DISCLAIMER: Don't own. Is that enough? I don't own the show known as Bones, although would like to. But can't currently afford a car, let alone a major network television show. Oh, well.
Her Dad was clinically insane.
That was the only explanation.
Or, the only explanation that she was going to allow herself to consider, because the other, more rational one was far too scary to contemplate.
Which was that he loved her.
He'd really done this out of some sense of guilt. Out of trying to atone for the past, tie up some loose end he saw in her, in the way they dealt with each other.
Because he wanted to make himself feel better for abandoning her.
This was pretty much the line she'd taken with Booth when she'd called him to report there'd been an intruder in her apartment.
Booth's head obviously wasn't on too straight, either, as the only reaction she'd gotten, after the "Are you hurt/ maimed/ manically angry?" rapid-fire questions, had been "People open trust funds, buy expensive cars, out of guilt, Bones. They don't bake cookies."
Now, she was willing to consider other explanations. Booth just wasn't open to possibility. Who cared if he knew more about people than she did? He wasn't infallible.
She was pretty sure.
Her father had broken in to her apartment, indicating a huge lack of respect for her privacy, and left a huge plate of cookies on her kitchen counter, with The Note.
You looked a little thin last time I saw you. Eat up. Dad.
Of course he'd done this out of guilt.
He was a criminal. He was guilty by profession.
And all she'd gotten out of Booth, when he'd shown up at her door, despite her distinctly telling him at least three times not to, was a muttered "I tell her to eat, and does she listen?"
Which she'd then had to pretend not to hear.
So having sent Booth packing, installed a new and highly expensive lock on her door, and paced relentlessly for a good ten minutes whilst telling herself firmly that she was exercising, she now sat facing a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
Who was he to tell her she was too thin, anyway? So what if the cases lately had been a little exhausting? So what if the only thing she did when she got home was grab a cup of soup and fall into bed? So what if all she could think about was work and coffee and sleep, in that order?
It was her life, her body, and he had no right to an opinion.
She was seriously thinking about revoking Booth's right to one, too, come to think of it.
The 'Bones becoming…Actual Bones' jokes were starting to get on her nerves.
Although they had tapered off somewhat since the slight incident where Booth had attempted to force feed her. Her hand still hurt from that one.
The plate sat there…waiting. Mocking her.
She figured the fat content alone would cause her hips to widen as soon as she picked one up, anyway.
'You accept the cookie, you accept the gesture.'
"It's just a cookie."
'It's a gesture of love. Love cookies. Not guilt cookies.'
She groaned, then rolled her eyes.
Not only was she having an imaginary conversation with a plate of cookies, but the cookies suddenly sounded eerily like Booth.
Maybe she was clinically insane.
Like father, like daughter. The thought came into her head, unbidden.
This was stupid. She couldn't abide stupidity, least of all in herself.
She reached for a cookie.
Looked at the plate warily.
The cookies had no smart comeback, but she'd bet the whole damn plate if Booth were here he'd be smirking at her.
She sighed, snatched one up and bit.
Chocolate chip. Chocolate icing. Really, really nice. Damn it.
She polished it off and looked at the plate. With the rest of the cookies. Chocolate chip. Chocolate icing.
The plate waited for it. Waited.
"Okay!" She threw up her hands, took another cookie, Maybe she could eat more regularly. Maybe. But only because she wanted to.
She glared at the plate, pointed the hand holding the rest of her cookie at it, menacingly.
"Maybe you're love cookies. Doesn't mean I have to go all warm, and…fuzzy."
She wrinkled her nose, vaguely alarmed by the notion.
"I don't need to be a daughter. I'm already a forensic anthropologist, I don't need to be anything else."
She nodded once, determined, and ate the rest of her cookie, having made her point.
The plate just smirked. Satisfied.
Author's Note: Hope you like, and all readers and reviewers are appreciated muchly. Have a great week!