"So, what'd she tell you?"
The burning humiliation Brennan felt all those years ago reasserted itself and the scientist found it nearly impossible to divulge even a single extra detail about her experience.
"It was a long time ago. It's hardly worth mentioning."
The evasive turn of the head told Booth otherwise.
"Come on, Bones; just let it out."
It wasn't just idle curiosity anymore. Brennan was convinced that there was real worry behind Booth's insistence, and his genuine concern on her behalf made it a little bit easier to go on.
"She informed me that my so-called 'life-line' was long and straight, but that the one for the heart was unusually faint and broken. So in essence, I would be successful and live a long time, but I would never find 'true love'. I feel the need to clarify that that was all her terminology, not mine."
Caught off guard by how much the memory stung, Brennan somehow managed to hang on to her composure. She certainly didn't want anyone's pity, least of all Booth's.
"I don't believe in that unattainable idea anyway-not then, and not now," she announced dismissively. "It's an archaic notion left over from the mediaeval chivalric code, both unrealistic and hopelessly vague. The phrase would have disappeared entirely from our modern lexicon-and should have-centuries ago, except for the Victorian mind's endless fascination with all things trite and maudlin. Unfortunately, it continues to be championed by book publishers and cinematic producers who find the idea of romance extremely profitable, especially with younger audiences."
Just hearing those disparaging words made Booth flinch. Love wasn't unattainable; it just required some hard work and a little luck. Well, maybe in his case, a lot of luck.
"Bones-I don't need a lecture on the subject" he replied testily, reminded of how often the odds weren't on his side in matters of the heart regardless of how hard or how frequently he'd blown on the dice. "I already know exactly how you feel about personal relationships. I was asking because I was worried about what the psychic's talk did to you."
For the first time that evening, Brennan was willing to give Booth a glimpse at her closely-held hand.
"Actually, I was rather affected by it, although I'm not sure why the fortune-teller's prediction upset me as much as it did. I guess I was much more impressionable back then due to the fluctuating levels of hormones in my system and the fact that my frontal lobes weren't fully connected yet."
"What about Russ?"
"He and his friends called me a brainy old maid the rest of the night. The incident continued to amuse them for a long time afterwards."
"I'm sorry I brought it up," Booth apologized. "I didn't meant to make you remember all that, Bones."
Resurrected anger and disappointment often beget the kind of naked honesty that couldn't have been come by any other way.
"You didn't 'make' me remember, Booth; I've never forgotten."
No, Booth supposed she wouldn't have.
Traumatic experiences from childhood had a way of sticking around in one form or another forever-just ask someone who knew. Dangerous projectiles straight from the past whizzing behind you as you went on with your life, just waiting to catch up and wing you, like they'd just obviously done. He'd heard the raw pain loud and clear in his partner's voice despite her attempts to be casual about the story, and it made him wish he could go back in time to throttle her older brother before he had the chance to wound his partner like that.
Booth liked Russ, but he knew that boys, especially in a pack, could be deadly. He'd been a teen himself and done things to people a lot like Bones just to feel like he belonged somewhere, because he didn't. Things that to this day made him light a whole row of candles at church in the hopes of atonement.
But even he with all his hangups and his cravings for acceptance wouldn't have sold his younger brother down the river just to impress his friends.
Or at least he liked to think he wouldn't have.
"That was rough. Russ shouldn't have been such a jerk to you."
"And yet, anthropologically, it made perfect sense" Brennan replied, impassive as ever. "As I said before, he was acting within the normal behavioral parameters of most adolescent males coming of age in western cultures; showing his loyalty to individuals of his freely chosen social clan by siding with them instead of with a member of his own biological family. Russ was simply asserting his independence from his familial group, nothing more."
Her face lost some of it's preternatural calm, and for an instant she looked more like the young, out-of-place girl she must have been been back then than the confident professional she was now.
"I told you it was stupid," she muttered as her cheeks darkened a shade. "I shouldn't have even brought it up. And you're right-we need to interview all potential witnesses, unreliable as they may turn out to be. The killer could be planning another murder as we speak."
"Bones..."
Brennan tried to walk away, but Booth gripped her hand and wouldn't let go.
"Let me see," he said, turning it up in own and staring at her palm as she rolled her eyes histrionically.
"Booth, this is..."
"That phony didn't have a clue what she was talking about. Look, it's all here," he said with a grin. Booth's index finger traveled lightly over her palm, so lightly that it tickled and made her squirm, and Brennan felt her face redden even more. Their closeness, the silence, that finger caressing her hand...the delicate touch paradoxically felt like a bolt of lightning zapping a hole through her skin.
"It says it right here, in black and white. Your love line is like the Grand Canyon, Bones. It's deep and it goes on forever."
Brennan gave Booth one of her infamous looks. This one in particular said,
'My partner is a complete doofus'.
"That's not my love line."
Booth's thumb took over for his index finger and began caressing Brennan's entire palm.
"All your lines are A-okay, Bones. Every single one. I don't need to look at your hand to know that your heart line is bigger and longer than anyone else's I know. You're going to be fine, I promise. You're just a late bloomer. All the cool girls are."
Booth's smile proved impossible to resist and Brennan laughed.
"You think I'm cool? That would have certainly been considered a novel concept at my old school. Everyone there referred to me as a 'dweeb,' even to my face. Well, not the custodian, Mr. Buxley. He was the only person who seemed to understand me."
"What did that bunch of losers know? I bet most of them are stuck in dead end jobs now, making a bee line for liposuction and botox. You, you're not only accomplished, you're beautiful. You're already a famous scientist; I'm sure you're getting your Nobel Prize someday soon. Just like you're going to live the rest of your life with someone who loves you and values how special you are."
The quiet conversation with its intimate overtones, however light-hearted, began to make Brennan feel cornered. Her partner sensed the sudden retraction of her fingers from his and grudgingly set her hand free.
"The witness," Brennan stammered, staring ahead. She walked away briskly without waiting for Booth and the agent had no choice but to dutifully followed his partner onto the carnival grounds.
They hadn't quite reached their target when Madame Crystalle locked eyes with the pair. She threw her cigarette butt on the ground as she waited for Booth and Brennan to approach.
If Brennan hadn't approved of the woman's line of work before, it was the person herself who now gave offense.
"That's littering," she scolded as she watched Madame stub out the discarded cigarette with her gold shoe.
"So, sue me," the medium dared back in a fake Eastern European accent. She inspected Booth with rapacious interest.
"You were some sort of military man, am I right? Come on in good-looking, and I'll tell you everything you want to know about your future."
"We're not here to have our fortunes read," Brennan replied curtly. "We're here to solve a murder."
"I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth and..."
"And I'm his partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan."
The woman closed her eyes and swayed precariously on her high heels as if she were balancing on a child's teeter-totter.
"That shriveled body they found next door? Please, murder can wait-I'm offering you a glimpse of the future here."
"I disagree on both counts," Brennan replied. "Murder cannot wait, and you can't possibly offer us a glimpse of events which haven't transpired yet; such a claim violates every known law of physics."
Madame's eyes unglued themselves from Booth and fell on Brennan.
"You're a smart girl-very smart," she said through cat-like eyes.
"Woman. And yes, I'm brilliant, a fact that can be measured and verified objectively, unlike the gibberish you're offering."
"Smart," the woman continued, "but you don't know everything. No one does. You can call it whatever you want, but one of these days science is gonna have an explanation for the things I'm able to see. Quantum physics and all. You need to watch PBS more."
"Science already has an explanation for you do, as does the legal system. It's called fraud."
"You want information, you get your fortunes read," the woman declared with stubborn finality.
She pointed to the sign by her tent.
"It's what I do, just as your business is to be nosy. I'll tell you what-I'll make you a deal. Two fortunes for twenty five bucks. That's half-price."
The psychic looked aggrieved.
"With the story about that mummy next door and all the cops hanging around, traffic is down. Can't you guys do your job a little more quietly?"
It was only then that Brennan deigned to read the large placard in front of Madame's tent, the one Booth had seen from across the street. With it's boast of "Madame Crystalle, Spiritual Advisor to the Stars" spelled out in shimmering silver paillettes, it was a gut-punch of tackiness which stood out even within the carnival's overall tasteless setting.
"Madame Crystalle?" she scoffed. "You could have at least picked a more original name like Clytemnestra, the prophetess daughter of ...
Madame raised her heavily penciled eyebrows.
"Listen honey," she said, dropping the Hungarian accent for something far more pedestrian and Jersey inspired. "A person in my line of work needs a catchy name, something that evokes a special mood for her clients. And Clytam... whatever sounds more like something a gynecologist might be interested in than the name of a fortune teller. It's an absolute mood killer."
She looked from Brennan to Booth. "So you in or what?"
While Brennan was utterly disgusted by the ruse, the blatant extortion, Booth seemed much more sanguine about the offer. In fact, seemed to be a little too amused by it for Brennan's liking.
"C'mon, Bones? What do we have to lose? Here's your chance at redemption," he teased.
The peppy attitude brought back more memories of Russ and that dreaded summer night, making Brennan automatically leery of her partner's intentions. Booth wasn't teen Russ, of course-not even close, the scientist acknowledged. But she'd always had a hard time reading people, and suddenly her usually solid faith in him shifted fractionally.
"Look, there's no way two people are going to say the same thing to you," Booth whispered confidently. "I'm pretty sure you're safe with this one. Aren't you the slightest bit curious about what she has to say?"
Despite Booth's enthusiasm, Brennan continued to be appalled by the idea of being a willing participant in an obvious scam. She'd no sooner resort to a fortune teller for a view of her possible future than she would eat pie.
She hated cooked fruit, and outright liars like psychics and magicians were equally low on the list of annoyances she was willing to put up with.
"If you want to succumb to blackmail in order to obtain information that should be readily available to us for free, be my guest. Just don't expect me to engage in any way or to contribute monetarily."
Digging into his back pocket, Booth pulled his wallet out and handed over a twenty and a ten. Five bright red nails snatched the two bills and stuffed them into an ample, withering cleavage.
"That was thirty bucks, lady."
"I don't have change-feel free to check, though."
The medium stuck out her chest at Booth as Brennan looked on with a malicious sparkle in her eyes.
"From you, I'd gladly accept a good frisking."
The shock on Booth's face brought Brennan a great deal of joy, and she smirked openly. If her coworker insisted on making her take part in this fraudulent charade, she might as well sit back and enjoy the absurd results.
"Keep the change" the agent replied glumly, as both he and Brennan shadowed Madame into the tent.