seeley booth (hates_clowns) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2010-10-15 13:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | eliot spencer, seeley booth |
Who: Eliot and Booth
What: post demon guts.
When: evening, near the FBI building.
Where: the street name he gave Eliot via text.
Warnings: TBA,
The pain he felt was almost equal to the embarrassment he suffered. That demon could have killed him, would have if not for whoever that was showing up at the last second and literally causing it to explode sparing him a killing blow. Booth would have just stood there and done nothing. He didn't understand. He hadn't seen the boards about the spell, or Trickster. If Trickster explained things, he couldn't remember. His head hurt so badly it felt like it was under water and the pressure would never go away. He had managed to prop himself up against an ally wall, trying to stay out of sight. If he had to explain things to his colleagues at that point in time? There was no way he would have been able. So he just laid low and stayed where he was like Eliot said. The screen of his phone was hard to read, his hand had smeared it with blood. After the last text he couldn't hold it up any more, his hand just drooped into his lap and his head was down. He was covered in demon guts and blood. Some that wasn't his and some that was.
Everything hurt. He wasn't even sure where the worst of the wounds were any more. His body was aching too much to tell. His eyes were only half open, he tried to keep himself awake. Pretty certain that if he fell asleep that would be it. He'd hit his head on the ground when the demon had pushed him over during an attack, there was a nice sized gash on the side of his head. His gun was in his other hand incase anything decided to come back for round two, of course he wasn't even sure he could hit the broad side of a barn at that moment but he felt safer with it drawn. Exhaustion began to sink in. His suit was torn. He would be surprised if he still had a job with the FBI when this was over. He vaguely remembered calling in and telling them straight up that he wasn't coming back because he just had "better things to do." He would defiantly have some explaining to do come Monday when he was scheduled off medical leave, if he made it to Monday.
The front of his shirt was torn in three places. Each one had deep wounds stretching a long his chest. He wasn't even supposed to be at work that day was the ironic part. He only came by to pick a few things up. He wasn't dressed in his usual suit attire at least, those suits were expensive. But it was his favorite shirt that bit the dust.