Author's Notes: I love Booth and Brennan. I've been rooting for them for eight years. I love Booth and Brennan's lovestory. I'm less than thrilled with how aspects of their relationship have been written. This is my angsty attempt to rework some issues I see in their relationship. Notice I said angsty.
xXx
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Majestic diamonds are dead plants and animals crushed under the earth's weight. Supernovas, the single most brilliant pieces of light and energy in the universe, are born of dying stars.
Personalities are not accidents. You have no idea what I went through to become this person.
-Oscar Wilde
It had been a long time since she'd sat at the bar of the Founding Fathers nursing a drink. She and Booth usually shared a glass or two of wine at home with dinner. Whiskey seemed a bitter choice. It stung her throat and reminded her of nights when she and Booth pretended to be anything but in love.
Her abdomen ached in a way that defied logic. It had been two months since the shooting, and she'd been back at work for three weeks. Long days bent over steel tables examining remains made her sore and tired in a way that was unfathomable before the shooting. She was healed. She had been cleared for lab and field work. For the first week, she sneaked pain pills. The medicine didn't lessen the pain only made her more tired. She tried stretching and wet heat and dry heat and even visited a massage therapist. She made an appointment with her doctor who ran a battery of tests that turned up nothing. The ache persisted and she gritted her teeth and said nothing to anyone. She worked harder to forget everything about that night and the days that followed.
Booth didn't hover as much as she thought he would.
Images of her mother played out in her mind. The visions of her mother had provided both closure and new wounds. It was true that she had tucked her heart away after her parents abandoned her; however, no single event defined an entire life. The loss of her parents and brother set in motion a series of events that shaped and molded and made her into Temperance Brennan.
She could not be unmade by the loving directive of her dead mother.
She signaled the bartender. "Another," she requested, tapping the rim of her glass. Her phone rang and the screen vibrated to life. Booth's name shone in the darkness. She tapped the ignore button and returned to her solitude.
She loved Booth and Christine and their life. She loved their house and the toys that amassed as their daughter grew older. She loved Booth's companionship and his goodness and his affinity for hockey and Canadian beer. She loved him like she'd never loved another person.
Lately, though, love wasn't the first word that came to mind when she thought about his feelings for her. Everything she said and did seemed to irritate him. He said things to her that felt like insults but that he covered with a smile. All her quirks seemed to set him on edge. When she was talking he cut her off and he seemed far away even when he was standing in front of her.
When she told him she felt like something was wrong between them, he waved his hand dismissively. "We're fine, Bones," he'd said. He'd kissed her and had taken her to bed and it was easy to forget that she felt something less than happy when his tongue trailed over the rise of her hip.
He was a good companion, partner, friend, and father. He was an excellent FBI agent. Everything about him was sure and steady and stable. Together, their solve rate was still the highest in the bureau. He excelled, and they excelled, but she felt thin and worn and tired.
Pelant was still on the loose and taunting her about motherhood and relationships weakening her intellect. She didn't command the same deference she once had in the lab. She felt like a name on a resume rather than a valued and respected colleague. Where her unique perspectives on life had once been endearing, perhaps humorous, she was now merely tolerated. She saw it when her friends rolled their eyes or tightened their jaws when they knew she was going to say something inappropriate.
Her years with Booth had taught her to better read people. The shooting had awakened an even greater sensitivity to the way people perceived her. When she felt the rational side of her brain whir to life and begin to wax logical or scientific, she learned to bite her tongue, and she was rewarded when the tension in the room eased. Her silence caused the eyes of her friends and colleagues to widen in surprise and the tense lines of their jaws slackened. They looked at her like maybe she would fit in with them one day.
Earlier, Angela visited her office and sat on her desk, smiled, and said, "You've come a long way, baby."
"What does that mean?" Brennan asked, glancing up from her computer screen.
"It means that I can't believe how much you've evolved. The other day you were singing along to The Black Keys, and you didn't say anything about catching Cam and Arastoo in her office last week."
Brennan arched an eyebrow. "Little Black Submarines is a hauntingly beautiful song. And why should I mention what I saw in Cam's office? It's none of my business," she said.
"Oh, sweetie," Angela laughed.
Brennan laughed humorlessly in response. "This means I've evolved?"
Angela smiled, nodded, and left without another word.
Brennan wanted to tell her that a change in musical proclivity and a newfound propensity for silence were not evolutionary markers. Instead, she stayed silent, because it seemed that people liked her better that way.
At the bar, people talked about their day and made plans, and she sat in a room full of people alone. It felt like old times except that she knew Booth and Christine were at home wondering where she was and why she wasn't eating dinner with them.
She signaled the bartender and held up her credit card. Brennan glanced around the bar and wondered about the lives of the people around her. She wondered about the life of the bartender, a man about her age, and all the choices that had led to him serving her drinks tonight.
The bartender came back and handed her the receipt and her card. She tipped him well and signed on the line. She stood up and swayed so much that she felt like she might fall. Reaching out to steady herself, her hands found the edge of the bar. It was slick and smooth and cool under her fingertips.
The bartender turned and asked, "Are you okay?"
Tears welled in her eyes because she realized it had been so long since someone had asked her that and meant it.
She nodded, feeling ridiculous and awkward, and the bartender ducked under the bar and stood beside her. "You didn't have that much to drink. You look sick. Are you all right?"
"Yes," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He rubbed her shoulder and she grabbed her coat, tucked her wallet in the deep, velvet pocket, and looped a finger through her key ring.
She smiled and brushed the tears out of her eyes. "Rough day," she said, because this was what normal people said. This was a colloquially acceptable response.
"Should I call a cab?" he asked.
In truth, she was tired and the alcohol hadn't helped her mood, so she nodded and said thank you.
A few minutes later a cab arrived to take her home.
She'd come to associate cabs with saying goodbye to Booth, so it felt strange to be in a cab and on her way home to him. She closed her eyes and let the motion of the vehicle soothe her.
"We're here…" she heard the cab driver say.
Brennan reached for her wallet and saw that her credit card was not inside. She must have left it at the bar. She didn't have any cash, either.
"Damn it," she said. "I have to go inside for money. I'm sorry," she said automatically.
The cab driver seemed unbothered by the delay and put the car in park. She quickly opened the door, fumbled with her keys, and hurriedly unlocked the front door of her home.
"Bones? Where have you been?" Booth asked from somewhere upstairs.
"Hang on," she replied. "I need money for the cab." She went to the kitchen and found a jar where Booth insisted they keep a small amount of cash.
"Cab?" Booth questioned as he made his way downstairs.
She hurried past him out the front door. "Yes," she said, her answer trailing behind her.
Even before she was to the cab driver's window, she was apologizing for the inconvenience, apologizing for making him wait, apologizing for being a pain in the ass.
"Lady, it's no big deal. You can stop apologizing," he said. She gave him twenty dollars for the cab fare and a twenty dollar tip because it was the first time in a long time she didn't feel like a burden.
The cab drove away and she looked toward her home and saw Booth standing in the doorway.
She walked toward him, and he stepped aside as she entered.
"Are you all right?" he asked, but there was an edge to his tone.
She nodded. "I'm fine," she said.
He closed the door behind them and followed her into the kitchen where she eased out of her coat and draped it over the back of the chair.
Shifting from one foot to the other, he asked, "Why did you take a cab? Where's your car?"
"The Founding Fathers," she replied.
"The Founding Fathers," he repeated. "Why were you there?"
She turned to face him. "I just needed some time to myself. I had…" She trailed off. She was going to say she had a rough day, but that wasn't entirely true. Her day had been unremarkable. "I just needed some time."
"Okay," he said, approaching her. "But you're home now and you're all right." He embraced her, kissed her on the forehead.
"I'm home now, yes," she said. She wanted him to hear all that she wasn't saying.
"Good," he said, holding her tightly against him. "That's all that matters."