Bones Fic: Losing My Religion~ Part 6
Thursday does not find him in his normally jubilant mood. What with having nearly lost his mind and all.
The only saving grace was Olivia working the graveyard shift last night; he has no clue how he would have explained making an even more complicated mess of things.
A mess that culminated in the necessity of a cold shower and a handful of aspirin before he was able to drift off into a restless sleep.
Now, in the harsh light of day, the whole thing seems that much more inexcusable.
They’re partners. Friends.
Sure, once upon a time he had wanted more. If he’s really honest with himself, a part of him will probably always ache for what could have happened between them.
But all that potential never materialized into anything except heartbreak. It sent him, licking his wounds, to the other side of the world. It nearly wrecked their working relationship. He’s spent the better part of a year building a new life and here he is, pissing it all away over a picture he never should have seen and assumptions he shouldn’t be making. Brennan was already bent over the desk in his head, for Christ’s sake, and if they hadn’t been interrupted…
His partner would probably chalk it up to a physiologic response to anger; something about central neural pathways and hormonal stimulation, but he knows better. This may have been the first time in a long while that his control slipped enough to allow it, but he’s been responding to her like that since the day they met. Since the moment he stood toe to toe with her, in all her brilliant, pig-headed, condescending, aggravating, and unbelievably gorgeous glory. When she turned up her nose with that haughty grin, a challenge he could never back down from, and he just knew.
So, yeah. Cam probably had every right to give him the third degree. Since when did he start acting like some wet-behind-the -ears punk, anyway?
The time to man up, he figures, is way past due.
*
*
*
He doesn’t really plan on eavesdropping. And, it’s not even really eavesdropping. More like… overhearing.
Yeah, that’s it.
Lurking around Bones’ office and overhearing.
He’s already invaded her privacy once this week. But the lure of her voice, of unfiltered words that once belonged only to him, holds him captive. It’s been a long time since the lines of unguarded communication were open between them.
Yet another thing he should probably apologize for.
So, he stays.
Because the desire to know her again is a tight fist around his heart.
“-due to the effects of catecholamines released into the circulation.”
“Really, Bren? That’s the story you’re sticking with?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes, you do. You know exactly what that means.”
The sudden silence carries a tension that startles him. It’s certainly nothing new that Angela pries and teases, but she usually doesn’t push past the limits of where Brennan is willing to go. The fact that she’s doing it now speaks volumes about how much of his partner’s life he’s not privy to these days.
Brennan sighs. It is a weary, resigned sound, that for some strange reason makes him feel a pang of melancholy on her behalf.
“What do you want, Ange?”
“The question is, sweetie, what do you want?”
“I want…”
Her tone is so wistful, so unlike her, that he leans forward, breath held. As if being still and silent and close will coax forth a response different from anything having to do with academics or crime-solving, science or bones. It’s the weight behind every lingering glance, the response to every question he’s never asked, all wrapped up in her answer.
“I want to finish this report before Booth comes looking for it.”
The words are a bucket of cold water, dousing him with a generous helping of reality.
It’s not his place to worry about what she wants anymore. He’s only here to salvage what’s left of their friendship.
Angela, on the other hand, can always be counted on to carry on undeterred. “Don’t you think Booth knows by now that you’re keeping something from him?”
“How could he possibly-”
“Because he’s Booth, sweetie. He may not be around as much, but the man still puts the sight in insightful.”
“I agree that Booth is very sensitive to the ranges of human emotion, Ange. But everything has changed between us. I sometimes think he doesn’t see me at all anymore. Which is to be expected, I suppose. ”
This is who he is now, how she sees him. How he’s made her see him. Self-preservation created this impasse between them; forced him to pull himself far enough out of her orbit for the space to eclipse the way he burns under her light. But how can he stand idly by and let her reduce his agonizing decisions to inevitability?
This may be what she expects from him, but he expects far better from himself.
Booth steps into view, propping his shoulder against the doorway. “Hello, ladies. Bones, do you think we can talk for a minute?”
“I’m busy. Angela and I-”
He shoots the artist an imploring glance, hoping that the situation isn’t so bleak that she’ll let Brennan use her as a shield.
“Actually, I was supposed to help Cam with… something. You know, girls’ stuff.”
She hurries off before Brennan can stop her, gifting him with a look that clearly says If you screw this up, I will hurt you as she breezes by. Leaving him alone with Bones.
Who is looking anywhere but at him.
Not long ago, he would have laughed at the idea of needing an invitation into her space. The realization that he needs one now is like a physical blow.
“Can I come in?”
She nods curtly, but not before crossing her arms in an unmistakably defensive posture. He’s never felt the distance between them as keenly as he does in this moment.
“Look, Bones, I’m here to apologize. The way I… acted with you yesterday was inexcusable.”
She does look at him now-measuring and judging and dissecting the balance of his words.
“I’ve been stressed and I flew off the handle. I’m not justifying what I said. I don’t know what got into me.” He’ll stick with that for now, focus on what he said instead of what he almost did. She can bring it up if she wants. He refuses to be the one to open that can of worms.
Brennan seems to be considering his words when she suddenly frowns. That small crinkle between her furrowed brows is endearingly familiar. “It’s not like you to be purposely hurtful, Booth. You haven’t been conversing with cartoon characters again, have you?”
“What?” He almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, because what could that possibly have… Oh. Oh. Of course she would worry about him, about his well-being. If she ever needed proof about what kind of heart she has, it’s all right there in the space of two sentences. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
“Are you sure? Because if you need to see a neurologist-”
“I’m sure, okay? I’m not sick, Bones. Just a jerk.”
Her eyes rake over him probingly. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him now, after he’s spent all these months making it pretty damn clear that he isn’t the same man who could sustain his life on infinite patience and unshakeable faith.
Even if fortune really does smile on the brave, he no longer believes in it.
But something in the perusal must satisfy her, because she nods slowly. “I would have to agree with that assessment.”
He chuckles nervously. “Okay, great. Now that we’ve agreed on the flaw in my character… I’d like to extend a peace offering.”
“In Southeast Asia, a traditional peace offering is betel, the leaf of a vine belonging to the Piperaceae family. It is often combined with the areca nut and mineral slaked lime to form a chewed substance that promotes blood-red salivation.”
He’s really hoping that wasn’t a suggestion. “That’s… yeah. Pretty gross, actually. I was thinking more along the lines of dinner.”
“Dinner?” She looks at him as if he had just invited her on a trip to the moon.
“Yeah, you know. You, me, duking it out for the mee krob? What do ya say?”
“Won’t Olivia object?”
It strikes him that she may be trying to avoid the prospect of being alone with him again. Because how can anyone who knows Liv think she would ever stand in the way of something he wants?
“No. Why would she?”
“I would imagine because it would involve her sharing your time together with another woman. I don’t see how any alpha-female engaged in a romantic relationship with you would be pleased.”
He is momentarily struck speechless. How can she be so clueless when it counts and so right- on when he needs her not to be?
“I thought you didn’t believe in the proprietary nature of relationships.”
“I don’t. I was merely pointing out that-”
“Okay, okay.” He doesn’t know anymore if this is a losing battle, but he’s not giving up that easily. “If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll pick a time when Liv is working. Okay?”
“I don’t know, Booth.” She doesn’t look at all convinced, but at least she seems to be considering it.
He moves in for the kill. “C’mon, Bones. You would deny your favorite partner the pleasure of your company? That’s just cruel.”
Her face softens into the lines of a stifled smile that he hasn’t seen in far too long. “I feel it necessary to point out that you are, in fact, my only partner.”
“Damn straight.” He flashes a charm-smile to seal the deal. “That’s even more reason to agree then, right?”
The smile she can no longer keep at bay lights up her face, and she shakes her head ruefully. “I’d forgotten how very insistent you can be.”
Booth rubs his hands together in excitement. “Didn’t even break a sweat on that one. So, how’s tomorrow night sound?”
Her face falls. Whether it’s regret or guilt, he can’t be sure, but when she speaks, he knows she’s leaving something out. “That won’t be possible.”
“Can’t wait to get an early weekend start in the bone room?”
“No, actually… I’m taking a trip. There’s a book launch in New York, and my attendance has been requested. Well, mandated, in fact. My publicist says I’ve been out of the public eye for too long, although I can’t imagine what that has to do with selling novels.”
Booth can’t figure out where to even start with that one. A year and a half ago, he would have been going to that launch with her. Now, he hadn’t even known she finished a new book. New York City, on the other hand, rings quite a few bells.
No way is he going to rock the boat though; not after what it just took to convince her to spend even a little time with him.
“But I should be back on Sunday,” she adds. “Perhaps we could postpone until then?”
“Sure, uh, raincheck ‘til Sunday sounds fine.” His smile is a little forced, and he hastens to chase it with something less bitter. “Enjoy your party, Bones. You deserve it.”
*
*
*
Walking out of her office, he can’t name the worrisome emotion welling up and prodding at the edges of his psyche like a dam threatening to burst.
On the one hand, she actually has a legitimate reason for the trip. On the other… well, she’s never exactly made it a priority to attend these things before. If he remembers correctly, words like inane and tiresome have been thrown around quite a bit in the past, in association with publicist and event. There’s also the half-conversation with Angela he’s trying not to think about. The one that confirms she’s keeping something from him. Which, and if he were still a betting man he’d be putting money on this, most likely has everything to do with a certain photographer.
Who she’s going to see in New York.
She actually hadn’t said anything suspicious. But even if he hadn’t heard Angela or seen Grant Moore’s note, he would have known she wasn’t being honest. Despite everything, there are still ways in which he can read her just as well as she can read bones.
There’s definitely something wrong with the world when Bones flat out lies to him.
*
*
*
It only takes about an hour of uselessly staring at case files for Booth to give in to temptation. This isn’t new; he’s done it in the past for reasons he was sure, at the time, were completely noble.
In the here and now, he clings to denial as if it were a lifeline, giving himself every reason but the one he can’t face.
The life of Grant Moore stares back at him from the computer screen.
While he was still in high school, the New York born thirty-seven-year-old moved with his mother to Berkeley, California, where he attended photography workshops at the University of California, Berkeley, and various other institutions. Just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, he was hired by Rolling Stone magazine to work in its darkroom. He began to take his own photos, including a shot of a young musician named Kurt Cobain. That photo would later hang in a collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Moore then moved to L.A. He took acting classes, shot stills for movies, and dated supermodels. Then he sold his car, packed his bags, and left the U.S. to hitchhike around the world. A year later, he returned to his native city and began a journalism degree at Columbia University. His work at National Geographic began with an assignment that took him more than twenty-thousand feet up into the Peruvian Andes to photograph the discovery of a five-hundred-year-old Inca mummy. Since then, Moore has built a career of covering conservation in the roadless jungles of Suriname, rain forest research in Costa Rica, and cave exploration in Borneo, Mexico, Belize, New Guinea, Canada, and the United States. He works on what he calls “the raw edges of the frontier”, following the need to go to the few places that haven’t been touched by modern civilization.
All of that, just from the Internet. So, yeah.
Booth reminds himself that he has a gun and a badge. He’s served his country loyally in several wars. He solves the most heinous crimes, arrests people on a regular basis, and has a near- perfect solve rate. His kid thinks he’s a superhero.
There is absolutely no need to feel intimidated by an adrenaline junkie with a camera.
He digs a little deeper, checking the FBI files. Because Bones… well, she has a tendency to pick some real winners.
Grant Moore has never been married.
He’s intelligent. Attractive. Independently wealthy.
No reason for professional jealousy.
No recruiting for cults of any kind.
No history of fratricide. That he can tell.
Worse yet, no evident plans to sail away into the Caribbean anytime soon.
Not even so much as a damn parking ticket.
And his picture…
It’s like he stepped off the pages of a goddamn magazine.
If he was looking for a reason why Bones shouldn’t run off with this guy, he’s struck out bigtime.
But that isn’t what he was doing. Is it?
There’s no denying the disappointment he feels. The sense of finality when he sees this man’s face and thinks about the words scribbled on a freaking Post-It note. He realizes what he’d never even considered before: how unbelievably hard it is letting go of something you didn’t know you were still hoping for.
Booth rests his head against his desk wearily. Olivia smiles back at him from within a frame and, shamed, he turns away.
Cam’s right. He’s screwing it all up.
It’s starting to feel like he’s being unfaithful.
The problem is, he doesn’t know which one of them he thinks of as the other woman.
Part 7
AN2: Much of the "Grant Moore" biography was appropriated from real-life photographer Stephen Alvarez
The only saving grace was Olivia working the graveyard shift last night; he has no clue how he would have explained making an even more complicated mess of things.
A mess that culminated in the necessity of a cold shower and a handful of aspirin before he was able to drift off into a restless sleep.
Now, in the harsh light of day, the whole thing seems that much more inexcusable.
They’re partners. Friends.
Sure, once upon a time he had wanted more. If he’s really honest with himself, a part of him will probably always ache for what could have happened between them.
But all that potential never materialized into anything except heartbreak. It sent him, licking his wounds, to the other side of the world. It nearly wrecked their working relationship. He’s spent the better part of a year building a new life and here he is, pissing it all away over a picture he never should have seen and assumptions he shouldn’t be making. Brennan was already bent over the desk in his head, for Christ’s sake, and if they hadn’t been interrupted…
His partner would probably chalk it up to a physiologic response to anger; something about central neural pathways and hormonal stimulation, but he knows better. This may have been the first time in a long while that his control slipped enough to allow it, but he’s been responding to her like that since the day they met. Since the moment he stood toe to toe with her, in all her brilliant, pig-headed, condescending, aggravating, and unbelievably gorgeous glory. When she turned up her nose with that haughty grin, a challenge he could never back down from, and he just knew.
So, yeah. Cam probably had every right to give him the third degree. Since when did he start acting like some wet-behind-the -ears punk, anyway?
The time to man up, he figures, is way past due.
*
*
*
He doesn’t really plan on eavesdropping. And, it’s not even really eavesdropping. More like… overhearing.
Yeah, that’s it.
Lurking around Bones’ office and overhearing.
He’s already invaded her privacy once this week. But the lure of her voice, of unfiltered words that once belonged only to him, holds him captive. It’s been a long time since the lines of unguarded communication were open between them.
Yet another thing he should probably apologize for.
So, he stays.
Because the desire to know her again is a tight fist around his heart.
“-due to the effects of catecholamines released into the circulation.”
“Really, Bren? That’s the story you’re sticking with?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes, you do. You know exactly what that means.”
The sudden silence carries a tension that startles him. It’s certainly nothing new that Angela pries and teases, but she usually doesn’t push past the limits of where Brennan is willing to go. The fact that she’s doing it now speaks volumes about how much of his partner’s life he’s not privy to these days.
Brennan sighs. It is a weary, resigned sound, that for some strange reason makes him feel a pang of melancholy on her behalf.
“What do you want, Ange?”
“The question is, sweetie, what do you want?”
“I want…”
Her tone is so wistful, so unlike her, that he leans forward, breath held. As if being still and silent and close will coax forth a response different from anything having to do with academics or crime-solving, science or bones. It’s the weight behind every lingering glance, the response to every question he’s never asked, all wrapped up in her answer.
“I want to finish this report before Booth comes looking for it.”
The words are a bucket of cold water, dousing him with a generous helping of reality.
It’s not his place to worry about what she wants anymore. He’s only here to salvage what’s left of their friendship.
Angela, on the other hand, can always be counted on to carry on undeterred. “Don’t you think Booth knows by now that you’re keeping something from him?”
“How could he possibly-”
“Because he’s Booth, sweetie. He may not be around as much, but the man still puts the sight in insightful.”
“I agree that Booth is very sensitive to the ranges of human emotion, Ange. But everything has changed between us. I sometimes think he doesn’t see me at all anymore. Which is to be expected, I suppose. ”
This is who he is now, how she sees him. How he’s made her see him. Self-preservation created this impasse between them; forced him to pull himself far enough out of her orbit for the space to eclipse the way he burns under her light. But how can he stand idly by and let her reduce his agonizing decisions to inevitability?
This may be what she expects from him, but he expects far better from himself.
Booth steps into view, propping his shoulder against the doorway. “Hello, ladies. Bones, do you think we can talk for a minute?”
“I’m busy. Angela and I-”
He shoots the artist an imploring glance, hoping that the situation isn’t so bleak that she’ll let Brennan use her as a shield.
“Actually, I was supposed to help Cam with… something. You know, girls’ stuff.”
She hurries off before Brennan can stop her, gifting him with a look that clearly says If you screw this up, I will hurt you as she breezes by. Leaving him alone with Bones.
Who is looking anywhere but at him.
Not long ago, he would have laughed at the idea of needing an invitation into her space. The realization that he needs one now is like a physical blow.
“Can I come in?”
She nods curtly, but not before crossing her arms in an unmistakably defensive posture. He’s never felt the distance between them as keenly as he does in this moment.
“Look, Bones, I’m here to apologize. The way I… acted with you yesterday was inexcusable.”
She does look at him now-measuring and judging and dissecting the balance of his words.
“I’ve been stressed and I flew off the handle. I’m not justifying what I said. I don’t know what got into me.” He’ll stick with that for now, focus on what he said instead of what he almost did. She can bring it up if she wants. He refuses to be the one to open that can of worms.
Brennan seems to be considering his words when she suddenly frowns. That small crinkle between her furrowed brows is endearingly familiar. “It’s not like you to be purposely hurtful, Booth. You haven’t been conversing with cartoon characters again, have you?”
“What?” He almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, because what could that possibly have… Oh. Oh. Of course she would worry about him, about his well-being. If she ever needed proof about what kind of heart she has, it’s all right there in the space of two sentences. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
“Are you sure? Because if you need to see a neurologist-”
“I’m sure, okay? I’m not sick, Bones. Just a jerk.”
Her eyes rake over him probingly. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him now, after he’s spent all these months making it pretty damn clear that he isn’t the same man who could sustain his life on infinite patience and unshakeable faith.
Even if fortune really does smile on the brave, he no longer believes in it.
But something in the perusal must satisfy her, because she nods slowly. “I would have to agree with that assessment.”
He chuckles nervously. “Okay, great. Now that we’ve agreed on the flaw in my character… I’d like to extend a peace offering.”
“In Southeast Asia, a traditional peace offering is betel, the leaf of a vine belonging to the Piperaceae family. It is often combined with the areca nut and mineral slaked lime to form a chewed substance that promotes blood-red salivation.”
He’s really hoping that wasn’t a suggestion. “That’s… yeah. Pretty gross, actually. I was thinking more along the lines of dinner.”
“Dinner?” She looks at him as if he had just invited her on a trip to the moon.
“Yeah, you know. You, me, duking it out for the mee krob? What do ya say?”
“Won’t Olivia object?”
It strikes him that she may be trying to avoid the prospect of being alone with him again. Because how can anyone who knows Liv think she would ever stand in the way of something he wants?
“No. Why would she?”
“I would imagine because it would involve her sharing your time together with another woman. I don’t see how any alpha-female engaged in a romantic relationship with you would be pleased.”
He is momentarily struck speechless. How can she be so clueless when it counts and so right- on when he needs her not to be?
“I thought you didn’t believe in the proprietary nature of relationships.”
“I don’t. I was merely pointing out that-”
“Okay, okay.” He doesn’t know anymore if this is a losing battle, but he’s not giving up that easily. “If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll pick a time when Liv is working. Okay?”
“I don’t know, Booth.” She doesn’t look at all convinced, but at least she seems to be considering it.
He moves in for the kill. “C’mon, Bones. You would deny your favorite partner the pleasure of your company? That’s just cruel.”
Her face softens into the lines of a stifled smile that he hasn’t seen in far too long. “I feel it necessary to point out that you are, in fact, my only partner.”
“Damn straight.” He flashes a charm-smile to seal the deal. “That’s even more reason to agree then, right?”
The smile she can no longer keep at bay lights up her face, and she shakes her head ruefully. “I’d forgotten how very insistent you can be.”
Booth rubs his hands together in excitement. “Didn’t even break a sweat on that one. So, how’s tomorrow night sound?”
Her face falls. Whether it’s regret or guilt, he can’t be sure, but when she speaks, he knows she’s leaving something out. “That won’t be possible.”
“Can’t wait to get an early weekend start in the bone room?”
“No, actually… I’m taking a trip. There’s a book launch in New York, and my attendance has been requested. Well, mandated, in fact. My publicist says I’ve been out of the public eye for too long, although I can’t imagine what that has to do with selling novels.”
Booth can’t figure out where to even start with that one. A year and a half ago, he would have been going to that launch with her. Now, he hadn’t even known she finished a new book. New York City, on the other hand, rings quite a few bells.
No way is he going to rock the boat though; not after what it just took to convince her to spend even a little time with him.
“But I should be back on Sunday,” she adds. “Perhaps we could postpone until then?”
“Sure, uh, raincheck ‘til Sunday sounds fine.” His smile is a little forced, and he hastens to chase it with something less bitter. “Enjoy your party, Bones. You deserve it.”
*
*
*
Walking out of her office, he can’t name the worrisome emotion welling up and prodding at the edges of his psyche like a dam threatening to burst.
On the one hand, she actually has a legitimate reason for the trip. On the other… well, she’s never exactly made it a priority to attend these things before. If he remembers correctly, words like inane and tiresome have been thrown around quite a bit in the past, in association with publicist and event. There’s also the half-conversation with Angela he’s trying not to think about. The one that confirms she’s keeping something from him. Which, and if he were still a betting man he’d be putting money on this, most likely has everything to do with a certain photographer.
Who she’s going to see in New York.
She actually hadn’t said anything suspicious. But even if he hadn’t heard Angela or seen Grant Moore’s note, he would have known she wasn’t being honest. Despite everything, there are still ways in which he can read her just as well as she can read bones.
There’s definitely something wrong with the world when Bones flat out lies to him.
*
*
*
It only takes about an hour of uselessly staring at case files for Booth to give in to temptation. This isn’t new; he’s done it in the past for reasons he was sure, at the time, were completely noble.
In the here and now, he clings to denial as if it were a lifeline, giving himself every reason but the one he can’t face.
The life of Grant Moore stares back at him from the computer screen.
While he was still in high school, the New York born thirty-seven-year-old moved with his mother to Berkeley, California, where he attended photography workshops at the University of California, Berkeley, and various other institutions. Just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, he was hired by Rolling Stone magazine to work in its darkroom. He began to take his own photos, including a shot of a young musician named Kurt Cobain. That photo would later hang in a collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Moore then moved to L.A. He took acting classes, shot stills for movies, and dated supermodels. Then he sold his car, packed his bags, and left the U.S. to hitchhike around the world. A year later, he returned to his native city and began a journalism degree at Columbia University. His work at National Geographic began with an assignment that took him more than twenty-thousand feet up into the Peruvian Andes to photograph the discovery of a five-hundred-year-old Inca mummy. Since then, Moore has built a career of covering conservation in the roadless jungles of Suriname, rain forest research in Costa Rica, and cave exploration in Borneo, Mexico, Belize, New Guinea, Canada, and the United States. He works on what he calls “the raw edges of the frontier”, following the need to go to the few places that haven’t been touched by modern civilization.
All of that, just from the Internet. So, yeah.
Booth reminds himself that he has a gun and a badge. He’s served his country loyally in several wars. He solves the most heinous crimes, arrests people on a regular basis, and has a near- perfect solve rate. His kid thinks he’s a superhero.
There is absolutely no need to feel intimidated by an adrenaline junkie with a camera.
He digs a little deeper, checking the FBI files. Because Bones… well, she has a tendency to pick some real winners.
Grant Moore has never been married.
He’s intelligent. Attractive. Independently wealthy.
No reason for professional jealousy.
No recruiting for cults of any kind.
No history of fratricide. That he can tell.
Worse yet, no evident plans to sail away into the Caribbean anytime soon.
Not even so much as a damn parking ticket.
And his picture…
It’s like he stepped off the pages of a goddamn magazine.
If he was looking for a reason why Bones shouldn’t run off with this guy, he’s struck out bigtime.
But that isn’t what he was doing. Is it?
There’s no denying the disappointment he feels. The sense of finality when he sees this man’s face and thinks about the words scribbled on a freaking Post-It note. He realizes what he’d never even considered before: how unbelievably hard it is letting go of something you didn’t know you were still hoping for.
Booth rests his head against his desk wearily. Olivia smiles back at him from within a frame and, shamed, he turns away.
Cam’s right. He’s screwing it all up.
It’s starting to feel like he’s being unfaithful.
The problem is, he doesn’t know which one of them he thinks of as the other woman.
Part 7
AN2: Much of the "Grant Moore" biography was appropriated from real-life photographer Stephen Alvarez