vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦's Blog on RolePlayer.me

11/16/2015 08:12 PM

A Second Pair of Eyes

Washington has a New Problem

The Hero:

"Wait, wait. I have to see anotherpsychologist? Brennan and I aren't that badly off!" he disagreed, animatedly. He tried to look more intimidating, but the way the director stared at him was just evidence that he was a little badly off. Either he went to see a second psychologist on his own time, and Brennan did the same thing on her time, or he deal with the repercussions of what he was doing. Avoiding a psychiatrist.

Booth agreed, just because it was the only option he had. "Yeah, yeah. Schedule me in. I'll show up, alright. Just - on my own terms. Yeah," he said. In reality, he probably had no choice and would show up at the scheduled time. And skip some sort of case. Bones might chop him to bits for it but he'd deal with that. Whoever this psychologist was, she was in for a ride.

Cut to a day later, around twelve PM. Booth loaded up on coffee. He had his time in the Jeffersonian, watching the others work on a new skeleton that popped up. It was positioned oddly, the body parts straightened. Surreal, really. He hadn't taken enough time to poke around, because he knew he had to head back to the HQ to talk to the psychologist in charge of his own workplace errors. And there was another one who'd see Brennan later, and they'd compare notes, and it'd all be fine and dandy.

Booth came armed. An orange sock, a blue sock. He had his tie, a fancy clip and his c*cky belt. The belt was the best part of the getup. When he waltzed into the room the psychiatrist was supposed to meet him in, he also managed to notice that the layout was a little different. And the psychoologist wasn't there. Sitting down on one of the two chairs in front of the single, mahogany desk, he leaned back, waiting patiently for her.

There was two pictures on the table, he assumed they belonged to this psychologist. He reached out to look at a picture. He ran his thumb over the photograph, and the face of a young woman, probably barely in her mid twenties, stared back at him. But the way she stared made him uncomfortable. She had short blonde hair. She looked short in general. Some part of him was able to decipher that she was different. That she probably was very different.

"Buffy," he mumbled, under his breath. When he snapped out of it, he realised he was just saying random things, and laughed it off. This psychologist probably wasn't showing up. He put the photograph, face down, on her desk, and stood up. He walked out of the room without a second thought. He might have to let them know this chick wasn't there.

"Ah-ha! The squints did it again. Solved another case," he cheered. He hit Hodgins on the back, a little hard, and then turned himself around to walk over to where the exit was. Time for an arrest warrant. He was about to leave, but the ringing of his cellphone reminded him that someone obviously wanted his attention. He lifted it, to his ear. "Booth. Who is it?" he asked.

Unfamiliar number. Unfamiliar voice. "This is Robson, from the psychoa-analytical department. Your meeting with Agent Kelly was rescheduled for two hours ago. You have to come now or we'll suspend you from duty, Agent Booth," the voice said. Booth groaned. Loudly. "Jeez, okay. I'm coming, I'm coming. Fifteen minutes tops," he answered.

He was back at the door to the room. And he knocked on it twice to let this Agent Kelly know he was outside of it. And then he opened the door --

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vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:34 PM

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Quitethevampiregroupie:

When Booth gawked at her, she felt a familiar unnerving stirring right below her rib cage, in the pit of her stomach, at the center of her core, freezing her equilibrium. Her body stilled, as his warm hazel eyes examined her like she was evidence, proof that the system was flawed. To men, her gender and role, was a chink in the armor, a reason to underestimate her. The strong will blonde's body stiffened, she dared him minimize her by stereotypes.

So, he was a gentleman, she marveled, caught off guard as he helped retrieve the loss papers, handing them over kindly. "Thanks," she murmured, shuffling the papers back in the manila folder that encased a lifetime of achievements and downfalls of no other than the guest of the hour, Agent Seeley Booth, Pittsburgh born, UPenn Graduate, Army raised, Top of his class in Quantico, Seeley Booth, recently divorced, father of two.

Bridgette possessed all one-hundred-and-seventy two pages that outlined every move or decision he made, every opinion he held, office or candidate he voted for, person he dated, target he took out, criminal he locked up, person he befriended, or comment he said in passing. His life, boiled down to bullet point observations.

The agent ignored the warm gesture she offered, so she awkwardly retracted the hand she held in the air to shake with his, "Ohhkay," she muttered under her breath, sliding it down the thigh of her her black pinstripe skirt. "Just call me Booth. So you're the shrink who's replacing Sweets, huh?" Booth, inquired, casually, most likely rhetorically. The Standford graduate eyed him discreetly as he paced, deciding she'd let him do all the talking, see how much he'd reveal on his own. Sometimes the best way to get to know someone was simply to stop, listen, and observe.

People had a funny way of reacting when you plucked them from their environment. When looking for 'their tell' Bridget found if you stripped them of their comfort zone, leave them vulnerable, they'd show their hand, expose who they really were. The California native, with sharp emerald eyes leaned against the cool steel of a filing cabinet to the right of her office, both her palms behind her, bracing herself as she leaned back, crossing one suntanned leg over another, her pointed nude Marc Jacob heels inches apart from each other.

Body language, it was important, it was like a Polyalphabetic Substitution Cypher Slide Rule, it encrypted what you were actually saying, how you actually felt, whether you wanted to or not, the body did not lie. Bridgette's arms were open, her back up right, her eyes focused, and her lips, thinly pursed together- she knew her body communicated, her cool, confident, carefree, and inviting personality. Just like she knew Booths pacing, hunched shoulders, pinched nose, and stiff jaw communicated his frustration, insecurity, nervousness, and mistrust with authority.

"Well, since you're here, I'll just go on and say I don't need a shrink. Bones and I get along fine," Booth babbled voluntarily.

Denial, pla-lease. As his back turned, her jade eyes couldn't help but softly roll at the cliche diclaimer she'd heard a million times. No one thought they needed a therapist, no one ever thinks they need help. It was ironic, honestly, a whole world of people. When his attention returned back on her, she simply smiled sweetly and silently back at him, concealing her amusement.

Her eyebrows arched slightly, stunned from how easily he slipped from a place of discomfort into one of ease as he kicked back into an arm chair in the center of her office. "I know you're just doing your job, Agent Kelly," Booth said, as if she needed his acceptance

The young psychologist, stared through him, "Do you," she challenged, hotly, quickly, suddenly unsure why his ego set her on edge, she found herself quickly running to the offense.

If he was baiting her, she may have just handed over that point, but there was a warrior streak in Bridgette that even years of FBI training hadn't been able to expunge, it was too deeply rooted in the nature of who she was.

Maybe he hadn't noticed though. ""But I have to do mine, too. And I need Dr. Brennan to help with it. She's the smartest forensic anthropologist in the field, you know?" Booth continued to explain, so she retreated back the the sidelines, practicing a subtle breathing technique she learned in Bali on a college retreat during her pray/love/eat phase that was just really an excuse to wear yoga pants and skip blind dates to go to zumba classes at the local y.

"Tell you what, though, if you still think I need a psychiatric evaluation, we can meet for coffee downstairs and talk about it like normal people, any objections, Agent," Booth asked, nonchalantly. Like, oh no big deal, just asking out my psychologist.

Bridget blankly stared at Booth in disbelief, her shock faded to an unexpected jitteriness. "What?" She replied, now suddenly questioning her hearing, with a confused shake of her head. Strands of loose blonde hair bounced softly against her cheeks, "I-" she faltered nervously, her cool and confident facade melting into a pool of nerves, her arms now folded around the sides of her waist, over her sheer nude strappy tank top tucked into her high waist coal blank pinstripe skirt. Even with the blazer over her tank top, she felt naked in front of him now. "Ah," she fumbled to reject his confusing advances.

Was he demented or-

Her eyes caught him again, really seeing again the intensity of his eyes, the richness of them, like the insides of a coffee saucer, sweet and bitter, something about them, about him, she didn't know why she felt like he knew exactly how to wrap her around his finger, no not her, anyone, a girl, like he could wrap a girl right around his finger. Something deep within her told her he could be someones greatest love and greatest heartbreak all rolled into one.

She was going to say no.

Absolutely not.

He was crazy.

Crazy gorgeous.

Ah, the very thought, made Bridgette leap from her seat, the file cabinet her backside firmly brushed up against just moments ago. Now she was fidgeting, wandering behind her deck, to pretend something suddenly on it demanded her attention, something, anything, but the card now resting on the edge of her desk like a bomb moments from denoting and blowing her young professional heart into smithereens.

Match, point set.

Well played sir, she thought bitterly, her eyebrows knitted together in frustration, as she cursed her inappropriate emotional impulses. Was. He. Still. Sitting. There? She refused to look up from her paperwork.

"So uh.. about the coffee. There's an interrogation, and we could use the help of a profiler. Agent Sweets is busy, so they said it might be better to take you along," from the door frame his words trailed off, but eventually when the blush died down and he finished explain, she looked up, with a slightly mousy expression, and small nod.

The hallway was narrow, but Bridgette did everything but hug the wall, to build a healthy distance between him. The fact he was undeniably, characteristically, and impossible handsome fed her distaste for him. She was Bridgette Kelly, independent and resilient, she did not unravel at the sight of a man. She carefully snuck a peak of him again, from the corner of his eye and repeated the mantra again, she was Bridgette Kelly, independent and resilient, she did not unravel at the sight of a man.

No matter what a sight he was.

Damn.

He was smug, she hated smug. Oh and, his file said he was athletic, she told herself that meant he was also probably all pro-sports, the kinda guy who drank beer and painted letters across his belly, yes she pretended he no longer had a chiseled physique, it was an impending belly, the beer was looming it's fate over his unnaturally perfect anatomy. She bet he was one of those jock types in high school, probably bullied others, the kind she would have really given it to, ripped to shreds, well...verbally at least.

Bridgette kept her chin high as they talked, firm on forgetting the puddy he reduced her to, by slowly convincing herself he was the person she was building him up to be, and then when this favor he asked of her was down, she'd set aside her concocted opinion of him, write her unbiased and professional evaluation of him, and move on.

"Basically, this case, we found some bones positioned hanging. So far the suspect we have, the victim's mother, won't admit she did it. But we need a stronger profile on the killer. So they want you to examine some evidence, and make a gesture on the murder," Booth explained as they got there.

Inside the room, there were cork boards with photos of the victim before the incident, photos of friends and family, and then the photos of the body at the crime scene tacked up, on the white boards, timelines of her movements and whereabouts, and sprawled out on the steel conference table, close ups of the victims bones. Suddenly, Booth didn't exist, Bridgette felt herself being drawn back to a time in the beginning of her career as an FBI profiler, summoned to Montreal to assist local law enforcement on the hunt for a serial killer leaving young girls in freshly dug graves. She lived a hotel room for three months, with the photos like this wallpapered around her room, till she successfully debunked her captains profile and executed one herself that was used in capturing the killer.

The memory was so vivid she could almost smell the wet grass from within the interrogation room now. Getting right down to business, Bridgette shed the confines of her blazer and circled around the room, carefully inspecting every photograph of her remains and the scene she was dropped at. Bridgette held the first and last photo she picked up in her hands, as she stared out into the distance, gathering her thoughts.

Ten minutes.

She dropped the photo, leaving it behind, as she joined the interrogation room, she sat beside Booth. She looked up at him for permission to speak, before her attention turned to the mother," You have two children," Bridgette stated softly. "Your son has autism?" She guessed. The victim, Shelly, had photo frames with puzzle pieces hotglued onto them that held photos of her and a younger boy. "That's a lot for just a single mom," the young psychologist sympathized.

The mother sniffled silently, rubbing her elbows, in a state of helplessness as Bridgette emotionally undressed her. "Shelly was an active girl, I take it," Bridgette bravely inquired, "The strains on her ankles and wrists, the fractures on her vertebrae, the dislocated knee, corked thighs, splint knuckles, could appear as defensive wounds, ignored abuse over the year," Bridgette said, looking to her left at Agent Booth, whom she assumed believed as much, then back at the mom. "But Shelly was a cheerleader before you moved here? Played Rugby? She enjoyed physical sports," Bridgette guessed.

There were tears falling from the mother eyes as she listened to Bridgette stiffly, her blouse wrinkling as she gripped at the material. "Probably a high threshold for pain. Some of the fractures date back to childhood, so people guess abuse, but I see...tree climber? Monkey bars enthusiast," you could hear the smile in Bridgette's tone as she tenderly addressed the mothers daughter. "You were busy with your son, an adventurous daughters bruised knee...doesn't seem as important as a son's public meltdown?" Bridgette nodded, as she painted the scene, the led to the demise of the suspects youngest daughter.

"I bet she never complained," Bridgette mused, part of her felt like she knew the victim personally, something about the profile spoke to her. "That's why when she came home after a fall, she didn't tell you, you probably didn't even notice the bruising on the side of her head. Shelly was always covered in some sports injury," Bridgette explained for the mother, grieving her daughters death, most likely racked with guilt.

"You didn't kill Shelly, Miss Sheridan," Bridgette answered. "Shelly died from a cerebal hemorrhage, there was a bruise at the base of her skull, it's was the most recent and fresh injury on her anatomy," Bridgette looked from Booth back to Miss Sheridan. "You didn't kill your daughter," the psychologist repeated, over the sobs of the mother, hugging herself, her swollen face falling into the palms of her hand, she loudly wept from behind her hands.

Bridgette turned to Booth, "Thank you," she mouthed, absent mindedly squeezing his hand in a moment where her emotions acted faster than her thoughts, quietly pushing her chair back, she excused herself from the interrogation room, and to the water cooler down the hall, for some air, and water.

A shiver ran down her spine as an image of a blonde teenager with pink highlights, punk rock clothes, flashed across her thoughts. Was she a victim of a case she worked? After so many cases, the faces started to mold together, but this particular face nagged at her, like an oven that may have been left on, it left Bridgette feeling like she'd forgotten something in her past that needed her attention.

So what then? What do you do when you know that? When you know that maybe you can't help?

- Help 7x04

vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:33 PM

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The Hero:

This shrink wasn't a gangly man. Booth still found himself staring at the tiny, but gorgeous girl that stood in front of him in a standard FBI issue uniform, with the books and the case files. He had a sharper eyesight than most people his age, so when he saw his casefile being picked up from the ground, he understood at once that she was questioning him and his chemistry with Bones right away.

He knelt down to help pick up the papers, apologising absently for not having realised someone would walk into him, and then stood up. His introduction was as brief as it could be. "Just call me Booth. So you're the shrink who's replacing Sweets, huh?" he asked. He was curious. Where did the psychology department pick her up from? Fresh out of college? Or did she have any field experience with the FBI? He couldn't put a word on it, but she looked really familiar. He knew a lot of nice, blonde haired women, some of whom he'd never speak to again, but her? She looked special.

Booth managed to open the door to her office, and stepped aside so he could let her in. "Well, since you're here, I'll just go on and say I don't need a shrink. Bones and I get along fine," he began. He could ramble about it for days, but the main part was that they got along. Where he lacked, she made up for it. She was the thing that made him feel like he was complete. A whole part of the squint team. No paperwork written by a bunch of feds with absolutely no idea about how he works could possibly explain that!

Sitting down on one of the chairs infront of the desk, he took the time now to look at the medals and the diplomas around the room. Sweets never had his out in the open, like a prize. In fact, Sweets rarely brought them up when compared to Booth, because Booth had some, too. He just never flaunted either. "I know you're just doing your job, Agent Kelly," he defended. "But I have to do mine, too. And I need Dr. Brennan to help with it. She's the smartest forensic anthropologist in the field, you know?"

He wanted to mention that Brennan was his friend, but somehow that might weaken his case. Another part of him itched to ask his shrink out. Asking a shrink out? He'd never hear the end of it. Not only was she a shrink, but she worked for Sweets. Booth didn't do the whole, psychology fiasco. "Tell you what, though, if you still think I need a psychiatric evaluation, we can meet for coffee downstairs and talk about it like normal people, any objections, Agent?" he asked. He reached into his pocket, produced his calling card (he had some made after Parker insisted on using a fancy new site called Printer Vista). He dropped it down on her desk, and flashed her a partially smug grin.

Standing up, he turned around, about to head out of the office, when the slightest phone call stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned the phone on, listened carefully. "What? Bring the shrink with me? Why not Sweets? You're kidding, Cam. This--" he heard angry buzzing from her on the other side, then changed his tune. "Okay, fifteen minutes top. Hold the guy in the interrogation room."

Turning back around, Booth slid his fliphone into his pocket, and glanced back down at Agent Kelly. "So uh.. about the coffee. There's an interrogation, and we could use the help of a profiler. Agent Sweets is busy, so they said it might be better to take you along," he explained. "It's right down the second hallway. We'll walk down together."

He decided to explain on the way there. Silently, though, he admired her. She had the nicest, short blonde hair, curly and wavy. Her sense of style took out beyond her uniform, especially in her makeup. But what he found most appealing was just the fact that she was a profiler in the FBI. A shrink working for one of America's most important employers. You had to be boss to get a job like that.

"Basically, this case, we found some bones positioned hanging. So far the suspect we have, the victim's mother, won't admit she did it. But we need a stronger profile on the killer. So they want you to examine some evidence, and make a gesture on the murder," he finished.

As they came to a room, he opened it, and inside, the pictures of the crime scene, suspect profiles, and victim information remained splayed out in paper form. Booth still loved paper, of course. He was out of his age on this computer business sometimes. "Have a look around, I'll wait here. Suspect is in the next room," he said, leaning against a wall.

vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

Nov 16th 2015 - 8:15 PM

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Quitethevampiregroupie:

The director and Sweets awkwardly shifted in their seats as Bridget's eyes bulged several times, reading Agent Booth's folders. Sweets legs folded over each other, right over left, left over, right, they unfolded, his hands sat in his lap, and sometimes his elbows, occasionally resting his hands on both his fists and then on just the one, while the director continued to click his pen nervously.

"Maybe we should break for ah lunch," Sweets offered, clearing his throat, leaning forward in his chair, but Bridgette was too distracted by the details of Agent Booth's past to hear. The director simply shook his head, queuing Sweets to lean back in his chair restlessly.

For years Lance Sweets had been the lead psychologist for the Bureau, periodically on loan to the Jeffersonian, and the chief shrink to Seeley Booth and Temperance Brennan through their many ups and downs of their career, his notes were extensive, observations chilling, and his prognosis questionable in Bridget's opinions. Immediately she detected a soft side to Sweets in his handling with the nontraditional crime fighters, eventually it not only effected his decisions, but his perspective, and annotations, he skewed reality in Booth and Brennan's favor, so they could continue to work together.

Time stretched out, and after four long hours Bridget finished reading Booths jacket, "Well," she breathed, closing the file shut, her eyes staring blankly down at the manila folder in her lap, feeling like such a story should be fastened with caution tape. "How about that lunch," with a faltering smile, she joked anxiously, suddenly regretting her career choice and wishing she had majored in art.

The director sighed, chewing the inside of his lip, and immediately Bridget could sense from his body language and Sweets eyes shifting to the exit, that this was not a topic one could greet with a joshing manner, but Bridget hadn't known a better way to approach the subject. Booth's past unnerved the blonde, he was a renegade, he wasn't your typical cookie cutter agent, he had loyalties to people he cared about, and those loyalties outside the FBI made him a threat to anyone who jeapordized that relationship, like oh say a psychologist like herself. She could of course take Sweets carebear approach, but it wasn't in Bridget's DNA to manipulate the truth, she didn't live in a grey world, her world was black and white, there was only the law, and she didn't think relationships or people should come between that.

"You're late for meeting with agent, we'll have to have Robson reschedule for later today, in the meantime Agent, any questions for myself or Sweets?" The director asked, but by the way he was already preoccupying himself with the files on his desk, she suspected it was a rhetorical question.

The young, petite, blonde psychologist shook her head, knowing when she was being dismissed, and showed herself out with Sweets following behind. "He's actually, he's actually a really good guy, I know the file looks," Sweets paused, biting his low lip, in search for the right word, or perhaps the same feathery language he used to excuse the actions of Booth and Brennan.

"Grim," Bridget replied dryly, jabbing a finger at the elevator keypad. Clearly an alpha male, with suppressed anger, issues with authority, and possible ptsd who has shot a clown car, threatened the cartel, and used excessive force on the field.

Sweets frowned, tucking his thumbs into the loops of his pants on each of his hip, his attention turned to the pattern on the carpet below them. The two psychologists shared an elevator in silence, both absorbing their new roles. Bridget would now take Sweets place, while Sweets would take a more administrative role, heading the Bureau's Pysch department, now that he was preparing to be a dad.

Before they went their separate ways, Sweets reached out for Bridget, just missing her shoulder, "Hey, I know what it's like, first day on the job," Sweet said, his soft doe eyes stared out at Bridget, with concern and sympathy for his friends. "You want to do a good job, impress the Boss, I get that," he laughed at the memory of himself, just years ago in the same position as her, and how much he could relate to what she must be thinking. "But sometimes this job, it's more then following a list of rules, sometimes it's about people's lives," Sweets informed her, sharing some gained wisdom from the field. "It's about remembering at the end of the day these aren't cases, these are people, and people don't fit within the parameters or lines we set them to," Sweets finished telling her, he held his eyes on her for a few moments, and then swung around, and left her standing in the middle of the hallway with her thoughts.

Some where in the distance of her mind she recalled a similar speech,"And you can't stand that. You're all about control. You have no idea what it's like on the other side! Where nothing's in control, nothing makes sense! There is just pain and hate and nothing you do means anything. You can't even.." Maybe from a movie, or a conversation she picked up on in college, at the cafeteria or something. Buffy's face twisted with uncertainty as she tried to recall it, haunted by the memory of a strangers voice that played in her head.

The distraction was temporary, the agent snapped out of it soon enough, and finished her walk to her new big girls office, where she got her own desk, couch, and even shiny gold plate with her name, where her academic accomplishments hung in 16" by 12" frames.

"Umph," Bridget mumbled, walking straight into the figure standing in the doorway of her office, "I'm so sorr-" she spoke up, picking up Booths file from the floor, hastily shoving the loose papers that spilled out back in, before standing up and coming eye to eye with Agent Seeley Booth himself, from print, to person, just like that, Bridget's mouth hung open in surprise, strands of honey-gold-hair pinned back in her neat bun, now loose and around her face.

He was so--

His shoulders were so--

Photo's were not included in his folder. No one told her he was going to look so....solid, with the broad shoulders, chiseled chin, strong cheek bones, deep chestnut eyes, and the abs, the abs were...very defined under his government issued white button down, right down to his, belt, that read Coc- Bridget choked as her eyes drifted down to his belt, immediately adverting her attention from the belt. "Um, Agent Kelly," she introduced, holding her hand out firmly, just desperately hoping the blood rushing to her face, hadn't blushed her cheeks in a horribly noticeable way.

Flustered on the first day, great the agent thought sourly.

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