delude, n.: You argue that people can fundamentally change, and I say I agree, if you strike the word fundamentally.
She picks her daughter up at precisely 6:00pm, and it doesn't occur to her that the time she had been given over the phone a week earlier was meant to be interpreted in a much broader fashion. Not until Christine brings it up, anyway.
When Andrea's mother answers the door, Brennan is polite and she smiles and though meaningless small talk remains something she views as a waste of time, the woman brings up an upcoming fundraiser at their daughters' school, and it's a topic Brennan can discuss easily enough while she waits for Christine to gather her things and reappear in the front hall.
But Christine drags her feet. After two prompts she's still puttering about the ground floor saying her goodbyes and in the meantime a few of the other mothers come in from another room, and the conversation – the whole process of picking up her child and leaving – takes so much longer than what Brennan believes to be necessary.
Christine seems content enough once they're finally in the car and pulling out of the driveway, but before Brennan can even turn off of the street, she begins idly kicking the seat in front of her.
"How come you always come get me so early?"
Brennan glances in the rear-view mirror and a slight crease forms between her brows. "I wasn't early. I was on time."
"On time is early."
"No," the crease deepens, "'early' would indicate that I arrived before the usual or expected time. There was an appointed time, and I arrived at the appointed time; on time. Please stop kicking the seat."
Christine obediently stills her legs. "All the other kids are still there."
"Oh." Brennan takes another look in the rear-view mirror and gauges her daughter's expression. "Would you like me to take you back?" she guesses.
"That's okay."
"Are you upset?"
Christine tilts her head and thinks this over. "No. I was just wondering."
Brennan accepts this and considers the subject closed. Though she makes a mental note to arrive approximately fifteen minutes late the next time to see if this fits more appropriately into playdate norms.
"If you stayed with the other parents, we could just leave when everyone else leaves," Christine suggests helpfully.
They come to a stop at a red light, and Brennan turns in her seat. "I wasn't aware you wanted me to stay, Christine. If it makes you more comfortable, I will certainly-
"I don't need you to stay with me. But the other moms play together so that they don't get bored. Don't you get bored without me when you're not at work?"
Brennan smirks. "While I appreciate your company, I have no shortage of things to keep me busy. I also have your father; I am never bored."
"Everybody else's mom stays."
"They do?"
The light changes colour and Brennan is forced to turn back to the road in front of her. She's made a number of discoveries in the year that has passed since Christine began school, and the new sets of social codes she faces are made all the more frustrating by the fact that she doesn't need to try in most social gatherings anymore. Not at work. Not with her friends. Certainly not with Booth. And when she realises she's made mistakes where parental expectations are concerned – where Christine is concerned – she feels as if she's travelled back in time ten years to a version of herself who was fine, then, when her life was her own, but has since been left behind.
"Yep." Christine nods and then begins kicking the back of the passenger seat anew. "But they don't have daddy. Maybe that's why."
"It's possible," Brennan agrees absently. She looks in the mirror for the umpteenth time. "I love you, Christine."
"Love you too," Christine returns automatically. She shifts in her booster seat and the next time Brennan looks back at her, she's sound asleep.
The party is her idea.
Booth keeps coming back to this and it baffles him each and every time. There's a part of him that continues to think the whole thing is a joke; it's a little elaborate for Brennan, but when he considers the abstract ways she occasionally approaches things, he knows almost anything is possible.
"Run this by me again?"
He moves out of her way as she turns from the oven to the counter and deposits a hot pan. He's lived with her long enough to know that if he doesn't move, she will simply try to move through him. 'Two objects cannot occupy the same space' preachings be damned.
"We're having a party."
"No. I mean, yeah, I got that part. I'm talking about the guest list. That would be the part I'm not understanding. The part where you said your best friend isn't invited."
"Angela does not wish to come."
"You invited her and she's not coming?"
"No, I didn't invite her. And then yesterday I tried to – because she is my best friend – and she declined. She assured me that it is okay for me to host social gatherings without her, and that I do not need to feel any guilt."
She won't stop moving as she's talking to him and it grates on his nerves a little because it takes so much longer for him to figure out what's going on in her head when he can't look her in the eye.
"Are you two fighting?"
"No!" Brennan slams another tray on the counter and Booth finally gets his good look at her face. "Sometimes you are really very terrible at listening."
"What? I'm not- it was a reasonable question, Bones."
"I have come to enjoy parties. We have parties all the time, Booth."
"Yeah, parties with Hodgins and Angela and Cam and people we like. Not random parents from Christine's school. How often do you even talk to these people?"
"All the time! And you aren't invited either."
"Wait a second, you're uninviting me? I ask one question and you un-invite me from a party happening in my house?"
"Our house."
"You can't do that."
"Well..." she lets her voice trail off and shrugs. Indicating that she very well can and has done exactly that.
"I'm sorry; I won't ask any more questions." He glances between her and the tray, calculating the distance before shooting out a hand, snatching up a mini pastry and cramming it into his mouth before she has time to stop him. Though she still tries. "Now will you re-invite me?"
Brennan glares. This is one of those days she genuinely does not feel like playing games and his disarming smile – taking all of this so lightly while she does not – pisses her off.
"I said no, Booth. There won't be any other men around anyway. You would not have fun."
And now they're back at the part he still finds so puzzling. Because while there is nothing cold about his partner, while she is capable of being charming and funny and entertaining when she sets her mind to it, while she has friends, she does not have girlfriends. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Not outside of Angela. He has come home to the two of them (plus Cam, on the odd occasion) already well into the wine and giggling in his living room, but he has never see her do this.
"So where am I supposed to go?"
"I don't care, Booth. As long as you're not here." She finally pauses, and he swears he can see the air and objects around them still reverberating in the aftershock of her whirls of activity. "That was mean. I didn't intend to sound so..."
"It's okay, Bones."
"I don't think it even quite counts as a party," she speaks quickly in her efforts to be placating. "I believe the correct word is 'playdate.'"
"Kids are coming?"
"Yes." Brennan nods eagerly.
Christine's playdates generally consist of his daughter and one or two of her friends racing around the house for a few hours before they're either returned home or collected by a parent. And so, in keeping with everything else she's said in this conversation, his partner's explanation creates a lot more questions for him than answers.
"What's going on with you?"
Most of the teasing tone disappears on a dime and Brennan chooses to respond by not responding. By pretending she hasn't heard the question and smoothly sliding the cooled pastries form their racks. And this time, when he removes one from the bowl, she doesn't bother trying to stop him.
She approaches this particular social gathering the way she would a benefit dinner. She pretends Cam has made a nuisance of herself stressing upon all of them - especially Hodgins - the importance of not screwing this up. She doesn't typically enjoy benefit dinners, but they are a part of her job and she is very, very good at her job.
She's the best in her field and she's the best parent that she can be to her daughter. If part of her job as a parent involves socialising with women with whom she shares few common interests, she can (she will) do it and she can (she will) succeed. This is the thought that gets her through all of the prep work. Through casual invitations extended in the parking lot of her daughter's school, through the crowded grocery store, through the hot kitchen and through Booth being annoying as hell. It gets her through standard greetings (let me take your coat; make yourself at home) and a not-entirely-painful conversation that involves shoes.
(She's been friends with Angela long enough that most conversations involving shopping are relatable, even when they're boring)
Someone – Jackie, Brennan repeats to herself, her name is Jackie – comments on a relic stored on a high shelf, and Brennan jumps into an enthusiastic, fast paced history of the artifact before she notes the polite but puzzled expressions that indicate she's once again managed to find that line which separates her from normal, and she's crossed it. She mumbles her last sentence to a close and then rolls her eyes into her wine glass. And she allows herself to wish Angela was around to pay attention to the chatter picking up around her so that she wouldn't have to.
But this is why she hadn't asked Angela to come over in the first place.
"You have a beautiful home, Temperance."
Despite her best efforts, she's stopped paying attention, and Brennan tries not to visibly startle as she's pulled from her thoughts and back into the conversation. "Thank you."
"The decor is..." Sarah – a woman Brennan usually remembers as 'Emily's mom' – takes a moment to weigh her words. "...unique. In a very pleasing way," she adds quickly.
Brennan stares a fraction of a moment too long as she tries to measure the sincerity of the statement. Then she smiles. "Booth and I have very different tastes. And we are not always... especially good... at compromise."
The four other women laugh and Brennan falls back into her role as host, though she can't help thinking that this is not nearly as fun as hosting for the team.
But the coworkers who have become her friends, her family, set high standards, and when she glances at the staircase in time to see Christine leading the charge back up to her bedroom, she understand that not all friends have to be family. She can (she will) do this as often as is necessary. For Christine. Because while she still believes, honestly and wholeheartedly believes, that differences are to be celebrated, that people who are exceptional and unique and gifted as she is, as her daughter is, should not have to put themselves in boxes for the comfort of other people, Christine is social and balanced, and she will not take that from her. Over something this small, she will not force her fights to become her daughter's fights.
"Heaven help the two of you when you decide to move."
Brennan stiffens immediately at the thought. "Move? Why would we move?"
There's a shrug. "Things change. If you and Seeley have more children..."
Brennan laughs, and though she realises that this may not be the appropriate reaction, the combination of Booth's first name and the thought of leaving this house makes it impossible for her to withhold it. "We are not moving," she shakes her head. "I love this house. We built this house."
On the tip of her tongue are stories of those hellish weeks of repairs and arguments and trying to navigate narrow paths between boxes while well into her ninth month of pregnancy. Of the first time she was able to walk through the house without the thought of falling through weak floors hanging over her, and it truly felt like home.
Instead, she gives another resolute shake of her head. "We are not moving."
"You know who just moved? Lisa."
Brennan doesn't recognise the name, but judging from the murmur of agreement from everyone else seated around the island, she's the only one.
"Wait until you see the colour she painted the living room; it's blinding. And cramped, compared to her old place."
"Well, downsizing is inevitable when your husband leaves you for your daughter's dance teacher."
"Can you believe it? Though, when you let your husband pick up your child from a class with a teacher who looks like that..."
"Booth picks Christine up from a number of her activities. All the time," Brennan interjects with a frown. "I don't understand the relevance."
The look she receives in return is one of uniform pity, and she fights back the surge of anger she can't help feeling when people act as if she is the one with the problem when she knows otherwise.
"You don't dangle that kind of temptation in front of a man, honey. Most of them can't help themselves."
She accepts without thought the honeys and sweeties Angela throws her way. But there is something so condescending about it this time, Brennan is put further on edge.
"I suppose Booth is just better than most men," she replies simply. Then she sits back in her chair and maintains eye contact, challenging anyone to attempt to refute this.
Someone changes the subject, and this time Brennan doesn't bother mentally recalling her name.
Booth comes home just before Christine's bedtime. He's spent the majority of his day catching up on paperwork, and though working at the office on a Saturday would never be his first choice, it's relieving – in a workaholic-seeming way he would never admit to his partner – to have a few extra hours to get all the little things done that prove difficult when one has a young child.
But he's happy as always to come home to his daughter.
"Did you have fun today?" he asks as he pulls up the comforter.
"Yes," Christine confirms.
"How about your mom? She have fun?"
"I think she was bored."
"Bored?" Booth's eyebrows go up. That hadn't been on the list of answers he had considered. "Why?"
"Angela wasn't here. Mommy is never bored with Angela." She pauses. "Or you. You are not boring, daddy."
"Glad to hear it," Booth chuckles.
"What did you do today?"
"I went to work," he sighs dramatically.
"On Saturday? Without mommy?"
"Yes, without mommy. You know, you never sound this surprised when your mother goes to work without me."
She shrugs. "You need more help than mommy does."
"She tell you that?"
"Yes."
"And you believe her?"
"Mommy's very smart."
"Yeah yeah." Booth rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss her forehead. "Goodnight, baby."
"Night."
He finds Brennan in the living room and touches her arm as he passes into the kitchen.
"How did it go?"
"I'm a terrible mother."
Booth freezes. "Okay." He retrieves her glass, the wine, and decides his own drink can wait. "I'll bite. What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Brennan huffs, inching over to make room for him on the couch. "I just feel that I will require a lengthy recovery period before I am ready to do this again."
The wine goes down fast enough for Booth to raise an eyebrow before he refills her glass with a liberal hand.
"That bad?"
She takes another drink before answering him, sighing as she swallows and relaxes into the couch. "I did not particularly enjoy myself. They are... cruel. I don't even think that it's intentional; they just can't seem to help themselves."
Booth tenses and studies her face carefully. "What did they say to you?"
"Nothing," Brennan reassures him. She places her glass on the coffee table and gives him a lopsided smile. "What would you do, Booth? Have them arrested?"
"If I had to," he mutters stubbornly. He knows that she doesn't always require his protection. And yet... "Like you said, Bones. People can be cruel."
"They think I'm weird," she says factually.
"You're not weird."
"I don't care what they think."
Her tone is as offhanded and candid as it has ever been and Booth continues to be puzzled by all these events that just don't make sense.
"Why are you frowning?"
"I'm not; I'm just trying to catch up to you, Bones. The usual."
"I don't understand."
"That makes two of us." He takes a swallow of her drink. He's not as partial to red wine as she is, but it's there in front of him and his hands need something to do. "What was the point in doing all this, then? Was it an experiment? You making sure you're still 'you' enough to not have anything in common with the soccer moms?"
Brennan shifts indignantly. "No, Booth. I don't care. I don't believe I can express exactly how little I care. But it matters to Christine. It seems important to her that I bond with her friends' parents, but I do not like them."
He shrugs. "You're making too big a deal of this. She told me earlier that she thinks you would have enjoyed yourself more had Angela been here."
"She said that?" He nods his confirmation and she shakes her head. "I need to figure out a way, Booth."
"Invite Angela next time. Drink more."
She studies his face and tries to determine exactly how seriously she is meant to take this suggestion. "Those solutions are not acceptable. I'm capable of improving under my own power, thank you."
"She's barely six, Bones. She couldn't care less who your friends are."
"She notices things, Booth. And it's your fault."
"What?"
Her volume rises to compete with his. "She has genetically inherited many of our traits; being annoyingly perceptive is one of your traits."
"Annoyingly perceptive. That's your official, scientific conclusion."
"I stand by my reasoning."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that Christine's needs are changing, and it stands to reason that I should be willing to change with her. For her. She deserves that much."
Booth begins to wish that he had taken the time to pour his own drink. The thought of change – in the aggressive, drastic fashion he reads in her tone – sets him on edge.
"You already give her everything she needs."
"People change, Booth. I've changed. I can continue changing."
"No, people evolve; you taught me that. Evolve, Bones. But don't change. Not even for Christine."
"Evolution and change are fundamentally the same thing, Booth."
"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm saying," he says seriously. "I love you. I love you. And so does Christine. We're too old to be changing."
It's a rational argument, and Brennan still finds these infinitely more comforting than any other. And so she will think about this and regroup, later, but for now, she can let it rest.
"They weren't entirely unbearable," she admits, grudgingly. "There were a few instances in which we connected on superficial levels."
At this, Booth breaks into loud laughter. "Small talk? The small talk was the part you found easiest to tolerate?"
"Why are you laughing at me?"
"You really did have a bad day." He continues to laugh, but his eyes are flooded with sympathy and he pours more wine in her glass. "You've earned this."
"I may require something stronger," Brennan says dryly.
He presses a hard kiss into her hair. "You're the only one I share the good stuff with."
"I know." There's a smugness to her tone and it makes Booth laugh yet again, and his laughter is infectious, so she laughs too. "You may stay the next time. And Angela."
"Because we make everything fun?"
"Because you make everything... bearable," she clarifies.
"I'll take what I can get."
She watches the movement of his throat as he takes another sip of her wine, and something about the way this ordinary scene fits together – her, him, the ritual of wine and conversation in their living room – strikes a chord in her. But she keeps this rush of sentiment to herself. Because while they have so much that is theirs, the things that are hers continue to carry their own significance.
"Booth?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't want to move."
Booth withdraws slightly at the force in her tone. "Who said anything about moving?"
"I'm just stating my position. For the record."
"After all the work we did? Hell, Bones. We're dying here. I mean it. Right here in this spot."
"I'm serious."
"Me too. You try and make me move, this relationship is over."
Brennan laughs. "I'm glad we agree."
"On the things that matter? Always."
She raises an eyebrow skeptically.
"Eventually," he amends. "Usually. Sometimes."
"That is far more accurate."
"Not so much romantic, though."
"I don't mind." She kisses his cheek. "Thanks, Booth."
He's come to learn that he may not always know exactly why she's thanking him, or what sets certain conversations apart from others they've had that fall along the same lines. But his answer is the same regardless.
"You're welcome, Bones. Anytime."