Instinct
By Babblefestival
Blame it on instinct.
Sitting on a flat roof, shielded from the passerbys below and not from the pitiless sun above, a bead of sweat rolled down the sniper's forehead towards his nose. Without thinking, not really, he removed one hand from his weapon and wiped it away.
The target was only halfway through her meal when she reached down for her purse, her head dipping out of the crosshairs as she searched for something, anything. The sniper would never know what. He waited to reacquire but a tour bus, its driver apparently in the midst of an argument with the guide, lumbered past.
Only an empty seat and an abandoned plate remained.
Surprise and anger. The sniper pushed both aside, but that delay added to his failure. He was forced to adjust his scope. It took precious seconds to locate her auburn hair as it weaved into the sidewalk crowd and between the shady trees. No amount of math would bring him another opportunity and he slipped away from his position with a single curse.
He was definitely out of practice.
The day after his failure, the target flew out of Washington to a conference in Canada. Ottawa teemed with mosquitoes the size of golf balls at this time of year. The sniper felt it wise to wait for her return. Besides, he had his son for the weekend and he had promised another trip to the zoo.
He arranged for his second attempt one week later. From the same roof top, he watched as the target sat down for lunch to wait for her partner. Table by the center window. Her usual spot. He knew the exact moment her cell rang; she scrambled for it from her purse. With one hand, she curled her hair around her ear as she took her call. Her head moved into the crosshairs and stayed there. He slowed his breathing and prepared to do the unthinkable.
"Brennan," she said.
------
"I wouldn't shoot you," said Booth, looking up from the manuscript. He took a sip of his beer and held the glass carefully away from the stack of paper.
"How many times do I have to tell you," said Brennan. "It's not you."
"Kathy Reich is a forensic anthropologist." He pointed to her. "That's you. Her partner is a law enforcement officer." He pointed at himself. "That's me."
"It's fiction."
"It's us. And Hodgins, Angela and Zach." He tapped the sheaf of paper in his lap. "Cam's the only one missing."
Brennan sank into the opposite chair. "See? This is why I don't let you read my manuscripts, Booth."
"You're making me the bad guy." The thought amused him. "You going to kill me off?"
"You mean Andrew. He's Canadian, from Quebec. Not FBI, not you. Parlez-vous francais?"
"Mais non," said Booth. "Pas vraiement." He ignored her surprise and returned to his reading. Sex scenes aside, he recognized himself in print even if she did not. She seemed oblivious to the innuendo from his colleagues and the reading public alike. He always laughed off the sly comments, but he was not blind nor stupid. His partner was a smart, beautiful woman. They worked long hours together. He had known from the start what that could mean.
Which was why he called her Bones.
Blame it on instinct.