Chapter 2 Shedding His Shirt for a Good Cause

Booth awakened early Saturday morning after Valentine's Day with an invigorating burst of energy, and slid carefully out of bed to avoid waking his wife. He flexed his feet against the memory foam bath mat Brennan had placed on his side. Despite it looking a little odd, he loved her brilliant inspiration the first time he stood on it. Its deep cushioning cradled his injured feet as they adjusted to bearing his weight for the coming day.

Heading downstairs, he started the coffee and flipped on the wall-mounted TV monitor to watch while his java brewed. The ZNN forecaster was describing the unseasonably warm weather DC would be enjoying for the coming week. Booth smiled to himself as he whipped up a bowl of Grams' blueberry pancake batter.

This warm spell was a perfect chance to get a head start on expanding Brennan's vegetable patch. She's mentioned wanting to add a row of sweet corn to the zucchini, tomatoes, and other healthy plants she already cultivated in their back yard.

A small hand tugged at Booth's faded Foreigner t-shirt.

"Can I have some pancakes, Daddy?"

Booth grinned down at Hank. "Sure, Tiger! Then you and I are gonna head to the hardware store and surprise your mom."

He plated two pancakes, cut them into large squares and placed them on the counter as Hank crawled up on the stool. His barefoot son had walked into the kitchen so quietly, Booth mused that the kid could be an Army Scout years from now. Bones wouldn't like that one bit, he thought.

He watched as Hank drowned his pancakes in syrup and signed with satisfaction at the first bite.

"You sure make great pancakes, Daddy!"

"Thank, kiddo."

Booth placed a call to Rockville Equipment Rentals and reserved a tiller for the morning.

"Go get dressed quietly, Hank, so you don't wake your mom or Christine. We'll go pick up this tiller and get started."

Hank loved helping his father with big-guy chores. He gulped down the last swallow of milk, put his dishes in the sink, and went to his room. Booth filled the dishwasher and his coffee mug, and slipped down to the man cave. He kept extra jeans, t-shirts, and jogging clothes there for workouts and yard work. As he dressed, he remembered last night….

It had been thrilling to watch Brennan work her way through Hogan's Alley. She moved steathily like a cat on the balls of her feet, alert to each new challenge the shooting course held. Cardboard bad guys alternated with innocent citizens pivoting into view, amid flashing lights, blaring sirens, and gusts of wind. His perceptively sharp-eyed wife hadn't missed any of the cues. Villains were no match for Temperance Brennan's marksmanship and reflexes.

Booth's turn through the course had come after Brennan finished. He noticed several variations the range master made, altering the target presentations from what she had encountered. This new scenario modification protocol is a definite upgrade; the tester can switch elements effortlessly, he thought as he took his last shot.

"I wish all our agents handled this test as expertly as you, Dr. Brennan. You two did very well, and I'd like to sit down and hear your reactions and comments. Why'nt you grab some coffee while I reset the tactical scenario, Agent Booth. I'll meet you in the small conference room down the hall."

Booth slipped his hand into its accustomed spot at the small of Brennan's back as they left the range.

"I think I'll forego FBI coffee, Booth," Brennan grimaced.

"Aw, Bones, get at least half a cup and try it. Sanchez convinced Director Cannon to stock a better brew down here; as a reward after agents finish their certification tests. He'll be disappointed if you don't at least pretend it's improved."

She acquiesced, and took a tentative sip.

"Hmmm, this is much better; not kopi luwak, mind you, but not bad," she admitted.

"I have to agree; I don't even have to fake liking it. Murphy did good!" Booth agreed as they took seats at the small conference table.

A sudden cry caught their attention, and the pair bolted down the hall and back into the testing room. Agent Sanchez was bent over, clutching his hand.

"Murph, what happened?" Booth asked.

"One of the criminal figures jammed, and I was freeing it, but I cut my hand. Man, this hurts," his colleague gasped.

"Let me examine it, Agent Sanchez," Brennan spoke up.

She took the man's arm as Booth flipped on the overhead lights. The range master's hand was gashed and bleeding profusely. Booth shed his unbuttoned flannel shirt, yanked off his t-shirt and handed it to Brennan. She wrapped the cut snugly to staunch the flow, elevated his hand above his heart, and they helped Sanchez down the hall toward an elevator. The FBI maintained an onsite medical clinic on the eighth floor for minor injuries, staffed by an expert physician's assistant.

Exiting the elevator car, Booth supported Murphy as Brennan walked ahead.

"Dr. Brennan, what brings you here-? Agent Sanchez, what happened?"

John Tilllingham had been a medic in Iraq. He unwrapped Booth's t-shirt to evaluate the gash. The muscle of Murphy's hand had been cut between his thumb and index finger. The PA grabbed a thick sterile gauze pad and pressed it to the gash.

"Please hold pressure on this while I get a suture tray, Dr. Brennan."

Twenty minutes later, after retrieving another t-shirt from his locker, ignoring his co-worker's objections that he was inconveniencing the couple, Booth drove Agent Sanchez's car to his house in Gaithersburg while Brennan followed in her Prius. On the way, she called his wife to alert her they were coming, glad once again she had opted for Toyota's hands-free calling feature. Tillingham had expertly stitched and bandaged the range master's injury and explained the follow-up care it required.

Once Murphy Sanchez was safely home, Booth and Brennan headed for his wife's grateful suggestion for dinner. Because of his cut, they promised to email Sanchez their evaluation of Hogan's Alley over the weekend.
Gemelli's Italian Market offered a tantalizing menu of hearty sandwiches, soups, and salads. Booth ordered a hot Polpette marinara meatball sub and Brennan decided on a hearty Vegano salad of grilled eggplant and roasted peppers. They shared a Caprese Platter of cheese, olives, and balsamic-glazed tomatoes.

During their meal, Brennan leaned over and murmured to her husband how much she appreciated him sacrificing his t-shirt for Agent Sanchez's injury. One glance into her fathomless blue eyes told Booth she wasn't referring merely to how it had stopped the bleeding. He felt his jeans tighten and chewed more vigorously on the delicious meatballs.

"Bones, let's postpone that jazz club until another time," he suggested, flashing his killer smile at his wife.

"My thoughts exactly," she purred quietly.

Isaiah was sorry about the firing range mishap, but happy with his extra earnings. He high-fived Hank, and swung Christine in a circle before thanking Booth for the generous tip. He had called Cam to let her know he'd be late for dinner, but declared he was starving and wasted no time heading out the door for home.

Brennan was pleased and impressed that the teenager had cleaned up the kitchen and taken the initiative to give Hank his bath while Christine wrote her spelling sentences.

Booth read his son three stories while their daughter hopped in the tub. Once her parents had listened to her read a few pages of Little House on the Prairie and completed the chapter, they tucked her in bed as well. Two drinks and extra hugs later, the children were dozing off.

Leaving the bedroom doors ajar, Booth headed downstairs for his nightly security check. When he re-entered the master bedroom, he spotted his Valentine dressed in her favorite silver nightgown. Needless to say, the filmy garment had landed on the carpeted floor next to Booth's boxers shortly thereafter….