Disclaimer: Quite simple, really: Not mine.
Trigger Warning: This chapter delves a little deeper into Brennan's history of abuse. It's not graphic, but the description might bother some who are sensitive to themes of sexual assault and domestic violence.
Author's Note: This is a turning point in the story, with everything breaking out into the open and Brennan making an essential decision.
~Q~
Doomed to Repeat
~Q~
Chapter Eleven
"Is it worth it, to have your happiness so contingent on another human being?"
~Q~
The foreman they'd met earlier in the day came running toward them, bewildered by the ruckus. "Is everything okay here?"
"No," Brennan answered, the single word torn out of her as she pulled her breathing back under control. Nothing was okay, most especially her own precarious control. She couldn't let anyone see how shaken she was, how disorganized. Entropy was all well and good for the universe and it certainly explained most crime scenes, but it was unacceptable for a scientist to operate under its tenets. Science defied entropy, enforced order and method in its effort to find meaning in the chaos.
If there was no meaning, then there was no reason to go on. Taming the entropy of her own life was how Temperance Brennan had found the strength to survive and science had taught her how to tame it. Science had ever been her salvation.
Still furious, Booth barked out his agreement that things weren't okay. "No!"
Finally, they had that settled, at least. Nothing was okay. Brennan chanced a look at Booth, saw him breathing heavily but his eyes were on hers, too, and fierce and angry. Nothing was okay, and she felt relieved that he had finally admitted it.
They needed to finish what she'd started but couldn't continue now, and for that mercy Brennan was unspeakably grateful because she needed time to process what had just been revealed. Taking refuge in science and the presence of the foreman, she set the Alternate Light Source Polilight to 415 nanometers and slipped it over her head. There was something concrete she could know right now, something particular she could do. "I need to get to your construction chute."
"Wait a minute now," he protested. "That's a very dangerous area. I can't let you go back there."
Fumbling awkwardly because of his own overdose of adrenaline , Booth finally retrieved and flashed his badge. "FBI. Angry FBI!"
Brennan darted ahead, using the distraction to escape.
"Hey! I'm not supposed to let anybody—hey!" The foreman's head whipped from the badge to Brennan. "Hey! Where are you going?"
As she approached the chute, Brennan focused all of her energy on what she could see. The outside distraction helped her bury the ragged emotions and put her professionalism back in charge. Nothing but reason, nothing but method and step-by-step, observe and record. Understanding and interpretation would come later.
The chute was right there, a ridged tunnel that dropped over the edge of the penthouse balcony to the street below, where debris was deposited into a large dumpster. Sensing Booth arriving behind her, she started explaining what she could see. "Whoever killed Richard Bartlett could have easily moved the body out here any time after six without being seen. There's lipping on each of the stacked cans, evenly spaced like stairs. This chute could definitely have created the damage found on the body."
The fall would have been swift and nearly vertical, with the body knocking back and forth all the way down. Fully intent on finding evidence now, Brennan moved a crate into place and stepped up on it while Booth watched in confusion.
"I need to take a closer look," she explained.
"Wait!" The foreman stepped forward to stop her. "Now, this is my site. I'm responsible for it. You can't go in there."
Booth shook his head and glared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "He's right. You can't just go rappelling down some garbage chute!"
If she hadn't bitten her tongue in fury just then, Brennan knew her mandible would have unhinged itself. Booth was agreeing with a suspect?! He was telling her she couldn't retrieve evidence? He was telling her she couldn't do her job?!
A crack of outrage drew her taut. What was it with men telling her no, telling her what she couldn't do or couldn't be? Brennan lifted her chin, unwilling to let anyone stop her. She didn't let the Chinese army keep her out of Tibet, she didn't let El Salvadoran thugs scare her away, nor did she ever let Guatemalan soldiers with guns stop her from digging for the truth. She had never let Booth's overprotective nature stop her from going where she needed to get her job done. This foreman wasn't her father, she could damn well do as she needed to solve this murder, too. Damn them all.
"He could be the murderer, Booth!"
She saw him glancing at the foreman in surprise; it looked liked the idea hadn't even occurred to him.
Brennan took in the filthy chute, streaked in dirt and something resembling spatters of chocolate syrup, then her partner who wasn't listening to her. It was like in the beginning, when they weren't partners yet and he didn't believe in her. She felt again the splintering of them, the separation yawing wider, the fuzziness of Booth as he drifted further way.
"He already admitted that Bartlett was suing him," Brennan reminded Booth. "Just … hold my feet."
Booth's jaw clenched in reaction to the imperious command she'd given him after the argument they'd begun and hadn't resolved. He crossed his arms and leaned against the chute. "No."
He really was withdrawing. Brennan felt cold, a bitter chill blowing through her when Booth stepped back and ended their partnership. Everything was falling apart, even the work they did together. She was alone in this. Their gazes caught on a challenge, his daring her to … what? Beg for his help? Give up?
She wouldn't let her partner dictate her life to her, nor her job. She would face her demons when and how she chose, and she would collect evidence on her own if that was the choice he left her.
"Fine! Then as previously stated, I will act as the free agent that I am." I don't need him to help me with this, she assured herself. I don't.
Swallowing thickly, she turned to the chute and looked down into the abyss. Brennan adjusted her Polilight headlamp and leaned over, tilting her head to sweep the interior of the chute with the bluish light. As she eased herself forward, she heard the foreman's voice bounce off the plastic tube when he absolved himself of responsibility for her recklessness.
"I'm not going to stick around and watch her kill herself!"
I'm not being reckless, she thought mutinously. She was being thorough. If no one went in there, then a murder would go unsolved.
"One move and I'll shoot you!" Booth snapped. Then suddenly he was leaping forward as he noticed that Brennan had begun to lean in too far. "Whoa! Bones!"
She felt his steady hands clutching at her legs, providing a counterweight that held her suspended ten stories in the air. "No!" He gasped, fear evident as he became the only thing that preserved her.
"Don't drop me." All of her confidence returned with his touch, with the promise that Booth would never let her fall. Easing herself lower, hands braced, Brennan flashed the Polilight deeper into the tube.
"I won't," he promised.
The Polilight flared over multiple splotches, showing her the protein remnants of blood or bodily fluids. "I see blood and tissue, Booth."
"What?" She could hear the strain in his voice, the tension in his arms as he held her.
"This is where he died."
~Q~
They were silent in the car, both staring straight ahead and finding it impossible to look at the person beside them. Brennan's hands were clasped together tightly, an unusually nervous gesture that betrayed the serene mask she wore. Booth wasn't speaking, his visage bleak, his jaw harsh and jutting.
It was all a mess, her guilt and tangled fears, and now his anger and fears were added to the mix. He thought she was cutting him out, that she wanted to be alone again. How she had given him that impression was something Brennan needed to understand, but every effort at analysis was blocked by chaos. A flock of darting thoughts skimmed in and out of her head, chasing ideas like swallows at dusk.
When he pulled into a parking space at the Jeffersonian, Brennan reached for the door. She needed to be alone and hoped he would let her have it.
"We need to talk," he said quietly.
Brennan bit her lip, feeling still the fear and knew she wasn't ready. Everything would come out wrong again, unless she took time to think, to analyze what he'd yelled at her and what their argument meant. It was too complex to work out quickly in a car, when she was still breathless from the confrontation that had happened less than an hour ago.
"Not now." She opened the door and jumped out, walking away.
Behind her, she heard another howl and his fists slamming into the steering wheel. When the other door opened, Brennan hastened her stride.
"Yes, now, damn it!" Booth came after her, reaching for her wrist and jerking her back around.
"Booth." It was a warning. Her eyes flashed, her defenses triggered by the hand on her arm. Only the fact that it was Booth who'd grabbed her held her fists and feet in check, but she was still on high alert.
"You can't do that!" he yelled. "You can't keep running away."
"I'm not running away, I'm returning to work," she defended reasonably. The fear was boiling back up again, so close to ripping yet another lid off.
"Bull shit. What the hell was that?"
Brennan's eyes widened, her pulse accelerating at the raw fury rolling off him, fury directed at her. Her throat clenched tight as instinct warred with what she knew of him. He wouldn't hurt her, but the anger … that blistering hot anger scorched and recalled another time she'd faced such wrath. Wrath that she had provoked then, too.
"I don't know what you mean," she said distantly, and it was only half a fabrication. She was slipping, losing ground, losing her place.
He cursed viciously, jerked her against him so roughly she stumbled. "Stop. Just stop."
The blood drained from her face as another deep voice roared over her. Erickson's voice, Booth's hands. She shuddered, tears falling. "No."
"You started this, Temperance." Another jerk on her arm, as if to get her attention.
"I know." Reality was rending in two, past and present converging into one quagmire of confusion. She had started it, the author of her own suffering time and again.
"Tempe, you gotta come out. Please, Tempe." A soft sob broke in his voice. "I don't know what to do. Please, just talk to me."
"Wake up." She pinched again. Tempe's furious fingers found fresh meat on her belly. "Wake up…."
"Temperance has a history of self abuse, including self-inflicted cutting and bruising. The allegation of abuse against Leroy Erickson is therefore determined to be unfounded."
She leaned over, her eyes lifting to tease him. "If we're not working together, we could have sex,"
"I'll call a cab."
"You got me drunk to fire me and have sex with me." But she'd suggested it, not him.
"What's it going to take?"
"Full participation in the case. Not just lab work, everything."
"Spit in my hand, we're Sully and Mulder."
"I don't want to have any regrets."
"I'm with someone now."
"Booth, are you still angry?"
Taking Christine and vanishing for three months.
"I was going to take Christine to the Children's Museum."
"You were."
"Yes."
She'd started it, every single time. "I know," she whispered, stricken.
"You made this mess! I'm not letting you escape the consequences." He shook her, frustration and anger pouring out over her like acid.
~Q~
"You started this, Temperance. You made this mess."
"I didn't mean to. The water was too hot!"
"You think you're so damn smart? You think you can use that super-brain to escape the consequences? I'll show you." Crack! The whip snicked down, breaking the sound barrier and her flesh in an instant. Crack! Crack! She jerked in reaction, biting her tongue so hard that blood pooled in her mouth. Crack! Burning agony along the strips he'd flayed open. She knew sitting was going to be impossible for days. Crack!
"Now when you sit you're going to remember this. Your damn ass will remind you to heed my warnings."
Tempe held still, afraid to move. The seeping blood tickled in contrast to the burning pain in stripes on her exposed backside. Erickson jerked her up, shaking her. Before she could reach for her pants, trying to restore something of her dignity, he had dragged her to the door. She stumbled, legs caught in fabric.
"Where are you taking me?"
He pulled her up, slapping her. "I warned you what would happen," he spat.
"No!" The car? He'd threatened he would, but she'd never really believed he would actually follow through. Shock and terror froze her and she stumbled again. "I'll be good!"
Erickson jerked her arm so hard her body slammed into the doorjamb and her arm wrenched loose as Erickson pulled it forward. The shoulder dislocated, pulling her humerus free of the glenoid cavity. She screamed, the pain shocking and somehow worse than the fire in her backside. Darkness swirled over her, the trunk opening to her like a gaping mouth. She felt herself lifted and thrown, the painful impact, her shoulder screaming and the skin on her bottom raging like licking flames.
Screams surrounded her in the fading light, in the dark as it boomed over her. "I'll be good! Please! I'll be good! Please don't leave! Please!"
~Q~
Screaming sounded loudly, echoing against the concrete parking structure and bouncing back at her. A woman was screaming, crying that she'd be good if only he didn't leave. Her body was shaking, her wrist on fire, the memory of a wrecked shoulder bringing echoes of pain.
Something pushed her backwards and the screaming abruptly stopped. She tripped and fell against a car. Dazed, lifting her eyes, she found Booth's frozen, horrified face dropping from her to his hands, half lifted and opened like claws.
Her breathing was ragged, her mind slowly piecing things together. Her shoulder was fine, and her clothes were still properly in place. Her legs worked. She lifted herself upright carefully, noting that nothing hurt, really. Booth hadn't hurt her, she knew he wouldn't.
Without making a sound, Booth turned and walked away. His hands had straightened fiercely, fingers extended until the tendons vibrated. The SUV door boomed shut and he drove away, leaving Tempe alone next to a car, not imprisoned this time.
~Q~
She walked into the lab on unsteady legs, seeking someplace quiet. Somewhere away from people, questions, confusion. Limbo.
Almost at the door leading down to the silent storage and examination area, Angela caught up to her, catching her arm. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"
Brennan flinched, jerking herself away and stumbling back a step. "Nothing."
Narrowing her eyes, Angela reached for her again and pulled her through the door, down the stairs into the dimmer corridors of Modular Bone Storage. When they'd reached the bottom, she sent two interns scurrying away with an unmistakable glare, waited for the click of the door at the top of the stairs. Only once it fell completely silent did she turn to Brennan. "Tell me what happened."
"I need to be alone." Brennan's eyes darted erratically around the long row of drawers containing thousands of unidentified people, just as lost as she felt.
"We are alone," Angela reassured her gently. "Brennan."
The firm call reached her, broke through the chaos and gave her something to hold.
"What happened?" Angela asked again.
"I … I don't know." Brennan wrapped her arms around herself, trying to halt the trembling as delayed reaction set in. Her teeth were beginning to chatter.
Angela stepped closer, tugging her down onto the floor. "Come on, sit with me."
She obeyed mindlessly, happy for a moment to let someone else make decisions for her. Ordinarily Brennan was always thinking, her restless intellect incapable of being anything other than hyperactive. At the moment, however, a thick fog had rolled in, dampening the sparks and leaving her dull and muzzy. Angela's soothing aura settled beside her, bringing warmth to burn away the fog and pull her back into clarity.
"Was it a flashback?"
The near-psychic guess should have shocked her, but Brennan could only be glad she didn't have to explain. She nodded, resigned to the fact that Angela was the only person who knew she had them. The flashbacks had been far more frequent and disturbing during the first year of their friendship, exacerbated by her abduction and torment in El Salvador. Only Angela knew; there were so many things that only Angela knew.
"What triggered it, Bren?"
"Booth," she whispered, torn over the apparent accusation. "We were arguing." Did that make it better? She closed her eyes, trying to reproduce the moment from memory. He'd grabbed her wrist, pulled her harder than usual—in the past being grabbed had triggered her. It was what he'd said, however, that had tipped her this time. The words were too similar, coupled with action that hurled her back.
She wanted to cry, or maybe to scream, but all she could do was sit and stare blankly ahead while her thoughts skirled around.
Another impossibly prescient question teased meaning out of Brennan's state of shock. "He freaked out, didn't he."
"I … yes." She sighed, ashamed. This was her fault too, because she had pushed and she wasn't in control and things were so messy now it would never be sorted out. "He didn't say anything, he just left."
But he was looking at his hands. Once upon a time he had confided to her how much he feared becoming too angry, letting Parker see the violence he was capable of. "I lost control. I don't take any pride in that." She could still hear him, still see the worry that hunched his shoulders and the shame that dragged along behind. She had told him Parker was lucky to have such a loving, concerned father, and he had been reassured by her faith in him.
If he thinks he hurt me…. Brennan felt sick, worrying that her poison was going to hurt him further.
"It's going to be all right," Angela soothed.
She wanted to believe that nearly as much as she longed to put her trust in fate. They stayed silent a few minutes more while Brennan slowed her pulse, stopped sweating, began to realize half the shaking and cold sweat was due to low blood sugar because she hadn't eaten in nearly 24 hours.
"Is this what you meant?" she asked suddenly. Angela's raised brow invited her to continue. "When you said I'd be screaming in the night?"
With a sigh, Angela's arm slipped around her shoulders and pulled her tight. She laughed a little, low and sympathetic. "Yeah. I guess this is what I meant."
"It happened twice today," Brennan admitted slowly. "I lost time in the car. And then again here." She paused, drawing a shaking breath. "The second one, I went all the way back."
Angela nodded, then said carefully, "You need to explain it to Booth. He's going to be freaking out, thinking he caused it. You have to talk to him. Okay?"
"He didn't hurt me."
"He's not going to see it that way, Bren. You need to tell him."
With a resigned sigh, Brennan dug out her phone and sent him a quick message. I'm sorry. I want to talk. Please call.
~Q~
The trip back up into the heart of the lab felt like climbing out of the dark, out of hidden cars and windowless cells in the Salvadoran jungle. There was a difference of course because she was cleaner and physically uninjured, but the weight of darkness stayed with her all the same.
Hodgins had discovered blood on the nib of the pen used to stab Richard Bartlett. Cam had run DNA tests and hoped to discover whom the blood belonged to, or that they could match it later to a suspect. Her intern was busy with histology samples. Brennan returned to her desk and reviewed x-rays sent to her by the DC Medical Examiner who suspected a young murder victim on her table had a history of child abuse. And since bones never lie, Brennan confirmed the ME's suspicions were correct with a tight knot of anger at the injustice of it all.
Why did adults hurt children they were supposed to take care of? Why did men hurt women? Why did Pelant frame her and force her to leave? Why did any of this happen. There were no answers, only painful questions.
As evening approached, Brennan went for Christine and took her home. She sent another text message to Booth, saw that he'd finally left her one.
Working late. Don't wait up.
That was it.
The empty house felt cold and dark when she walked in, as if it missed Booth as much as she did. Brennan forced cheerful prattle as she fed and played with Christine, bathed her, prepared her for bed. They sat quietly in the rocking chair for a few minutes after finishing a bedtime story, the book resting on the floor and Brennan's head resting lightly on Christine's.
The only sound was Christine's soft murmurs to herself and the furnace starting an air exchange cycle.
Once Christine was asleep, Brennan returned to the kitchen and began to cook. He didn't come home—she knew he wouldn't until very late—but she would leave something for him to heat up. When that task was ended, the kitchen restored, she realized she hadn't eaten anything all day herself. So she forced herself to eat some toast and the leftover berries from that morning.
Then there was nothing to do but sit and wait; or go to bed and hope that morning (with Booth) came faster while she slept.
The bed stretched away from her like an arctic shelf, icy sheets and empty space.
Most of her life, Brennan had slept alone and preferred it. Having fought off so many assaults in her life, the thought of being hemmed in had always initiated a sense of panic, a need to push out and claim her personal space. She'd never let any of her previous lovers snuggle in or leave their limbs draped over her, not even Sully. She needed room, nothing over her arms or chest, nothing covering her face or blocking the exchange of carbon dioxide for cool oxygen. Fresh air, freedom to move. It was the only way she could feel safe.
Booth had changed her sleeping preference their first night together, with his warm body tucked behind her, his face buried at her neck, his arms enclosing her protectively. It should have told her something even then, that night undercover in Las Vegas that had ended with Booth's arms around her, his steady heart beating against her, his breath on her. She should have recognized the meaning in the warmth radiating into her from him, that instead of feeling the usual urgent need for escape, she had simply burrowed closer to the only man she trusted. As she had settled into her own bed alone the following night, Brennan found herself missing him. She wanted to sleep with him again, literally just to sleep beside him, making him the only man she'd ever wanted in that way.
Shivering alone in their large, empty bed, she fell asleep hoping his warmth would return before the dawn.
~Q~
In her dreams, they were back in Booth's old apartment, back on the night she'd learned what it meant to make love. His hands slid through her hair, down her back, making her ache to be possessed by him. "I love you," she whispered. "You know I love you."
"Yes," he answered.
His lips were soft, sliding against her skin like a heated brush of silk. Her skin pulsed with each teasing touch, a wake of risen vellus hairs trailing after him. Her lips clung and lamented the separation when his mouth grazed her there, her heart racing, her breath heaving out and in with each labored pull of her lungs. He tormented her with lazy fingertips stroking and lips dancing but never settling where she wanted him.
When she moaned in frustration, he took her mouth at last, firmly, and nibbled on her lower lip. Brennan slid her palms up under his t-shirt, feeling the firm muscles rippling under smooth flesh. Up his pectoralis major, across the trapezius, down the corded deltoid, she mapped muscle and bones, feeling that perfect acromion at last. Then she was withdrawing her hands to sweep down the length of his powerful arms so she could feel his brachioradialis flexing when he pulled away to start tugging off her sweatshirt. His t-shirt joined her sweatshirt on the floor.
He fell onto her, his lips questing over her terrain like an eager explorer. "So beautiful," he murmured as the slightly roughened pads of his fingers traced over her breast, circling and stroking a song of madness into her. Her head pressed backwards as if drawn by a sensual thread from his fingers pulling her torso upwards in ecstasy. Every circle and sizzling pass over her erect nipples made her shudder and groan, the pleasure of his touch pooling far below.
She gasped when his hot mouth closed over one throbbing peak, his hand slipping down over her heaving belly to slip into the soft thatch of curls still concealed. Before she could adjust to the sensations assaulting her breast, Booth had already slipped his fingers into her well, drawing out the nectar and stroking her with one, quick swipe. Her back arched off the bed as sensation exploded between her thighs.
It had been so long since any man touched her there, over three years. Brennan knew she was going to lose control almost immediately. "Please," she gasped, grabbing his wrist to pull his hand away. "I want you inside of me. I want to feel you in me."
He raised his head, eyes glinting black with arousal and masculine pride. Pressing another tender kiss onto her mouth, his tongue offered a preview of what they were about to do while he quickly removed his shorts. Her underwear followed, sliding off her legs while he dipped his fingers into her again and she cried out.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
Dazed, she met his eyes and felt as if her entire body was coming apart. Her hips fell loosely, her marrow open and empty as if a key part of her had gone missing. Every muscle quivered and every nerve screamed from the sensory overload.
"This is making love," he told her. Their gazes locked. "I love you."
His voice, low and compelling, rumbled over her, the words piercing into her as sweetly and deeply as his body. Heat and pressure tingled against her, filling her. A small explosion started before he'd even gone halfway, her body convulsing in pulses around him until the waves resonated and spread throughout her belly, down her thighs, tingling mindless pleasure into her toes and fingers and she wasn't even sure if she was breathing or if her heart had stopped. The electrical storm raged along every nerve, overwhelming and terrifying and feeling a bit like death.
She sobbed as the storm abated, her body still trembling and aftershocks pulsing between her legs where he was now deeply rooted. Heavy warmth and his heavy weight pressed her down, surrounding her, lifting her. Booth was everywhere, outside and inside, around, over, under, in ... a universe of prepositions.
"Look at me, baby," he crooned. He brushed her hair back from her eyes and lifted her to meet his gaze again. "I love you. Do you understand it now?"
Do you believe in fate?
He loves me. Tears surged, her heart expanded, her body sang. He loves me!
She gasped as he began to move. The intense sensations quickly built up again, his movement within her and surrounding her making her body throb with renewed torment. Every deep thrust sent shocks through her axis, making her desperate for a second release within moments.
"Booth!" she cried, riding a second wave of bliss.
He kissed her feverishly, plunging into her wildly as her body once again convulsed around him. As her arms wound around him and slid down to claim parts of him she'd never dared to touch, Booth groaned. He gathered her more closely against him, palming her buttocks and ramming himself deeper, harder. "Love you!" he grunted. "You're everything. … God, I've wanted you. … My Bones. My baby. So good! You're so good …. Arghh!"
He threw his head back, his legs straight and his body surging so deeply into hers she could feel the pulsing of his orgasm inside of her. The soft ripples of his release triggered her again and she cried out in shock as a third blistering orgasm shuddered through her.
As he fell still, their pulses mingled and their fading spasms where they joined showed her the last line between them had been obliterated. Peace settled over her, all words vanishing, all awareness centered only on him and blurry edges where her body faded into his. And nothing had prepared her for the astonishing revelation that becoming one came after the orgasm, not before. Not during. After, when her body melted into his and his flowed into hers and time stood still and she never wanted to move again. That was when she became one with him.
Sitting together in the Diner, leaning over the remains of a meal, he had described this to her that night. "Making love … that's when two people become one."
And she had wanted to believe it, even as unlikely and illogical as it sounded. "It is scientifically impossible for two objects to occupy the same space."
His eyes had held hers, forming the connection even then that had the power to scramble her thoughts. "Yeah, but what's important is that we try, and when we do it right, we get close."
"To what," she had scoffed, because to let him convince her just then might lead to … an unsanctioned experiment, an indecent proposal, an end to everything. Or the beginning of something amazing. "Breaking the laws of physics?"
He had leaned back, teasing her with a cocky grin, but he never really let her go. "Yeah, Bones. A miracle."
All these years, he had never quite let her go.
Laying in his arms nearly four years later, she knew at last what the miracle was. She knew that it was love, that he loved her and in this moment, she believed it.
"I love you, Booth."
"I know," he whispered tenderly.
When she woke, the sun was brightening the window and the bed was still empty. She cried out his name, and a few moments later cried out her heart because the silence meant he hadn't come back. In the morning, the question of whether she'd been dreaming all along dangled over her like the Sword of Damocles. Snip the silken thread, cut the connection, let it fall … she would fall as well.
But the glowing look of love in his eyes, that hadn't been a dream. That had been real, something she'd seen the day he threw her to a motel room floor and recognized her (was it only two weeks ago?), the day she'd told him she was pregnant, the day he'd told her there was only one person you love the most (was it only two years ago?).
Brennan slipped out of their bed and looked around the room they shared, the life they'd made. If there was even the smallest chance it was real, that he loved her, she had to fight for it. She had decided the night they made love that she would take the risk, that she would never let him doubt what she felt.
"I don't want you to think I don't care."
She would make sure he knew.
~Q~
Author's Note: A study conducted in Oregon & Washington in 2005 found that adults who had been in foster care for at least one year between ages 14-18 had a higher risk of developing PTSD symptom than even combat veterans. (The risk was 25% for former foster kids, but only 15% for Vietnam veterans.) Being forced out to survive on her own, essentially losing her family all over again, brought back all the suffering and nightmares of abuse that Brennan had been recovering from. Angela had it half right: Brennan didn't change, she changed back. She became Tempe and has to fight Tempe's fears all over again.
