.:*~*:. The Secret in the Stars .:*~*:.
The Secret in the Keeping
Two figures hurry out of a crowded pub, one female, with porcelain skin and piercing sky blue eyes, the other taller, well-built, with warm chocolate eyes. The man grabs the woman's arm gently, restraining her. "Hold on, hold on, hold on, listen!" he protests, swinging her around. "Hold that cab! Listen."
The cab driver honks, and the man turns to the woman with a sense of urgency. "I got something to confess," he admits, pulling her closer as their eyes meet. He must tell her this, she must know before they get involved, not because it will be a deal-breaker (she can probably rationalize it anthropologically) but because of his conscience.
"What – is it the fact that you're a direct descendant of John Wilkes Booth?" the woman asks, blue eyes serious over her pert nose and slightly-outturned ears. She has a kind of feline grace to her features, an attraction that leaves men tripping behind her. He's still slightly in awe that he's here with her, she can feel the anticipation building below her bellybutton, and she knows what comes next. "I already know that."
"Wait, wait – how do you know that?" the man demands, momentarily distracted from her charms.
"Your bone structure," she replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world (and to her, consequently, it is.)
"D-just keep that under your hat," the man says quickly, furtively. "Okay? For now, alright?"
"Okay," is the readily given answer as the lovely face splits into a grin.
"What I wanted to confess was … see, I have a gambling problem. But, I'm dealing with it."
"Why did you feel you had to tell me that?" the woman inquires.
"I dunno, I just feel like," his eyes shift down to her supple, rosy lips, the ones he has been longing to kiss for what feels like just about an eternity now, "this is goin' somewhere …"
"Why did you feel like this is going somewhere?" the woman asks seductively, tilting her head enchantingly to the side.
"I just feel like," their noses are millimeters apart, "I'm gonna kiss you." And he does. An open-mouthed, lingering kiss, fusing their two sets of lips so passionately that both of them can feel their chemistry ignite and burn. She's wondering how far they're realistically, logically going to make it before they give in, he's already started in on his mental list of saints. Both of their hearts flutter under an increasingly thin layer of skin, straining against their chests, as their lips connect and disconnect.
Finally, reluctantly, they part as the cabbie honks once again, clearly annoyed by the situation. "Wow," the man whispers as the woman laughs freely, fleetingly, and hurries out into the rain toward the cab. Hands in his hair, the man follows, silently thanking God for his amazing luck. He slides in next to her, joining their lips once again as she tumbles fully into the cab. The cabbie rolls his eyes obviously and rather impatiently, but as they are otherwise engaged, his sniper senses and her keen observational skills fail to notice.
Though the rainy street was deserted, a present person, had there been one, would have been awarded a front row seat to some rather frantic lip-locking going on between the FBI agent and the forensic anthropologist through the rain-painted window.
They will arrive at his apartment and barely make it through the door. He will breathlessly press her up against his door, she will whisper, "bedroom", he will ask if she is sure. She will roll her eyes, they will stumble toward his dark flannel sheets and within minutes the earth will shatter as they are joined.
And the next day, they will solve the case, argue over semantics, and part for a year. She will go to Guatemala, he home to his son, but both will remember their single, secret night.
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Seven Years Later
In the early hours of the sun's yawning, a couple cuts through rays of yellow-y gold as they collapse, spent, on navy satin sheets. A sandy head of curls hits the bed first, followed quickly by undulating inky waves.
"That," the owner of the ocher hair gasps, "was amazing." His thumb traces the outer rim of the woman's bellybutton and follows the swollen curve of her stomach. "Was it the pregnancy hormones? Because if so, maybe we really should have half a million of these -"
"Now, Jack," the woman beams, her lips arching in a Cheshire smile, "you know I never reveal all my secrets."
Jack Hodgins flips onto his belly, regarding his wife with the tiniest bit of trepidation in his intense blue eyes. "I thought we didn't have any secrets," he says vulnerably, and the woman, Angela, reaches out to smooth the crease between his eyebrows. "I told you all of mine."
Angela sighs, pulling the sheets higher around her bare body, trying to quell her scrambling hormones as she contents herself with only one round. "It's not that I mean to keep things from you," she assures him. "But haven't you ever promised someone you'd never, ever reveal what they were about to confide in you? The only secrets I keep to myself are the ones that aren't mine to tell."
"You mean Brennan's secrets," Jack infers, and Angela smiles ruefully.
"Among others," the artist wheedles as her hands find their way back under the covers and to her husband's stomach.
"I won't ask, you know," Hodgins reassures her, capturing her bright, warm eyes with his own in a moment of utter seriousness. "I know you're a good friend – her only friend really, besides Booth, and we all know how Booth has been lately. I don't want you to betray her. I just want to know every part of you – every part you're able to share."
"I know one part you could know," Angela hints with a wicked smile. Her giggles turn to hysteric laughs as her husband contorts them once again, and secrets once known and lost are forgotten for the time being.
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"Sweetie, are you listening to me?"
"Angela, I am currently examining this blunt force trauma to the skull to determine if it could be cause of death of this fourteen-year-old girl. Is what you are saying truly more important than this?"
"No," Angela sighs longingly. "It's just – kids, Bren! Like little tiny people in adorable clothes are coming to the Jeffersonian? And they're, you know, like you. I thought you'd at least be interested in inspiring young prodigies."
"You mean the children visiting the Jeffersonian share my extremely high IQ, rationality, and logic? I highly doubt that," Temperance Brennan states, moving away from the blunt force trauma evident on the skull and towards the perfectly interconnected vertebrae.
"I mean they go to that genius school. The one that even Hodgins admitted was snobby?" Angela prompts her friend.
"Radcliffe's Academy. It's an excellent school, though some people dislike its pretentiousness. Why that matters in comparison to their unmatched academics I cannot imagine …"
"Bren."
"Right." Brennan straightens, yanking her deep blue lab coat back into place as she regards her friend. "I must acknowledge that meeting me could prove very beneficial forming future goals for their education, and therefore, I will fulfill my duty as a mentor. Did Cam invite them?"
"Cam willingly letting young children into the lab? Are you joking?" Angela snorts. "No, Goodman did this as a favor to the principal. Apparently the second graders are visiting an archeological dig and the first graders wanted an equally exciting trip, but one that they could bring their mommies to."
"Well, I hope to at least determine cause of death before they get here. Do you know when they will arrive?"
"Around two, I think," Angela answers vaguely. "Anyway, Sweetie, Cam wanted me to speak with you because of delicate subject matter -"
"She doesn't need to worry, Angela. Spending time with Parker has helped me become more aware of what is appropriate for children and what is not." Brennan's face falls at her own mention of Parker, likely because her access to the boy has been limited of late, due to Hannah's presence. But before Angela can offer reassurance ("Parker definitely likes you better than her – you examine dead bodies, she writes garbage nobody cares about …") or ("I wish Booth would ditch that blonde Barbie already …"), Brennan continues. "For instance, I am aware that revealing details of bodily harm sustained in murder cases could be unpleasant for young children."
"Unpleasant?" the voice of Lance Sweets sounds from the opposite side of the platform.
Angela's pleasant exclamation of, "Sweets!" is offset by Brennan's asinine, "Dr. Sweets, what are you doing here?"
"You and Booth missed your session last week. I was especially eager to continue the discussion on the effect the Lauren Eames case had on your partnership. For instance, do you feel that -"
"Sweets? Not the best time," Angela warns, giving the young psychologist one of her famous patented glares.
"I couldn't help but overhear you state, Dr. Brennan, that the concept of gruesome injuries and murder would be 'unpleasant' to children," Sweets says, completely changing track. "I must say, your gross understatement disturbs me slightly. These kids are young, impressionable. An apathetic attitude about the violence you deal with on a regular basis could -"
"Hang on a second – how do you know about the kids?" Angela interjects, interrupting Sweets a second time.
"I ran into Cam on the way end. She looked rather frazzled, so I offered my assistance." Sweets pauses, looking rather pleased with himself as he considers his 'service' to Dr. Saroyan, and Angela seizes the opportunity to take control of the conversation once again.
"Anyway, Cam wanted me to let you know that one of the children is seriously ill with leukemia, possibly fatally ill."
"If this child is so sick, I don't know if it's best that he or she comes to the lab. Shouldn't they be in the hospital?"
"This kid diagnosed a heart defect yesterday, just by listening to another kid's heart. He's special, and he's dying. His parents want him to have as many opportunities as he can before he gets too sick to leave his bed," Angela explains, her hand migrating unconsciously to her rounded belly, as if such an action can keep her unborn baby safe from the horrors of the world. "Just … don't give too many explicit details about death or anything, okay? He doesn't need to be fixated on it or anything."
Brennan, it seems, doesn't deem this comment worth a response and turns back to the skeleton of the fourteen-year-old girl.
.:*~*:.
She decides that the blunt force trauma to the head likely is the cause of a subdural hematoma, which is the cause of death. Pleased with her work, she carefully boxes away her feelings on her mother's identical diagnosis a few years ago and looks up to announce this news to her colleagues.
None of them, however, seem remotely interested. Cam has on a pair of purple rubber gloves, and, armed with disinfectant wipes, is sanitizing seemingly random things on the already spotless platform. Hodgins has also joined them, although whether he has discovered anything useful via the particulates is unclear, as his hands are currently cradling Angela's abdomen, feeling their little girl kick. Sweets appears deep in thought, his eyes cast upward, full lips moving quickly, almost as if psychology requires calculations. Which it doesn't, Brennan thinks exasperatedly. The entire science is based on the uncertainty of conjecture. Statistically, it can occasionally yield correct results (it has to eventually), but it is unwise to depend overly much on it.
The only people missing from their usual group are Mr. Fischer, who saw a depressing pattern in his cereal and was apparently unable to make it out of bed (she puts away her longing for Zach's expertise as well, which she will never have again) and Booth, which, as a regular occurrence these days, really shouldn't sting this much.
I made a mistake.
She grapples with the sorrow and regret that flood through her, as if a damn has been broken. She is a lone statue in an endless, wearying ocean, constantly weathered by the pounding of the waves. For a while, a wall – Booth – stood in front of her, shielding her from the worst of the impact. Some waves managed to get over the wall, but its presence tempered them. But the wall has been removed – placed in front of a shiny new statue, and she's alone.
Temperance reminds herself that she made that decision. Despite Booth's absence due to his girlfriend, despite Angela's busyness preparing to be a mother, she could have had someone by her side always. She chose differently, and although she'd tried to remedy that a few years ago by breaking her vow of never again, it hadn't worked out and she hasn't summoned the courage to approach the issue again. Perhaps she had her one chance and is not likely to get another one. Perhaps Booth's God is punishing her.
But she can't take it back now.
Sighing internally, she abandons her beloved bones, acknowledging that they will have to be reexamined when her fellow workers are more apt to focus on the task at hand. Working on her book seems an acceptable alternative, considering how her work environment is being compromised. This idea, however, falls through as well. Rereading the paragraphs she has written, Temperance notices that in a short span, Kathy realizes she wants a relationship with Andy, but Andy is in love with his blonde girlfriend who writes for a newspaper. She isn't overly intuitive, most of the time, but even she can sense that Booth, not to mention Hannah, would see right through this ruse. Writing is an excellent outlet, and more often than not she pleasures herself after typing up a steamy scene between Kathy and Andy, but these books are not about her and her life, so her work today is inappropriate and cannot be part of the published novel.
Sighing softly, she highlights the oh-so-personal writing and deletes it, preparing to start over – at least before a soft, almost timid knock sounds against her door and she whirls automatically around.
"Temperance," Hannah breathes. "Glad I caught you at a good time. Look, I wanted to …"
"If you're here about Booth," Temperance begins, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. She may be Hannah's friend but Booth comes first, always. "I can't help you. Now, if you don't mind, my publisher wants this done by Fri -"
"Tempe, please," Hannah begs, sagging against the doorframe of the office. "I think – I believe I've made a terrible mistake. I told Booth I wasn't the marrying kind, and it's true – I didn't think I was. I may not be, but … I can't live out my life not knowing. Who knows, this could be like a, like … like a new adventure. And I want to take the chance – to experience it – with Seeley."
Hannah's halting, unsure speech cuts ties inside of Temperance, setting insecurity free. Booth felt strongly enough about his and Hannah's relationship to ask her to marry him. After Rebecca, she knows it isn't something he would do lightly. And yet … and yet, there's been something else lately, the way he touches her arm, brushes her back, smiles that megawatt grin, that stimulates her sexually. And when the pink flush overtakes her entire body, lust darkens his eyes in a way that makes her sure he is doing it purposely.
I deserve a chance too; she wants to say to Hannah. You had yours. You hurt him. And now I'm there while his fractured heart is hurting. Except the heart can't actually fracture. It's just a commonly used colloquialism.
Before she can decide, the option is stolen from her as the very subject of their discussion arrives at the door. Temperance observes that Booth is standing erect, almost as if trying to appear tall, and wearing a wide grin – her heartrate increases as she realizes that this subtle body language is in response to her, not Hannah.
"Hey Bones, Cam set to tell you that -" Booth stops short, both verbally and physically, when he spots Hannah.
"S-Seeley, I -" Hannah begins.
"I think you should go," Booth says lowly, almost threateningly.
"But -"
"I don't care why you're here. Leave."
Hannah slowly walks away, throwing covert glances over her shoulder at the two partners. She looks at Temperance several times, but the anthropologist is unsure of the meaning of the wordless message.
Booth looks extremely angry and tense, but Temperance can't think of anything to say, so she waits while his parasympathetic nervous system calms his body. "Did you …"
"I did not ask Hannah to come here," Temperance assures him. "She showed up out of the navy."
"Blue, Bones," Booth groans. "She showed up out of the blue."
"Blue could refer to a sizable portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. Navy is more specific. I could say azure if you prefer, or perhaps -"
"Nevermind," Booth sighs, and Temperance falls silent. "Listen, I completely forgot, but Cam wants to see you. She said something about children arriving here …"
"Oh!" Temperance exclaims, and hurries off, her long strides carrying her quickly toward the platform. By the time she arrives and buttons her lab coat over her lavender wrap shirt and grey slacks, there is a small parade of children entering the lab, all toting brightly colored backpacks and lunchboxes. She moves to stand by Angela, who is cooing over the matching pigtails of two young girls.
"I find myself rather uncomfortable and slightly nervous," she whispers to her friend. "Although I have spent copious amounts of time with Parker, he is a very kind and understanding boy. I am unsure about how to interact with these children."
"You'll be fine, Bren," Angela reassures her. "Just tell them about the lab. You can even use big words to stimulate their superior intellects. Explain things, but don't make them feel stupid. And just be natural. Pretend those are seventeen Parkers over there and …"
Brennan finds her attention diverted from her well-meaning friend by a small boy wandering away from the larger group. She heads toward him, intending to welcome him to the lab. The tips of his fawn-colored hair nearly reach his ears, framing a cherubic face – he is evolution's perfect design, all huge vulnerable eyes and high cheekbones. Temperance can tell by his bone structure that someday that jaw will be strong and angular, and there is something familiar about nature's design that makes the boy approachable.
"Hi," Temperance says, sticking out one hand in front of her (she misses Angela's hopeful face contorting into a cringe behind her). "I'm Dr. Brennan. Today I'm going to …"
She pauses, and the six-year-old looks up, head tilted to the side, puzzled by her silence. And her eyes meet those of Brenner Booth.