Author's notes: This is my first Bones fan fiction! I finally ventured into something other than Lost, and I'm loving it so far! I hope you don't find the story boring or dull, I promise you it will include more action in the near future! Also, I want to thank the lovely crearealidad, for taking time to beta this first chapter for me. Your insight is truly appreciated!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones or any of its characters! I'm just doing this for fun, no profit intended! :)

SAVING GRACE

Chapter One

The leather bag fell on the ground with a thud, making her aware of her surroundings; the echo it provoked in the room reminded her that she was completely alone, that not one soul was there, sharing her space, breathing her air.

Temperance Brennan was never a woman to fear the solitude of a house in the woods; in fact, she had always enjoyed the quietness, it was inspiring and soothing. But for the first time in her life, in that moment she felt small. Like the bed in front of her was too big for her not so small body; like the room she was standing in was too spacious, too large. She had never noticed how big that house was before this day, and it brought her to a state of alert that tired her already hyperactive brain.

Not that she wasn't used to being on the alert. She had grown used to a lot of feelings in those past few weeks, learned how to face some of her fears, and mostly, realized that all of her problems were very small, compared to what she felt like now. Her investments, her knowledge, the case she was working on at the time, those were all superfluous, almost shallow problems. Nothing had stopped the events of two weeks before, nothing had kept her safe like she had expected, not even the martial arts she had so carefully trained in, or the gun Booth had so unwillingly left with her. She was good at talking people into doing things for her, but he was nearly too stubborn for her almost innocent manipulation; he had moaned and cursed before he had agreed to leave it on her bedside table, with the promise of checking it for prints in the case that nothing happened, forcing her to touch the weapon in case of emergency, only.

Brennan had smiled as soon as he closed the door on his way out, reaching for the gun and taking in the weight of it, feeling the cold metal against her thin, white hands. It had felt strange for her, to hold a gun, to have it in her apartment. Rationally, she knew it was just the regular fear of the effect she had so often seen in corpses, that she knew that weapon could cause. But deep down, what she felt was disappointment with herself, for not feeling safe with the gun in her hands, not as safe as she felt when the owner of the said weapon was beside her.



Temperance Brennan had placed the gun carefully on her vanity, heading to the kitchen and taking the last sip of the water she had served herself and Booth an hour before. After that, she had walked to the bathroom, and then to bed. She had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Tonight, she had her own gun, now, and she took it out of her purse quickly, loading it and placing it on the nightstand. Her rational self taking over, she opened her suitcase and started to unpack. A shirt, t-shirts, skirts, dresses. All in soft, light colors, like Angela had suggested. Not the kind of clothes she would wear to work, the kind of clothes she would put on during a vacation, a summer trip. And it was the summer. And to be honest, she was vacationing. Well, she liked to call it a 'leave of absence', two months that Cam had been happy to give her after what had happened to her. But still, she had free time and no work obligations, so she was allowed to wear her relaxed clothes.

Of course, she had brought her laptop with her, and she carefully pulled it out of its case, taking off the battery and connecting it to the plug. She would write, during those two months. She would start a new novel, maybe not like the others, maybe not crime-related. She didn't want to be anywhere near forensic talk, at that time.

Nobody knew where she was, not even Angela. She had always kept this house a secret, her refuge for when she needed silence. It was near a lake, and the forest around it gave her a sense of peace, a sense of home. Of course, those feelings seemed dim now, compared to the fear and the pain she was experiencing. Besides, she was acutely aware of how abandoned she was there, how helpless she would be in case of emergency. Disappearing completely, without leaving an address or a phone number wasn't a safe, she knew that. No one would know how to reach her if something bad had happened, no one would be able to come in her aid. But still when she had considered taking this time off, she had wanted to be completely disconnected from everything and everyone she knew. The wounds were still fresh, the pain was still throbbing, and all she wanted was to be left alone. Completely alone.

Not even Booth had been allowed to talk to her before she left. She had left him a note in her apartment, knowing it would be the first place where he'd look for her. The note had few, but elucidating words. She had never been one to let her emotions flow out of her pen, but writing it had proved to be more painful than she had thought. "I'm sorry, I have to leave. I'll be back, I promise. Don't look for me. T." She was pretty sure of what his reaction would be when he read it: he would pick it up from the living room table, and he would hold it closer to his eyes, checking if it was really her handwriting. He would probably send it to the Jeffersonian, in order to make sure it hadn't been written by him, trying to chase her again. Brennan had foreseen this fact, and she had written a sentence she knew Angela would recognize on the back of the paper, in a small and careful manner. She knew Angela would authenticate the message from this sentence alone, and it would leave Booth feeling both relieved and slightly hurt.

She had wanted to write more. She'd wanted to say everything that came to her mind in that message, and every piece of dirt that populated her brain since that night. She had wanted to tell him how scared she felt, how hurt she was now, how damaged her own hands seemed. She had wanted to ask him to follow her to the house, to comfort her with one of his guy hugs. 

She had wanted him to know it hurt to leave him behind, but that she needed to be alone, completely alone. She needed to strip that event out of her mind, and she needed to recycle her brain.

She finished tidying up her closet, and sat on the bed, facing the window in front of her. She had opened it as soon as she arrived, and the light was entering the room softly. She stared at the lake through the open doors, allowing her fingers to feel the soft fabric of the bed covers, inhaling the clean air. Her hands were lying on the bed, her skin reveling on the coldness of the fabric, allowing their heat to creep through the fibers. Her hands had been hot, sweaty, ever since that night. Fear, she recognized it from her symptoms, was taking over her body. And for the first time in a few weeks, even though it was just for a second, the freshness of the new air and of the covers underneath her hands made her feel somewhat safe.

The moment wasn't gone as fast as she thought it would. She prolonged it, thinking of the only few times she had felt absolutely safe ever since the incident. She thought of Booth's eyes on her, of his hand clutching hers at the hospital, of his soft snoring on the chair next to her, of his body, too big for that small place. She thought of his arms, holding her body against his, bloody and broken, when he found her.

A small crack on the wooden floor of the house pulled her from her safe thoughts, and her instinct made her move her arm towards the gun placed on her nightstand. Pointing it at the door, she moved carefully towards the hallway, and then quickly, hoping to surprise the intruder with her weapon.

The intruder was anything but surprised by her presence. In fact, it continued to lick its paw and run it through its little face, pausing only to regard her with a pair of curious, yellow eyes.

Brennan smiled and lowered herself in order to be closer to the grey cat. Her heart was pounding on her chest, and her rational side was screaming at her that what she had just experienced was just paranoia, perfectly normal in the early stages of post-traumatic stress. Of course, she didn't believe in psychology, but the explanation fit into the reality she wanted to live at the moment, and therefore she didn't fight it. When she was sitting on her feet, the cat moved towards her and licked her hand softly, forcing a small smile out of her lips. It was the first time she had smiled in almost a week.

"Hi." She said, caressing its ears playfully. She checked and realized it was a male cat. It didn't have any collars or tags, so she assumed, it was just living in the surrounding area. She would allow it to enter the house, but keeping a door open, in case he had a home and wanted to leave. She would let him be free, as free as she couldn't be.

"My name is Temperance. My brother calls me Tempe, but it kind of annoys me. I prefer my whole name. Or Brennan. Or Bones. You know what? I think I'm going to call you Earl." The cat meowed and moved towards her lap, pressing his head against her legs. She couldn't help another smile. "Do you like it? Do you find it appropriate for you?" the cat purred and she laughed softly. "Yes, I think it is too."

Getting up from the floor, she shook the cat's hair from her khaki pants and smiled, as the small creature followed her into the bedroom, sitting silently on the bed, next to her. She 

smiled and placed the weapon she was still holding on the nightstand for the second time that day.

Caressing the cat one last time, Brennan moved out of the room and down the stairs, towards the kitchen. The back door of the house was slightly open, explaining the surreptitious entrance of Earl, the cat. She opened the fridge door and started to unpack her groceries and fresh food; she had brought enough supplies for about a week, so that she wouldn't have to drive into town often. She didn't want to be seen a lot, just in case any of her friends back in DC had reported her missing, and the police were looking for her. As soon as she found herself able to, she would send Angela an e-mail, reassuring her friend that she was in fact alright, safe and sound, and wanting nothing but to rest and clear her head.

This retreat had been Angela's suggestion after all, and Brennan had accepted it almost immediately, to her best friend's surprise. Temperance Brennan wasn't usually one to suddenly abandon her work, and her eagerness to accept the proposition the other woman had for her proved that she was more hurt than it showed physically.

Brennan finished filling up her fridge and pantry, and allowed the fridge door to be open a little bit longer than it was supposed to be, in order to refresh her body with the coolness there. The August weather wasn't kind on her, and even though she had previously endured much higher temperatures in her trips to South America and Africa, right now she wasn't enjoying the smothering heat. For a moment, she wished the house had air conditioning.

Actually, she was lucky that the house had running water and electricity. When she bought it, at the time when she published her first book, the property was nearly destroyed. Brennan had restored it, turning it into a small cottage, and lake house that nobody knew about. Her refuge. And right now, her only safe place, out of DC, out of the Jeffersonian.

She sat at the table, as Angela's face came to her mind. She missed her feisty best friend, already. She missed the heat of her hugs, the kindness of her voice. Her joyful presence. It was enough to cheer her up sometimes, Angela's never ending energy, and her words of comfort, when she met Brennan at the hospital and talked to Booth, who wrongly thought his partner was asleep. They had hugged, and Angela had wiped tears from her eyes, holding her best friend's hand between her own and kissing it softly. "He broke her, Angela. I think he destroyed her." Booth's voice had come from Brennan's right side, and the other woman used her hand to muffle a sob.

"Don't say that, Booth. She's too strong for that, she's a trooper. She'll get through this." The confidence in Angela's voice, that night at the hospital, had been enough for Brennan to feel warm and loved.

"He beat her up. She has a couple of broken ribs; one of them perforated her lung. He marked her, Angela. It's written on her back, in his sleazy handwriting, 'she is mine'." Booth's voice broke down as he said this, but Angela was still clutching Brennan's hand, tight. "It gets worse."

Brennan shook her head at the thought of these words, not allowing herself to panic anymore. Shaking her head slightly, she poured some milk into a plate a placed it on the ground, for Earl 

to delight himself. She pulled a ready-made meal out of the fridge and prepared it, sitting at the table with a glass of milk and the plastic plate in front of her. She ate silently, allowing the food to course down her esophagus, not thinking about it. She tried to read a corny novel she had bought on the way, but it was proving to be more amusing than actually interesting.

Her mind wandered back to Booth for a moment, to his hand on her forehead when Angela had left the room to go home. He had never left her side, not for second. He had kissed her hands, and her forehead; he had whispered soothing words into her ear, words he knew she would usually ignore, but that he knew were essencial in this particular case. He had cried silently, and she had pretended not to notice.

She finished her meal and cleaned up the kitchen, motioning for the small cat to follow her up the stairs again. She laid down on the bed, pulling Earl along with her, and closed her eyes, allowing the memories to resurface. It was the first time she was letting herself go, adjusting herself to the thoughts that came along instead of having them adjust to her way of thinking.

She could almost feel his fist beating her up again. She had woken up that night, already beaten up. She couldn't understand how her body hadn't reacted to the first blows, but it suddenly made sense. Her sudden tiredness, her falling asleep as soon as she got to bed. He must have drugged her.

She had tried to fight back, but her body didn't respond to her brain's orders. She felt the crack of a broken rib, and the acute pain on the right side of her chest. She could taste blood in her mouth, as he stopped his frantic activity and moved to open her legs. She silently begged him not to do what he was trying to do, but it was useless. Her mouth didn't move as he thrust into her, forcing her to let go of all feeling, of each and every point of connection to her body. Her mind wandered, not interested in what has happening to her physical self, or the violations the man had perpetrated. And then, pain struck her awake, and she screamed.

Sitting up on the bed, she felt her face wet from the tears that had been stringing down her face. She picked her phone up from the nightstand and pressed 'one' on the speed dial. Her hands were sweating, and she could barely breathe through the sobs that were taking over her chest. It didn't take long for the voice on the other side of the line to pick up. She spoke first, the tears still taking over her voice.

"Booth? It's me."