A/N A present for those who wanted a longer chapter…

REVISED 11/20/2006 -- I realized I was being a little unnecessarily PC at one point so I edited. Tweaked some more 11/27.

Same Friday, 7:40PM

Booth decided discretion was the better part of valor and didn't comment on the number of glasses of tea Bones drank with her meal. Though the place was no threat to Sid's, he was really tickled that she gave the place a thumb's up, world traveler that she was. He'd been a world traveler too, in a sense, but Uncle Sam wasn't known for his meal plan. He was enjoying her soothing presence so much he would have happily lingered, but she was eager to be off to the range and shooting.

Once they paid and left the restaurant the range was only ten minutes further down the road. When they got out she was about to go charging in when she noticed him pulling a large Halliburton Zero anodized aluminum case from behind his seat.

"What's in there?" she asked, eager with anticipation. She figured it had to be even more different kinds of handguns. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and he returned her smile with a large one of his own.

"Patience, Bones. All good things in time." He had one more trick up his sleeve that he hoped would help her finish forgetting how badly their evening started.

When they went in the clerk, who was waiting on another customer at the counter, noticed them and looked up to wave, "Hey, Seeley! It's sure been a while. Just gimme a minute."

Booth waved back and explained to Bones, "That's Tommy, the owner." She waved also, and he led her to an empty area on the long glass display case containing all sorts of pistols, where he set his gun case on the counter.

"So what are we shooting tonight?" she asked, eyeing the silver case like a kid given the first present to unwrap on Christmas morning. The image suited him because he wanted nothing more than to make her happy. Her interest was so refreshing compared to other women he had known, who almost universally thought his guns were tainted, dirty, rather than simply tools, especially Tessa. And, he supposed, at some level it must have been reflected in what they ultimately thought of him. But not Bones. He made himself quit woolgathering.

He touched his shoulder holster, "Well, my service pistol of course." He winked at her, acknowledging the fact guns had frequently been a bone of contention between them when on the case. She rolled her eyes back at him, but with a smile. He then pulled out the other big black automatic from his hip holster so she could see it. "Dad gave me this Para-Ordnance .45 for Desert Storm because the G.I. 9mm Berettas were crap, assuming you could even get one." He re-holstered it.

"And the .44 Magnum," which revolver he pulled from the back of his waist and showed her before replacing it for the moment. "Now no Dirty Harry jokes," he admonished teasingly. "I doubt your Clint Eastwood is any better than your John Wayne."

She stuck her tongue out at him, remembering his groan the one time she'd impersonated Wayne. But one part didn't compute, "Who's Dirty Harry?"

"Oh, come on now! You know who Eastwood is but don't know his character Harry Callahan, patron saint of fed up cops everywhere?" She shook her head. "How about 'Make my day?" he quoted. She shook her head again. "'Do you feel lucky, punk?'" Another shake of the head.

He groaned and rubbed his temples as if she'd given him a headache. "Well that's it. I'm formally going to startup the Seeley Booth Film Festival of Pop Culture Classics." She opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off. "How can you possibly cozy up to a suspect and pump him for info without him realizing it unless you can make passable small talk?" That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.

"Well I suppose if it helps to understand the suspect's proper milieu…" She smiled and agreed, not really needing her arm twisted, "Ok, it's a date." She held out her hand.

He made a show of shaking her hand. "Yes, it is." In more ways than one, he thought to himself. Hopefully several.

She returned to the subject at hand. "Ok, now would you please tell me what's in the case?"

He tapped the big case, "I'll show you. Some more guns with a lot of history behind them."

Brennan inched closer to him as he entered the combination and unlatched it and brought out the first weapon, a big revolver.

"This is the .45 caliber British Webley that my great-grandfather Harris, on mom's side, brought back from France in World War I. You can see instead of having the usual swing-out cylinder it breaks open like a shotgun." He demonstrated the action and then pointed to a metal swivel at the base of the grip. "This ring was for a lanyard that tied the pistol to your belt so that if you dropped it in a fight you wouldn't lose it in the mud in the bottom of the trenches. He said it saved his ass more than once. I have a few memories of him as an old man when I was a kid."

He handed her the pistol and she accepted it reverently, inspecting it. It was obvious that it had been maintained meticulously, preserved with love. Other than the wear and tear it must have received in its day, there was almost nothing to indicate it was at least ninety years old.

"He never cared for those new-fangled 1911 Colt .45 automatics." She looked up and met his grin before carefully setting the Webley down on the pad on the glass counter there for that purpose. "We'll just shoot a few rounds through that one. I had it x-rayed for micro-fractures and it's still safe. The rest of them we can shoot as much as we want tonight."

She watched him pull out the next one, a blue-black revolver with a slender barrel, which he immediately gave to her.

"After the war he became a cop in Philly, then in the Depression he went on to become one of Hoover's first G-men, although he didn't make any of the history books like Elliot Ness. This is his FBI-issued Colt .38 Special that they let him keep when he retired."

It was clear he was immensely proud of his family's tradition of service, and she was humbled he was sharing it with her.

As she set the Colt down he pulled out another classic she recognized from the World War II movies and documentaries she had seen. His mood became more sober, reflective.

"This is the German Luger 9mm Parabellum that my Grandpa Booth got when he went ashore at Anzio Beach. That same day he lost his childhood best friend who'd enlisted with him. Later he went ashore in the second wave at Normandy."

He was an honorable man from a line of honorable men, she considered, but the mocking voice of the over analyzing anthropologist returned. "Since when has 'honor' been anything other than an abstract concept useful in describing one component of the dynamics of tribal male status hierarchies?" Since I've come to know him, she rebuked.

Booth demonstrated the Luger's unique toggle action it had instead of the more typical slide of most automatics. She laid it down gently as well.

The next one was medium sized automatic with an odd flattened oval on the grip apparently for the user's thumb. "That's a Soviet 9mm Makarov Dad brought back from Vietnam, a souvenir he bought in Saigon. He had four air-to-air kills. He was shot down once but escaped capture."

She accepted the pistol, wondering what it must have been like for Booth to grow up with the very real threat of death hanging over his father. She hoped he was too young at the time to really remember.

The anthropologist was back, mocking, "Objects have no intrinsic power. He is just showing you his clan totems." Shut up. She would have accepted that terminology before, but no more. She saw that these guns were tangible reminders of real people important to this very real man in front of her. Powerful connections just like her mother's earrings. For the first time she truly understood some of what years of study had failed to properly teach her, and she regretted her unwitting condescension toward the primitive tribes she had studied. And to hell with Hodgins and his phallic symbols! She shook her head and made herself devote her full attention to Booth.

There was only one gun left in the case, one which seemed out of place beside the others, a smaller silvery nickel-plated "cowboy" style revolver, probably a .22 in her estimation.

He pulled it out. "This old single-action Ruger will be Parker's first pistol some day." He paused. "When I turned ten Dad and Grandpa took me out in the country and taught me how to shoot with it. We must have shot a million tin cans that summer," he recalled fondly.

He held on to it in silence, looking down at it laying in both hands for a long time, finally softly uttering, "God, I miss them both," voice cracking slightly. When he looked up at her to hand it over she could see that the emotional rollercoaster of the evening had taken its toll, he was so vulnerable. "I wish you could have met them." His eyes seemed to be searching hers for something…

Her eyes started to blur in return, but she fought it back. She placed her hands on his, the cool steel of the revolver contrasting with the warmth of his skin. Hodgins' rant and the bad memories it dredged up must have cut him deeper than she thought for him to need to reassure himself about his part in the legacy. What to say to him? You are not an anthropologist, but a woman who does have a heart. Use it!

She spoke tenderly, "You're right to be proud of them, and I know they would be proud of you too." He nodded, accepting her judgement. "I'm proud of you." He looked back up and smiled at her. "And I know some day, for his children and grandchildren, Parker will be proud to include your name in that list."

At that he was nearly undone by her understanding.

She took the revolver from his hands and set it on the counter without taking her eyes off him. Booth finally got that bone-crushing hug he so desperately craved, and which she'd been aching to give him.

- - - - - - - - -

While he was waiting for Tommy to pull the ammo on his list and ring it up along with the range fee, Booth leaned back against the counter watching Bones on the other side while she looked at the various handguns under the glass and the rifles in cabinets behind the counter. Again he found her enthusiasm refreshing, her intensity when focused on something, hell anything, increasingly attractive. Lord knows she now understood him like no other woman ever had, which in itself was an incredible experience.

Tommy interrupted his reverie, "I'm out of Federal in the .38 Special, is Remington ok?"

"Sure."

Tessa would have never been caught dead here. He was touched by the way Bones was protective of his gun case, never straying far from it.

He then noticed a couple other patrons who had just come in checking her out and was about to go over and make it clear she was with him when Tommy was finished. "That'll be $124.95"

He turned and handed over his American Express. "I'll also need a loaner hearing protector and some shooting glasses", Booth said. His were in the gun case, but he didn't have an extra set for Bones.

"Sure, Seeley." Tommy rooted around in a couple of drawers and produced the gear. He also placed on the counter several silhouette targets, rolled up. "On the house." Booth nodded his thanks. He had known him for years – he took care of his antiques. The shop owner was also a Desert Storm vet who'd learned the gunsmithing trade as an armorer in the Army.

"That was some moment you had with your girlfriend over there a few minute ago. Nice lookin' by the way, if you don't mind my sayin'. First time I've seen you with a woman in here." Tommy handed Booth back his credit card and the authorization slip to sign.

"She's not my girlfriend, she's my partner at work", Booth denied. Tommy merely gave him a skeptical look. "Uh… it's really complicated." It was different hearing someone else use out loud the word he'd just been starting to mull over privately. He was only beginning to admit to himself that he was more than just deeply fond of her.

"Well she sure looks like she would be, if you wanted." Tommy wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Booth fired back, grinning, "What ever happened to 'Service with a smile' instead of busting the customer's balls?"

"I'm smilin', ain't I? Last time my ex held on to me like that it was only at the beginning of our honeymoon. I'm just sayin'…"

"Kiss my ass", Booth retorted, still grinning as he put his credit card and the receipt in his wallet.

"Back atcha." Tommy moved down the counter toward another customer. "Lemme know if you need anything else."

He waved his thanks and picked up the steel shopping basket, heavy with the boxes of ammunition, and headed back over to Bones. She was leaning way over, peering at the contents of a display case full of World War I memorabilia, including a rare "broom handle" Mauser automatic. Her trademark chunky necklace was clinking against the glass, and he presumed she was oblivious to the view she was presenting to the rest of the shop. Ever since he'd met her he'd found her quite attractive, but given their prickly start it quickly became obvious it was merely of academic interest. But tonight he was more and more aware of her unique beauty in a decidedly non-academic manner.

He quit arguing with himself and just decided to be a guy and enjoy the way her thin slacks draped across the soft curves of her rear. As he watched, she shifted her stance slightly, resulting in a slight, pleasing jiggle over her toned muscles. That's gotta be a thong. He enjoyed ogling a shapely ass as much as the next guy, but he was unprepared for just how hard it hit him. Bones was no random babe on the sidewalk. She was a little wider at the hip and thigh than was probably considered 'fashionable', but that coupled with her trim waist flipped a switch deep in his brain: he was looking at a real woman, not some sixteen year old, a woman in her prime with everything that implied. No doubt she'd chalk it up to visual fertility cues or some such crap, but, suddenly, he found Bones, the whole woman, incredibly alluring. He shook his head and looked away, trying to cool off. Down, boy.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one her pose was affecting. When Booth looked around he made eye contact with a very well dressed man in his early fifties who gave him a little nod and a grin in shared appreciation, one Booth quickly cut off with a glare.

As he reached her he gave into an urge he had been suppressing – he reached out and placed a hand on her waist as low as he felt he could get away with. As she straightened up, without pulling away he was pleased to note, he surveyed the room, annoyed to see at least four heads quickly turning down to examine various items intently. A glance at Tommy showed a shit-eating grin, which earned him a scowl too.

As she turned to smile warmly at him, he had no problem shrugging off his irritation with the gawkers – he could hardly blame them after all – and focused only on her.

"Ready to go punch some holes in paper?" he asked as he let go of her waist to take the gun case in his other hand.

"Sure!" She surprised him by looping an arm through his.

They had a blast.

A/N

I'm assuming Booth's father is dead, given the way he was described only in past tense in The Woman in Limbo.

Even though I got the main hook pretty early, this chapter was tough to put together. Let me know if I succeeded.