AN: The usual thanks to redrider6612, FauxMaven, and TotallyHonestReviewer1.
Brennan's supplies arrived after breakfast the next morning. During their first break, she used the tape to measure Booth. Despite their nakedness and physical intimacy, his head-to-toe blush fascinated her. His color darkened further at her throaty laugh, even as it turned him on.
Her primary interest, however, was not the size of his penis as she told their captor, but the dimensions of his chest. Afterward she enlisted Booth to help her measure the dimensions of the room, recording everything on her drawing pad.
During the few minutes of private conversation they could steal after entertaining their captor, Booth asked, "Why do you need the dimensions of the room? Or, for that matter, me?"
"I don't need the measurements of the room," she whispered. "But it gave us something to do." And it kept her mind from straying into dangerous territory. It was getting harder and harder to keep herself together. Her control was fraying around the edges. She wanted, no needed, something to keep her from thinking too much. Like sharks around their prey, her thoughts and emotions circled dangerously close to what she'd done to Celia. No! She couldn't, no, wouldn't, think about that.
"And me?"
His voice pulled her from the morass of her mind. She struggled to remember what they were talking about. "I thought he might find it entertaining?"
Her reply was a second too slow and he noticed she avoided answering, but she spoke again before he could ask what was wrong or pin her down on the real reason behind the measurements.
"Hey, Muscles, would you get the tape measure please?"
He looked at her like she was crazy, but complied. It wasn't like there was anything else to do and she said she had some kind of plan.
"Okay, I need you to measure the breadth of my shoulders, my waist, my hips, then from the base of my neck to my waist, and the base of my neck to my hips. Please write them down on the bottom half of the page."
He stretched the tape measure across her shoulders, deliberately taking his time. The light brush of his fingers sent cascades of shivers across her bare skin.
She didn't really need all of the measurements, but decided to throw in a few extra to keep their captor guessing. Later, she'd take other measurements of him and have him do other ones on her. Then she'd measure other things in the room. Possibly those would be useful in her drawings.
The rest of the day Brennan alternated between drawing and exercising. After a session of martial arts warm-up, she started drawing the punching bag. It had been a long time since she'd drawn anything, and the punching bag had simple lines and interesting shadows. She worked off some of her anxiety about their situation, and then drew the saloon area as it looked from the bed. Booth scooted close to see what she was drawing.
"Stop it, Muscles!" she demanded in annoyance, glaring over her shoulder at him.
He moved back a bit, but not far enough.
Two minutes later, she ripped some pages from the book and thrust them at him along with a pencil. "Go draw over there. I can't focus with you looking over my shoulder."
He sat on a barstool. She started again, this time adding him to the scene.
By the end of the day, she was satisfied with her progress. She went to sleep thinking she was ready to attempt something harder.
Their captor woke them their sixth morning with a cheerful, "Good morning, lovelies."
"The next good morning I have will be when I wake up free," Brennan muttered in frustration.
"My, you're feeling feisty this morning," he said.
"Hey, watch your adjectives, buster," Booth growled, just as annoyed as Brennan. Usually his dreams were unpleasant and he was happy to wake from the memories his subconscious insisted on replaying. But most of them were more tolerable than their present reality.
Brennan tossed a quelling look at her partner.
"You'd better look into some props or something," she told their captor.
"Oh, I've got them all prepared," he responded. "Just let me know when you want them. Frankly, nobody has ever gone as long as you have without needing… accessories."
Bile rose in Brennan's throat. Given the elaborate setup of the room, she knew there had been people here before them, but having it confirmed and being compared to the prior occupants made her sick.
She swallowed reflexively, pushing down the burn in her throat. Maybe a shower would give her stomach time to settle so she'd be able to eat.
Mid-afternoon, Booth wandered over to see what she'd been drawing while he'd been doing his now five-times daily push-ups and sit-ups.
"Can I see what you've drawn, Red?"
She handed him the pad and offered him a nervous smile. She folded her hands in her lap to keep from grabbing it back.
He flipped through drawings of their room and some of places she'd been. She was good. However, what really surprised him were the ones of him.
He shifted awkwardly. "I didn't know you could draw."
She shrugged.
"You're really good," he allowed, even as he wished she hadn't drawn him. If – no, when – they were rescued, the sketchbook would be kept for evidence. Who knew how many people would see these naked drawings of him?
He swallowed a lump in his throat. Having things to do, drawing and measuring, was steadying both of them emotionally. They'd just have deal with the fallout later – if there was a later.
"I took a few figure drawing classes while I got my degrees. Before I started… working professionally, I had to do my own drawings sometimes, you know, for my job."
Booth flipped to the next page and saw something totally different than her other work. In simple lines, there were several smaller symbols drawn onto a shield. It almost looked like a heraldic symbol, but the drawing was unfinished.
He tossed her a questioning glance, and she answered his unspoken question, "It's just a design I'm working on."
"Huh." He could tell from the way she crossed her arms across her chest that she was keeping something from him, but this wasn't the time or place to push it. Maybe it was related to her plan.
Midway through the next day, Brennan asked for the props. When the box arrived, they took their time looking through it since they didn't really have anything better to do.
Booth examined the handcuffs. "These are very cheaply made. A good strong jerk would pull the chain links apart."
"Oh, look. I have one of these at home," she said, holding up a body stocking. "They're actually quite comfortable."
Next she pulled out a couple of bra and panty sets and Booth found a whip. The box also contained an Old West style corset, chaps, cowboy hat and boots, toy gun, bracelet and anklets with bells, and a vibrator.
Booth was really glad that there were no bits, bridles, or blinders in the box. But he could handle the Old West theme. 'I am a lawman after all,' he smirked.
On day eight, Brennan turned out to be especially creative with the Old West theme and they managed a whole day with those props alone.
After lunch, he looked around their room. He really hated this place. There was nothing to do and too much time to think. The cameras, a constant reminder of why they were here, angered him and the burning in his gut grew worse. He wished he had his gun and one bullet, all he needed to get them out of here. This kind of thinking was futile. He needed a distraction.
"I'm bored. Play a game with me."
"What kind of game?"
"We've got pencils and paper. How about tic-tac-toe or hangman?"
"I hated those games when I was six," Brennan replied. "I have a better idea."
She went and sat at the bar. Pulling a sheet of paper off her drawing pad, she began to fold it like an accordion, carefully creasing each fold line with her thumbnail. Then she tore carefully along the folds until she had a handful of long strips of paper about an inch wide. Next, she folded each strip and then tore along the folds again. When she was done, she had a large pile of one-inch squares. She wrote letters and small numbers on each.
After she completed the first several, Booth groaned, "Not Scrabble, Red. You'll beat me every time."
"We don't have a Scrabble board."
"I'm sure you can draw one," he replied grumpily.
"We could also use the squares for speed Scrabble, hangman, writing messages or poetry, or to make simple ciphers for the other person to decode."
"What exactly is speed Scrabble?"
"You play with Scrabble tiles," Brennan explained. "You start with five tiles. The first person who can incorporate all their tiles into crossword style words shouts 'Go' and all the players grab another tile and another round begins. The winner is the first person who finishes after there are no tiles left in the draw pile."
"What if nobody can make any words?" he asked.
"Then everybody agrees they're stuck and grabs another tile," she said. "There are other ways to determine the winner. One is by counting who wins the most rounds. Another is by counting the points each round. The sum of the numbers on the unused tiles is subtracted from the sum of the numbers of the used tiles."
Booth came within ten points of Brennan the first time they kept score, so he challenged her to another game. He lost miserably because he had a Q without a U. They switched to hangman. Unfortunately, she consistently beat him at that too. She used words he'd never heard of like 'syzygy' which she told him meant an alignment of the sun, moon, and earth, and seemed to know exactly which words he chose. 'If only we had Risk, I could probably beat her at that,' he thought in frustration.
As she fell asleep that night, thoughts of Celia bubbled up. Her hollow stomach churned. She had managed to go the whole day without losing her detachment, mostly because they'd had things to keep them busy. They'd begun to adjust to this situation. It was natural, but no less disturbing. She shifted restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position.
After breakfast the next day, Brennan decided it was time to try to convince Booth that her plan was a good idea. He wouldn't like it, but they didn't have a lot of options.
During their stolen minutes of conversation after their first entertainment session of the day, she told Booth, "You know, there's a chance I'm pregnant."
He pulled back from her abruptly and she saw an odd expression, not quite panic, in his eyes.
"What?!? You're so adamant about not wanting children; I figured you were probably on birth control."
"I was on the pill, but I haven't been able to take it since I've been here. Although it usually takes at least a few months after going off the pill for a woman to get pregnant, a certain percentage of women get pregnant immediately. And we've been having sex, lots of it, during the time when I'm likely to be most fertile."
"I … how do you feel about it?" The idea of having a child with Brennan sounded wonderful… sometime in the future; but not now, at the beginning of their relationship, and certainly not if she didn't want one.
He trembled in anger. This bastard was systematically destroying his dreams for the future. He'd already lost his chance to make their first time special. It would forever be tainted by memories of this place. He had never rushed her into anything and he never would. He'd hoped one day she'd change her mind and want a larger family than the two of them and Parker, but he'd never imagined a situation like this. Fury sent his blood pulsing through his veins, followed quickly by guilt. He was supposed to protect her. Not only had he been unable to rescue her, but he'd been trapped himself.
Pushing his fury and guilt away, Booth forced himself to tune into her voice.
"Like I said, I would never choose to bring a child into the world knowing what I do. But I haven't exactly had a choice in this situation. Biologically, life begins at conception and I would never willingly take an innocent life. But I'm not sure I would be a good mother. I'm not a very nurturing person."
Although her tone was steady, he recognized her insecurity. "You know, you might surprise yourself. Nurturing comes more easily to some than others, but every mother has to learn the same way – first-hand experience – and you're a very fast learner. Also, what makes you think you'd be excluded from the anthropological imperative for women to preserve the species and care for the young?" he asked softly.
"I'm just trying not to think too much about it at the moment," she admitted.
She had to end this conversation. It had taken an uncomfortable turn. In a louder voice she said, "Next time I'm putting the handcuffs on you, Muscles."
"In many cultures, rites of passage are celebrated with special ceremonies," she whispered during their next private moment.
"Rites of passage?" Booth questioned softly, wondering what she was thinking. "What has that got to do with anything?
"Rites of passage are life events: birth, death, reaching adulthood, marriage, the first time someone goes to war," she replied, ignoring his second question.
Booth was still confused. "But you think marriage is an antiquated ritual." It was so much fun to get her riled up; he hoped she would take the bait. They hadn't had a good argument in days.
She glared. "My main objection is that it perpetuates male domination in society. I suppose there's nothing wrong with marriage per se, but rather the problem is with the expectations that go along with it. Like I said, I don't need a piece of paper to show my commitment. Anyway, even our culture has certain rituals associated with different rites of passage. Births are celebrated with baby showers, and marriage with bridal showers and bachelor parties. Going out for drinks at age twenty-one is a common celebration associated with reaching adulthood."
"And why exactly are we talking about this?"
"Well, I kind of like the idea of forever," she admitted. "You know, if things continue to go well."
But they'd pushed the limit of their private conversation and their captor commanded, "No more whispering!"
"In many cultures, body painting, tattooing, or scarring is part of the rites of passage. For example, the Maori of New Zealand have a body modification technique called tā moka. Many parts of the body were marked. Some marks were created as part of rites of passage, others for beautification or indications of status," she said after their next "entertainment" session.
"Why are you going on about rites of passage?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.
"I… well," she began nervously, "You know I've been trying to figure out what do when we run out of ways to use our props."
"Uh huh?"
"Well, I was thinking…" she said clearly, but then she descended into mumbling and he could only catch a few words here and there. "…scarring… that design… assert your alpha male tendencies… commitment."
"Red," he hissed. "Just say it."
"It's not exactly a usual rite of passage, but for the first time ever I can see myself staying with one person for the rest of my life. We could think of it as our commitment ceremony – that we'll try to be together forever. "
"So are you saying we could somehow tattoo ourselves with that design while we're here?" he asked. He was elated to hear her talk about forever. It's what he was hoping for.
"Not exactly."
"Well, what then?" he demanded.
"You're not going to like it."
"I already guessed that by the way you're dancing around the subject."
"You know that design? If we have no options left, I thought we could, you know, mark each other with it."
"Mark how, with what?"
"A knife," she mumbled. "It would leave a scar."
"I… you… want me to cut your skin and vice versa?" he exclaimed.
"Not really," she replied harshly, "but if it's that or dying? I'll do it."
"No, absolutely not. I like the idea of a commitment rite of passage, but I could never do that to you. Besides, he'd never give us a knife."
"I could convince him."
She was probably right and that made him feel possessive. Their captor had no right to interfere in their relationship. He had seen her, all of her, and seen them in positions that should be private. Booth's rage boiled over.
As he furiously struck the punching bag repeatedly, he wondered how she could put the ideas of commitment and self-mutilation together. One was so beautiful and the other so terrible; they should never be mentioned in the same conversation. He let one or two last punches fly before stepping back and sucking in deep draughts of air, trying to regain his composure.
He glanced at his hands and realized that he should have stopped hitting the bag sooner. Two of his reddened knuckles were split, oozing blood and leaving small smears on the bag. Cold from the floor seeped into the soles of his feet as he crossed the room to wash his hands.
During the rest of their rest period, he had to keep pushing away images of her beautiful, smooth skin marred by hideous scars.
The next time they "entertained" their captor, things between them were fast and furious. Neither was happy with the other and it showed.
"Look, you can just think of it as some weird BDSM thing if you want," she whispered, pushing her point.
"No!" he replied, turning away.
"I don't think we have much of a choice. I don't really like the idea, but if we have to do something, at least we could make it meaningful."
"Yeah, and you know what? Every time I saw the scars afterward I would remember inflicting pain on you. I've been trying to forget how that feels."
"Yes, and that's why I knew you'd be able to handle it. And I'd be fine. I have a high tolerance for pain," she answered.
"This is not up for discussion, Temperance," he whispered fiercely. "We are NOT doing it."
"Well then, you'd better think of something else, because I don't want to die in here," she hissed in frustration. "I don't know why it's taking so long for them find us, but I don't want to experience what happens when our captor is unhappy. The last time Celia disappeared, and now he's holding her over our heads." She left out the fact that one of them could be used the same way; he already knew it and she just couldn't bear to think about the alternatives.
A minute later, she sighed. "I don't want to fight," she whispered. "We need each other to survive in here. I'm sorry. I'm sure we'll come up with something else."
He turned toward her. "Look, it's not a bad idea in general terms, but I just couldn't…" he said, struggling to explain. But there were no words to describe just how repulsed he was by the idea.
"Your latest version of the design looked really cool," he offered, trying to make amends.
She got up from the bed and retrieved her drawing pad.
Flipping to the page with the finished drawing she explained, "It represents us. The top row represents personal characteristics, the bottom our jobs."
He looked at it more carefully. The shield had four sections. Top left had a dolphin and two small stars, obviously representing Brennan. Top right had a large star with a second one inside it.
"The star is a protective sign, probably why it was chosen as part of the Army's symbology. This one represents your love of classic cars and that one needs no explanation," she said, pointing to the small Chevrolet logo inside the star and then a Celtic-style cross. She pointed to another symbol, a circle with a line running diagonally through it. A small line descended from the top end of the line, outside of the circle. "This is the ancient Greek symbol for a warrior."
The bottom left panel also contained three symbols, a line drawing in the shape of his FBI badge, a gun, and handcuffs. The bottom right had scales next to a skull and crossbones.
"This is incredible," he said. "We have our own… logo?"
Her laughter tinkled through the room. "Not quite a logo, but I suppose that's close enough."
They smiled at each other like the good friends they were.
"So, how about another round of speed Scrabble?" he offered. "I'm sure you'll knock the socks off me, but hey, at least it won't be boring."
"You're not wearing any socks," Brennan pointed out.
He looked at her in disbelief and she laughed.
"Just kidding, I know that one," she said with a wink.
He laughed much harder than the joke deserved, a nervous laughter that he had a hard time controlling.