I do not own Bones or these characters. This is a work of fiction. No FBI agents or entomologists were harmed during the making of this story. Enjoy.
This lovely little fictional story is set during the trimester after Brennan and Booth announce that they are, indeed, a couple in every sense of the word, and are making plans to celebrate the birth of their highly-anticipated child sometime before the earth makes another complete revolution around the sun.
In all other respects, life has gone on as usual.
Well, as usual as it could for this unexpectedly pregnant and extraordinary gifted anthropologist and her mind-blowingly smokin’ hot FBI issued Special Agent partner.
One might even assume, if one were an assuming kind of person, that the sex has been phenomenal, that they never argue – except for entertainment purposes only– and that issues from the past never creep up and cause problems in their relationship.
Or, we can be more realistic and admit that they are both still very much in shock over their impending shared parenthood, that the sex is … getting better as they get used to each other’s likes and dislikes and spermicidal allergies, and that they are more grateful than ever to have a psychiatrist on the payroll because their issues – Man, they’ve got some doozies! – have a tendency to sneak up and drop-kick their asses all over D.C. on a semi-regular basis.
That is the environment into which this story is thrust. Not the ass-kicking, but the newness as well as the ‘business as usualness’ of life.
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“Ah, good. Two birds with one stone!” Exclaims Dr. Camille Saroyan, poking her immaculately coiffed head through Brennan’s Jeffersonian office doorway. “Dr. Brennan, Angela, are you both still interested?”
Snapping her head toward Camille, Brennan is confused by the comment about the birds and the stone. Looking around the room, Brennan listens carefully for the sound of flapping wings, then scans Camille’s fists for the lump of igneous, sedimentary, or metamorphic material. Finding none, she squints at Camille.
“I assure you, Dr. Saroyan, there are no birds in here,” she says, sounding slightly disturbed by the absurdity of the presumption. “If you’re looking for the resident mineralogist, he’s right behind you,” says Brennan blandly, nodding toward the platform at their approaching colleague, Dr. Jack Hodgins.
“No, it’s you I’m after, Dr. Brennan. And you,” she chirps, crinkling her eyes into a cunning smile aimed at Angela. Over the years, these three women have worked alongside each other, come to respect each other, and, on occasion, made a concerted effort to gather socially for an evening of frivolity usually involving a cultural event followed by dessert and wine at one of their homes.
“Are you both still in?” Camille takes two steps into the room and crosses her arms in anticipation. “For a week from next Saturday? If you’re still interested, Paul is picking up the tickets this afternoon.”
She looks at both women with an expression of anticipation and excited delight. It’s been three months since they’ve gotten out together, what with new babies, and pregnancies and daughters going back to college. Though this won’t be a ‘girls only event’, none of them mind, as long as they get out. After all, Camille’s boyfriend Paul is the genius with access to the marvelous tickets for this highly anticipated performance produced by ‘The In Series’ at the Atlas Performing Arts Center.
“Oh!” The two women blurt knowingly and in unison.
“Absolutely, count me in,” says Angela warmly, with a huge grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“I am as well. I find I am quite intrigued at the prospect of hearing the revelations of such a disturbingly neglected topic. I believe I will find this performance quite informative, perhaps even invigorating,” Brennan nods with anticipation and a broad, toothy grin for her female companions.
“Hey. What’s this all about?” Pipes up the agent who until now has been slouched on the couch waiting for Brennan to finish up with Angela. “Is this another one of your cultural events?” His voice oozes haughty sarcasm.
All three women shoot Booth the stink eye and proceed to ignore him, returning their attention solely to each other. “Did you say Paul is getting us center stage seats, Row D?” Brennan asks the question of Camille.
“Oh, hell yeah,” says Angela who’d already confirmed this with Camille earlier today. “Count this culture-starved, girly-girl time-starved baby mama in!”
“That goes for me as well,” says Brennan. “I shall look forward to it!”
“Now, wait a minute,” says Hodgins, stepping into the room. “Paul is going? Why does Paul get to go?”
“Well,” starts Camille hesitantly, “this kind of performance is right up Paul’s alley,” she says, glancing deviously at her co-conspirators, “and this is an unusual kind of performance.” Camille shrugs and grimaces as if trying to let Hodgins down easily. “Paul, well, Paul’s not your usual kind of guy. I really don’t think-”
“How come I’ve never been invited to one of these estrogen fests?” Hodgins hasn’t had enough sleep. The excess of caffeine I his blood stream makes him stutter and blink rapidly when he gets frustrated or intrigued. He’s doing both now.
“Don’t go there, Hodgins,” warns Booth. “What’s gotten into you? Has someone spiked your latte with breast milk? This is a lady thing. You wanna go out for some guy time? That’s what sports and guns are for.”
“Well, I’m sick of hearing how great this Paul dude is. I’ve got just as much culture as Paul does.”
“Yeah, Jack, but all of his culture isn’t in his throat,” snorts Angela, shooting Camille and Bren a conspiratorial grin.
“Hey, I could out-culture your man Paul any day,” ejaculates Hodgins, sticking out his chest and standing up to his full height, his hands on his hips defiantly.
“Care to put your money where your mouth is, big guy,” challenges Angela snarkily, turning to face him straight on, nailing him with a flinty grin and a cocked eyebrow.
“Don’t do it,” sings Booth in falsetto from behind the group where he’s still lounging on the couch examining his tie tack. “It’s gotta be a trap. Besides, you haven’t had enough sleep to intelligently combat threats against your manhood. Believe me,” chortles Booth, staring off into the distance with a knowing smirk on his face. “I been there,” he says, straightening his tie. A father himself, Booth knows parenthood-induced sleep deprivation makes a person stupid. But Hodgins is new at this, and isn’t interested in Booth’s opinion.
“Sleep deprived or not, I’m just as cultured as the next guy. I won’t be up-staged by a supercilious gynecologist,” he says defiantly. “And neither will you, Booth. Get up here with me, buddy.”
“Oh, my God. Nope, you’re on your own, Dr. Delusional Ass Hat, PhD.,” chuckles Booth.
“Buy that extra ticket, ladies,” asserts Hodgins, thrusting his index finger into the air toward Camille. “Looks like Paul and I are the only males worth our weight in sodium chloride,” he says. “That means salt, Booth,” he stage whispers toward the lounging man’s shaking head.
“You think you’re smarter than me, Hodgins?” says Booth, eyebrows raised in mock offense, knowing a dare when he hears one. He sits up and shoots his pal a challenging smirk. “You think you can out class me with all your degrees and your vintage cars? Oh, hell no.”
He stands up and walks toward the women. “Count me in, Bones. You buy the tickets and we’ll make it a six-some.”
“Six individuals isn’t a six-some in the same way three individuals would be a threesome, Booth. Six is a sextet,” Bones corrects Booth evenly.
“I’m liking the sound of that already,” he says, chuffing. “The sex part – not all six of us together. I mean … I’m all for community, but not that kind of-”
“Shut up, Seeley,” says Camille, trying to suppress an amused smirk as she turns to leave the room. “I’ll tell Paul we’re six altogether.”
“Don’t you even want to know what the performance is? You may not even be interested in seeing it when you hear-” begins Brennan before she’s stopped short by her best friend.
“No, no, no, Bren. I think they know what they are doing.” She cocks her head to the side and attempts to wordlessly alert Brennan that this could prove quite entertaining; if they can keep it a secret until then. “We should allow them to bask in the confidence that their masculinity is secure, confident that whatever Paul is man enough to do, they can also do, and probably with much greater finesse,” she chortles, clearly amused.
“Ahhh. I see what you mean, Ange. Very astute observation,” replies Brennan, nodding slowly, a sneaky, lop-sided grin spreading across her face. “Far be it from me to deny them the joy of displaying their enlightened intellectual prowess for their mates. I shall look forward to this event a week from Saturday. What shall we serve for dessert?”
“I say … Cherries Jubile. I’m buying,” she tosses back as she leaves the room.
Brennan goes back to her computer monitor while the two men rock back and forth on their feet, exchanging smug congratulatory glances. Booth holds out his fist toward Hodgins, who bumps him back, then turns on his heal to leave, murmuring, “We’ll show them who wears the jock straps in this lab.”