Author's Note: On the first read through I thought this wasn't a particularly strong chapter. But then, as I read it back through, I realized it perfectly conveyed the feeling of the week. Well, perfectly in my mind. I hope it gives you the same sense of frustration it did Breannan and me. :)
~A.
"No, there's no baby or even an embryo in sight."
She'd decided, back when she first started trying to get pregnant, Tuesdays were awful. It was the always the day after. The first day of whatever came next. And she hadn't exactly had a whole lot of luck with next.
She had a week to kill – a week where there wasn't anything to think about that was remotely pregnancy related. And even with that she still found it difficult to concentrate on her work. She couldn't decide whether or not she wanted the distraction of a new case and piecing together ancient skeletons could barely hold her interest.
Booth was busy that week which was good because he could barely contain his excitement. Part of her found his excitement infectious. Part of her was excited too. But part of her was terrified she'd have to tell him, yet again, they weren't pregnant. She was almost more upset about having to tell him than she was about finding out herself. Almost. A very small part of her was terrified to receive the news – either positive or negative. And she truly hated feeling responsible for someone else's happiness.
On Tuesday she had to fight the feeling the following week's attempt at insemination was forever away. She knew, factually, it was seven days. Or possibly, she knew but couldn't bring herself to tell Booth, as many as ten days. It was up to her body. Her traitorous body, as she'd come to think of it. She was healthy. She took exceptional care of herself. Booth had a truly impressive sperm count. What was the problem?
By Wednesday she was going stir crazy being locked inside her mind. She started to wish the whole thing was over just so she could feel like herself again. She really felt as if there was someone else inhabiting her body. She knew part of that was due to the hormone supplements she was taking. Earlier that day she took them at the office instead of at home as she drank her coffee the way she normally did. Just as she placed the pills on the back of her tongue Angela had come into her office.
"Dosing, Bren?"
Brennan took a swallow from her bottle of water. "I don't know what that means."
"Never mind." Angela shook her head in amusement. "The remains you asked for have been laid out in Limbo. Are you ready to head down?"
"I really wish you wouldn't call it that." Brennan collected her tape recorder and shrugged into her lab coat.
"Let it go, Sweetie."
As she recalled the conversation she was surprised Angela hadn't probed her for more information concerning the pills. She knew it was common knowledge she rarely took anything.
She and Angela worked on the remains for the better part of the day and though Angela was able to reconstruct the face Brennan's heart was never really in the project. Angela never mentioned Brennan's lack of focus, which was also strange. And later that evening, when she drank one of the three glasses of wine a week she allowed herself while trying to get pregnant, she realized Angela's lack of inquiry was singularly odd.
On Thursday she realized she hadn't seen Booth since Sunday. She held out as long as she could. But at ten o'clock she found herself dialing his familiar number. "Bones," he answered, "you're supposed to be getting plenty of rest."
"I am getting plenty of rest," she snapped at him.
"Whoa, there. Down girl."
She sighed. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
"Feeling the stress of inactivity, are you?"
"Of all the weeks to not get a case…"
"Look at it as an opportunity to catch up on all that work that's your "true passion"."
"I can't concentrate," she sighed. "I can't concentrate on anything. And I'm paranoid."
He laughed. "Paranoid?"
"Angela saw me take my hormone supplements this morning and she didn't say anything. Nor did she say anything about my obvious distraction at work today."
"Is it possible she just didn't notice?"
"I suppose so, but this is Angela we're talking about. She doesn't miss anything. Which means she knows something is going on but doesn't want to tip her hand yet."
"Perfect use of an idiom, by the way. But you're right, you're paranoid. No one knows you're trying to get pregnant."
"Except you."
"Except me." He paused. "Wait, you think I told Angela? She'd kick my ass for going about it this way."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Never mind." She could hear him shift in the background and a grin creep into his voice. "So, you miss me yet?"
"Goodnight, Booth."
"Wait!"
She waited but he didn't say anything. "Yes?"
"Lunch at the diner tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"Okay, see you then."
On Friday she considered writing a chapter for her book based solely on inactivity. Perhaps it could be the basis for case. The killer was driven to it by inactivity. She'd written a thousand ludicrous words before she hit the delete key. Trying to get pregnant was really starting to mess with her head. She hardly recognized herself for the woman she knew herself to be. She was calm, she was rational. And at that moment she was watching the clock edge forward minute by minute until Booth would arrive to take her to lunch. She sighed, disgustedly, and went back to work on the platform.
Sometime Sunday she looked up to realize she'd dusted her entire collection of books. Each one had been removed from its place on the shelf, dusted and stacked on the floor. When Booth knocked and let himself in he found her perched atop a six foot ladder dusting the highest shelf and the statutes that graced the furniture's top line. He'd dragged her to dinner then and later helped her replace all the books. "Maybe you are going a little crazy," he agreed even later when she'd asserted the same over a shared bowl of lemon sorbet.
Monday she started taking her temperature again when she woke up. It was normal on Monday morning. She suspected it would be. She'd likely start ovulating on Tuesday. The first day. Why should the longest week she'd ever endured end with the fresh breath of possible life? Then, when she realized she no longer resembled the pragmatic scientist she'd always prided herself on being, and rather resembled some tragically romantic teenager, she calmly returned the thermometer to its off-white plastic case and hurtled it at the back wall of her shower.
Pragmatic.
