the spot where she'd clobbered me. "When I -- when I pulled it." I shrugged.
"You pulled it? How? What for?"
"To, you know, to give to you." I reached inside my trench and tugged the slim file loose, holding it out for Angela to take.
She stared down at the folder, her hands smoothing out the crease from how I'd had it jammed into my pocket, but she didn't open it. "This is my file?" She looked a little dazed.
"Yep."
"The one Agent Pickering had when she interviewed me."
"Yep. That's the one."
She ran a finger along the edge of the folder as if tempted to flip it open, take a peek, see what the pages revealed. I couldn't blame her; it was a fascinating read.
"And you... read it?" She didn't meet my eyes, still studying the file sticker on the cover, but she didn't look embarrassed, either. She just seemed... surprised.
"Well..." I stuffed a hand into my right pocket, feeling for my lucky casino chip, rubbing a thumb along its ridges. "I gave it a glance, you know, just to make sure I wasn't about to, ah, remove criminal records or something." I pulled out the chip and fiddled with it.
She snorted. "Criminal records? What kind of life do you think I lead, Booth?"
I flipped my chip into the air, catching it with the same hand. Nice. I smirked at her. "Twenty-five different addresses in eight years, Angela. You have to admit, that's pretty unusual."
The corner of her mouth quirked into a small smile. "I'm... well-traveled."
"What about the arrest for protesting, and disturbing the peace? The report said something about you being naked!"
She put one hand on her hip. "Artists for Social Change is a highly respected organization, and I was merely helping to take a stand against injustice."
It was a damn good try, but I could see the amusement behind her eyes. "I'm sure you made an impression. Being topless and all."
She squinted at me. "There aren't pictures from that, are there?"
I pressed my lips together, holding in my laughter. Not even gonna touch that one.
She tried to glare at me, but I could tell she wanted to bust, too. The sly, knowing smile was dangerously close to becoming a full-on grin.
"Well, can you at least tell me if I looked good in the photo? As I recall, I was rocking some pretty awesome body art that day."
I swallowed back my snicker and kept going. "And then there was that thing, that time with the guy and the park fountain and the spray can of--"
"Okay, okay!" She picked up an almost-white, paint-stained cloth and waved it at me. "Let's not examine everything."
"Oh good, because I didn't want to have to ask you about what you did in Rio." Too bad, because I actually wanted to know more about that incident with the spray can and the fountain.
"Hey, Rio was fabulous, thank you very much. You would have loved it there, Booth."
"Did you go with Kirk?"
The smile slid off her face.
Damn. It wasn't long ago that Kirk was still alive and she was telling me about her upcoming vacation with him, so my words had slipped out on reflex. But I could see it in the deadening of her eyes, in the tightening of her mouth. I got it: too soon to bring up dead boyfriends.
"It's okay, Booth, don't worry about it. It's fine." She draped the towel in its place on the side of the easel, paused a moment, then looked up at me. "No, I didn't go to Rio with Kirk. We always went out west, to the desert. That was our place. Rio..." she smiled faintly, "Rio was where I went with a bunch of girlfriends, on a break during college. We had such a good time there. The music, the dancing, the festivals, the city was so alive, Booth, so amazing." She looked up at me, her eyes bright again. "You should go someday."
I offered her a half-smile. "Maybe I will."
"You definitely should." After a long pause, she got a mischievous look on her face, one that made me want to take a step backward. "Heyyy, maybe you and Brennan should go!"
I rolled my eyes and sighed. Here we go again. "Angela."
"What? Two colleagues on a vacation together, simply having a little fun. What's wrong with that?"
"Because--"
"You're both adults. You like each other, right? Really, Booth. What's the big deal?"
"Because it's Bones, okay?"
She grinned at me like I was being a prudish Catholic. Okay, yes, I did go to Catholic school, and I'm a military man, and an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I learned early on that there were lines. Rules. There's a code, a creed. It's important.
Unfortunately, Angela wasn't listening.
"Yeah, so? I've been on vacation with Brennan. She's fun. Well, once you can get past her way of spouting sociological and anthropological history about every place you visit. But" -- she waved a dismissive hand at me -- "you get used to that. It becomes like those headsets you wear during vacation tours: sometimes it's interesting and you listen; other times you tune out the narrating voice and concentrate on enjoying the pretty scenery." She winked. "Seriously, I think the two of you would have a great time in Rio."
I gave her my best warning voice. "Let it go, okay, Angela? Don't go there."
"All right, I'm sorry. I'll stop." All good-natured, just like I expected.
Works every time.
"Bones and me, we're not like that."
She smirked knowingly. "Mm-hmm."
I sighed loudly. "Okay, then. Moving on..." Tossing and catching my chip again, I clutched it in my fist. I glanced at the easel. "Hey, as long as I'm here, how's about you show me some of your other paintings, huh? The finished ones?"
"Wow, you really are desperate to change the subject, aren't you?"
I tucked my chip back into its place in my pocket. "Yeah. Let's do that, huh? Please? Yes! Thank you. All right, now. Paintings." I rubbed my hands together and looked around the room. "Paintings, paintings..."
"What would you like to see?"
"Whatever, it's your stuff. Just skip past anything too dirty." I winked.
She laughed hard. "And here I was going to start with that nude sketch I did of Zack."
I nearly choked. "Don't even joke about that," I said, clutching my stomach. "I do not want to think about Zack that way."
She grinned.
"Couldn't we start with a nice seascape or something?"
Angela strolled over to a corner of the room where her work leaned against the wall. She reached out and ran her fingertips over the tops of frames and stiff cardboard-backed art, feeling her way. I held my breath for a second as she wrapped her hand around one particular piece and gave it a tug. She glanced down at the chosen work for a moment, a whisper of a smile on her lips.
It wasn't a seascape, but close enough. It was a watercolor of a cottage on the beach, with a sandy yard and banana trees; there was even a white picket fence. Peaceful and kinda pretty, but not what I expected from Angela, given some of the odd stuff she had hanging in her office at the Jeffersonian. I smiled politely. "It's nice."
She rolled her eyes. "Nice?"
"Yeah, it's nice. You know, pretty."
"Okay, next piece."
"What? Is that not right? I thought you said there were no rules with this stuff."
Angela chuckled. "There aren't. Your response was fine, Booth."
"Should I have talked about the colors or the mood or something?"
"You don't have to talk about anything. I just wanted to show you this one because it's the first watercolor I ever finished."
"Yeah? That's nice." I winced. "Sorry. I don't know what else to say. Did you go there on a vacation or something?"
She nodded as she tucked the picture back into the stack. "When I was fifteen. My dad was on tour all summer, so my mom and I went to New Kingston. You know, in Jamaica? Gorgeous beaches, great seafood, our suite even had a view of the Blue Mountains. She'd read and I'd paint. It was very..." she considered before giving me a nod, "...relaxing."
"You hated it."
She laughed. "Yeah. I wanted to go dancing, meet people, check out the evening drum jams, but my mom didn't want to go and she thought I was too young to go by myself."
I squinted at her. "You went, anyway."
Angela wagged a finger at me. "You know me too well. Yeah, I sneaked out one night, caught a cab to this amazing blues café called Redbones. Seriously awesome, Booth, you have to go there. They even hold art exhibitions. Such a cool place." I leaned in as she lowered her voice to admit, "Went to that club till it closed at eleven, then got invited to a couple of parties. I stayed up half the night dancing and drinking rum punch--"
I grinned at her. There were so many stories I could tell her about me and my brother. I was the king of sneaking out. It's too bad I didn't know Angela back then.
"--and she caught me sneaking back in. She was so mad at me."
I waited for the punch line.
Her face softened, her smile dissolving into something I couldn't quite read. "Sometimes I think..." She ran a hand over the painting's frame. "If I'd traveled with my dad instead, he probably would have gone to the drum jams with me. I know he would have loved the music. My mom, on the other hand..." She paused, as if she didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"Little did she know you'd end up dancing on a table top in Rio. By the way, the picture from that one was classic."
Her laugh came out on a rush of air, like relief. "Like you never did anything wild during college. How did the FBI get a picture of that, anyway?"
"We have our sources."
"Hmm. Moving on."
"What's next? A bowl of fruit? A vase of flowers?"
"Okay, you asked for it." She flipped through a few frames before removing another selection.
"Do I want to see this?"
"We'll find out."
I covered my eyes with one hand. "Please tell me it's not Zack."
"No, I was kidding about that. Can you actually imagine Zack sitting still for a portrait?"
"No, and that's about as far as I want my imagination to go on that subject."
"Open your eyes, will you? It's not scary."
She was right; it wasn't scary. But it wasn't a cottage on the beach, either. It was... strange. All angles and odd shapes and muted charcoal grays and blacks and something that looked like a bird's wing or maybe it was just a squiggly line, I couldn't tell.
"Well?"
I chuckled. "I don't know what to make of that one, Angela. It's a little bizarre."
"It's abstract."
"Abstract," I repeated, like some preschooler learning his alphabet. I felt a little stupid.
She smiled, her eyes reassuring. "You don't have to like it, Booth. I'm just showing you a variety, here."
"I don't not like it," I offered. "It's just -- huh." I shrugged.
"I hate to sound like Brennan, but... I don't know what that means."
"Well, it's kind of dark. The colors and stuff. Were you in a bad mood when you painted this?"
Angela laughed softly. "No."
"Why not use brighter colors, then?"
"Because this was how I saw it in my head."
"What's it mean?"
"What's it mean to you?"
I scrutinized it for what felt like almost a whole minute, before offering the God's honest truth. "Absolutely nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"Sorry, Angela. Art's just not my thing. If you asked me about ice hockey, I'd have much smarter answers for you."
She considered me for a long moment, then turned back to her pile of paintings. "I've got one for you, Booth. I think you'll like this one."
"I'm a little afraid, Angela," I joked.
She didn't reply. Instead, she presented a large framed piece. I blinked at the picture, really giving it my attention, and then damned if I wasn't squinting at it like I was a new member of Brennan's geek group.
It was kind of undefined, like the other one, but this one was different. The background was this soft yellow, and overlaying that were lines and curves of oranges and reds and a tiny sliver of black accent. The way the colors swirled and blended together, they... well, the whole thing reminded me of a woman. A woman's body, I mean. The flame-orange bend of one line became her hip, the way it swooped down and tapered off looked like her leg, and near the top of the page there was this fiery red, upside-down heart shape that curled in and around like breasts. Or something. That's what it looked like to me, anyway.
And she was right. I liked it. The painting was kind of beautiful. Alive.
My throat was surprisingly dry. "Um."
"Do you like it?"
I coughed. "Yeah, it's good."
"Good as in nice?" she teased.
"No, good as in... it's really good, Angela. Very... um..."
I peered at the painting again, settling on the spot where one bright line swept in from ribcage to waist and back out again, indicating womanly curves, and how all the lines above that furled out in waves, like her long red hair was flowing backward in a breeze. Even without an actual face on the page, I could almost picture her, who she was, how she moved, the painting's vivid colors suggesting a lively spirit. Man. It was--
"Sexy, okay? I think it's kinda hot." I glanced to Angela out of the corner of my eye.
She arched an eyebrow at me. "Interesting."
"Whadda you mean?"
"I just thought you'd be happy to see something with bright colors. I didn't know you'd find it sexy. Interesting reaction, Agent Booth." She smirked wickedly. "Very telling."
"Hey, you're the one who painted it."
"What did I paint, exactly?"
"Well, it-- it looks like a -- like a girl. A woman. It looks like a beautiful woman. What?"
She burst out laughing. "Nothing. I just think it's really sweet, Booth." She reached out and patted my arm.
I looked down to where her hand cupped my elbow. If she'd been a suspect, she would've been on the ground by this point, for pissing me off and then daring to lay a hand on me. But this was Angela, not some punk drug-dealing gangbanger from Mara Muerte, so I just glared at her.
I may have let out a strangled noise. "Are you telling me that's not a woman?"
She grinned one of those inhumanly wide smiles of hers and clapped me on the back. "No, you're right. It's a woman."
"Why are you giving me such a hard time, then? I got that one right!"
She tucked the painting back in its place against the wall. "I told you there was no right or wrong. I'm just amused that you like it so much." She shot me a flirty look from over one shoulder. "Then again, guys always seem to like that one."
"Hey, you're the one painting sexy pictures of women." Some puzzle piece seemed to shift into place in my head. "So... who is she?"
"Who?"
My turn to razz. "You know who. The woman. You gonna tell me this was just a picture in your head, or are you gonna admit to me who inspired this?"
"What, it's not already in my file?"
"Not yet." Something dawned on me. "It's not Bones, is it? Because that would be kind of awkward."
Angela exploded in laughter. I thought I was going to have to pound her on the back and get her some water. As she pulled herself together, I rolled my eyes.
"Come on, Angela, give it up. I promise I won't tell the squint squad."
She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. "Some secrets are meant to stay that way, Booth."
I opened my mouth to protest, maybe even turn on some interrogation charm to get her to confess, but something behind her eyes made me stop. Anyway, I knew what she meant. We all carried stuff we didn't want to talk about, private stuff, secrets and hard truths. Hodgins had some, I'd learned, and thanks to that security file, I knew Angela did, too. Not that that was any big surprise. And Heaven knew I had plenty of my own.
Bones... well, I was still trying to figure her out, but ever since she'd shown me the file on her parents' disappearance, I felt like a door had been opened, there. How and why she was the way she was made much more sense to me now. Her childhood appeared normal at first glance, but the deeper I dug, the more messed up it seemed. I knew what that was like.
I glanced back over to the wall where Angela had returned the painting, the one of the woman. I could still see her: the orange and yellow sweeping lines of a spinning skirt, the red fan of her flying hair, like she was dancing. I could almost hear the tin sound of a marimba, smell cigarettes and wine, and feel the sweaty heat generated from a roomful of moving bodies.
"Eliana." The name came out before I could even think to stop it. She'd been dancing...
"Booth?"
I blinked. Angela was standing next to me, touching my arm again.
"What?" My voice sounded distant.
"I said, who's Eliana?"
I stared at her. She was blinking at me with those enormous brown eyes.
"I--"
Nothing. My brain went blank. I swallowed and looked away.
"It's okay, Booth, you don't have to tell me. But," she paused, "you were there for me when Kirk died. You--" she took a shuddery breath and almost whispered the rest, "--helped find him, and you flew back to D.C. with me and Brennan, and you took me to lunch and spent time with me, and..."
"I know. What are you -- what are you trying to say, Angela?"
"I really needed that. You were a good friend to me, Booth. I'm not sure how I would have gotten through it if it weren't for you and Brennan. So... if you want... I mean, if you need to talk about Eliana, or anything else..." She gave my shoulder a squeeze. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an excellent listener." She offered a sweet smile.
My jaw loosened a little, and I felt an ache set in. I hadn't even realized I'd been clenching my teeth. I'd never told anyone about Eliana.
"She wasn't like Kirk." The words came out fast, and I wasn't sure why I sounded so pissed off.
"Okay," she said slowly.
"She wasn't my girlfriend." My jaw clenched again.
I must've stood there for longer than I thought because Angela finally broke the silence, her voice too gentle. "Who was she?"
I stared hard at the window across the room. I could still see her.
The next thing I knew, I could hear the shhhuck-shuck of hands on drums, the whine of trumpets, and I was there, leaning against the edge of the bar, sipping a cold beer and playing it casual while scanning the crowded dining area. I was studying everyone, but looking for her.
The band jammed full-out now, fingers flying on guitars, Spanish voices crooning, the dance space packed with bodies spinning and sweating. I think I noticed her first. All that wavy red hair, that pale skin, those unusual blue eyes, those curves... like Angela's painting, only real. Alive. In the flesh. She wasn't supposed to stand out amid all that chaos, but she did.
She should have been more careful.
As she spun to face my direction, her eyes met mine, and she knew. She knew who I was, why I was there. She let loose this wicked smirk and danced toward me, hips twisting and long skirt twirling, her teasing eyes never once leaving my face.
I should have been more careful.
"Booth?"
Angela's voice dragged me back to the present. I blinked hard, trying to keep the memory with me, keep Eliana safe, but as she reached me, playfully wrapping her arms around my neck, her smile suddenly twisted into a terrifying grimace and then she was gone. My gut burned.
Angela's face came into focus, looking all worried.
"She..." I cleared my throat. "She was an informant. My informant."
"Was this when you were in the Army?"
I nodded. I couldn't seem to open my mouth.
In a flash, the music was back in my head and so was Eliana, smelling of flowers and rain. I could almost feel her pressing up against me, nudging me to move my hips with hers. I remember... shaking my head, laughing, but she was so smooth: she led me by the hand and before we'd even reached the dance floor, she'd already managed to slip the paper into my pocket. Her job was done within seconds, the commissioner-mandated curfew was looming, but she made me stay and dance with her. A few stolen kisses, a taste of wine. All part of the game, to make it look real. Just two people meeting, having a little fun. I thought it had been convincing enough.
"Did she help you?"
I could still see the list of names she'd given me, committed to memory, as the soft edges of her stationery turned black and curled under the flame of my lighter. "Yeah."
"What -- where -- I'm sorry, Booth, I don't know what you're allowed to tell me. I imagine a lot of that stuff is confidential."
My back stiffened, muscles tight, as if my former CO had entered the room. "Yeah, Angela, a lot of it is."
"But -- not all of it."
"No."
"So--"
"It was in Guatemala." My voice sounded harsh. I hoped Angela realized I wasn't angry with her; it had nothing to do with her.
"Guatemala is a beautiful country."
"Not all of it," I snapped. Angela's hand slid off my shoulder.
"Would you prefer not to talk about this?"
"Hell, yes. I mean..." I rubbed the back of my head.
"It's okay, Booth."
Angela had no idea.
My buddy Hank was always saying that it was good to talk about it, I'd feel better if I did. But what good was there in talking about it? What would really change? Not a damn thing.
"Look, Angela, I just... I don't talk about stuff like this."
"Can't, or won't?" she said gently.
"What's the difference? You said it yourself. Some secrets are meant to stay that way."
"Maybe not this one. Maybe... maybe you thought about her for a reason."
"Yeah, because of your damn painting, that's why."
"Hey, don't blame it on the art!" She unleashed a grin and poked me in the arm.
I let out a short laugh, but my chest hurt. I forced a smile and patted the casino chip in my pocket.
"Sorry, Angela." I scrubbed a hand over my face.
She gave me a long look. It seemed like she had something to say, but she kept opening and closing her mouth like a fish.
I rolled my eyes. "Just say it, Angela," I said finally. "Whatever you're trying to ask, just get it over with. It's fine." I focused ahead at the painting on her easel.
Finally she spoke up, her words slow and careful. "Brennan mentioned something... she was in Guatemala, and--"
My head snapped in her direction.
"She said she went there to help identify bodies, people killed by death squads." She swallowed, her voice meek. "Was this operation -- your mission -- was it to stop a death squad?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes."
"And -- Eliana? She helped you with this?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Did they--"
"They killed her."
I opened my eyes to see a stunned, pained look on Angela's face.
"They--" She pressed a hand to her throat. "Why?"
I wanted to punch something. "Because someone ratted her out, marked her as a subversive." Angela looked blankly at me, so I kept going. "They had a list, people they considered to be troublemakers. It didn't matter if it was true or not. If they wanted to get rid of you, they'd label you whatever they wanted, and then they'd arrest you. If you were lucky. Most people, they murdered."
Her face darkened. "Who were they?"
"Military commissioners... they were greedy bastards, Angela. Dirty. They pretended to be these noble protectors, taking care of their community, keeping their people safe from guerrilla attacks, but--" I paused, huffing out a breath. "It was all a lie. The soldiers -- their own military -- and the commissioners, they were the ones behind it. They'd terrorize their own people and then claim it was done by guerillas."
Angela shook her head. "I don't understand. Why would they do that?"
"To scare everyone and keep them in line. To take whatever they wanted."
She stared at me.
"Look, Angela, you have to understand, these people, they were running everything, and anyone who defied them, anyone who wasn't in line with their political interests, if you just pissed off a commissioner or offended him somehow, or -- I don't know -- sneezed in his direction, you could be targeted. And then they'd come for you."
"It -- it sounds like a horror story, the kind you tell around a campfire."
"Believe me, Angela, I wish it were made up." I glanced over at her; she was hugging herself, looking like she might burst into tears. I hoped not. So much for a light visit.
Shit.
I could feel everything tightening again -- my jaw, my back, my gut. What I wouldn't give for a few rounds against a punching bag in the gym, anything to loosen up, get rid of this... whatever it was.
Time to leave.
"Booth?"
I heaved a heavy sigh. "Yeah?"
"What happened to Eliana?"
Her voice sounded small, but her words stabbed at me. I frowned. "Trust me, you don't want to know."
"But -- how did they even know she was working against them?"
"It was my fault."
Sweet, big-hearted Angela: she shook her head immediately. "No, you said someone ratted her out."
"Yeah, someone did. But I was responsible for the meet. I got the intel from her. I must've tipped 'em off."
"Maybe they were already watching her."
"No, it was me. I messed up."
"Booth..."
I gritted my teeth. "I messed up, okay, Angela? Let's just leave it at that."
I focused my attention on the window, concentrated on slowing everything down -- squeezing and releasing my hands from the fists I'd been making -- and let out a ragged breath. Thank goodness Angela cut me some slack and kept quiet.
We stood there for a minute, maybe two, both of us watching the sun drop behind the clouds, fiery orange sky fading to a heavy blue.
And then I could feel her looking at me again.
"Booth, I'm sorry."
I rubbed a hand through my hair. "No, I-- I shouldn't be yelling at you."
"No, Booth, I mean... I'm sorry about Eliana."
I didn't answer. Damn throat was still too tight.
"Booth?"
"Yeah, thanks." I nodded in her direction.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
"Weren't you already doing that?"
She gave me a little smile but her eyes were sad and wet.
I waited.
"Have you -- have you talked about this with Brennan?"
"Angela--"
"I swear I'm not teasing you this time."
I took a deep breath. "No."
"Why not? She's been there, she'd understand this stuff. Much better than me, anyway."
"I can't tell her about stuff like this."
"I don't understand why not. She's your partner, right? You've been through stuff; she's been through stuff..."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
I imitated her before I could stop myself. "Why not, why not? You sound like Parker."
"I'm being serious, Booth."
"I am, too. I'm telling you, Angela, you don't understand. This thing, what happened with Eliana, is just one piece. One small piece of... so much more."
"More?"
"More danger, more death, more... bad stuff. And not just in Guatemala. I've done things, Angela. You have no idea." She opened her mouth, but I cut her off. "Everybody's always talking about stuff, like they've been there, like they know what it's like, but they don't. You don't. And Bones may have been to Guatemala but she only got to see what came afterwards, sifting through the wreckage, through the bones. That's not -- that's not what it was like for me."
Her brow furrowed but after a moment she nodded. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
"That's it? You're not gonna push me on this some more?"
"No."
"Thank God."
Angela gave me the smallest of smiles, but I could still see the upset in her eyes. I should've kept my mouth shut, never should have told her about Guatemala. The cases I brought to the Jeffersonian, her heart broke for every victim and I knew that. She wasn't ready for what I'd been through. Hell, all the training in the world hadn't prepared me for some of it.
I tried for a return smile, but it felt like a wince. I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Not Angela. There was a reason why she was the best -- and sometimes only -- people person out of all the squints.
She reached out and placed a hand against my chest. "You know I love you, right? So I'm going to say this one thing..."
"Oh, here we go--"
"No, hold on, Booth." She looked me straight in the eye, which got my attention. "We've talked before... about how you wish Brennan would offer up more of herself, tell you things about her family, her childhood, her personal life."
"Yeah, so?"
"You've said this to her and so have I: you have to give a little of yourself in order to get something back. Maybe this time it's your turn."
I started to protest -- things were definitely not even in that regard, not even close -- but this time Angela cut me off.
"She gave you her parents' case file. I know she did; she told me. You have to admit that was a pretty big thing to give up, Booth. So... maybe it's your turn to try talking to her about your stuff."
I tried not to roll my eyes. I mean, yeah, she had a point, but -- that didn't make it any easier.
She nudged me with her shoulder. "Just... think about it, okay?"
"Will you look at the time? I've got to go." I mimed an exaggerated glance at my watch and gave her what I hoped was a pointed look.
She held up her hands. "Okay. End of lecture."
"Thank you."
"It's getting late. Do you want to go get something to eat?"
I gave a short laugh. "So you can torture me some more? I don't think so. Don't take this the wrong way, but... I really do have to go. I still have a ton of paperwork to write up tonight."
Angela smiled. "Is that the FBI equivalent for 'I have to wash my hair'?"
"Hey! I have never blown off a woman's invitation to dinner, and I never will."
"Uh-huh." She gave me one of those annoyingly knowing smirks.
"Alright, I'm outta here. All this abuse, and after I brought you a present."
Shaking her head, she glanced over at the folder she'd set on the desk. "Wow. I still can't believe you actually got my State Department file." She looked up at me suddenly. "Is this legal? Am I going to get you arrested or something?"
"Nah. Besides, if they grill me about it, I'll just take you down with me."
"Well, that's admirable." She poked me in the arm. "Thanks for the protection, FBI guy. Seriously, how did you get this? I know you said you might be able to, but I thought you were just kidding around. You must have had to go through channels or something, right?"
"Or something."
"Come on, Booth. You have to tell me. Who let you remove this?"
I hesitated. "Cullen."
She took in a small breath. "How is the deputy director? I mean, have you seen him lately? Since the--"
"Yeah. He's... okay."
"I heard he was considering a leave of absence."
"You would too if you'd just lost your daughter." My hand automatically grazed my back pocket, and I tried not to think of the picture of Parker I kept in my wallet.
"Well... maybe it'll be good for him to get away."
"Maybe."
She smiled gently. "I can't believe he let you take that file."
I bit my lip. "It's just a copy."
"What? Here I thought you were being all heroic, stealing my file for me!"
I puffed up my chest and straightened my belt buckle. "I know all you squints see me as this outstanding, tough guy FBI agent--"
Angela snorted.
"--but as it turns out, I don't have all that much pull when it comes to the State Department."
Angela gave me an indulgent smile. "That's hard to believe, Booth."
"I know! You'd think they would take one look at my commanding presence and turn over whatever I needed. What's up with that?"
She busted out laughing, that marvelous throaty sound, and I couldn't help feeling a little relieved to hear it.
"Well, copy or not..." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Thank you for the file."
I felt heat rising up my neck and couldn't help smiling. "You're welcome."
"Now get out of here so I can finish working on my painting."
I eyeballed it one last time. "Yeah, good luck with that."
As she pushed me out the door, she socked me in the shoulder. "For that, you get no more details on my super-secret past. Too bad for you, too, Booth, because it's delicious."
I stuck my head back in the door. "I just wanna know about that fountain and the spray can--"
A wicked gleam flashed in her eyes. "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll tell you about it sometime." And then, smirking, she shut the door in my face.
I stood there for a moment, my smile fading as a familiar heaviness returned to my chest. Latin music began blasting again from inside Angela's studio, and with it the clear memory of Eliana's face came back to me. She was smiling, fresh and beautiful and completely oblivious to the oncoming hell. I closed my eyes. I am so sorry.
Eliana kept smiling.
Bracing my hand against Angela's apartment door, I shook the images from my head. Then I took a breath, dug my keys out of my coat pocket and headed back down the stairs.
end
Fandom(s): Bones
Character(s): Seeley Booth and Angela Montenegro (friendship); mentions of Brennan, Hodgins & Zack
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of violence and a few curse words
Spoilers: Bones, Season 1, up through "The Graft in the Girl." Takes place right before "The Soldier on the Grave." Also vaguely hints at one detail about Booth's life as mentioned in the Season 4 episode "The Con Man in the Meth Lab."
Disclaimer: Characters owned by creator Hart Hanson and FOX, but made vivid by the talents of actors David Boreanaz and Michaela Conlin.
Author's Notes: Written for the truly greatgreatbriton. Thank you for making those lovely David Tennant icons, and thank you for being so patient with me. After all this time, I hope you find my efforts worth the wait!
Big Thanks: To the people at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
206_bones for their help regarding Booth and the military, especially teryn_brat and labsquint. To coffee_imp for her tips about painting, and to both coffee_imp and Avril for listening to my repeated ramblings about the evolution of this story. Craft Night rules! And you are goddesses. xoxo Gigantic Thanks especially to my brilliant beta bardsmaid and her Fearsome Machete of Highlighting™. It was sometimes painful but (almost always, heh) totally necessary, so I am beyond grateful for it. You help me be a better writer. I owe you major Krycek backstory feedback, my wonderful friend! Write on! *HUGS*
Feedback: I gratefully welcome your thoughts.
Summary: A State Department file. Angela's paintings. Booth's poker chip. Unusual things come out in a conversation between friends.
greatbriton made several gorgeous ones for me, per a creative meme offering she posted to her LJ. In exchange for her generosity (and great patience), I promised my own creative offering, to write up to ten stories or TV episode reviews to those who commented to my post here. I still have more stories to write, but at long, long last, the first one is complete, the one I wrote for Briton.
She requested a Bones fic involving the characters Seeley Booth and Angela Montenegro, with no other major instructions except to say that it didn't need to be "all shippy." (Heee.) She especially liked their flirty banter and wanted a scene or story in which they were the main focus.
This is that story.
Briton, thank you so much for all the work you put in on those icons! I can now safely say that in exchange I put in a ton of (very fun) work on this thing, and I hope you find it was worth the wait.
Side note: story header notes can be found at the end.
The Truth In The Art
Booth: You have something to hide?
Angela: Better believe it, bucko.
Booth: What kind of something?
Angela: The best kind.
~ Bones, "The Woman In The Car"
As I made my way up the stairs, I could feel a bass line thrumming under my feet. The hammering rhythms of steel drums and a whining guitar reached my ears seconds later. Sounded like the joint was jumpin' so I had to wonder if maybe this wasn't the best time for me to show up unannounced. My second thought was, why didn't she invite me? I could bring it better than any of her squint buddies. I'd been to one of their dorky office Christmas parties; most of 'em probably didn't even know how to dance. Well, maybe Hodgins could, but that was a big maybe. The dude sometimes raced beetles on Friday nights. Anyway...
By the time I reached her door, I realized the music -- was that Spanish-language rap? -- was way too loud for anyone inside to hear me knocking, so I took my chances and eased into the apartment.
And had to laugh.
There was no party. It was only Angela, painting alone in her studio, blasting her tunes loud enough to rattle the windows. She didn't even hear me come in.
Instead, she stood in front of a tall easel, tapping a brush handle against her palm with the beat. As she studied the canvas, she danced in place, her bare feet firmly planted while her hips made smooth, loose figure eights. Sexy woman, that Angela. She was a lab tech who knew how to dance.
I watched as she squinted -- heh, she really was one of them -- at her work. She boogied back a few steps, as if she needed some extra space to get a full view of whatever it was she was painting. Looking at the thing, I sure as hell couldn't figure it out. But once she saw what she was looking for, she nodded, let the music pull her forward again, and swiped her brush across the image, blending a hard edge, forcing it to dissolve into the background colors.
Smirking, I leaned against the doorframe with my arms folded, watched her work it to the music for a few moments, then cleared my throat as loudly as I could.
She spun around to face me, eyes wide.
I hollered above the noise. "Why didn't you tell me you were having a party? I would've brought dip."
Her mouth stretched into one of those gorgeous, toothy smiles. "Boooooth!" She set down her paint brush, balancing it on the edge of a plastic plate smeared with shiny acrylics, and shimmied my way, hips swiveling, hands coiling through the air, beckoning me like one of those goddesses with many arms. "Come on, G-man! Dance with me!"
I laughed but stayed where I was. "You're lucky I don't arrest you for disturbing the peace."
As she got closer, I noticed her fingertips were stained with a mixture of colors. She reached out to hug me.
"You get paint on my clothes, and I'll take you in on charges."
"For what? Finger painting a federal officer? Don't be such a starched shirt, Booth. You gotta live it up a little."
"Oh, I can live it up with the best of 'em, Angela. But this is a nice shirt."
"It sure is," she drawled.
I straightened from my place against the doorway, hands up in defense.
"Relax, the paint on my hands is dry." She wrapped her long, slender arms around me and gave a squeeze.
I rested my chin against her temple and breathed in. She smelled like something spicy with a hint of vanilla. As I breathed out, I patted her on the back and pulled away.
She grinned up at me. "So, Booth, what brings you by?"
"How's about we turn the music down so I don't have to yell at you?"
"Let's see some of those moves first, Mister Live-It-Up," she laughed.
I was tempted to show her my best Philly pop-lock moves, but this was supposed to be a quick visit. "Angela..."
"Okay, okay." She danced over to the stereo and switched it off. "God, don't you just love that song?"
"More than life itself," I said dryly.
"Seriously, Booth. Less starch, more fun. I'm starting to doubt you have any good moves."
I gave her a little mock-shock. "Are you kidding? I've got -- I've got great moves."
"I'm hearing a lot of talk, G-man." She arched an eyebrow at me and smirked.
"Yeah, well, you know, maybe next time."
"So," she headed back over to her easel, "what's up? Do you have a new case, or did you come by to purchase a painting?" She winked at me.
"Purchase a--" I laughed. "No offense, Angela, but I think your stuff is a little bit out of my league."
She looked a little surprised by my comment. Still, she chuckled. "Why? They're just paintings, Booth."
"Well, like this one, here, that you're workin' on..." I gestured at the canvas. "It's got all these swirly things goin' on, and then there's this sharp, arrow-like thing going all the way up to the top corner, and this bubble bit, what's that about? I guess I just don't get it." I rubbed the back of my head and glanced at the scuffed hardwood floor. "I don't know, maybe doing coloring books with Parker is more my style."
She smiled at me and reached out, patting my shoulder. "Actually, crayons can be a fun medium. I'd highly encourage Parker to color. Preferably outside the lines." She laughed. "But seriously, Booth, art is... what you make of it. You don't have to 'get' anything specific from my work. There are no rules."
"No rules, huh?" I eyeballed the painting again.
"Sure! Why do you think I like art so much?" Her voice dropped to a smooth purr. "You know me, I like to break the rules."
"Hmm..." I kept studying the painting. "I know. I've seen your security clearance file."
"Hey! You said that was confidential!" She slugged me in the arm.
"It was! It is."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then how did you get to see it?"
I tried my best to look innocent, rubbing the spot where she'd clobbered me. "When I -- when I pulled it." I shrugged.
"You pulled it? How? What for?"
"To, you know, to give to you." I reached inside my trench and tugged the slim file loose, holding it out for Angela to take.
She stared down at the folder, her hands smoothing out the crease from how I'd had it jammed into my pocket, but she didn't open it. "This is my file?" She looked a little dazed.
"Yep."
"The one Agent Pickering had when she interviewed me."
"Yep. That's the one."
She ran a finger along the edge of the folder as if tempted to flip it open, take a peek, see what the pages revealed. I couldn't blame her; it was a fascinating read.
"And you... read it?" She didn't meet my eyes, still studying the file sticker on the cover, but she didn't look embarrassed, either. She just seemed... surprised.
"Well..." I stuffed a hand into my right pocket, feeling for my lucky casino chip, rubbing a thumb along its ridges. "I gave it a glance, you know, just to make sure I wasn't about to, ah, remove criminal records or something." I pulled out the chip and fiddled with it.
She snorted. "Criminal records? What kind of life do you think I lead, Booth?"
I flipped my chip into the air, catching it with the same hand. Nice. I smirked at her. "Twenty-five different addresses in eight years, Angela. You have to admit, that's pretty unusual."
The corner of her mouth quirked into a small smile. "I'm... well-traveled."
"What about the arrest for protesting, and disturbing the peace? The report said something about you being naked!"
She put one hand on her hip. "Artists for Social Change is a highly respected organization, and I was merely helping to take a stand against injustice."
It was a damn good try, but I could see the amusement behind her eyes. "I'm sure you made an impression. Being topless and all."
She squinted at me. "There aren't pictures from that, are there?"
I pressed my lips together, holding in my laughter. Not even gonna touch that one.
She tried to glare at me, but I could tell she wanted to bust, too. The sly, knowing smile was dangerously close to becoming a full-on grin.
"Well, can you at least tell me if I looked good in the photo? As I recall, I was rocking some pretty awesome body art that day."
I swallowed back my snicker and kept going. "And then there was that thing, that time with the guy and the park fountain and the spray can of--"
"Okay, okay!" She picked up an almost-white, paint-stained cloth and waved it at me. "Let's not examine everything."
"Oh good, because I didn't want to have to ask you about what you did in Rio." Too bad, because I actually wanted to know more about that incident with the spray can and the fountain.
"Hey, Rio was fabulous, thank you very much. You would have loved it there, Booth."
"Did you go with Kirk?"
The smile slid off her face.
Damn. It wasn't long ago that Kirk was still alive and she was telling me about her upcoming vacation with him, so my words had slipped out on reflex. But I could see it in the deadening of her eyes, in the tightening of her mouth. I got it: too soon to bring up dead boyfriends.
"It's okay, Booth, don't worry about it. It's fine." She draped the towel in its place on the side of the easel, paused a moment, then looked up at me. "No, I didn't go to Rio with Kirk. We always went out west, to the desert. That was our place. Rio..." she smiled faintly, "Rio was where I went with a bunch of girlfriends, on a break during college. We had such a good time there. The music, the dancing, the festivals, the city was so alive, Booth, so amazing." She looked up at me, her eyes bright again. "You should go someday."
I offered her a half-smile. "Maybe I will."
"You definitely should." After a long pause, she got a mischievous look on her face, one that made me want to take a step backward. "Heyyy, maybe you and Brennan should go!"
I rolled my eyes and sighed. Here we go again. "Angela."
"What? Two colleagues on a vacation together, simply having a little fun. What's wrong with that?"
"Because--"
"You're both adults. You like each other, right? Really, Booth. What's the big deal?"
"Because it's Bones, okay?"
She grinned at me like I was being a prudish Catholic. Okay, yes, I did go to Catholic school, and I'm a military man, and an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I learned early on that there were lines. Rules. There's a code, a creed. It's important.
Unfortunately, Angela wasn't listening.
"Yeah, so? I've been on vacation with Brennan. She's fun. Well, once you can get past her way of spouting sociological and anthropological history about every place you visit. But" -- she waved a dismissive hand at me -- "you get used to that. It becomes like those headsets you wear during vacation tours: sometimes it's interesting and you listen; other times you tune out the narrating voice and concentrate on enjoying the pretty scenery." She winked. "Seriously, I think the two of you would have a great time in Rio."
I gave her my best warning voice. "Let it go, okay, Angela? Don't go there."
"All right, I'm sorry. I'll stop." All good-natured, just like I expected.
Works every time.
"Bones and me, we're not like that."
She smirked knowingly. "Mm-hmm."
I sighed loudly. "Okay, then. Moving on..." Tossing and catching my chip again, I clutched it in my fist. I glanced at the easel. "Hey, as long as I'm here, how's about you show me some of your other paintings, huh? The finished ones?"
"Wow, you really are desperate to change the subject, aren't you?"
I tucked my chip back into its place in my pocket. "Yeah. Let's do that, huh? Please? Yes! Thank you. All right, now. Paintings." I rubbed my hands together and looked around the room. "Paintings, paintings..."
"What would you like to see?"
"Whatever, it's your stuff. Just skip past anything too dirty." I winked.
She laughed hard. "And here I was going to start with that nude sketch I did of Zack."
I nearly choked. "Don't even joke about that," I said, clutching my stomach. "I do not want to think about Zack that way."
She grinned.
"Couldn't we start with a nice seascape or something?"
Angela strolled over to a corner of the room where her work leaned against the wall. She reached out and ran her fingertips over the tops of frames and stiff cardboard-backed art, feeling her way. I held my breath for a second as she wrapped her hand around one particular piece and gave it a tug. She glanced down at the chosen work for a moment, a whisper of a smile on her lips.
It wasn't a seascape, but close enough. It was a watercolor of a cottage on the beach, with a sandy yard and banana trees; there was even a white picket fence. Peaceful and kinda pretty, but not what I expected from Angela, given some of the odd stuff she had hanging in her office at the Jeffersonian. I smiled politely. "It's nice."
She rolled her eyes. "Nice?"
"Yeah, it's nice. You know, pretty."
"Okay, next piece."
"What? Is that not right? I thought you said there were no rules with this stuff."
Angela chuckled. "There aren't. Your response was fine, Booth."
"Should I have talked about the colors or the mood or something?"
"You don't have to talk about anything. I just wanted to show you this one because it's the first watercolor I ever finished."
"Yeah? That's nice." I winced. "Sorry. I don't know what else to say. Did you go there on a vacation or something?"
She nodded as she tucked the picture back into the stack. "When I was fifteen. My dad was on tour all summer, so my mom and I went to New Kingston. You know, in Jamaica? Gorgeous beaches, great seafood, our suite even had a view of the Blue Mountains. She'd read and I'd paint. It was very..." she considered before giving me a nod, "...relaxing."
"You hated it."
She laughed. "Yeah. I wanted to go dancing, meet people, check out the evening drum jams, but my mom didn't want to go and she thought I was too young to go by myself."
I squinted at her. "You went, anyway."
Angela wagged a finger at me. "You know me too well. Yeah, I sneaked out one night, caught a cab to this amazing blues café called Redbones. Seriously awesome, Booth, you have to go there. They even hold art exhibitions. Such a cool place." I leaned in as she lowered her voice to admit, "Went to that club till it closed at eleven, then got invited to a couple of parties. I stayed up half the night dancing and drinking rum punch--"
I grinned at her. There were so many stories I could tell her about me and my brother. I was the king of sneaking out. It's too bad I didn't know Angela back then.
"--and she caught me sneaking back in. She was so mad at me."
I waited for the punch line.
Her face softened, her smile dissolving into something I couldn't quite read. "Sometimes I think..." She ran a hand over the painting's frame. "If I'd traveled with my dad instead, he probably would have gone to the drum jams with me. I know he would have loved the music. My mom, on the other hand..." She paused, as if she didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"Little did she know you'd end up dancing on a table top in Rio. By the way, the picture from that one was classic."
Her laugh came out on a rush of air, like relief. "Like you never did anything wild during college. How did the FBI get a picture of that, anyway?"
"We have our sources."
"Hmm. Moving on."
"What's next? A bowl of fruit? A vase of flowers?"
"Okay, you asked for it." She flipped through a few frames before removing another selection.
"Do I want to see this?"
"We'll find out."
I covered my eyes with one hand. "Please tell me it's not Zack."
"No, I was kidding about that. Can you actually imagine Zack sitting still for a portrait?"
"No, and that's about as far as I want my imagination to go on that subject."
"Open your eyes, will you? It's not scary."
She was right; it wasn't scary. But it wasn't a cottage on the beach, either. It was... strange. All angles and odd shapes and muted charcoal grays and blacks and something that looked like a bird's wing or maybe it was just a squiggly line, I couldn't tell.
"Well?"
I chuckled. "I don't know what to make of that one, Angela. It's a little bizarre."
"It's abstract."
"Abstract," I repeated, like some preschooler learning his alphabet. I felt a little stupid.
She smiled, her eyes reassuring. "You don't have to like it, Booth. I'm just showing you a variety, here."
"I don't not like it," I offered. "It's just -- huh." I shrugged.
"I hate to sound like Brennan, but... I don't know what that means."
"Well, it's kind of dark. The colors and stuff. Were you in a bad mood when you painted this?"
Angela laughed softly. "No."
"Why not use brighter colors, then?"
"Because this was how I saw it in my head."
"What's it mean?"
"What's it mean to you?"
I scrutinized it for what felt like almost a whole minute, before offering the God's honest truth. "Absolutely nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"Sorry, Angela. Art's just not my thing. If you asked me about ice hockey, I'd have much smarter answers for you."
She considered me for a long moment, then turned back to her pile of paintings. "I've got one for you, Booth. I think you'll like this one."
"I'm a little afraid, Angela," I joked.
She didn't reply. Instead, she presented a large framed piece. I blinked at the picture, really giving it my attention, and then damned if I wasn't squinting at it like I was a new member of Brennan's geek group.
It was kind of undefined, like the other one, but this one was different. The background was this soft yellow, and overlaying that were lines and curves of oranges and reds and a tiny sliver of black accent. The way the colors swirled and blended together, they... well, the whole thing reminded me of a woman. A woman's body, I mean. The flame-orange bend of one line became her hip, the way it swooped down and tapered off looked like her leg, and near the top of the page there was this fiery red, upside-down heart shape that curled in and around like breasts. Or something. That's what it looked like to me, anyway.
And she was right. I liked it. The painting was kind of beautiful. Alive.
My throat was surprisingly dry. "Um."
"Do you like it?"
I coughed. "Yeah, it's good."
"Good as in nice?" she teased.
"No, good as in... it's really good, Angela. Very... um..."
I peered at the painting again, settling on the spot where one bright line swept in from ribcage to waist and back out again, indicating womanly curves, and how all the lines above that furled out in waves, like her long red hair was flowing backward in a breeze. Even without an actual face on the page, I could almost picture her, who she was, how she moved, the painting's vivid colors suggesting a lively spirit. Man. It was--
"Sexy, okay? I think it's kinda hot." I glanced to Angela out of the corner of my eye.
She arched an eyebrow at me. "Interesting."
"Whadda you mean?"
"I just thought you'd be happy to see something with bright colors. I didn't know you'd find it sexy. Interesting reaction, Agent Booth." She smirked wickedly. "Very telling."
"Hey, you're the one who painted it."
"What did I paint, exactly?"
"Well, it-- it looks like a -- like a girl. A woman. It looks like a beautiful woman. What?"
She burst out laughing. "Nothing. I just think it's really sweet, Booth." She reached out and patted my arm.
I looked down to where her hand cupped my elbow. If she'd been a suspect, she would've been on the ground by this point, for pissing me off and then daring to lay a hand on me. But this was Angela, not some punk drug-dealing gangbanger from Mara Muerte, so I just glared at her.
I may have let out a strangled noise. "Are you telling me that's not a woman?"
She grinned one of those inhumanly wide smiles of hers and clapped me on the back. "No, you're right. It's a woman."
"Why are you giving me such a hard time, then? I got that one right!"
She tucked the painting back in its place against the wall. "I told you there was no right or wrong. I'm just amused that you like it so much." She shot me a flirty look from over one shoulder. "Then again, guys always seem to like that one."
"Hey, you're the one painting sexy pictures of women." Some puzzle piece seemed to shift into place in my head. "So... who is she?"
"Who?"
My turn to razz. "You know who. The woman. You gonna tell me this was just a picture in your head, or are you gonna admit to me who inspired this?"
"What, it's not already in my file?"
"Not yet." Something dawned on me. "It's not Bones, is it? Because that would be kind of awkward."
Angela exploded in laughter. I thought I was going to have to pound her on the back and get her some water. As she pulled herself together, I rolled my eyes.
"Come on, Angela, give it up. I promise I won't tell the squint squad."
She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. "Some secrets are meant to stay that way, Booth."
I opened my mouth to protest, maybe even turn on some interrogation charm to get her to confess, but something behind her eyes made me stop. Anyway, I knew what she meant. We all carried stuff we didn't want to talk about, private stuff, secrets and hard truths. Hodgins had some, I'd learned, and thanks to that security file, I knew Angela did, too. Not that that was any big surprise. And Heaven knew I had plenty of my own.
Bones... well, I was still trying to figure her out, but ever since she'd shown me the file on her parents' disappearance, I felt like a door had been opened, there. How and why she was the way she was made much more sense to me now. Her childhood appeared normal at first glance, but the deeper I dug, the more messed up it seemed. I knew what that was like.
I glanced back over to the wall where Angela had returned the painting, the one of the woman. I could still see her: the orange and yellow sweeping lines of a spinning skirt, the red fan of her flying hair, like she was dancing. I could almost hear the tin sound of a marimba, smell cigarettes and wine, and feel the sweaty heat generated from a roomful of moving bodies.
"Eliana." The name came out before I could even think to stop it. She'd been dancing...
"Booth?"
I blinked. Angela was standing next to me, touching my arm again.
"What?" My voice sounded distant.
"I said, who's Eliana?"
I stared at her. She was blinking at me with those enormous brown eyes.
"I--"
Nothing. My brain went blank. I swallowed and looked away.
"It's okay, Booth, you don't have to tell me. But," she paused, "you were there for me when Kirk died. You--" she took a shuddery breath and almost whispered the rest, "--helped find him, and you flew back to D.C. with me and Brennan, and you took me to lunch and spent time with me, and..."
"I know. What are you -- what are you trying to say, Angela?"
"I really needed that. You were a good friend to me, Booth. I'm not sure how I would have gotten through it if it weren't for you and Brennan. So... if you want... I mean, if you need to talk about Eliana, or anything else..." She gave my shoulder a squeeze. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an excellent listener." She offered a sweet smile.
My jaw loosened a little, and I felt an ache set in. I hadn't even realized I'd been clenching my teeth. I'd never told anyone about Eliana.
"She wasn't like Kirk." The words came out fast, and I wasn't sure why I sounded so pissed off.
"Okay," she said slowly.
"She wasn't my girlfriend." My jaw clenched again.
I must've stood there for longer than I thought because Angela finally broke the silence, her voice too gentle. "Who was she?"
I stared hard at the window across the room. I could still see her.
The next thing I knew, I could hear the shhhuck-shuck of hands on drums, the whine of trumpets, and I was there, leaning against the edge of the bar, sipping a cold beer and playing it casual while scanning the crowded dining area. I was studying everyone, but looking for her.
The band jammed full-out now, fingers flying on guitars, Spanish voices crooning, the dance space packed with bodies spinning and sweating. I think I noticed her first. All that wavy red hair, that pale skin, those unusual blue eyes, those curves... like Angela's painting, only real. Alive. In the flesh. She wasn't supposed to stand out amid all that chaos, but she did.
She should have been more careful.
As she spun to face my direction, her eyes met mine, and she knew. She knew who I was, why I was there. She let loose this wicked smirk and danced toward me, hips twisting and long skirt twirling, her teasing eyes never once leaving my face.
I should have been more careful.
"Booth?"
Angela's voice dragged me back to the present. I blinked hard, trying to keep the memory with me, keep Eliana safe, but as she reached me, playfully wrapping her arms around my neck, her smile suddenly twisted into a terrifying grimace and then she was gone. My gut burned.
Angela's face came into focus, looking all worried.
"She..." I cleared my throat. "She was an informant. My informant."
"Was this when you were in the Army?"
I nodded. I couldn't seem to open my mouth.
In a flash, the music was back in my head and so was Eliana, smelling of flowers and rain. I could almost feel her pressing up against me, nudging me to move my hips with hers. I remember... shaking my head, laughing, but she was so smooth: she led me by the hand and before we'd even reached the dance floor, she'd already managed to slip the paper into my pocket. Her job was done within seconds, the commissioner-mandated curfew was looming, but she made me stay and dance with her. A few stolen kisses, a taste of wine. All part of the game, to make it look real. Just two people meeting, having a little fun. I thought it had been convincing enough.
"Did she help you?"
I could still see the list of names she'd given me, committed to memory, as the soft edges of her stationery turned black and curled under the flame of my lighter. "Yeah."
"What -- where -- I'm sorry, Booth, I don't know what you're allowed to tell me. I imagine a lot of that stuff is confidential."
My back stiffened, muscles tight, as if my former CO had entered the room. "Yeah, Angela, a lot of it is."
"But -- not all of it."
"No."
"So--"
"It was in Guatemala." My voice sounded harsh. I hoped Angela realized I wasn't angry with her; it had nothing to do with her.
"Guatemala is a beautiful country."
"Not all of it," I snapped. Angela's hand slid off my shoulder.
"Would you prefer not to talk about this?"
"Hell, yes. I mean..." I rubbed the back of my head.
"It's okay, Booth."
Angela had no idea.
My buddy Hank was always saying that it was good to talk about it, I'd feel better if I did. But what good was there in talking about it? What would really change? Not a damn thing.
"Look, Angela, I just... I don't talk about stuff like this."
"Can't, or won't?" she said gently.
"What's the difference? You said it yourself. Some secrets are meant to stay that way."
"Maybe not this one. Maybe... maybe you thought about her for a reason."
"Yeah, because of your damn painting, that's why."
"Hey, don't blame it on the art!" She unleashed a grin and poked me in the arm.
I let out a short laugh, but my chest hurt. I forced a smile and patted the casino chip in my pocket.
"Sorry, Angela." I scrubbed a hand over my face.
She gave me a long look. It seemed like she had something to say, but she kept opening and closing her mouth like a fish.
I rolled my eyes. "Just say it, Angela," I said finally. "Whatever you're trying to ask, just get it over with. It's fine." I focused ahead at the painting on her easel.
Finally she spoke up, her words slow and careful. "Brennan mentioned something... she was in Guatemala, and--"
My head snapped in her direction.
"She said she went there to help identify bodies, people killed by death squads." She swallowed, her voice meek. "Was this operation -- your mission -- was it to stop a death squad?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes."
"And -- Eliana? She helped you with this?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Did they--"
"They killed her."
I opened my eyes to see a stunned, pained look on Angela's face.
"They--" She pressed a hand to her throat. "Why?"
I wanted to punch something. "Because someone ratted her out, marked her as a subversive." Angela looked blankly at me, so I kept going. "They had a list, people they considered to be troublemakers. It didn't matter if it was true or not. If they wanted to get rid of you, they'd label you whatever they wanted, and then they'd arrest you. If you were lucky. Most people, they murdered."
Her face darkened. "Who were they?"
"Military commissioners... they were greedy bastards, Angela. Dirty. They pretended to be these noble protectors, taking care of their community, keeping their people safe from guerrilla attacks, but--" I paused, huffing out a breath. "It was all a lie. The soldiers -- their own military -- and the commissioners, they were the ones behind it. They'd terrorize their own people and then claim it was done by guerillas."
Angela shook her head. "I don't understand. Why would they do that?"
"To scare everyone and keep them in line. To take whatever they wanted."
She stared at me.
"Look, Angela, you have to understand, these people, they were running everything, and anyone who defied them, anyone who wasn't in line with their political interests, if you just pissed off a commissioner or offended him somehow, or -- I don't know -- sneezed in his direction, you could be targeted. And then they'd come for you."
"It -- it sounds like a horror story, the kind you tell around a campfire."
"Believe me, Angela, I wish it were made up." I glanced over at her; she was hugging herself, looking like she might burst into tears. I hoped not. So much for a light visit.
Shit.
I could feel everything tightening again -- my jaw, my back, my gut. What I wouldn't give for a few rounds against a punching bag in the gym, anything to loosen up, get rid of this... whatever it was.
Time to leave.
"Booth?"
I heaved a heavy sigh. "Yeah?"
"What happened to Eliana?"
Her voice sounded small, but her words stabbed at me. I frowned. "Trust me, you don't want to know."
"But -- how did they even know she was working against them?"
"It was my fault."
Sweet, big-hearted Angela: she shook her head immediately. "No, you said someone ratted her out."
"Yeah, someone did. But I was responsible for the meet. I got the intel from her. I must've tipped 'em off."
"Maybe they were already watching her."
"No, it was me. I messed up."
"Booth..."
I gritted my teeth. "I messed up, okay, Angela? Let's just leave it at that."
I focused my attention on the window, concentrated on slowing everything down -- squeezing and releasing my hands from the fists I'd been making -- and let out a ragged breath. Thank goodness Angela cut me some slack and kept quiet.
We stood there for a minute, maybe two, both of us watching the sun drop behind the clouds, fiery orange sky fading to a heavy blue.
And then I could feel her looking at me again.
"Booth, I'm sorry."
I rubbed a hand through my hair. "No, I-- I shouldn't be yelling at you."
"No, Booth, I mean... I'm sorry about Eliana."
I didn't answer. Damn throat was still too tight.
"Booth?"
"Yeah, thanks." I nodded in her direction.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
"Weren't you already doing that?"
She gave me a little smile but her eyes were sad and wet.
I waited.
"Have you -- have you talked about this with Brennan?"
"Angela--"
"I swear I'm not teasing you this time."
I took a deep breath. "No."
"Why not? She's been there, she'd understand this stuff. Much better than me, anyway."
"I can't tell her about stuff like this."
"I don't understand why not. She's your partner, right? You've been through stuff; she's been through stuff..."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
I imitated her before I could stop myself. "Why not, why not? You sound like Parker."
"I'm being serious, Booth."
"I am, too. I'm telling you, Angela, you don't understand. This thing, what happened with Eliana, is just one piece. One small piece of... so much more."
"More?"
"More danger, more death, more... bad stuff. And not just in Guatemala. I've done things, Angela. You have no idea." She opened her mouth, but I cut her off. "Everybody's always talking about stuff, like they've been there, like they know what it's like, but they don't. You don't. And Bones may have been to Guatemala but she only got to see what came afterwards, sifting through the wreckage, through the bones. That's not -- that's not what it was like for me."
Her brow furrowed but after a moment she nodded. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
"That's it? You're not gonna push me on this some more?"
"No."
"Thank God."
Angela gave me the smallest of smiles, but I could still see the upset in her eyes. I should've kept my mouth shut, never should have told her about Guatemala. The cases I brought to the Jeffersonian, her heart broke for every victim and I knew that. She wasn't ready for what I'd been through. Hell, all the training in the world hadn't prepared me for some of it.
I tried for a return smile, but it felt like a wince. I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Not Angela. There was a reason why she was the best -- and sometimes only -- people person out of all the squints.
She reached out and placed a hand against my chest. "You know I love you, right? So I'm going to say this one thing..."
"Oh, here we go--"
"No, hold on, Booth." She looked me straight in the eye, which got my attention. "We've talked before... about how you wish Brennan would offer up more of herself, tell you things about her family, her childhood, her personal life."
"Yeah, so?"
"You've said this to her and so have I: you have to give a little of yourself in order to get something back. Maybe this time it's your turn."
I started to protest -- things were definitely not even in that regard, not even close -- but this time Angela cut me off.
"She gave you her parents' case file. I know she did; she told me. You have to admit that was a pretty big thing to give up, Booth. So... maybe it's your turn to try talking to her about your stuff."
I tried not to roll my eyes. I mean, yeah, she had a point, but -- that didn't make it any easier.
She nudged me with her shoulder. "Just... think about it, okay?"
"Will you look at the time? I've got to go." I mimed an exaggerated glance at my watch and gave her what I hoped was a pointed look.
She held up her hands. "Okay. End of lecture."
"Thank you."
"It's getting late. Do you want to go get something to eat?"
I gave a short laugh. "So you can torture me some more? I don't think so. Don't take this the wrong way, but... I really do have to go. I still have a ton of paperwork to write up tonight."
Angela smiled. "Is that the FBI equivalent for 'I have to wash my hair'?"
"Hey! I have never blown off a woman's invitation to dinner, and I never will."
"Uh-huh." She gave me one of those annoyingly knowing smirks.
"Alright, I'm outta here. All this abuse, and after I brought you a present."
Shaking her head, she glanced over at the folder she'd set on the desk. "Wow. I still can't believe you actually got my State Department file." She looked up at me suddenly. "Is this legal? Am I going to get you arrested or something?"
"Nah. Besides, if they grill me about it, I'll just take you down with me."
"Well, that's admirable." She poked me in the arm. "Thanks for the protection, FBI guy. Seriously, how did you get this? I know you said you might be able to, but I thought you were just kidding around. You must have had to go through channels or something, right?"
"Or something."
"Come on, Booth. You have to tell me. Who let you remove this?"
I hesitated. "Cullen."
She took in a small breath. "How is the deputy director? I mean, have you seen him lately? Since the--"
"Yeah. He's... okay."
"I heard he was considering a leave of absence."
"You would too if you'd just lost your daughter." My hand automatically grazed my back pocket, and I tried not to think of the picture of Parker I kept in my wallet.
"Well... maybe it'll be good for him to get away."
"Maybe."
She smiled gently. "I can't believe he let you take that file."
I bit my lip. "It's just a copy."
"What? Here I thought you were being all heroic, stealing my file for me!"
I puffed up my chest and straightened my belt buckle. "I know all you squints see me as this outstanding, tough guy FBI agent--"
Angela snorted.
"--but as it turns out, I don't have all that much pull when it comes to the State Department."
Angela gave me an indulgent smile. "That's hard to believe, Booth."
"I know! You'd think they would take one look at my commanding presence and turn over whatever I needed. What's up with that?"
She busted out laughing, that marvelous throaty sound, and I couldn't help feeling a little relieved to hear it.
"Well, copy or not..." She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Thank you for the file."
I felt heat rising up my neck and couldn't help smiling. "You're welcome."
"Now get out of here so I can finish working on my painting."
I eyeballed it one last time. "Yeah, good luck with that."
As she pushed me out the door, she socked me in the shoulder. "For that, you get no more details on my super-secret past. Too bad for you, too, Booth, because it's delicious."
I stuck my head back in the door. "I just wanna know about that fountain and the spray can--"
A wicked gleam flashed in her eyes. "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll tell you about it sometime." And then, smirking, she shut the door in my face.
I stood there for a moment, my smile fading as a familiar heaviness returned to my chest. Latin music began blasting again from inside Angela's studio, and with it the clear memory of Eliana's face came back to me. She was smiling, fresh and beautiful and completely oblivious to the oncoming hell. I closed my eyes. I am so sorry.
Eliana kept smiling.
Bracing my hand against Angela's apartment door, I shook the images from my head. Then I took a breath, dug my keys out of my coat pocket and headed back down the stairs.
end
Fandom(s): Bones
Character(s): Seeley Booth and Angela Montenegro (friendship); mentions of Brennan, Hodgins & Zack
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of violence and a few curse words
Spoilers: Bones, Season 1, up through "The Graft in the Girl." Takes place right before "The Soldier on the Grave." Also vaguely hints at one detail about Booth's life as mentioned in the Season 4 episode "The Con Man in the Meth Lab."
Disclaimer: Characters owned by creator Hart Hanson and FOX, but made vivid by the talents of actors David Boreanaz and Michaela Conlin.
Author's Notes: Written for the truly great
greatbriton. Thank you for making those lovely David Tennant icons, and thank you for being so patient with me. After all this time, I hope you find my efforts worth the wait!Big Thanks: To the people at
206_bones for their help regarding Booth and the military, especially teryn_brat and labsquint. To coffee_imp for her tips about painting, and to both coffee_imp and Avril for listening to my repeated ramblings about the evolution of this story. Craft Night rules! And you are goddesses. xoxo Gigantic Thanks especially to my brilliant beta bardsmaid and her Fearsome Machete of Highlighting™. It was sometimes painful but (almost always, heh) totally necessary, so I am beyond grateful for it. You help me be a better writer. I owe you major Krycek backstory feedback, my wonderful friend! Write on! *HUGS*Feedback: I gratefully welcome your thoughts.
Summary: A State Department file. Angela's paintings. Booth's poker chip. Unusual things come out in a conversation between friends.
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Date: 2010-07-09 06:07 pm (UTC)At any rate, I want to thank you so much for your comments. I really appreciate that you gave my story a try and came over to tell me what you thought of it. And I'm especially glad that you liked it so much. I worked really hard on that Booth-Angela banter and all the other elements of the story, so if it worked for you, I am ecstatic!
I keep hoping for more fic that has Booth and Brennan swap stories of their time in Central America, because they both have stories they need to share.
I agree with you. It seems both Booth and Brennan hinted at experiences in their dialogue in various episodes, just fleeting comments but with enough weight behind them to make you as a viewer say, "Hmmm... I wonder what that's about." I think there are so many things yet to learn about these characters and their backgrounds, and I would love for that to come out in stories (or even on the show!).
Anyway, thank you again for letting me know what you thought of my story. I really appreciate it!
P.S. Your Angela icon is making me hungry for a fudgesicle. Heee.