Author's Notes: I do not own Bones or Castle. All characters are original and are not based on anyone unless otherwise stated. This story is a sequel to "The Authors in the Crossover". Please read that story. If you did not enjoy that story, or any facet of that (including a cameo appearance by a certain writer) then I suggest you turn around and leave this story right now and go read one of the many other fine Bones or Castle stories out there.

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It was intermission, and Martha Rodgers sulked off to her dressing room, allowing herself a moment to glare at the director before shutting the door.

She was the finest actress of her generation, at least in her own mind, but did the director have her performing before the greatest critics New York had to offer, or singing her heart out before starlets in Los Angeles? NO! Instead, she was here outside Washington DC, performing for an old folk's home.

Oh, she understood why the director had wanted to put on this charity performance. Terrance Dashel, an old friend of the director and a retired actor, lived at the nursing home currently, and the director had heard he was dying to see the play. Thus, the trope had packed up and were not performing in this theater in front of a group of candy eating, hard of hearing, wrinkled, farting, old of dirt nursing home residents.

"I can't believe we have to do this." She complained to Gregory, who was checking to make sure his makeup hadn't smeared on his collar. While Martha considered this HER dressing room, it was in fact for all the actors, male or female at this point.

"It makes Fredrick happy." Gregory stated. Gregory was someone who had never dreamed of anything more than performing in small theaters. The bright lights and grand adventures that came from fame were not for him, and thus he found the trip only stressful in the fact that he had to make sure he remembered to pack everything.

Martha sighed. "And what makes me happy is when our lines can be heard over the sound of candy wrappers." She focused on her makeup, frowning when she noticed a slight blemish. She didn't bother to get one of the so called make-up artists to fix it. Instead, she took the sponge herself and got to work. "Or making a few dollars."

"There is more to life than money." Gregory stated.

"Yes, there is also sex." Martha commented, "And I will be getting none from any of the men out there."

Gregory scoffed. "Can't you find anything to enjoy about tonight."

"But of course…I am giving quite a performance, and I enjoy that fact very much."

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"I thought you said this was a Western."

The orderly sighed, wishing once again that they had been able to lock Hank Booth in a closet and leave him behind. "It is, Mr. Booth."

Hank wagged his finger at the man. "Oh no, don't you dare say that. You don't sing in westerns, or have Irishmen running hotel, or have more love stories than you do gun fights. I do like the brothel owner though…he's a good villain when he ain't singing." Hank threw up his hands. "And why the hell is this taking place in Seattle?"

The orderly sighed. "It is a musical, Mr. Booth. Of course there is singing."

"Then it isn't a western, I was lied too, and I demand you find a way to repay me."

"We aren't making you pay anything for the performance…its free."

"It is costing me my sanity…how will you pay me back for that?"

The orderly bit his tongue to keep himself from commenting on his own sanity.

Hank Booth looked ready to go on another rant when the gunshot was heard. All heads turned towards the empty theater, and for several moments no one seemed to know what to do. Then the chaos occurred, as the residents of the nursing home began to move away from the doors, several complaining of chest pains or labored breathing, others crying out or trying to shove their neighbors out of their escape route.

But unlike the ret of those weak willed little pansies (and Hank Booth included the orderlies in that list), the former military man stormed through the crowd, brushing away their frightened cries and calls and moved towards the door. Giving it a few experimental tugs, he found the door locked. Narrowing his eyes, he rushed forward, slamming his shoulder into the wood.

Halfway through, he realized the door was a push, not a pull.

He toppled to the ground, slow to get up but not allowing anyone to see his pain, or his bruised ego. Standing, he saw several of the actors from the non-western were all on stage, staring at some…thing…laying down in the orchestra pit. Most of them looked ill, one man letting out a girlish wail before he fainted dead away. Hank muttered something about being a lightweight and made his way towards the stage.

Hank gave Martha a grim nod as she climbed down the stage steps to join him, complaining herself about a lack of real men. Now here was someone he could respect!

"Ok people, move it, actress coming through!"

"Retired MP!" Hank called out.

Martha gave him a look, but said nothing. The two of them made their way into the orchestra pit, staring down at the sight before them.

There lay he body of an elderly gentlemen, eyes screwed up in his head, fingers like claws and a vicious red mark running across his neck. A vomit-like film covered his mouth and lower jaw, and it was clear he had been thrashing about.

Hank knelt down. "Strangulation, that much is clear. Someone needs to call the police"

Martha shook her head. "No need. I'll merely call my son. He works with the New York police department."

Hank shook his head. "Quite a drive for him…be easier if I call the Shrimp and have him and his partner come down."

Martha scoffed. "Trust me on this, old timer…my son is the best there is at solving these mysteries."

"maybe in New York, but my boy and Tempe would wipe the floor with them."

"I seriously doubt that." Martha challenged.

"Then I guess we will find out!" Hank snapped, going to search for a phone. "Demented old crow."

"Decrepit billygoat."