The truth remains
In midnight conversations
I asked for this moment
But you turned away

He lifts a hand from the tangled mess of bodies – namely his and hers – to rub his eyelid, gently massaging the soft tissue then slowly daring to open his eyes, blinking profusely. A slight chill creeps over him as he assesses Brennan's bedroom – dresser, door to the ensuite, mirror, bedside table - exactly the same as he had noted it last night.

Last night.

Shivering, he tries to wrench some of the bedsheet away from her, haphazhardly sprawled along her side of the bed, arms skewed out at odd angles and breathing lightly, as if the slightest movement or noise could wake her from her uneasy slumber.

Wrapping the sheet around his lower half, he carefully treads over to the ensuite, then backing away from her, feet slapping quietly against the cold tiles, he closes the door. He crosses his arms, rubbing each hand against the other as if to create enough friction to warm him up. God, what was the time? He didn't suppose his partner had alarm clocks in her bathroom.

He didn't suppose she expected him to be half naked, in her bathroom at whatever time it was.

Turning on the taps with one fluid motion, he splashes the warm water over his face in a vain attempt to wake himself up, but just ends up being colder in the first place. Ruffling his hair by the use of his hand, he sighs.

He feels content, somehow. Happy, that he's in this position. But the unrest he's feeling can only spur from what she's going to feel after she wakes up. Temperance Brennan does not believe in love, and will probably put down their night of escapades to a burning desire for sex, which she has told him time and time again is an anthropological need.

What she doesn't understand, is that his main anthropological need, has always been her. And it's only now that he, himself is realizing this. Ever since that time at the shooting range, sparks had flew. He had chose to ignore them, and he could ignore them no more.

But she could.

He continues to hesitate, back pressed up against the wall, and he thinks he's catching a chill. He is unsure of what to do; this is unsteady ground. But if it's unsteady ground, staying in the same place will surely cause it to fall through.

His hand twists, opening the door once again, and stepping out into the bedroom. She looks the same as when he left, except her expression looks like she's grimacing. He grimaces too. Sourcing out his clothes, crudely dropped on the floor from the night before, he pulls on his pants, one leg at a time, and dismisses the belt. He needs some coffee.

Plus, he feels slightly uneasy lingering in her bedroom, as she lies sleeping and naked.

He feels numb as he slowly turns on the tap, filling up his glass with cold water that probably tastes like the tap it's come out of. Avoiding a confrontation for as long as he can, and pretending that he's a welcome resident here for as long as possible, he realized as soon as he walked in her kitchen, that boiling the jug would wake her up.

He's no stranger to this kind of numb; he's no stranger to mornings after. The numbness of what he'd done the night before slowly wears away, bit by bit, until he's left with the same, worn down man who tries to forge a relationship, but eventually fails.

This is different. He wants to stay here, he wants it to be like this. He's not ashamed of what he's done, but he knows that she will be. His palms are sweaty as he grips the glass, raising it up to his mouth and gulping down the water. It helps soothe his dry throat.

Maybe they could meet in the middle; she can't deny that there was something there. At the least, she can't deny that he consoled her, that after these two years, that she needs him. Maybe that would open her eyes.

But when you open your eyes, you often don't like what you see.

"What are you doing, Booth?" His heart almost falls out of his chest at the words, and he jumps a little bit with the fright. He sighs deeply, but doesn't turn around just yet.

"God, Bones. You gave me a fright." He reprimands, turning to face her. No first name basis, then.

"Oh... sorry." She stands in the living room, between the coffee table and two arm chairs, a dressing robe wrapped around her torso, hand pinning one side of it to her body. Dormant, she seems unsure of where to stand, what to say or what to do. She puts a hand to her head, rubbing her forehead with her index finger and thumb, as if to somehow make more sense of the situation.

"Do you uh... want a coffee, Bones?" He questions, shifting nervously in his spot. There's so much going unsaid, neither of them know where to start. So, it seems they're starting way back at the beginning. One step forward, two steps back.

"Thankyou." She mumbles, feet planted firmly on the floor, eyes flitting around the room to everywhere and everything except him, as he flits around the kitchen, not knowing his position either.

Fumbling with everything possible; the beans, spoon, jugs, milk, everything, he finally 'whips up' two coffees. He kind of feels like this is the way things should be; him getting her a coffee in the early hours of a morning when they can't get back to sleep. But of course, it's not like that.

It's more like this; awkward. There's no other way to describe it. He wants to say something, she wants to say nothing. He can't find an opportunity, she's finding thousands. Minutes pass, though it feels like hours to him.

"So, are you going to go visit your dad today?" He's down to the last dregs, swirling the cup around absent mindedly to fill the time.

"Conversations through plastic walls do not appeal to me, Booth." They almost slip back into the mould of simple bickering, but it's what's not being said that means more than what is. "And why are you so interested? You have no right to intrude on my family matters."

"I arrested him, Bones." He glares, placing the mug down with a little more force than Brennan would like. "I feel responsible."

"You don't have to – I'm fine." She forces.

"You're not fine, Bones. Your old man is in prison, and he could get a life sentence." He stresses the words prison and sentence, and she flinches at the enunciation.

"He deserves it."

"That isn't the point – he's your father."

"And a murderer, too."

"And I was the arresting officer. Goddamn it, Bones! It's not okay to bottle things up like this."

"You're making assumptions, Booth. Just because... we shared a night of passion, does not give you the right to speak for me, nor assume that I'm bottling things up." She doesn't hesitate, doesn't seem ashamed of what she's said. She's just stating the facts; a night of passion.

"So that's all it was to you? A night of passion?"

"I'm not going into this, Booth. We're partners." There's a silence from both parties, and eyes have stopped diverting. He sees nothing but denial in hers, and she sees something that scares her in his.

"Yeah. Partners." The candle that's the omnipresent glint in his eyes is snuffed, and he feels like he's been hit in the stomach with a slow swinging sledgehammer. Something that he saw coming, but it hurts more than expected. "I've got to go."

Retrieving his coat from the bench, he doesn't bother to go back to her bedroom and retrieve his shirt. He doesn't want to see the ruffled sheets. He doesn't bother putting it on or buttoning it up, either. The sun isn't out, no light shines in from her curtains. There'll be nobody to see him shirtless.

He slams the door behind him.