Author's note- Isn't it lovely when help is just offered? Random Acts of Kindness. MickeyBoggs, Thank you for your help with this chapter.

Note 2- I come from a long line of storytellers in no rush, who wove their stories as if every detail mattered. The main detail on this story if for my sister who loves Booth in the tub. Because details do matter.

I hope you like it.

Jane

2.

Brennan looped her arm through Booth's. It wasn't as much to steady him- which he really did not need- as to steady herself. It shocked her that the semi-confrontation with Agent Perotta had left her nervous. Shaky. The immovable Temperance Brennan was a little- well, a lot more than a little- upset. Too many swear words were coming to her mind to describe Agent Perotta which was not usual for her. Even when describing her characters in her books, she was far more creative- especially to describe her villains. That, well, the word cow formed again and again in her mind to fill that particular space in the sentence- had just managed to upset her again for reducing her extended vocabulary to a stream of expletives- and none of them acceptable in civilized conversation.

"Bones, you OK?"

"Yeah..."

"You're very quiet..."
"What was Perotta doing here?"

"Well, if you must know, Agent Perotta came to see if I needed anything. And she stayed there talking to me because I was alone..."

"Booth... I... you weren't supposed to be alone... I... I mean, Cullen, he wanted to wrap this up today and..."

"Bones, It's OK, really!"

"No, it's not. I really wanted to be there with you, but he didn't let me..."

"And since when do you take orders from Cullen?" The immovable Temperance Brennan, the tower of strength, was shaken to the core. Again. He had a point. He had a very good point. Booth had been taken to hospital, the Gravedigger was in custody and all was under control. She should have told Cullen and his stiff lip to stuff it and gone to Booth. No matter what.

"I'm sorry..." her throat closed up on her again. Yes, she could have told Cullen what to do with his orders. But she had been strangely incapable of being close to a fragile Booth. Just like when her dad had been taken home in an ambulance, almost 30 years ago, with cast in his leg all the way up to his hip and she had hidden in the laundry room, incapable of looking at a fragile dad. It had taken a great deal of cajoling to get her to go into her smiling father's arms. As if he hadn't really been her dad, but a stranger... just because he was not his strong self that had left the house in the morning.

It would not do to deal with that particular thought at that moment, though. It was weakening, to think of herself with shame.

She drove her car into the residents' bay in front of Booth's building and turned the key in the ignition with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, Booth."

"For saving me?"

"You know what I mean..."

"Not really, no."

"Just that...well... I should have stayed with you. Screw Cullen and his briefings and debriefings... I should have stayed there with you. Holding your hand. But..."

"Temperance..." Was that impatience in his voice? Was she boring him with all her I'm sorries? "I know why you didn't stay there... I didn't stay with you when the Gravedigger got you and Hodgins. I didn't hold your hand either. And now I know how much you needed it... The not being left alone and the not being closed up in a room and... And I was so busy with Cullen and Cam and Parker... Really, I understand..."

"Booth, it wasn't like that... really" but her voice hitched, it went an octave higher and her throat closed on her again. Had she said one more word, a single one, she would have cried. And neither of them needed it at that particular moment. So she took a deep breath and turned to him. Her hand, of its own volition, reached out to his face and traced a light caress down his now warmer skin. Her body seemed to have detached from her brain completely, because her mind kept on telling her that she should take him up, to the comfort of his bed, but her body leaned into his and the hug she did not receive at the hospital, the one she expected him to initiate, she gave, whole-heartedly, seated in that car, far too small to accommodate his frame with comfort. He pulled her closer to him and the tension in his shoulders eased a knot with each intake of air, with each different particle of her personal scent that he inhaled. Temperance Brennan was all that Seeley Booth needed to feel human again. And vice-versa.

"Come, let's go up. I'll make you a chicken soup you will never forget."

"Really? Chicken soup? For me, Bones?" His smile was nearly back.

"My mom used to say that chicken soup is good for everything." He kissed the top of her head, still nestled in his chest.

"Come on then, woman, go and cook for me!" It was difficult to let go of him. Even if he was holding her hand and standing so close that she could hear his skin against the cotton of his t-shirt.

********

As it turned out, chicken soup took its time to cook in real life. So, Brennan sent Booth for a bath. She arranged it all, including the candles, while he undressed in his bedroom. She lit as many candles as she could find. Darkness was not something that he would welcome for some time to come. Nor a closed door. Nor silence. So she put some soft music in the background and gave him privacy to enter the tub.

In the kitchen, she was getting anxious. The chicken soup was cooking and there wasn't much more that she could do. No fast forward button to push. Nothing to do except entertaining thoughts of Booth in the tub. No beer hat this time though. If she was going to fantasize, then might as well be to her own description. And it was her prerogative to remove beer hats from the equation. Scratch Green Lantern graphic novels as well. Though come to think of it, even a graphic novel should become engaging reading material if she were to get into that tub with him and just lean against him and let the dregs of the day wash away sitting between his legs and his arms. Stop it Temperance. He does not need that from you now. But the chicken soup was simmering slowly, and there were slices of bread already cut and the wine was open and there was nothing else to do. So before she could stop it, she found herself walking through the open door of his bathroom. And it wasn't like she could honestly say that she regretted it. Because ever since she had walked in on him almost a year ago the image had imprinted itself on her retina- beer hat and all. Damn, now even the stupid beer hat looked good!

Slowly she walked in, taking in the wide open eyes that did not see her, the tired, sad expression. She knew from experience he was back there. That there was something else weighing on him. So she sat at the edge of the tub and picked up a sponge and loading it with water, squeezed it over his skin, rubbing and massaging the tension away from his shoulders.

"Jeez, Bones, I'm naked here.."
"I've seen you naked before."

"Don't you have any notion of personal space?"

"Of course I do..." It stung a little, the tone on his voice. She rubbed a bit harder.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Chicken soup for the soul..."
"Chicken soup for the soul... you have a way with words, Bones."

"Well, I am a New York Times best selling author... three times.. but the sentence is not mine." She continued to rub, hypnotic little circles, entranced by the way the light refracted on the water particles on his tanned skin. The music played in the background, indistinctly, and waves of steam rolled from the water and from his skin, the candles played tricks of the eye. And the skin of his back seemed to hold some sort of magic secret. She was losing track of time and of consciousness and would happily be in that world of steam for the next 100 years.

"Bones... Thank you..."

"For what?"
"I know why you're here and what you're doing... Thank you.. for not leaving me alone."
Her hand stopped. She wasn't quite sure what to answer. What could she answer anyway? A sigh escaped her and she resumed the massage with the sponge.

"The chicken soup is ready. Get out when you're done." And on an impulse, she kissed the top of his head like he had done so many times to her. And it felt good. So good that she could not help it but smile quietly as she left the bathroom.

*******

She studiously avoided any questions about the events of the last day during dinner. She wasn't quite sure what to talk about but he seemed contented with silence and her presence. Which was good because she really sucked at small talk and the only thing worrying her now was how he was processing the experience. It had taken her well over a year to stop fearing the parking lot or the dark of the night, or the small box room at the end of her corridor. More than that to stop the dreams where she felt herself dying, falling asleep without air, the stunned realization that she was going to die and that there wasn't a single thing that she could do. She wasn't sure talking about it would help in any case. That was a credo for the psychologists and psychiatrists – all people she did not put any credence on. But the chicken soup did help as did the bottle of wine, and the chocolate he dug up from the cupboard. There was a lot to be said for comfort food. And for the TV he switched on after dinner to watch some silly movie. There was lot to be said for putting the brain in neutral. He hugged her and she relaxed against his chest. As if she was the one who needed comfort and not him. As if she had been the one going through that again and not him. But every once in a while, he would squeeze her in his arms as if he was holding on to the reality of her to stop some force dragging him back into that place.

The TV was set on low, and there was a blanket over them and some wine still in the glasses and the warmth of his arms around her, so, Brennan thought, life was, at that moment, pretty good. And then his phone rang. And he picked up after checking caller ID. And the voice was feminine, and not Rebecca's, and not Angela's and certainly, not motherly. And he laughed at something or other and somehow the voice on the other side of the line sounded blond and FBI-like. And Booth liked his blonds, busty and needy and homely and petite. And herself? Well, she was none of those things.

She got up to use the bathroom and give him time to finish the conversation. He had stood up and was pacing the room as he spoke. His eyebrow raised into a question mark as she walked out but the conversation on the other side of the line kept going and he did not even reach out to hold her to him. It was silly, she thought, that she had hoped he would not take the call, or, at the very least, give her a sign that she was more important than some blond bimbo calling him. Life, she had known for a very long time, was a difficult navigation in a sea of little and major disappointments.