Shrink

4

"You know," I tried once again. "walking faster than me doesn't make you seem any more important than me."
Sweets forged on through a grassy patch behind a burned out barn.
"Just more of an asshole," I muttered.
We approached a section of grass criss-crossed with police tape and edged with burned grass and a mish-mash of charred human remains. It seemed as if someone had shoved a stick of dynamite down the guy's throat.
"Finally!" huffed a man older than Sweets, uncrossing his big arms and gesturing at us. "oh-HO! You must be the new squintern."
Begrudgingly, I brushed my hair off of my sweaty forehead and nodded at the suited man with colourful socks poking out from his shoes.
"So, get cracking. Bones went to go meet the crack FBI forensics truck to go get the equipment she needs. All she said was "bla bla bla, wait for the intern to get here, bla bla bla"."
"Booth," cut in Sweets. "she isn't even officially on duty yet, she's not professionally trained, she's high strung; I mean we both are from that long car ride, but the point is"—
"Okay, we get it, your shrinky boy hormones are running high, that happens when ya hit puberty, Sweets," chuckled Booth.
Sweets pursed his lips in frustration, and I could feel the tension running up my spine as I heard a familiar voice say, "Ah, Sweets, you made it."
The psychologist turned around and faced Doctor Brennan, taking his hands out of his pockets and raising them in an "oh well" gesture.
"Ms. Antoine," stated the doctor curiously. She seemed surprised, as I too mentally did an "oh well" gesture.
"The b-board a-assigned-d me, Doctor B-B-B."
It annoyed me to no end that my stutter should chose that time to appear, as professional FBI agents canvassed the scene, as Booth eyed me curiously, along with Doctor Brennan. Sweets seemed a little sorry for himself.
"Booth sent her along with me," he said tersely.
Doctor Brennan shook her head, as if to re-compartmentalize everything in there, and surged on into the scene, ignoring me.
"Go on, squint girl," prodded Booth, giving me a what may have seemed perhaps as a friendly push in any other circumstances but now.
Tip-toeing around charred grass clumps and semi-burned internal organs, I made my way to the stumpy figure in the centre.
The smell of human remains never bothered me, but my nose died a little as the smell of burned feces wafted strongly from what I assumed to be the burst large intestine.
"Ms. Antoine, I would like for you to do the preliminaries," said Doctor B. curtly.
So she can have me fired more quickly.
Inhaling deeply, I inspected the body with careful eyes as I knelt across from her.
"Prominent mastoid indicates male, mid to late fifties, judging by the wear on the teeth, caucasian, from the looks of the brow bone."
I exhaled, proud that I had gotten through with the worst being a dry mouth.
"I concur," said Doctor Brennan simply.
Fine, no frills, I get it.
"Damage to the maxillary, congruent with something being shoved into his mouth and down his throat, chipping the teeth," I noted, putting a latexed thumb to the upper jaw, dotted with wormy grooves. "and from what I can tell, the explosion was not cause of death."
Doctor Brennan took this as an opening.
"I would appreciate if we don't jump to conclusions, Ms. Antoine."
Her smug face said it all.
"No hemorrhagic staining in any of the radiating fractures on what's left of the costals. The explosion was likely to hide the real cause," I answered, gesturing at the broken, but bloodless rib-ends.
"Oh. Alright, this was a homicide," said Brennan, turning to Booth, who whooped, "homicide!".
His enthusiasm was a little strange as he instructed for everything to be carted back to the Jeffersonian.
"Alright, meet you back at the lab," said Doctor Brennan.
Personally, I wasn't sure which was worse; another few hours in the car with a grouchy Sweets, or an undetermined amount of time in a lab with Doctor Brennan.
"Papillon," said Sweets, who was already heading back to the car. "come on, I need coffee."
Not looking back to Doctor Brennan whom I was sure was burning a hole in my back with her intense gaze, and Booth, who was muddling over whoever "Papillon" was, I followed, leaving the ugly scene behind me.

"Coulda grabbed coffee before we left the lab," I muttered to Sweets as we reached the Interstate.
"Yes, well, you drank it all," said Sweets tiredly, but not unkindly.
I sank back into the seat miserably, embarrassed.
"Do you even like coffee?" asked Sweets suddenly.
I turned to face him, unsure if he was serious. His serious brown eyes never left my face.
"Well, not really," I began slowly. "it's just I tend to get dizzy and a little overwhelmed sometimes, which makes me drowsy."
Sweets nodded nearly imperceptibly.
"I could tell."
"You're shitting me," I retorted. Rude. Oh well. "you can't seriously know I hate coffee when you saw me chugging it by the bucket loads this morning."
"Yes I can," said Sweets, smiling smugly. "see, people who drink coffee in the morning either enjoy it, or they drink it for the stimulation. You were, as you said in your terms, 'chugging it'. Someone who enjoys coffee would occasionally pause, or drink slower."
Before I could retort, he had pulled into a drive-thru and was ordering coffee.
"Hi, can I get a medium regular coffee with two sugars and two creams please?"
"Will that be all?" asked the lady on the speaker.
Sweets spared me a glance, and leaned back out to respond.
"No, actually, can I also have a large green tea, please?"
There was a pause.
"Sugar or milk?"
"Yes, two of each," said Sweets.
Throughout this entire exchange, I was staring at the back of Sweet's head,..angrily? No, more with avid confusion and slight dismay that he had also figured out I liked tea.
"Here, careful, it's hot," he warned, passing me a steaming to-go cup.
As I contemplated the frothy tea, Sweets had turned on the jazz again, boppy piano filling the small space.
"Thanks."
Sweets nodded.
"Is your surname Sweets or is that your last name? Or maybe a nickname?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
Sweets seemed intrigued by my breaching the peaceful music.
"It's my last name. My first name is Lance."
"Like the weapon."
"Like the weapon," he concurred.
"You seem more like a Teddy, or maybe a Grouchy Smurf, than a weapon," I acknowledged.
The rest of the ride was spent in an uncomfortable silence.