Temperance sighed to herself as she slid her key into the lock. It turned smoothly, and she let herself into Booth's apartment. It wasn't often her partner forgot files at home, and she found herself vaguely amused at his embarrassed tone over the phone when she inquired what happened to their last casefile. She knew he had a sizable stack of paperwork to work on already, so she had offered to collect it herself.
Privately, she didn't mind. It wasn't often she spent time in Booth's apartment without him there. Perhaps she was being fanciful, but she fancied his sturdy presence lingered in the air. People did shape their surroundings, so perhaps it wasn't quite so far-fetched. The living space was much like him; neat and functional, with odd quirks here and there that made her smile and shake her head. He had a taste for unusual furniture and a tendency to leave his laptop unplugged. She walked over and absently reinserted the power cord, continuing to look around. The large television was no surprise, but the misshapen clay pot sitting on top was slightly peculiar. She squinted at the lumpy surface, covered with glitter and liberal daubs of neon paint, and deduced that it must be a gift from Parker.
The boy was a second presence, lighter and smaller than Booth, but still visible to any observer. The brightly coloured children's books on a low bookshelf, a handful of robots scattered on the carpet, tiny shoes beside the door. Parker wasn't over nearly as often as Booth would like, but when he was, Booth always made sure there was a place for him.
For her as well. Even she left a mark on his environment, an observation that left the scientist feeling unusually peaceful. A neat collection of her mysteries sat on his bookshelf. Every novel she had published, he had bought. Most of his books appeared comfortably used, most likely picked up at second-hand bookshops. Not hers. Any book bearing the name Temperance Brennan was clad in a shining dust jacket, and looked brand new. Her partner had spent extra money and bought them immediately, rather than waiting months for the relatively inexpensive paperback editions.
Suddenly, she realized she was standing in her partner's apartment, breathing deeply and smiling to herself. She looked around guiltily. Of course, she was just looking out of anthropological interest, but it would appear strange to an outside observer.
The one thing she hadn't spotted in her inspection was the elusive file. Not in the kitchen, living room…Temperance checked the bathroom. No. That left his bedroom. Inexplicably, she found herself swallowing slightly.
Telling herself she was being foolish, she turned the handle firmly and entered. Looking around while not looking at anything was more difficult than she anticipated, but quickly discovered the manila folder on a small table. She tucked it under one arm and turned to leave, but her gaze was drawn towards something from the corner of her eye.
It was a painting easel. This alone was cause for consideration. It sat by the window, a swivel chair pulled beside it. On the chair rested an open box of paint; the small cakes showed signs of enthusiastic usage. Several paintbrushes lay on top. She wasn't a reliable judge, but they looked like very good quality.
Temperance had been aware he had some level of artistic talent ever since that first Christmas. They had been quarantined inside the Medico-Legal Lab, and Angela had initiated a 'Secret Santa'. At the time she had seen gift-giving as a way of asserting dominance, so had refused to take part. Now, several years wiser, she regretted that decision. Perhaps gift-giving was a way to send a message to another member of the species, but it didn't logically follow that said message could only refer to positions in social hierarchy. Booth's paper creation had been beautiful, and Dr. Goodman had seemed pleased. Then last year, on their outing with Sweets and his fish-loving girlfriend, her partner's artistic talents had manifested in the shape of a lifelike clay horse.
Now he was a painter too. Looking at his painting would probably be an invasion of privacy, but Booth hadn't specifically told her not to look. Temperance walked to the other side of the wooden easel, noting that it was carefully positioned to allow natural light to fall on the canvas.
Then she saw what he was painting, and Temperance felt like her legs had turned to stone. That was hyperbole, but since her nervous system seemed to have momentarily seized up, it was forgivable.
The artwork Booth had been working on this morning, one that caused him to be distracted to the point he forgot a valuable case file…It was a portrait of…Something was definitely wrong with her synapses. Neurons misfiring, temporary hallucinations, anything.
Now her lungs were shutting down. Her breath was gone, stolen by her bemusement and, if she was being frank with herself, wonder. It was somewhat stylized, but still unmistakably herself.
Objectively, she was aware that she was a sexually desirable woman, but it wasn't something she was especially proud of. Attractive features were encoded into a person's DNA. It wasn't an accomplishment to be good-looking. You were, or you weren't. Far more impressive, to her mind, was the fact that she was a forensic anthropologist. That required study, and dedication, and…Babbling. Mentally, she was babbling, in a vain effort to distract her eyes from what they were seeing…She quashed her unhelpful thoughts with irritation.
The woman in the painting was beautiful. Not just attractive. Simply, honestly, unselfconsciously gorgeous. Her head was tilted upward, eyes focused on something distant and absorbing. She had a distinctive face, fine underlying bone structure, and an enigmatic half-smile. It drew the viewer in, made you wonder what she was looking at that made full lips curve just so. Booth had carefully shaded the woman's creamy skin to contrast with dark, curling lashes that framed her faraway eyes. They were changeable, those eyes. Blue, or perhaps lavender-grey. Full of light, full of sadness, full of mystery.
A high forehead gave way to loose waves of chestnut hair, blowing back in riotous contrast to the sedate, controlled face. Undertones of platinum and copper twisted through her locks, giving depth and contrast. One strand blew across her graceful neck, drawing attention to her smooth clavicle and bare skin.
The whole painting was washed in an undertone that reminded her of a time of day where the sun appeared low in the sky. Not sunset. The tone was lighter, clearer than the heady gold of sunset. Sunrise. A new day, everything bright and full of possibility.
Temperance swallowed, attempting to rid herself of a tightening sensation in her throat. Everything seemed clearer, sharper, a side effect of the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She was breathing far too rapidly, causing her to become slightly lightheaded.
Ever since she had met the FBI agent, she had sought to understand him. She respected his abilities even before she came to genuinely like the man himself. He was a 'feelings' person, all gut and instinct. She could never keep the upper hand in a conversation with him. Their worlds abruptly intersected when crime was involved, and they both had what the other needed. He was erratic, unpredictable, but dependable. Booth never flinched, never left, never gave up. Perhaps Andy Lister had been inspired by the agent, in a vain hope that she could use the fictional version to see through the original's eyes.
What was the saying? 'Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it'? Temperance knew she had heard it before, more than once. Even her lack of knowledge about popular culture had limits. It always seemed a puzzling expression. Lately, she had gradually begun to see truth in it. She had desired to see things through her partner's eyes, and her wish was granted. For the woman in the painting was herself, through the filter of his eyes.
It sounded suspiciously like psychology, but Temperance was past caring by this point. Her friend and partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth, didn't choose to paint her in a lab coat inspecting patellae and odd manubriums. That would have been appropriate, if a touch out of the ordinary. Instead, he painted his Bones with a nimbus of morning light surrounding her, glowing and vulnerable inside her thoughts, with a tumble of flowing hair and no visible clothing. That was way beyond any invisible line of propriety…That was…strangely flattering.
Her cellular phone rang, and she jerked. Fumbling it out of a pocket, she glanced at the screen. Booth. She swallowed again, clearing the large lump out of her trachea.
"Brennan." She managed to speak into the mouthpiece, and her voice didn't seem too flustered. Temperance winced to herself. How could she be so flustered? I am a scientist. Calm. Collected.
"Hey Bones." Her partner's voice was abashed. "Just, you know, checking in. I'm sorry about the file, really. Did you, um, find it? I can't remember where I left it." Now he sounded oddly nervous. Was he worried that she might have seen the painting? She made a sudden decision to bend the truth.
"I did. Find it, that is. On the coffee table in your living room. You left your laptop unplugged again. If you want to extend the life of that computer, I would recommend you stop forgetting. Letting the battery run down has a detrimental effect on hardware." With her doppelganger staring so serenely, it was hard to speak coherently. She ignored it resolutely, staring out the window. Booth's window.
"Oh. Great! I mean-not great. I shouldn't have forgot it. But great, that you found it. In the living room. Yeah." Apparently she wasn't the only one who was having issues with coherency. A spark of mischief made her ask:
"You don't usually forget files. What exactly were you doing this morning?" She was rewarded by a faint hiss of breath as he tried to think.
"I had some…stuff…that I'd been working on for a while. I wanted to finish it up before I left. Look, Bones, I'm sorry about the file. Can I drop by your apartment with some food tonight? Thai? Vietnamese? Just say the word."
She found that she was looking at the woman in the painting again, reflected off window glass. Her face and the woman's face, side by side. Looking from one to the other, Temperance smiled. A heady chemical cocktail rushed through her bloodstream. Serotonin, dopamine, adrenaline, norepinephrine.
"Are you still there? Bones!" Temperance jerked back to reality.
"What? Yes. Yes, dinner is fine. Vietnamese would be…fine." Why couldn't she think of another word to use?
"OK. Well, see you."
"Goodbye, Booth." Her phone went back into a pocket. She needed to get back to the lab. Turning back to the painting one last time, Temperance found her hand lifting. It traced the curve of the woman's shoulder before resting on the blank part of the canvas.
A warm feeling flowed down her arm to settle just below her heart. She was still smiling foolishly, but couldn't seem to make herself stop. A realization began to grow, but whatever it was, the epiphany was frustratingly hard to pin down. Temperance pulled her fingers away from the picture. They tingled faintly.
She sighed, turned away from the easel, and left Booth's apartment. Her thoughts were preoccupied for the rest of the day, torn between dissecting the epiphany or ignoring it.
Eventually, Temperance conceded defeat. She would explore the strange intuition at a later date. For now, she had dinner with Booth, and she didn't want to be late.
A.N. So. Thoughts? Impressions? Think I should continue? Let me know by clicking the pretty button and typing!
Oh, and sorry if the summary made it sound naughty. Had to hook people in somehow. Just kidding.