A/N: This takes place during 4.10 The Con Man in the Meth Lab, directly before the party sequence
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Brennan drops her bag in the hall, awkwardly stripping off her coat with one arm. It's torn and stained, a reminder of her own inadequacies, so she abandons it where it falls and stumbles toward her bedroom.
She catches sight of her face, flashing past in the mirror, and she stops. Physically, Brennan knows that she appears no different than any other day, but something about her has shifted, bringing shadows into her eyes. Even as she tilts her chin up, defying the woman she sees in the glass, the pit of her stomach—her gut—tells her that she knows what's wrong.
"Bones!" A familiar voice calls out, and she sighs, leaning against the dressing table. Brennan thought she had at least another half-hour before he materialized. He's going to be upset that she didn't wait at the hospital, angry that she drove herself home, worried for—but she didn't want to think about that. Shoving her thoughts aside, she straightens.
"In here, Booth," her voice sounds detached, wooden even.
Booth appears in her hall, wearing the same rumpled clothes she last saw him in, and she shakes her head slightly. He obviously came straight here after completing his paperwork, and his concern shows on his face.
"I'm fine," she says, holding up her sling.
"Fine?" He sounds exasperated, and she bristles. "Bones, you got shot."
"Yes," she agrees, yanking open a drawer and pulling out a clean shirt. "I remember telling you at the time that it was minor and I was fine. The hospital confirmed this assessment."
Brennan moves around the room, jerking open her closet and pulling out a pair of slacks. She tosses them on her bed, purposely not looking at him. He leans against the wall and watches her; he's always watching her, it's enough to make her go insane.
"I just came to make sure you're okay," Booth says. And she hates him for it. Hates it that he's good enough to come over, when he should be irritated with her for stepping in on his half of their partnership. Hates it that he's concerned, concerned for her, the woman who called him a coward.
He interrupts both her thoughts and her preparations, stepping forward and catching her elbow (the good one). She struggles for a moment, fidgeting like a small child.
"What's going on?" he asks, "Are you mad at me, Bones?"
Brennan steps back with a half-laugh, a strangled sound. He's watching her again, looking at her with those dark eyes, dangerous eyes, and Jared is so wrong because courage has nothing to do with the ridgeline, and predators sometimes hide, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Her stomach flips over, churning with guilt and remorse. And he thinks that she is mad at him?
"I came home to take a shower," she says, forcing her voice to remain level.
"A shower?"
"Before the party, I came home to get cleaned up."
She knows Booth will think she means the blood, and he will cringe and leave, because he believes the bullet she took is his fault. She is using his sense of responsibility, using him, and it makes her ill. But she cannot tell him the truth, that she feels black inside, like something revolting has stuck to her, suffocating her. Her lips burn because the wrong Booth leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. She knew it right away, that this was all wrong and not how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to have told her not to go to dinner; she was supposed to tell Jared that Seeley Booth is the bravest man she has ever met. None of it was rational, all of it made perfect sense—why couldn't she see it before?
Brennan looks up, and he's still standing there.
"Bones, I—" he doesn't finish the thought, just leaves her name hanging in the space between them.
He shifts his weight, but doesn't glance away. Booth appears as if he's standing on a precipice, about to jump. She recognizes this look; she saw it on his face after the car crashed, when he turned around to meet her eyes and for a split-second she thought, he's going to kiss me.
But he didn't, and it's not because he's a coward. Brennan knows that. They drew a line, and Booth is strong enough to respect that—to respect her. She made a mistake, reaching across him and drawing out his gun, but she is strong enough to fix this now.
"I'm just wound up from the day, Booth." she walks past him, gathering her clothes from the bed. "I need to rinse off, that's all."
Booth takes a step back, then nods, "Yeah, I should probably, um, head home and change."
She turns at the door to her bathroom, deciding to throw him a stick (a bone, her mental Booth adds).
"Booth?" he stops, "It isn't your fault at all. You know that."
He throws a smile at her, but it doesn't meet his eyes.
Brennan flips the water on, swallowing hard as she reviews the events of the day. She vows to apologize for doubting Booth, though not in so many words (her directness makes him uncomfortable, she knows that). She will not mention kissing Jared—or shoving him. She will tell him to put himself first, because he needs to hear it. Then she will drop the subject, because he will want her to. She will not make him feel less than who he is. She will not be tempted to hurt him—or step on his duties—again.
And later, when Angela calls to tell her that she's late, and could she please hurry up, Brennan will catch sight of the envelope she opened this morning. Ancient remains found in China—she used to live for that sort of thing, why had she set aside the letter so fast? After all, she tells herself, this is why I became a forensic anthropologist in the first place. This is my true passion.
And the traitorous part of her cynically notes that this dig is conveniently and firmly entrenched on her side of the line.
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