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Brains and Brawn

Booth was quiet the entire ride to the diner. Not a calm quiet that set Brennan at ease and helped her think.
Not even the tense quiet that was usually present after a difficult case. This quiet was full of annoyed glances from
Booth that withered her words before they made it out of her mouth. She replayed the conversations that they shared
that day, but was unable to find the reason he would feel animosity towards her.

The silence didn’t ease when they entered the diner and settled at their corner table. Booth took the chair
with his back to the wall, facing the room. The chair scraped angrily as he pulled himself up to the table. Brennan sat
down with more grace and regarded her partner curiously from her seat. Being a straightforward person and
disliking the mood that Booth was in, she tried to formulate the best response to his obvious hostility. She did not
consider herself to be a person who was an expert in ways to diffuse tension, but she had found that being open and
honest about her failings with her partner had given her some leeway to make mistakes with regards to her lack of
understanding.

“Why are you angry at me, Booth?” she asked plainly. His jaw clenched tighter and he took a deep breath
through his nose before answering.

“It’s nothing, Bones. Just drop it,” he stated, snapping his wrists forward to make his sleeves fall
comfortably on his wrists. The movement pulled his jacket tightly across his shoulders and made his tension even
more evident.

“Obviously it is not ‘nothing,’ Booth. You have been acting strange ever since we left the Jeffersonian. I
would like to know the reason you are upset,” she said calmly as tried to catch his gaze, “Partners share things, and
as your partner, I’d like to know why you are angry.”

“Yeah, well, partners also stick up for each other: defend each other to people outside their partnership,” he
responded bitterly, “Even if your partner is just a dumb guy from the FBI.”

“I defend you, Booth,” she countered in confusion. He made a jerky movement in his seat and with a sound
of disbelief, he finally met her eyes.

“You didn’t bother to defend me today to that hotshot doctor from the Jeffersonian. And I know you heard
him because you smiled when he laughed. It’s like if the guy’s got a few doctorates, they can insult your partner all
day and get away with it,” he fumed. Finding that he was on the edge of his seat, leaning menacingly over the table,
he forcefully pulled himself back and took a deep breath through his nose.

“I’m not sure what you are referring to,” Brennan said, searching her memory for an incident that he could
have misconstrued. She knew that if anyone, even a doctor that she worked closely with, had insulted Booth, she
would have corrected their mistaken assumptions. She had even defended Booth to Angela a few times, knowing
that it would cause Ange to question the professional nature of her relationship with her partner.

Booth let out his breath in a huff. “That fat doctor who stared at your chest the entire time you talked, the
one that’s the specialist in the icon stuff, he said that I was nothing more than FBI muscle and then laughed. And
you smiled! I mean, come on, Bones. I may not be a genius with three doctorates, but I thought I was more to you
than muscle from the FBI!” He slumped wearily in his chair after his outburst. Rationally Brennan knew that the
biochemicals coursing through the body during what was perceived as an “emotional outburst” often led to fatigue
after they were expended, but she didn’t think that the lack of adrenaline in his body accounted for the look of
exhaustion that replaced his anger.

After a moment of quiet reflection, she answered his outburst. “I didn’t believe that you needed defending
in that instance,” she said softly. He looked at her with disgust and sadness. She knew that she had said the wrong
thing to ease his mind and rushed to continue.
 “Did you know that there are three types of muscle in the human body?” she asked. Without waiting for
him to respond, she continued, “Each type of muscle has a different purpose, though they are all closely related to
each other.”

“I don’t want a lecture from you, Bones,” Booth said, smoothing a hand over his face, “I’m not in the
mood.”

“It’s an explanation,” she clarified. He made a grudging “continue” gesture and she sat up straighter in her
seat. “One type of muscle is smooth muscle. It’s not what is normally thought of when the term muscle is used, but
it’s extremely important to bodily function. It lines much of the digestive tract, for example, and controls the
movement of food from one part of the digestive system to another. Smooth muscle is the essence of quiet control.
You never think about the job that it does until that job is somehow hindered.

“Another type of muscle is skeletal muscle. It’s the type most people refer to when they talk about muscles.
The skeletal muscles, with few exceptions, are attached to bones, and when they contract, they move the skeleton.
They provide movement to an otherwise stagnant system.”

“Is there a point to this science lesson, Bones?” Booth interrupted in annoyance.

“Of course there is, Booth,” she replied. “I always have a point in sharing information with you.”

“Then get to it,” he said.

She nodded, then leaned forward slightly as she made her point. “You, Special Agent Seeley Booth of the
FBI, exhibit all the characteristics that I think of when I consider the muscles in the human body. You are the
essence of quiet control. It is obvious in the interrogation room or at a crime scene or even when you drive. You
always make sure things go as smoothly as possible, and I am so accustomed to how well you do your job that I
forget until your job is somehow hindered by an outside influence. You also bring movement and change to
whatever environment you are in, most notably at the Jeffersonian. You pulled me out of stagnation, brought
movement to your ‘Bones.’”

She smiled at the pun as she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. He matched her stance,
placing his crossed arms on the table and leaning towards her. The annoyance had left his face completely and was
replaced by a small smile and a twinkle in his brown eyes.

“You said that there were three types of muscle,” he remarked. She nodded and continued.

“The last is cardiac muscle—the heart,” she said gently. “Although the physical heart muscle has nothing to
do with the actual processing and interpreting of biochemical pathways related to emotion, it is often used as a
representation for the seat of the emotions. You have more heart than anyone I know, Booth. And you are perceptive
enough to see the emotions of others where most people would miss them. I admire that about you very much,
Booth, and I do consider you to be the ‘muscle’ of our partnership.”

For a long, intense moment neither partner spoke. Finally Booth broke the comfortable silence. “You know,
Bones, you have a lot of muscle too,” he said sincerely. His smile became a grin that was mirrored by Brennan.
“Especially the part about control,” he teased, “You are one of the bossiest people I know, always having to be in
control of every little thing.”

“I do not have to be in control of everything!” she retorted incredulously.

“Well, what about today when that poor tech carried the box of evidence up to the platform and you yelled
at him because he hadn’t waited for you to tell him?”

“He could’ve compromised the evidence!” she argued, letting her pitch climb to add emphasis to her
words.
 “He did exactly what you would’ve wanted him to,” he reasoned with his cocky smirk on his face, “His
only mistake was taking initiative and not allowing you to be in complete control.”

They would have continued their bickering, but Vera, their regular waitress, had come to collect their
orders as soon as she noticed their argument change from tense to comfortable. They ordered their usual and settled
back to enjoy the coffee she brought. Booth stirred sugar into his absently as he watched Brennan doctor her coffee.

“Thanks Bones,” he said quietly.

“For what?” she asked curiously, taking a sip.

“For not thinking I’m just a dumb FBI guy,” he said, watching her face closely, “And for making what I
thought of as an insult into a compliment. You know, you’re pretty smart.”

“I’m just living up to my reputation, Booth,” she said cheekily. “I’m the one with the brains. You’re the
one with the muscles.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End