A/N: i'm baaaack. sorry, folks. i've been crazy busy the last few weeks. i was out of town two out of four weekends, and i started school again, so i've barely had a moment to myself. i barely eeked out time to actually watch the season premiere. but. i missed you guys, so here is a another little oneshot for this collection. thank j for her help with this one... i was a big whiny baby who needed reassurance. ;) xoxo

Wildly, Without Words.

For the most part, my irritability today is due to my publisher. He has been on my case for a number of weeks regarding my newest book, and I've become more and more frustrated since he entered my office.

First of all, I resent this man telling me how to write my novel. In the past, I've been an extremely successful author without his help, and I've read the man's notes and emails – he has spelling and grammatical errors on a regular basis that I find incredibly distracting. Not only that, but one of the scenes in question happens to be a sex scene between Kathy and Andy, and I'm not convinced he's qualified to give an opinion on such matters. If he's had sex before, I'd be surprised.

Secondly… I don't like being told what to do.

Still, I find myself biting my tongue because this man does, in some respects, control whether or not my book is published. Also, I have a set of remains on one of the tables that I'm anxious to get to, and I know Booth is on his way to meet with me over my findings. Of which I have none, because Martin Burgess will not stop talking or leave my office.

"Dr. Brennan," he pesters, tugging at his tie. "You aren't listening to me. I'm telling you that it is not simply the scene at the end of chapter five. It is the book in its entirety. It lacks… passion."

I frown. "I disagree."

He sighs, and I see a bead of sweat glisten near his forehead and slip down under the rim of his glasses. Martin is in his mid-forties, unmarried and generally not very accommodating. But this is the first time he's actually had a problem with the contents of one my books. Before it was always my unwillingness to pose for a sexier jacket cover, or do a longer book tour.

"Dr. Brennan, to me…the case in this book seems flat, uninspired. It doesn't seem realistic at all, and the chemistry between Kathy and Andy seems fairly non-existent. In the past, I believe these books have been successful because they were new. The idea of identifying people from their bones was exciting to people. Now… well, now, it just seems trite without something else to carry along the story. From what I can see, the characters are essentially emotionless."

"What did you just say?" a voice says tightly from the doorway.

This time it is my turn to sigh. My partner doesn't just sound angry. He sounds furious.

Martin turns from his spot on my couch towards the agent towering in the doorway. Booth's body language is definitely full of warning. He isn't shouting or throwing a scene, but his jaw is taut, and his eyes are murderous. It even make me squirm a bit in my seat. Martin looks trapped somewhere between irritation with the situation, and simple terror.

"Booth," I say calmly. "I'll be with you in a few minutes."

Of course, he pays me no attention. His eyes remains fixed on his target, and he enteres the room slowly, approaching where Martin sits on the couch. At this point, I think Hitler would be intimidated.

"Did I hear you call her novels trite?" he asks softly.

To give my publisher a bit of credit, he attempts to maintain some semblance of control. "Agent Booth, is it?" he asks quickly and nervously. The two had met once before, at a book signing when Booth had dragged me away for a case. They'd had words. Booth, of course, had won.

"That's right," Booth says, his voice low and full of warning. "Her partner." He puts his hands on his hips. "And you don't know what you're talking about."

"Booth!" I say sharply, standing up. "This is a private conversation."

"Bones," he says, turning towards me impatiently. "He's full of crap. Your stories aren't trite. And the cases aren't boring. What, does he need more blood and guts?" He narrows his eyes. "More human suffering, perhaps?"

"Agent Booth –"

"Be quiet," he orders Martin, barely glancing in his direction.

"Booth!" I exclaim. I can't believe how ridiculous and defensive he's being about my books. And rude. My publisher is getting red in the face at having been shushed like a child, and Booth's adam's apple is working overtime. "Stop it," I warn him.

Apparently, he's angered Martin enough to make him forget his fear. Leaping to his feet, the smaller man squares off with my partner, his nostrils flaring. "Excuse me, but this was a private meeting between me and my client. She is a writer, and I am a publisher. You, last time I checked, work for the FBI and are not connected to the literary world in any way –"

Oh my god.

For a moment, I fear for Martin's life. A vein has started to pop out on Booth's forehead, and his fists clench. "Oh, so you're saying I'm not qualified to have an opinion?"

"I'm saying this is none of your business."

"Damn straight it's my business! She's my partner!"

"She is not your literary partner, she is –"

This is insane. I wonder briefly if this is the kind of frustration we cause Dr. Sweets when we argue, but quickly turn my attention back to the argument in front of me -- something that is now an argument because Seeley Booth is a possessive, alpha male. Again.

My own temper flames. "Booth, back off," I say coolly, trying to maintain some sense of decorum. I set my hands on his arms, feeling the muscles tensed and bulging beneath my fingers. It is if he is ready to attack. "I can take care of myself," I mutter.

He looks at me incredulously. "Bones, the guy just said your writing had no emotion and no feeling! He called it trite. And I'm supposed to not get upset??"

I step in front of him and face Martin. "I apologize," I say evenly, trying my best to keep any amount of anger or hurt out of my voice and to appear unaffected. I think it is most likely the best way to handle the current situation.

"Dr. Brennan," he says sharply, clearly miffed. "I'm leaving. And unless you rework some of the things we've discussed, I can't possibly publish this novel."

I feel a slight surge of panic. I don't really understand what it is he wants from me. Again trying to remain in control, I look my publisher in the eye. Booth's hand falls on my shoulder, and I can feel the tension radiating off of him in waves.

He definitely wants to shoot Martin.

"Mr. Burgess," I say, my voice steady. "The case I used in the book is based on a real case. The people are loosely based on real individuals. The cases are factually correct, there is both a love scene as well as several disagreements between characters. Is that or is that not displaying emotion? If that's not what you wanted, I'm not sure what is.--"

Martin has clearly had enough. He reaches for his briefcase, then straightens up to look me in the face.

"Dr. Brennan, if I have to explain what I mean by 'add more passion, more emotion', more anything, I'm not sure you have much passion or emotion yourself. Frankly, I've always gotten the impression that you're as cold as your books, but they were new enough to be successful. But this?" he asks, holding up my manuscript. "This is about as interesting and passionate as this conversation."

I don't even have a few seconds to process his words, because Booth reaches right around me, grabs Martin by the collar of his blue button-up shirt, and hurls him across the room.

My eyes bulge and I let out a squeak. I am both horrified by my partner's actions and sick to my stomach at my publisher's words, and as I hurry over to Martin, I send Booth a murderous look. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shout. "Are you insane?? That's my publisher!"

Booth is approaching the two of us rapidly as I kneel by Martin, who looks fairly stunned, rubbing his head where it has clunked against the wall. He shrinks back as the shadow of my tall partner covers us, and I am nearly shaking with my anger.

"He said he wanted more 'passion' in this conversation," Booth says flatly. "I thought I'd help him out."

"By attacking him??"

He reaches around me, grabs my publisher again by the shirt, and hauls him to his feet. Leaning closer, he speaks softly, his eyes fixed on Martin's. "Don't you ever," he murmurs dangerously, "disrespect her again, you got that? This woman has more passion and emotion in one finger that you have in that entire body of yours. She works harder for people she's never met than anyone I know, and she's an incredible writer." He releases the shaking man's shirt from his grip and pats him on the shoulder, slapping an insincere smile on his face. "Now get out of here."

Both furious and most likely humiliated, Martin pushes Booth out of the way and shoves my manuscript into my chest, stalking past me towards the door, grabbing his briefcase from the floor on the way out.

I am so angry I can barely see straight. I look down at the manuscript in my hands, the one that apparently lacks passion or emotion, and I suddenly feel a surge of both. Slamming the heavy stack of papers into my partner's chest, I grab my headphones from my desk, stalking towards the door.

"Bones!"

"I have a body to look at," I snap. "So leave me the hell alone."

--

"Bones."

"I'm not speaking to you," I mutter, lifting the wrist of what had once been a young woman gently in my own hands. There is a strange scoring on the bone, and I lean closer to get a better look.

"That guy was a jerk."

I say nothing as he hovers behind me, setting the wrist down gently and moving up towards the shoulder. In truth, I am having a difficult time concentrating, but I don't want him to know that. I am still angry with him over his little display of testosterone in my office, and am also worried about my contract with Martin. And, a part of me admits, hurt by my publisher's words. Is he right? Is my book flat and emotionless? I try to think about the paths the characters have taken, wondering if I missed something very, very important.

I suddenly have a headache.

"He had no right to talk to you like that. He doesn't even know what –"

I spin around, grabbing his arm, not missing the slight look of horror on his face that I am touching his shirt with the same glove that has just been holding fresh remains. Still, he allows me to drag him down from the platform and back into my office, where I let go and yank down the blinds on my windows with a sharp snap.

"Okay, you're mad. But you shouldn't be mad a me, because I defended you to that asshole –"

"I didn't need you to defend me!" I say through clenched teeth. "I'm an adult, Booth, and I'm perfectly capable of dealing with my own business associates! But you threw him across the room! This isn't some fight in the schoolyard. I have a contract with that man."

"Well, you shouldn't," he huffs. "He clearly doesn't respect you, and you don't need to be doing business with someone like that, nor should you have to put up with –"

"He's right," I suddenly say quietly.

He pauses, his brown knitting. "What?"

I plop down on the couch, dropping my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes wearily. "He's probably right. I doubt the book has much passion." I take a deep breath. "Wouldn't be the first time I've heard something like that, anyway."

I feel his weight drop down next to me, and his hand falls hesitantly on my shoulder, but I shrug him off. I'm still annoyed with him.

"Bones, I'm sure the book is great. Your last two novels were amazing. I read them. And you know me -- I don't read books."

"You can't do that," I interrupt, changing the subject. "You can't just throw a man around because you don't like what he said to me. I have a professional relationship with Martin, whether you like him or not. I'll be lucky if he doesn't try to press charges."

"Hah!" he scoffs. "I doubt he'd even try. He was shaking in his boots."

I sigh in irritation, snapping off my gloves and tossing them in the garbage by my desk. I am about to open my mouth again to continue telling him why his machismo is unwelcome in my lab when he surprises me, taking my hand.

"Bones," he murmurs quietly. "I'm sorry if I upset you. But I'm sure as hell not sorry that I told that jackass off, because he couldn't be more wrong. And," he says, holding up a finger when I go to speak, "I know you. And you have plenty of passion." He smiles. "Maybe more than you know what to do with," he jokes. "And it burns me up to hear someone questioning that." He looks me in the eye. "No matter what you might say, I know that comment hurt your feelings. But he didn't know what the hell he was talking about, okay? You aren't cold – you're one of the warmest people I know."

"But what if he's right about the book?" I ask weakly. "He might be right."

He sighs, shoving his hands through his hair, reclining back against the arm of the couch, facing me. "Maybe he's right about the book."

My eyes widen in surprise.

"But the book isn't you. And he's dead wrong about you," he says, squeezing my fingers in his. "He had no right to say those things about you, you got that? Because you, Temperance Brennan, are full of passion. You just pick and choose who to share it with." He grins. "Which makes me feel pretty lucky."

I puff out my cheeks, unsure how to respond. I feel a warmth spread across my face, and realize I'm flushed by his compliment, and by the time I let out my breath, I'm smiling, too. Ducking my head, I bite my lip. "Booth…"

"I know, I know. You still don't want me to hit anybody."

I feel warm everywhere. I am suddenly aware of the subtle scent of his cologne, and I feel his knee pressing against my thigh where he's turned on the sofa. Lifting my head, I see the strong line of his jaw and my heart flutters. I swallow, nervous all of a sudden. He is looking at me in that way, that way that makes me feel like I am the only person in the world; that makes me feel dizzy. I suddenly realize that despite my irritation and his presumption, he did what he did because he cares about me, because he wants me to understand how much he cares.

And that in picking up Martin and flinging him across my office, he'd said more with one gesture than I'd said in my entire book. Wildly, without words, he'd spoken to me.

I stand up suddenly, dropping my hands to my hips, pacing a few steps. He's insufferable, really, and his reaction had been completely uncalled for. And yet, in a way… I am pleased, and more than a little flattered.

He glances up at me, clearly waiting to see if I am going to forgive him now or if he will have to drag acceptance out of me over dinner, his treat. I consider my options for a moment, of a few choice words I can add to ensure that he never does something like that again.

But I hear his voice again in my head, saying he's lucky, and instead I suddenly swoop down, cupping his face in my hands and kissing him deeply. His mouth drops open in surprise at the feel of my lips against his, and I take advantage, letting my tongue sweep inside, tangling with his own. He returns my kiss with enthusiasm, until I feel rubbery in the knees and ankles and start to worry I'll no longer be able to stand. He reaches for my waist, trying to pull me into his lap, but I break away, jumping back, my face flushed as I look at him breathlessly.

"Say you'll never do that again," I demand.

He sets his jaw, but his eyes are playful, his cheeks flushing pink from my kiss. "No."

I sigh, turning on a heel and heading towards the door, returning to my remains.

"Bones!"

I pause, the corners of my mouth twitching slightly. "Yes?" I say, not turning around.

"What was that for?"

I do look over my shoulder at that moment, meeting his eyes, and I see his own broad smile. "Oh," I murmur. "Just... showing a little passion."

I hear his laugh echo I walk down the hallway. "Atta girl!" he calls.

By the time I again reach the platform, my smile is stretching my face, my eyes are sparkling, and I feel anything but cold.