A/N: Stupid plotbunnies. This fits with my little universe. Unbeta'd because I'm a bad girl.
Addendum: Reuploaded after a bit of tweaking. Remember: friends don't let friends post first drafts of stuff they wrote at 2am.
It was a tough case. Seven kids in an old barn. The oldest was no older than Parker; the youngest not yet a year old. She knew what Booth thought when he looked at them laid out on the platform. Sun-browned skin, scabby knees, dirty clothes and a zest for life. But when she looked at them, she saw a little girl with wispy brown curls and big blue eyes; four teeth and a grin a mile wide.
There were no leads. They didn't even have IDs on half of them. Three girls and four boys; two of asian descent, two of african, two caucasian, one mixed race. No common factors except manner of death and disposal- a bullet to the back of the head and burial in a box stall.
They'd been over what little evidence they'd managed to collect at least a dozen times. Each hoping that this time, they'd find the one thing, the one inconsistency, the one clue they'd overlooked. And when it didn't come, they'd taken to fighting. Not differences of opinion or friendly bickering, but harsh, hateful words that flew back and forth until they could hardly stand to be in the same room with each other.
They were on week five and argument- well, she'd lost count- when Angela turned up in her office doorway.
"Get out."
"What? Angela-"
"Don't 'Angela' me. You guys have been at each other's throats for weeks and we're all sick of it. If you're going to argue, go somewhere else. Just take your stuff and leave. We need some peace and quiet around here, and we sure as hell aren't going to get any with either of you in the building."
And so ten minutes later they were crunching down one of the paths in the Jeffersonian's gardens in the bitter December air. It was ironic, she mused, that even when they didn't get along, they couldn't seem to go their separate ways. He stopped at the fifth bench they passed, and she sat beside him, hating what they'd been reduced to. They'd had rough patches before, but it had never lasted this long, nor been quite so... turbulent. She didn't want to think that their friendship was in danger, but the truth was that she just wasn't sure. Did he mean all of the things he'd said, or, like her, had he said them just to for the satisfaction of hurting her the way he himself was hurting? And, like her, was he just too stubborn to admit it?
To complicate matters, she'd recently come to a decision about her relationship with Booth. The sexual tension between them had been present and tacitly acknowledged since the day they'd met. There was no denying it was there. But the emotional pull she'd felt toward him for some time had finally coalesced the first week of this case, when he'd fallen asleep on her couch. She'd spent the better part of the night just watching him, weighing pros and cons and imagining what it might be like to wake up in his arms. She came out of that long night with a determination to make it work- she knew he was interested; she wasn't as clueless as some people liked to think.
The problem was that the right opportunity hadn't come up to say anything. And if things continued this way, there might not be an opportunity at all. She didn't think she could stand that. Her gut- that deep-buried nugget of intuition she'd always done her best to stamp out, that Booth had rescued and tried to nurture for nearly three years- was telling her to do something. Anything. To bridge the gap between them, to rescue their friendship if nothing else. This case was cold and there was nothing they could do about it. If they didn't let it go, it would eat at them until whatever good they could accomplish together- professionally or personally- would be gone. Maybe forever.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead; looking but not seeing. She reached out, taking his gloved hand in her own and lacing their fingers together. Her heart beat a staccato as she carefully didn't look at him. It was amazing how a gesture so chaste could feel so intimate. She could feel his eyes on her, and tried to fight the heat rising to her cheeks. What if he didn't understand what she was trying to tell him (I'm sorry, I forgive you, I miss you, I want more), or what if he did understand and she was wrong about what he wanted after all?
When next she dared to glance at him, he was staring at their hands. She gave a squeeze, and he returned it. Her sigh of relief was audible, and he chuckled softly. She felt the ghost of a kiss across her thumb before he pulled her upright.
"One last look?"
"One last look," she agreed, and let him lead her back to the lab.