Author's Note: My goodness, after all the cruel and evil cliffs I've left you hanging from already, you shouldn't trust me at all. And yet ... nearly all of you lovely readers seem to think I'll be kind to Booth. Now why would you think that? I'm evil, I tell you! Don't trust me.

~Q~

Fan Mail - A Certain Slant of Light

~Q~

He feels it before he quite knows what it is.

Booth draws a deeper breath as awareness slowly overflows his senses one by one, the way running water pours past full compartments to fill up the next one. A ticking clock, a voice on the street outside, cars humming past the apartment, a scolding bird somewhere close enough to hear through the closed window; warmth from sunlight falling through the window-blinds in bands across his face coupled with cool, a contrast created from ribbons of warm and not-so-warm shade stripping his skin; a soft sheet under his cheek.

And someone's eyes on him.

Cautiously, Booth allows one eyelid to pry itself apart just slightly and he takes a moment to enjoy the gyre of dust motes dancing in the slanting morning light. A single golden beam is reaching and in it he can see tiny specks moving in a soft tumble with each exhaled breath. They whirl and spin like gossamer snow flakes. His heart beats slow (not fast) even though he knows someone is there.

He breathes in; the dust flutters and his ribs push outwards against the couch that he switched to halfway through the night. A shoulder feels numb, one leg wants to stretch, one nerve twitches. He breathes out; the dust scatters and he falls back closer into the crack between seat and back. It's not comfortable. There's empty in his lungs so he fills them up again.

The angry bird has flown away and a car door slams.

He's never been so tuned into a moment before: all these sensations arriving in bursts so very distinct, each sensory detail etched deeply into his consciousness, almost painful in their combined intensity. It's the whole world entering through his senses, now set in high definition and he wonders ... he wonders if this is what it's always like for her. If her mind works this way, then this is part of the mystery that makes her Sherlock Bones.

A moment later there's another sensation: low, nearly a whisper and achingly slow. At first he can't tell whether he's hearing it, or feeling it. But it forms words.

"There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –"

Slowly spoken, haunting, nearly lost by the time it reaches his ear, the breathy alto caresses him with an almost reverent recital of verse.

He lets the other eye open, blinded by the shaft of sunbeam angling in through his window and the words, the light, the beauty all make him think of heaven. A sudden desire to go to Mass, to ensure he'll get there some day. A sudden surge of hope that maybe he's found heaven right here on earth but somehow twisted in the midst of despair as well. It makes him feel like crying.

"Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the Meanings are."

Things are different now.

Temperance Brennan is in the doorway, watching the light fall across his face, whispering poetry and somehow exposing her soul in the process.

It's the most intimate, spiritual union he's ever experienced, and yet she's unaware of what she's let him see.

Part of him wants to lay there all day, let her think he is still unaware so he can hear more of her precious soul spilling out in rhyme but the greater part needs release from the prison of sensation. With an alerting groan Booth rolls his head her way and blinks his eyes, letting her see that he is awake and though it more than halfway ruins the moment just to be awake he can't bear to ruin it all the way.

He speaks in a whisper, too. "That was beautiful."

She was beautiful, her eyes freezing into wintery skies at having been caught. Her hair tumbling loose and her skin glowing faintly, there was a softness to her that he thought might only come in early morning light. His entire body reacted, electrified and yet lust was the farthest thought from his mind.

Embarrassed now, she bit her lip and found a nice little corner to tuck her gaze into. "It's Emily Dickinson."

He suspected she was starting to understand that love could change light itself and he, in that unexpected awakening into total sensuality, wondered if he had caught a glimpse into the workings of her gifted mind. It came from the senses. First came the sensations, then the wellspring of genius washed everything, making all the little details sharp and clear, set in order by science only to be overturned by emotional waves that tumbled them all over again. It's intense and artistic, precise and untamed. Just like she is...

She was trying to explain.

"I ... I saw the light on you, and it's not winter but ... it's different."

Things were different now.

They were different.

Cautiously Booth pushed himself up to sit, noting she seemed a bit skittish now that he was awake and she'd been caught watching him from his bedroom doorway. He lightened the tension with a tease. "Are you often in the habit of watching men sleep?"

"No." Bones bit down on her lip and walked past him into the kitchen at last (perhaps her original destination, before the golden morning light had cautioned her to pause and appreciate). She stood at the center of the tiny space for cooking, looking around helplessly. "Do you have a coffee maker?"

The moment had passed. The light was shallow now that he was sitting, no longer golden but merely yellow. Booth pushed his feet to the floor, noting that even the shallow sunlight was more intensely yellow than it should be. "What time is it?"

"Almost eight. We're late."

"Shit." He said it without thinking, then blushed when he saw her making a face. "Sorry."

"I'm not offended by feces." A box of blueberry Pop Tarts had captured her attention, Brennan's nose crinkling with a degree of disgust that suggested she might actually prefer feces for breakfast. "How can you eat that?"

Booth laughed, joining her in the tiny kitchen. "It's for Parker. And I meant I'm sorry for the teasing we're both in for today."

"That is not suitable fare for a growing child."

Since when did she become a dietician in consultation with his litigious ex? Slightly defensive, Booth clutched at the box and flipped it around, showing her the ingredients panel. "It has fruit."

She leaned in, skimming the unpronounceable words rapidly and forming her verdict in an instant. "Plus zero fiber and an excessive amount of sugar. You might as well feed him a candy bar for breakfast!"

Or feces. That's what he heard her saying.

He slammed the box back into place on top of the refrigerator, trying to demonstrate his responsible parenting by way of demonstration: the box was once again out of his five year old son's reach. "You know what? One every couple of weeks is not going to hurt him."

"It sets a precedent." Before he could invent a suitable retort, she'd shifted gears and gone into reverse. "What teasing?"

"What?" Absently he queried her while reaching into a cabinet to haul out a huge red tub and snap off the lid. Coffee fumes perfumed the air.

"Why would anyone tease us today?"

Coffee grounds scooped and poised over a waiting filter, Booth turned from the plastic tub of Folgers just in time to catch another glimpse of antipathy for his food choices. His partner quickly attempted to hide her displeasure at sub-par coffee in the guise of searching the cupboards for coffee cups but he wasn't fooled. Her brews were highbrow, exotic blends which explained why her nose was still tilting up too far to see the cups right in front of her. (Well not everyone could — or wanted to — afford fancy Ethiopian beans at $10 bucks a pound, Ms. Moneybags.)

There was an electricity charging between them, the toss of her head, the growl in his throat, the potential in her curves far too fully revealed in skin-tight yoga bottoms and that little t-shirt she'd poured herself into last night. As Bones finally reached for the cups his eyes fell to the curve of her bust and he wondered why she couldn't have grabbed something more loose to sleep in. Sensing his annoyance she flicked a raised brow his way, challenging him on just about every level there was.

Taking her up on it, he spelled it out boldly. "Because we spent the night together."

And she was getting Folgers in her cup. (Let's set some precedents, Bones: simple guys serve simple coffee.)

Her brows knit together, two cups finally extracted and inspected briefly before being handed over. "So you're suggesting there will be gossip?"

Of course there would be but much as he hated it, he couldn't quite find it in himself to be angry about this particular round of anticipated scuttlebutt. His beautiful partner was standing there in skimpy sleepwear, bearing bed-tousled hair while handing him breakfast dishes. The only thing missing from this perfect situation was the fact that he didn't actually sleep next to her. Booth set the cups aside and turned for tomatoes, eggs and cheese, planning to whip them both up an omelet. Baiting her a little, Booth leaned in with a wry little grin. "Spending the night together and coming in late the next morning...?"

No bait taken. Brennan's eyes narrowed and she leaned back against the counter, glaring as if he were the one gossiping. "So two adults who sleep in the same domicile are presumed to have engaged in coitus?"

He shrugged.

"I thought you disliked gossip."

"I do." A bowl, a pan, a spatula and whisk all appeared on the small counter one by one. "People have been speculating about us already, this will just be fuel on the fire."

Taking the bowl and whisk from Booth, Brennan broke the silence with crackling shells. Golden suns floated at the bottom of the bowl, gyrating with each reach of her left arm for pepper and herbs. She spoke again, shaking things up (and not just with pepper and basil on the eggs). "It's baseless speculation. Let them talk."

"It's not baseless," Booth countered, leaving a tomato gutted on the cutting board so he could turn and face off against her.

"We work together and happened to sleep in proximity for one night: the leap to sexual intercourse doesn't follow reliably from such flimsy premises. Taking that logic, I enjoyed coitus with you at Christmas! And with Angela."

Oh, the ribald romp that bounced through his head at the proposed pairings. Booth stifled a laugh, knowing she had no idea where a man's thoughts might jump after a push like that. "No, you know what? It's a natural assumption to make. Everyone knows we're in love with each other."

Realizing he'd made a colossal misstep didn't take long, less than a second in fact. She jumped back like a scalded cat.

"What?! Why would anybody just assume that? It's not—"

"Whoa!" He wasn't sure why but it sounded like alarm, the reflexive denials every bit as involuntary as the burned cat squalling and running for cover.

Thoroughly rattled, Brennan was still talking over him, still shaking her head and so distressed that he was actually baffled by it. "I never told anyone I was in love with you."

So that should be the end of it as far as she was concerned and clearly she wanted him to believe it: that she'd never said it, that it wasn't true. For him, however, in the beginning was the word: all the signs pointed backwards to that first novel, a best-selling love poem set in blank verse. And the second one, the one he'd been reading last night, was even more proof.

"You didn't have to, Bones. It's written all over you, on your face, in your books, the ways you let me touch you. It's obvious. God, I don't know why I didn't see it sooner. I should have seen it."

And she looked positively panicked.

~Q~

Thank you! So many of you have left reviews over the last few chapters (and so many favorites, so many follows!) that I've felt pretty overwhelmed with amazement. You make it even more fun to write this story. :)