She stumbled her way, alone, into her shared bedroom. The room felt empty now. Promises made and broken in one day could kill anyone. The bed once shared now occupied one. She felt the brick layers of her resolve build up again.
Grabbing a tissue from the box off her end table, she wipes off the half dried tears from under her eyes and her cheeks. Get it together, Temperance. Confide in someone. You can't keep it locked up forever. She walks across the room to her dresser where one of her books lies on top of. She rips the title page out and takes a pen from her pocket and writes a note to Booth.
She has to leave, now. At least for a little while.
Putting a pair of shoes on, she quietly walks out the front door. She draws her cell phone out of her pocket and calls a cab service. It's late, but she can't deal with all of these emotions at once. She can't throw herself into her work, because there's no case currently. She can't stay at home, there's pressure to put on a facade.
She tucks her hands into the pocket of her red sweater, the air outside seems colder than it actually is. The time passes and it feels like years. When she sees headlights at the end of the road her house is on, she straightens out and hardens her expression. The world doesn't need to know how she's feeling, and she won't let them know even if they asked.
The cab stops in front of the house and she opens the door, sitting down softly as she sternly says the address she'd be headed to. The ride is like white noise- a low hum of an engine, the distant sound of a quiet radio station. The noise becomes a sensation riddling her mind when the cab stops at its destination.
Walking up to the secluded house, she checks her watch. 12:16am. It's not too late, but very late to be knocking on a door, or ringing a door bell. She decides against knocking on the door. The likelihood of knuckles against wood being heard throughout a house as opposed to the doorbell is small. Her finger grazes the button, and she pushes in.
The bell rings, and seconds after, the sharp sound of a child crying enters her conscious. Fuck, I forgot about Michael Vincent. She knows Hodgins is going to be livid, but she can't seem to care right now.
The locks to the door click and unlock, and the heavy wooden door opens to Hodgins in boxers and a wife beater. The look on her face is apologetic, but before she can open her mouth, Hodgins speaks.
"Do you have any idea what time it is Brennan? Couldn't you have at least called?"
Brennan lowers her head to hide the tears welling up again.
"I… apologize, Jack. I am greatly aware of the fact that is well past midnight, but I have personal matters that I cannot ignore."
Hodgins' face softens.
"So you're here for Angie, right?"
"Of course, not that I don't enjoy your presence."
Hodgins opens the door wider and invites her in. The house is dark, only illuminated by a dim lamp in the living room. When she has a seat on the couch, Hodgins ascends up the stairs to get Angela. She plays with the hem of her sweater, fingering a loose thread, pulling it until it snaps. Subtle distractions are what she needs.
There's a loud, overwhelming creek of the floor boards and Angela appears at the top of the stairs, it bounces her back into reality. She turns her head to watch Angela descend the stairs in slippers and sleepwear.
When their eyes meet, Angela knows.
"Is everything alright Brennan?"
"No. Nothing is."