AN: I had an idea today and so I decided to try my hand at writing my first fanfic. I have no idea where this came from because it has nothing to do with my original idea, but here it is ...

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I hear my mother telling me " The eyes are the windows to the soul, Tempe." All because I'd taken a liking to a boy she didn't feel she could trust. She had been so right about him, and I marveled at her knowing, but I never saw what it was that she had seen.

And yet this proverb of hers echoes in me. Bothering me!

Windows to the soul ... pfff! What soul? The morality? The essence? That which survives death?

What - soul? Now we're talking God and heaven and hell! Aahh! When you're dead, you're dead, there is nothing which survives. So if there is no soul, then by extension there need not be a God, nor a heaven, nor a hell. Period.

So why has this memory made itself recurrent with me?

"The eyes are the windows to the soul, Tempe." ... windows to the soul ... the eyes ... the eyes are the windows.

"Bones, what do you think?"

As I shift my focus back to him, not 60 cm in front of me, I see a hint of my answer.

It's him. It's his eyes. They haunt me when he's there in the flesh, and they haunt me when he's only in my mind.

Those eyes. Those dark eyes of his.

Since I was a child people have complimented me on my "pretty blue eyes", but his ... ooohh. I admit, in the beginning they were merely a wealth of frustration to me. Then later they became a pleasant diversion for my own eyes. But just recently, when he looks at me ... I hear my mother echoing this adage, ever so faintly. So faintly, in fact, that I have to take notice and listen, actually try to hear, as if this time she will impart something new for me. Something to help me interpret this oracular utterance.

"Bones? Bones."

"Earth to Dr. Brennan. Hel-lo. Bones!"

Now he's snapping his fingers. Waving his hand in front of my face. Tapping my shoulder!

"What, Booth!" I bark at him for snatching me from my reverie so impatiently!

Instinctively he jerks back like he wants to steer clear of The Bitch! Then he swoops right back in to make sure that I'm okay. That I haven't been injured, or I'm not needlessly upset.

And there they are ... Cautious. Concerned. Considerate.

And right on cue, are my mother's words ...

Then I recall something he told me just last week after one of our heart to hearts. He said "You heard me but you just didn't understand me!"

He's right! I don't understand. I rarely do when he starts with the mushy stuff. It sounds wonderful. But it's just mush. Nothing cold and hard enough to stand on. I can't think that way. Thinking that way is just ... quicksand. I have to stand up when I think, figuratively of course, not sink down.

And just like that I realize that I'm not understanding her either. I mean, I know I don't understand her, but what I realize is that I'm not understanding her intention.

He's about to walk away, probably giving up on talking to me now, ... and I get it. Maybe not all of it, but a big enough piece. When she had told me these words as a teenager she was issuing them as a warning to stay away.

But now. They're different now. Same words, same exact words. But they're different now.

Now these same words ... beckon me ... call me ...

... To him.