Daddy's Little Bug - A Series of Oneshots - Rated T posted by Susan1234 [07/10/2007]

So I've decided to begin posting this story here. If you've already been reading this story, you can just scroll down...I have a new chapter up. Yahoo! For those of you new to the plot, this story is a series of oneshots following the life of Angela and Hodgins's daughter--fluff and humor galore!

Disclaimer: Not mine.


I can’t have friends over to my house. Ever. It’s not that I’m not allowed. On the contrary. Mom’s constantly badgering me, insisting that I invite someone to stay for the weekend. But I can’t. Why, you ask? My Dad just ends up scaring the poor girl out of her wits. Is it so hard to stay put in the lab? I really don’t ask for all that much. He’s got plenty down there to keep himself entertained. There’s microscopes and fancy...metal-ly...state-of-the-art...technological equipment. The walls are cluttered with samples of dead moths, bees, butterflies, exotic beetles...and that’s just the stuff I can understand. I avoid it at all costs.

He sounds geeky, I know. But that’s what my parents are: official geeks. Squints, really. But Mom’s not too bad. Dad, well, he’s just beyond help. Rubber bands were never in style, and God knows they never will be.

Once, I invited Chrissie to the house for a sleepover. Yeah, big mistake. How are you supposed to explain that the main house is north of the tennis courts, not east? And that the crazy man living above the garage isn’t a homeless freak that we saved from the streets of D.C.?

Dinner was a nightmare. I know Zach can’t help it, but for pity’s sake, must he discuss every documentary he watches on television, especially when it’s about the ritualistic sexual positions of the ancient Aztecs? Seriously. No thirteen-year-old girl wants to hear about old Indian people going at it. And I just about died when Dad mentioned the latest case to Mom. Dress it up with as much technical lingo as you like; nothing, nothing, is cool about maggots. Nothing. Especially the shriveled up kind. Nothing.

Yeah, the whole slumber party thing? So not happening.

But it’s not all bad. Mom and I have our own art studio. I painted it myself. I tried to go for an abstract look. Lots of swirls and twists and turns. Kind of like life, you know? You never know where a road will take you, whether it’ll be good or bad, if you’ll end up sad or happy. I made it colorful, too. Pinks and reds and a dash of orange...those signify energy and warmth...kind of like me: bubbly and free. I mixed those with some blues and blacks and silvers. A mish mash of colors keeps you searching. Focusing on one thing can be boring. I mean, just look at Dad. I’ve learned that if you explore a bit, you never know what you’ll find.

Melodramatic, I know. Admittedly, I’m just a sappy romantic, the kind that believes in love at first sight. I sob my eyes dry at the end of sad movies, regardless of whom I’m with or where I am. I’m a big believer in being yourself. I’m content to just stare at a sunset or watch the clouds. Cheesy, yeah, I know, but true.

And ironically, my name means rational. So not me. I’m the least logical, rational person I know. Mom’s the same way. But I like my name. Alyssa Mae Hodgins. It has a ring to it. I like the name Lissie, too. Better yet, Daddy’s Little Bug. Dad’s called me that since I was just in diapers, and I’m still his Little Bug after thirteen years. No one calls me that expect Daddy. No one. I make sure of that.

And in the summers, I tag along with my parents to work any chance I get. Not for the work aspect, I assure you. Rotting corpses and slime aren’t my cup of tea. What kind of girl do you think I am? I go to see...him. Who’s him, you ask? Parker Booth, just about the hottest heartthrob ever to walk the planet, and trust me, I’m not exaggerating. Nothing can compare to those big, brown, puppy dog eyes...and don’t get me started on his muscles...or his hair. He must go to the gym at least once a week ‘cause let me tell you...abs don’t get any harder than Parker Booth’s. He must use this super-dooper-male-hair-conditioning-gel on those wavy, blondish locks of his. They’re always combed to perfection. I could stare at him for hours on end, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. He’s sinfully sexy.

The age difference just seems to disappear in my fantasies, and believe me, I have plenty of them...probably more than a thirteen-year-old girl should have. Besides, six years isn’t a lot. Just think: by the time I’m nineteen, he’ll be twenty-five, which isn’t that bad at all. And I deserve someone more experienced anyway. He’ll come around eventually. I’m sure of it.

When I’m not staring at Parker, I’m watching Aunt Bren. The woman’s a genius. Seriously. I’d fall asleep if I had to stare at piles of smelly, old bones all day. But she never tires, almost to a fault. Mom says she’s a workaholic, but I say that’s dedication. Aunt Bren is the most amazing woman I know, save Mom. She’s all for fighting her own battles and whatnot. I like that about her. She’s living proof that nothing can get in the way of your goals unless you let it.

And it’s even better when Booth is there. The two are priceless. It’s a wonder they’ve managed to work together all these years without killing each other. She’s says black, he’ll say white. He say’s up, she’ll go down. She turns right, he’ll turn left. The two clash on just about everything, yet they compliment each other perfectly in everyway. Mom says that connections like that are rare, and I agree. Aunt Bren and Booth have something special. Something that keeps them going, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do they part.

Of course, as much as it may nauseate me, so do Mom and Dad. They’ll always be Angie and Hodgie, together forever. Who knew that boring, stuffy labs could be so romantic? I guess Mom did, and so do I. So do I.

Posted 07/10/2007 07:16:39 PM by Susan1234

And here we have chapter 2...

I still don’t understand how she did it exactly. Granted, Mom can be quite persuasive, but after thirteen years, you’d think I’d be able to hold my own against her. Yeah, well, I guess not.

The whole car ride is still a blur. I think it was last Monday—no, Tuesday, maybe—yes, it was Tuesday because that’s when I have my yoga lessons. I suppose that the exact day bears no relevance, as the fateful events that unfolded would’ve happened regardless, but bear with me, for my own peace of mind, you understand.

So, last Tuesday, Mom picked me up from school. I really hate it when Mom picks me up. Don’t get me wrong; I love my Mom, but there’s just something about our conversations these days that really irks me. Call it rebellion, or that inevitable need to be distanced from parental figures during adolescence...sometimes she just tries too hard to relate. Admittedly, Mom’s cooler than most forty-something-year-old moms, but I’ve heard that spiel about making the right choices one too many times for my liking.

Of course, Mom’s incessant babbling is no match for the radio, and that Tuesday was no different: I turned up the volume two notches too loud, and viola, Mom’s voice was just a distant buzzing in the background. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. You have to nod your head periodically and murmur something like: “Yeah, sure,” or, “Whatever, Mom,” just so she thinks you’re heeding her every word.

Sadly, not every plan is foolproof.

Sometime amidst the ride, she must’ve mentioned my failure to invite friends over to our estate. I’d call it our home, but quite truthfully, it’s just not. Homes have three floors tops, maybe a lawn gnome or two, and perhaps a white picket fence if you’re lucky. Estates, on the other hand, have eight floors, complete with an indoor pool, some tennis courts, and several Italian sports cars sitting in a few garages. Oh, and how could I forget: a bodyguard named Knuckles and an English butler named Rupert.

I was already wading—knee-high, no less—in troubled waters. Of course, I was oblivious to my precarious predicament. Unfortunately, the radio was proving to be quite effective. As aforementioned, I’m a bit hazy on the details. One minute I’m nodding my head and tapping my feet to the staccato beats of the music, and the next, Chrissie’s coming to spend Friday night at my house.

Mom tried (and failed) to play innocent. “But I distinctly heard you say that it was fine, Lissie. Remember? When we were on the way to yoga? And Chrissie’s mother has already agreed to it. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, now, would you?” Yeah, save it, Mom. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. You know, girl talk, chick flicks, soda and popcorn, drooling over hot guys...You’ll have a good time, Alyssa.”

So here I am, on Saturday night, tapping my fingers against the window sill, trying to figure out a graceful way of telling Dad to stay invisible without hurting his feelings. And, just in case you’re wondering, so far all I’ve come up with consists of: “Dad, you’re weird. Now, go away.”

Alas, Chrissie’s car is snaking up the driveway. Ick. Now I have to be ladylike and whatnot. I repeat: ick.

That’s when I notice Chrissie’s mother turning left. Uh-oh. Didn’t Dad tell her that the main house was to the right of the main gate?...Oh, boy. I knew that I shouldn’t’ve left Dad in charge of the directions. Men are so incompetent.

I run down the stairs rather unceremoniously (I never liked that vase anyway), praying to God that she doesn’t get lost somewhere between the botanical gardens and the tennis courts.

And that’s when Knuckles stops me, his voice something akin to a criminal telling a nursery rhyme. “Why’s Miss Lissie all in a tizzy?” He grunts and gestures to the fallen shards of glass scattering the carpet.

Knuckles must weigh a good two hundred and fifty pounds, the majority of it being muscle, and he only eats brussel sprouts and medium rare hamburger. I’m not entirely certain why that is, and quite frankly, I really don’t want to know. Every evening at eight o’clock, he settles himself in the kitchen, a heaping dish of brussel sprouts and a generous hunk of hamburger cooked to medium rare placed before him. He doesn’t even eat the meat on a bun. People, particularly Knuckles, are just weird.

“I...I...have t-to...go get...Chr...Chrissie...before she...gets lost...in the gardens...” Wow. I couldn’t even understand that.

“Simmer down, little lady,” he orders gruffly, taking me by the shoulders. “You let Knuckles take of this.”

I try to regulate my breathing as I watch Knuckles slip out the room, his steps echoing rather loudly behind him. Yeap, this is crazy. My bodyguard, Knuckles, is running to find Chrissie, my best friend, in an effort to prevent her from getting lost somewhere between my tennis courts and botanical garden. God Almighty, could my life get any weirder?

I slump my shoulders and drag my feet into the dining room. Mom’s gonna get it.

“Oh, hi, Rupert.” I pull out my usual chair and plant my elbows on the table, propping my chin in my hands.

Rupert’s an interesting fellow, to say the least. For as long as I can remember, Rupert has insisted upon wearing a hideous brown toupee that bears a striking resemblance to a bird’s nest. I warrant he’s bald underneath. Poor man. Regardless of his hair loss issues, he’s always chipper and giddy, and his British accent just makes him all the more likeable.

One day, I plan on taking him to a tailor. His suits tend to sag a bit, and I imagine that he could benefit greatly from a well-fitted tux or two.

“Good evening, Mistress Lissie. I hear Cook’s preparing a turkey for tonight’s rendezvous.” Nothing’s sounds cooler than hearing a British man use a French word. “And then a few apple pies for dessert.” He punctuates the sentence with an awkward wink. Rupert has never been good at talking to teenagers...namely, me.

Cook is our cook. I suspect that she and Rupert have a bit of a love affair, but Mom says that it’s none of my business. I argue that it is; Cook is my cook, and Rupert is my butler, ergo, that’s my business. I try to not dwell on it too much.

And then in walks a bewildered Chrissie, Knuckles not far behind. “Hey, Lissie. I guess I got a little lost,” she murmurs, still keeping a good foot away from Knuckles. I don’t blame her; he can be quite intimidating.

“Hi, Chrissie. Sorry ‘bout the mix up.” I offer her a seat beside my own and nod a silent thank you to Knuckles. “You want something to drink?”

“Um...soda’s fine. Coke, if you have it.”

“Rupert will get it.” I square my shoulders and try to form my next few words carefully. This is more difficult than I had anticipated. “Look, Chris, I just want to warn you in advance.”

Chrissie takes a sip of her Coke and refocuses her attention on me. “You already told me about the house. I understand that your father—”

“No, it’s not that. I just want you to know that my family is a little...weird. Unconventional, if you will. And that’s an understatement. ‘Kay?”

She nods, but God help me...I’m not sure how much more of this I can handle.

First, in waltzes Mom. Save the embarrassing small talk, Mom isn’t too insufferable. You know, typical Mom stuff. “Why, hello, Chrissie. It’s good to see you again,” and, “Lissie’s been looking forward to this all week.” Too bad it’s not her that I’m worried about.

Cook and Rupert busy themselves carving the turkey and scooping mounds of mashed potatoes and seasoned vegetables on some fancy fine china. Chrissie’s eyes widen a bit, but she refrains from commenting on our upscale dinnerware. Thank God.

Halfway through dinner, and still no Dad or Zach. I perk up a bit and begin to relax. Maybe they’ll just work through dinner tonight...better yet, perhaps they’re stuck at the lab, and they won’t be home all night. That would be one less thing to worry about.

Whoops. Spoke too soon.

“Hey, there, Lissie. How’s Daddy’s Little Bug doing this fine evening?” Oh God...my worst fear becomes reality when he plants a slobbery, wet kiss on my cheek. “Good?”

A tilt my head away from his lips, hoping—no, praying—that he’ll get the message. Through my clenched teeth, I manage to mutter something to the effect of: “Yeah, Dad. Just super duper.”

Oblivious to my blatant disgust, he pats my back a few times, and that’s when I notice the smell: dead fish. Yeap, that’s dead fish, alright. Not even live fish. Dead. And that’s when I notice the sopping wet jumpsuit Dad’s wearing. And the muddy footprints following Dad’s path. And his sodden boots, patched with hunks of moss or mold or something else green.

But wait: it gets better. Not far behind, Zach trails in behind Dad, equally as wet and gross. In his hands, Zach’s carrying a rubbery, deceased fish between two fingers. A few murky droplets of water drain from the tips of the fish’s fins, and the hook used to capture said fish is still clamped in the poor guy’s mouth.

Mom shakes her head ruefully. “What in God’s name have you two been up to now?”

“Fishing in the pond,” Zach says matter-of-factly, dangling the fish as if to offer proof of their excursion.

I cradle my head in my hand and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that by some miracle, when I open them again, they’ll have disappeared. I slowly crack one eye open...no such luck.

Zach hands the fish to Dad, who then hands it to Rupert. “Put this little dude down in our lab for safe keeping.”

Just when I think things couldn’t get any worse, instead of going to shower or at least change their clothes, my numbskull Dad and his even denser friend decide to sit down to dinner, geeky jumpsuits and all.

“So, how was you day, Lissie? Did ya do anything interesting?” Dad asks casually, as if he doesn’t reek of dead fish. He forks a piece of turkey in his mouth.

I grimace. “Good. No.” Perhaps if I’m dismissive, he’ll get the message.

“Oh, c’mon, you must’ve done something. Maybe paint?”

Again, no such luck. “No. Didn’t feel like it.”

“I watched a fascinating documentary today on the History channel.” I look up to see Zach stuffing spoonfuls of potatoes and vegetables in his mouth, completely unaware that some gravy is dribbling down his chin.

Mom smiles weakly. “Oh, that’s nice, Zach. What about?” Leave it to Mom to egg on the freaky genius boy. I love Zach dearly, but more times than not, the documentaries he finds on the History channel are somewhat gory and graphic, and he’s sure not to overlook a single detail.

“The ancient Aztecs...apparently...”

And that’s when I drown Zach out. He has the tendency to ramble on...and on...and on. He’s the epitome geekiness.

I mouth a silent, “Sorry,” at Chrissie. Much to my dismay, she seems tickled pink by the whole situation. She’s listening to Zach intently, soaking up his every word like a sponge. I suppose it’s better that she’s amused rather than mortified—I’d never forgive myself if she was thoroughly disgusted by my family. I know I am.

“And in regards to sexual positions, the male—”

“Zach!” I yell, probably a bit louder than necessary.

Oh, no, he didn’t. He did not just—Oh my, God, he did.

“That was totally uncalled for! I have a guest! A guest!” I gesture wildly at a smirking Chrissie.

“Oh,” Zach says, letting his gaze fall on Chrissie the first time tonight. He shrugs, completely oblivious to his error. “I’ll just skip that part, I suppose.”

So...let’s recap, shall we?

Dad’s stuffing his mouth and dripping fish guts on the tablecloth.

Zach’s rambling about Aztecs and documentaries and sexual positions.

Mom’s trying to appear interested in Zach’s lecture.

Chrissie’s giggling.

Rupert and Cook are probably making out in the storage closet.

And Knuckles is eating his brussel sprouts and medium rare hamburger.

Will somebody just shoot me now?

Posted 07/10/2007 07:21:36 PM by Susan1234

And the newest chapter...

All things considered, my mom is pretty cool. Granted, she’s old, but I’m proud to say that she’s the only mother at PTA wearing three inch stiletto heels, has two layers of mascara clumped to her lashes, and clings to Prada like bees do to honey. Back in the day, she was quite, and I quote, the hot tamale. I asked Dad to spare me the details. I doubt I’ll ever be able to rid my mind of the implications.

Alas, I did not inherit her abnormally advanced swooning capabilities. Or her pretty face. Or the ability to tell the difference between white and off white. So, rather than to dwell on what I don’t have, I try to focus my thoughts on my positive assets.

Hmm.

Positive.

Right.

Well, let’s see. There’s frizzy black curls...not exactly positive, but that, my friends, is why they invented detangler and other new fangled sprays that smell suspiciously like cotton candy. Admittedly, the labels they slap on aerosol cans lie like sleazy used car salesmen, so they really aren’t all that helpful.

I blame Dad. Curls simply aren’t conducive to heat...or anything else, for that manner. I’ve tried straightening it, combing it till the plastic snaps and my fingers are raw, dousing it with the finest mousse money can buy, but always, without fail, it poofs out like Einstein’s. Just without the gray, of course.

And don’t get me started on my height. Screw diamonds—heels are this girl’s best friend. I am the shortest girl in my grade. At thirteen (that’s officially a teenager, thank you very much), I’m a measly four ten. A four frickin’ ten. Regretfully, ballet flats never made their way to my closet. Again, I blame Dad.

And my eyes! Mom has the prettiest eyes. They’re brown and big and shaped like almonds. They’ve always reminded me of dark chocolate. And I could stare at Dad’s all day—big and blue, as if someone spilled food coloring into his irises. Now, one would assume that with genes like that, I’d be graced with brown or blue. But no. I got stuck with hazel. Stupid hazel. Boring, average hazel. What are the odds of that? (Actually, I’d really like to know...I kinda zoned out when we learned about Punnett squares. Oh, who am I kidding? I kinda zone out every science class. I’ll have to ask Zach. He’ll know. He knows everything.)

So much for positive assets.

It’s no wonder he never notices me.

Here he is, sitting before me in all his manly glory. He’s oblivious, of course. I’m sure that Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition is a heck of a lot more interesting than a thirteen-year-old girl with more frizzy black curls than she knows what to do with.

Sometimes I wonder how models do it—how they have curves that put hourglasses to shame and manipulate their bras to spill out as much cleavage as possible without being charged with public indecency, I mean. Not that I want any of that. Because I don’t. Honest.

But it’s kinda hard not to wonder what it would be like when he’s around. Maybe it’s just a silly crush, fueled by my infatuation with his good looks and husky voice and silky hair. Or maybe I’m just a sappy, love-struck teen who was hit by Cupid’s arrow one too many times. Or maybe it’s more than all of that. I’m not sure. I’m no psychologist.

At any rate, I’ve decided that today is the day I talk to him. Yeap, today’s the day I stop watching from afar and man up for the job and finally say: “Parker Booth, I love you, and one day, when I’m of age, or maybe even before that if my parents say it’s alright, I want to marry you, and then we’ll live happily ever after.” Okay, so it needs some work, but right now, I’m more concerned about getting him to talk to me. I must’ve used a thousand tactics to date to try to get him to crack. I’ve tried batting my eyelashes, a quick flip of the hair, Mom’s stiletto heels...all of which have proven to be futile. Once I even volunteered to go and buy him a burger from the Jeffersonian cafeteria, and all I got was a curt nod. He didn’t even respond to food! I thought men love food.

I fumble through my purse for my compact mirror, but I come up dry. There’s a dried up tube of lip gloss, some candy wrappers, a few empty cardboard boxes of Stride gum, some receipts from God knows when, a couple dozen copper coins (I refuse to use pennies, hence the accumulation of that particular coin), and some crumpled fives and tens. No compact mirror. Great. My hair could be the spitting image of a poodle, and I wouldn’t even know about it.

Okay, so forget just the hair. Walk up to him.

Right. I can do this. I can so do this.

I take the first step, but the heel of my foot slides off my shoe, causing my other foot to slide. I teeter and totter and wave my hands wildly in the air, fighting to keep my balance. I probably look like an octopus having a seizure.

Wow. Apparently, my plan is a lot easier said than done.

I glance over, and he’s totally unaware of my clumsy little mishap. Thank God for small favors.

I keep walking. He keeps reading. I stop about five or so feet from his stool. (No need to invade his personal space.) Still, nothing. Not even the slightest inkling that he knows I exist. Again, great.

“Ahem,” I whisper, keeping my eyes downcast. Still nothing. Okay, let’s try this again, but a little louder. “Ahem!” Hmm. Either he’s deaf, or too enthralled by some tramp’s over-sized boobs to acknowledge my presence. My bet is the latter.

“Um, Parker?” His name breaks his trance. He lifts his head, and I freeze, suddenly wishing that I was in the safety of my bedroom, hugging a teddy bear and sucking my thumb.

“Yeah?” He drags out the word and separates the syllables, testaments to his apparent annoyance. Far be it from me to distract you from staring at computer altered, materialistic prima donnas whose mental acuities barely surpass that of a two year old. Fine, then. Be that way. See if I care. “What do you want?”

You. But I’m not going to say that out loud. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a total ditz.

“Um...just...mumberin’ wif moo mwoah mwhat wime it wis.” Wow, now he probably thinks I’m illiterate. Good job, Lissie. Very sophisticated.

“Huh?”

Let’s try this again—without the incoherent mumbling. “I-was-just-wondering-if-you-know-what-time-it-is.” Well, it’s a step up.

Reluctantly, he looks down at his wrist watch, and with a discontented sigh, says, “It’s twelve forty-eight.”

“Oh.” And that’s when his handsomeness hits me at full force. Uh-oh. That’s not good. His sandy hair is swept behind his ears, and his big, brown, puppy dog eyes glare at me like I’m some mutant. But who cares? At least he’s looking at me. He’s wearing a gray, skintight t-shirt that has the phrase, Always remember you’re unique...Just like everyone else, written across the chest. The hard ridges of his muscles (six pack included) are outlined through the flimsy material. His blue jeans are torn at the knee and faded. In a nutshell: he’s sheer perfection.

And I smell something, too...something strong, yet oddly alluring and somewhat sexy. I think it’s his cologne. Yeah...definitely cologne. Discretely (okay, so maybe not so discretely), I inhale a huge whiff of the stuff. It smells like something, but I can’t quite pinpoint what, exactly, so I sniff again. Hmm. Still nothing. I try again, and again, until suddenly my nose begins to tickle.

Crap.

“Ah-choo!” Oh, boy. “Ah-choo, ah-choo, ah-choo!” I try to turn around so as to not sneeze all over Parker, but it’s probably too late for that. “Ah-choo!” I think I’ve done a pretty efficient job of dousing him in my snot. Great. And just when I think it’s over, I feel the tip of nose tingle, and I cringe in anticipation.

“Ahh-CHOO! Ah-CHOO! Ah-choo!” I cover my nose with my hands and feel my head propel forward involuntarily, and then...bang. A thousand thoughts flood my mind, some of which would make my grandma grow red in the face. A tremor of pain radiates from my black-and-blue forehead down to my toes. Slowly, I lift my head from the concrete wall.

“Damn,” I curse, rubbing my head with my snot covered hand.

I look over at Parker, who’s half-smiling and half-frowning, clearly trying to suppress the urge to roll on the floor with laughter. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah...” I murmur, trying not to cry, “just dandy.”

“You sure?”

“Um, yeah. Can you just promise me something?”

“I guess.”

“Let’s just keep this incident between us, okay?”

His grin triples in size. “Okay.”

I nod a thank you and toddle away on shaky feet, cursing my messed up genes. What a way to make a first impression. I just hope that someday I’ll be able to look back on this and laugh. Just, apparently, not today.

---

New chapters will be sporadic, but I will put in the effort to update as soon as possible. It's a series of oneshots, anyway, so that shouldn't matter. Thanks for reading! I love feedback!