Snapshots from DC
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing... Obviously. Just playing in someone else's sandbox for a bit.
Summary: The anthropological definition of phenomenology is how an individual reactions to the experience of being in a specific physical landscape. A series of short random one-shots with B&B on the move in the District.
A/N: Each of these one-shots, which I'm going to try to keep short - around 500-1000 words - are inspired by actual physical locations in DC where Booth and Brennan would travel on a regular basis, given their employment at the J. Edgar Hoover Building and the Jeffersonian (even though I'm fudging this a bit and substituting the Smithsonian in the DC landscape for the Jeffersonian. Oh, well. So, shoot me.). DC is a very prominent character in the development of Booth and Brennan's relationship (from the earliest to the latest stages), but often gets relegated to the background. It's time to change that. Not sure how many there will be, and don't assume they're necessarily connected, but here goes.
Ch 1: Because of Social Reform
Dr. Temperance Brennan stood on the sidewalk outside of what looked like a typical eating establishment in the District of Columbia - large picture windows, a limited number of outdoor tables that customers fought over on days when the weather turned nice, and standard servers buzzing around in their homogenous wait uniforms. Arm on her hip, Brennan looked quite displeased as she tilted her head and stared at her partner with a look of chagrin on her face. "Well, why not, Booth?"
"Because," Special Agent Seeley Booth said, shaking his head in response to her question. His body language was also as firm as Brennan's indicated she was in her response to his earlier statement.
"'Because' is a conjunction, Booth, not an explanation," Brennan chastised him in that infuriating but familiar way that Booth had come to know as Brennan being pure Brennan.
"I'm aware of what type of word 'because' is, Bones. I've seen "Conjunction Junction" about a gazillion times, thank you very much," Booth said.
"First, as we've discussed many times, 'gazillion' is not a recognized term as being representative of any type of quantifiable amount. Second, while it may be possible for conjunctions to join two parts of a sentences in a connection that one might poorly describe as a 'junction' of sorts, I fail to see-"
"It's a song, Bones," Booth sighed. "Or, music video, really. 'Conjunction, junction. What's your function?'" When Brennan still did show any flicker of recognized, Booth began to sing again, "Hooking up words and phrases and clauses. Conjunction Junction, how's that function?" Still, Brennan stared at him blankly. "Come on, Bones. Schoolhouse Rock? Saturday morning cartoons in the 70s? I know you're a bit of a pop culture hermit, but these were fun even if they were kinda squinty."
"'Squinty' because they helped make children learn valuable pieces of knowledge even if it is physiologically impossible for a Congressional Bill to walk around with eyes, a nose, a mouth, arms, and legs?" Brennan asked.
"A ha!" Booth said, pointing at her. "You do know what I'm talking about,"
"I didn't say that," Brennan said, looking away to hide the small smile that threatened to creep onto her face.
"Yeah, sure, right, Bones," Booth said, shaking his head. "Lemme guess, you just wanted to hear me sing?" Brennan looked back at Booth, remained quiet as she merely arched an eyebrow at him in response. Booth shook his head again at her gesture. "In either case, I don't want to eat here. Can't we just go to the diner? Please?"
"But," Brennan said. "This is closer."
She nodded across the street where the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building loomed imposing in front of them at the corner of 9th and D Streets. "But, since we're coming from you're office and the Morrison interrogation, let's just grab something to eat here." She paused and then said in a softer voice, "It looks like it would be a good place to eat, Booth. And, obviously, from the window signage, we already know you'll be able to get a hamburger to eat." Brennan pointed at the small writing that read 'Partisan Burgers' under the restaurant's logo.
"Whatever crap they serve in that place, it's not a burger," Booth grumbled.
"'Crap'?" Brennan asked.
Booth nodded. "A burger should not come with romaine lettuce, caramelized Vidalia onions, and a choice of Szechwan ketchup or Remoulade sauce, Bones. They're just… it's-that's just wrong. So wrong. And, they smother the crap on it." Booth shook his head in disgust. "So, so wrong."
Brennan inclined her head at him. "I take it that this is not the first time someone has asked you to dine at Social Reform, then, Booth?"
Pointing back at the Hoover Building, Booth shook his head. "Ah, hello, Bones? New restaurant? Ten feet away from the Hoover? Translation: I've had to go here seven times already in the past month. Everyone's wanted to go here, and I've been outvoted too many times to cave on this one, okay? Now, can we please go to the diner? So, I can get a decent burger and fries? Please?" He then played dirty and shot Brennan a look that was his equivalent of Booth throwing a pleading puppy dog eyes look at her. As he expected, the tactic worked brilliantly, and Brennan's resolve crumpled within about fifteen seconds.
"Oh, very well," Brennan said. Turning around, she gave one final glance at the restaurant, and as they walked in the direction of the dinner, Brennan finally asked, "So, did they have anything that you liked when you ate there, Booth?"
Shaking his head, Booth said, "Nope, Bones. Not really. It's too hoity toity a place for me, anyway." He stopped for a few seconds before he added, "But, then again, I could've told you that anyway without even having to step foot in the damn place."
"And, why's that again?" Brennan asked, carefully adjusting her gait so as not to splash into a puddle that was left over in the crosswalk from the day's prior rain showers.
"Because," Booth insisted. "At lunch time, they had table cloths, cloth napkins, and pre-filled water glasses waiting on the table before you even sit down - all key signs a good burger is not to be had within a 100 foot radius of that place." Shaking his head, Booth muttered one final chastisement at the restaurant. "Remoulade Sauce on a burger? Nope, that's just not gonna work for me. Nope, not at all."
-TBC-