I was not kidding about my attention span.
Now it's time for Bones fic! Written today while eating lunch in downtown Washington, DC. Betaed by iuliamentis.
Gen. Booth, Brennan. G. 900 words.
Booth and Brennan meet for lunch on Wednesday, February 21, 2007.
Wednesday Afternoon
Brennan frowned and reached out unthinkingly to brush away the smudge on Booth's forehead.
He jerked back and frowned at her. "Don't, Bones."
She started to ask him why not, but he ushered her into the diner--ladies first, as always--before she could say a word. Brennan scowled as she headed to their usual table. It had been a week now since they'd worked a case together, with nothing new on the radar, and their lunch-not-a-date to touch base was already off to a great start.
When he sat down across from her, though, Booth looked more abstracted than annoyed, even with the black powdery substance smeared above his eyebrows like his own personal thundercloud. What was it? Some form of medical treatment? The skin beneath seemed smooth and unbroken. A new task from Gordon Gordon? She could certainly see Booth being even touchier about some unusual form of makeup than he had been about black socks.
Brennan started thinking about traditional facial adornments--common among warriors in many cultures, after all--and only nodded when the waitress said, "Usual?"
"No," Booth said. "Fish sandwich and a glass of water, please."
Brennan snapped back into the present as the pieces finally came together. Yesterday Hodgins and Zack had come to work with an alarming number of pastries--precipitating some kind of all-day fight between Hodgins and Angela which had repeatedly seemed to cross the border between joking and not--and today Booth had a smudge on his forehead.
"Oh," Brennan said. "Ash Wednesday."
Booth glanced up from staring at the tabletop and cracked a small smile. "Yes, Bones. Thank you for joining us."
Brennan looked around and realized that there were half a dozen people in her line of sight--including their waitress--sporting similar smears of ash on their foreheads. She smiled back at Booth. "You could have just said it was a religious observance, Booth."
Booth rolled his eyes, but he relaxed after that, and they talked about normal things--crimes and unidentified skeletal remains and the intersection of the two--until they were nearly finished eating. Brennan stole a last french fry off his plate, on the side away from the mystery-sauce-leaking remains of the fish sandwich. Booth was still eyeing it dubiously. It was an odd form for ritual fasting to take, but Booth still seemed to be feeling the lack. It would probably be appropriate to distract him from it.
"Booth?" she said. "When they put the ashes on you..."
Booth looked up warily, like he expected her to dismiss or dissect his ritual.
"Are they hot?"
Booth snorted and shook his head, eyes brightening with humor. "You sound like Parker, Bones. No, they're not hot, it doesn't hurt. It's symbolic--ashes to ashes."
Memento mori, a reminder of mortality. Booth was walking around with his death on his forehead. For just a second Brennan couldn't shake the image of him lying on her kitchen floor, his face covered with blood and soot from the explosion, and she shivered a little. As a symbol, it wasn't nearly symbolic enough. "How long do you have to leave them there?"
Booth looked down again and shrugged stiffly, looking strangely defeated. "Till I go back to the office, basically."
Brennan frowned. It was Booth's ritual, and no matter how symbolically disturbing, he ought to be allowed to observe it. "The FBI doesn't allow...?"
Booth shook his head, but he still didn't look up. "I just... I don't think it's appropriate. When I deal with people professionally I'm kind of--I'm like the face of the federal government. The United States of America doesn't wear ashes on its face."
No, it wouldn't, of course. Citizens might die--special agents might die--but the institution had no mortality of its own to accept. Someday when Booth was ashes, the FBI would still be humming along, heedless of its loss.
Booth glumly finished his sandwich while Brennan reconsidered their lunch together. Booth had suggested meeting today, when he must have known he'd be going to Ash Wednesday services beforehand. Having lunch with her afterward gave him a little more time to wear only his own face; it was a gesture of trust, in a way.
"You should come back to the lab with me," Brennan said abruptly, surprising herself almost as much as Booth, who was caught with his mouth full and only raised his eyebrows in response.
"I'm weeks behind on my FBI paperwork," she added. "You could make sure I get it filed before spring."
Booth swallowed and still said nothing, but Brennan saw his shoulders straighten a little. He only represented Seeley Booth to her team, and odds were good none of them would even notice the ashes, or remark on them if they did. Booth could be just himself a while longer.
"You just want me to write half of all your reports for you again," Booth said, but it was as good as yes.
Brennan shrugged. "We're partners, right? Partners help each other."
Booth had a great deal to say on the topic of partnership and report-writing, but he said it all as he walked back to the lab with her in the late-winter sunshine, and Brennan felt satisfied by more than just lunch. Booth might be required to face his death today, but he'd do it with his partner by his side.
Gen. Booth, Brennan. G. 900 words.
Booth and Brennan meet for lunch on Wednesday, February 21, 2007.
Wednesday Afternoon
Brennan frowned and reached out unthinkingly to brush away the smudge on Booth's forehead.
He jerked back and frowned at her. "Don't, Bones."
She started to ask him why not, but he ushered her into the diner--ladies first, as always--before she could say a word. Brennan scowled as she headed to their usual table. It had been a week now since they'd worked a case together, with nothing new on the radar, and their lunch-not-a-date to touch base was already off to a great start.
When he sat down across from her, though, Booth looked more abstracted than annoyed, even with the black powdery substance smeared above his eyebrows like his own personal thundercloud. What was it? Some form of medical treatment? The skin beneath seemed smooth and unbroken. A new task from Gordon Gordon? She could certainly see Booth being even touchier about some unusual form of makeup than he had been about black socks.
Brennan started thinking about traditional facial adornments--common among warriors in many cultures, after all--and only nodded when the waitress said, "Usual?"
"No," Booth said. "Fish sandwich and a glass of water, please."
Brennan snapped back into the present as the pieces finally came together. Yesterday Hodgins and Zack had come to work with an alarming number of pastries--precipitating some kind of all-day fight between Hodgins and Angela which had repeatedly seemed to cross the border between joking and not--and today Booth had a smudge on his forehead.
"Oh," Brennan said. "Ash Wednesday."
Booth glanced up from staring at the tabletop and cracked a small smile. "Yes, Bones. Thank you for joining us."
Brennan looked around and realized that there were half a dozen people in her line of sight--including their waitress--sporting similar smears of ash on their foreheads. She smiled back at Booth. "You could have just said it was a religious observance, Booth."
Booth rolled his eyes, but he relaxed after that, and they talked about normal things--crimes and unidentified skeletal remains and the intersection of the two--until they were nearly finished eating. Brennan stole a last french fry off his plate, on the side away from the mystery-sauce-leaking remains of the fish sandwich. Booth was still eyeing it dubiously. It was an odd form for ritual fasting to take, but Booth still seemed to be feeling the lack. It would probably be appropriate to distract him from it.
"Booth?" she said. "When they put the ashes on you..."
Booth looked up warily, like he expected her to dismiss or dissect his ritual.
"Are they hot?"
Booth snorted and shook his head, eyes brightening with humor. "You sound like Parker, Bones. No, they're not hot, it doesn't hurt. It's symbolic--ashes to ashes."
Memento mori, a reminder of mortality. Booth was walking around with his death on his forehead. For just a second Brennan couldn't shake the image of him lying on her kitchen floor, his face covered with blood and soot from the explosion, and she shivered a little. As a symbol, it wasn't nearly symbolic enough. "How long do you have to leave them there?"
Booth looked down again and shrugged stiffly, looking strangely defeated. "Till I go back to the office, basically."
Brennan frowned. It was Booth's ritual, and no matter how symbolically disturbing, he ought to be allowed to observe it. "The FBI doesn't allow...?"
Booth shook his head, but he still didn't look up. "I just... I don't think it's appropriate. When I deal with people professionally I'm kind of--I'm like the face of the federal government. The United States of America doesn't wear ashes on its face."
No, it wouldn't, of course. Citizens might die--special agents might die--but the institution had no mortality of its own to accept. Someday when Booth was ashes, the FBI would still be humming along, heedless of its loss.
Booth glumly finished his sandwich while Brennan reconsidered their lunch together. Booth had suggested meeting today, when he must have known he'd be going to Ash Wednesday services beforehand. Having lunch with her afterward gave him a little more time to wear only his own face; it was a gesture of trust, in a way.
"You should come back to the lab with me," Brennan said abruptly, surprising herself almost as much as Booth, who was caught with his mouth full and only raised his eyebrows in response.
"I'm weeks behind on my FBI paperwork," she added. "You could make sure I get it filed before spring."
Booth swallowed and still said nothing, but Brennan saw his shoulders straighten a little. He only represented Seeley Booth to her team, and odds were good none of them would even notice the ashes, or remark on them if they did. Booth could be just himself a while longer.
"You just want me to write half of all your reports for you again," Booth said, but it was as good as yes.
Brennan shrugged. "We're partners, right? Partners help each other."
Booth had a great deal to say on the topic of partnership and report-writing, but he said it all as he walked back to the lab with her in the late-winter sunshine, and Brennan felt satisfied by more than just lunch. Booth might be required to face his death today, but he'd do it with his partner by his side.