Part Four: Brennan

xxx

Booth was at her apartment again.

He'd been turning up even more often than usual, lately, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd stopped asking, and had started just showing up again, or inviting himself in when he brought her home at the end of the day. She didn't mind, exactly, but she didn't understand why it had recently become important to him to come over so much more frequently than he ever had before. And when he was here, he behaved… oddly. Take right now, for example. He was wandering around her apartment, picking things up and examining them like he'd never seen them before, like he hadn't been to her apartment dozens of times in the past.

She watched him warily as she cleaned up their dinner plates, tracing his fingers over a picture of her and Angela.

She joined him as he moved on to her CD collection and he picked up her old Foreigner CD. "Hot-blooded," he said absently. "I love that song."

And a pang sliced through her, that he didn't remember that moment they'd shared, that one moment of perfect peace when she'd been able to forget that someone was trying to kill her, before David had called and Booth had almost been blown up by her fridge, the two of them dancing like fools in her living room, laughing together. That had been the first time Booth had been at her place, a thousand nights ago; they hadn't known each other as well then. She'd been very upset when he'd been hurt, of course, and beyond grateful when he'd rescued her, just like he always did, but he hadn't been quite so important then. He'd been infuriating, and domineering, and more intriguing than any skeleton she'd ever examined. But he'd never been in her apartment before. Her living space, at that time, had not been suffused with memories of him, as it was now.

She remembered how she'd felt in that moment, dancing with Booth to that ridiculous song. She remembered the look on his face when she told him what she thought about jazz, like he was re-assessing everything he'd ever thought about her, grinning that half-grin that meant he was both surprised and delighted. Then he'd teased her about Foreigner, put the CD in the player and started dancing around her living room, and something about that failure to wait for permission before insinuating himself into her space had been liberating in a way she did not fully understand.

She didn't know why she'd been so surprised: he never waited for permission. That was one of the best things about Booth, she thought to herself… though it would be very unwise to ever apprise him of that fact.

Something had changed between them then, one of a thousand little things that had crept up on her without her awareness. She tried not to remember how tightly she'd clung to him when he'd saved her from Kenton, tried not to remember the feeling of him resting his forehead on her shoulder. Tried not to remember the two of them leaning on each other, the rest of the world disappearing, and knowing she was safe as long as Booth held her.

Jolting her out of her reflections and back into the present, Booth caught her hand in his and tugged her over to show her something else on her shelf. He pointed out her CD of Tibetan throat singing and asked if they could listen to it, and he didn't drop her hand.

He laced his fingers through hers as he talked about music, and she looked down at their joined hands, bemused. This is another thing they didn't normally do. Perhaps to Booth this was another thing that was like French people meeting on the street.

She should pull away. Past experience indicated that behaving in any capacity like French people meeting on the street was deeply unsettling.

But she didn't pull away. She found herself riveted by the sight of their fingers intertwined. There was something quite beautiful about that physical connection, fingers interlocked and the lines of their hands disappearing into one another. For a second she wished Angela could draw it for her, to capture that elusive beauty in permanent form. Then she decided it was probably best Angela was not there, because she was certain her friend would not understand the analogy of French people meeting on the street, and would undoubtedly make more of it than it was. Besides, she couldn't think about Angela when Booth was holding her hand.

His hand was strong and warm, and enveloped her smaller one securely.

"Bones?"

She looked up at Booth, a little dazed. "What?"

"I said, since you like jazz so much, there's this great little place in Georgetown we should go to some time to hear some live music, don't you think?"

"Sure," she said, staring at him strangely. He still held her hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And she did not pull away.

xxx

"Dr. Brennan."

Brennan hid her flinch and turned to see Sweets in the doorway to his office, smiling at her. There was no reason to flinch, of course. Flinching was a startle reflex designed to protect members of a species from predators, and the idea of her being afraid of Sweets was preposterous. Though he was quite tall, she was reasonably certain her rigorous physical training regimen would give her the competitive advantage should they ever have occasion to engage in a physical altercation. Which of course they wouldn't.

She had almost made it past his office without him noticing her. In fact, she'd successfully avoided Sweets ever since she'd gotten back from Guatemala. Why she should be so set on avoiding Dr. Sweets she had no idea, except that she would really prefer to avoid his inevitably tedious and subjective questions. He always picked and prodded at emotional issues which no rational human being would ever attempt to quantify and describe in a scientific way. "Hello, Dr. Sweets," she said stiffly.

"I'm glad to see you. I haven't seen you since you've gotten back. How was your trip?"

"It was very productive, thank you."

"Do you have a minute? I'd like to chat with you a little."

Brennan hesitated. The truth was, she did have a minute. Booth was busy with one of his cases that didn't involve rotting corpses, and she had nothing to do except wait for him to finish, as the amount of time he estimated the task would take rendered the possibility of going back to the lab to do her own work not efficacious. "Yes, all right," she said reluctantly.

He stepped back and indicated she should enter his office. She followed him in and sat down. He sat across from her, still grinning. This was only her subjective opinion, of course, but part of her really thought smiling as much as Sweets did was unprofessional.

"So tell me about your trip," he urged her.

"I was investigating a mass grave site for UNHCR," she told him. "Very interesting work, though somewhat challenging in terms of identifying victims given the lack of infrastructure and political climate encouraging the suppression of evidence unfavorable to the current government."

"Did you meet anyone cool while you were there?"

She blinked. "Live people, you mean?"

"Yeah."

She considered this for a moment. "I worked with a very interesting archaeologist from Columbia while I was there. And there was an old woman in one of the villages I stayed in who was the village healer. Her use of traditional medicines to treat common local diseases was fascinating."

"Did you do anything fun?"

"Fun?" she echoed.

"Yeah, you know, did you do anything for your own enjoyment?"

She shook her head. "I find investigating claims of genocide isn't generally conducive to an atmosphere of frivolity."

"Right," he said slowly. "I see what you mean."

She paused. "I did stop for a few minutes on my way to the market one day to listen to some street performers playing the marimba, though. They were very talented. In fact, I…" she hesitated, again. "I bought a CD from them."

"That's wonderful. It's great that modern technology allows us to relive an experience from such a far off place."

"No," she said. "I mean, I didn't buy it for myself."

Sweets digested this. "Oh. It was a gift for someone?"

"Yes. For you, actually. I bought it for you." There was no reason for her to be embarrassed about this admission, none whatsoever. Except that the experience of giving Cam a gift had been such a disaster that she couldn't be entirely sure she wasn't completely off base with this gift, as well. And Sweets was sure to read some psychological meaning into the gesture that wasn't really there.

Sweets blinked. "For me?" he repeated. "You got me a gift? From Guatemala?"

Brennan reached into her bag and yanked the case out. At least she could be rid of the damn thing. She'd been carrying it around for ages, not wanting to run into Sweets but wanting to make sure she had it with her just in case she did. She thrust the case at him, not meeting his eye. "I thought you would like it," she said awkwardly. "You have very diverse taste in musical genres and you seem to enjoy percussion instruments."

"Wow, this is awesome!" Sweets enthused, taking it and turning the case over. He examined the case with interest. "I've never heard Guatemalan music. I can't wait to listen to it." He looked up at her, meeting her square in the eye. "Thank you, Dr. Brennan," he said sincerely. "This was very thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome," she said, pleased that he liked the gift and hadn't imbued it with any secret significance.

He leaned back in his chair. "So has everything been going all right since you got back?"

"Of course," she said immediately. "Why wouldn't it have?"

He shrugged. "Both you and Agent Booth have gone through a significant emotional ordeal because of his recent illness."

"I didn't go through an emotional ordeal," she insisted.

He leveled his gaze at her. "You're telling me you had no emotional reaction when your friend and partner fell into a coma and almost died?"

"I—I suppose I did react emotionally to a certain extent," Brennan admitted grudgingly.

"Besides," Sweets continued. "I'm sure Agent Booth's memory problems have been adding a certain level of strain to your relationship."

Her head snapped up. "Booth's memory problems? You know about that?"

Sweets frowned. "Of course."

"Did he tell you about…" she trailed off, uncertain as to how to express her inquiry. Sweets would probably misinterpret her reaction to Booth's use of her nickname.

"About how he thought he was married to you?" Sweets finished for her. "Yeah, he told me."

Brennan's eyes went wide as saucers. "What?"

Off her dumbfounded expression, Sweets realized his mistake. "Oh, shit, you didn't know."

"Booth thought he and I were married?!"

"Oh my God, oh my God," Sweets said, panicked. "I am a dead man. Booth is going to kill me."

"What did he say to you?"

Sweets hesitated. "I really shouldn't discuss this with you. Doctor patient confidentiality, you know…"

"You were the one who brought it up in the first place!"

"Only because I thought you already knew!"

"That's no excuse! What did he say to you?"

"Nothing! He just mentioned that he… had a dream while he was in his comatose state in which you and him were married and owned a nightclub."

Brennan blanched. "A nightclub?"

"Yeah, crazy, huh?" Sweets shook his head. "Of all the alternate identities to fix on, who would have guessed Agent Booth would have chosen to be a nightclub owner?"

"What's so crazy about being a nightclub owner?" Brennan said defensively. "I think it makes sense that Booth would want a job that doesn't constantly put us into danger and involve people lying to him all the time. Plus, he would enjoy the lack of regimentation and personal freedom that comes from owning his own business."

"O-kaaay," Sweets said slowly. "You're not bothered that Booth dreamt of being married to you?"

Brennan feigned indifference. "Why should it bother me? People can't control what they dream about during normal sleep; I don't imagine they have any more control over their dreams when they are in comas than they do normally."

"Right, but don't you find it interesting that his dream involved the two of you in particular in a very intimate situation?"

She shrugged. "Not really. I am the person with whom Booth spends most of his time, and it is only natural that I might naturally occupy his thoughts sometimes. As for being married, Booth places a high value on the institution of marriage and I am a sexually attractive female with whom he spends most of his time, so it makes sense that given his preoccupation with marriage, he might have projected that identity onto me while in his comatose state."

"You don't think it might be indicative of some kind of subconscious desire of his?"

"No, of course not. You know I hate psychology."

Sweets snorted. "And projecting an identity onto someone while they're in a coma isn't psychology? You're so desperate to rationalize this that you're resorting to the logical framework of a discipline you don't even believe in to organize your argument."

"I… am not."

"You so are," Sweets said dismissively. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Tell me honestly, Dr. Brennan, what do you think of Booth dreaming about being married to you?"

"I think… it explains a lot of things."

"What things?"

She hesitated. "He… tried to kiss me."

Sweets kept his face schooled into a neutral expression. "When was this?"

"One night when we were in his apartment, not long after his surgery."

"What were the circumstances?"

"We had just eaten dinner, and I was cleaning up. Booth said that since I had cooked I shouldn't clean, and he kept saying his couch was magical and I should sit on it. Naturally I told him that couches were not magical, but I obliged his request. And then he tried to kiss me."

"And how did that make you feel?" Sweets said.

She hesitated. "Confused," she admitted.

"About your feelings?" Sweets said sagely.

"No. About why he was doing that."

"What did you do when he tried to kiss you?"

"I asked him why he was doing that."

"And what did he say?"

"He said because he wanted to. And then when I said I didn't think that was very appropriate, he grew very whiny," Brennan recollected.

Sweets hid a smile. "You know, I have absolutely no trouble imagining that."

She fidgeted. "Sweets, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," he said, taken aback at her hesitancy.

"Do you think it's possible for someone who is in a coma to internalize something someone else told them while they are unconscious?"

"Possibly. There have been studies showing that coma patients who have someone talk to them tend to do better than patients who don't. Logically, that implies that the patient reacts to the external stimuli in some way, even if we don't know how or why."

Brennan nodded slowly. "Yes… I can see that that has a certain amount of logical integrity." She was relieved, to be honest. The entire situation with Booth's odd behavior had had her so on edge that anything remotely resembling a rational explanation was a welcome reprieve from an emotional weight she didn't fully understand.

Sweets watched her. "Dr. Brennan, did you say something to Booth while he was in a coma that you think may have influenced the content of the dream that he had?"

"Perhaps."

Sweets tried to restrain his eagerness. "What did you say?"

"I read some of a manuscript that I was working on to him."

Sweets digested this. "I see." He paused. "Wait, you think something in your manuscript made him think he was married to you?"

Brennan flushed. "I was writing a book about... ah, two characters, who are married to each other. And own a nightclub." Why was she so red? There's no way Sweets would be able to know that when she read to Booth she hadn't bothered changing the names of the people inspiring the characters. To him, they were just characters.

"That explains a lot, actually," Sweets said enthusiastically. "Fascinating how the physical realm influences the psychological realm so strongly, isn't it?"

She frowned. "Not really."

"So if he's remembering things wrong because of what I read him, will he get better?"

"I think he's already getting better. He's able to distinguish between the dream and the reality much more consistently with every passing day."

Brennan exhaled with relief. "That's good." The sooner Booth stopped calling her Iceland and kissing her like French people on the street, the better.