Contemplating the weary image in the mirror with a mixture of mild curiosity and dread, Temperance Brennan finished putting the damp mess that was currently her hair into a ponytail. At least she had showered; her biggest accomplishment of the day so far, and no small feat considering there had been days in the past few weeks when even that simple task had gone unperformed. Her sweats were beginning to look entirely too baggy on her, but she didn't possess the drive to look through her pre-pregnancy clothes for suitable replacements. They probably wouldn't fit yet, anyway. The C-section had left her abdomen slightly distended and very sore and anything too tight was not acceptable. In the scheme of things, her bedraggled looks were the least of her worries-a quick look around their dwelling would confirm that.
Never one too vain, she had always been careful with how she was perceived regardless because she understood the importance of first impressions in the pecking order of society. But her society these days was very small, consisting primarily of an infant who presumably couldn't be bothered with the looks of the person feeding her and of her mate, whose own exhaustion hopefully made for a less discerning eye. With the occasional visitor she still took the time and effort to appear the meticulous, confident Dr. Brennan of old, but alone with the baby she allowed this new flummoxed, bewildered person to come out. And today, that particular person was coming out with a vengeance.
Colic. Funny how a term that appeared to be so neutral on the surface completely failed to capture the harsh nature of the event. No wonder the word evoked terror in the eyes of newly-minted parents. Crying that went on without seeming reason or end and having a stubborn predilection for making nighttime appearances. She was doing everything she could to decipher and treat the condition, using all the means at her impressive disposal. But despite the books, the internet, the weekly pediatric appointments and the well-intentioned advice from friends, the crying continued, leaving her secretly wondering whether their little girl's unhappiness stemmed in part from her mother's inability to bond with her in a proper way. And beyond all that was logical or explainable, only one thing more often than not quieted their distressed child: Booth. Almost without fail, when she had tried everything available to her, her partner in procreation descended on the scene like the proverbial knight in shining armor that Angela so happily equated him with and with his off-key voice and the sometimes ridiculous gyrations of his body, managed to soothe their distressed daughter back to sleep. While she appreciated the results, how they were accomplished did nothing for her self-confidence. She could lord over a lab, dazzle the most accomplished in her field, and yet a barely six-week old baby had her on her knees leaving her feeling completely deficient. No matter how much she observed, how much she tried to absorb, Booth's wordless skills continued to elude her. He was a veritable Tarzan, that legendary master of beasts featured in those Edgar Rice Burroughs books she had so enjoyed as a child. There was some sort of power there she couldn't understand or harness and it was a concession to her defeated state that she was willing to attribute what he was doing to magic.
Booth as Tarzan-an amusing yet powerful vision of him, particularly if one went into the visuals a bit. But amusement was in short supply this morning and she went into the kitchen without a single lift to her spirits. Better to eat while baby was asleep; a mid-morning nap wasn't something to be wasted, even if it involved Booth in a loincloth.
On her way there she surveyed their home, once reasonably tidy but now completely overrun by "stuff". Ambiguous terminology at best to be certain, but descriptive enough. Strange bouncing things, booties, blankets, toys, clothes in desperate need of hanging, partly opened presents-and paperwork everywhere. Medical bills, junk mail, newspapers, work materials. Her head hurt just looking at the chaos; when she felt a little stronger she would have to sort through things. Booth kept offering to organize but she declined time and time again, afraid something important might get lost-he really wasn't that detail-oriented. It was the same reason she didn't want a housekeeper or a babysitter's help even though Booth had strenuously suggested it upon her release from the hospital. At least that was the reason she liked to give him. In truth, getting any kind of outside assistance was tantamount to a moral defeat of sorts in her eyes, an admission that she couldn't even succeed at the menial task of housekeeping.
Pouring out a bowl of cereal, she quickly walked back into the living room with a sudden surge of panic; the yellow notepad left on the kitchen counter last night was no longer there. Had she ambled off with it and put it somewhere else, in one of those states of catatonia she was beginning to be more and more familiar with? There had been a rash and barely remembered promise to her editor of a new chapter by the end of this week, and it was already Thursday. If she transcribed the notes onto the computer and cleaned them up she just might be able to get something out in time. Probably not her best, but the best she currently had to offer.
Haphazardly searching the contents of the coffee table, she shoved a pile of magazines aside only to have the whole thing abruptly hit the floor, spreading its glossy covers far and wide. Men in hockey masks, men in helmets, men on bicycles and the completely incongruous woman in the barest of bikinis. Booth's sports magazines, months worth now ranging far and wide across the carpet along with some scientific journals of her own.
She knelt down gingerly and began picking them up, looking carefully through them this time to make sure her notes hadn't been inadvertently trapped between them. She needed those notes. Why hadn't she just typed them onto her computer to begin with? The answer was easy-it was yet another of many recent accomodations to baby's existence, the laptop being hard to maneuver with only one free hand.
Baby; she mused about the absurd moniker. It was how they currently referred to their offspring, a humorous, completely redundant iteration of everything that was patently obvious about her. Like so often in the past, she and Booth had crafted a term for something they shared that was for their use alone-their own little code. They did that often, and even more of late. On some days it still shocked her to see how easily their lives had intertwined, making a single design of what were such disparate elements. And on other days, it scared her how much she was beginning to need…something. She could identify that same exact 'something' in his eyes. Desire, wanting, dependence and…love. So this is what it was like, an aching that became almost unbearable when they spent any significant period of time apart, that made the thought of a permanent break in their bond an unacceptable option. She realized this last part when Booth came close to dying right in front of her a few weeks before the birth; it was the discovery of this one missing piece of information about herself that finally led her to agree to legally tie their separate identities into one.
And she still wanted to be with him in that way; it's just that since their first night together things had happened at such reckless, breakneck speed that she felt that somewhere along the way an important part of her must have been left behind, the part that usually guaranteed the appropriateness of her choices. But if she had thought things were descending into the unknowable on the morning after they first slept together and later, when she found out she was pregnant in that hospital bathroom, well…just look at her life now.
So far she was coping, but had come very, very close to not. And the thing that worried her the most? She could see him drifting closer and closer to her, allowing himself to give in to the domesticity of their new life, implicitly trusting in her ability to create a home for and with him-a permanent, immutable home. It was there every time he looked at her, his expressive brown eyes shining with undisguised adoration and ever growing hope. She was loath to admit that his faith in her was terrifying and possibly misplaced, and she wondered for the millionth time whether despite her many aptitudes, she could really live up to all those expectations. Just as she continued to silently wonder about the wisdom of getting married. It had been a willing choice-and yes she had sort of asked, just like he had so irritatingly predicted many months ago-but sometimes she still doubted she had what it took to carry through on the implications of that promise.
What was wrong with her? Even Angela, the freest, most unconventional of spirits amongst all of her acquaintances had cheerfully defected to the matrimonial state with little by way of trouble or complaint. It was true that faltering steps were taken by her and Hodgins on the way there, but in the final count Angela had embraced monogamy, its attendant wedding ring and a baby, adjusting almost seamlessly to her change in circumstance. So where did that leave her? Alone in a world where almost everyone she knew thought nothing about embarking on joint ventures of the heart for all eternity, as much as that goal was ever really achievable.
Why are you hanging around that weirdo, Callie? People are going to start picking on you too. Words whispered by a tormentor to someone she thought was a friend, until that friend too began keeping her distance. Because Temperance had always been a strange girl, different, and on some emotional level that she had not valued sufficiently until recently, perhaps even inadequate, despite Booth's differing opinion. She only wished she could see herself through his eyes; maybe then she could find the inspiration to match that vision. Because there was no possible way she could really be the way he perceived her to be-just look at her current failures with baby and household. She only hoped that she could change sufficiently before he too figured it out. He sees the truth of you, and he's dazzled by that truth. It just wasn't possible, and to this day she refused to believe it.
With no success at hand in finding her notes, she continued searching through the slick pile when without warning their landline phone rang, filling the house with its seldom-heard shrill sound. Loud enough here in the living room, but more worrisome because of its proximity to their sleeping daughter, in their bedroom. She got up as quickly as she could, wincing a little from the effort. It was too late; as if on cue she heard the baby's cries, easily as loud as anything coming out of the cordless phone.
She walked towards the infant's bedroom, clicking the receiver and answering "Dr. Temperance Brennan" before discovering Daisy's maddeningly cheerful voice at the other end; she should have known better than to ignore the caller id. Then again, Daisy was nothing but perseverant and her calls would hardly stop coming merely because they weren't picked up-just ask her partner about amorous moments gone awry due to Ms. Wick's tenacity. If Daisy only knew how many times Booth had paired her name with an epithet…but no, it was unlikely that even this information would have deterred her assistant.
"Doctor Brennan, how are you?" the young woman chirped happily. She withheld a reply, knowing perfectly well that the intern would provide her own answer. "Oh, I'm sure you're tired, and lonely and bored and…"
"Ms. Wick, to the point, please."
"I'm sorry. It's just I can't even imagine what it's like being you right now; it must be such a challenge. I don't know what I would do stuck in the house and far from the social and intellectual companionship I'm so comfortable with…"
"Ms Wick," she replied with more severity as she tried to handle the phone and the baby.
"Right. Sorry. Oh Dr. Brennan; I hate to remind you, but Dr. Saroyan needs the comments to the conclusions I emailed you earlier this week. I mean, I'm pretty confident about my results, but you know Doctor Saroyan; she's nothing if not thorough."
Her heart immediately sank at the words, and even knowing that this sensation was the result of a temporary drop in blood pressure, part of the body's survival mechanism during times of stress, didn't make the feeling any more agreeable. How could she have forgotten? The trial was in two weeks and they needed to present the findings about the Ana Garcia murder to the prosecutors by the end of the week, which for her meant today since her comments would have to be reviewed and certified by Cam before being turned in. She vaguely recalled looking at the email and even printing out Daisy's analysis, but her involvement with the materials had gone no further than this. Their daughter had woken up hungry and the report and its contents had been almost immediately relegated to some dim corner of her mind in the wake of the baby's irritable mood. It would take hours to verify the findings thoroughly, hours which she no longer had at her disposal. And for the first time in memory, she found herself apologizing about a professional matter. It was awkward and humiliating, but the only thing to do.
"I'm very sorry, Ms. Wick. I have the report, but I confess I forgot about the deadline. I'll do my best to review it this morning and I will get back to you and Doctor Saroyan as soon as I can."
Daisy was uncharacteristically dumbstruck on hearing the news, a fact that did little by way of easing her own discomfort. "Oh…yes, of course, quite understandable when progeny arrives", the intern managed to stutter out. "Well, as soon as you can, Doctor Brennan. I don't mean to pressure you. Take your time-except that you know we need it today, right?" she added in a girlish, pleading tone. "Oooh, is that the baby I hear? Awwww, how cute-and loud. I never thought about having children before, but seeing as you are my mentor and role model and you've decided to bring a little person into the world, I may have to reconsider. It seems quite the rage these days in the lab. And Lance is so attractive, only think of the highly intelligent, great-looking kids we're bound to have together. When you think about it, we actually owe it to the world. You really need to bring her by the Jeffersonian, Dr. Brennan. Oops, I forgot; Doctor Saroyan doesn't like that. But Ms. Montenegro does it anyway, so I'm sure you can…"
"Goodbye Ms. Wick. I will email you my results in the next few hours."
She hung up without any further comment, perfectly aware that she was being rude. And as she changed their little girl, the pervasive feeling of being caught in the center of a hurricane came back in full force as countless undone chores swirled around her in a disordered, and dangerous, mass. The baby came first of course; even if that hadn't been her first priority, her loud complaints about being left alone and unfed would have made rational thought almost impossible. And she enjoyed being with their daughter-she loved her, one of the few things she was still certain about-it's just that she enjoyed doing her work as well. Prioritizing while putting her offspring first; what seemed like an easily accomplishable mission only six weeks ago was turning out to be a most unmanageable task. She was simply not accustomed to letting work, or anything else that depended on her skills for that matter, come in second place. Lately though, there just didn't seem to be enough of her to go around and she feared that one of these days she would be responsible for failing people who relied on her in a major way. Possibly as soon as today.
Feeding the baby, now utterly content and looking at her with eyes that she recognized as her own, she wondered just how she was supposed to keep everyone happy. The publisher, their child, the lab and foremost on her mind these days, her boyfriend. Such a ridiculous term, one that made her alternately smile and grimace. It was the way others referred to him when speaking of their relationship and she had ended up accepting it, partly because nothing better came to mind. "Lover" had an illicit, overly-dramatic ring to it she wasn't particularly excited about and which Booth hated, "partner" seemed too tied to work-although she didn't mind this one as much-while "significant other" was entirely too indeterminate a label for her taste. Truly, there were no good options, so boyfriend and its slightly juvenile connotation would have to do for now until a new, even more alien term took its place: husband. And he was on her mind a lot, because she had experienced little of what others would have called "quality time" with him lately. First it had been his gun-shot wound and then her pregnancy discomfort and complicated delivery. The end result? They hadn't slept together in more than two months, with at least a couple of more weeks to go; an eternity for two people who hadn't shared that much time together as a couple. Without a doubt, she was definitely starting to become more than a bit miffed at the loss of their "quality time."
No sexual intercourse for at least eight weeks following that disastrous labor; when they both received the instructions from her doctor she had breathed a little sigh of relief, because her near-brush with death had left her drained and irrefutably sore and most definitely not in the mood for any. But in the last few days being held or merely touched by him, however intimately, didn't seem nearly enough. Their relationship, still so new, needed more by way of actual sex to develop. Lots more. It was a connection her mind and heart were ready for even if her body wasn't.
Truly, when one thought about it was only sex and she shouldn't be missing it so much-there had been plenty of dry spells in her life before-except that she had figured out early on that somehow with Booth it really wasn't ever just sex. Yes, there were times when it was primarily about recreation and athleticism and even a little playful competition between them, about release and endorphins, but there were other times with him when she could literally feel all personal borders dissolving into the haze of powerful, addictive embraces that in their wake left her feeling both ecstatically joyful and deeply concerned. Sometimes, after he loved her, after they loved each other and long after he had fallen asleep, his arms often still possessively around her, she would stay awake physically and mentally overwhelmed, with everything that she was and had ever been seemingly well on its way to melding with him into an amorphous, undefinable 'us.' In hindsight, maybe there was something to his idea about lovers breaking the laws of physics.
She looked down at her engagement ring, the one that signified to her equal parts love and surrender. Us; Temperance Brennan hadn't belonged to such an all-encompassing unit since her family had vanished into thin air right before that empty Christmas morning. Those memories were buried six feet deep now, and hurt sufficiently that she wanted them left there. Despite her recent change of heart, she wasn't sure she could be part of an us again, not in the solid, unchanging way that Booth saw it. But there was still time to weigh her options before raising the alarm, and maybe things would get better once the baby slept through the night like Angela kept telling her.
Refusing to let her day stall any longer on these currently irresolvable issues, she headed to the laptop with their little girl at hand prepared to do what she could about the forensic report. As to the misplaced chapter? That was yet one more apology in the making, one that would require a little more courage than she had at the moment. In the shadow of such an inauspicious start to the morning the soggy cereal was left completely forgotten on the coffee table, even as she mentally committed to being more attentive to things in the future. It was promising to be a long day.