A/N: Hey folks. Jamie here. You wouldn't believe how dreary life has been without internet...without the computer...without writing. I was forced do actual work and wedding planning. It was truly horrible. But, due to my perserverence in this tres difficult time, and Mia's extreme patience with my technology-withdrawal neuroticism, we are back!
Crashed hard drive led to loss of ALL pictures of Dave's ass:( Please forward them along, along w/your reviews. K? Thanks. You are the best readers ever. Loves.
It was hot out, and the temperature in the car was becoming oppressive. Neither of them were willing to give in and turn the air conditioner back on, because they knew they should just stop, get out of the car, and go to Lance Sweets' office as planned. But making the transition from car to parking lot to office was something that felt incredibly difficult to accomplish at the moment.
"We're supposed to be there in 4 minutes," she pulled away from his lips long enough to sigh, before eagerly diving back in, seeking out his tongue with hers while the fingers of one hand ran through his damp hair.
"Maybe it wouldn't be bad if we were just a little late," he murmured, sucking her lower lip into his mouth and making it tingle pleasantly. His hands were doing some wandering of their own, sliding up and under her shirt, cupping her right breast and gently tweaking an aching nipple, making her moan a little.
"The whole reason we're doing this is so we can be better therapy clients," she reminded him, belying her words by running her fingernails up the insides of his thigh. "It defeats the purpose if we don't participate in the therapy itself."
He let out the low, sexy rumble that always made her heart pound furiously, as her hand reached the hard swell at the crux of his legs. "As far as I'm concerned, this is the therapy."
"Yes, well. You tell that to your supervisors who mandated these appointments for us." He abandoned her lips in favor of her throat, licking at the moisture that was developing there from the heat, both internal and external. She glanced at the back seat and tried to determine the logistics of how both of them would fit, doing the thing that she so desperately wanted to do...
A motion to her right caught her eye, and she saw a car pulling up, looking to back into the spot next to theirs. Bastard. Booth heard the turning of the gravel and looked up too, scowling at their unsuspecting mood-killer. She gave him a smile of understanding, which faded when she remembered that once they had their session, it would be another long week until they could touch like this again. Impulsively, she leaned across the console and pressed her lips to his once more, sweetly, closing her eyes to memorize the taste and the feel until the next time. "There'll be another Tuesday."
"Tell me it's tomorrow," he begged her. And even her overly literal mind knew what he meant. Because suddenly, irrationally, she was despising Wednesdays as well.
Great attention was paid to smoothing out and adjusting their much-abused clothes as they ascended the stairs to the office. Opening the door on the 4th floor, they found the familiar sight of Dr. Sweets, glowering at them.
"You are making this difficult for me, you know," the young therapist informed them. "Nobody wants you to remain a team more than I do. But when you consistently do things like arrive late and walk out of sessions..."
"Sorry," Booth interrupted him, sounding remarkably good-natured as he did so. "We were here. We just got caught up downstairs. Talking."
That gave pause to their psychologist. "About what?"
Brennan entered in easily. "About how much we were looking forward to today, actually. We've been doing better... very little conflict."
"Oh?" Sweets was eyeing them. Trying to decide if they were being honest. "Well. I'd be interested in hearing how you accomplished that." Standing, he motioned for them to follow him into his office.
She glanced over at her partner. They hadn't really discussed how they were going to handle Sweets, what exactly they were going to tell him. But for some reason, she was not experiencing much anxiety about it. They could deal with Lance Sweets. She had no doubts. Booth looked back and gave her a small smile. He was obviously feeling similarly confident. They sat on the tweed couch together, gazing steadily at the therapist. Allowing him to think he was running this show.
Sweets' eyes switched back and forth between them. "You certainly seem... calmer." He sounded suspicious.
"Yes. Definitely calmer," Booth agreed.
"Why?"
The question surprised her. She thought he would be more subtle, probe a little more.
Obviously Booth had thought the same, because he seemed thrown. "Because... um... we... we've been..."
She saved him. "We've been jogging. Before therapy."
Two sets of male eyebrows raised in the room, one recovering quickly while the other remained skeptical.
Come on, Temperance. You're the genius here. Follow through.
"Jogging?"
She nodded. "Yes. You were correct, that the nature of our work creates tremendous pressure and strain, and that we needed an outlet so that therapy does not feel so intense. So we have been jogging together."
"Really." She could not decipher whether Sweets' response was a statement, or a question.
"Yes," Booth blurted out. "We just jogged this morning." His face looked a bit red. Pull it together, Booth.
"I see. And this works for you."
"Has so far!" she said brightly.
"Hmm." Sweets was quiet for so long that doubt hit her for the first time since they had crossed into his office. She squirmed, and felt the urge to fill the silence with chatter. Maybe she should explain how exercise released endorphins and other chemicals which had a useful mediating effect of stress levels.
Keep your mouth shut, Temperance. Don't overexplain.
"Well, guys," Sweets finally said slowly. "I'm proud of you. You were creative and motivated in seeking a solution to your problems."
She nearly fell over in relief.
"But. I do see a potential issue."
You have got to be fucking kidding me. They couldn't win.
Booth's eyes had a desperate gleam. "What in God's name could be the problem in us jogging together?"
"Well." Sweets crossed his legs and arms, in full psycho-education mode. "Exercise is an excellent reliever of excess tension and energy. We mental health professionals recommend it all the time. As an adjunct method of stress relief."
They blinked at him.
"But the emotional responses that you have to your work and each other... they can't be completely ameliorated by physical exercise alone."
Temperance Brennan was not a crier. But at this moment, she felt like sobbing. Sweets and Angela were starting to sound alike to her. And they weren't even using the same damn language.
"I have an idea!" Booth announced, so suddenly that she was distracted from her near-outburst.
"Please," encouraged Sweets.
"Maybe..." He hesitated. "Maybe we should have therapy twice a week! To... you know... help with the... emotional responses. And stuff."
Again, she may as well have read his mind. More therapy. More therapy meant a shorter wait. Because she wasn't sure she could handle 6 sleepless nights a week. Yes. Maybe Booth was the genius here. She nodded vigorously in agreement.
Their therapist's jaw hung open. "You. Want more therapy."
They shook their heads.
"Twice a week."
"If you think it would be helpful," she supplied. The kid would jump at this opportunity. He had been trying to get them to engage more actively in therapy for months.
Color drained into Sweets' face, making his cheeks splotchy. An odd response.
"Dr. Sweets? Are you okay?" she asked, suddenly concerned for him. He didn't look healthy.
"You guys," he suddenly exploded, jumping up from his leather chair. "You aren't jogging at all! You're having sex! You are using therapy as an excuse to have sex!"
Her partner was red again. "I don't think you're old enough to say that word, Sweets," he muttered.
The doctor obviously wasn't listening. "I can't believe this! All my hard work. All the efforts to improve communication. I let you destroy my father's cabin. And this is what you do? You use therapy as a glorified... peep show?"
There were few words that Brennan could find to express her irritation. Never had so many people taken such an interest in her sex life. "Dr. Sweets... come on now. You said yourself. We seem calmer! You were proud of us. Can't you just... accept that we found something that works for us?"
Sweets' mouth opened to speak, but he shut it before any words came out. "Leave my office."
"But..." Booth tried.
"Leave."
It was the most definitive she had ever heard the young psychologist. She quickly stood and nudged Booth's shoulder. Don't. He got the message.
When they stood outside the slammed door, they stared at each other.
She tried to be optimistic in the face of everyone else's distrust of her and what she and Booth were doing. "Well. That could have gone worse!"
Her partner groaned. And she frowned.
Picking up her glass of syrah, Angela crossed her legs, swiveling her stool at the bar to survey the crowd. The bar was full of after-hours executives, lawyers and other professionals, and more than a few of them had given her the eye. She'd politely refused their offers to buy her a drink, her husband and her best friend the only things on her mind.
"Is this seat taken?"
About to snap a response, finally annoyed, she turned and found herself looking into the weary face of Lance Sweets.
She sighed, scooting her stool slightly to the left to make room. "It's yours." She watched as he signaled for the bartender. "Rough day?"
He dropped onto the stool next to her, slumping against the bar. "You have no idea."
"I bet I do," she muttered. "If you had a session with a certain set of partners, I can understand perfectly."
He glanced at her, almost smiling. "Oh, yeah?"
She set down her wine glass rather sharply on the bar. "I had my own little encounter today - I wanted to strangle them both," she said tightly. "You would not believe what those two were up to today, what they think they're accomplishing."
"Tell me about it," Sweets muttered, nodding to the bartender in thanks as the man set a drink in front of him.
She glanced at him curiously. "Tell me about it..?"
He sighed. "I can't tell you about it."
She tapped her fingers on the bar. "Oh, right. Doctor/patient confidentiality, right?"
"Well, it's client, really -"
"What if," she said, interrupting him, "I told you something that I already knew... and that if I knew this piece of information, that say, you also knew, then we could discuss it, and you wouldn't be doing anything unethical."
He frowned, his glass half-way to his mouth. "Huh?"
Exasperated, she turned to him. "Sweets, doctor/client confidentiality is to protect what they tell you, correct?"
He nodded.
"So, it doesn't mean you can't discuss them at all, right? Just... you can't reveal anything that they may have told you in confidence to me." She paused. "Is that right?"
He sipped his drink, eyeing her. "What is it you think you know?"
"I don't think, kid," she drawled. "I know."
He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. "I'm not sure you know, though," she said slowly. "What if I tell you and it was something you didn't know?"
Lance Sweets tipped back his drink, swallowing it one go, and set the empty glass on the bar with a thud, causing Angela to jump slightly in her seat. "You know, I might be young," he muttered. "But I'm not stupid. And I'm certainly not blind. I know Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan certainly think so, but I didn't get my PhD by the age of twenty-three by being an idiot or unobservant. And I'm sick to death of everyone thinking I am."
She studied him for a moment, nodding slowly, making a decision. "They're sleeping together. And they've actually deluded themselves into thinking it's some sort of therapy."
The young doctor let out a dramatic sigh, his hands flying into the air. "I know, right? I mean... dude. Only those two could come up with something like that..." He suddenly froze looking horrified. "Oh my god. They had sex in my father's cabin, didn't they? They did." His eyes were rounds as saucers. "That's why they took the sheets home. Oh my god. Ew."
Angela shook her head, a smile teasing her lips. The kid might be smart, but he was still a kid.
"I confronted them today," he muttered wearily, his little fit ending as quickly as it had started, signaling to the bartender that his glass was empty.
"I can only imagine it went as well as when I did," she sighed. "I found them together at six this morning - in her bathroom at her office."
His eyes widened. "Her bathroom?"
She sighed, sipping her wine. "Apparently they found something that 'works for them'," she said sarcastically, using air quotes.
Sweets rubbed his forehead wearily. "I threw them out of my office."
"I walked out of hers."
The therapist nodded slowly, as if considering something. "What were you doing there so early?"
She snapped her head up, startled. "What?"
"You said you caught them at six o'clock." He paused. "Do you usually go to work that early?"
"I was working on something," she said quickly. "I was behind, and needed to get to work early."
In truth, she'd slipped from bed with her husband to avoid coffee together, to avoid breakfast and sitting through rush hour traffic so that he wouldn't try to attempt another conversation about alternative solutions to becoming pregnant.
But she wasn't about to tell Sweets that.
He nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on her for a moment, but he finally shrugged, turning back to his drink.
She wondered how much the kid actually saw - in her colleagues and herself. Desperate to put the focus back on her best friends, she turned on her stool, facing him. "They're insane, right? I mean, you must see that they're denying their feelings for one another. Booth doesn't want to rock the boat - I saw his face today. He knows this is absolutely ridiculous and... unhealthy, right? That kind of denial is unhealthy."
Sweets simply watched her, his glass rolling in his fingers.
"And Brennan - my god. The woman's living in a different reality if she thinks she can take the one man in her life that she trusts with her past, with her family and her feelings, and make him some sort of... fuck buddy," she spit out. "She... she loves that man. God knows if she'll ever admit it to herself. But they're going to ruin everything, aren't they?"
Sweets sighed heavily, setting down his drink, and Angela was surprised to feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "That just... that can't happen," she said desperately. "They love one another, they work so well together. They have so much potential to just be... amazing. And it's just this one thing, this one thing they can't seem to work out." She trembled slightly, setting down her wine. "Can that really be enough to wreck everything?"
The therapist looked her in the eye. "Angela. It takes both people to make it work. Both halves of a couple have to be willing to come together and be honest and find compromise to be able to go through life in any sort of relationship. And if one or both of those people is unwilling to lay it all out on the table, then yes. That 'one thing' can be their downfall."
She swallowed, her eyes swimming, her vision blurring. Digging in her purse, she pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the bar. "I have to go," she blurted out quickly, dropping off the stool.
She had to find her husband.
The familiar glow of the clock in the dead of night mocked her. Again. 1:26 in the morning. And again, she lay awake, willing herself a slumber that never came. This was becoming practically laughable.
There was a difference between this and her other sleepless nights. She was utterly exhausted at this point, both physically and psychologically, and her drained body wasn't craving sex. Although... her mind drifted to their earlier encounter, Booth's lips at her breast as he gasped his impending climax, drilling her frantically against the bathroom wall...
Stop.
No. It was a very... stimulating memory. But it wasn't the culprit behind her wide-open eyes tonight. She felt unsettled. Her best friend was angry with her. She had been kicked out of therapy (what ever happened to unconditional positive regard, she asked herself petulantly). And she and her partner... her anchor, who had always been the one she counted on for comfort, for stability, for normalcy... had three modes lately: working, fighting, and having desperate sex. Something was missing.
She needed to do something. What was that exercise that Sweets had taught them? Guided imagery. He had taken them to the beach. Not literally, but after talking them through progressive muscle relaxation, he had them close their eyes while he described it to them... the sounds of the waves and the seagulls cawing. The salty smell of the sea air. The feel of the warm sand between their toes, and the baking of the sun on their shoulders. Every sensory experience was accounted for in that narrative, and when he told them to open their eyes once more, she had truly felt refreshed. Like she had taken a weekend vacation, rather than a 20-minute journey in her mind. Even Booth had been impressed, telling Sweets, "Wow. I can almost feel the sand in the crack of my ass." Sweets had told them that anytime they felt they needed an escape, their mind could take them to the most relaxing, comforting place they had ever experienced.
Forcing her eyes closed and her tight muscles into relaxation, she took several slow, deep breaths into her belly. Her mind wandered, searching for a return to the place where she found the most peace. Her mother's kitchen. Her lab. The beach. The forest.
A cabin in the woods.
Her thoughts lingered there, breezing back and forth between the memories, picking up the feelings, instead of the action. The uncharacteristic openness of both of them, her empathy in hearing of Booth's struggles, her delight in his joking, the wonder at feeling cared for by him, trusted by him. Their guards had been down. And they could do that for each other, because of the implicit respect and trust between them. They could be sad, and scared, and silly, and happy, and themselves. And it had not mattered, that it was not a Tuesday.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her muscles were relaxed, but her chest felt tight. Sex aside, what happened at that cabin was not a singular or unique event in the course of their relationship. It merely epitomized the closeness they had come to share.
And she missed it.
She rolled over, clutching onto one of her firm pillows. She remembered what Booth had told her after their intense post-fight (okay, during-fight) sex, when they had returned from the cabin. It had surprised her, but she had assumed that when he said he missed her, he meant the physical act itself; the touching, the kissing, the near-perfect way their bodies fit together. Now, she wondered if there were more. Whatever it was that keeping her awake tonight, body satisfied with their morning interlude, but heart yearning. It seemed like everyone was against her right now. She wanted desperately to be in a place where she fit.
Giving up, she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, finding her slippers there. Nothing worked. Not writing, not exercising, not working. She did not bother to change into real shoes or real clothes before she left her house and climbed in her car. What was the point?
It took a while for him to answer her knock. His bleary, exhausted eyes were reflected in her own.
"I couldn't sleep," she said simply, by way of explanation.
He looked at her intently, so much so that she nearly regretted her decision to leave her apartment in her slippers, hair unbrushed, flannel pajama shorts still in place. It felt suspiciously like knocking on her parents' bedroom door, after she had a nightmare. She felt a little too vulnerable.
"It's late, Bones," he told her. "And... it's Wednesday."
"I know." She realized then how it must seem, her coming here in the middle of the night, and Angela's accusation rang in her mind. A glorifed fuck-buddy. "That's not what I came for," she said quickly.
He stood aside. After a second's hesitation, she entered. Door closed, him facing her with an expectant gaze, she realized the rub to all of this.
She had no idea what she came for.
She was in her pajamas. He ran his eyes over her, ending with the slippers on her feet, and he was suddenly struck with the thought that something was wrong. If she wasn't here for sex, something must have happened.
"What's wrong?" he asked quickly, his muscles tensing. "Did something happen? Is it your dad, or -"
"No, no," she said quickly. "I was just..."
Her eyes looked anxious, her eyes wide, and he guided her quickly into the living room, ushering her towards the couch. He took a seat on the coffee table in front of her, his hand falling to her bare knee.
"Bones," he said quietly. "What is it?"
She took in a deep breath, her eyes flickering around the room, avoiding his. "I don't know, I just... I couldn't sleep," she said in a rush. "And I kept thinking about how mad Angela is, and I'm still worried that she and Jack aren't going to work things out and Sweets -" She sucked in air. "Sweets threw us out. What does that mean? Is he going to separate us? He's so mad. What's he going to -"
"Bones, Bones," he murmured, grabbing for her hands, which were gesturing wildly. "Hey, it's okay. We'll sort it all out, alright?"
She nodded tightly, her eyes shining. She looked so vulnerable he could hardly think straight - she rarely allowed herself to panic in such a way, and the simple fact that she was here in the middle of the night without even wearing shoes said something.
"We'll talk to Sweets," he said quietly. In reality, it had been what had kept him tossing and turning in his own bed, and he had yet to come up with an answer himself.
"But what do we say?" she asked, her lower lip trembling. "He doesn't want to talk to us, Booth. He thinks we don't... that we don't care. But I do care, I do. I just don't understand what it is he wants me to do, what he thinks I'm not getting -"
Her voice was rising, and she was nearly hysterical. He pulled her towards him, tugging her into his chest. "Shhh," he said, stroking her tangled hair. "Hey, it's okay. I know you care, alright?"
"But I don't know... I've never not gotten something that has to do with my job, Booth," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm used to people telling me that socially I just don't get it, but you're... you're my partner. I work with you, I have to go to therapy for work, and I'm just... I'm bad at it. The more I try and understand the more I screw it up." She sucked in a quivering breath. "He's going to split us up, isn't he? Because I can't get it right."
He closed his own eyes, trying to stay calm for her, rubbing her back in soothing circles. "No, hey. No one's splitting us up, you got that?" He pulled back from her, cupping her chin. "I won't let anyone. I promise."
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she nodded once, her eyes shining wetly. "But..."
"Baby, it's not just you, okay?" he finally admitted. "I was there, too. I don't know what he wants from us, either. You didn't fail. We just haven't figured it out yet, okay?"
She nodded again, and he held her for several more minutes until she suddenly pulled out of his arms, standing up quickly. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I'm sorry I woke you up."
He stood up, surprised by her sudden switch in behavior. "I wasn't sleeping," he admitted. "You didn't wake me."
She nodded stiffly, then headed towards the front door, and he followed her. When she reached it, however, she didn't leave. She turned to face him again, and he saw the tears threatening to spill. "Angela won't even talk to me," she whispered.
The artist's words have been haunting him since yesterday morning, and he swallows. Booth. I know that you know what I'm saying is true.
"She's just upset," he said softly, stepping towards her. "She loves you; she'll come around."
She nodded, and finally he saw the tears leaking from her eyes, and her lower lip wavered. Stepping forward, he put his arms around her, cupping her bottom, and she jumped up, her legs wrapping around his waist. Her cheek dropped to his shoulder as he made his way slowly towards his bedroom.
When he settled in bed next to her, he simply pulled her against him, tugging the covers up around them. There were no frantic kisses or a flurry of hands moving over one another. Her head tucked into the crook at his neck and shoulder, and her eyes fluttered closed as they both drifted towards sleep.