In Search of a Hero

Washington, DC: Part Three

Booth woke the next morning with a greater sense of optimism than he'd felt for years. Dinner the previous night had been far more pleasant than he'd anticipated; after an afternoon surrounded by civilians and men who'd spent their entire military careers behind a desk, it had been a relief to get away from their breathless hunger for stories of blood and violence. Although General Cullen made a point of drawing him into his study for a private chat after dinner, his questions were directed toward Booth's knowledge of matters in the field and his impressions of morale and troop readiness. Like most men who'd seen the elephant, the horrors of war were real to Cullen, and not faraway bits of entertaining theatre.

Even the hotel room he'd been given contributed to his sunny outlook. While the narrow single bed was short enough that his feet hung off the end if he lay flat on his back, the mattress was firm and comfortable and the bedding was clean. The hotel also boasted the welcome addition of a private bathroom for each room, a fact which Booth was glad of, even if the combination of small tub and too-short hose meant that he had to kneel in the bathtub directly in front of the faucets in order to get any effective use out of the sprayer.

Still, at least he wasn't forced to share a hallway bathroom with the whole floor, he thought, as he took advantage of the bath again after the morning's routine of pushups and sit-ups left him sticky with sweat in the heat and humidity of May. Letting the cool water evaporate naturally on his skin, he wiped the mirror clear of fog, then tied the towel around his waist. After shaving, he patted his face dry and cast a critical look at the reflection of his chest and arms. Frowning, he raised one arm to flex the bicep and made a mental note to ask around about a local gym that might let him use a sparring bag for an hour.

A sharp rap at the door drew his attention. He tugged the knot on the towel tighter around his waist and padded over, wincing as pain lanced through the damaged soles of his bare feet. A bellhop stood just outside, holding up a freshly laundered and pressed uniform - yet another benefit the hotel offered that Booth found reason to appreciate.

Twenty minutes later, having foregone the dress uniform from the day before in favor of the more casual barracks shirt and slacks, he tucked his hat under his arm and headed to the elevator, whistling a jaunty tune.

Of course, the main reason for the day's cheerful outlook had nothing to do with his accommodations, or the perks offered by hotel management, or the surprisingly congenial dinner of the night before. As the elevator doors closed, he was only thinking of one person.

Temperance Brennan. Dr. Temperance Brennan. Bones. He spoke the nickname out loud, slowly, enjoying the way it lingered in the air . . . the way it shaped his mouth, almost like a kiss. It suited her, too, he decided, hinting at a core of strength beneath a soft appearance.

Bones.

When the elevator doors opened, he followed his nose to the dining room, where silver warming trays had been set out on tables against one wall, filled with scrambled eggs, browned toast already softening in the warm steam, fried potatoes, and stewed tomatoes. Booth filled a plate and chose an empty table where a newspaper lay discarded. Almost immediately, a waitress approached with a pot of coffee. Her keen eyes skimmed over the rank pinned to his collar.

"Morning, Captain. You want ham or sausage to go with that? We keep it in the kitchen. Can't leave it out with the rest of breakfast or you boys would eat us out of house and home."

"Sausage would be great, thanks." He spared her a brief smile as he unfolded the newspaper beside his plate and took a quick glance at his watch. Just gone seven a.m., early enough to take his time with breakfast and still get to the Treasury Department by 8 o'clock.

He ate leisurely, working his way through the first section of the paper and news of the burning of paintings by Picasso and others by the Nazis in Paris, the sinking of a German submarine in the North Atlantic, and an editorial approving Roosevelt's order sending striking workers at rubber plants in Akron, Ohio back to work under threat of federal intervention. He moved on to the sports pages and was reading yet another article about the record-setting speed of the May 21 baseball game between the White Sox and the Senators when a hand reached for the chair opposite him. He looked up as Major Hayes Flynn sat down. The back of his neck tingled but he set the paper aside and nodded easily.