Arastoo Vaziri had not thought he'd be back on this platform again.
A year away from the lab, a stint in Baghdad looking at mosque wall art ad nauseum, and yet here he was.
Exactly where he'd started.
The gadgets have gotten even better, he mused, and watched with awe as a plastic skeleton rose from the bluish goo. A thematically appropriate shower of futuristic lasers blazed as they shaped the bones from the gel.
I come to work to find myself in the future.
"Time travel is impossible, Mr. Vaziri," he jumped at Dr. Brennan's voice, not realizing he'd spoken out loud, and barely caught the rest of her sentence "but I know what you mean."
He said nothing, letting his usually hyper-rational supervisor's wistful tone digest.
What's in the water in the Maluku Islands, anyway?
"Wow. If you're taking orders, I'd like a six-four, thirty-seven-year-old male with, uh, good income and no mommy issues," came Dr. Saroyan's voice, accompanied by the click-click of heels on metal and the soft bleep-bleep of the security scanner.
He smiled as he moved to help Angela remove the quasi-skeleton from its gooey source.
Xxxxxx
"The detail is remarkable," he informed Angela. And he was sure that he could (eventually) get over that it looked like the skeleton in an elementary-school nurse's office, dipped in fluorescent paint.
"Thank you."
Eventually.
"It's even flexible at the joints where tendons and ligaments were replicated!" Doctor Saroyan sounded not unlike a child with a new toy.
"Right." Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd noticed the resemblance, or the good doctor's excitement, judging from the slightly-perplexed look on Angela's face. "But can we get anything useful from it?"
Studying the skeleton, he replied, "Well, the victim had turned-out hips and high arches. That, along with the muscle attachment at the shoulders and hips, suggests that he was a ballet dancer. There are nicks on the lateral and posterior surfaces," he finished.
"Okay. Why don't you just flip it over to get a better look?" ssked Angela blithely.
He stared at her.
She stared back, eyebrows raised.
"We would…never…flip over a real skeleton."
"Ah, but lucky for us, this is a replica. Come on, grab a limb!" Dr. Saroyan seized a clavicle and began to tug.
He ruthlessly suppressed his screaming inner scientist (completely separate from his inner Muslim, which winced about touching the dead at all while gloveless). This isn't actually the dead, you idiot. He took an ankle, and carefully flipped the skeleton—plastic, he reminded himself—facedown.
Xxxxx
The last of the red faded from the sky visible through the skylights, and the lab began to darken quickly. He knelt, adjusting his prayer rug, and began to murmur the first raka'at of the maghrib. The wool under his knees, the stone under his brow, was as much a ritual as brushing his teeth or his mother tucking him in when he was young, and just as calming. The other squints had called off early, as they'd caught the killer, and the only other presence was the night watchman's steady footsteps in the hall outside. They provided a soft staccato off-beat to the ritual words.
He finished the first, then the second raka'at, then began to mouth the third silently. He heard the whoosh of the automatic doors. He didn't look up—the newcomer wasn't wearing Dr. Brennan's distinct perfume, and their movements weren't accompanied by the click-click-click of Dr. Saroyan's heels. Everyone else could wait.
"Dr. Sweets?"
Definitely not one of the regular rotation. Who would be looking for the psychologist here?
"Dr. Sweets?" She moved closer. As she approached, he caught the scent of a soft body spray…grapefruit? It was nice. He closed his eyes once more, determined to finish. Scent aside, she could wait.
"Doctor—"
He straightened—
WHAM.
Her sneaker-clad foot dug into his ribs, and she went soaring over his back. He let out a huff of pain, and swore.
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! Are you all r—"
He cut her off. "I'm fine."
"No, honestly! I wasn't watching where I was going; I'm so sorry!" She looked stricken.
"I'm fine. Really." He glanced around; the space surrounding them was littered with papers and files.
"I shouldn't have come here. I was just—"
"Looking for Dr. Sweets? Yes, I think the whole Jeffersonian heard you," he interrupted, grinning.
She flushed, drawing his attention to her fair skin…and other things. She was pretty, in a yellow T-shirt and dark jeans. She had a snub nose scattered with a few freckles, pale blond hair in a low ponytail, and light gray eyes. She met his eyes for a moment, flushed darker, and began scraping together the various piles. He raised an eyebrow and began to help.
"So…care to tell why you were looking for Sweets?"
She didn't look up. "He's my doctoral thesis advisor. He'd given me files on some of his patients, to see if I could use them as a topic. I looked for him in his office, but he wasn't there, and he said here was the next best place to look."
He reached past her to get the last sheet of paper, wedged under her knee. The proximity put him right next to her shoulder.
Yes, grapefruit.
He nudged her knee to move it off the sheet, and she quickly complied.
"He's probably at the Founding Fathers. It's where the team goes after cases a lot of the time." He paused. "Pardon my saying, but…you don't look old enough to be on the road to a doctorate."
She stiffened, straightened. "I'm twenty-three. I graduated high school a year early, finished my undergrad in three and a half years. Took a semester off, so now I'm a third-year grad student," she finished defensively.
Whoops. "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you," he replied, trying to backpedal.
She sighed and rose to her feet. He stayed kneeling and began to fold the prayer mat.
"No, I'm the one who's sorry. I tripped over you, you helped me clean up, and then I snap at you for asking a perfectly reasonable question."
He remained silent, inviting her to continue.
"I'm just not the tallest— she indicated her less-than-average frame— "and I look a lot younger than I am. But rest assured," she finished, "I am, in fact, a grad student."
"Me, too. I work for Dr. Brennan, forensic anthropology. Well," he amended, "I'm currently studying cultural anthropology, but I used to be her intern and she was in a bind. I'm considering switching back over, now that she can be my supervisor again."
"You work for the Bone Lady?"
"-Er—"
She laughed. "Sorry, that's what Sweets calls her when he's annoyed with his book. Or when Agent Booth drags her out in the middle of a session. I'm forensic psychology, specializing in juvenile offenders."
"Wow. That's heavy stuff." He finished folding and straightened, only then realizing how far he towered over her. Her eyes were about level with his chest.
"Say…not to be impertinent, but what were you doing on the floor?"
He suppressed the urge to lie. "I'm…Muslim. I was finishing my evening prayer."
She blushed again. "Great. I tripped over you while you were praying?" She groaned, but her face brightened. "That's why you didn't say anything! You were finishing the last raka'at!"
What? "Yes. How did you know?"
"One of my friends in college was Muslim. Not practicing, but she taught me a lot of the words for everything." She peered up at him. "You don't have an accent, but your features say Jordanian, or Persian."
"Iran. My grandparents moved in the seventies. And isn't that supposed to be my job?"
"What?"
"Facial recognition."
"I suppose it is, Mr. Anthropology Pants." She put the hand not holding files on her hip and cocked her head. "Do your worst."
He studied her. "Tall mesocepahlic, receded zygomas, large brow ridge and narrow nasal aperture suggest Nordic Caucasoid, but the accent says a rural area, somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Tennessee would be my guess."
"Yes. A very small town called Cookeville, Tennesee. Offarin, Mr….?"
"Vaziri. Arastoo Vaziri. You speak Persian?"
"Enough to ask where the bathroom is. Same college friend." She shook his hand firmly.
"Nice to meet you, Arastoo. And with that, I have to get these to Dr. Sweets." She smiled. "It was great meeting you. And sorry again about the whole tripping thing," she added, as she began to leave.
"No problem…hey!"
She paused just inside the doors and looked back.
"You didn't tell me your name!"
She laughed. "Maggie! Maggie Dakkars!"
"Nice meeting you, Maggie!"
Her laughter echoed through the rapidly darkening lab.
"Hodgins says life cycles of Drosophila melanogaster, or common fruit fly, put time of death at approximately ten days ago."
"Mmm." Grapefruit. Maybe some lemon in there, too.
"And I got a hit off the cell phone. The wires were mostly corroded, but the called a New York number seven times in the three days before she died. I'm following up on that now."
"Mmm." Why didn't I get her number?
Angela sighed. "And Hodgins and I are going for naked massages with coconut and papaya oil, and we're taking Cam with us for a spray tan."
"Mmm-what?"
Angela raised an eyebrow. "What's on your mind, Vaziri?"
"Oh—nothing."
"Don't give me that. Brennan's not around, so spill." She leaned forward, placing palms down on the exam table. "It's a girl, isn't it? One of the squinterns got a girl! Hodgins, c'mere!"
"'Sup, Ange?" The entomologist stuck his head out of his experiment room.
"Arastoo's got a girlfriend!"
Hodgins looked at him apologetically. "Sorry, Mr. Vaziri. The pregnancy hormones…"
"It's all right." He thanked Allah that his dark skin didn't show blushes.
"But seriously, man. Who is she?"
"It's just…" He squirmed. "Dr. Sweets's grad student."
She let out a squeal. "Really? Aww, young love!"
"Cool your jets, Ange. Leave the poor guy alone," Hodgins smirked, tugging gently on her arm.
"Leave who alone?" Dr. Saroyan asked, striding up the steps. All three jumped.
"Cam, Arastoo's got a—"Angela sang out, before abruptly silenced by Hodgins.
"Nothing, Cam. Ange, can I talk to you? About the…phone?"
"But—"
"Ange."
The entomologist gently but unyieldingly dragged his wife off the platform.
He felt the back of his neck getting even hotter. "Dr. Saroyan—"
"It's all right, Mr. Vaziri. Have you found the murder weapon?"
"That's the funny thing," he replied with relief, turning to the X-rays. "I made a mold of the skull trauma site, and it looks like impact damage from a length of pipe. I'll ask Hodgins to swab for fibers. But the placement and shatter pattern imply an assailant at least a foot taller than our victim. Since the victim's roughly 155 centimeters tall, that makes the assailant…" he paused. "At least 1.9 meters."
"Should be easy enough to find in the witness statements. Good work, Mr. Vaziri."
"No, tell Sweets I am not available for a session right now. I have a murder case to solve! Good afternoon, Mr. Vaziri," Dr. Brennan addressed him, as she climbed the steps. "Have you found the murder weapon?"
"Yes, ma'am." He repeated what he had told Dr. Saroyan.
"Excellent. Have Angela run possible murder scenarios on the Angela-tron."
"Dr. Brennan!"
The forensic anthropologist turned again and said coldly, "Miss Dakkars, I have informed you that I am unavailable. Please leave."
"Dr. Brennan, if I could just have a moment of your time."
Oh, dear. Wait—Dakkars?
"Maggie—"
She ignored him. "Dr. Brennan, if I may be frank. Dr. Sweets, as I understand it, has done nothingexcept conform to your needs since coming here. He has helped both you and Agent Booth in your investigations whenever you ask, receiving only in return your dismissal of his life's work as guesswork and conjecture. Surely by now you can provide him with some approval and clear time in your busy schedule to let him finish what is, essentially, a study of you? Throw him a bone, for God's sake!"
The ensuing silence echoed off the metal walls and platforms; you could have heard a pin drop.
He had never seen Dr. Brennan off guard, until now.
"Are you—finished?" His supervisor's voice reflected her bewilderment.
Maggie shut her eyes. "Yes, Dr. Brennan. I'll see myself out."
Turning on her heel, she swept out the sliding doors with a whoosh.
Quickly, he looked at Dr. Saroyan.
"May I be excused?"
She was still staring in shock at the sliding doors. "What? Oh, yes. Of course."
He was off the platform and out the door before the last words were out of her mouth.
Behind him, the silence of surprise echoed off the walls—surprise at anyone, let alone a new grad student, would presume to tell Dr. Brennan anything.
"Maggie!"
As she turned, he saw two spots of color high on her cheeks, and her gray eyes were sparkling. "Arastoo!"
He slowed, still in his lab coat, to a stop in front of her. "That was…brilliant. I've never seen anyone do that to Dr. Brennan."
"I was completely out of line. If they tell Sweets, I'm done. Not to mention he'll want to psychoanalyze me now. Again," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.
"Even if it was…that was…amazing."
She flushed. "Thanks."
Shifting, he took a breath, then let it out quickly: "Do you want to go out sometime?"
"Yeah. I would love to."
Wait, really?
"Yes, really," she laughed.
"Sh—shoot," he coughed. "I didn't realize I'd said that out loud. The Founding Fathers, Saturday, at seven?"
"Umm…" she bit her lip.
"What's wrong?"
"I…don't drink. Big Christian family." she muttered, fiddling with her necklace.
He stared at her. "Really?"
"Yeah. If that's a problem…"
"No. I just…I don't either. Orthodox Muslim. I just got used to ordering Coke there."
She let out a choked laugh. "Usually guys think I'm a recovering alcoholic when I tell them that."
"I know the feeling." Wow, she's perfect.
She brightened. "Hey, the new Captain America is coming out this Friday. Do you want to go see it?"
"You like Captain America?"
"Yes! He was my hero growing up."
"You're perfect," he marveled.
"What?"
"Never mind. I'll meet you at the Avalon Friday night. At eight," he managed to get out.
"Perfect. Here, give me your phone."
She tapped a memo into his phone, then flipped it closed and slipped it in his coat pocket, looking at her watch. "Crap! I really, really have to go. Apologize to Dr. Brennan for me?"
"I will!" He yelled to her retreating back.
Standing there in his lab coat, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and looked at the memo she'd left.
202-584-8231 Can't wait. Icees on me. –M
"You're early. I like that in a guy."
He turned, and almost fell. She was wearing jeans, like before, but these were faded almost to white, with holes in the thighs showing patches of bare skin. Her round-necked purple T-shirt showed off her delicate clavicle and a small gold cross hovered in the hollow of her throat. She wore gold ballet flats on her feet.
"I was hoping to be here before you."
Shrugging, she replied, "I needed to shop for a birthday present for my sister. I got it, though, and I think she'll like it. Want to see?"
"Sure." He watched as she pulled a small gray-velvet box out of her purse, a big braided-leather bag nearly as big as she was.
"Here it is." She flipped it open with one hand. A silver cross glinted up at him, with tiny words engraved along the crossbar. He leaned closer.
"Luke 6:37?"
"It's a Bible verse… 'Judge not, and be not judged'," she replied, letting her hair fall forward. "My family can be a little…straightlaced, and I figured it would be a good reminder for her. I have one like it, but in gold," she said, touching her cross necklace. "My entire family can be a bit...well, 'Quick to laugh, quick to act—and much too quick to judge,' was what my grandmother used to say." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry—didn't mean to shove my family issues on you like that."
"I don't mind," he answered, as they got in line. "What's your sister's name?"
"Mary. Well, Mary Ruth, but she goes by Mary. Then there's Sarah Elizabeth, then my older brother Joseph Elijah. Then me, Eden Margaret."
He whistled. "You weren't kidding, when you said Christian family, were you?"
"No." She laughed again, only a little less embarrassed. "You have no idea."
"It's all right," he replied dryly. "You should see mine. My mother still wears a maghna'eh, and my sister and I wear traditional Muslim clothing at home."
"Where is home?"
"Chicago."
"Sir?" The ticket taker asked. "That will be nineteen dollars and fifty cents."
"I can pay-"
He caught her hand as it entered her purse. "I'll pay." He handed the woman a twenty.
She frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Call me old-fashioned."
"Okay. But I'm getting an Icee."
"What's that?" He followed her into the lobby, towards the shiny glass-topped concession stand.
She turned. "You've never had an Icee?"
"I don't think so."
"That's just wrong. You're having one." She turned to the cashier. "Two Icees, one blue-raspberry and Coke, and one cherry and Coke."
"Yes, ma'am, coming right up."
She turned back to him. "You'll love it. And if you don't, I'll drink yours."
"Sounds good to me."
Drinks in hand, they headed into the theater.
"They originally wanted the guy who played Bucky to be Captain America."
She stared at him. "No way. He's too skinny."
"Yeah." He could feel his stomach loosening with every step outside the movie theater. "So what got you into psychology?"
She laughed. "Bit of a conversation jump there. But I was fascinated with why people did the things they did, and I didn't like the answers I was getting at church—that all humanity is inherently evil and you have to scratch and claw to even have a chance at Heaven. My parents don't really truck with psychology."
He nodded. "My religion forbids touching the dead."
"How do you get around that? I mean, you handle skeletons for a living."
"I wear gloves. But sometimes it's hard, and I get odd looks. Did you know I put on an accent when I first started working at the Jeffersonian?"
She stared at him. "Not really."
"Really. I thought if I sounded fresh off the boat, people wouldn't comment on the rest of my quirks as much." He opened the glass door into the warm August night.
"You, quirky? Nooooo."
"Hush, sarcasm doesn't suit you."
That was met with silence. He backtracked. "Sorry, that was way out of line—"
"No, it was cute. I like that you don't mind being yourself around me. Usually once I mention that I don't drink, come from a family that doesn't believe in evolution, and would rather read comic books than go to a party, guys run for the hills."
"Usually when I mention that I don't drink, pray five times a day, and handle dead bodies for a living, I have the same problem."
She laughed. "I want to figure out why five-year-olds shove model plane parts down their brothers' throats, instead of breaking them like a normal child."
"I'm the one that finds the plane parts and figures out how the brother was killed, based on nicks in his clavicle. I also get to clean off the rotting skin."
She held up her hands. "You win."
"But they're both relatively gruesome."
"Fair enough."
She paused by a white Jeep. "This is my car."
"All right. Maggie?"
"Yes?" She looked up at him, light-gray eyes almost glowing in the darkness from nearly a foot below him.
"I had a...wonderful time. I hope to see you again soon." His voice tripped over the slightly awkward words, and he cursed silently at his natural formality. He didn't want to be formal with her.
"Yeah."
Her eyes were only a few inches away now.
"Def—"
Her lips were sweet from blue raspberry flavoring and Coke, the flavors colliding and mixing with her citrus scent. He felt her short nails on the back of his neck, and his hands linked together at the small of her back. It started off as a short, chaste kiss, but quickly escalated until she was flat against the car and their hands were in each others' hair.
He didn't know how long they'd been kissing when brightness flared behind his eyelids as another car's high beams exposed them. He pulled back from her, her eyes popping open at the lack of contact.
'Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty: that will make for greater purity for them: And Allah is well acquainted with all that they do.'
I should go."
"Yeah…" her hair was disheveled and he wanted to kiss her again.
"Good night." He pushed away.
"I have every Batman movie ever made at my place."
He paused. "What?"
"We could make a night of it. Order pizza," she replied, her voice growing softer in the way he'd noticed correlated exactly with the current shade of pink her cheeks were.
"Do you have the Tim Burton one, with Michael Keaton?"
"Yup. We could start there, work our way through to Dark Knight."
"Sounds perfect."
"Next Friday?"
"I have…worship service. Sorry—"
She laughed. "Let's just agree to be open about religion, okay? Neither of us needs be ashamed of it. So Fridays are out, what about Saturday?"
"That's great. Say five in the afternoon?"
"Till then."
He submitted to his impulses just enough to kiss her on the cheek. "Good night."
"Good night—thank you for the wonderful time," she murmured, and stepped into her car.
He watched her drive away, savoring the feel of her hair between his fingertips and her scent in his nose.
Citrus.
Hey, you guys! It's stargirl0507 here, with something new and completely different. But as you can see, there are probably a few warnings that need to be set up before I continue:
1. This fic will involve religion in a big way, since the choice of practice thereof is the main conflict of this story. I am in no way trying to malign or stereotype any form of religion and those discussed in this story do not in any way reflect my own beliefs. Fundamentalist Christianity, in particular, will be used as a sticking point. To reiterate: I am in no way, shape, or form attempting to cast aspersions or reflections on any particular religion. The very small sect discussed in this story is not based on any real-life religious community and is in no way indicative of my beliefs about such communities.
...okay. All done? Sadly, no.
2. This probably could go under (1), but this fic *also* involves things like premarital sex discussion and other mildly awkward things. The conclusions reached in this story *also* are not intended to reflect on my or anyone else's personal life decisions.
That's it. I love that you're reading this and I hope none of this bugs you. I love these characters and I love writing them. Thanks to my beta, berneynator, and I would be much obliged for any concrit you can provide.
Ciao,
-stargirl