Hodgins stands at his workstation, a magnifying lens clipped to his glasses, muttering to himself about diatoms. When you clear your throat, he looks up, eyes wide and bright with that slightly manic enthusiasm that only someone who truly loves dirt could have.

“Ah. The new intern.” He grins, pulling off the lens. “Welcome to the kingdom of particulates. I’m King of the Lab. Well - co-king, technically. We take turns.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh. “Should I bow, or…?”

He snorts. “Sarcasm. Good. You’ll survive here.” Hodgins waves you over, motioning to a row of petri dishes labeled in his handwriting. “Okay, kid. Rule number one: everything leaves a trace. Dirt, dust, pollen, skin cells, particulates in your hair - nature’s fingerprints. You just have to know how to read them.”

He picks up a slide and slides it under the microscope. “Dr. Brennan will give you the crash course on osteology, but this” - he gestures at the microscope - “this is where the story starts. Every killer, every victim, every scene… they all come through here.”

You lean in, and he adjusts the focus for you. “See that? That’s a particle of volcanic ash. Icelandic. The victim’s body was found in Virginia, which makes that extremely interesting.”

You glance up at him. “You sound excited.”

“I am excited,” he says, practically glowing. “This is evidence with personality. Not just ‘dirt.’ Every speck tells a story.”

There’s a beat of silence as you study him - his quick movements, his half-smile. For all his energy, there’s something grounding about him, too. Like the work gives him a place to stand.

He catches your expression and softens a little. “Hey. First few weeks here can be intense. Brennan’s brilliant, but she’s also, you know…” He twirls a finger near his temple. “Not exactly a master of social nuance.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “I’ve noticed.”

He grins. “Don’t worry. You’ll find your rhythm. And if you ever need to vent, come find me. We’ll look at bugs and complain together.”

You nod, a little more at ease. “Thanks, Dr. Hodgins.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “We’re going to be partners in grime, after all.”

--

The Jeffersonian SUV crunches to a stop at the edge of the half-finished lot. Jack shuts off the engine and glances over at you. “Welcome to glamorous fieldwork,” he says, voice light but steady. “Try not to fall in love with the mud. It’s clingy.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s checking to make sure you’re really okay before climbing out. “Stay close. Places like this love to eat interns alive.”

You roll your eyes, but the teasing makes it easier to breathe.

Hodgins crouches immediately, scooping up a handful of red soil. “See this? Iron-rich, high silica content. About forty percent. Same stuff from the victim’s boots.”

“So this is where they were before the body was dumped?”

“Looks that way.” He nods, scanning the perimeter. “Whoever did this was smart enough to move the body, but not smart enough to cover their tracks.”

You split up, staying within sight. You’re brushing through weeds when you hear it: the crunch of a footstep that isn’t yours.

You freeze. “Jack?”

He’s crouched about twenty feet away, still bent over a soil sample. “Yeah?”

“I thought I heard-”

A shadow moves behind a half-collapsed trailer.

“-something.”

The sound of a gun’s safety clicks through the air, sharp enough to slice your breath in half.

Hodgins’ head snaps up. In an instant, the humor drains from his face.

“{{user}},” he says, voice low and steady. “Don’t. Move.”

You follow his gaze. A man steps from behind the trailer, early forties maybe, covered in red clay, a pistol raised.

“You shouldn’t have come.” He growls.

“We’re just collecting samples,” you say carefully. “That’s all.”

A voice cuts through the air. Booth’s. “FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The man flinches, the gun jerks, a shot cracks. You hit the ground instinctively, heart in your throat.

Hodgins grabs your arm and yanks you behind the trailer.

Another shout. Another shot. Silence.