The Slap in the Smackdown - a oneshot; a Jell-O shot
Disclaimer: Neither Skole, nor MadDelight own BONES. Skole does own a sick sense of humour and apologises for any offense.
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A/N: This piece is a collaborative effort in response to a review and the ensuing PM discussion with MadDelight, author of "Brennan's Denial", which can be found here:
Story ID: 5945873/1/Brennans_Denial
Setting: Circa 'Critic in the Cabernet'
Hodgins witnesses Ange slapping Brennan.
He and Booth discuss the event and who would win a fantasy smackdown between the two hottest women at the Jeffersonian.
Warning: Jell-O wrestling themes.
Excerpt from chapter 2 of 'Brennan's Denial (used with permission)
"Then do this right, Sweetie." Angela persisted.
"I am." Brennan asserted. "Emotional ties are ephemeral and undependable."
"Brennan -" Angela began to interject, but her friend cut her off.
"I appreciate your concern, but I have thought this through rationally." Brennan said, turning back to work on the case.
Angela could see that talking was not going to get through to Brennan. She stood up walked over and slapped Brennan across the face.
Dr. Jack Hodgins had spent most of the day filtering a pickled dead dude from what had originally promised to be a future 'wine cellar must have' for wine snobs everywhere. Now, all it was ever going to make was half a dozen interesting academic publications pertaining to viticultural homicide. As he made his way to find Cam to pitch an idea for an experiment, Hodgins heard the sound of raised voices from Dr. B's office. Because it was clearly Dr. B and Angela involved in an altercation, Hodgins decided to loiter. He saw and heard the slap and the order from Brennan to Angela to 'get out' and winced, immediately wishing he hadn't witnessed the event. Returning to his station, Hodgins decided to lay low for a while.
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That evening at the Founding Father's Bar, Hodgins was nursing three fingers of single malt scotch and an acute attack of the guilts. Dr. B had been slapped by Angela. The indirect source of their disagreement was over the poor guy who had just sat down next to him at the bar, Special Agent Seeley Booth.
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"No wine tonight Hodgins?" asked Booth, referring to their work that day. Booth had ordered a beer.
"No way, man" replied Hodgins saluting Booth with his single malt. Booth clinked the neck of his beer bottle against the glass and took a half-hearted sip at his beer.
Booth was looking tired and frazzled. Hodgins asked him if he was okay. Booth replied that he had a headache and his back had been troubling him again lately. Plus he'd been asked to donate his stuff to Bones, which was like a millstone of worry around his neck.
As they were both in a maudlin frame of mind, Hodgins decided to share what he had witnessed between Ange and Brennan earlier that day.
Booth almost choked on his beer.
"Whoa! Bones got 'slapped' by Ange, across the face? Seriously, Hodgins? Stay the hell away until they make nice and forgive each other, buddy. Trust me when I tell you, never get in between best girlfriends when they are fighting..."
Hodgins nodded sagely and took a swig of his hard liquor. "Dude. That is some seriously good advice from someone who sounds like he has been there." Booth took a long pull from his beer bottle and grimaced, the alcohol was not helping his headache at all. So much for the so-called medicinal qualities of alcohol, he mused.
"I know where I would put my money in a showdown between those two though," said the gambler in Booth.
"Dr. B? Seriously G-man?" scoffed Hodgins as he waved over the bartender for a refill, indicating that another beer was required for Booth. Booth glanced down at his bottle; it was empty.
"You gotta look at the form, bug man, Bones has got some serious form." Booth counted off on his fingers as he listed her qualities. "Trained in three martial arts, card carrying member of the NRA, always plays defence, and has a devastating right hook. Bones takes no prisoners."
Hodgins was smiling and shaking his head, as Booth rubbed the left side of his jaw recalling his first hand experiences with that right hook.
"Booth. You don't know Ange like I do, and I'm not talking about my biblical knowledge here. Beneath that lithe Eurasian Princess exterior lies a tough-as-nails Texan street fighter. That seriously scary 'sold my soul to the Devil' thing that her old man has going on? That thing is genetic man, I kid you not. And it is seriously hot."
"I hear you Hodgins," replied Booth. "But Ange isn't the only one with a scary character for a father. Max Keenan is a piece of work... 'the Devil' writes to his column for advice, kinda bad."
Hodgins gave a guffaw of agreement. "Well, all you need to do is level the playing field Booth. Make it a fair fight. Somewhere that neutralises the benefits of intellect, training and natural born ability..."
Booth laughed out loud. "Like mud wrestling...Yeah! In bikinis..."
Hodgins held up his hand for a high five. Booth reciprocated. "Now you're talking Booth!" chortled the bug man.
Booth leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "The tickets that you could sell to that smackdown...Hell, the book you could run on it...Hoo-Boy!"
Jack Hodgins loved conspiracy of any kind, and responded with silence as he considered possible scenarios. Booth was rattling off odds to no one in particular; he was quite a numbers man.
"Hey Booth! I would only offer one thing to add an extra special element to that smackdown fantasy," Hodgins asserted.
"Oh yeah?" replied Booth disbelievingly.
"Yeah man!" retorted Hodgins. "Since trucking in mud can be kind of a bitch. How about Jell-O?"
Both men shared an uproarious laugh, which drew looks from other patrons around the bar. As they ordered another round, they began debating bikini styles and Jell-O flavours.
FIN
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A/N (part deux): MadDelight suggests strawberry Jell-O. Join in the fun with a review to tell us your preferences ;)
