just keeps spinning round, spinning round
It had been over ten days. Ten. Days. They didn’t see each other daily or anything, but he’d noticed her absence, and it worried him. It wasn’t like her to just wander off without telling someone. Well. Okay, maybe it was. But she’d come back, triumphant and giddy, or wounded and petulant, but she’d come back. This was different. He had found her hut empty, quiet, and cold. This wasn’t like her, not at all. Something was off, wrong, jarring. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, gearing up for battle instead of gearing up for loss. Booth searched the island up and down, gone off through the jungle on his own for two days fully armed, and still come up empty, except for a nasty black fly bite. He had gone back to her hut to take a long last look, shoulders slumped. She’s gone. Buffy was gone.
He’d gone to bitch to Tony about it, maybe shoot hoops, hang out. Tony’d become a friend, a real guy. As much as he missed Zach and Hodgins like a friggin' limb, Tony was a dude’s dude, someone to beat at hockey and shove around. A friend. When he got there, Tony’s hut was empty and quiet, and Booth had seen this too recently to think anything but the worst. He stumbled out the doorway, shell-shocked again. Gone. Both gone.
He wandered down the path, slumping to sit in the shade of a tree by the edge of the beach, discarding his shoulder holster and ankle holster on his boots by the roots of the tree, his toes tucked into the sand. He sat, staring out into the ocean, thinking nothing.
[OOC: Booth just figured out that both Buffy and Tony are gone, and he's not in the best of shape. Friendly faces to cheer him up would be wonderful. Subject line from Rosie Thomas, It Don't Matter to the Sun.]
He’d gone to bitch to Tony about it, maybe shoot hoops, hang out. Tony’d become a friend, a real guy. As much as he missed Zach and Hodgins like a friggin' limb, Tony was a dude’s dude, someone to beat at hockey and shove around. A friend. When he got there, Tony’s hut was empty and quiet, and Booth had seen this too recently to think anything but the worst. He stumbled out the doorway, shell-shocked again. Gone. Both gone.
He wandered down the path, slumping to sit in the shade of a tree by the edge of the beach, discarding his shoulder holster and ankle holster on his boots by the roots of the tree, his toes tucked into the sand. He sat, staring out into the ocean, thinking nothing.
[OOC: Booth just figured out that both Buffy and Tony are gone, and he's not in the best of shape. Friendly faces to cheer him up would be wonderful. Subject line from Rosie Thomas, It Don't Matter to the Sun.]