A/N: Ya so…I wrote an AU story. I can't tell you why. I actually find the whole thing rather silly. But it poured out the way that some other stories don't seem to do these days, and I couldn't deny it. So if you like your fic canon-accurate…this one might not be for you.

For this, we're assuming Brennan and Booth are meeting for the first time when Brennan comes back from Guatemala in Season 1…completely outside the context of their work. Because aren't we just a little curious at what would happen if there was no professional "line" there?

Well. I suppose I was.:-)

Thanks to lizook12 for the lookover and comfortingks of my insecurities. Also, any complaints about this fic should be directed to shipperatheart, who says I shouldn't worry about what other people think.;-)

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She observed the atmosphere from her barstool; the oppressive crowd, the throbbing music, the overly-loud voices and laughter of intoxicated patrons, the smell of liquor and the sticky feel of the bar top. It was all interesting from an anthropological perspective, and disorienting from a social one. She couldn't get any further from her months in Guatemala if she tried.

"What do they drink over there?" her friend shouted in her ear, practically pressed up against her for lack of space by the bar.

"Where I was? They don't," she replied, earning a dramatic sigh from Angela. The dark-haired woman forced her way between Brennan and the reveler next to her, leaning over the bar to attract the bartender with her generous cleavage.

"Two glasses of Venado."

She gave Ange a confused look while the glasses of Guatemalan brandy were being poured. "Why did you ask me if you already knew?"

"Just drink, Sweetie. And loosen up."

Truth be told, she likely didn't need this latest intoxicant; she had already imbibed several drinks' worth of hard liquor, the first purchased when they first arrived and all the rest gifts from hopeful men surrounding them. Men whose requests to dance she promptly vetoed in favor of maintaining her seat at the bar, much to Ange's chagrin. "I'm loose enough. I just don't feel much like dancing."

"And out of all these guys, you don't see anyone you find even remotely attractive?" Her friend shook her head. "You aren't still hung up on Peter, are you?"

Brennan wrinkled her nose distastefully, and it wasn't from the syrupy burn of the brandy. "God no. He and I were over for a long time before I even left."

"Then what?"

"Why do I have to have a man in my life?" she asked. "I'm perfectly capable on my own. And probably happier that way." It was stressful to have a conversation here, amidst all the noise, and her head gave a warning throb.

"Yeah, but you haven't had sex in months. You have to be horned up to the max."

"Eloquently put," she said dryly, only the "t" was lost in a tipsy slur. She had to admit, the growing warmth in her belly wasn't entirely unpleasant, and while her increasingly muddled thoughts bothered the academic in her, it was a bit of a relief to let down her guard a little bit. After two months examining the remains of genocide victims and an anticlimactic but still disheartening break-up, at least part of her brain welcome this little break.

"At least one of us should get laid tonight," Angela muttered, sipping from her drink and scanning the room. "Since you're my best friend and I missed you, I was rooting for you. But since you apparently too chicken…"

"It has nothing to do with…poultry," she interrupted, getting the gist enough to be just a little annoyed. She put down her drink and slid off the stool. "I think I am going to get up…"

Angela looked at her excitedly. "To dance?" Several nearby men looked at them interestedly.

"…to go to the restroom. Save my spot, okay?"

Her friend's smile deflated. "Yeah. Go nuts, Bren."

Ignoring the disdain, she made her way through the gyrating crowd, trying to avoid being groped along the way. She wasn't dressed particularly suggestively, at least not when compared to most of the other women in this club; but she felt exposed in her small tank top, especially after months of wearing the most practical gear to protect her from the elements. Having told a little fib, she didn't head towards the restroom line at the corner of the bar, but rather towards the patio in the back.

Opening the glass door and pushing her way through a group of men standing near the entrance, she stepped into the night air welcomingly. It was a little less crowded out here, but most importantly, the air was clearer. If she leaned on the railing and peered over the awning, she could actually see the night sky. It didn't seem as huge as it had in Guatemala, where there was endless open space and a million stars.

She was glad to be back, and was fairly thrilled at the prospect of being back in her own lab, with its cutting edge equipment and her ultra-intelligent colleagues. Still, there was always a part of her that expected to come back from these expeditions feeling a little more…fulfilled. Satisfied. Not so bored.

Maybe Angela was right. Maybe she needed to let loose. Get laid. Do something different, since it was quite clear that real relationships weren't for her.

She had only meant to take a break for a minute then go back in to pacify her friend, but it felt so good to be outside that she lingered until she was surprised to find her bare arms covered in goosebumps. Apparently the night was chillier than she thought, and she shivered at the realization.

"Would you like my jacket?" came a voice from behind her, and she turned. It was one of the men she had pushed through to get her spot here by the railing. Had he been watching her? She scrunched up her face in annoyance.

"No." She had intended it to come out more dismissive than disdainful. But people never quite seemed to read things the way she intended. She didn't know why. She always perceived herself as being quite clear.

The man's companions snickered. "Burn," the one said, patting her wannabe knight in shining armor on the back. "Better luck next time, Seel."

"Sorry, thought you looked cold," he muttered, looking embarrassed at the attention his offer had gotten. "Just thought I'd be nice."

If she hadn't been just a little drunk, she probably just would have walked away. But she was bored, and feeing sorry for herself, and it loosened her lips a little. "What if I were a man? Would you be 'nice' to me then?"

Now the man's "friends" were laughing in earnest, while he looked increasingly uncomfortable. "Yeah, what if she were a dude? What would you do then?"

She shook her head at their obvious drunken glee. Getting laid seemed less and less like an attractive option.

"Look, sorry," he mumbled. "Just let it go."

Studying his discomfort…and his companions' joy in it…she for the first time felt almost bad for taking out her annoyance on him. He was handsome, which shouldn't have made a difference; but he seemed more sober than his friends, and genuinely sorry that he might have offended her. So she let him off the hook. "Can I get by?" she asked simply. "I need to get back to my friend."

They dutifully parted like the red sea, but she didn't miss the catcall that followed her right before the door closed behind her. Jesus. She'd been in places all over the world, and this one still competed for the most uncivilized.

It took another five minutes to force through the crowd and find a traumatized-looking Angela.

"Where the hell were you?" she fumed. "Don't you know it's open season here on women who are sitting by themselves? I almost got suffocated here…one guy literally tried to hump my leg."

"Sorry. Did you save my drink?"

"I drank your drink. You better have been talking to the hottest man in the universe to have left me alone so long. Were you talking to the hottest man in the universe?"

"Yeah," Brennan said absently, waving at the bartender. Her buzz was wearing off.

"Well where the hell is he then? And why aren't you making out with him?"

"It wasn't quite like that." This time, she ordered a cranberry and vodka; when it came, she sucked at the straw hard, trying to ignore Ange insistently poking her shoulder.

"It's never is like that," she was complaining. "That's your problem, Bren. You never just let go and have fun. You never…"

This night was so not fun. She gulped at her drink while her friend continued her tirade, welcoming the return of that tipsy sensation. "Do you want to do shots?"

Ange looked at her suspiciously. "Then can we dance?"

"Sure," she replied amiably, figuring after a few shots she wouldn't know whether she was dancing or standing still anyway.

They ordered Cuervo, straight up; the bartender helpfully supplied them with sugar and lemons to take the bitterness out of the experience. Two more later, the room spun a bit.

"Okay, girlfriend. Dance floor. Now."

"Right after I use the restroom. Promise."

"That's what you said last time!" Angela wailed.

"But this time I mean it." And she did; she was too buzzed now to lie effectively. Not that she lied very effectively otherwise.

The club felt even more oppressive now; it felt even more difficult to find her way through the smoke and bodies. Every step she took, it felt that she was in someone's way, especially when she had to cross the dance floor. She would have made it, though, if it hadn't been for the guy who was throwing his body about the floor like he was possessed by particularly violent poltergeist. He slammed into her, barely noticing and certainly not apologizing, dancing off again while she lost her balance in a most graceless way.

She reeled backwards, arms searching for purchase and not finding it, and she realized that very soon she was going to find herself on the sticky-with-spilled-drinks club floor.

Until she found herself being hoisted back upwards, two strong arms hooking under hers from behind and lifting. They held her until she stopped wobbling on her heels, and then fell as she spun around.

"You okay?" the familiar voice asked, and she had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Him again.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," she shouted over the music, self-consciously brushing herself off even though she hadn't gotten dirty. The handsome man from outside…the one who his friends had called "Seel"…was appraising her. She was drunker now than she had been when she was outside, and she found her eyes roaming him more than she might have otherwise; his coat was off, and for the first time she saw his well-defined chest and arm muscles fitted in a snug t-shirt, and noticed his strong facial features and dark, intense eyes.

"You sure? You almost wiped out there; that jerk must have run into you pretty hard…"

She wasn't used to this kind of concern from a complete stranger, and it threw her off in a way she didn't entirely understand; annoyance flooded her. "Yes I'm sure. Jesus. Are you following me around just to see if I need rescued?"

His eyes narrowed and his face hardened. "What's your problem? I just came in to get another beer." He waved the empty bottle he held in his right hand. "I guess I should have just let you land on your ass then."

A flicker of contrition passed through her—he had only been trying to help—but her pride kept it firmly reined in. "I'm sure there are plenty of women here who'd be happy to be your project for the night. But I'm not one of them."

He seemed genuinely bowled over by her response. "My proj-…? You know what? Never mind. You think that just because you're the hottest woman in this bar, you can just treat people like crap? No thanks. I'm gonna go get my beer, and you can be sure I won't be bothering you for the rest of the night."

"Good. Have a pleasant evening." She repressed a shiver as he looked her up and down one last time, long and hard; it had to be the alcohol but it felt like she could physically feel his gaze tingling against her skin. When it reached her face, she felt it burning. When had it gotten so damn hot in here?

Then he shook his head, turned on his heels, and was gone towards the bar.

She stood dumbly for a few seconds, being jostled by the clubbers dancing all around her. Then she found herself again, and remembered why she had come this way for in the first place.

Returning from the restroom mostly unscathed this time, she found Angela chatting up a very built Puerto Rican gentleman.

"Bren! This is Roberto. He's going to teach us how to Salsa. Here, take another shot."

"That's great, Ange." As she tipped her head back and let the burning liquid slip down her throat, her eyes flickered up and down the bar, finding no sign of Mr. Hero.

"So find a partner and let's get dancing."

"I…" Scanning the room, there was still no sign of the tall man with the dark hair and the black t-shirt, who had promised never to bother her again. "I'm going to have to sit this one out, I guess."

"What?" Ange's face dipped in close. "Bren. There are dozens of men here who would like to dance with you."

"Yeah, but…"

Her friend's tone turned accusing. "But you won't do it, will you? You'd rather run off to foreign countries than even think about trying something new right here on your own home turf. You won't even talk to a man unless it's about fucking anthropology."

Her defenses were becoming peaked, her frustration at Angela rising. "I just talked to a man on my way to the restroom. The one from outside. We had a whole…conversation," she said, figuring that a fight counted as a conversation.

"You're a liar. You don't even try to talk to anyone. You just made that guy up."

"That's not true," she insisted. "He's right over th-…" Her words died as she finally saw "Seel" standing against the wall, far too close to a smiling bimbo in a mini-skirt.

"That's him? Well," smirked Ange, "it looks like you missed your chance then, huh? Because you don't even try."

She shouldn't drink this much. It was making her annoyed and bold and stupid, and those three were a bad combination for her. "You want me to try? Do you? Just watch. I'll show you trying."

Leaving a shocked Angela in her wake, she marched up to him resolutely, tequila lending an artificial confidence to every step. The bimbo was laughing heartily at something he was saying, touching his bicep, and he didn't recognize Brennan was there until she was right beside him and tapping his shoulder.

His eyebrows rose in recognition. "You."

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

The bimbo's face was displeased, and her hand tightened on her arm…a last-ditch effort at possession.

"Seel" looked at her with suspicious eyes. "I thought you didn't want me bothering you for the rest of the night."

"You aren't." She stole a glance at Angela, who was against the opposite wall watching the exchange doubtfully, then turned her attention back to the man in front of her. "Please?" On impulse, she reached out and took hold of his fingers that were tucked under his crossed arms.

The bimbo's hand fell away. "Seel" looked down at where his fingers touched Brennan's, with not just a little surprise. Then he looked back up and met her eyes.

"Excuse me," he said to the bimbo, whose lips tightened immediately. Then he allowed himself to be pulled to the corner, which was no less loud, but just a little less crowded.

"You're one confusing lady, you know that?" He ran one hand through his dark hair. "You tell me to stay away, then…"

He didn't have a chance to finish his thought. Matching him in height with her heels on, she leaned forward, pressing her lips on his hungrily and without elegance. Her head was positively swimming, heart pounding, and the only thing she could think was he doesn't taste drunk at all.

His mouth might have opened only out of surprise, but that didn't stop her from thrusting her tongue inside, now feeling his taste over and above at least five different liquors. And she nearly expected him to push her away right then, tell her she was crazy and drunk and to be totally honest, he would have been right.

But…he didn't.

His arms…the ones that had saved her so easily from her near-pratfall earlier…were suddenly around her, crushing her breasts to his exceptionally solid chest. His tongue not only met hers but pushed its way into her mouth, swirling against the sensitive pink flesh, lips both soft and firm pulling back ever so often to nip at hers. Every tiny suck and nibble and touch and made each cell in her body feel like it was vibrating, and for the first time of the night she was grateful for the pounding music because it at least disguised the fact that she was whimpering now.

He spun her, pressing her back into the corner, holding her in place with his chest and hips. She could feel him, so easily, hot and hard through his jeans and her pants, and she had never been this close to a man that she wasn't planning on fucking within oh, maybe three minutes.

Her hands latched on his ass. If she was experiencing conscious thought, she might have giggled at the thought of Angela across the room, watching this spectacle with her mouth agape.

But…she wasn't.

As she pulled at his hips and thrust her pelvis out to meet him, he dragged his mouth away from hers and said raggedly in her ear, "This doesn't make you any less confusing."

She took the opportunity to suck at his throat, tasting his cologne and making him gasp audibly. She couldn't give a fuck about being confusing. She just wanted to be lost right now, in this world that was so unlike her real one. "Just kiss me," she told him, and he did, fingers tangling in her hair this time and pressing her face to his like he wanted to steal her breath from her, hips bumping against hers in an unsteady, yet unmistakable cadence.

His voice was barely discernable against her mouth, but she understood. "I want to take you home," he said.

And it set everything inside of her on fire. If he could make her feel this way in a public place, with all their clothes on…

The thought of what he might do privately made her feel faint.

"You don't even know my name," she gasped as one of his hands slid its way up the back of her tank top, caressing her bare flesh.

"That's easy to fix." He was nibbling her ear now, making her quake in his arms.

"You don't know who I am," she gasped.

"Also easy to fix." He was playing with her bra clasp, not opening it, simply making a promise with his fingers of things to come.

A last-ditch effort. "We don't even like each other."

His lips and hands stilled. He pulled back, arms still around her, looking…questioning? Hurt?

Oh God, don't stop…

"We don't," he repeated. And…he had stopped.

"We don't have to like each other to have sex," she breathed, hoping that she didn't sound as desperate as her throbbing body made her feel.

"No." He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them with a shaky breath. "But…we should." He was visibly trying to get back control, although his fucking hard-on was still pressed against her…until it was gone, and she nearly sobbed at the loss. "It doesn't seem like a smart move on my part…to have sex with a drunk woman who doesn't even like me."

She opened her mouth to argue, then realized she had no argument that wouldn't make her sound like an easy fuck who indiscriminately slept with any man who would kiss her at a bar. "I…"

"So what's the story, Seel?" The drunken slur suddenly boomed over everything. "We're catching a cab. You coming home with us? Or…are you coming with somebody else?" The man in the Hawaiian shirt leered at her knowingly as her unexpected make-out partner's hands dropped away from her.

"Watch it, Peruzzi," he said warningly to the leerer. "I'll be there in a few seconds. Take it easy, okay? Go and make sure Joe doesn't puke all over himself."

"Make it snappy," his friend said good-naturedly, as he gave Brennan one last wink before stumbling away.

He turned back to her. "I've got to go."

"I heard him. I was standing right here," she told him.

"I…You…Jesus. It's been…interesting." He seemed to be searching her face for any hint that he should or shouldn't leave; he wasn't about to get it from her.

"Yeah," she whispered, sobriety pulling at her again, unwelcomingly.

He reached out, pushed a strand of hair behind her shoulder. "Just…man." He shook his head wonderingly, realizing that he had nothing coherent to say. He kissed her cheek, his lips leaving a warm, moist impression. "Goodbye," he murmured, studying her eyes for one last moment before turning around and weaving his way through the crowd to his drunken brood.

Angela was on her in a second. "What the hell was that?" she fairly screeched, her eyes wide as saucers. "I've been watching your little peep show for fifteen minutes. Why are you not going home with the hot man??"

"Wait." She was operating on autopilot as she brushed Angela aside and forced her way towards "Seel's" retreating figure. "Wait," she cried out louder.

He turned, and she didn't know whether it was hope she saw on his face or not. She met his eyes and was nearly blinded.

"Temperance," she breathed. "My name is Temperance."

And this time it was she who turned away, as she should have at the first moment, from this most improbable and illogical of encounters that had somehow made her feel more in the last fifteen minutes than she had in the last fifteen years.

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A/N: Oh crap, and now it's going to be a multi-chap *smacks head*. How do I get myself into these things?