Several weeks later at the USMC Scout/Sniper School, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina
Friday 4:05PM
…WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP…
Booth covered his ears as best he could as the incredibly loud bass bleat of the pale gray Marine UH-1 Huey chopper passed directly overhead at 300 feet, low enough you could feel the wash from the main rotor.
"SEE YOU AT THE DEBRIEF?" a voice shouted over the thankfully receding noise.
He gave the thumbs up sign to his spotter this round, Garcia, an agent from the Baltimore field office. They'd literally taken an entire day to inch their way through muck and dense underbrush a piddling thousand yards to approach a target without being spotted, then inch back out. Damned if it wasn't Friday and Miller Time, but first they had to get evaluated on their technique and reamed out by an ancient gunnery sergeant who'd trained with Carlos Hathcock, the world record Marine sniper in Vietnam. Though he gave Booth some credit for actual sniper experience in combat, that was apparently mostly canceled out by the fact he was Army. He shook his head while stamping his boots on the pavement, trying to knock off some of the accumulated mud. The old bastard could certainly give R. Lee Ermey a run for his money at times.
With a deep sigh Booth let the filthy, rolled up ghillie suit he'd been humping drop to his feet on the concrete. Then he carefully leaned the borrowed M40 sniper rifle, a highly modified M-14, against the wall of the small shack where he was waiting to use the landline phone because no personal cells were allowed on a training op. The damned jarheads sure took their camo seriously, he shook his head again as he kicked at the bundle by his feet. The horrible suit with all the crap hanging off it, plus all the water and sweat it absorbed, more than made up for the weight he was saving by carrying a lighter rifle than the one he was already training with for back in DC. But this was their turf.
He and the other guys joked they'd all be set if they ever had to sneak up on some damned fool in a farmhouse, or a crazed Cajun in the bayou, but it really wasn't a laughing matter after all. They couldn't assume they would always be operating in an urban area. As Army as Booth was, he had to admit the Marines knew their shit when it came to marksmanship. "Every Marine a rifleman" wasn't just a slogan. A Marine up front finished his call, and the short queue advanced by one. Worn out, Booth left his gear where it lay, still in plain view.
The ordeal of all the training these last eight weeks was easily the hardest thing he'd done since Ranger training, in some ways harder than actual combat. "Train like you fight" they always said; well so far it had paid off so he shouldn't complain. But he was glad the light was at the end of the tunnel. He was more than ready to resume his real life as an agent, and in particular his partnership with Bones.
They had met that Sunday before he left for training, and ever since then it felt like their relationship, whatever the hell it was, was at some new plateau, with an openness that was liberating. They still bickered of course, but it was as if the most important things were already settled between them. If forced to be honest about it, he'd have to say it was something like a couple who found their bond was stronger than ever after surviving their first major knock-down, drag-out. Something similar seemed to be going on with their partnership, but he was hesitant to examine it too closely.
Regardless, he was eager to talk to her. He'd been out of pocket for a few days, and he'd come to regard their increasingly more frequent phone calls as his lifeline back to normality. She really was his anchor, their chats about his training alternating with her cases, on which she frequently invited his two cents. She really helped him stay grounded as an agent first, sniper second.
Although he did screw up once, he grinned to himself as the line advanced once more. He could tell she was miffed with him when she first realized he wouldn't always be operating at a safe distance as a sniper. He'd mistakenly taken the cross-training for granted, but he could tell she was upset when his description of some live fire exercises in CQB, close quarters battle, sank in. Still, in spite of her actually rather endearing concern, her support never wavered, and he was out of the doghouse quickly enough.
One other potential problem that had taken care of itself was Agent Williams. Cullen had told him Chad put in the transfer request himself, but reading between the lines he could only imagine what Bones had done once she'd had enough. Perhaps she'd tell him one day, but he'd probably never be able to squeeze it out of her. It must have been priceless. Perhaps Angela would let on… He should have known better, that Bones really could take care of herself. He felt himself smiling again at the thought.
He'd only been able to meet her a few times on the weekends, squeezing her in the few times they weren't doing extended drills or he wasn't busy with Parker. He was ready to see her in person again, but would have to settle for just her voice a little longer.
Finally, he got a turn at the phone, an ancient rotary dial model he was shocked to see. He dialed her cell number, but got her voicemail and hung up. He just didn't want to leave a message so he looked at the card in his wallet and called Angela.
"Montenegro", the artist answered at the other end.
"Hey, Angela, it's Booth."
"Hi there! It's been too long. When are you coming back?" she asked.
"I should be in later next week. Pardon me, but is Bones out on the floor? She didn't pick up her cell."
"Yep. I bet she left it on her desk. I'll get her for you," she answered.
"Thanks."
Booth smiled to himself while waiting. He had an idea how to celebrate his return with her, a special treat he thought she'd get a kick out of…
Same Friday, 4:45PM, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab
For once Brennan had allowed herself to indulge in the hallowed workplace tradition of slacking off before 5PM on a Friday. A few minutes earlier she'd shared Booth's plans for next Friday with Angela and had apparently made the regrettable mistake of betraying a little too much enthusiasm. She was certainly paying for it now.
"Sweetie, it's a date."
"It's not a date", denied Brennan. Not this again.
"By my normal criteria you'd be right, but trust me, this time… it's a date", Angela countered.
"No, it's not", Brennan insisted.
"On a related note, tell me why haven't you been out on any other dates in the last two months? I haven't even busted you window shopping online lately." Angela was relentless.
Brennan really thought, They all seem so shallow. "I've been too busy" she actually replied.
"Whatever", Angela allowed, though with a skeptical roll of the eyes.
Hodgins materialized out of nowhere. "It is sooo a date, the Freudian implications should be self-evident."
She gave Angela a dirty look for running her mouth. She didn't actually ask her to keep it a secret, but still…
"No, it's not a date!" letting her annoyance show more forcefully.
"High probability it's a date", Zack chimed in from left field.
Zack too?
He continued, "Dr. Brennan, a study recently published in a peer reviewed journal showed a statistically significant positive correlation between handling firearms and a temporary rise in aggression indicative of an increase in testosterone levels in men. A non-platonic social outing seems like a reasonable interpretation of the evidence."
She glared at him, and he went back to at least appearing to mind his own business.
Hodgins wouldn't give it a rest.
"And what's Booth been doing for the last several weeks? Doing nothing but handling guns." Hodgins grinned like he'd closed the case. "Lots of guns."
And apparently neither would Angela…
"Big, long ones", she added with a giggle.
Hodgins piled on again, "Kinda makes 'What's he packing?' a loaded question, doesn't it?" The two snickered at each other.
She finally blew up at Hodgins.
"For the last time, guys, it is not a date! We're going to the shooting range after a quick meal. We're just partners, and sometimes a gun is just a gun and not a metaphor for a penis! Even Freud said 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar'."
"Actually that quotation is now widely considered to be apocryphal," Zack chimed in once more.
Before she could turn on Zack, Hodgins adopted a rhetorical pose, one arm across his chest, other hand on his chin, eyes looking up at the ceiling, "Actually, I'm not sure which is sadder, a date at the shooting range, or spending Friday of all nights at a shooting range and its not a date."
"I refuse to argue about this with you any more, you are all incorrigible!" As aggravated as she was, she was also fighting the urge to laugh, enjoying the quick wit that her intelligent colleagues shared.
"It is a date," a new male voice confidently affirmed.
They all turned around in shock to view the source of the footsteps which they only now heard. They did a double-take, looking at each other then back to the speaker.
"Good evening, everyone. As much as it pains me I believe I must concur with Dr. Hodgins in this instance. Good night and have a pleasant weekend." Dr. Goodman turned about and walked away, hands clasped behind his back, his smile hidden from them.
A/N
Once in a while the dialogue truly writes itself, thank God.
Please review. The next chapter may take a little longer.
Oh, and apologies to Hawkeye Girl and others – Williams was never destined to be long for this world. He was a red herring from the get-go. The "let's make Booth jealous" theme while amusing at times, just didn't fit what I'm trying to do here. Thanks again.