A Very Bad Idea
By: dharmamonkey & Lesera128
Disclaimer: Ummm, nope, we still don't own anything. We have, however, apparently become squatters in the sandbox that we crashed... so, umm... yeah. There we go
A/N: Here we are again, doing our usual B&B + angst = eventual yowzah
UNF alert: This chapter (and the three that follow) is about extreme angry!unf, plain and simple. B&B bicker, get really angry, argue, argue some more, say really mean things to each other, and unfness ensues. If you can't bear to see B-on-B angry/mean interactions, then we know you definitely won't like this piece. (Of course, you'll miss the unf, but you'll be happier that way.) Cliches may be present, but were not deemed harmful in the creation of such moments of "guh". Triteness has been kept to a minimum, but don't read this expecting epic emotional confessions/devotions/ and/or plot, because it's not here...purposefully. Notes saying B&B seem out-of-character are not necessary since there is no characterization here beyond what is needed to create this dharmasera goodness. If you think you can handle it, read on. But don't say we didn't warn ya. The NFPA fire protection code requires us to tell you that an approved, fully-tested fire extinguisher should be kept nearby while reading.
1. Desecrating a National Monument, Part I
Pertinent Details on Scenario #1: Set in season 1, at the very end of episode 1x08: "The Girl in the Fridge."
It was cold that night, and the sharp breeze ripped through the flimsy, thin and completely uninsulated nylon material of Brennan's dark blue Jeffersonian field jumpsuit. Being that high up off the ground, attached to the side of the Washington Monument as she examined the remains with Booth, who was dressed nice and comfortably warm in his thick black wool overcoat—well, it was enough to make her bubbling anger start to simmer all over again.
I'm not feeling very forgiving, she had told him earlier. I warned him even. But, we have a case, Brennan mentally grunted. A case. There's always a fucking case, isn't there?
Struggling to get a better source of illumination on the body, Brennan sighed as she reached into her bag and pulled out a flashlight.
"Yeah, Bones?" he replied.
"I need you to hold this, please," she said as she handed him the flashlight. "There's not enough illumination here for me to see what in the hell it is that I need to be squinting at to do my job properly."'
"Sure," he said, cringing a little at her tone of voice. "Ummm, where do you want me to point it?"
Brennan rolled her eyes at him. "How about at the remains, Booth?"
She shook her head and tried to rid her mind of the fact that it was significantly colder than she had thought it would be at 10 o'clock at night on the side of Washington D.C.'s most phallic symbol of national pride. It doesn't matter. I can deal with the cold, Brennan thought to herself. I've dealt with worse a lot worse than this, and I've always done it by myself. I don't need help from anyone, because that's when things always start to transition from having a cumulative positive effect upon one's mental well-being to an overall negative effect. For example, Michael—for a brief time, I enjoyed indulging in the reminiscences of our competitive relationship when I was in graduate school. That was a period in my life that was fun with very little responsibility and all I had to worry about was satisfactorily completing my course work each semester. Between the start and finish of each semester, the time was mine to do with as I liked by immersing myself in the world of bones during the day, and uncomplicated and very gratifying sex at night.
Brennan stopped as she considered what it had been like over the past week when she had indulged in allowing Michael to charm her into resuming their on-again/off-again sexual relationship. Her thoughts went back to the last time they had slept together after she 'won' her dinner at the Italian restaurant, and they'd polished off not two, both three bottles of red wine.
"Tempe," Michael had moaned. "Come to bed."
Brennan sat at her vanity, dressed only in a dark blue chiffon robe that revealed more than it concealed. It was looped at her waist, but she didn't give it much thought as she finished brushing her hair.
She looked up in the mirror as she stared at him for a minute, watching him watching her at the vanity. He was lounging in her bed, her 800-thread count damask sateen sheets draped haphazardly over his legs, while he reclined on her pillows watching her through lazy eyes.
"Give me just a minute more," Brennan told him, slightly annoyed that her bedtime ritual was being interrupted.
It wasn't that she was particularly dedicated to brushing her hair, but the monotony of the task helped her to think. And, currently. even with a bottle and a half of moderately priced red wine flowing through her veins, she was still far from mellow. Of course, Brennan thought to herself, I would've gotten a better buzz if Michael had just let me order the Fattoria di Felsina, Chianti Classico Riserva Rancia 2001 that I'd wanted to get instead of the Frescobaldi, Chianti Rufina Riserva Castello di Nipozzano 2001 that he'd insisted we order. I don't know why Michael prefers three bottles of the cheaper stuff to the one bottle of the good wine since we'd end up spending the same price for both. I mean it's not like I didn't offer to pay for the better vintage myself, and I would've even paid for the three bottles of the more expensive wine myself—of course, that was when I thought he'd actually do the right thing and pick up the tab instead of doing the cheap thing and having the waitress bring separate checks. But, fine, whatever, she complained to herself. The thought drifted away as the image of Maggie Schilling's x-rays still played in her mind's eye.
Something's just not right there, Brennan thought. I know I'm missing something. I just don't know what it is...
A sigh from the bed drew her attention back to her mirror.
"Tempe?" he called out. "It's getting late, and I'm half-falling asleep here."
Once again, as soon as she heard his words, Brennan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She'd known as soon as she'd foolishly agreed to let Michael stay at her apartment for another night that sexual intercourse was an expectation on his part based on an unspoken implication in her offer.
"Okay," she said, her voice flat as she stood up from the stool in front of her vanity and made her way to the bed.
Michael looked at her through narrowed eyes, a crooked, open-mouthed grin on his face as he watched her breasts sway gently under the fabric of her robe. He lifted the dark burgundy-hued sateen sheet, inviting her to join him. Brennan paused for only a moment, pulling the knot of the robe lose and then taking off the garment. She folded it, then placing it at the foot of her bed before climbing into the wrong side of the bed. I hate this side of the bed, she thought. Of course, Michael had to appropriate my side of the bed—that's just so typically Michael...or, not, maybe—maybe it's just him being so typically male. As she adjusted herself and reluctantly inched towards him—more like it was a chore to be completed than something pleasurable in which to partake—she wondered how long this was actually going to take. For his part, Michael seemed oblivious to her reticence. He ran his hand through his dark hair as she climbed into bed.
"Hey," he said quietly, letting the sheet fall over her lap as he rolled over to close the distance between them. Brennan's instinct was to tense, but her rational mind forced her body to relax as Michael leaned in and covered her shoulder with his palm. He rested it there for a few seconds, and Brennan felt a bit of hope when she thought he might actually move to stroke her breasts. But, when she glanced down and saw his erection tenting the sheets, she knew he was a lot further along than she was, and most likely knowing Michael as she did, not interested in a lot of foreplay. He removed his hand, letting it fall to her side, as he leaned in closer to her and covered her mouth with his. It took Michael a moment to note Brennan's response which could be described as lukewarm at best. Eventually, he slowly pulled away as he realized that her lips remained cool and still beneath his, despite his attempts to coax her into a giving mood.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing," she replied with a sigh. "Why did you stop?"
"Because it felt like I was kissing a sex doll I once had in college," Michael joked. Brennan's eyes narrowed at him, and he quickly amended, "That was a joke, Tempe."
"Oh," she said, biting her lip in response.
"Come on, Tempe," Michael prompted her. "I know that look. And, that look belongs back at the lab five hours ago, not here in bed right now we we're about to have sex."
Looking up at him, Brennan slowly nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was just thinking about the case."
"Tempe," he said, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him. "We're off the clock. Dr. Brennan has left the building. When you're naked, in bed with me, that means that the only person who should be here is Tempe, huh? So, don't think about the case now. Just do that compartmentalization thing you do so brilliantly for the next five or ten minutes, and then we can talk about it after, if you want to—"
"I can't help it, Michael," she grumbled. "I'm sorry, I'm distracted, and not giving you my full attention, but I can't help but feel as if I'm missing something. And, every time I try to push the thought away, it just nags at me to give it more attention."
"Well, I think I'd like some of that attention right about now," Michael told her with a soft smile.
"I know," Brennan told him. "And, I'd love to be able to focus solely on what we're doing here. But, I don't know if I can. Before we left for dinner, I didn't quite finish everything I needed to on the Schilling case. I really only stopped because I had to because I'm still waiting to get some of the particulate test results back from Dr. Hodgins. Once I do, I think they may help me to, determine the conundrum that I know needs to be solved because it's crucial to proving the prosecution's case, but I just haven't quite —"
"Come on, Tempe," he whined, as he cut her off. Hoping logic might be a bit more effective since his personal appeals seemed to be falling on deaf ears, Michael nodded at her as he said, "Hey, remember, we're not supposed to talk about that stuff anymore, right?"
Brennan again bit her lip as she realized the faux pas she'd made out of habit. Slowly, she nodded her head in response.
"So, why don't you let that FBI flatfoot—Boone or whatever his name is—let him worry about things for a while, because, like I said, you're off the clock," Michael told her with a wink that did absolutely nothing to her but increase her annoyance.
"Booth," she said firmly. "His name is Booth, Michael."
"Oh, right," he grinned. "Like a phone booth. I've got it then. I'll remember that."
"No, not like a phone booth, Michael," Brennan frowned at him. "It's just Booth. And, he's my partner. He's very good at what he does, by the way, despite your unfair and inaccurate application of a derogatory appellation at him. Also, since he's my partner, and he always gives 110% to our cases, metaphorically speaking, of course, I owe the same duty to him. I'd be remiss if I didn't, and you know how I feel when I'm unable to preform to the best of my professional standards."
Leaning in again, his lips hovering over hers, he shook his head with a quiet laugh. "How about we sideline the professional performance for a while, and if you want to perform, think about something a bit more...unprofessional, huh? Because, I've got to tell you—laying in bed with you naked and hard while you talk about another guy is a real buzzkill, Tempe. I don't really care what his name is, and I don't care that he's your partner. I don't care what you think you owe him right now, or what you want to do with him, or how he makes you feel—unless this is your way of telling me you'd rather be in bed with him right now instead of me?"
For a split second, another set of eyes—brown, not blue—blinked back at her, but Brennan quickly pushed the image out of her head as she ignored the tingle of excitement that had flickered in her belly at the mention of Booth's name. "No, Michael. I'm in bed with you, and I know that—" Brennan said, ignoring the crux of his prior comment.
"Good," Michael said with a firm nod. "Because, tonight, there's really the only thing you need to think about, Tempe—me."
He reached for her again, and Brennan pulled back slightly again, causing Michael to sigh once more.
"Wait," she protested.
"What now?" he asked her, the annoyance growing in his voice.
"Do you have a condom?" Brennan asked. "It might be a good idea to use two this time to desensitize you a bit, just in case—"
"Fuck, Tempe," Michael growled at her. "Way to kill the mood."
"Sorry," she said again, even though she really wasn't. "I just want to make certain there isn't a repeat of last night."
Reaching over to the nightstand, he grabbed two foil wrappers off the top and tossed them at her. "Here," he said.
Catching them, Brennan nodded. "Do you want me to help you put them on?"
"It's the least you can do since you're making such a big deal about this, don't you think?" Michael replied. With another shake of his head as he watched Brennan pull back the sheets, he sighed as he added, "You never used to have an issue with making me wear a rubber, Tempe. I thought you were on the pill."
I am, Brennan thought to herself. But, there's no way in hell I'm taking any chances with you—either from the perspective of risking my health or a pregnancy scare. No, I'm not doing that again, Brennan mentally grumbled, as she also thought about the spermicide she had in her bathroom for later use. No, I'm definitely not taking any chances with you.
"Humor me," she said, forcing a smile on her lips as her hands moved towards him.
Somewhat placated, when Michael felt her hands on his dick, it went quite quickly from there. Once the condoms were in place, Brennan leaned in and squeezed her eyes shut as she returned Michael's kiss.
He wasn't a bad lover, really. In fact, he was a highly competent sexual partner, which made it that much more surprising when, that night, as she lay next to him in her bed, she felt a curious detached numbness as he touched her. It wasn't that she wasn't aware of what he was doing when his fingers parted her folds, and he briefly stroked his thumb across her clit before he turned to satisfying his own needs. It wasn't that her body didn't have some type of response when he drew his hips back and, with a soft grunt, entered her. It wasn't that she didn't know exactly what was happening as she felt him continue to build towards a climax, but realized with a bit of academic curiosity that while her body responded enough to his efforts that she at least produced enough lubrication as they achieved coitus, she was mildly aroused at best. There was almost no excitement, no passion, no thrill to their coupling—none at all beyond the briefest of thoughts that she'd allowed herself to indulge in when the image of Booth had come into her mind and gotten her wet in the first place.
No excitement and no satisfaction, for me, at least, Brennan thought miserably. And, there definitely won't be any that will be sufficient enough to result in my own orgasm tonight—unless I attend to my own needs after the fact—which might not be that bad an idea anyway, she told herself as the image of Booth flashed before her mind's eye once again. No, that's not necessarily a bad idea at all.
Later, after Michael had drifted off to sleep, Brennan had crept into her bathroom to attend to her own needs. She was surprised at how little it actually took when she allowed the image of her partner to come into her mind's eye. He has a great chest, from an anatomical perspective, Brennan had mused as her fingers dipped inside her warm folds, and she started to plunge in and out of her body, increasing her tempo as she thought of Booth. But, his ass—that may be his best feature. Yeah, he has a fantastic ass—firm and taut. I wonder what it would feel like if I grabbed it. Her breathing had come faster as she pictured caressing it, and then firmly squeezing it. Brennan could feel herself building to a remarkably fast climax. God, he's got a great body—Brennan again raggedly gasped as she pictured how his eyes would look right before he came and called out her name. The image, a stare of brooding and dark intensity, had been enough to push Brennan over the edge. She collapsed against the side of her sink, her body suddenly languid with repletion. She allowed herself a moment to indulge in the post-orgasmic haze, before she moved to clean herself up and return to bed.
As she lay there thinking, analyzing and deconstructing the entire experience, Brennan realized that somehow, at some point, she'd become a mere observer of these things, not really an active participant in the act, but a simple recorder of such sensations, rather than the one experiencing them. She had been in bed with Michael, yes, as he stroked in and out of her, each movement incrementally more forceful than the last, and she bit her lip as she tried to lose herself in the experience. But, in the end, as Michael pressed himself into her one last time and she felt his body tense against hers as he ejaculated—thankfully confined by the latex of two condoms so that his fluids wouldn't actually be left inside her—she just wanted the whole business to be over. She closed her eyes and sighed gratefully when she felt him slip out of her and roll off of her, then she turned onto her side, facing away from him, unwilling to look in his eyes as she listened to the sound of his breathing.
Brennan tried to swallow the hard lump that had formed in her throat as she wondered how what had once been so fulfilling could leave her feeling so empty, metaphorically speaking.
It just didn't make any sense. She and Michael had had very satisfying sexual experiences before...so what had changed? Why did she need the image of her partner to get her to come? None of it made any sense, none at all. Something had changed, at some point, so what was it? What had changed and when?
"Bones!" Booth snapped his fingers loudly, trying to get her attention. "Earth to Bones." He looked at her curiously as she gazed into space. "Yo—Ground Control to Doctor Bones..."
"What?" she said, startled from her memory. She looked at her partner, fairly confident that his chest would be more well-toned and muscular than Michael's.
"You okay there, Bones?" he asked with a crooked brow.
"Yes, of course," she said, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to modulate her voice as evenly as possible. "Why?"
Booth shook his head and shrugged. "I dunno, Bones. You just seem—well, more than a little distracted."
"I apologize," Brennan said. "I was lost in a train of thought. It won't happen again."
"Okay—" Booth replied with a shrug.
"So, how do they think they got him up here again?" Brennan asked as she tried jettison the mental image of her partner's naked chest and firm ass from her mind. "It's not like this is exactly the most obscure place to leave a body."
Pointing at the scaffolding, Booth said, "The Monument's been closed since September undergoing that major $15 million renovation that the pundits have been bitching about in the news because of the cost, Bones. It's not scheduled to reopen until the spring, probably late April or May—at the earliest. While the renovations have been going on, the Park Police have been spending a lot of time upgrading security measures. They're in the process of installing a new surveillance system right now, so there've been no cameras or other recording devices in use since the system was taken offline early yesterday morning."
"So, basically there's no way to know who was coming when, where, and how? The entire Monument's blind?" Brennan asked with the disgust clear in her voice.
Booth nodded. "I mean, they have Park Police round the clock—or, at least they did before the body was found. Now, they've cleared the interior of the Monument and are maintaining a perimeter at the base."
"That means its just you and me up here?" Brennan sighed, glancing down at the muted level of lights that were displayed from the unusually small number of police cruisers and FBI vehicles gathered at the scene a couple of hundred feet below them.
Again, Booth nodded. "I'm 'fraid so, Bones. You're stuck with me."
Aren't I always? Brennan thought to herself. Avoiding rolling her eyes at him, Brennan pointed at the body. "So, ummm, explain again—how are we supposed to get the remains down once I've finished my preliminary examination?" she asked.
Booth shrugged his shoulders. "As soon as you're done, and you give the word, I'll call the Park Police—"
"There's no way that anyone from the NPS is touching these remains," Brennan scoffed. "I've yet to meet a single member of that organization that has any proper forensic training or the requisite knowledge needed to prepare these remains for transport back to the Jeffersonian—"
"Whoa, there, Bones," Booth interrupted her, shaking his head at her unexpected burst of emotion. "Relax, okay? The Park Police will escort as many techs from the FBI forensic team as we can safely get up here at one time to come on up and bring 'em down, so there's no need for you to get your lab coat twisted into a bunch for nothing. No one's gonna compromise the remains."
"I should think not," Brennan finally told him, slightly mollified by his explanation, but just slightly.
Reaching for her bag, she began to rummage for something when Booth looked down at his watch. A sharp wind blew again, and he shivered a bit. Man, this is not my preferred way to spend a night in D.C. It's too damn cold up here. He clapped his hands together and was rubbing them to get some feeling back into his extremities when Brennan looked up at him.
"What?" Booth asked. "I'm cold."
"And, yet, you think I would be the one complaining given the fact that I'm not the one who has the benefit of extra outer layers to help in the retaining of your natural body heat," Brennan muttered as she moved to prod the body again.
"At least you have gloves," Booth joked as he pointed at the blue nitrile gloves that Brennan wore on her hands.
"These are hardly conducive to maintaining body heat," Brennan observed dryly.
Booth stared at her for a minute. Brennan, however, refused to look away. Finally, he caved with a sigh. "I asked if you wanted my coat."
"I know," Brennan said, looking up at him.
"So, if you want it, all you have to do is tell me, Bones." Booth watched his breath condense in the air in front of his face. "I'm not a mind reader," he grumbled as he moved to shrug out of the jacket.
Brennan looked at him and said, "What are you doing?"
"I'm taking off my jacket so that you can have it—"
"I don't want it," Brennan shook her head.
At her words, Booth sighed again. "Oh, okay. So, you're just saying what you said to—?"
"Make a point," Brennan said, turning back to the body.
"Or bitch," he muttered under his breath. Brennan appeared not to have heard him as she rattled off a couple of observations about the body that forced Booth to take out his note cards and start writing. When she had stopped talking, he nodded at her and asked, "So, any idea how long you think this is gonna take, Bones?"
Narrowing her eyes in him in overt suspicion, Brennan frowned. "Why?" Brennan glowered at him with a furrowed brow. "You aren't in some kind of hurry, are you?"
"What?" he asked, caught off-guard by her question. "No, not at all."
Unconvinced, an image of Booth and Tessa arriving at the dance club of Randall Hall from a couple of weeks earlier popped into Brennan's head. Her jaw tightened as she felt a knot tighten in her stomach. "This homicide investigation isn't keeping you from a prior commitment is it, Booth?
"Well, no," he stammered, put off slightly by her sharpness. "It's just that, well—" A brisk wind again blew and cut through Booth as his words trailed off. He was surprised that Brennan seemed so unaffected by the chill. As her loose hair whipped about her face in the wind, Booth noticed, not for the first time that night, that she seemed off. Her behavior seemed peculiar in so many ways—from the fact that she hadn't secured her hair in its customary ponytail to the fact she seemed unusually snappy had caught him off guard and confused him somewhat as he processed the strange vibes she was sending out. Man, that asshole Stires fucked her up even worse than I thought, Booth silently observed. God, I'd love to have just two minutes with that motherfucker to let him know what I really think of the jerkwad way that he treated her this week. "Look, Bones. I'm good. It's just that—"
"What?" Brennan snorted, impatient to hear his explanation, she interrupted him. "Let me guess. You're in a hurry to get back to your place for some kind of...what would be the appropriate descriptor? 'Hot date'?"
"Huh?" Booth scrunched his brow and shook his head. "Don't be stupid, Bones. Why would you say something like that?"
"First, I'm not stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact, Booth. I'm extremely intelligent, as you well know. Second, you've glanced at your watch several times in the past ten minutes, even if you don't think that anyone's watching you. Your attention span has been even less engaged than it normally is, despite the fact that I know several zoologists who would attest that they believe members of the sciuridae family have a better ability to pay attention than you do, despite the stereotype to the contrary. Third, I've noticed that we are the only personnel here, Booth, which is a marked departure from our normal modus operandi. I can only conclude when combining the third point with the first two that you've altered our normal procedures for some reason of your own. Given the fact that I know you normally go out on some social ritual with your current sexual bed-mate before you engage in coitus, it's understandable that you'd wish to expedite our work here, but irksome nonetheless."
Current sexual bed-mate? What?
"Now, wait just a damn minute, here, Bones. I don't know what maggot has burrowed its way into that brainiac noggin of yours, but you're way off base. And, although you're right that I have been distracted, it's just because it's sorta freezing up here—in case you haven't noticed.
Brennan rolled her eyes at him again. "I have noticed."
Booth sighed in resignation. "What do you want me to do, Bones?"
"How about do what you're supposed to do as my partner and assist me?" Brennan told him simply.
"How?" Booth asked. "You need to be a bit more specific, Bones."
Again, Brennan rolled her eyes in a clearly exaggerated manner. "If you really wanted to help me do a thorough job here," she said, "I'd have expected you to call out an FBI forensic team to assist me."
He laughed, clearly amused at her words. "Wait—so now you want FBI forensic technicians here to help you? The same people you shoo away every other time they've gotten within fifty feet of you while you're working your bone magic?" She nodded at him. Booth's laugh deepened as he shook his head. "Geez, Bones. Now you're making absolutely no sense—none at all. I don't understand what you're talking about."
"Where are the techs?" Brennan asked.
"They'll be along," Booth said. "If and when we need them."
"You always say we need them," Brennan said. "What's changed with this case, right here, right now, in this place and time that makes anything different?"
Booth was about to open his mouth and try to logically explain to her that the Park Rangers wanted to downplay the situation so the press didn't crowd the Monument to get a story before they got the remains out of the opening before the crime scene was compromised. They'd had to keep the detail scaled back so that it looked like nothing too much out of the ordinary was going on, and Booth wasn't supposed to give the call to the full detail until Brennan was done, and they could bag and remove the body. However, the hard look on Brennan's face as stubborn gaze he was coming to know well—and one that he'd seen far too frequently over the past week and a half since Stires had reappeared in her life.
"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you, Bones," Booth finally told her. "Because, obviously, you've already made up your mind by your little dig there, which, by the way, don't think it's escaped my notice with your little jibe about my personal life."
She narrowed her eyes and said, "You're quite right, Booth. But, just so there isn't confusion, I'll be clear. I'm suggesting, Booth, that you're trying to expedite the process by understaffing this operation."
Booth stiffened at her words. He felt a flush of anger at the implication of her words.
"So, wait," he sputtered at him. "You're not actually accusing me of dereliction of duty, right? Because that would be pretty damn ballsy, Bones. Even for you."
"What do you mean, 'even for you'?" she snapped.
Booth grunted a laugh. "You're a smart girl, Bones. You figure it out."
"I can't believe this," Brennan said with You're so—"
"Look," Booth growled, the tips of his ears flushed with anger. "If there's anyone who's more likely to shirk their duty to go get some action, it'd be you, Bones. I'm not the one who nipped out of the office early to go answer a booty call from the defense's star expert this week, am I?"
"Who in the hell do you think you are?" Brennan spat at him, sneering as she looked her nose down at him. "You have no right, absolutely no right whatsoever to talk to me that way."
"Me?" Booth countered, the self-righteous tone in her voice merely inflaming his anger further. "I'm not the one who started this, Bones. That was you, if you recall."
"And, I warned you," Brennan said, pointing her finger at him. "I told you I wasn't feeling generous tonight."
"Of course, since when is that something new?" Booth muttered. "Look, it's not my fault we had a case. As much as I'd like to be able to schedule the murders in D.C. for times when it's more convenient for your schedule, murderers sorta do things on their own time, Bones. That's kinda one of the hallmarks of the whole sociopathy thing."
"God!" Brennan said, wringing her fists in the air. "How can you be so fucking infuriating?"
Smirking at her, Booth retorted, "It's just a natural gift, Bones. I was just born that way."
"I'm not dealing with this tonight," Brennan said, standing up and snapping her gloves off. "I told you, Booth. I've had a hell of a week—no, no that's not entirely accurate. I've had such a bad week that I think it's fair to say, as Angela told me just this morning, that I've had a bitch of a week, I believe. Now, I'm not sure what the correlation is between a female canine and the pejorative descriptor usually used as a colloquialism, but its cadence sounds right, so I think I'm going to go with it."
Booth stood watching her, not quite sure what to make of Brennan's mini-rant. Finally, when she nodded at him, quite pleased with herself, he shook his head and said, "What the hell was that?"
"What the hell was what?" Brennan said.
"What the hell was that little tirade all about, Bones?" Booth asked her. "You want to tell me what's got you in a bitchy huff or do I need to guess now?"
"Okay, you know what? I've had enough, Booth," Brennan said, pointing at him. "I don't need you calling me bitchy on top of everything else. So, you want to know that this was murder? Well, fine. You've got your official call, Booth. It's murder. I can't say for certain, but it looks like a sharp object severed his carotid artery before body was doused with an accelerant and set on fire. So, if you think you can actually do your job and make the call to get enough of the FBI techs here to supervise the Park Police in getting the remains down from the scaffolding and send everything back to the Jeffersonian, that'd be very helpful," she told him. "Preferably without compromising any of the evidence." Shaking her head, unable to help herself, Brennan muttered under her breath, "Of course, if you'd done your job in the first place, I'd be able to do my job like I need to instead of doing it like some second-rate field details would, but frankly, since I know you've got a fucking schedule to keep, we can't worry about things like professionalism or standards, right?"
Brennan almost chuckled at the pun as she pictured Booth working to get on with his scheduled fucking of his stupid blonde girlfriend.
Standing up, Brennan grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
"We're done here, Booth. Good luck with your attempt to get laid. Hopefully, your sexual endeavors will be more satisfying than mine have been recently," Brennan said.
Booth looked at her dumbfounded. At last he uttered a single phrase: "What the fuck, Bones?"
"What?" she asked. "This is what you want, right? You've got the info that you need from me—you've used me just like you did at the courthouse today to get what you want—a confirmation that this is a homicide. Now, you can go about your business and get back to your rather bland girlfriend."
With a sigh, Booth's brain was in such chaos at her unexpected responses that he didn't know where to begin, and so merely latched onto the last statement that Brennan had made. "For your info, Bones, she's not my girlfriend."
"Ahhh," Brennan inclined her head. "Perhaps you prefer a more informal colloquialism. Something like...'fucky-buddy', perhaps?" She shrugged and then said, "Either way, it doesn't matter to me, Booth. You're free to go."
To be continued...
Oh boy. I'm not sure that was quite what you all expected.
But you know where we're going with this.
(You just don't know exactly how we're gonna get there.)
But, of course, there's more fun yet to come.
Three more chapters worth of fun at the Washington Monument.
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