The Man on Death Row
Disclaimer: Mine this is not.
"…When I look at a bone, it's not some artifact that I can separate from myself. It's a part of a person who got here the same way I did. It should never be easy to take someone's life. I don't care who it is."
That. That right there was why he didn't want her to have a gun. Bones was a good shot. She knew what to aim for, she had a temper when tweaked, and she was forthrightness, a sense of justice. She had a purity to her despite the horrors he knew she'd seen traveling the world to identify bodies. If she had a gun, she might have to use it, and he feared, truly feared, that she would need to kill someone. The moment she did that, crossed that line and took a life, some of her purity would be gone. He didn't want that to happen. Some people shouldn't be tainted like that. And no matter how much death Bones was around daily, she was untouched by it. The darkness that created those deaths didn't tarnish her, or dampen her in any way. And if he could help it, it never would.
Booth knew he'd been quiet too long when Bones asked, "What?"
A smile at her odd innocence pulled at his mouth.
"You know," he covered, "you've been practicing your Nobel Prize speech just a little too much."