A/N: All right, I had an idea pop in my head, and being me, I couldn't just let it slide. Despite the fact that I have other fics in the works, I'm starting another! I must be insane. So, that said, this will be a trial chap. If I don't get enough response, through hits or reviews or whatever, to continue, I won't. I might come back to it later, after I get caught up with other things, but I don't know. So, in short, if you like this, let me know one way or another, and I'll happily continue it; I can make time if necessary. I just don't want to do that if the audience isn't there. Thank you and enjoy!!

Chapter 1: Long day

Temperance Brennan entered her home after a long day, depositing her keys and purse on the small table near the door and moving, as though in a trance, to the kitchen where she heated up some water for tea. She needed to relax. She had been so tense during this case; so much so more than usual that even she had noticed it, as well as her co-workers.



She poured the water into a cup and took a tentative sip before realizing she'd forgotten to add a tea bag. She sighed at herself and added the missing bag and sat down on her couch. She was tired. The day had been a blur, alternating between the field and the lab, back and forth, phone calls from her team while she was in the field, and calls from Booth when she was in the lab. It was never ending.

She wouldn't ever want to do anything else with her life, but the day had sapped her energy. She blamed it on the lack of sleep the previous night. She'd had the most vivid dream about her partner, and it had ended with her sitting bolt upright in bed, a thin sheen of sweat covering her body. It wasn't a bad dream; the opposite in fact. But it had been so real that when she woke up, she half expected to look at the other side of the bed and find him there.

She hadn't been able to get back to sleep after that. She'd gotten up and sat in her living room with a cup of tea, much like she was doing now. She had mulled things over in her head, concluding that thinking about Booth wasn't productive and that if she couldn't get back to sleep because of a (meaningless?) dream, then she might as well get some work done on her novel.

She had gone to her office and booted up her computer. Once she'd begun to type, she'd felt herself relax slightly and become more focused. Unfortunately, the feeling didn't last as the last time she'd written, she'd been on the verge of one of her steamy sex scenes.

As she plowed into the scene, she noted with frustration that the scene between Kathy and Andy was playing out like her dream had. She read it through and observed that at some point in the scene she had (unknowingly?) replaced the character's names with her own and Booth's. She angrily deleted the scene and did some breathing exercises to refocus.

She had tried to type the scene out the second time. It still played out like her dream, but she had typed the correct names throughout. She had decided that she was satisfied with this, and saved her work. The only problem with it she had found was that she'd just typed out a private dream for thousands upon thousands of people to read. It had bothered her on some level, but it did make for a good scene.

She had wondered briefly if she could be that flexible in real life. A smirk had graced her lips as she thought about this, and that thought had led to other thoughts, and before she had known it, her entire body felt enflamed. She had downed a glass of water, and had glanced at the clock. Time to get ready for work.

And thus, the day had begun, chaotic as usual. She hadn't been able to think on her sleepless night, but, sitting there after it was all over, with her cup of tea, the thoughts on the dream crept back into her mind. She put the cup down on the coffee table, feeling the heat spread through her that had nothing to do with the hot water in the cup. She took note of the time. She needed to get 

to bed at a decent time tonight, and, hopefully, Booth wouldn't invade the sanctity of her mind for a second night. She felt her pulse quicken as she thought his name, instantly chiding herself.

She thought to what men did in this situation. Cold shower. Why should it be any different for women? She was, after all, feeling extremely overheated, and wanted desperately to banish all erotic thought before bed so she could have a peaceful sleep. She went into the bathroom, and turned the shower on, testing the coolness of the water before stripping and stepping in. She let out a loud yelp as the cold water hit her, and she leapt back out, hands quickly adjusting the temperature of the water. No way in hell was she taking a shower in freezing water. A warm one would be just as effective, right?

She came out of the shower some time later, the steam enveloping the room. She toweled off, wrapping another around her hair, and wiping the fog from the mirror. She looked at herself, dressed in a towel, her skin pink from the heat of the water. She didn't feel much different, just cleaner. Perhaps she'd been wrong about the effects of a warm shower versus a cold one. She threw on some pajamas, and went back to her living room, hair still wrapped up. She checked to make sure all the doors were locked, then padded down the hall to her bedroom, pulling the towel off her head as she went.



She shut her light off and slid between the sheets. She had felt tired, exhausted really, but once she had laid down in the darkness, she realized she was still very much awake. She mentally went over the things she'd just done, having concluded that perhaps she'd left something out of her routine that her brain wanted her to remember before she could truly turn in for the night.

It then occurred to her that her cup of tea was still on the coffee table. That had to be it. She always cleaned up after herself. She got out of bed, not bothering with the light, and went back to the living room. She picked up the cup, the remaining tea in it now lukewarm at best. She carried it to the kitchen, dumped the remnants down the drain, and placed the cup in the sink. She put both hands on the counter, leaning against it, wondering why her brain was still so active when it should have been muddled by fatigue.

She turned then, and made to go down the hallway again, when the soft knock on the door reached her ears and made her jump. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was late. Everyone at the Jeffersonian knew better. Booth knew better. If it was Angela, she would call first to make sure she was awake before coming over.

She tiptoed over to the door in the dark, not wanting to alert whoever was on the other side that she was home by turning on the lights. The knock repeated itself, but no voice was forthcoming. Then she heard a mumbled 'come on, please answer.' The voice was one she recognized, so she relaxed a bit, but she was extremely bothered by the tone, and the obvious hitch in the words.

She took a breath, unlocked the door, rested her hand on the knob, and opened it to reveal Booth, tears in his eyes, his face an emotional wreck.

A/N: So, the question is, should I continue? You need to let me know, cause otherwise, it remains a story in my brain. I hope you liked it. Thank you!