Okay - I know, super long wait for this chapter. I think we're back on schedule now, however... Which means two chapters a week 'til this puppy is done, with the next chapter coming on Wednesday. A few people have asked how many chapters there will be, and it looks like seventeen, as far as I can tell right now. Thanks for all your patience and kind words, and here we go... Let's get back to it, shall we?
SATURDAY
Brennan had always been an active lover – a vocal, enthusiastic partner who enjoyed both the give and the take of the sex act. She made no apologies for that, and certainly had never gotten any complaints. Why, then, did she feel as though she'd been robbed of both words and free will, that first time with Booth? He'd taken over, and she had honestly been more than willing to let him.
When she was dating Michael, he'd always seemed to view sex in much the same way he viewed everything in life – as yet one more skill to master. Being good in bed was merely another thing to add to his CV, another sport at which he excelled. Both he and Brennan were well-versed in the mechanics, which meant sex was always technically superb. If they lacked an emotional connection, Brennan certainly never complained. And, to be fair, neither did Michael.
There were other lovers along the way, of course, though Brennan had a knack for avoiding long-term, monogamous entanglements. When she began seeing Sully, she hadn't anticipated just how much she would actually, well… like him. But she did like Sully. She liked laughing with him, liked spending time with him, liked the things he did to her and the way he responded to the things she did to him. Sex with him was always vigorous, filled with laughter and exploration, but ultimately when their eyes met and his gaze held just a shade too long, she was invariably the one to turn away.
There was no turning away from Booth, however – no way to pretend they were simply satisfying a biological urge, no matter how hard she tried. He called her pretty; held her eye when he said it, shy and sweet and completely in the moment. She didn't know what to say to that – and for the first time in her life, she found herself biting her tongue. Terrified, suddenly, of the words that might escape her lips, if she just let herself go.
The next morning, she woke early and watched him sleep – something she used to mock Sully for, when they were together.
"It's what people do, Tempe," Sully had said to her once, when she told him she found it unnerving to wake and find him staring at her. He didn't finish the sentence, didn't add, When they're in love, but she'd sensed the implication. It had seemed absurd at the time, wasting a perfectly good half-hour doing nothing but gazing at an unconscious lover.
And yet, here she was. Watching Booth sleep.
She wondered if she should be thinking of him as Seeley now – if this single act was enough to make him a different person to her, the man who was her partner suddenly gone. Replaced by someone else entirely, someone who called her pretty and performed incredible oral sex in the shower, who snored in her bed and stole all her blankets.
Someone who was inexplicably fascinating to her, even in sleep.
It wasn't as though all she was doing was staring at him, though. Not at all, actually.
In fact, Brennan was studying.
While Booth did indeed snore, it didn't appear that he had any trace of apnea – his breathing patterns were even, with no detectible disturbances. Which was good; she'd investigated a number of cases in which people simply stopped breathing in their sleep, and never started again.
Booth wouldn't do that, at least.
His heartbeat was strong. His pulse was regular. His color was good, though she'd noted dark circles under his eyes when he'd arrived the night before, and he looked more tired than she'd ever seen him.
While he slept, she took an informal inventory of his body – counting scars and visualizing bones, thinking of his back problems and his knee problems, the numerous aches and pains she knew plagued him from his active lifestyle. She ran a hand over his phallus – thicker than she remembered from that glimpse in the bath, and highly responsive to her touch. She removed her hand when he stirred, though she could feel herself moistening, wanting very much to wake him and have sex again before showering and getting on with her day.
Instead, she let him sleep – another difference from the Temperance she'd always been. The Temperance of old would never have stopped after that first time Friday night; they would have been awake until morning. She would have been loud, directive, and when they finally slept, it would have been out of sheer exhaustion.
She didn't know what to do with the new Temperance.
She got out of bed when the temptation of a naked Booth beside her became too much, and took her cell phone downstairs with her. It would be almost eight o'clock in D.C. – which wasn't actually an acceptable time to call Angela on a Saturday morning, she knew, but suddenly she just wanted to hear her friend's voice. There was something about talking to Angela that made everything less overwhelming, somehow – she had a remarkable ability to put things into perspective, whenever Brennan felt as though she was failing to do that herself.
It took several rings before Angela finally answered, but Brennan was grateful when she finally did.
"Why are you calling me instead of screwing the pants off that gorgeous partner of yours?" Angela asked, immediately upon answering.
"Technically, I think it's customary to begin a conversation with hello," Brennan responded dryly.
"Yeah, you're definitely the one to lecture me on social customs, Bren. So – he's there, right? He showed up, swept you off your feet, you made mad, passionate love all night? Because that's definitely the way it played out in my head like a million times since yesterday."
Brennan couldn't help but smile, realizing unexpectedly just how much she'd missed her friend over the past week.
"He's here. And while I don't know if I would necessarily use your phrasing to describe the course of events, I suppose you're not completely off board."
"Base, sweetie," Angela corrected her, laughing in delight at Brennan's admission. When she spoke again, her tone deepened unconsciously – the way it always did when the artist talked about sex.
"He was good, right? I mean – some guys look like they'd blow your mind, and then you take them to bed and it's like they've never seen a breast before, forget finding the g-spot. But, Booth… He's got that big-belt-buckle, sensuous hands, steamy-eyed thing… Come on, Bren – you know what I'm talking about."
Brennan laughed, unable to stop herself from grinning outright. "Frighteningly enough, I think I do. And to answer your question – he was good." She paused, returning to the confidence of his touch, the taste of his skin, the way he seemed to read her body the same way he'd been reading her mind for the past four years. She sighed, unconscious of the fact until the sound escaped her.
"He was really, very good."
"Oh, hon – I'm so happy for you guys."
There was a pause on the line, which Brennan naturally had difficulty deciphering – she had a hard enough time when people were actually speaking, so meaningful silences continued to be something of an enigma.
"Are you still there?" she finally prompted.
Angela sniffled. Which meant she was either crying, or she was perhaps having trouble with summer allergies – which Brennan knew had been an issue in the past.
"Ange?"
The other woman laughed – which meant she was definitely crying, Brennan decided. She'd heard Angela laugh through her tears many times before.
"Sorry, sweetie – I'm just… happy." Except she suddenly didn't sound happy at all.
"I'm sorry I haven't called sooner," Brennan told her regretfully.
"No – I know you're busy, and it's been pretty crazy here, too. Things are just a little… I don't know. It doesn't matter – I'm just happy you guys are together."
Brennan recalled Booth telling her how quiet Angela had seemed all week – 'off' was his word for it. She certainly seemed off now.
"Is everything all right with Hodgins? Did you break up again?"
"No – we're fine, Bren. Really. Things are just… complicated right now. I think I'm just having a hard time getting back to all the death and violence, after our shiny, happy week in the woods with everyone."
"You'll get used to it again, Ange," Brennan told her, attempting to be reassuring.
Angela laughed, but Brennan thought she detected a certain bitterness in her voice. "Yeah – I guess that's what I'm afraid of."
They spoke for another few minutes, but Angela seemed remote for the remainder of the conversation. When they hung up, Brennan felt even less connected to the Jeffersonian than she had before. She checked on Booth again, who was still sleeping soundly, and took a quick shower before she went in to get dressed for morning workshops.
When she returned for her clothes, Booth was just waking up.
"Come back to bed," he told her.
It wasn't something she had to be told twice.
She felt more confident the second time they had sex. Less unnerved by their proximity, by his eyes, by her lack of control every time he touched her. She told him he'd lost weight – and he had, it was clear even before he'd taken his clothes off the night before. She traced his scars, listening to the stories they told because she knew he would never volunteer those stories himself. Took him into her mouth – something she both enjoyed and was quite skilled at – and selfishly acquiesced to his plea that she stop only because she suddenly, desperately wanted to feel him inside her once more.
Afterward, he held her against his chest and she listened to his heartbeat again – erratic but not unusually so, given their recent activity.
"So, tell me again why you can't skip out and stay in bed all day?" he asked her, tangling his fingers in her hair. She liked the way his voice sounded in his chest, and made no move to raise her head when she answered.
"Because I made a commitment to the workshops. And I'm supposed to be luring a serial killer out of hiding. And, regardless of how merited we might think it is, I'm doubtful that Washington would find the excuse, 'I wanted to stay in bed and have sex with my partner all day,' a valid reason to toss the ball."
"Drop the ball, Bones." He sighed. "But tomorrow you don't have workshops, right? We can just, you know, hang out?"
He made circles and figure eights on her shoulder with his index finger, sending the occasional chill up her spine.
"I thought we could work on the case," she said immediately. "Since I have no obligations at the conference, we can review files – maybe even meet with Washington, if you'd like."
He laid a line of kisses from her mandible to her ear. "Yeah, that'd be great. But, you know…" he nuzzled closer, managing to find exactly the right spot behind her ear with his teeth. "We can also sleep in, right? Have breakfast in bed, take a walk in the park?"
"Have more sex?" she inquired innocently.
She felt him smile against her skin, his hand sweeping up her side to caress her breast. "Well, if you insist."
She ran her hand up his thigh, brushing lightly against his already-hardening member. For a human male closer to forty than thirty, Booth had an impressively short refractory period.
"I have to go," she told him.
He flipped them both over, pinning her to the bed and pressing himself against her thigh. Lowering his mouth to the one of the countless 'sweet spots' he'd made it his job to discover in the past twelve hours, he mumbled something virtually unintelligible against her skin.
She laughed, sounding distinctly breathless as she bucked her hips against him, responding yet again to his touch.
"I have no idea what you just said."
He lifted his head briefly before returning to take her breast in his mouth, raking his teeth across her sensitized nipple. "You can be late."
She didn't disagree.
Which meant she didn't get to the Llewellyn Estate that morning until almost nine o'clock, still trying to adjust the damned tracking device in her ear as she walked through the door. And while she was undeniably sated, she was still late. Naturally, Farnham was on time for the first time that week, and actually had the nerve to look put out when she flew through the door just two minutes before the workshop was scheduled to begin. He was wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing all week long – khakis with sandals, hat, pink writer t-shirt... She'd come to loathe that shirt, but even his condescending glare and his asinine t-shirt couldn't touch her good mood.
Caleb already had the room set up, and there were still students missing when she arrived. Nevertheless, Farnham raised his eyebrows at her as he handed her a manila folder, as though she'd somehow prevented them from starting.
"Thanks for joining us, Temperance – I trust we didn't take you away from anything too important this morning."
"What are these?" she asked, refusing to be baited into yet another pointless, petty argument.
"Evaluations. Since this is our last workshop together, the students will need to fill one out… And we both have an instructor eval we'll need to complete."
Hmm. So, she'd have an opportunity to evaluate him – she couldn't deny a certain sense of satisfaction at the thought.
"Usually at the end of workshops, we'll wrap things up about ten minutes before the end of the session and then give everyone that last few minutes to fill out the eval," Caleb volunteered.
"Does that work for you?" Farnham asked, the implication clearly being that she had been difficult about these types of decisions in the past.
Once again, she refrained from making any kind of retort. For the past week, she and Farnham had had at least one major altercation per workshop, but that was behind her – she simply had to get through the next four hours without losing her temper. After that, she would never have to have another conversation with Jason Farnham again.
Surely, she could make it four hours.
She smiled pleasantly. "That sounds very practical."
Farnham looked surprised at her tone, but said nothing more as he took his seat at the opposite end of the table.
TJ arrived just after she had, sitting down in his customary seat to her left while Brennan went through her manuscripts and attempted to get organized. For the first time since the week had begun, the writer failed to come through the door with an armory of quips and thinly veiled innuendo. It wasn't until she watched him anxiously crossing out lines and jotting down margin notes on his manuscript that she realized why.
"We'll proceed today the same way we have throughout the week – Jess's manuscript will be before the break, and then we'll do your critique last," she informed him, though she was sure he knew quite well when he would be critiqued.
He nodded regardless. "Sounds good."
He didn't look like it sounded good at all, however. Brennan resisted the urge to reassure the man, though TJ's manuscript was the only one she'd read all week that showed any promise whatsoever. In fact, TJ's manuscript showed so much promise that Brennan had already made a tentative call to her agent – something she'd never even considered with the other pieces she'd read.
She hated to admit it, but in this particular instance, Farnham had been correct – the week would have been much better if they'd started critiques with a manuscript like TJ's. It would have provided a yardstick against which the other writers could measure themselves, and a tangible example of what good writing looked like. And while normally Brennan would have no problem admitting when she was wrong about something, she found herself undeniably reluctant to concede to Farnham.
The first half of the workshop went relatively smoothly. They critiqued a manuscript revolving around a series of murders at a carnival, written by one of the few women in the group. Brennan did her best to maintain a positive outlook, however ultimately she did seem to upset the woman when she questioned the fact that those conducting the investigation thought six murders in the same carnival in a two week period was neither excessive nor potentially related. And forensically speaking, the investigative team would have realized the murder weapon belonged to the sword swallower by the second autopsy, unless they were completely incompetent. And unless one had superhuman strength, it was physically impossible to decapitate three victims with a single blow, regardless of how sharp the blade might be.
When she had finished, Farnham raised an eyebrow at her.
"Anything else?"
She started to say no, then added impulsively, "I appreciated how you used smaller margins and both sides of the page to conserve paper. Very environmentally conscious of you."
She stopped. Everyone was looking at her except Jess, the young woman whose manuscript she'd just reviewed.
"So, Jess – your writing's crap, but way to go on saving the planet," Farnham said dryly. "I've got a few things to add, if you don't mind."
Brennan nodded, still watching Jess. Farnham said a great deal about how her plot was original and her characters seemed multi-dimensional. Which, after some consideration, Brennan had to admit was true. Why hadn't she seen that? Why was she so blind to the merits of her students' work, intent on focusing only on inconsistencies and shortcomings?
After Jess's critique, they did a brief question and answer section about different writing related topics – which always seemed to come back to the students asking Brennan how they could improve their credibility and get an agent, and Brennan explaining that they might consider going to medical school and getting an actual career instead of writing about other people's. Which never seemed to go over well.
They took their customary cigarette and coffee break at eleven-thirty, at which point Brennan asked Jess to remain behind for a moment. She wasn't certain what she wanted to say, but she was tired of seeing that same world-weary defeat in her students' eyes after withstanding one of her critiques.
"Jason was correct about your characters – they were very well formed," Brennan finally began.
Jess had dark hair and large, dark eyes. She was quite small in stature – perhaps five foot two, thin and serious. Younger than many of the others at the conference, likely no more than twenty or twenty-one. Brennan hesitated again, not content with what little she'd said.
"I haven't taught a conference like this before," she tried to explain. "I'm accustomed to students working in the hard sciences – there are right answers and wrong answers. Nothing is subjective. Here, I believe I'm focusing on the quantitative aspects of the manuscripts – a sword can't cut through three bodies in one blow; people's hearts don't literally explode…" She paused. "Unless, of course, an individual explodes from a bomb blast, in which case the heart may explode with the rest of the body."
She frowned. She was losing her focus – saying all of this badly.
"It's all right, Dr. Brennan," Jess finally said.
Brennan tried to determine whether the student was merely placating her. She couldn't know for sure, of course, but she seemed sincere.
"I'm simply telling the truth, as I see it."
Jess nodded. "We all get that, I think. You and Jason have a good balance going – you know, the whole good cop/bad cop thing? You tell us the stuff that needs to be fixed – no matter how much stuff that might be." Brennan smiled faintly at the girl's dryly humorous tone. "And then Jason tells us where we went right. It's a balancing act – we all know that."
Brennan nodded, content with this estimation. So, she apparently wasn't ruining anyone's life – not that this was necessarily her concern. Certainly she felt badly that her students seemed to take her feedback so personally, but they shouldn't have asked her opinion if they hadn't truly wanted to hear it. To be perfectly honest, the thing that bothered her the most about this entire workshop was the fact that Farnham was more adept at the critiques than she was. His feedback was more constructive, his perspective more informed, and his manner more engaging. She didn't care that Farnham was better liked than she was; she cared very much that he was better at their job, however.
The other students returned and sat down a short time later, trailing their customary cigarette smell. TJ looked painfully nervous – more so than any of the students Brennan had critiqued all week, which struck her as ludicrous since his work was so exemplary. Farnham came in after everyone else, leisurely popping a stick of chewing gum in his mouth before he looked at her.
"Would you like to kick things off with Mr. Wright, Temperance?"
She nodded, hesitating for just a moment as she decided how to begin.
"At first glance, the plot in your piece seems slightly contrived," she finally started, though technically she knew she was supposed to start with something positive.
His story revolved around a serial killing surgeon who murdered his victims by injecting them with a neurotoxin that replicated the symptoms of an airborne virus. TJ nodded, jotting something down in his notes.
"However, I believe that your writing style and the accuracy of your details make the story quite plausible. You have an engaging tone, and the attention you've given to the procedural aspects of the story are impressive."
She paused. TJ smiled hesitantly, waiting for her to continue.
"I honestly had a difficult time finding areas in need of improvement," she finally confessed. "Do you have a medical background? Your details regarding the physiology of the victim and the fluctuations in the neurochemistry of her brain following the overdose were flawless."
TJ's smile grew wider. "Did you want me to answer that?"
Technically, students were supposed to remain silent during their critiques, unless directed otherwise. Brennan nodded, giving him her permission to address the question.
"Uh – yeah, I don't actually have any medical training. Or, not much – I worked in a hospital for a while, a few years back, so I picked up some of it from being there. And a friend of mine's a doctor – I got a lot of the details from him. And from looking things up online, you know how it goes." He hesitated. "It's really just from studying the subject over the past few months."
She nodded. "Well, you conveyed the information very convincingly."
Farnham cleared his throat, looking at her with a maddeningly superior smile. "Well, folks, for future reference, I guess we know what it takes to get a good review from Dr. Brennan here."
She looked at him in surprise, unsure to what he was alluding. "Superior research and execution almost always earn high marks from me, Jason," she said coolly.
He chuckled. "No need to get defensive, Temperance. TJ belongs to the club - we all get that, don't we?"
He looked around the room, as though to make certain the others were in agreement. It didn't appear they were, however. In fact, apart from Farnham there wasn't a smile to be found. There was a long, tense silence while the others waited for her response.
The clock was ticking, Brennan realized. TJ had waited an entire week for this critique, and it would be selfish and unprofessional to allow her personal feelings to rob the young writer of something he'd clearly earned. She took a breath, forcing a cold smile.
"I don't know to what club you're referring, exactly, but if you disagree with my perspective, perhaps you should begin this critique."
He flashed another grin, nodding his head. "Perhaps I should." He paused. Stood, shuffling through his stack of papers until he came to a section that Brennan could see was highlighted.
"Page six is really quite good – your description of the hospital is very well written." He took the rest of the manuscript and put it back in the folder.
"The rest, unfortunately, is neither convincing nor compelling. As someone who worked in a hospital for a number of years – unlike Dr. Brennan, who has made a career of working with dead bodies – I can tell you firsthand that you did very little to convincingly convey the subculture at work within the halls of a hospital. The rest of the story is self-indulgent, with overly extravagant descriptions and awkward dialogue."
Despite what was obviously a personal attack, TJ didn't seem at all upset by the words. Or surprised, for that matter.
"You disagree, Temperance?" Farnham asked, apparently noting the frustration on her face.
"Vehemently," she said shortly. "As someone who has worked extensively in a number of institutional settings – including hospitals with live bodies – I believe Mr. Wright did an excellent job of establishing the interpersonal dynamics at work in such a setting."
"Well, then, we'll just have to agree to disagree," Farnham returned evenly. "You wouldn't understand the way it is for people who actually work in those institutions, day in and day out – someone like you swoops in for an afternoon, and then you're gone. When I was working at St. Vincent's – "
"And when, exactly, did you work at St. Vincent's?" Brennan couldn't help but ask, aware that she should really be doing a much better job at reigning herself in. "Would that have been between the years that you saved those firemen on September 11th and you and I met in Algeria? Or was it before that – perhaps when you were hunting big game with Roosevelt and his cabinet?"
TJ laughed out loud, then quickly shut his mouth and stared at the table. The rest of the students stayed quiet, and Caleb looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"You seem awfully defensive of Mr. Wright," Farnham said smugly, as though her comments had merely proven his point.
Caleb cleared his throat. "Maybe we should take a quick break," he suggested.
"That's a great idea," TJ agreed, but Brennan quickly shook her head.
"No, let's continue," she took a breath, using every ounce of willpower to keep from leaping across the table and braining Farnham where he stood.
"Jason, why don't you finish your critique, and then I'll give TJ my comments."
"As you wish, Temperance," he said smoothly.
He continued his scathing review of TJ's work for a full twenty minutes, before Brennan interrupted once more.
"Perhaps you could summarize your final comments so that I could have some time before evaluations," she told him, still struggling to maintain some semblance of decorum.
"I just have another few pages," Farnham returned.
"I'm sure you can give TJ about the rest of your notes after class. I'd like to review some of my comments now," she insisted, aware that the other students were watching her closely.
It was nearly twelve-thirty – they'd spent the past half-hour listening to Farnham rail against every turn of phrase TJ had used, every plot twist or character quirk. So much for providing the students with an unbiased critique of their work. The room was silent for a few seconds, the sound of laughter from a neighboring workshop faint in the distance.
"Of course, Temperance. How rude of me to get between you and Mr. Wright." He grinned at the pun, though no one else seemed amused.
Brennan managed to get a few of her points across to both TJ and the other students, about the many things he had done well in his manuscript. However, many of those points were lost or obliterated by Farnham's incessant sidebars. She was seething by the time the workshop was finally over, fully prepared to take Jason Farnham down just as soon as the students cleared the room.
Unfortunately, Caleb and TJ seemed to sense what was about to happen – they remained behind, and Farnham managed to escape without a word.
"He's not worth it," TJ told her, blocking the door to prevent her from going after the other instructor.
Standing this close to him in the doorway, she realized for the first time that TJ actually cut a fairly imposing figure – tall and well-built, with sharp eyes and a charming smile. Just as she had in her teaching positions in the past, she'd come to view her students in a separate class from herself, though TJ was likely only a year or two younger than her, and had in all likelihood been writing far longer.
"Of course he's not worth it," she replied. "Bbut he still shouldn't get away with those things he said. Not to mention the implication that you and I – "
He shrugged. "It's not true, right? We know that, and so does everyone else here. Farnham knows it too, but he just wanted to piss you off."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, he succeeded."
When it became clear that he wasn't moving, Brennan stepped away from the door and returned to the table. Caleb handed her the last of the paperwork from the other students, sealed inside an envelope she was to hand in to Dr. Taylor during lunch.
"You know the phrase 'little fish in a little pond'?" Caleb asked.
She nodded. "Of course."
"Well, Farnham's a tiny fish in a little pond. And every so often, a big fish jumps into that pond and the only way he can make himself feel bigger is to piss that big fish off."
She didn't respond for a few seconds, until TJ finally cleared his throat. "Uh – you're the big fish in that metaphor. In case that was, you know, unclear."
"No, I understood," she said impatiently. "What I fail to understand, however, is why anyone would tolerate such a monumental ass."
"Tenure," both Caleb and TJ said as one, echoing the answer they'd given when Brennan had first arrived.
"Well," TJ amended. "Tenure, and he's Dr. Taylor's cousin or half-brother or sister's cousin's uncle or something. That doesn't hurt."
"Tenure and nepotism are hardly acceptable excuses for the type of behavior Jason Farnham has exhibited this past week. Really, there's no excuse for having someone like this on staff."
Before she could continue, Jamie knocked lightly on the doorsill before entering the room.
"Sorry to interrupt, but there's a gorgeous man wandering the grounds looking for you, T."
Brennan chewed her lip fretfully for a moment, still torn between going after Farnham herself or simply having a word with Dr. Taylor and letting him handle the matter.
"Trouble?" the other woman inquired.
"She's trying to decide whether or not to kick Farnham's ass," TJ told her.
Jamie smiled. "We've all been there, trust me. But he really is harmless - he's not nearly as horrible as he seems."
"I'm not honestly considering physical violence," she retorted, though that wasn't necessarily true. "I simply don't think he should get away with the kind of performance he gave today."
"What'd he do?" Jamie asked Caleb.
"Told TJ he's a hack, and implied that he and Dr. Brennan are, you know…"
"Ahh," Jamie nodded understandingly. "Well, yeah, I never said he wasn't annoying. But he obviously hasn't seen tall, dark, and brooding out there – sorry, Teej, you don't stand a shot."
Brennan came to at this, feeling the color climb her cheeks. "He's my partner – not my, you know, my um – " She paused in an effort to regain her composure. "He's my partner with the FBI. Special Agent Seeley Booth. He's here on a case."
Jamie nodded. "Well, whatever he is, I think he's about to get swallowed whole by the Senator, so you might want to get down there and save him before it's too late."
A look of horror crossed Caleb's face. "Damn it – I'll go get her."
Brennan nodded, only slightly less horrified, her focus shifting from her issues with Farnham to the more immediate danger of Booth being assaulted by an overly coiffed fundamentalist in search of her next husband.
"Yes – thank you. I don't know if Booth's ready for Senator Woolrich yet."
Unfortunately, before Brennan could get to Booth, she was interrupted just as she exited the mansion by the buzz of her cell phone. Noting her agent's name on the display, she waved at Booth across the grounds, indicating her cell phone so that he'd know she was taking a call.
"Brennan," she answered irritably. Booth was surrounded by Senator Woolrich and three of her aging disciples, all of whom appeared intent on monopolizing her partner's attention. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt, the charm smile fixed easily on his lips, as though he wasn't being tortured in the least.
"What are you reading tonight?" her agent began immediately.
Brennan had been through several agents before she finally settled on Willa, an accomplished editor who'd started her own agency several years before. The primary reason Brennan had chosen her was the fact that the woman never wasted her time with social niceties, choosing instead to get straight to the point – something Brennan very much appreciated.
Brennan watched as Caleb infiltrated the group of women beside Booth and all but physically extricated his mother from her partner's side. Booth was saying something to the others, probably trying to excuse himself; Brennan sighed exasperatedly at Willa's question.
"Reading? I haven't decided – I thought perhaps the scene in the boatyard. I believe there's enough action in that sequence to keep people interested."
"Wrong answer," Willa said immediately, which was exactly what Brennan had hoped she wouldn't say. "Chapter two, Temperance – I'm telling you. It's what Sara and the others want you to be pushing for the next few months. You tease with that, and you're gonna have a bestseller the week it hits the shelves."
Booth had succeeded in getting away, and was now heading toward her. Brennan sighed again, turning her back on her approaching partner to focus more completely on the conversation with Willa.
"I don't think it makes sense to read that part – it's not interesting. There's no mystery, no action."
"Have I ever been wrong before?" Willa asked. "Just trust me – it's what people want to hear. It pulls them in in a way nothing you've written before has, and that's saying something."
Booth reached her side just as a trio of students from Brennan's workshop appeared, apparently to speak with her. Brennan got Willa off the phone by promising she would read the passage her agent had recommended, despite her considerable trepidation. Her students, however, were less easily put off. By the time lunch was over, Brennan had barely had time to say hello to Booth, much less steal a moment alone with him. She did manage to kiss him in the parking lot – though she was the one to initiate it, and he kept looking around as though he was certain they'd be caught.
"You're not very good at acting single," he told her, though he kept his arms around her, murmuring the words in her ear as they leaned against the driver's side door of her car.
"You're not helping," she returned.
He ran his hand along her side, unexpectedly inching his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt. The contact was enough to make her press her body against him more fully, feeling overly sensitized and undeniably eager.
"Y'know, Bones, if you skip the seminar, I'll make it worth your while," he said, taking her earlobe between his teeth.
She shivered at the feel of his warm breath on her neck, but she did summon the strength to pull away.
"I have to go – it's my teaching partner for the next week running the seminar. He's expecting me."
Booth rolled his eyes, though she expected he wasn't really surprised at her refusal. "Fine. Pick you up at four?"
"I'll see you then," she agreed.
She couldn't seem to stop smiling when he was around – which made her feel like an idiot, but was made marginally more bearable by the fact that Booth seemed to be having the same problem. The idea of going to a seminar rather than returning to the house for the afternoon was unappealing to say the least; walking back to the Llewellyn house, Brennan found her mind completely occupied by the thought of Booth. Naked Booth. Naked Booth, in all his glory, with his muscles and his tongue and his impressively short refractory period.
She was not looking forward to the seminar.
David Lethem's lecture was on unreliable narrators. Brennan had only done part of the suggested reading, but she was nevertheless interested in the subject – as investigators, she realized that she and Booth were constantly facing a similar dilemma. When viewing an incident from someone else's perspective, how did one determine which aspects of the narrative were factually accurate and which were merely subjective?
The room where Lethem was giving his lecture was standing room only, however TJ, Caleb, and Jamie had saved a seat for her. Brennan settled between Jamie and TJ, ignoring Jamie's inquiring glance, which was no doubt in reference to her disappearance with Booth. Thankfully, Lethem took the podium before any of the group had an opportunity to ask questions.
Lethem was not what anyone would consider traditionally attractive – in fact, his features were distinctly asymmetrical, his nose slightly too long, his lips a shade too thin. He was not a tall man, but he was lean and moved well, someone who clearly maintained an active lifestyle. Brennan estimated his age to be in his mid-forties, and he was well-spoken and extremely assured.
"The trick with the unreliable narrator," Lethem told the group, a hint of a New England accent detectable in his speech. "Is that you – the writer – have to know up front that your character's unreliable… But you can't tip your hand to the reader, unless you actually want the world to know your guy's full of shit." He scratched his head, taking a sip of water before he continued. Pacing slightly, he used the space allotted him very well – Brennan found herself increasingly impressed with him.
"Huck Finn is your classic example of the unreliable narrator, but we know from the start – based on his patterns of speech, the way he interacts, his view of the world and its so-called 'sivilized' ways – " here he used air quotes to indicate the character's disdain of the term. "That we'll be getting a highly subjective story. On the other end of the spectrum, you have writers like Pat McGrath or Stewart O'Nan, who present characters who seem credible at the outset, only to have that credibility disintegrate as the story unfolds."
She was considering this point when Jamie subtly set her notebook on Brennan's lap. Feeling very much as though she'd reentered eighth grade (though, naturally, Brennan had never been one to pass notes in class, even then), she read the words scrawled on the page.
Lethem wants to meet you. Dinner tonight before the reading?
What time? she wrote hurriedly, hoping to return to the lecture before someone noticed her lack of attention. As it was, she noted that Farnham – seated two rows behind them – was quite clearly focused on what she was doing, rather than on Lethem.
6. You can bring your partner.
Brennan nodded her understanding, then refocused on the lecture for the remainder of the afternoon.
By the time three-thirty came, however, she had to admit that she really was paying very little attention to David Lethem or his bevy of unreliable narrators. Instead, she found herself daydreaming about Booth. What he was doing, what he was wearing. Where he was wearing it. How long it would take her to get him home and out of whatever he was wearing, once the seminar was over. She felt oversexed and ridiculous, but recognized the feeling as the inevitable surge of chemicals flooding her system as a result of what had transpired between them. She wasn't out of control, she reminded herself – she still had all her faculties about her. It was just chemistry.
Booth was waiting at the curb for her when she got out of the seminar, leaning against the car reading the paper. He grinned when he saw her, then opened the passenger's side door, tossed the paper in the backseat, and – she thought, though she wasn't positive – almost leaned in to kiss her as she was getting into the car, before he seemed to remember himself and stopped.
"Ready?"
She nodded. She didn't protest the fact that he'd opened her door for her, and there was no discussion about whether or not she should drive – though it was, after all, her rental. What bothered her about these things weren't the facts themselves so much as just how not bothered she was by all of them. He called her babe, and told her that Farnham was a no-talent hack – even though he had no objective way of knowing that. She appreciated the sentiment, regardless. She kissed his neck and then traced the outline of his half-hard phallus through his pants, anxious to get home, only to be told she would have to wait for one more stop. He was teasing, she knew – nevertheless, it was quite clearly Brennan in the passenger seat once again, Booth at the wheel.
Instead of going home, he took her to a garage in a bad part of town, just a couple of streets from Abby Martin's home. At first, she thought that was where they were going – that for some reason, this was where the case had taken them. She didn't know why, but she was relieved when they turned down a different street. Abby Martin – her house, her life, her death – still felt like something she didn't know how to explain to Booth. It felt too raw, too… personal, somehow.
Instead, he took her to meet Artie and Mickey. Artie was a paraplegic, likely paralyzed at the L1/L2 vertebrae based on the degree of muscle deterioration in his legs and the range of motion he appeared to have in his upper body. He wasn't what she'd expected – not that she'd really given it much thought, and not that it would have been logical for Booth to tell her his friend was in a wheelchair. It was irrelevant, really, but nevertheless she found herself speculating as to how it had happened. Whether Booth was there for it – and if so, whether he blamed himself. She imagined that he probably did, since it seemed Booth blamed himself for almost every bad that happened to anyone he cared about. She didn't notice a lot of things, but she'd certainly noticed that.
Artie inquired about the tracking device, which she assured him worked well. And then, a short, densely built man with a crew cut appeared, carrying one of her books.
And that was when everything went wrong, because that was when she was informed that it was Mickey in the woods that day, following her. Mickey shadowing her, day in and day out, telling Booth everything about where Brennan had been and what she'd been doing there.
"You had someone following me and you didn't tell me?" she demanded, thinking immediately of the terror she'd felt Wednesday behind the Llewellyn's house. The number of times since that day, that she'd found herself looking over her shoulder anticipating the worst.
Only to learn that her fears had been unfounded, and – yet again – Booth was in control.
"I needed to know you were safe," he said, clearly feeling justified for what he'd done.
"I'm safe, Booth!" she said, then stopped herself before she said what she really wanted to say. Instead, she somehow managed to reign in her fury enough to say goodbye to Booth's friends, and returned to the car.
Booth drove them home in silence. He attempted to apologize several times, but she had no response. The neighborhood flashed past, though she barely noticed. She'd lost herself, she realized. Less than twenty-four hours in, and she didn't know how to get them back on equal ground. How to convince him that she was no maiden in distress – that this wasn't just her being cute, some absurd game in which she played at being strong only to, ultimately, expect him to pick up the pieces at the end of the day. This was who she was: she took care of herself.
She didn't wait for him to park the car when they got back. Didn't say a word, wondering silently even as she headed for the house, if he would follow her. In the back of her mind, she realized suddenly that part of her hoped that he wouldn't – it would be so much simpler that way. Over, before it began.
But a moment later, the front door opened and closed behind her.
"Listen, Bones – "
She pulled her t-shirt off in the living room, yanking her stupid fucking tracking device right along with it. Tripped twice on the stairs trying to get out of her jeans, before she finally succeeded and left them where they fell. She still didn't know what she was going to say, precisely, but she knew that somehow she needed him to hear her.
He followed her up the stairs, and into the bedroom. Her bedroom, that was now, suddenly, theirs.
"Bones, would you just let me explain – "
"Explain what, Booth? How you hired someone to follow me – to watch my every move over the past week, and then proceeded to lie to me – "
"Hey, I never lied – "
"A lie of omission, then," she shouted, advancing on him until she'd backed him up against the bed. His pupils were dilated, and she realized with a definite sense of satisfaction that, for once, she had the upper hand. Getting undressed hadn't been about that initially, but if this was what it took to get him to pay attention, so be it.
She showed him her scars, then – not all of them, certainly, but enough to make him see. The one from the bullet just a few months ago; the one Eric Murdock had given her that night when she was sixteen, though she didn't show him the others from that same night… She showed him the scar from Uzbekistan, and then she stood there with him trapped on the bed, her breath coming hard, and before she even knew what she was doing, she went to the closet. Found the shoe that had been following her since she was fifteen, and threw it at him.
"You remember Kelly Morris?" she asked, not thinking for a moment that he actually would.
But he nodded. "The foster kid whose brother killed her boyfriend. Yeah, Bones, I remember." He looked sorry for her – which wasn't what she'd been trying to accomplish. Suddenly, everything she'd been trying to make him understand was undone.
"I asked if you had a list – like the kids we met. A list of the families who threw you out."
She wished she could take it back, now that it was out there. Because suddenly, she wasn't the one in control at all – suddenly, she was half-naked and scarred, a shoe that should mean less giving him entrance to a part of her life she'd never meant to share.
"Seven families in three years," she told him, fighting to keep her voice even. Fighting to make him angry, even hurt him – to do anything to extinguish the pity she saw in his eyes. "I survived, Booth. I've survived all of those things, and a hell of a lot more. When I say I can take care of myself, it's not simply me being stubborn." She kept going, pulling up short on the one concept that she couldn't seem to get straight, the one thing she couldn't seem to convince him of. "I can survive without you."
He was on his feet at that, advancing on her. Bringing up points that, she had to admit, did seem to have some merit if she looked at them objectively. She didn't know why she went into the woods after Mickey, or why she refused to get the transmitter, or why she couldn't seem to stay away from Rachel Martin's house. And she most definitely had no idea why she'd unpacked that ratty goddamn shoe from the back of her closet, and brought it with her on this case.
She didn't back down while he was shouting at her, though she understood why someone else might. When he'd quieted, and she didn't know what to say in response, the room went still. She wasn't certain, but it seemed as though things were finished, then – that this was all the evidence both of them needed, a glaring list of reasons they shouldn't be together. She walked away, hoping once again that, maybe, he wouldn't follow.
Part of her, though – the part of her, perhaps, that had watched him sleep this morning, that had grinned like an idiot when he picked her up at the Llewellyn's, the part that fell asleep in his arms and loved the way his hair looked in the morning… That part of her didn't seem quite so prepared to end things. She fought to keep her tone level as she searched her closet, suddenly desperate to cover herself.
"I'm supposed to meet them at the restaurant at six, and then be at the auditorium by seven-thirty," she told him. She didn't turn around, half-afraid that he would be standing there, watching her. Half-afraid that he would be gone.
She put a t-shirt on and turned around. He hadn't followed her. But he hadn't gone, either.
"I probably won't be back before the reading. Will you – " she stopped, her voice cracking just a tinge. She waited until she'd regained her composure before continuing. "If you don't want to come now, I understand. It will probably be boring for you, anyway."
And then he was there – in front of her, just a few inches away. "Bones, I'm comin' to dinner, okay? And the reading." He leaned his forehead against hers, running his hands along her arms as though to warm her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
She shifted so she could look him in the eye, not ready to give up yet. "You have to give me space, Booth. I know you're only trying to protect me, but you have to trust that I really do know what I'm doing."
When he kissed her again, it didn't feel like she was the one out of control – there was something about the way he wrapped his arms around her, the near-violence of his kiss, that felt very much as though he was the one who was lost. He explained to her about the boys, about how if this had been a case involving them, he would be the one losing perspective. She would be the one telling him to tread with more caution, and the way he explained it to her made sense. Objectively, she could see how her history might have some impact on the case as it was unfolding. And, if she knew nothing else, she did know that Booth honestly had her best interests at heart.
They had sex again before leaving for dinner – he was tender, more serious than he'd been the other times, and when he was poised above her she found herself studying him again. The laugh lines and the smile, the strong jaw, the prominent brow. Brown eyes, straight teeth. He grinned at her, pushing the hair back from her forehead as he rocked into her again, eliciting a gasp.
"Hey, Bones – I'm right here. You start drifting in the middle of make-up sex, and it does something to a guy's confidence."
She rolled her eyes, but stopped mid-eyeroll when he rocked into her again – harder this time, until everything was concentrated on that single point where they joined and she gasped again, pressing her pelvis up to meet him.
"I'm here, Booth."
"You sure?" he asked, a familiar, teasing smirk on his lips. He reached down and pulled her leg up higher, angling still deeper when he thrust again. "'Cause I can go deeper."
She leaned up and kissed him, hard, wrapping her legs around him, hooking her ankles behind his knees. "Promises, promises," she said silkily in his ear.
And for the next half-hour or so, it seemed no one was in control. Which, in this particular instance, seemed just as it should be.
At dinner that night, Farnham waited until David Lethem went into the bathroom, then sat down beside her and told her he wished things had worked out better between them, because he thought they could be great friends. She fought the urge to stab him in the eye with her fork, and merely nodded politely. He was clearly drunk. He continued babbling about what a wonderful time they might have had together, while Booth charmed every woman at the table and she tried in vain to explain to TJ what her agent had said about his manuscript.
All in all, it was a frustrating dinner, that suddenly didn't seem nearly so frustrating when Booth squeezed her knee under the table. She was nervous about the reading, and tired of Jason Farnham, and sick of trying to play the role of writer when she honestly, really missed her bones, but the fact that Booth seemed to understand all of those things was strangely comforting.
They got through dinner.
At the reading, Senator Woolrich was scheduled first – something Caleb told her Dr. Taylor had arranged, as this was the only way it seemed anyone would actually come to hear the woman speak. And, since the Senator had been such a large patron of the university in the past, it was apparently important to assemble at least a passable crowd for her.
Just before the Senator took the stage, she leaned over in her seat to whisper to Brennan.
"Are you nervous, Dr. Brennan?"
Brennan was never nervous about readings – what would be the point? There was really very little at stake, particularly when compared with the work she did in the outside world. She supposed that, having been shot at and beaten up and buried alive, having restored the identities of the unnamed dead and reunited families and brought killers to justice, standing in front of a hall of people reading a few pages in a well-lit space was comparatively harmless.
Except, of course, for this reading. Because on this particular evening, at this particular reading, Brennan appeared to be on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack. She shook her head, though, hoping that the woman would take the hint and just be quiet until it was time for her to get up.
"No. I'm fine," she lied.
She'd been thinking a great deal about why it was, exactly, that she was so reluctant to read this passage – which, after all, was just fiction. As fictional as it may have been to her, however, she'd been around her friends enough to recognize that things she insisted were pure fiction would almost invariably be taken as fact by the rest of the world – the workings of her innermost subconscious, laid bare for the world to read. And while it was true that she'd written these pages in the days following Booth's supposed death, and while it was true that – perhaps – the feelings she'd experienced in those days may have given her a better insight into how Kathy Reichs might have felt in the same situation… At the heart of it all, it was just fiction.
Fiction, damn it.
Booth, however, would never believe that. And neither would anyone else.
Hence, the anxiety.
"My son is here," the Senator told her, somewhat pointlessly.
"Yes, I know – we just had dinner together," Brennan said. She wondered if, perhaps in addition to being excruciatingly uninformed about the science of stem cell research, the woman was also experiencing some dementia.
"Not Caleb – my other son," she whispered loudly.
They were seated in uncomfortable plastic chairs under harsh stage lighting, watching the auditorium slowly fill. A fake potted hydrangea was on an end table to her left, which Brennan didn't care for – she could never understand the point of making a stage seem hospitable, when it so clearly was not. At this latest revelation, however, Brennan was suddenly much more interested in what the senator had to say.
"The surgeon?" she asked.
The senator smiled widely, clearly thinking Brennan had something other than an academic interest in her son. Which, she supposed, was technically true.
"That's right – Douglas. He's right over there."
She pointed to their left, to the same section where Brennan had reserved a seat for Booth. She made a conscious effort not to make eye contact with her partner, but she did look long enough to note that Caleb was seated between Jamie and someone who looked slightly like him, though clearly older. It was impossible to tell any more than that from where she was sitting, but Brennan was nevertheless suddenly much less focused on her nerves. Dr. Douglas Murray, who had been in the operating room with Rachel Martin on the night she disappeared. Who had worked alongside her for nearly a year, before that disappearance. For the first time, Brennan had an actual, physical link with one of the victims.
She resisted the urge to go down and introduce herself. Casually bring up his life as a surgeon. Where he'd done his residency – which would naturally lead to a conversation about the surgeon under whom he'd studied during that time. She would mention hearing that the Chief of Surgery had been murdered at Portland Presbyterian – had he known her? Perhaps after the reading, they could all go out together. Ply him with drinks, find out what he knew.
In the meantime, however, there was still the blasted reading. Dr. Taylor got up and introduced the Senator, who took the podium and read a mind numbingly dull narrative about her life in politics – Brennan imagined that Booth must be in hell, but she resisted the urge to look for him in the audience. During the break, Dr. Taylor spoke with her about his plans for the future of the writing program while she tried not to think about the pages she was about to read, focusing instead on her imaginary interrogation with Douglas Murray.
The reading went well. She told an anecdote comparing immersion with the Yanomamo tribes in South America with attending a writing conference, which everyone seemed to appreciate. She read the pages Willa had instructed her to, despite her reservations. The audience applauded. She got off the stage. People asked her to sign their books. She was shaking, which had never happened to her at a reading – before or after. She forgot about imaginary interrogations.
Several minutes passed, while people shook her hand and asked her to sign their books, but all she was focused on was finding Booth. And that wasn't what she should be focused on, she realized. Doug Murray was in the audience. There was a killer at large, that she was supposed to be helping to find. But all she could seem to focus on was whether or not Booth had taken her words the wrong way – though objectively she wasn't even sure what the wrong way was anymore.
She hated this feeling. Hated it. Sex was wonderful, fun, freeing – the rest of this, however, seemed like some medieval form of torture.
And then, Jason Farnham came up to her. He rubbed her shoulders, and whispered in her ear.
"Nice job, Tempe. I'm proud of you."
That was it for Jason Farnham.
He hadn't even gotten the sentence out before she whirled and struck him, landing a blow just below his left zygomatic arch with her right fist. Punching Booth had been extremely painful, but somehow this hurt worse – perhaps she'd done it wrong, this time.
Booth was at her side a moment later, his hand resting automatically at the small of her back. He steered her away from Farnham, who still sat stunned on the auditorium floor.
"Okay, Bones – how's about we make a run for it before you do any real damage," he said in her ear, before addressing the crowd that had gathered around them. "That's it, folks – show's over. Move along."
"He deserved it," she told him as they were walking away, holding her hand up to her chest, already feeling it swell.
Booth laughed. "Yeah, Bones – I'm sure he did, but you couldn't have waited for someplace a little more public? Like the White House lawn, maybe?"
Once they were in the parking lot, the events of the past day seemed to catch up with her quickly. Her hand was throbbing, as was her head. She was tired of playing writer rather than anthropologist; tired of being away from home, away from the Jeffersonian, away from her friends and her life in D.C. With a jolt, she realized that she was, in effect, tired of everything but Booth.
"I don't really want to go to the party," she told him, as she was getting into the car.
He hesitated a moment, casting her a glance that she couldn't read. "You sure, Bones? I think you were supposed to be the belle of the ball – I'm pretty sure Lethem was planning on filling your dance card."
She shook her head. And what she wanted to say, suddenly, was that she didn't want to be around anyone else. Didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, didn't want to do anything but curl up in his t-shirt with her head on his shoulder, and do nothing. Well – perhaps not nothing. But not much, really.
She didn't say any of those things, of course. Instead, she held up her hand, by way of explanation.
"My knuckles are swelling," she said.
He nodded, but she suspected that he saw through her excuse. "All right, Bones. We'll go home."
He smiled at her and closed the passenger's side door, before going around to his side. She leaned back and closed her eyes once they were on the road, truly feeling her exhaustion for the first time. There were so many things to think about, but between the recent developments with Booth and the continuing drama at the writing conference, she was finding less and less of her focus was on the Lady Killer. She couldn't recall a time when she'd ever been more distracted from her work, more eager to put her files aside in favor of more pleasurable pursuits.
A classic rock station was playing low on the radio; Booth tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, humming along quietly. Saturday night traffic in the neighborhood was busy, and they found themselves making little progress on the short journey home. He was wearing what she expected was a new suit, and she realized that she'd never actually complimented him on how handsome he looked. Or how well he'd handled the barrage of questions directed at him from all sides during dinner. He'd flown out here to be with her despite his many obligations in D.C., reassured her about her reading, and – despite how much she disagreed with what he'd done – had arranged for his friends to keep watch over her in his absence, to help ensure her safety.
Which was when the realization struck her again, sitting in traffic with Booth beside her, humming a song she didn't know. The idea brought tears to her eyes – all the more proof that her conclusion was correct. She leaned back against the headrest, looking out the window so that he wouldn't see her tears.
It wouldn't work.
A relationship with Booth was simply a bad idea – it would interfere with their partnership. Change everything. Change her – hadn't today proven that? She felt flustered and overwrought, distracted and uncertain of everything, now that they were together.
She would have to end things. Tonight – before it went any further. It would be difficult at first, but now they knew – they'd tried this, and ultimately it had been unsuccessful. He would be better with someone else, anyway – someone who wanted children, who would go to church with him and not question his beliefs or challenge everything he stood for. It would be better, smarter, to stop this now.
Typically when she came to a decision about something that had been bothering her, she felt better – pleased that there was a resolution in sight, and eager to put that resolution in place. She closed her eyes again.
She didn't feel better.
Booth ran the back of his hand lightly along the side of her face. It was pleasantly cool and, despite her decision, she found herself leaning into his touch, another tear leaking from the corner of her eye.
"You okay, Bones? I know it's been kind of a long day."
She nodded. Cleared her throat, keeping her face averted as she quickly brushed away her tears.
"It has. I think the lack of sleep over the past several days is catching up to me."
He took her hand – the one without the bruised knuckles, of course – and twined his fingers with hers, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Yeah, well – maybe tomorrow we can just hang out a little. Sleep in, veg out. Get out all the grisly murder files and come up with theories over pizza." He paused. "Did you know Doug Murray was there tonight?"
She nodded, looking at him curiously – her tears forgotten, for the moment. "Did you get a chance to speak with him? The Senator told me he was there, but then afterward…"
"Sure," he flashed a smile at her, then returned his eyes to the road. "Not a lot of time to interrogate anyone in between big-time readings and punching guys out. I didn't get much chance myself, either – he was with Caleb, though. A little too into his mom's reading, if you ask me."
"Based on the degree of violence inflicted on the victims prior to their deaths, the killer would have to be someone with a great deal of physical power – Caleb's very small."
"Yeah, but his brother's not – I was close enough to see that much, anyway. He's a power-house, looks like he works out a lot. There's something else, too – I had a chance to talk to Michelle Lowell's sister today."
She laughed, suddenly – genuine laughter, until he was staring at her with an eyebrow quirked in confusion.
"You mind letting me in on the joke?"
"You," she said, still laughing – a tear or two falling into the mix, and she sniffled and wiped them away before she explained. "You've been here less than a day, and you've managed to threaten Washington, fight with me, charm every woman between the ages of twenty and seventy-five in the conference, interview Michelle Lowell's sister, buy a new suit, and make love to me five times. Have I missed anything?"
He smiled. "I didn't think you'd notice the suit."
"Well, I did." She paused. His hand was still in hers, warm and comfortable. Strangely familiar, as though they'd been holding hands like this for years. "You didn't have to go buy something, though – or you could have at least let me pay for it." He didn't say anything, but the tic in his jaw suggested she was saying something wrong. She sighed, going for another approach. "You do look nice, though. Handsome."
"Tell me about it," he said with a grin, before he looked away and she realized he was embarrassed. "Look, I know nobody can know we're together and whatever, but…" he shrugged. "I just wanted to look good, you know? The reading tonight was a big deal, and you were pretty amazing, Bones. I didn't want to just be some poor schlub tagging along after you."
The comment drew another laugh from her. "I don't even know what that means, but you hardly need me to tell you how attractive you are. Or how much more interesting you are than any of the men at this conference. And I can't imagine you tagging along after anyone."
He smiled. Kissed her hand. It seemed as though he wanted to say something before he finally settled on, "Thanks, Bones."
She thought again of ending the relationship, before things got too complicated. Too messy. Too… painful. Years ago, she'd had a conversation with Angela about somehow finding a way to turn off that disconnect between her mind and the metaphorical heart Booth was always talking about. It was about being scared – Angela had said as much, and logically Brennan knew that she was right. Maybe, it was time to finally face that fear.
When they got home that night, Booth crushed some ice and made an impromptu ice pack for her hand. He excused himself to make a phone call, and she went upstairs and put on one of his t-shirts, though she had her own pajamas that would have worked just fine. She got out the Lady Killer files and began going through them, but before she'd gotten to the second file she found her eyelids growing heavy. Booth was still downstairs – she could hear his voice in the distance, though she couldn't make out the words. She closed her eyes, enjoying the groggy feel of half-sleep, with Booth nearby and nothing but him and the case in the morning.
Sometime later, he came upstairs and set the files on the floor, and she woke.
"How's the hand, champ?" he asked her.
She flexed it, thinking of the twenty-seven bones working beneath the flesh to make that simple movement possible. "Fine. Not broken, just slightly swollen."
He'd changed from his suit into sweatpants and a t-shirt, but now he took those off and climbed into bed beside her, wearing only his boxer shorts. Kissed her bruised knuckles, and she curled into him because, honestly, it's where she'd wanted to be all day.
"You were great tonight, Bones," he told her. Almost shy when he said it, the way he sometimes got at moments like this, when they were alone together and he seemed to feel he was revealing something of himself. Though she wasn't sure what a statement like that really revealed about him.
"You mean when I bared my soul to an audience of five hundred, or when I punched out an aging pathological liar with a drinking problem?" she asked. He still hadn't mentioned the content of her reading, for which she was grateful – she waited, now, to see if he would say anything.
Instead, he laughed. "Do I have to pick one or the other?"
She smiled. "I suppose not."
Everything went still. He was watching her. She returned his gaze, studying the planes of his face, the brown of his eyes. He still looked tired, but much better than he had the night before. She thought again of watching him sleep – of his bones, his muscles, his flesh, his blood. Of the fragility inherent in the human form. So many things could go wrong. And yet, so many things didn't – people walked and talked. Crossed the street. Climbed ladders, jumped out of airplanes. Their bones broke, their bones mended.
Before scientists, humans walked around believing everyday was a miracle. Fire and food, rain and children and another day not eaten by tigers, all were viewed as gifts from the heavens. Objectively speaking, she thought she could understand their perspective. He brushed the hair from her eyes – she was learning that he liked to touch her, that he seemed to draw some measure of comfort from the contact, and that comfort had nothing to do with possession or who was in control of whom.
"I think I'm in love with you," she told him.
She'd never said the words to anyone, before.
Not Michael. Not Tom. Not Sully. Not anyone.
It didn't feel as terrifying as she thought it would. But it didn't feel quite safe, either.
"I know," he told her. Which might have seemed condescending, but somehow it didn't. He didn't seem afraid. Of course, Booth never seemed afraid, so maybe that wasn't the best way to gauge things.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
She considered the question. Was it okay? Not at all, really. It wasn't logical, and it wasn't safe. Or practical. And yet, here she was. In love.
"I suppose it has to be."
At some point in the middle of the night, Brennan had the Abby Martin dream again – the one in which the girl was alive and Brennan was supposed to save her. She woke with a start and lay there, wrapped up in Booth's arms, unable to get back to sleep. She started to try and disentangle herself, but he pulled her closer. He was behind her, her back pressed against his front, his legs tucked under hers, his arms around her.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
She hadn't realized he was awake. "Just a dream. I'll walk it off."
"Just stay here a few minutes – it'll walk itself off. Go back to sleep."
"I can't," she said after a moment, already thinking that perhaps she'd go downstairs and work on some of the cases Cam had sent over from the Jeffersonian.
"You're exhausted," he told her, still sounding sleepy. "Just close your eyes. I'll show you a trick my mom taught me, when I couldn't get back to sleep as a kid. Works like a charm."
This intrigued her enough to persuade her to stay put. He put one of his hands in hers, and put the other one over her heart.
"What are you doing?" she asked, starting to squirm out of his grasp to look at him.
"Ssh, Bones – just relax, would ya? Put your head back down." He began squeezing the fleshy area of her thumb gently, in time to her heartbeat.
"Booth, there's no scientific reason that would do anything – "
"Are you calling my mom a liar? It's all about biorhythms and pressure points, all right? Just… ssh. Close your eyes."
She did. He continued massaging her hand gently, using a firm, even pressure that was undeniably soothing. He kissed her head, never breaking his rhythm.
"Love ya, Bones," he whispered into her hair.
Her body began to feel heavier. "I love you, too," she whispered back.
And she slept.
And we're back to it, once more. Next chapter comes Wednesday night - sorry again for the long hiatus, I'll see if I can avoid it in the future. I know we're going over stuff we've already seen before, but Wednesday we'll be all new and fairly action packed. Let me know if you're bored in the meantime, though. And, of course, thanks for reading! - Jen
