AN: This is my first case fic! I'm oh-so-excited. (But don't worry; it's still going to be more romance than police procedure.) : ) I'm working on plot in this one, which has never been my strong suit, so I welcome your thoughts about how it's progressing... if I'm boring you or confusing you or everything's okay.
For you canonistas, I'm taking Booth and Bones' relationship a little old-skool here... maybe season 2 or 3ish, when it wasn't quite clear how much they loved each other yet. I'm hoping to post daily until this is finished. Oh, and I don't own Bones.
Brennan and Booth were splayed spread-eagled against the side of his vehicle, as the blue and red lights of the patrolman's squad car washed over them in repeating waves, neon-brilliant against the inky night.
Booth's hands fisted in rage as the patrolman patted him down. "Buddy, you have no idea what you're doing here," he growled, "I'm a federal officer. Check my badge."
"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. But being a Fed isn't a free pass to break the law."
"Sonofa…" Booth swore viciously. He couldn't believe his luck. Of all the cops that could have busted them, he got by-the-book Andy freaking Griffith determined to follow procedure...
"Just be quiet, Booth," Brennan warned.
"Listen to the lady. I'm taking you both in, and we can sort through your stories at the station. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law…" the officer mirandized them, securing their wrists in handcuffs as Booth shot his partner an incredulous look of rage.
"What exactly are you arresting me for?" Booth demanded.
"Solicitation," the officer replied.
"Listen, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute, and she is not a prostitute."
Surveying Brennan from head to toe, the officer shook his head dubiously. "She sure looks like a prostitute."
"Thank you!" Brennan replied triumphantly. "See, Booth? I sure look like a prostitute!"
"Officer, this woman is my partner--" Booth interjected.
"Sir, being a federal officer isn't a free pass to solicit prostitutes," the patrolman repeated doggedly.
"I told you I'm not a prostitute. I'm merely pretending to be one," Brennan explained calmly, fully expecting that her explanation would sort the whole misunderstanding out neatly.
"Okay then, I'm pretending to be a police officer and I'm taking you in."
"Alright, what's your Captain's name and serial?" Booth demanded, to no effect.
Shifting her weight awkwardly on the sky-high heels strapped to her feet, Brennan locked her cuffed hands behind her back and compressed her shoulder blades grotesquely, bending her arms into impossible angles behind her and then up over her head until she triumphantly maneuvered her arms down and in front of her, the handcuffs now restraining her much more comfortably than they had been when they were behind her. Booth watched her, stunned, temporarily out of words.
"Oh, one of those, huh?" the officer asked, unimpressed with her trick.
"I'm very flexible," she explained.
"Guess that comes in handy, your line of work?" the officer leered.
"Alright, that's enough," Booth hissed. "This is ridiculous. And where'd you learn how to do that, Bones?"
"I could show you how," she answered, ignoring his exact question, "but with your overly developed musculature, it's very improbably that you possess the requisite flexibility to--"
"Do the johns pay extra for those big words, honey?" the cop asked her slyly.
"Dammit!" Booth roared, kicking the vehicle in frustration. Brennan had decided to follow her own advice, and clamped her mouth shut. It was obvious that Booth had no such compunction, and as he wriggled and kicked and cursed, she thought that it was ironic really for him to be on the other side of an arrest. He didn't seem to be finding the academic interest in the situation. Or the humor. Because there was something really quite funny about the way the short, dumpy beat cop, hands-on-hips, was fearlessly glaring up at the enraged visage of her partner.
And when the little patrolman carefully head-ducked Booth's imposing form into the squad car, she couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling out—boiling over, really—though she knew she must seem insane to be laughing at such a moment. Even as she was shoved unceremoniously into the backseat beside him, she couldn't contain her amusement at this whole stupid situation, and the glowering hulk of her partner next to her, apparently in no mood, just exacerbated the humor.
"The look on your face, when he took your guns…" she choked, tears of hilarity in her eyes.
"Laugh it up, Bones," he mumbled darkly. "I always knew it would come to this."
"Come to what?" she wheezed.
"That you would get us arrested."
"This is not my fault—"
"It's always your fault. You know, this is what you do, you don't listen to me, you push and push until we all go to prison…"
"If you had let me have a gun, we wouldn't be in this situation!" she objected.
"You're right. We wouldn't be arrested. You would be. And I'm okay with that. I think some jail time would do you good."
"Cause you just do whatever you want, Bones. Without regard for the fact that anyone might know better than you. But nooooo, you're the genius, you know everything. And when I tell you not to talk to the suspect, what do you do? Have a delightful little conversation! Just having a chat with the murderer, like blaaaaagh, all word vomit everywhere…"
"Word vomit? I'm not familiar with the term."
"Why am I not surprised?" he said in exasperation. "Maybe if you ever listened--"
"You two both shut up back there or I'll get out the pepper spray." The patrolman glared at them in the rearview mirror as he guided the squad car through evening traffic. He didn't look like he was kidding.
AN: Next chapter starts the flashback! I'm writing it now...