This was going to be a longer chapter, but then I realized this bit deserved it's own space...



The Johnson house is a two-story brick enclave, circa 1900’s. The windows have wooden shutters, dark green - as is the slanted roof. The lawn is well-kept, the hedges neatly trimmed. A white cement driveway runs up on the side to the white added on garage. The houses on this block are similar-looking, although a few are larger and the cost of them would be much higher. We walk up the small set of steps onto the porch and approach the simple white door. Booth is tense, and wearing his “telling the family of the victim’s murder” expression. His jaw is set, shoulders sharply squared, and his deep brown eyes are very serious.

“You ready, Bones?”

He’s turned to look at me. he has that half-smile on his face and I nod. In these situations Booth likes me to talk as little as possible. He prefers me to observe, the house, it’s objects, the people in terms of any skeletal or muscular anomalies. He also doesn’t want to upset the victim’s family or tip off a suspect. That is most likely his first priority. Still, he’s said on numerous occasions that my “neutral forensic anthropology eyes” often catch things he wouldn’t have thought of. Not to mention that my photographic memory is as good as having a camera. All of which are true, but still, it is nice of him to say. At the time It surprised me so much that I didn’t even tell him that the correct phrasing would be my “neutral forensic anthropologist eyes.”

The doorbell chime is odd, but Booth seems charmed by it.

“Definitely a baseball house.”

I don’t think the statement is meant for me to give a response to, but it does still puzzle me.

Sometimes I wish I could process more abstractly. There is nothing about the house that signifies baseball... It must have something to do with the odd sounding doorbell. Perhaps I will ask Booth about it later.

“Gerry, honey, did you forget your key?”

The woman’s voice coming towards the door is soft and the slight accent sounds like she is originally from South Carolina. She peers through the door’s peephole and I assume sees both of us.

“Can I help y'all with something?”

Booth holds up his badge so that she can see it.

“Sorry to disturb you so late Mrs. Johnson. I’m Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI and this is my partner Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian.”

“Who’s at the door, babe?”

“It’s the FBI!”

The door opens and I am looking down at the same eyes and general facial structure of Gerald Johnson.

“How, I mean what, what can we help you with Special Agent Booth?”

“Agent Booth’s fine, Mrs. Johnson, and we’re here to discuss your son.”

“He looks very much like you.”

Booth glances briefly at me. I didn’t mean to say it. I just wasn’t expecting so clear of a resemblance. When you’ve held a skull in your hands, felt it’s shape, it’s nuances, and then see so similar a face in the same day, it can be somewhat startling.

Mrs. Johnson seems less upset by my remarks than Booth, because she gives me a big smile.

“Yes, he does. People often remark on it.. His height is all his father though.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

A tall burly man has stepped into the foyer. He and Booth are eye to eye, which doesn't happen often. He is older than Booth, but doesn't look at all as old as his actual age would indicate. His blond hair is turning silver and the creases around his eyes are many. There's a fair amount of sun damage to his skin that makes his face quite freckled. He is also quite clearly a very physically active man, as his physic in excellent condition.

"What on earth would the FBI want with Gerry?"

I can see that Mrs. Johnson is scared as her husband asks the question. Her ribcage pulls in and her eyes widen. My work with Sweets has helped me a great deal. Not the psychological work with Booth - that had been a complete waste of time. However, the facial recognition work and subsequent learning to read body language has been invaluable over the these last two years.

Subtle words, voices, intonations, they rarely register in my brain. Sweets realized that perhaps my attention to detail could help me by assigning meaning to the various nuances that the face and body go through. In situations like this I find it relatively easy. It is during personal interactions that it is much harder, as the hormonal and neurotransmitter changes effect my concentration and thus my ability to recall what body changes go with what emotion. In truth, even when not emotionally invested, I find it tiring to try and follow it all and still be able to process and and think. People can change expression in seconds. They are not like bones or artifacts, which simply are what they are, in whatever condition, and unless mishandled, stay that way.

“Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it! Something’s wrong!”

“Calm down, Melinda, let the man talk.”

I glance over at Booth; his jaw is clenched again. He hates doing this. I am tempted to blurt out that their son has been murdered, just so that he doesn’t have to, but then his eyes briefly meet mine, and in that instant I know he’s okay.

“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I am sorry to be here so late, but your son, Gerry, was found murdered this morning.”

Mrs. Johnson let’s a wail as Mr. Johnson grows pale beneath his sun-freckled skin. Suddenly, Mrs. Johnson turns and starts pounding on her husband.

“I told you something was wrong! I TOLD YOU! He always comes home, always, always!”

Mr. Johnson doesn’t try to stop her. There is moisture in his eyes, and his large arms encircle her shoulders, rendering the blows soft and inefficient against his chest. After a few moments she collapse against him, sobbing hysterically.

I understand that she is devastated, and I feel sad watching this. As he strokes her hair, rocking her softly, as she cries and screams into his chest, I think that we shouldn't be watching this moment. It feels too personal and intimate, but there isn’t anywhere to go...so we watch.

More please Joy!

I'm back! I lost my notebook, so I had to recreate this. Oh well!



She's been quiet since the Johnson's. I watch her toy with her tofu and broccoli as I chow down on my Kung Chow Chicken. We've never eaten here before. Usually we'd be at Wong Foo's, but this was close by and we were both starving.

"Penny for your thoughts, Bones"

Immediately, her head snaps up.

"My thoughts are worth far more than a penny, Booth."

I bite back a smile. Sometimes it's good that she's so predictable.
At least I know what can get her attention when I want it.

"It's just an expression. It means I'd like to know what you're thinking about."

"Well, why didn't you just as - "

"- What are you thinking about, Bones?"

She pauses, and looks down a moment.

"The Johnson case."

"What about it?"

"Mr. Johnson was sad, but -"

"Well, he did just find out -"

"Will you let me finish my damn sentence!"

I think both of us are surprised at her outburst. She's wide-eyed, as if she can't believe what came out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Booth! I didn't mean -"

"It's okay, Bones."

After the initial shock, little blips of memory flash through my mind. Times of cutting her off, rolling my eyes at her squint speak. She usually would keep talking. I never thought she even noticed those things. Of course, I hadn't thought she'd been sad about Hannanh either. I reach across the table to touch her hand.

"I should have let you finish.

We both know my apology isn't just about now. The memories continue to flash and I feel my face turn hot with shame. I hadn't been just impatient, I'd been mean, trying to make her seem less necessary. No wonder she doubts that I love her. Jesus, how is she even sitting across from me?

“I should always let you finish, I mean, you're the genius, Bones, and, more important, my partner, and best friend. You, of all people, you are more than worth listening to. I'm sorry I cut you off."

I'm falling into the blue of her eyes as they mist over.

"I know I'm worth listening to, Booth. It's just that, well sometimes I know I can't seem to find the language that 99% of the population understands - which can definitely be a handicap."

Handicap? Sure, she can be difficult to follow sometimes, but a handicap. My Bones is NOT handicap and if I've made her feel -

"Booth."

Her quiet voice breaks through my frantic thoughts and I look up ready to explain how I never want her to feel that way. However, I notice a sparkle in her eyes, and a tiny smile on her lips...no way.

"Temperance Brennan, was that a joke"

Her smiles blooms wider as she gives a small nod.

"I got you."

I can't help it - I laugh aloud - as much from her forgiveness as the joke itself.

“That was very funny!”

“I know.”

Bones giggles. Bones giggles and I am grinning.

“OK, Ms. Comedian, you gonna finish telling me about Mr. Johnson?”

I watch her face go from relaxed to pensive. Then she sighs.

“He was sad, but he was scared - his face lost color. I thought it was odd, but then I realized he was looking at his wife. He was scared for her.... He let her hit him, Booth. He put aside his own grief to take on hers.”

She stops talking and looks at me expectantly, after everything, she still thinks I have all the answers when it comes to people... I don’t, but I can answer this one.

“He loves her, Bones.”

“But...it’s his son, Booth, his only son, an Alpha Male's pride and heritage. You would -”

“ - Don’t go there, Bones. Don’t even say it.”

“I won’t. I just...how can he love his wife more than his son?”

“They aren’t the same kind of love, Bones.”

“His son is dead, Booth. He will never see him again, hear his voice, watch him play baseball, or hold his first child. His wife is alive and here. How is her grief so much more important that his loss? I don’t understand!”

Okay, I’m stunned. Bones is seriously upset and frustrated about this. I need to give it some deeper thought. If something did - God forbid - happen to Parker - would I be comforting Rebecca? We certainly aren’t anywhere near being in love, but Parker is from when we were. How would I feel? Devastated, certainly. I couldn’t hide that.

I’ve seen the death of child tear long-standing couples apart, as well as draw them closer...but Rebecca and I aren’t a couple. I try imagining if Bones and I...

“I’m sorry, Booth. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You aren’t. I’m just trying to think of how to answer this.”

I glance up at her serious baby-blues. Amazing that for things like this she still trusts me for the answers. Maybe she shouldn’t.

“I think every situation is different, Bones. A child, is a usually a symbol of the love you’ve shared with someone else.”

“Not -”

“Hey, I get to finish my sentences, too.”

I hide my grin as she looks properly chastened. No need to let her know it’s not that big a deal.

“I’m sorry, Booth. You’re right. Please continue.”

“When it is a situation where love’s involved, there’s no escaping the fact that when you look at that child, you remember that love. Even if it no longer exists. Maybe, he holds her to remember that the love is still here, even though the symbol is gone.”

In can see she is trying to process this, but then she stops and looks up at me.

“I love Parker because he’s your son. However, even if he was not, I love him for his charm and intelligence, his big metaphorical heart, which I believe he’s inherited from you - by nature or nurture. I love him for his trust in me, and the times we’ve spent together - with or without you.”

Whoa. Was not expecting that. Sometimes gifts from Heaven come very unexpectedly. I mean, I had to coax Hannah into meeting Parker. Just another sign of the kind of idiot I’ve been.

“Parks loves you, too, Bones.”

I can barely get the words out, I’m choking on emotions I am not ready to process yet. It’s been a heavily emotional day already.

"I know."

There's no smugness in her reply, none of her usual bravado. She's got this soft smile on her face and she is, for a moment, lost in her own thoughts. My Bones is getting more intuitive about emotions.

"How do you know?"

She blinks and hits me with that, "isn't that obvious" look of hers.

"He told me."

More unexpected information. My son, unlike his father, is apparently smart enough to know that you have to be direct with Bones. I nod.

"Yeah, well, just in case you'd forgotten."

She gives me another patented Bones look. It's the coy and amused one that's always made me hot and bothered. I wonder if she knows how it makes me want to grab her from across the table and kiss her so deeply it's like making love with our mouths.

I take a deep breath. I know I won't be kissing her again for a while, weeks, maybe months. Not until she can really trust us. Not until she can really believe that the love I feel and have felt isn't ephemeral. It didn't disappear in less than a year, or transfer to someone else. I need for her to understand what I've only just figured out today; great sex doesn't mean love. I can't believe how long I've thought otherwise. Me, the guy who's scorned sex for making love, has probably been calling straight up sex "making love" for large chunks of my life. Must be my Catholic upbringing. I need to have a talk with Father O'Malley about this.

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think she knows?"

"Mrs. Johnson? Knows what?"

"That he is ignoring his own grief to deal with hers?"

Where is this coming from?

"She's in her own grief, Bones. Probably not."

She looks down for a moment and then looks up with me with suddenly fierce eyes.

"Don't ever do that for me...I know I am not the best at gauging others emotional responses. Although I am more adept at it with you, my skill is mediocre at best."

"Bones -"

"- I would not want you to hide your sadness or grief from me, even if I were sad myself. I want to know what you feel when you feel it, but sometimes the only way I can know is if you tell me. It would make me very sad to know you were in emotional pain and not sharing it with me. It hurts to think of you being sad and alone....Although seeing you with Hannah has been painful for me, I was happy that you had someone in Afghanistan. I was glad to know you did not have to go through that by yourself."

I am speechless as she blurts all this out. I don't think I can take much more of these revelations tonight. As for Hannah, I hate the very sound of her name.

"I don't want to talk about her, Bones. She was a mistake."

"No, Booth, she -"

"Temperance!"

Shit, I didn't mean to be so sharp. However, Bones isn't about to back down.

"She's what you needed under the circumstances, Booth!"

Fuck. She's right. Of course.

"I didn't mean to snap at you, Bones."

"I didn’t see you snap?"

With just that one look of utter confusion on her face, the tension drains out of me. God, I love her.

"It means I didn't mean to get angry."

"Well, yes, no one does. It just happens. Emotions are an unpredictable variable."

"I don't want to talk about Hannah."

"I see that. It makes you angry. I don't understand why, but, I am glad you expressed that it does.... I don't want to hurt you Booth, so I need you to tell me if I am. Or if something makes you sad, or if something I'm doing is something you would rather I didn't...I need the words, Booth. I wish I were more like you or Angela in that regard. You understand feelings without being told. I, I'm not like that."

"I love you."

She blinks, clearly not understanding why I am saying that.

"You said you needed the words to understand my feelings. I love you."

"Booth!"

I laugh. Her cheeks are turning pink and she is completely exasperated with me."

"I just - don't ever treat me the way he's treating her or I will kick your ass!"

I nod, trying to keep a straight face.

"I promise, Bones.”

She is staring me down. We grin at the same time. She looks down at her plate to spear a piece of tofu before looking up beneath her lashes,and that coy little smile is on her face again.

"Good."

I smile back, because right now, everything is just that.

Great Joy..It's stories like this that are getting me through season 6! Post again soon.

Thank you for addressing the fact that he cuts her off! I'm glad she got angry, even though she felt guilty about snapping. It happens when something has been happening so often.

Excellent. You know I love it.

Morning Musings

Booth will be on television today. I admit, I am very happy that I don't have to be with him for the press conference. He blames Hannah for this press conference, but I don't know why exactly. She is a journalist and pushing for the truth is what they do - even if they have to lie to get it. It's an odd undertaking. Hopefully, that he will keep him busy today. Too busy to stop by the lab for some reason that is just as easily taken care of by email.

Last night was...difficult. I was already feeling overwhelmed by the events of the day. Throughout the day I could still see his face as told me that I really was the one, that he loves me. The feel of his mouth on mine, each remembrance sent chemicals roaring through by body, preparing it for sex so that I was perpetually wet between my thighs. Then, between informing the victim's parents of their son's death and dinner afterward my emotional self was fighting to take over. How I managed to not to kiss him again, not to drag him through the door of my apartment and entice him to engage in sexual intercourse right there...I don't know.

In Maluka I would dream about having sex with him. He was the only masturbatory fantasy that could bring me to orgasm. I would see things in the jungle, along the shore and wonder what he would think of them. I worried about him in Afghanistan...that was part of my realization. I was going to worry about Booth whether I was with him or thousands of miles away. I would hear his opinion on things whether he was by my side or not. And I would physically desire him, to the point that other men held no sexual interest for me anymore. I had changed without realizing it, and there was no changing back. Even when we came back and I discovered that he also had changed.

There were so many things I'd wanted to tell him, but when he showed me her picture, said it was serious, those thoughts died. I buried them in an instant and wasted no time mourning. Love.... Clearly it was an ephemeral experience, or if not, it was one I would most likely never fully experience.

Throughout his relationship with Hannah I was angry with myself. I had been attracted to him immediately; from the moment I heard his voice and saw him across the room, an absolute alpha male, challenging me in my own domain. He meant to fluster me, I'm sure, but I simply refuted his incorrect statement. I dismissed the class, and as he walked toward me I could feel that the chemicals that create sexual arousal had already started flowing through my bloodstream. Judging by his dark, dilated eyes that discreetly perused my body, I knew the same was happening to him.

I hadn't felt that much stimuli since...Michael. When he gave me his challenge I felt as driven to prove myself as I had with Michael. I don't know why I thought I had to prove I was the best to him. I had my credentials. I had even surpassed Michael, which had definitely put a wedge in our sexual friendship. Yet, I was driven to find out all I could about this dead girl. I felt the adrenaline rush through me at the thought of showing him what I could do. I wanted - needed to impress him. Angela noticed my urgency, and when I admitted that the man who wanted the information was attractive, she agreed to work up a sketch for me.

The feeling should have warned me about what was happening, but feelings were things I'd long since locked away. They were allowed out for a unique scientific find, babies, and the occasional sad movie seen with Angela. (She calls them "Chick Flicks" which makes no sense to me).

Thus, it is not until recently that I've seen that my initial reaction to Booth was very similar to the one I'd had with Michael all those years ago. He doubted my abilities, and that challenge felt familiar. While I had engaged in many very pleasurable sexual encounters and connections, nothing had made me feel the way I had with Michael way again - until Booth....

"Dr. Brennan!"

I am snapped out of my musing by the irate voice of Sweets. He is leaning forward on my desk, legs akimbo, and a scowl across his youthful countenance.

"Hello, Dr. Sweets. Why are you here? Did I miss an appointment?"

My words seem to cause him more distress. He stands up and glares at me.

"I been standing here saying hello for -"

He takes a quick glance at his watch.

" - approximately three and a half minutes. Did you think if you ignored me enough I'd go away?"

"To ignore is to pretend something is not when actually you know that it is. Being that I was unaware of your presence, I could not, in fact, have been ignoring you."

In exasperation, Sweets wipes his hand down his face.

"Fine, whatever. I'm here because I worked up a profile on your victim's killer."

“Isn’t that something you would address with Booth?”

“Normally, yes. However, I was told he's unavailable this morning and I am leading a group therapy session dealing with PTST, and will unavailable this afternoon.”

I often forget that Sweets does have other duties than following Booth and me around all day.

“Very well, what thoughts do you have on this?”

“Thoughts?”

“Yes, thoughts”

I don’t understand his questioning, and he appears upset again.
“So I’ve moved up from guessing now. Excellent!”

“I have come to see that you do in fact apply logic to very unpredictable variables. While certainly not what could be called facts, they do require the ability to take a vast amount of data to create a workable hypothesis. It takes great skill, intellect, and thought to do so.”

“Wow. Okay...I think that’s the most respectful thing I’ve ever heard you say about my work. I’m -”

“ - Sweets, what do you need me to tell Booth?”

“Right, the profile. The attacker is most likely someone very attached to the victim.”

“That’s impossible, Sweets people are not -”

“- By attached, I mean the person knew and had a personal connection to the victim.”

“What is the basis for this hypothesis?”

“The victim was severely beaten in a seemingly random manner of attack. The number of breaks suggest a beating out of anger or rage. However, there is NO signs of injury to the victim’s face.”

“This is correct. The victim’s face shows no sign of injury.”

“That fact implies that the attacker cared about the victim. To wage such a severe beating on every part of the body, and yet not touch the face shows that the attacker, even within a rage, could not bear to destroy the face of the victim.”

“Sweets, I fail to see the logic in this. How can being beaten to death be a sign of caring for someone?”

“I would say that this was likely to be someone with a temper, someone very invested in who the victim was, and that something occurred that enraged the attacker, causing a violent response. This is a person used to being in authority, and any infraction to the rules he or she imposes sets off a rage reaction.”

“So you’re saying that the attacker knew the victim?”

“Yes...or thought so. We’re looking for an obsessive personality, who -”

“Like Pam.”

Sweets, who had been pacing intensely as he spoke, stopped. He pauses before looking at Brennan.

"Yes, like Pam."

For a moment I see Booth before me, his blood pouring through my hands, shot by a woman aiming for me - because of a non-existent love relationship between her and Booth, a relationship that I was jeopardizing.

"Dr. Brennan?"

I am startled out of my memory, but the memory does bring up a question."

"If the attacker was obsessed with the victim, why would they kill them?"

"The attacker most likely saw the victim as disappointing his or her expectations, and, as I said, became enraged. It's not unusual for a stalker to kill the object of their obsession."

"The victim would have known his attacker - there really was so little head trauma. The attacker was close enough to swing a bat and strike the victim.

"That's entirely possible. Like I said, the attacker had to care about the victim, so they may in fact have known each other. However, there isn't a way for me to ascertain the victim's relationship to the attacker, only the attacker to the victim."

"I will give your information to Booth. Perhaps he can find out if our victim had any fans that were inappropriate in their behavior."

Sweets nods, but then just stands there. He appears to be staring at my floor.

Dr. Sweets, is there anything else?"

Umm, yeah..."

He is still standing there. Finally, he stops looking at my floor.

"Do you know if Agent Booth is...really out somewhere, or is he just trying to avoid me?"

"I doubt he is trying to avoid you any more than he usually does. However, today he actually had to attend an early press conference."

"A press conference?"

"Yes."

Sweets gives a short laugh, "Will Hannah be attending?"

"I assume so, but -"

Sweets rolls his eyes, "A 'press conference.'

"Yes. A press conference. Have you been having hearing issues, Sweets? If so - "

"Dr. Brennan, he isn't at a press conference, he's with Hannah! Like, really Booth, you're using codes now? That certainly inspires partner trust. Jesus..."

Sweets words surprise me, and for a moment I give them consideration. However, logic wins out over my fears. Booth would have no reason to plot such an elaborate ruse. Especially one that could so easily be proven false.

Now, I must decide what to do about Sweets. Clearly he is unaware of Booth's breakup and I don't want to be the one to inform him. At the same time Sweets is becoming more agitated, and I would rather Booth not have to deal with Sweets in such a state. Booth might actually hit him.

"Booth really is at a press conference, Sweets. There has been some question about the FBI's competence in handling our cases and it was decided that Booth needed to address them."

"What! When did this happen?"

"Last night on the 6:00 news."

"Oh, really? What channel?"

"The same one that Hannah appears on."

"Hannah's network ran a negative story on the FBI and didn't tell Booth?"

I'm surprised by his change in demeanor. He seems to find this idea very pleasing. However, I don't want to encourage more conversation, so I just nod. He reacts by suddenly clapping his hands together, and a huge grin appears on his face.

"Man, this is gonna be EPIC! Tell Booth I will totally need to speak with him today."

Epic? I don't understand his use of the word, but don't ask about it.

"I will relay the message."

I am not sure if he heard me as he turned and left at a very fast pace.

I hope I haven't created a problem for Booth. Booth...I am curious to find out the outcome of this morning's events. Booth had seemed worried, but I fail to see how the facts could possibly be interpreted as anything but excellent work. I can also admit to myself that the other thought in my mind is concern over how Booth will feel once he sees Hannah again.

Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. Why aren't I feeling calmer? Flip. Catch. Flip. Catch. Flip. The damn chip curves slightly away and I know I'm gonna miss it. I could scoot my chair a bit and catch it, but don't bother. Stupid chip. Why do I hold on to the damn thing anyway? It's a part of my PAST. "No Seeley, it's a part of YOU. Willing to rear up and send you flying at any moment. It's why you're in this mess now."

Higher Power. My Catholic upbringing says it's the still, small, voice Abraham heard in the cave, the voice of God. My FBI self says it's me remembering the words of my sponsor this morning. In any event, it's enough for me to look under my desk to grab the thing. Of course, that's. b.when Hacker comes in. I scoot up back in my chair while slipping the chip in my pocket.

"Oh, come on! Special Agent Booth, there's no reason to be hiding under your desk. It's just a press conference."

Assistant Director Doofus. I hate him. I really do,

"Assistant Director Hacker, Sir, good morning,"

"Sir? Oh man, you are so not happy."

I have the right to remain silence. Anything I say can, and will, be used against me."

"Just retrieving a pen, Sir."

"Booth, cut the 'Sir' we aren't doing the conference right this second."

I can't help but smirk at the subtext: when we are doing the conference, I will be expected to be using the full protocal of 'sir'.

"Just staying in practice, Hacker."

He actually laughs at that. The man has the most annoying laugh, but I manage a smile, because, hey, he's the assistant director and because of my petty ex-girlfriend we have to do damage control for the bureau. I follow him out of my office to the elevator.


There isn't a huge crowd of reporters, which on the one hand is good. The part that isn't so great is that it means I can see Hannah clearly. Of course, I probably would have anyway. While the rest of the press corp are in tailored suits and office wear, she's wearing some kind of black see-through jacket and a red tank top. I never really thought about how she dressed for work, but seeing her with all the other reporters, it occurs to me there's a reason that her biggest interviews have been men.

I can't believe I missed how petty she is, how childish...or maybe it's more...how driven. I should have turned her in that day in Afghanistan, but my dick shut off my brain. If I had turned her in she'd have lost her assignment - she'd had way too many warnings. Maybe gratitude and my rugged good looks had nothing to do with her blowing me right then and there. Looking at her now, the memory makes me sick.

"I can see why you were dating."

Hacker's snide little whisper makes it worse. Especially since I know he's actually trying to do some male-bonding/solidarity thing before we actually get up to the podium.

"Let's just get this over with. Sir."

Hacker chuckles as he steps to the podium.



I do not generally watch television. However, I find myself walking to the staff lounge. I am never in there unless I don't feel like going out for coffee, or I wish to speak with an intern in a more relaxed, spontaneous way. It is something I have been making more of an effort to do since returning from Maluka. As such, I am aware that aside from vending machines with highly caloric, chemically preserved, sugary snacks and drinks, a microwave, coffee machine, sink, and refrigerator, there is, mounted high on the wall, a television.

Andrew is standing in front of a podium with his usual smirk. I find it hard to believe that I felt so desperate for sex that I tried to imagine having intercourse with him. Thankfully, I am not overly imaginative and could not create that image. The idea was even more ridiculous than me having sex with the child-like Mr. Nigel-Murray.

I can see Booth standing in the background. He is stoic, looking straight ahead - very much like a solider at attention. The volume is down, so I can't here what's being said. Glancing around I see the remote on the counter. As I turn up the volume, Andrew's slightly nasal voice drones in.

"Special Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan's unconventional partnership does in fact have the highest caseload solve rate in the FBI's homicide division; However, the numbers being compared are VERY high numbers. Furthermore, although Special Agent Booth is not one to brag, he had the highest solve rate BEFORE working with Dr. Brennan. The pairing has simply increased the solve rate from remarkable to extraordinary."

Booth has never mentioned this fact to me. It's something I would remember.

"Then why doesn't he have your job?"

I recognize her voice, but I can't believe it. Booth is none reactive, while Andrew is turning red. Still, he smiles at her.

"The jobs require very different skill sets, Ms..."

"Burley, WNBS Fox 9."

"Aside from the general skills required of an FBI agent in the field, Special Agent Booth has proven to be one of the few people able to bridge the level of high-end scientific understanding that the Jeffersonian provides with the more psychological profiling and investigative work involved in a federal homicide investigation. His skills in this area are somewhat irreplaceable."

I can't stop grinning. The other reason Booth could never do Andrew's job would be Booth's inability to praise someone he intensely dislikes. Andrew is doing it flawlessly. I notice that Booth still hasn't even smiled. It occurs to me that his presence isn't even necessary.

"Is special agent Booth incapable of speaking for himself?"

The press corp twitters a bit. Booth still doesn't react. He's as still as I imagine him to be as when working as a sniper...Andrew glances back at Booth and I watch him approach the the podium and take the mic. He is looking directly at Hannah. I know understand the meaning of the phrase, “if looks could kill.”

"The only reason I'm here wasting valuable time from an ongoing murder investigation is to answer any pertinent questions the media might have - because apparently it's more important that the media be kept abreast of our every move so that headlines can be made than to actually bring a murder victim to justice. So, let's have your questions so I can get back to work."

Watching him speak so assertively I feel proud...and sexually aroused - again. It's like watching him do an interrogation. I feel proud to be his partner, to hear him defend the importance of of work in comparison to the selling of newspapers or boosting ratings. In this game of good cop bad cop, Booth was definitely the bad cop... It’s odd. I never went for bad boys, but somehow, when Booth is playing bad I just want to have him naked and inside me. Maybe it’s all that pent up aggression that is so visible and yet leased. Fuck. This is NOT a helpful train of thought. Time to click off the television. As I walk back to my office, the thought occurs to me that at least I can be sure that whatever he did have with Hannah has clearly fallen into metaphorical rubble.