Crossing Paths: Booth's Path
By Ralkana

Disclaimer ~ Bones is owned by Josephson Entertainment and Far Field Productions, in association with 20th Century Fox Television, based on the novels by Kathy Reichs. I own none of it, but if someone wants to give me Agent Booth for Christmas, I think I could be persuaded. The rest of the disclaimers are at the bottom, so as not to ruin the surprise...

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Author's Note ~ Takes place sometime mid-season three. Also, see the other A/N at the end of the story.

Rated R for adult language.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Seeley Booth sipped his coffee and tried to convince himself he wasn't procrastinating. Just because he hadn't gone back to his office yet to answer another million emails, that didn't mean he was wasting time.

He was honing his powers of observation. It was an important skill for a man of his occupation. If he chose to do it while sitting in the sunshine and watching the other patrons of this outdoor café, well, that was a secondary benefit. It certainly didn't mean he was shirking –

Jesus, he sounded like Bones.

He scowled, ripping little chunks off his doughnut. Where the hell was she, anyway? She'd breezed off to Ecuador or Guatemala or somewhere – maybe both – the week before, giving him no idea of how long she'd be gone. He'd dropped her off at the airport, and she'd been talking a mile a minute about a "revolutionary new excavation technique" and how they "required her expertise" and how it was "groundbreaking and important work".

Like their work wasn't important. Like figuring out what some skeleton had done for a living three hundred years ago was more important than finding out who'd killed a little girl last week.

He realized he'd demolished his doughnut and dropped the pieces of it in disgust, wiping his fingers on his napkin.

Booth sighed. The fact was, he missed working with her. He'd never have believed it even a year ago, but their partnership worked so smoothly that it was jarring when it was absent. And it'd brought him a friendship he'd never expected.

He hated not knowing where she was and when she'd be back.

Gunshots rang through the crisp morning air. Hand already on his weapon, Booth shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the ground.

Civilians screamed, scrambling for cover as Booth and the rest of the agents in the area turned toward the bank next door.

A man ran out of the bank – tall and thin, rumpled clothes, blonde hair in disarray. He carried a bulging duffel bag in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Booth had a split second to register that there was a guy standing in the street in front of the gunman – shoulder-length brown hair, solid build, plaid shirt and jeans, defensive stance, that was odd – before the gunman slammed into the bystander.

The impact rocked them both, but neither fell. The gun went off – into the ground, thank God, not the crowd – causing more shrieks from the civilians around them.

Booth saw the gun coming up, thought, "My God, he's gonna kill that guy!" and stepped forward, weapon in hand. Then he faltered, blinking in shock.

The gun was on the ground. The gunman was also on the ground, unconscious and bleeding heavily from what had to be a badly broken nose.

The guy in the plaid shirt – who had to be a ninja, that was the only explanation, because Booth had never seen anyone move that fast – was brushing his hair away from his face, unmindful of the blood trickling down his arms from the bullet's ricochet.

The street was full of agents shouting and pulling their weapons. Half a dozen Metro patrol cars came screaming to a stop, spilling out more armed, shouting men.

Ninja Dude had his hands in the air, and Booth saw what was plainly resignation in his eyes before they cleared, as if people shouting and pointing weapons at him was normal.

There was something about this guy, the way he moved, the way he held himself, that had the hair on the back of Booth's neck rising. Something incredibly familiar – incredibly and unpleasantly familiar.

"You all right, sir?" Agent Blake called.

"Ah, yeah," Ninja Dude answered, hands still up. "Did y'all see that? That was crazy! I think he just robbed that bank! Um, y'all think you could point your guns somewhere else?"

His drawl was too thick, the tone too golly-gee-whiz, but that gravelly voice, that smarmy southern boy sound had Booth's blood pressure climbing. He realized he was grinding his teeth.

What the hell? he thought, forcing himself to stop before he cracked a molar.

"I know this guy," Booth muttered. "Why do I know this guy?"

"Sir?"

Booth glanced at the junior agent beside him, who was looking at him quizzically, gun hand shaking. Looking around, he noticed a ton of agents in the area, and more arriving every minute from HQ down the street.

"Who robs a bank a block away from FBI headquarters?" he snapped.

The younger agent shrugged. "I don't think it's the first time – I heard a few years ago, some guy with a bomb – "

The bank door slammed open, drawing everyone's attention, and Booth thought that the guy who stood there was lucky not to be riddled with bullets from a dozen jumpy LEO trigger fingers.

"Hunter, Cyber Fraud," the guy called. There was blood on his hands. "We got people down in here! Agent down!"

Booth's heart sank, even as everyone sprang into action. He watched Agent Perry – probably the most senior agent on the premises – take charge, snapping orders. FBI and Metro alike jumped, and Booth was just about to head into the bank to help with the witnesses when he noticed Ninja Dude brace, as if to make a run for it.

Booth seemed to be the only one still watching him, and he tensed. He was too far to reach the guy, but if the guy took off, all Booth had to do was shout and the guy'd be tackled by a dozen men. Although, judging by what he'd done to the gunman, there was no guarantee they'd take him down.

Clearly feeling Booth's gaze on him, Ninja Dude turned slightly. Their eyes locked, and Booth froze.

A little younger than Booth, a few inches shorter, and his brain was telling him cleanshaven instead of stubbled, but those eyes... Booth knew that face, those eyes.

Rage churned. Rage, disappointment, betrayal – they were a greasy mix in Booth's gut, and none of it made any sense. Booth knew this guy, but he had no idea how. Determined to find out, he started walking toward the man.

The guy stared at him, a blend of recognition and confusion in those blue eyes, and Booth had a flash of fighting him in a huge room – stairs, catwalks, some kind of storage tank. Ninja Dude was covered in tattoos, jumping around like, well, a ninja, sword in hand.

Booth could feel the power in his own legs as he leapt, the vicious clang of steel on steel, the sharp punch of the other man's sword as it slid into his chest.

Shaking his head, Booth blinked in confusion. That didn't make sense, either. Guns he definitely knew, and hand-to-hand was a possibility, but swords were not his thing. Not to mention, even if he'd somehow blocked out everything that had happened in that memory, if he'd taken a sword hit like that, he'd be dead.

He watched as Agent Perry grasped Ninja Dude's arm, and the guy lowered his hands, looking as if he'd forgotten they were up.

"You can put your hands down now, son. Ah, we appreciate your assistance. I'm Special Agent Perry."

"Marcus Carter," Ninja Dude said, still eyeing Booth warily. Perry didn't appear to notice.

"I'm going to need to get a statement from you," the older agent said, and Booth grinned victoriously. There was his chance. He struggled to turn his grin into a polite smile as he stepped forward.

"I'll take it, sir."

Perry looked around in surprise. "Uh, Agent Booth. Ah... thanks, but I'm sure there's a junior agent – "

"Bones is on vacation," he replied, glad for the first time since she'd left that she was gone. "Or doing fieldwork or whatever – I don't really know. Somewhere in South America. I got nothin' but paperwork. Happy to help."

He grinned at Carter, but no matter how he tried, he could not get the grin to turn polite. It was as if his body knew that there should be no friendly smiles for this guy.

Carter stared at him, and Booth stared back, surprised when Carter suddenly looked down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. Another memory whispered at Booth, teasing him, but Booth shook it off.

"I'll just take him on down the street, get his statement, sir. Won't take long."

Carter followed Booth's "down the street" gesture, with his gaze.

"Who robs a bank a block away from the freaking FBI building?" Carter snarled, and Booth studied him, hiding his surprise. Not only was it pretty damn close to what Booth had thought earlier, but with that one statement, the man's thick country boy accent and clueless hick persona dropped in favor of a more clipped voice and a scowl that settled on his features as though it was his default expression.

Something was off with this guy. Something more than the weird, familiarly unfamiliar nonmemories he was stirring up in Booth's brain. He struggled to put those aside and look at this guy as simply someone who might or might not be involved in the robbery that had brought him to Booth's attention in the first place. A suspect. He knew what to do with suspects.

He watched as Carter glanced around, watched the light that came into his eyes when he saw the ambulances, watched as the light was replaced by alarm as he looked down at his arms.

"Oh God, I'm bleeding," Carter said weakly, swiping at the blood on his arms. That thickened accent was back, and Booth felt like smacking him so he'd knock it off.

Swaying on his feet, Carter grabbed at Perry's coat. "Oh God... I think I need to sit down. I don't... Oh my God, the blood... I can't... Oh, Jesus, I hate the sight of it..."

Perry looked alarmed, but all Booth could think was, Really, man? You took down a guy with a gun in three seconds flat, and you want me to believe you faint at the sight of blood?

"Yes, of course," Perry was saying. He turned to Booth. "I don't think it's really necessary to take Mr. Carter all the way into interview. We can certainly get his statement here while the EMTs attend to his injuries."

Booth bit back his anger and his disbelief. If Perry couldn't see through this guy's act, it was time for him to get out of the field. "Of course, sir. I'll take it from here – I think they need you in the building."

He took Carter's elbow as he walked him toward the ambulance, halfway hoping Carter would try something. Maybe breaking the guy's elbow would make Booth feel better about him.

He studied Carter out of the corner of his eye as they walked. He was built like a fighter, and his clothes, while clean and well cared for, weren't particularly expensive looking. So why did Booth keep expecting to turn his head and see Carter as a slim guy in a thousand dollar suit and silk tie, with a three hundred dollar haircut?

The EMTs were packing their stuff up and getting ready to take off, but they turned when Booth and the bloodied Carter walked up. Booth glared at them both, and they backed off, giving him some room. The male EMT looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever he saw in Booth's face had him clamming up and backing away toward his partner.

"Have a seat," Booth said with a nod toward the ambulance's open door.

Carter sat. He was watching Booth from hooded eyes, trying not to seem like it. "My arm? The blood..."

"In a minute," Booth said, forcing himself not to bite out the words, and to stop grinding his teeth again. This guy set off every alarm he had. "I'm pretty sure you won't bleed to death. I'm sorry, sir – I didn't get your name."

"Marcus Carter," he said without a pause, which had been the whole point – Booth wanted to see if there was any hesitation when he gave his name. Carter was good. If Booth's gut hadn't started telling him something was off, the man would have slid right under the radar as just a good samaritan who'd been in the right place at the wrong time.

"You can cut the innocent act," Booth told him, his anger slipping out despite his best efforts. Carter looked at him, and there was fear in those blue eyes before it slid into confusion. This guy was all muscle, and he'd effortlessly taken out an armed man – Booth would have bet that almost nothing put fear in his eyes. He nearly took a step back to reassure Carter, but ultimately, he held his ground.

Shaking his head uncertainly, Carter looked at the ground. "I don't... what?"

Stop lying to me! And knock it off with the fucking accent! Booth felt like snarling. He was fighting to keep his breathing steady. Rage was building in him, in a way that was completely unfamiliar. It scared him, and he struggled for control, trying desperately to focus on Carter as a suspect.

"How the hell does a guy who knows how to break a weaponhold and take down someone with perfectly executed CQD moves freak out at a scratch on his arm?"

"CQD?" Carter said, and Booth would have sworn his confusion wasn't an act, despite the lies that were spilling from his lips. "My brother's a Marine. Taught me some moves. I swear, I never thought I'd have to use them!"

Booth kept waiting for Carter to smirk, to toss off a smartass answer. He could deal with that. That attitude was what he remembered, not these half-terrified, shaking lies. Remembered from what? he thought, bewildered. Who the hell is this guy, and why is he making me so angry?

"Y'know, Mr. Carter, your little weakness with the blood there, it's odd, 'cause you sure as hell didn't faint when that bastard's broken nose bled all over the fucking sidewalk!" Booth snapped. Reaching down, he hauled the guy up by his shoulders. He knew that he was building up a hell of a police brutality case for Carter, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Who the hell are you? Why do I know you?" he hissed. Why are you pissing me off just by being?

Those blue eyes looked into his from inches away, frozen. Booth wanted to drop him, wanted to open his fingers and let the guy go, but he couldn't. His fingers clamped down, leaving bruises, he knew, but Carter didn't struggle.

"I – I'm sorry, sir," Carter said, his voice shaking. "I-I don't know what you want from me! I was j-just standing there, and that guy had a gun!"

The rage in him was like an animal, howling and uncontrollable, clawing at his skin from the inside. It lived in him, something he barely managed to control at the best of times. His enemy – his prey – quivered in his grip and lied, and his control snapped.

"I don't believe you," he snarled, tightening the grip of those bruising fingers as he shook Carter like a ragdoll.

Carter hung limply in his grip, crying out, and Booth thought he could smell the man's terror, sweet and heady. Carter's head fell back, his neck exposed, and it took everything Booth had in him not to lunge forward and drive his fangs through that tender flesh.

What the fuck! Booth dropped the man and stepped back, horrified. Fangs? Jesus, what the hell is going on? Dear God, please help me, I swear I'm going nuts!

Carter stared at him, eyes wide in his pale face as he shook. Booth stared back, his own breath whistling in and out as his fists clenched and unclenched.

A junior agent, sensing something wrong, stepped forward, hand on his weapon. "Everything all right, sir?" he asked Booth, snapping the older agent out of his horror.

Booth ran still shaking fingers through his hair, destroying the carefully styled part.

"Fine, Morales. Everything's fine."

He barely registered the other man stepping away as he stepped toward Carter. The other man tensed, and he froze.

The other guy was just a good samaritan, that was all. There was something wrong with Booth, something that was giving him ideas about false motives and conspiracy theories, and he'd be lucky if he didn't lose his shield over this.

"I... apologize," he said, hearing how weak he sounded, and hating it. "I..."

He trailed off. How did he phrase, 'I'm sorry, I had a hallucination that I was a vampire, and you paid for it. Please don't sue the Bureau for twenty million dollars'?

"It's okay," Carter said, his voice still shaking. "I just... I just want to give you my statement so I can go. I just wanna go home – "

His voice nearly broke, and Booth felt like wincing. Carter was clearly terrified of him, and he had a pretty good reason to be. "I just wanna go home to Oklahoma."

Booth had a flash of a dark street. A truck with Oklahoma plates. "Oklahoma," he said flatly, trying to force away the memory, but it unreeled anyway.

Lying on the ground, body throbbing in a dozen places, sharp spikes of agony where the bones had begun to reknit. This man standing over him with a sledgehammer, triumph on his face.

Go away!

"Look, can I just give you my statement?" Carter pleaded. "Please, I've been shot at and had guns pointed at me, and then you... I just want to be done with this!"

Booth forced away the remnants of the memory, calming himself. He wanted nothing more than to tell this guy to just get the hell out of his sight, to just go away and take these damn hallucinations with him. But the man was a witness – was involved in the armed robbery, if even by just taking down the gunman – and Booth had to do his duty. Reaching into his suit coat, he pulled out a stack of notecards and a pen. The EMTs moved in to treat Carter.

"Can you just butterfly it?" Carter asked. "I just wanna get this done and go!"

The male EMT glanced at Booth for approval, and he gave it. If it would get this over with sooner, he was all for it.

They began cleaning up Carter's arms, and he looked away from the blood. Booth felt bad that he hadn't believed Carter earlier. The blood clearly did disturb him.

"Start with your name," Booth said, keeping his voice gentle. The guy wasn't screaming police brutality yet. Maybe everything would work out okay. "And your address."

Carter gave him the information he'd requested, and then added, "Uh... I'm in D.C. on vacation. I just got in this morning."

"Got plans?" Booth asked, needing to find out what Carter was doing in the city.

"Uh... I... there's this girl," Carter started, looking down with a shy smile. "She lives here. I've been... talking to her... online, you know? The computer?"

Even as disturbed as he was feeling, Booth had to hide a smirk at that as he made his notes. He wouldn't have thought this guy'd have to resort to that, but he clearly wasn't the badass Booth had thought in the beginning.

"And, uh... on the phone. Texts and stuff, too. She's been wanting to meet. I had some vacation time coming, so I came... We were supposed to meet there," Carter added, nodding at the outdoor café where Booth had destroyed his doughnut about a million years ago. He almost laughed as he thought of the boring morning full of emails and paperwork he'd been putting off.

"I... I don't know if she ever showed up. Thanks," Carter added to the EMTs as they finished up with him.

"Don't forget to get those looked at again. That one needs stitches," the female EMT said. With a wary glance between Booth and Carter, both EMTs climbed into their rig and shut the doors.

"Go on," Booth coaxed, bringing Carter back to the subject. "You were supposed to meet..."

"I was, uh, waiting for her. Kinda nervous, y'know? She's really cute, and... So I was pacing. And then I heard the gunshots, and the guy just came flying out that door."

He shuddered. "I just... I just grabbed him. All the stuff my brother taught me just came back to me, and I grabbed him."

Booth studied him. Carter held the look, his gaze open and unguarded, and Booth couldn't see the falseness he'd sworn he'd seen – felt – earlier. He just didn't know, and he hated that. Was there really something off with Carter, or was his judgment just faulty? He swallowed angrily – he was hallucinating that he was the undead, was he seriously going to doubt this guy? Looking down at his cards, Booth wrote, Open. No deception, under his impressions of the man, and his notes on Carter's story.

"And the woman's name?"

"Callie. Callie Winters... I can give you her email address if you need it. Or, um, her cell phone number, I guess."

"Cell phone number will work," Booth said, though he was already regretting he'd have to follow up. The sooner he got away from this guy and his story, the better. His sanity might depend on it.

"Guess when she gets a call from the FBI, it means I'm never gonna talk to her again," Carter said with a half-grin as he pulled out his cell phone. He scrolled through, frowning as he did so.

"Here it is," he said, handing Booth the phone. Booth carefully copied the number. Then again, he mused, he didn't necessarily have to do the follow-up. That was what junior agents were for.

"Can I go now?" Carter asked as Booth handed back the phone.

Their gazes locked again and the memory that had whispered at Booth earlier slammed back, full force. They stared at each other across a dark room – a crypt? – flickering with some kind of firelight. The air hung heavy with the scents of fire and death. He held a weapon, a wickedly curved scythelike blade, the weight familiar and comfortable in his hand, a body at his own feet as he stared at Carter(nonotcarter). Disappointment at the man's actions bloomed within him, and he knew they were enemies now.

Unease crawled through him at the cross the other man brandished. In his right hand, the man held a scroll over that flickering fire – a cauldron? What the hell? – and fear leapt through him. He needed that scroll!

His weapon whistled through the air and Carter(nonotcarter) cried out, falling to the ground. Horrified at the blood that sprayed through the air, and more by the fierce hunger that leapt through him at the smell of it, Booth shook himself out of the memory, clawing for reality.

He stared at Carter, who cradled his right arm to his chest, staring back. The shock and agony in his eyes were unmistakable, and Booth knew that whatever the hell these things were, they weren't hallucinations. He refused to believe they were memories.

Booth couldn't tear his eyes from Carter's hand, which still quivered. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away.

"Go," he said, his own voice trembling. Get the fuck away from me, whatever you are! Booth didn't care if he was involved in the robbery, didn't care at this point if he'd masterminded the damn thing. He just wanted him far away.

Finding refuge in protocol, he signaled to a nearby agent, not caring who it was. "But I'm going to have an agent take you to your hotel. You'll need to stay local for a few days."

"Yes, sir?" the younger blonde agent stepped forward. Booth didn't recognize her – hell, he didn't recognize most of the junior agents – but she had a Bureau windbreaker, and a shield on a chain around her neck.

"Agent..."

"Brown, sir," she replied, giving him a friendly smile.

"Brown. Please, uh... please escort Mr. Carter here to his hotel, make sure he arrives safely." She nodded, giving him another one of those bright, unnerving smiles, and wanting to get away from it, he turned back to Carter. He found he couldn't meet Carter's eyes either, so he settled for a spot over the other man's shoulder. "And of course, I'll need a contact number for you."

When the man rattled off a number, Booth noted it down beneath the number Carter'd given him for Callie Winters. He nodded, doing everything he could to keep from catching the other man's gaze again. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Carter. Thank you again for your assistance."

"Oh yeah. Happy to help," Carter said, but his smile was halfhearted. Agent Brown took his elbow, and they walked quickly away from Booth.

Still shaken, Booth watched as Carter gave him one more furtive look before he and Brown walked around a building and slid out of view.

They didn't move quickly enough for Booth's liking. The sooner Carter got out of his sight, the better. Whatever weird shit was going on, it hadn't started until he crossed paths with Carter.

(nonotcarter)

Jesus Christ, shut up! With a deep breath, Booth shoved the whole thing out of his mind and walked toward his office. Answering a thousand emails suddenly sounded like just what he needed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Booth's spidey sense isn't completely out of whack. Even on this path, Marcus Carter isn't really Marcus Carter. To read his half, go here.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Disclaimer – Not only do I not own Bones, I also don't own Leverage or Angel, or any of the characters. Unfortunately. I'm just playing with them!

Author's Note II – I wanted this set S3 of Bones, because I didn't want there to be any thought that what was going on was part of Booth's weird brain thing from the later seasons.