Objectively, I'd Say That I'm Very Smart

Brennan wedged some rolled shirts into her suitcase, and consulted her packing list again. Between one thing and another (most of them involving the investigation at the lab) she hadn’t had time to do any packing during the last week. So here she was, the night before she was to fly to Peru, quasi-frantically putting her bag together.

She went to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and tosses several pairs of socks onto her bed, before moving on to the closet. She was rummaging around in the corner, among clothes that seldom got worn, when she heard her father come into her room.

“Dad?” Brennan called from the closet. “Dad, by any chance, have you seen my--”

She stuck her head out of the closet to find her father holding out a green twill jacket, neatly folded.

“It smelled a little on the stale side. I tossed it in the wash this morning,” Max said.

“Thanks.” Brennan smiled at her dad. “You know you don’t have to do my laundry, right?”

Max just smiled and shrugged. “It’s not any trouble. I had the time,” he said lightly.

Brennan didn’t push the point any further. She knew it was important for her father to feel that he was being of use. She understood it. As her elder, her parent, he did not want to feel that his child was taking care of him. Even though, in many ways, that was the case. Max had been living with her ever since he had been acquitted of murder—going on months now. He had insisted it would only be a temporary arrangement. Just until he could find employment and an apartment of his own.

But there wasn’t much of a job pool for aging ex-cons, especially one who had recently been at the center of a high profile murder trial ('not guilty' verdict or not). Max had squirreled some money away over the years, but it wasn’t enough to afford a place in the DC area indefinitely. Brennan had argued, time and again, the logic of him just staying where he was. Between her job at the Jeffersonian and her books, she was more than capable of supporting a household of two.

But she knew it hurt her father’s pride to think that he was ‘living off his daughter’ without contributing. Even though Brennan could point out a dozen times over the past months when having him there to lean on was all that kept her standing some days. Emotional support was largely intangible. Doing laundry, cooking, taking care of household errands—those were more easily quantified.

“It’s going to be quiet around here next week with you gone,” he said, taking a seat on the bed, while Brennan tucked her jacket into her bag.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Brennan replied. “I can get another plane ticket, easy.”

Not technically true. But she wouldn’t have to pull too many strings.

Max just shook his head. “I’m a bit too old to be traipsing around the jungle,” he said. “Not to mention riding herd on a couple of college kids. You’re brave.”

Brennan smiled. “They’re very responsible young adults, Dad.”

“Well, that Hannah seems to have a good head on her shoulders, at any rate.” Max had met Hannah in passing on a couple of occasions since his trial. “She reminds me of you at that age.”

“Dad, you didn’t know me when I was Hannah’s age.”

“Well.” There was a slight awkward pause. “How I imagine you must have been.”

“Hannah’s a great deal more socially adept than I was at eighteen.” Brennan zipped her bag closed. “You’re sure you’ll be all right here on your own?”

“Tempe. Honey. I’ve been looking after myself for a very long time. I’ll be fine.” He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And you’ll have a great time. You can bring me back a souvenir or something.”

Brennan smiled. “And two weeks after I come back, Poco is going to be playing in DC. We should go.”

“You’ve got yourself a date, kid. Breakfast at six? Your flight’s early.”

“Sounds good.”

When the memorandum had come down from the head of the Jeffersonian Institution, Brennan had first read it in disbelief, then printed it off and taken it to Cam (who, of course, had already seen it).

In due course, Brennan, along with a subdued Cam, found themselves in the office of Dr. Albert Greer, one of the Jeffersonian’s most senior administrators.

“I should think it was very clear, Dr. Brennan,” Dr. Greer said. “In light of Dr. Addy’s involvement with the serial killer referred to by your department as ‘Gormogon,’” Dr. Greer’s lips pursed—the media had taken the nickname and run with it, adding one more layer of sensation to an already sensational story, “the Medico-Legal lab and its employees are under official review. Effective immediately.”

“But I don’t understand,” Brennan said. “We’ve filed reports. We filled out the review questionnaires that were given to us.” Brennan looked over at Cam who was standing with her arms crossed, staring at the edge of Dr. Greer’s desk. “What more is there to be said? Or done?”

Dr. Greer raised his white eyebrows in what looked a great deal like disbelief.

“Dr. Brennan, those reports and reviews were just the preliminaries. The Medico-Legal lab is being thoroughly investigated not only by the Jeffersonian, but by the FBI and the US Attorney’s office. And I’ll have you know that there are people at high levels of all three organizations who are saying that it should have been done a long time ago, given some of the, shall we say ‘colorful incidents’ that have come to be associated with you and your colleagues.”

Brennan had no good reply to that, and the glance that she threw at Cam was more than a little guilty. Hodgins’s less than honest actions on the Brancroft case. Angela’s refusal to testify in court against Brennan’s father. Brennan’s own reinterpretation of the facts of that case to generate reasonable doubt about her father’s guilt. They had thought that they had lucked out in that there had been no real backlash over any of it.

Maybe Cam simply hadn’t passed it down to them.

Dr. Greer got up from his chair, standing as imposingly behind his desk as his short stature would allow.

Unfortunately, he didn’t really need a height advantage. The message he was delivering was damning enough.

“I don’t think you appreciate exactly how badly the credibility of the entire lab has been compromised, Dr. Brennan. Every case that Dr. Addy contributed to in his capacity as a forensic anthropologist now has the potential to be reopened. We may very well be facing legal action from the families of Gormogon’s victims. And while none of us might legally be charged with severe lapse in judgment in not realizing that a killer was working right on the premises, rest assured that that is going to be scrutinized as well.”

“So, you and your colleagues will cooperate. Fully. That means making yourselves available to answer questions. Completing written reports and reviews. Giving investigators full access to your files, phone logs, email accounts, and anything else tied to this institution that they deem worthy of reviewing. And, in general, not drawing any more attention to your department if you all wish to keep your jobs. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, sir,” Cam said, taking hold of Brennan’s arm (and squeezing a little bit harder than strictly necessary). “I’ll be calling a staff meeting this afternoon to make sure that everyone is informed and knows how to proceed.”

Dr. Greer grunted and dismissed them with a wave.

Brennan managed to keep her peace until they were on the mezzanine, crossing over from the administrative offices. “I can understand a review, but I can’t believe that they would carry it to these lengths. What good is it going to do?”

Cam sighed and halted. The mezzanine was largely deserted, only a few people coming and going on the floor below.

“The good it’s going to do is that it will prove to the higher ups and to the public that they are taking this seriously.” Cam held up one hand to cut off what was to be Brennan’s immediate reply. “Yes—you and I know that we all already take this seriously. But people have screwed up big-time, and someone has to pay. And that someone is us. The lab. This is politics. They’ll slap us in the doghouse for a while, and the end result, when this all blows over, will be that we can go back to work as usual.” Cam sighed heavily. “Or as close to it as we’re going to be able to get.”

“But for how long? With what they’re describing, how long is this going to take?” Brennan asked.

“If we’re lucky? Weeks. Since I don’t see us getting that lucky, it’s probably going to be more like months.”

Brennan all but gaped at her boss. “But…months? We’re not being allowed to work any cases that may go to trial until the review is completed. Months? They’ll put cases on hold that long?”

Cam shook her head. “In those cases, they’ll likely send remains either down to Tennessee or out to Northwestern. Or there is a good possibility that they’ll bring teams in from outside to use our facilities. You’d better be prepared for that.”

Cam sounded as if she could use some preparation herself, at the thought of outside contractors being brought in to work in the Jeffersonian’s lab.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Brennan asked.

Cam shrugged.

“There are plenty of historic bones down in Limbo waiting to be identified. War remains—no one is going to care if you work on those. The geology and mineralogy departments can keep Hodgins busy. Angela will probably have an arm-long list of people wanting her help with exhibits and displays. And I’ll be making nice with investigators.”

“And we’ll cooperate. And hope like hell that they don’t decide to string anyone up as an example.”

“I’m not going. I’ve already made that clear.”

“It’s Agent Booth’s funeral, Dr. Brennan,” Dr. Sweets said. “Losing a loved one is--”

“A partner, Sweets. I lost a partner,” Brennan corrected, coldly.

Partner in this context implied a relationship based on the necessities of a work environment rather than any sort of emotional connection. Brennan had fallen back on that label for Booth more and more in the past two weeks. It’s easier to lose a partner than a friend.

Funerals, in Brennan’s mind, are largely pointless. They are nothing more than elaborate social rituals designed to give people an acceptable outlet for grief. The funeral allows you to grieve so you can come to terms with his death, was what Sweets had said.

Brennan, in her mind, had already come to terms with Booth’s death. There had been the period of shock while her mind had adjusted to the state. There had been an hour or so of open grief when she had accepted it (her father’s concern and hovering had far outlasted the grieving period). And now, logically, there is nothing to be done but move forward.

She did not feel the need to partake of a ritual that was, at its core, more for the living than the dead.

But in the end she had gone for the living. Angela could be very persuasive.

If nothing else, she could be the voice of calm and rationality for the rest of the team.

Brennan was so calm and rational that when a very much alive Booth broke out of the line of Honor Guard to tackle the strange man approaching the casket to pay respects (a casket that, during the melee, was upended reveling a weighted dummy body inside) she couldn’t even react with shock.

Instinct born out of three years of partnership had taken over as Brennan watched Booth grapple with the stranger. She grabbed one of the dummy’s arms and clubbed the strange man over the head, knocking him unconscious.

Much to the apparent delight of Booth. Booth, whom she had thought dead for the last two weeks.

“Bones! Nice shot!” he said, grinning down at her. The grin faltered a bit as he took in her expression. “What?”

Brennan just stared up at him for a moment. She had thought this man was dead. And given the logical improbability of an afterlife, and his absence from Milliways, she had come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again. Gone forever.

Brennan looked up at her partner. Her friend. Her loved one.

Then slugged him in the face for all she was worth.

And walked away.

Brennan finds herself preoccupied with numbers.

Sometimes it’s just easier to think in terms of numbers.

In the year 2007 the number of law enforcement officers feloniously killed in the line of duty was 57. The 57 deaths occurred in 51 separate incidents across 25 different states. Among the officers killed, the average age was 37. The officers had served in law enforcement for an average of 10 years. Of the 57 officers, all 57 were male; 47 were white.

It seems wrong that Booth should be boiled down to a statistic.

Brennan knows that some might argue the accuracy of the statement that Booth had been killed in the line of duty. Technically he had been off-duty. Having a fun night out with his friends.

If stepping in front of a bullet to keep it from hitting your partner doesn’t constitute ‘in the line of duty’ Brennan doesn’t know what does.

4:08 AM was the time at which the surgeon had come out to tell the room full of waiting Squints that Booth had been pronounced dead at 3:56.

There were 6 people that Brennan could think of off-hand who were not present at the hospital and would need to be informed of the news. The first 5—Booth’s mother and father, his brother, and his son and Rebecca--she knew that Booth’s superiors would take responsibility for contacting.

That left the 6th. And though she knew the number without even having to open her cell phone directory, Brennan didn’t dial it. At 4:31 AM she left the hospital and drove the 23 minutes to Hannah’s dorm at GW (the odd hour made for light traffic and allowed her to maintain an average speed of 52 miles per hour).

The night guard at Hannah’s dorm had taken one look at Brennan and immediately admitted her when she said she was there regarding a personal emergency. She didn’t know what he had seen that made him move so quickly, but she was, in a detached fashion, grateful for his efficiency. She rides the silent elevator up to the 3rd floor, walks the 17 paces to the door of 14C and knocks 3 times on the door.

And then 3 times again.

“Dr. Brennan? Dr. Brennan, I’m back.”

Brennan looks up from attempting to feed her charge (the baby seems more interested in trying to grab and pry her fingers off the bottle than in eating, but according to her calculations it’s time for him to be getting hungry again). One of the Jeffersonian’s interns (Brennan is pretty sure his name is Jason) is standing in the doorway of her office, loaded down with bags from Babies-R-Us.

Babies require a great deal of gear. Brennan had sent Jason off with a credit card and a list fully three pages long. She’s rather impressed that he’s managed to complete the errand in such a timely manner.

“Thank you, Jason,” she replies, sitting back and leaving off trying to get the baby to take the bottle for the moment (especially since he is now arching his back and head against the back of his infant seat, trying to see the source of the new voice). “You can set the bags over on the sofa.”

Jason does as she asks, and (for no logical reason that Brennan can see, since she had given him the list and therefore knows approximately what he has purchased) begins to give her a summary of what he bought. He seems quite enthusiastic about the process in point of fact.

Either Jason is ridiculously eager to please a superior or his metaphorical biological clock is ticking.

“I found everything you asked for, Dr. Brennan. Diapers, wipes, some extra bottles, formula, burp cloths, some blankets. A baby monitor with extra batteries. Some of these plastic rings—my sister’s baby loves these things.” Jason holds up a colorful, interlocking toy. “And clothes in the sizes you specified.” He pulls out a stack of clothes in yellows, beiges, and tans. “I did an undergraduate study in cultural anthropology on gender stereotyping from infancy onward in Western society and the movement among a minority of parents to choose gender neutral clothing and toys for their children. So, I found these and thought they’d be appropriate.”

He unfolds a few of the items. Which are indeed very gender neutral.

And liberally decorated with teddy bears.

Brennan feels herself blanch slightly.

This may very well be her first ‘fucking Milliways’ moment. If Brennan were aware that such a tradition existed.

The intern’s wide smile falters. “Dr. Brennan? If….if you don’t like these, I’m sure the store would be willing to exchange--”

“No,” Brennan replies hastily. “No, they’re fine.” Jason doesn’t look quite convinced, and Brennan sighs inwardly, trying to think of what Angela or Booth would say to reassure him of the validity of his choices. “I appreciate the amount of thought you put into picking them. Thank you.”

The intern goes on his way, happy with the praise. Brennan shakes her head and picks a sleeper from the pile (yellow with a bear on the chest and bear-paw patterned feet).

“Just so you know,” Brennan says to the baby as she unsnaps his old sleeper, “teddy bears are a very popular motif and toy for young children. But should you ever find yourself in a pocket universe outside of this dimension, they should not be trusted. I know this from experience.”

The baby laughs and kicks his legs.

“You laugh, but I’m quite serious. If you ever meet an animate, talking teddy bear, do not let it hug you. Run away from it.”

Which, Brennan reflects, is probably good advice whether Milliways is involved or not.

Previously...

In her suite at the Neptune Grand, Brennan is taking full advantage of the wireless internet. One of the many amenities the Grand affords its guests. The hotel really does live up to its reputation (no matter what quasi-snide remarks Booth--quartered at the Camelot--may have made about it).

While she has a bit of a breather, she wants to check in with her fellow squints. Brennan dials the number for the lab, using the speakerphone feature to leave her hands free for sorting through data and files. The call is picked up midway through the second ring.

When her father had offered to help her find Booth, Brennan had had a pretty good idea that his methods would involve less reason and diplomacy and more intimidation and blunt force. Max Keenan does have distinct sociopathic tendancies, no matter what Booth said about the man's sense of honor.

But Brennan was scared enough for Booth that she was actually okay with that.

Ironically, Brennan was the one who had gotten truly violent, and her father had had to hold her back.

Finding the tooth was what had done it. Brennan knows in her gut that it is Booth's (not that she'd ever admit such a thing aloud). The same infected anterior molar she had harassed him into letting her examine. But they need evidence, not gut feeling. Which requires tests at the lab. Which takes time.

Waiting is maddening, but it does give her time to update a certain honorary member of the squint-squad.

Brennan's having a hard time not smiling these days. It tends to just creep up on her.

It's been a week since she made the first move on Sully. For once her instincts had been right on the money. Making the first move had definitely been the way to go.

And ever since she's had a hard time not smiling. Behold the power of endorphins.

Which is why she's smiling idly at her computer screen as she scrolls through images of a dismembered arm.

Brennan cuts off the burner and lifts the tea kettle before the whistle can do more than cough and sputter. Not that she really thinks that the noise will wake up Hannah, who is asleep in the living room. Hannah had dropped off to sleep the moment she'd curled up on the sleeper sofa, arms wrapped tight across her chest, around a small pink and gray stuffed mouse. And by the look of it, nothing short of a demolition crew is going to wake her up.

Hannah's stint in Milliways had apparently involved very little sleep.

Brennan pours the water into a pair of mugs, and carries the steeping tea over to the kitchen table, handing one to Angela. Angela had been waiting on the doorstep when Brennan had returned from the Jeffersonian with Hannah.

"You know you didn't have to leave Hodgins and come all the way down here in the middle of the night," Brennan says. She smiles faintly. "But I have to say, I'm really glad you did."