Please excuse the religious spam that was posted as a "review" last chapter. I am working on getting it removed. I have changed my settings to now approve reviews (sorry it has to come to that) but I promise to allow all reviews as long as they are not spam. Even if you say this is the worst story ever posted to fanfiction in its history.
March 2005
Damnit, Bones had been right. One of Matthew Jeremy's subcontractors had used a spindle from the staircase they were working on to beat and stab the man to death over a fifty dollar discrepancy on his paycheck. It was always about the money. And since Booth had been the one to crack the case, it seemed he was put on as secondary for every difficult homicide investigation, leading small teams of newbie agents.
Despite the strides the case had made for his career, it needled him that every single detail she had provided, from the killer's height to the length of the protuberance on the weapon (a bolt on the bottom of the spindle), had been correct. It was a rarity for his gut instinct to disappoint him, and it had failed miserably when he doubted her.
The combination of dealing with inferior agents, being bested by a squint, and doubting his own intuition drove him to take his frustrations out on everyone around him.
Pops was no exception to being on the tail end of the agent's cranky attitude, getting shorter answers and more one-sided conversations during their twice-weekly phone calls. This was too out of character for it to slide with Hank. He knew the man well enough to know he wouldn't talk unless forced, something impossible to do over the phone. He left a single message telling his grandson when and where to meet him, praying he would come.
Hank arrived at the diner early, partly to secure a table, but more so because he couldn't stand the waiting at home any longer. He smiled broadly when he saw a stony faced Booth walk through the door, relieved he had come. He rose to hug the younger man as he greeted him, "Thanks for meeting me for lunch. I haven't seen you in a while."
"Anytime, Pops." The grave agent tucked his aviator glasses in the interior pocket of his suit as he sat across from his grandfather.
Taking a moment to scrutinize the young man's face, Hank noticed Booth's eyes lacked their usual luster and his mouth was set in a stern line. "You doing alright, squirt?" he asked, the concern evident in his voice.
"I'm fine." Booth moved the salt and pepper shakers to the side of the table and grabbed a menu so he wouldn't have to look his grandfather in the eye.
"You didn't inherit that charm smile from me just to hide it away," the older man teased, demonstrating the smile. Studying Booth's face, Hank's own fell. Gently, he insisted, "Talk to me Seeley."
Booth's eyes glanced up to the worried ones across from him. There was no use hiding anything from Pops so he might as well share. Setting the menu aside, he stammered, "It's… I…" He sighed, he had no idea how to begin. "Nothing I do is good enough. I'm trying to get my life back on track here but I don't know where I'm going."
"No one said it would be easy," Hank pointed sternly, "You need to be thanking God for the good in your life." He relented at the sight of guilt across the table. "I'm proud of you for quitting that gambling nonsense, if I count for anything."
"Then why did life go in the shitter after I quit?" he argued.
"How so?" Hank's brow furrowed.
"You want specifics?" Booth challenged, irritated at his meddling.
Understanding his grandson was having his own pity-party, he called his bluff, "You tell me just how lousy your life is and I'll show you your blessings."
"I don't know where you find the blessing in being chewed out by your boss," the agent pouted, looking out the window.
"Easy. You have a job. What were you in trouble for?"
"Oh one of my junior agents made a stupid mistake I didn't catch right away." He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, acutely aware that he could and should have prevented Agent Jones from contaminating evidence.
"You're a grown-up. Deal."
Booth scowled.
Hank bit his lip, catching too late his error in trying to use tough love when Booth so obviously needed some compassion. More gently, he amended himself. "You're a good agent, I'm sure your boss is just making sure you are the best you can be."
Booth knew Pops was right and hated it. Since when had everyone else become right all the time? Complaining, Booth slouched in his seat, "I'm just tired of being the scapegoat for everyone. First, Rebecca blamed me - took my visitation rights away - and now Cullen blaming me for others, I'm sick of the bullshit."
Pops nodded his head in compassion as he leaned forward over folded hands on the table. "I grant you Rebecca was unfair. But put yourself in her shoes. She's protecting her son – same as you would do. You lost her trust long before, it had nothing to do with gambling. Bet you cherish the time you get with Parker even more now."
"I never took my time with Parker for granted," Booth ground out. "And she still won't let me have him for overnights yet."
"I know, but you're making progress with her. She lets you have afternoons with him."
Booth made eye contact and relaxed his face. Rubbing his cheek, he soldiered on, "Okay fine, what about losing my apartment."
"First, that was six months ago. Hardly current events. Second, you found out who your real friends are. Besides now you're in a nice house. You never would have even dreamed of being in a house before."
"Yeah, real nice," he rolled his eyes. That wary gut feeling he'd had when Sid offered him the house had proven accurate when he realized the extent of repairs that needed to be done. "I've had to fix the plumbing under every damn sink in that place."
Hank threw his hands in the air as he chuckled jovially with a ready answer. "And now you know the plumbing is good! Welcome to adulthood, son. Besides, the ladies love a man who knows how fix things," he finished with a wink.
"Ha! What ladies?" He couldn't help but smirk, hiding a chuckle at Pops' response.
The senior folded his hands on the table again and asked seriously, "What happened to Crystal?"
"Turns out ladies aren't crazy about guys who get evicted."
"You didn't fight for her once you got the house?" Hank's brow crinkled.
Booth shrugged a non-answer as he took a sip of water.
"I see. Well, if she wasn't the one, you're better off being a free agent until you do meet her."
Instantly, he was in the lecture hall at American University eight months earlier, lost in a moment. Snapping back to reality, he frowned sadly, "And how do you know when you do?"
"I thought we already went over this." He narrowed his eyes as he propped up on an elbow, resting his head in hand.
Booth chewed his lower lip anxiously before admitting quietly, "I had that moment."
"What moment?" An eyebrow quirked, his ears doubting they had heard correctly.
His eyes darted across the table as he spoke low, "The one you talked about. How you just know."
Hank leaned in and patted the younger man's hand. Obviously, this story had not reached a happy ending.
Sniggering wryly as he picked up his glass, "My gut never steers me wrong but apparently I was dead wrong on this one," and he took a drink.
"A victim?!" Hank's eyes widened, horrified.
He choked on his water, coughing and sputtering before he could exclaim, "No! Pops, no!" screwing his face, disgusted at the idea.
"What's her name?"
Damn his ability to read me. "Doesn't matter. I worked with this woman a couple times. The moment I saw her, I knew. At least, I thought I knew." Booth crossed his arms and rested them on the table. "Last time we spoke, my gut told me she was lying and I basically told her so. Turned out she was right about everything. Now she wants nothing to do with me so…"
"So you try again." Hank was adamant.
"I'm not going to harass her until she dates me! It's hard enough getting her to answer when its work related!"
"So you are trying." He couldn't help the hint of smile reaching his lips. He'd never known his grandson to give up when he knew he was right.
"Nope, that ship has sailed." He smiled, slow and sad as his memory of her crossed his mind. "She's brilliant at what she does but she drives me mad. She's so arrogant, I'm not sure there's enough crow in the world to eat to get her to forgive me for doubting her."
"What did you say?" Hank gave him a knowing look.
Smirking, he decided not to admit to anything. "Doesn't matter. She's stubborn as hell."
Matching the younger man's smirk, it sounded like just the person to match his grandson's own ego. He sighed contentedly, comfortable that the perfect storm of irritations would pass and Booth would get back to his normal self eventually. "Well don't get too down about it all. Things will turn up for you. Don't get me wrong, it won't happen overnight, but it'll happen eventually. Everything always does."
"Sure, Pops. If you say so." He doubted the man, but for once, he hoped to be proven wrong.
The hectic weeks of the month prior had ebbed into a slow crawl for Dr. Brennan: Zach's return from Michigan had alleviated the burden of all the analysis and reports that had been due, she had submitted an article to the National Forensic Journal and had not yet decided on her next topic of study, the University was heading into mid-terms and spring break so no lectures were on her horizon, her book was in its last stages of finalization before printing at the publishers, and to cap off her frustrations, the shipment of bones and artifacts they had been expecting from Belize the week before had been delayed indefinitely due to political unrest.
It was a rare time that the group as a whole had little to do. Dr. Goodman took the opportunity to take a few days off to spend with his family, Angela was in her office experimenting with connecting multiple systems, Dr. Brennan and Zach had taken a set of unidentified remains from the bone room and laid him out on the center examination table of the platform and Dr. Hodgins sat at a high powered microscope just below the rail from them. The only sounds came from pens clicking and scratching out notes, bones tapping the table as they were set down, and buzzing from the various machines and lights in the room.
"Hey Bren!"
Three scientists entirely engrossed in their work each jumped at the unexpected voice.
"Are you trying to make me impale my eyes on this?" the wild haired man studying blowfly larvae secretions accused from below.
"Sorry down there." She peered over the railing briefly, rolling her eyes.
Settling immediately back to the task in hand, Brennan greeted the artist half annoyed without looking up. "Do you need me for something?"
"No, there were no gooey parts up here though so I figured it was safe to come hang out while I wait." Angela hoisted herself onto a side table, ignoring Brennan's irritation, and began playing with a ring on her finger.
"Wait for what?" Brennan's brow creased as the squinted at the mandible of the skull she was holding.
"I found a graphic simulator platform developed by someone who used to work here, some Dr. Brinkley, so it's already owned by the Jeffersonian. I want to expand the platform and use it to create a program that can run simulations in 3-D."
Hodgins leaned his arms on the lower rail to join the conversation above him making Angela jump, "That'll make Goodman happy – won't cost him a penny."
Ignoring the interruption from behind, she explained, "I'm hoping it can combine me and my artistry with a computer's efficiency but it's taking forever for the computer to convert the old code to my fancy computer's technology specs."
Zach thought aloud, "Part Angela, part computer. Kind of like a cyborg." The intern's eyes stayed glued to the femur though his mind was only mostly absorbed in studying the bone.
Brennan raised her eyes to cast a curious glance to her student and then raised her entire head to face her friend and ask, "If a computer can do your job, what will you do? Any one of us is perfectly capable of entering variables."
"An Angela Terminator." Zach continued murmuring to himself, oblivious to the chuckles and amused looks of two and the confused stare from his mentor.
"Hopefully by the time it's ready, I will have saved enough to go back to Paris." Angela immediately got lost in her own world with a dreamy smile across her face.
"She's the Angelator," Zach mono-toned in a poor imitation of Arnold, snapping Angela back into reality.
"Zach!" Brennan snapped, exasperated at his distraction.
The young man's head snapped up, suddenly realizing what he had been doing, and hunched his shoulders over the table in embarrassment.
Holding the skull by the face, Brennan commanded her assistant, "Come examine these striations across the external occipital crest."
While Zach made his way around the examination table, Angela hopped off her perch and wheeled around to chat with Jack through the rails. "Okay, what is up with him?" she questioned.
"I'm guessing he watched The Terminator. I suggested it yesterday and it was on TV last night. Creepy movie." Hodgins shuddered as he spoke.
"Creepy?" she looked at him incredulously. "It's an 80's science fiction film! The only thing creepy about it is Zach's impression," and she snickered at the young man's expense.
Jack's eyes grew wild as he began to rant, "What's creepy is the government's desire to create half-human half-robot creatures. An all-powerful army could easily control the…"
"Doctor Hodgins!" Brennan chastised from across the platform, "Please keep your conspiracy theories to yourself. This is a lab, we are scientists. If you want to conjecture, go study mathematics."
"It could happen," he grumbled to Angela but she had already returned her focus back to Zach and Brennan.
"Jack!" It was evident in Brennan's voice that her patience was completely gone. "If you cannot maintain rational thought in my presence, keep yourself and your comments down below the rail."
Hodgins slid away from the rail, snapping his rubber band repeatedly as he sat back at his microscope.
Brennan watched him slink away before calmly asking Zach, "What do you see Mr. Addy?"
Without blinking, the student answered definitively, "Osteopathia striata without cranial sclerosis on the occipital, as well as a remodeled hairline fracture on the right parietal bone."
"That is correct. I estimate the hairline fracture occurred about ten years ante-mortem. Please run a search through the medical record database for all Caucasian men who sustained a head injury to the right side of the head between 1931 and 1935."
"Right away Dr. Brennan." Zach moved to the computers at the side of the platform as Brennan peeled her gloves off, walking briskly to her office.
Angela skipped quickly to catch up and walked with her the rest of the way. "You all right, sweetie? You're a little snippy today, even for you. Did Agent Booth start calling again?"
"He's actually only called twice since he tricked me into looking at those x-rays. Once to tell me they apprehended the killer of that case and once to ask for help again." An almost imperceptible smile graced her lips, remembering the courtesy.
"I thought you swore you were never going to take his calls again." Angela smirked in accusation. She would take the handsome man's calls any day.
"I haven't. Zach took the messages." Brennan sat at her desk and shuffled papers in an effort to distract them both.
"Okay, if he isn't currently irritating you, what is? You usually have a little more patience with Jack's crazy ideas, especially when the lab is so quiet." Angela sat in the chair across from the desk and gave her friend a sympathetic smile.
Brennan pushed her chair back from her desk, hesitated, then walked to the door and closed it. Facing Angela, she steeled her face in a neutral expression as she admitted, "I've been having recurring dreams lately. I find them to be of a disconcerting nature and I have allowed myself to become distracted by them during the day."
"What are your nightmares about?" The sympathy morphed into concern.
"They aren't nightmares. They're," she paused a moment, closing her eyes to center herself, "definitely more on the pleasurable end of the spectrum." She dropped into her desk chair.
"Oooh, sex dreams." Angela's eyes popped wide as she broke into an enormous smile. "Okay, dish. You dreaming of Peter doing something super kinky?" She leaned her elbows on the desk as she leaned in.
"It's not kinky!" Brennan exclaimed. "And it isn't even Peter," she confessed more quietly as she pretended to focus on the files once again.
Angela's eyes could not open any wider. This was a new side to her friend. "Bren! Fantasy man, even better."
Brennan's silence spoke volumes.
The artist drew back as he mouth shaped an 'O'. "Wait, it's someone you know?! Is it Jack?"
"What? Angela, no!" the scientist glanced up before standing to move more papers.
"Zach?"
"Of course not!" She turned around to her shelves to avoid Angela's reading gaze.
"Dr. Goodman?"
"Angela, stop." Brennan had to make her friend quit before she guessed every man they knew of common acquaintance. She wouldn't be able to hide the truth from her face if she guessed a certain FBI agent. "It doesn't matter who it is."
"Is it good at least?"
"Angela!" Brennan finally looked her friend in the eye. Angela held her questioning stare until Brennan admitted guiltily, "I orgasmed in my sleep."
"Whoa. That doesn't sound like a problem to me. My advice sweetie, just ride the waves." Angela stood, beaming at her friend and walked out of her office.
Brennan rubbed her temples. She was conflicted. She was annoyed with Booth to be certain. But he pleasured her like no one ever had in her dreams. She should not derive so much pleasure from him doing such intimate things to herself. Sure, she had suggested sex to him the previous summer, but that was before he had to be insensitive and condescending and a jackass. And yet, in her dreams, he comforted her and she initiated the intimacy. It was peaceful being with him. She hadn't seen him since last summer, why was he starting to haunt her at night now? She hated him for it.