The Bar at the End of the Universe

Brennan is rifling quasi-frantically through a box of papers. Correspondence mostly. And contracts. All of it from her literary agent, publishing house, and publicist.

Sitting a little apart from the other papers is a glossy black folder overlaid with X-ray graphics. On top of it is a letter. Every few seconds Brennan gives the pair a glance of what can only be described as horrified disbelief.

She will admit that, over the last couple of months, she had been distracted. Between Gormogon, Zach, the administrative review, and tensions in the lab, in retrospect she had been overwhelmed and not at her best, mentally or emotionally. And she does vaguely recall signing something from her agent about agreeing to act in an advisory capacity for a forensics television show. And yes, she probably (clearly) hadn’t read it as closely as she should have.

But surely, surely she’d remember if she had signed off on a television show inspired not only by her books, but by her life.

Right?

Right?

There’s no real logic in the phrase, Getting things back to normal.

It’s impossible to get things back to normal. (Time travel exists only in theory in the real world). When the circumstances of your life change, there is no way to reestablish normality exactly as it was. Instead, a new version of normal slowly emerges to take its place.

Such as it is in the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab.

The press has wrung every bit of news and drama from the Gormogon case. The internal investigation and reviews are all but over. And the professional community has begun to acknowledge the existence of Brennan and her team again. The lab and team are still adapting to the new order, but they seemed to have hit a more or less stable plateau.

For Brennan, part of the new normal is hiring a new intern/assistant. It will be difficult. Zach set the bar very high. But they need the extra pair of hands in the lab. She has half a dozen promising applicants. Forensic Anthropology is a rarefied enough field that the pool is small and select.

Brennan has a cup of coffee and the applicant files, and is carefully weighing and measuring strengths and weaknesses.

Botherable.

Brennan dashes off her signature one last time, slaps the folder closed in something akin to triumph, and drops her pen on top of it.

Her agent had sent the packet of papers to her to be signed last week. But with the investigation ongoing at the lab, and Peru to get ready for, Brennan had set them aside and forgotten about them until Morgan had called her this morning to ask about them.

After Morgan had stopped hyperventilating around Need them by Wednesday and What do you mean you’re leaving the country for a week? Brennan assured him that she would overnight them tomorrow.

She hadn’t taken the time to do more than glance over the papers. She trusts Morgan with the writing side of her life. There had been an agreement about a paperback deal, some publicity sign-offs, a royalties agreement, and something about a possible television series. Skeletons in the Closet. Wanting her in an advisory capacity, or something. Assuming it ever makes it on the air, Brennan’s first bit of advice would be to find a better name.

Now, duty discharged, Brennan sits back, relaxes, and orders a cup of coffee.

Decaf. She has to be up early tomorrow.

[OOM: Hodgins is AWOL. Angela is worried, and Brennan wishes she could do more to help.]

Brennan’s laptop is up and running, and her table is strewn with papers. Field reports, maps, articles, correspondence, photographs. But none of it has anything to do with a current crime scene. Granted, some of the ancient skeletons unearthed at the pyramid in a remote corner of Peru had probably been the victims of foul play. But the statute of limitations has long since run out.

With the Jeffersonian’s Medico-Legal lab still under investigation, Brennan is effectively barred from working any case that might go to trial. But archeological cases are still fair game. And when Brennan had contacted her old professor and colleague, Dr. Shulman, to ask if he would like her assistance (and the assistance of two able bodied college students) for a week, the old man had responded with his usual brand of enthusiasm.

Slave labor? And three of you? I’ll meet you at the airport myself. And I may not take you back until the end of the season.

So now begins the prep work. Brennan had worked the first dig at this site, but that had been years ago. She needs to refresh her memory. And there are a lot of new discoveries to catch up on.

Hannah was right. This is just what she needs.

[OOM: In the wake of Gormogon, the hot water at the Jeffersonian just keeps getting deeper for the Squints.

If there is one thing that Brennan excels at, it's compartmentalization. It's a useful skill, especially during otherwise hectic times.

Next week, she and her father are flying out to Ohio, to participate in their first official family Christmas in over fifteen years. Brennan is looking forward to it, but it does leave her with a lot to get done.

On a number of fronts.

She started out this evening in the bar with work from the lab--a shattered skull in need of reconstruction. The skull is now pieced together, resting on a stand while the glue sets.

Its eyeless sockets are watching Brennan as she moves on to her next task--wrapping her nieces Christmas presents.

Brennan measures out a precise square of red and green paper (just enough to wrap a crystal-growing kit from the Jeffersonian gift shop) and sheers her scissors neatly through.

Booth is still recovering (bullet wounds to the chest require a high degree of recuperative time, especially when the patient insists in interrupting the healing process to apprehend a fugitive). But aside from that, life is getting back to normal for Brennan.

Even so, she's taking it easy in the bar tonight. She's curled up in one of the easy chairs near the hearth, a cup of coffee at her elbow, thoroughly engrossed in Burial Rites of the Ancient Celts.

It's relaxing.

Booth had been able to come to Milliways in life. Therefore it is logical to extrapolate that he will be able to come to Milliways in death. That is what has brought Brennan to the bar tonight.

She cannot articulate a specific reason why she wants to find him. To thank him? To say good-bye? To evaluate his mental state in the wake of his death? To berate him for stepping in front of the bullet that was intended for her?

If she were to allow herself to respond emotionally, she would know that it is none of these things. He had been her friend. She just wants to see him again.

A cursory search of the bar and of the surrounding grounds has not revealed any sign of him. But that doesn’t mean that he might not appear. So Brennan is set to wait it out for a while, at a table with a good view of the bar in general and the door in particular. And just in case she’s missed anything, there is a handwritten sign on her table:

Seeking information regarding Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI
Earth—Washington DC—2008
Human. Caucasian. Male.
Age 37 6’1” Brown/Brown
Deceased

In the year 2007, the number of law enforcement officers feloniously killed in the line of duty was 57.

The number for 2008 has just increased by 1.