I do not own Bones or these characters. This is a work of fan fiction. No FBI agents or entomologists were harmed during the making of this story. Enjoy.
“Hank!” Shouts Max Keenan, walking toward the back of the Royal diner.
“Well, Max!” Replies Hank Booth, standing and extending his hand. “Where are the kids?”
“They’re dropping off Parker at Rebecca’s. They’ll be right back. How ya’ been?”
“I’ve been great. Keeping the ladies company at the home as always. It’s a man’s job, but some poor sucker’s gotta do it. What’s your poison, young man?” Hank lifts a finger toward the waitress.
“Oh, I’ll have some Joe with a side of Metamucil, maybe a bran muffin.”
“Old age’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Chuckles Hank. “You hear the latest?”
“Hoh, yeah. The ‘cultural event of the millennium’? I heard, alright,” says Max, with a nod. “Please tell me we were never that stupid when we were their age …” he says in mock disgust, then chuckles.
“Oh … I suppose they got those genes from us,” says Hank leaning back and shooting Max a highly amused grin. They both break into a hearty laugh.
“You gonna tell him?” Max thanks Lucy for the cup of steaming liquid and shakes two blue packets of NutraSweet® as if he were righting the mercury in a glass oral thermometer. “I mean, tell him what he’s in for?” Upending the white powder into his coffee cup, Max can’t help chuckling once again. “You know Tempe would kill you if you did-”
“I figured as much-”
“And they’d never find the body-” Max grins at Hank, looking up through his lashes.
“She’s a sassy little thing, your Tempe,” says Hank. “Don’t tell Seeley I told you this, but I think I’m secretly in love with her-” he chuckles, his eyes all a-twinkle.
“Hey, can’t say’s I blame you, Hank. I’m her own father and I have an embarrassingly hefty crush on her myself,” he admits, shrugging. “So, mums the word?”
“How could I tell him? I can’t even say the title of the damn thing! Listen, I was married for 35 years. Not once in that entire time did that word pass through these lips, nor those of my wife in my presence. I sure as hell am not going to break that perfect record to save a fool from a lesson he should already have learned by this age!”
They look each other, then crack up again.
“You’re not, uh, going with them-”
“Hell, no!” Max grabs his chest dramatically as if he’s just been shot through his manhood. “Though I have contemplated getting a case of beer, a couple of Chilli Dogs, a video camera, and a couple of lawn chairs and planting myself outside the entrance to the thing just to see their faces when they run out of there. What do you say?”
“It’s tempting,” says Hank, “I just hope their balls don’t shrink to the size of raisins.” Looking over Max’s head, he shouts, “We’re over here, Shrimp!” He waves to Booth, who nods at him and steers Brennan toward them with a hand at the small of her back.
“Hank, Dad!” Kisses all around. Booth hugs Pops, shakes Max’s hand until Max pulls him off balance and grabs him in a bear hug. Once seated, they all stare at each other until Hank and Max burst into laughter.
“What?” Booth asks. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, son. We were just talking about you two,” glows Hank.
“Yeah, and how happy we are that you are finally together …” adds Max.
“Well, everything good and wonderful happens eventually, you always told me, Pops.
“That I did, Shrimp. That I did.”
Hank winks at Brennan, who smiles back. She knows exactly what they must have been discussing. She told each of her father figures about The Vagina Monologues tickets Camille’s gynecologist boyfriend got for the group and the challenge Booth and Hodgins were dragged into by own misguided pride.
The Vagina Monologues
The Vagina Monologues is an episodic play written by Eve Ensler which ran at the Off Broadway Westside Theatre in 1996. It is made up of a varying number of monologues read by a varying number of women. Every monologue somehow relates to the vagina, be it through sex, love, rape, menstruation, female genitalia, mutilation, masturbation, birth, orgasm, the variety of names for the vagina, or simply as a physical aspect of the body. A recurring theme throughout the piece is the vagina as a tool of female empowerment, and the ultimate embodiment of individuality.
In 1998, Ensler, it’s creator, and others, including Willa Shalit, a producer of the Westside Theatre production, launched V-Day, a global non-profit movement that has raised over $75 million for women’s anti-violence groups through benefits of The Vagina Monologues.
The sextet, the women in heals and lipstick, the men in ties and cologne, approaches the Atlas Performing Art Center. Renovated in 2001, the old 1938 Kogod-Burka movie theater in the H Street Corridor of the Swampoodle neighborhood still holds the same night-on-the-town charm and elegance it had back when it was showing Mickey Rooney flicks, 1000 ticket-holders at a time.
Outside the theater hangs a poster publicizing the already raving reviews this show has received around the globe. Surrounding the reviews, which are spelled out in the shape of a pyramid from top to bottom, is a photographed image of an enormous pair of shapely female legs. The legs, healed in shiny red stilettos, stand parted reaching to each bottom corner of the poster. Those legs go all the way up to the top, stopping just sort of the Holy Land. The reviews are followed by a three-word title that would make a Catholic school girl, not to mention an FBI agent and an thrice-degreed entomologist, blush one shade lighter than those stilettos. The title: The Vagina Monologues.
This should have been their first clue.
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