A/N: This baby's been sitting in my drafts for months. I try to be as accurate as possible but I'm afraid this one's not been proofread or fact-checked. Hit the reviews and I might just publish the next chapter sooner! xx
Disclaimer: Obviously not mine. Otherwise, I would've put more love scenes in it, wouldn't I?
He's walking in the park with a cheerful spring in his steps, eyes fix on her standing by the oak tree. "Hey there, partner." Booth says before his arms encircle her hips from behind.
She stiffens, surprised, before softening into the embrace and turning in his arms to link her fingers behind his neck. Meeting his lips in a chaste kiss, she addresses him sternly, "I've been waiting here for an hour. And that's already half an hour deducted as per your reasoning that I always arrive 30 minutes too early."
"Well, Pops asked me to help him with something at the shop and we forgot about the time. And then I had to shower 'cause I stink of motor oil and I was not gonna kiss you smelling like a car exhaust." He explains, his thumbs caressing her spine over the layers of clothes she's got on.
She hums skeptically, a lone eyebrow raised at him.
"C'mon, Bones. Pops says he's sorry and that I have to invite you over for dinner." He smiles at her, knowing she will cave. "He's making your grilled cheese extra special. Put the slightest hint of nutmeg that you like, huh? What d'ya think?"
Her eyes narrow into thin slits at him, before the gentle line of her lips break into a wide smile and she shoves him playfully. "Sounds promising." Brennan starts walking away from him, the smile in her face beckoning him to follow her. The yellow rays of the sunlight peaking from between the clusters of leaves play across her face, the rings around her pupils becoming lighter. As she steps fully out of the shade of the tree, the light shifts and suddenly, everything is tangerine. The green grass he was standing on swapped for wood shavings and dried corn husks. He looks at her and finds her orbs widening with horror.
"Booth!" She manages to yell before the ground under her cracks and tilts and she falls over.
The strong legs of his rushes to her. Booth drops on his stomach on the ground, immediately grabbing the wrist of one of her hands that are holding onto the edge of the cliff. "Bones, are you okay? Give me your other hand."
"Booth," She whispers, streams of tears rolling down her cheeks. "I can't."
The ground grumbles from beneath him and he feels it against his chest. He tightens his hold on her arm. "Bones! Don't let go."
Lighting illuminates the surroundings for a split second, quickly followed by thunder and then rain. Her fingers dig into the soft soil that's rapidly eroding "I can't hold on anymore."
"Yes, you can, Bones! C'mon, try to move your hand again!" He yells, his face wet and his other hand trying to reach for her other arm and failing. "Don't let go, Temperance."
"It's going to be too slippery, Booth. I-" She sobs, and in her face, a sad resigned smile. "I love you."
"Tempe, no, don't do this!" He shouts.
She manages to smile at him before she slips from his grasp completely and he yells her name with anger and sorrow into the void, as if doing so could cushion her fall or give her wings.
An irritated growl rumbles within him, turning to the direction of the front door with his eyebrows knitted together, trying to see through the blinding light streaming from his windows. "Alright, alright!" He yells, and added with a murmur, "Goddamn it." He stands up, grabbing the nearest shirt he could grab from the floor and throws it on as he walks towards the front door. "What do you want?!"
He opens the door to Caroline Julian staring at him in disbelief. Pushing past him and walking into his apartment, she scowls as she looks around the mess—wrinkled clothes piled on top of a chair, last night's dinner is still lying on the coffee table, empty beer bottles scattered around the foot of the sofa. "Imagine me sitting at the diner for 2 hours, waiting for a certain FBI agent to get his plane tickets from me. I must have called said FBI agent 50 times before I realized he wasn't gonna come. Now, imagine my horror when I go knocking on said FBI agent's door and finds him still half-asleep." She props a hand against her hip, bag still in hand. "Why aren't you ready yet? Have you packed your bags? Your damn plane leaves in 45 minutes."
His eyes widened as he looked at the clock with panic. "10:15. Shit, shit, shit." He says, scrambling for his things.
Caroline remains planted on her spot in the middle of the living room, following his movements with her eyes until he disappears into his bedroom. She then hears water splashing and gurgling sounds. She walks over to his windows, looking over the balcony, observing the city below, the man in the bedroom opening and closing the closet doors and cabinets. He reappears in his black suit, stuffing a black tie in his pocket whilst holding a bulky duffel bag in his other hand. She turns to him and hands him an envelope containing his ticket, "Get it together, Seeley Booth."
He almost hops out of the cab at 10:59 after having been stuck in traffic for the last 30 minutes as the driver had convinced him to take a shortcut, not knowing the road would be closed for the presidential motorcade. His foot taps impatiently as he gets in line at the airport entrance, a litany of prayers run through his mind whilst going through security, finally reaching the boarding counter at 11:07.
"Hi," He greets the airline staff behind the boarding counter breathlessly, "11 AM flight to Cherry Capital left yet?"
The staff looks at him with a pitiful smile and says calmly, "I'm sorry, sir, but it's already on the runway. Our airline follows schedule very strictly."
"Damn." He whispers, running a firm hand over his tired face. Taking a deep breath, he casts a pleading look at her, "Do you have any other flights to any airport near the wineries?"
The woman notices his frustration and typed for a moment on her computer, then offering politely, "The next one to Cherry Capital is tomorrow at 3 AM. There's one to Green Lake which is a bit farther and you'd have to take a car for about an hour or so to reach the wineries. You'd have to wait for another 4 hours for that flight but if you ask me, it's a way better alternative. I could book you in either flight right now."
"Alright, okay." He nods, eyes staring into space as the gears in his head start turning. "How long would it take me to get from DC to Traverse if I drive?"
"Around 13 hours?"
"Okay," he sighs, shooting her a defeated smile. "Can you book me a one-way ticket to Green Lake?"
"Sure."
Booth exits the Green Lake Airport quarter of an hour before 7 PM. Slinging his duffel bag on one shoulder and reaching for the phone in his pocket, he calls his mentee who picked up after 2 rings. "Yello?" The voice from the other line says through mouthful of food in between chews.
"Manners, Aubrey." He says flatly. "Are you still at Hoover?"
He hears rustling from the other line which meant James Aubrey is putting his food down and lifting containers to look for a napkin to wipe his mouth with. "Yeah, sorry, Agent Santiago told me about this turkey sandwich place and I just had to try it. It's great, by the way, a little too heavy on the mustard but still great. Are you there yet?"
"I just landed. I'm trying to find this rent-a-car place they recommended. Has anybody called for me?" He asked, his eyes looking around the lot, trying to figure out the directions drawn on a piece of napkin by a young man sitting behind the Information Desk inside Green Lakes Airport.
"Caroline dropped by for updates, I told her I'd let her know when you call me."
"I'll call her myself tomorrow morning. Have you found anything else on the case?" He asks, walking towards a small, lit door with a sign outside that says Ronald's Rent-A-Car.
"Nothing you don't already know. Although, I did ask Sweets to give us a psychological profile of her because you apparently hadn't. Should be done by tomorrow morning."
"You did what?!" Booth stops abruptly from walking, yelling with exasperation, "Aubrey, I had no intention of having her profiled! That's why I didn't give her file to Sweets!"
Aubrey inches the phone away from his ear, suddenly thankful for hundreds of miles stretched between him and his mentor. "Okay... But why? Booth, this case has been dragged long enough, we need all the help we can get before this all blows over."
Booth sighs loudly, willing the anger to leave his system. "Just…" He grits, "call me if there's any development." He ends the call, taking one deep breath and looking at the night sky peppered with stars, he whispers with as much sanity as he could muster at the moment, "Fuck."
Half an hour later, he stands outside waiting for the rental car he ordered, sighing with resignation when the subcompact Honda comes to a halt in front of him, the young woman who assisted him stepping out of the car and holding the door open for him, wishing him a safe drive.
He reaches Traverse City in about an hour and a half but gets stuck in a bit of traffic due to an accident up ahead that's taken a while to be cleared up. Grabbing his phone from the passenger seat, he waits for the other line to get picked up.
"Seeley. How's it going?" Says the voice that answered.
"Took a few wrong turns before I reached Traverse City and when I did, I get stuck in traffic." He moans.
"So you haven't seen her yet?"
He clicks his tongue, knowing full well where this conversation is going but choosing to face the issue head on anyway. "No, Cam. Not yet."
"Well, do you know what you're gonna say to her?" She asks.
"I don't know, Cam. Does 'Hey, it's me, your prick of an ex-boyfriend from 15 years ago. Care to let me in?' sound good enough?"
"Okay, no need to be hostile, Seeley. I'm just trying to help." Retorts the voice from the other line softly.
Bringing over a hand to massage his forehead, he sighs, "I know. I'm sorry. Things would go easier if you were the one to go over here and see her."
"I'm not the agent on this case, Seel. I'm just the autopsy gal." She retorts, voice laced with remorse and pity.
The traffic clears up half an hour after that. A few missed turns which prompted him to turn the car back around multiple times, and a quick stop for dinner later, a sign saying La Maison Benois is illuminated by his headlights. He parks the car between an old pick up truck and a black sedan under a tree, switches the key off the ignition and gets out of the car. Music floats out of the house and he hears laughter mixing in with the song as he nears the door. His eyes flicker over to the windows but the light-colored curtains illuminated from the inside are drawn close. He hears two people singing inside, their voices breathless between sloppily cheerful lyrics, "Ole! Ole! The wedding samba! Will bring a pretty señorita to her feet!"
He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants before raising a fist, his knuckles coming down on the wooden surface, suddenly unsure with the appropriate rhythm he should be knocking on a door. He knocks once, twice, thrice. Inside his chest, his heart beats erratically, raking his mind for a sole word to describe what he's feeling.
Melodies escape through the gap between the door and the doorframe, the body of the woman standing in front of him doing nothing to keep the music in. He drinks her in—the smile disappearing from her lips, her lazy eyes widening, deep strawberry blonde locks framing her face. His brown eyes lock with those blue of hers and he says, "Temperance Brennan. You're a difficult woman to find."
She stares at him in shock, in disbelief, as if he's the last thing she's expecting to see on her front door. "What- what are you doing here?"
A few moments pass and they continue to stare at each other wordlessly until a throat clearing behind him interrupts them. "Uhm hello, yes, hi. Would you mind moving a little bit to the side, please? These are really quite heavy and I've had quite a bit of a drink." Booth turns around to see whom the British accent belonged to and sees a slender young man, no more than 21 or 22 years old, hugging two big brown bags against him, glasses clinking and liquid sloshing from within the bag as he shifts his balance from one side to the other in a desperate attempt to hold his purchases up.
Brennan remains frozen in place, panic settling in her eyes even as Vincent interrupts their exchange. Booth extends a hand towards one of the bags, claiming one from Vincent who willingly obliges and says with a toothy grin, "Thanks, mate. Cheers."
But she tries to grab the bag from Booth and says persistently, "I got it."
Vincent walks past the both of them, pushing the door more openly and leaving them to tug at the bag. Booth's eyes catches the slight wobble in her steps and the languid way her arms reach for the bottles. "It's fine." He manages to get out before another set of hands take the very culprit he and Brennan are tugging at from his secure arms.
He looks up and sees a tall, brunette woman smiling at him through a haze of drunkenness, winking at him and saying, "I got it, hot stuff. Come inside, join the party."
"Angela," the other woman says, "you don't even know him."
"But you do." The brunette whispers to her friend, reaching for Booth's arm with her hand that's not hugging the groceries to her chest. Booth lets her drag him and hears Brennan close the door behind them, the sound of her footsteps falling after them. Angela lets go of him in the middle of the living room, and without even turning back her head, announces loudly, "Vino and I will be at the kitchen mixing drinks for everyone." Which leaves him and Temperance Brennan alone with the music and the palpable awkwardness in the room.
She steps in front of him, clearing her throat and sitting down on the large plush caramel-colored leather sofa. He follows her with his gaze, eyes averting when she tries to meet his gaze. The confidence he seemingly had on his way over diminishing with every minute he spends in her presence.
"Might as well sit down." She says with firmness and formality. However much drink she's had through the night seem to have no effect on her at all as she studies him clearly in her head. And he seems to feel her unyielding stare even as he strides over to the sofa in front of her, keenly aware that something beyond that large oak coffee table radiates between them. If only Angela would serve those darn drinks sans mixtures right there and then instead of the hefty tray of awkwardness stretched between the two of them across the coffee table.
She watches the slight slouch in his posture, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he sits down, the tense broad expanse of his shoulders, the way the sleeves of his white button down fit over his arms, the small lines of paler skin on his knuckles, the numerous amount of restless nights evident in the bags under his eyes, the short play of about a week's worth of stubble on his face.
He looks around the living room, trained gaze flickering from furniture to fireplace to the crown moldings where the walls and ceiling meet, his thumb tapping nervously on one jean-clad knee. "Nice place." He comments, and only when she clears her throat did he let his eyes fall on her. "You changed your hair… It's nice."
She takes a deep breath and lets go of it loud enough for it to communicate her irritation. "This isn't a social visit, is it? Why are you here?"
He blinks and the shameful glint in his eyes turn serious, impersonal. "I'm a special agent with the FBI now. The uh- the bureau wants to consult with you on a case."
"No." She grits, standing up abruptly to walk towards the front door. "Try the Jeffersonian Institution. Whatever it is, I'm sure they will be more than capable of helping you solve your case. Good bye."
He stands up to face her but plants both feet on the ground even as he sees her open the door to usher him out of the house. "I came all the way here from D.C., the least you could do is hear me out."
"'The least I could do?'" Her eyes grow cold when she feigns a laugh. "I don't owe you anything."
Quite taken aback by his own brash demand, his face grows softer in silent apology, head hanging low. "Right. You're right."
She holds the door more openly.
Booth's eyes meet hers, barely contained rage and exhaustion swimming in the blue green of her orbs. "I wouldn't be here if it isn't important, Bones."
"Since when do you know about sorting out priorities?" She scoffs. "And it's Dr. Brennan to you, seeing as you forfeited the right to call me by that moniker long ago. Now, please leave."
He sighs in defeat and makes his way to the door. "I'll tell Cam you're doing well." He whispers as he passes her, the tight line of her lips remains unmoving, and he disappears into the darkness of the night.
Brennan closes the door after him, bolting it and sliding the chain onto the latch. Leaning with her back against the door when she finally hears his car drive away. She closes her eyes tiredly, the feelings she do not know how to name ebbing in and out of her, the very dauntlessness she mustered washing out of her.
"Want a drink?" says Angela across the room, holding a mixed drink of some kind on each hand. "Wait, where did he go?" She adds, Vincent coming to stand beside her, smiling among the tray of two silver Cuervos, shot glasses, a saucer of salt, and slices of lime.
They move aside as Brennan holds the door for the octogenarian exiting the diner. The older woman smiles as she moves past the two women wearing dark sunglasses but still wincing at the sun.
"Oh my god." Angela murmurs. Sitting down on one of the stools by the counter, she presses on her forehead and temples. "We really shouldn't have had that last shot last night."
"Or the other 5 before that." Brennan chimes in, sitting beside her with the same expression on her face and waving at the waitress.
Angela turns to her friend slowly, eyes narrowing in disgust. "Don't talk too loud. God. Feels like my head's being bulldozed."
The waitress nods at them and heads toward their direction with two mugs and a pot of coffee. "You two look like hell. Fun night?" She says quietly, pouring them each a cup of joe. "What can I get you two?"
"It was and then it wasn't..." She scowls inwardly at the memory, his face swimming on the forefront of her mind. "I'll have the 2-stack chocolate chip waffles, no whip. She'll have an English breakfast—sausage, beans, the works… And another English breakfast to go."
The blonde waitress nods, writing their orders down. "Anything else?"
"Angie?" Brennan whispers.
The brunette sips her coffee, a sweet relief washing over her. She shakes her head slowly and smiles politely at the waitress. "Thanks, Jasmine." Angela says, the woman behind the counter stepping away to put in their orders. She turns back to her friend, lifting her sunglasses to perch atop her head, flinching at the brightness of the place. "So?"
She looks back at Angela, the slight fall on the tone of her voice failing to hide the denial her pitch black sunglasses tries to feign. "What?"
Angela rolls her eyes, suddenly regretting so when the reaction triggered a hefty pounding in her head. "The hottie from last night. You know—tall, arms like they've been sculpted by Michelangelo, taut butt, brown eyes, dripping with sensuality… Ring any bells?"
She sits up properly, sipping on her coffee like she didn't hear her friend.
"I won't press you to talk about him, Temps. You'll talk to me when you're ready. He's really hot, though. You should have had sex with him before you sent him away." Sensing her friend's protest bubbling as she puts down her cup, Angela remarks, "I'm just saying, you haven't had sex since Jake skipped town. Pretty soon, self-service isn't gonna do it for you, sweetie. And you're gonna go cuckoo, and we're gonna have to send you over to the nest where they'll electrocute you until you're catatonic, and then a tall man who doesn't speak will walk out of the nest through the window."
"Hey, I actually know that reference." Brennan smiles. "And what are you, the getting-laid patrol? Look, you're a great friend and thank you for your concern about my sexual life. But really, I'm fine, Ang."
"I bet." Angela says, making the mistake of rolling her eyes again.
Their orders arrive and the two eat in silence, both munching on their food with much gusto. Brennan spaces out, her mind wandering off to another place, another time.
About half an hour passes and they're both nursing their second cups of coffee, picking on their shared fruit bowl, when the cook walks over to them.
"Hey," Leo nods at them and addresses Brennan, "so listen, a guy was here last night around 11 PM, asking questions about you."
Brennan's eyebrows knit, "Tall, brown hair, about 35, well-built, wearing a suit but no tie?" She inquires and he nods. "What kind of questions?"
"He asks about what you do around here, what you're like as a customer." Leo shrugs, waiting for Brennan to show some kind of reaction. When she doesn't, he continues, "We didn't say anything, of course. We didn't know who he was or what he wanted from you." The cook leans close to them, lowering his voice to ask, "You in some sort of trouble, Temperance?"
She shakes her head and offered him a polite smile. "No. I'm fine, I knew him way back. Thanks, Leo."
When he leaves, Angela stares at her friend, mouth agape. "Bren…"
"Yes." She answers ahead of the questions she can feel forming inside her friend's head.
"The Michelangelo is Booth." She muses, putting two and two together.
"Yes."
"From Maryland."
"Yes." Brennan repeats.
"That scar behind your ear."
"Yes."
"Damn." Angela frowns, stabbing her fork on her sausage as Jasmine sets it in front of them. "Can't really be hot if you're an idiot."
The two pay their meals and drive back home with Vincent's take out. They found him still deeply asleep before they left for the diner and decided against waking him up. Out of the three of them, he was the one who had the most to drink the previous night. And given the scrawny structure of his physique, he's not really one to handle too much liquor.
When they turn to enter the property, they spot Vincent squinting at their approaching vehicle. He's in his faded denim jumpers, holding a hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the 1 PM sun. With his free hand, he waves at them and Brennan parks the pick-up truck by the tree beside Angie's sedan.
"You two had a good meal?" He greets them when they step out of the pick-up.
Brennan extends the take out to him and he thanks her. "Oh, lovely. Yes. Thank you." He manages to say before he steps in front of her to stop her from walking past him. "I'm afraid there's quite a bit of an issue." He smiles nervously.
"Spit it out, V-man." Angela pipes in.
"As you both know, I'm fairly drunk last night and so I vaguely remember whether you had any instructions as to whether the man is to be trusted or not. So when he, uh, came back this morning looking for you again, I might have invited him in."
"Shit," Brennan grumbles. "How long has he been here? Where is he?"
"5 minutes short of an hour. In the living room. I might have also given him a can of soda." He answers and Brennan immediately starts walking towards the house in quick, purposeful strides. "I'm sorry," Vincent yells after her, "I'm English. Being hospitable is deeply embedded in my nature."
Angela claps the young man's back as they both watch her grab the knob and disappear through the door. "Don't worry, you're not getting fired, V-man. You're just in trouble, that's all."
Brennan slams the door behind her, startling the unwelcomed guest sitting in her living room. He stood up and raised both arms. "I didn't come here to fight." He explains.
She charges towards him with an unamused look in her face. "I think I strongly implied last night that I do not want you here, Booth." She stops in front of him, her chest heaving in anger and the fast pace in which she has walked from where he now stands, her nostrils flaring at the slightest bit, his perfume wafting onto her and she takes a step back from him.
He's dumbfounded at the realization that it's the first time he hears her utter his name for years. And even after all that time, his heart still finds it breathtaking that his name could sound so smoothly as it rolls off her lips. "I'm sorry. I'll leave. But please, just take a look at these files. It has all the information you need." He points to the small stack of manila folders perched atop her coffee table and waited for her sight to follow where his finger leads. A slow tired breath makes its way out of his chest with a sound. "If it was just up to me, I never would've bothered you at all—you know that. But there may be lives at stake and you're our best chance at solving this."
She hears the sincerity in his voice meet his eyes and she tells him, "I'll think about it."
"Room 208." He says flatly. "I'll be at the motel by the fire station till tomorrow morning at 9. Let me know if you're in."
She watches him walk out of the door.
A/N 2: I made a playlist entitled "back on the map (a bones fanmix)" and you can access it on Spotify from user miegoreng69. will add more songs to it as I update