Part 1

Septime La Cave

A/N So I wrote this a year ago. Since then I've done some creative writing and one of the things I've learnt is that editing is an essential tool to improving one's writing. I found writing this story an intense experience in which I would write a chapter and post it within 5-7 days. I had no consciousness of how to write other than the story I was trying to put together. I have since returned to reading in-depth - 40 plus novels since writing this now under my belt (to quote Stephen King 'you can read and not write but you can't write and not read') - and have realised how much was lacking in the prose. I realised that what I had produced, and what was followed by readers, was a first draft. It was also a great opportunity. I know some would say just move on to the next thing but I had 50k words to work on and improve. Editing is just as important as the creativity of birthing a story.

Changes: there are no changes to the story, however, there is an additional chapter from Angela's point of view that didn't originally appear.

Chapters now have names. Chapters have also been lengthened so that some that were two chapters are now one, improving the flow.

Parts have been introduced.

Improvements: I have really tried to address the balance between 'show and tell'. The original draft was full of clunky metaphor and the overuse of telling adjectives and adverbs. I have tried where possible to move away from telling to showing, or at least to find a suitable balance - you can't just show without telling either. In this chapter, for example, the lines : it was cold' has been changed to ' A blanket of goosebumps covered her body.' and 'She braced herself' has been changed to 'She pulled her shoulders back and clasped her hands in front of her.' I have tried to bring in better descriptive and sensory detail.

I have hopefully addressed the issues with narrative voice. Originally, the text would constantly shift between Brennan and Booth's perspectives, from paragraph to paragraph or even mid dialogue. Now it is either from chapter to chapter which should hopefully be obvious, or if point of view changes within a chapter it is indicated by a division line.

I have removed all original author notes. I don't know what happens to the original reviews but if you're reading this a second time having joined me on the ride when this was first written, thank you so much for your encouragement. It was such a thrill writing this with you. If you're new to this story, I hope you 'enjoy' it. It's a tough subject matter and I was anxious about ever using rape as a narrative tool just for entertainment but as I was writing I realised that what I was doing was processing all the stories of the friends for whom this was close to reality in some way, and all the news articles I've read and taken on my shoulders. It was my way of making sense of what too many women experience.

Thursday 9pm

"Hannah, she's not a consolation prize, I love her." Dr Temperance Brennan shook her head, refocusing her attention to the bones laid out meticulously on a chrome gurney before her. A young man, in his early twenties. A simple case diagnostically. Cause of death appeared to be in the form of a gunshot to the torso, piercing the ribs and breaching the heart. Death would have been almost instantaneous. With her characteristic due diligence, extraordinary eye for minute detail and professional compartmentalisation the forensic anthropologist continued to examine the bones for further clues that might reveal more about his life and violent demise.

Whenever a murder case came in, the Jeffersonian medico-legal lab staff committed unswervingly to solving each case quickly. However, it was nearing nine o'clock in the evening after a busy day. Dr Camille Saroyan, Head of the Forensic Division, looked up at the open forensics platform in the centre of the science lab. Her heels echoed as she walked across the cavernous space. Blues, pipes, and metal were the enormous room's defining features.

With a sigh, she observed Dr Brennan, neatly dressed in her dark blue lab coat with her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, talking animatedly to her intern, Mr Vincent Nigel-Murray - whose own light grey lab coat had several buttons undone - who shifted on his feet and rotated his neck. The pathologist couldn't hear the conversation, but it was easy to assume that Dr Brennan was educating her student - pointing at the bones and holding small ones out to him – and Mr Nigel-Murray's eyes were drooping though this did nothing to pause his mentor's flow. Cam entered the platform. She pulled her shoulders back and clasped her hands in front of her.

'Dr Brennan, Mr Nigel-Murray, it is time to be heading home for the night.' Vincent looked at Cam with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing silently.

'No, Dr Saroyan, we have a murder to solve-'

'And it will still be here in the morning. Mr Nigel-Murray, you may go home.' Vincent quickly looked between the two women and deciding the lesser of two evils was his teacher's wrath, he scampered away.

'Mr Nigel-Murray is my intern, and I am the one who should dismiss him.' Brennan almost-but-not-quite stamped her foot.

'And as I remind you regularly, I am your boss.' Cam's tone softened: 'Dr Brennan, you've been working for two days and nights non-stop. I must insist that you go home and sleep. I know you want to catch this young man's killer, and his family are lucky to have you working on his case, but you are going to make yourself ill.'

Brennan breathed deeply through flared nostrils, jutting out her jaw. Dr Saroyan's erect posture made it clear she was not to be moved on the matter.

It had been two days since Brennan had laid her heart on the line for her work partner, FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth. A case had struck a personal chord with her: in victim Lauren Eames she had seen her own loneliness reflected back at her. Her world had turned upside down and in so doing she had finally allowed herself to act on her love for him. It had been so hard for the last few months seeing him with his girlfriend, Hannah. It had been easy, however, to see him happy. When she had smiled for him, she had meant it. She liked her, what was not to like? A courageous, confident, exceptional woman. Jealousy had tried to worm its way into her soul, and she had rejected it. Such petty emotions were unworthy of her: she dismissed them as irrational. But it had taken effort.

When she had finally told Booth that she had listened to the universe, that she didn't want any regrets, it wasn't with the intention of breaking up his relationship. It had instead been a rare moment of her emotions ruling her behaviour. The realisation that she did not want to feel regret was briefly more powerful than the obvious rationale that Booth would not abandon his current loving relationship for the woman – her - who had rejected him in no uncertain terms more than a year ago.

He had said he had moved on and so can she. She has spent years perfecting the art of burying her feelings, accepting that she will remain alone, convincing herself that this is rational because all relationships are destined to fail. Having rashly allowed hope to break through her shell, she would rearm herself. But the feelings were strong and tumultuous, and the stoic anthropologist was discovering that Love would not so easily be put back into its box.

She packed up her things, collecting various papers to take home to continue working. As she drove from the Jeffersonion, home was suddenly the last place she wanted to be. She was tired, beyond tired really yet she felt a compulsion to keep active despite the exhaustion gnawing at her bones. Without warning, she pulled up at a bar several blocks from her apartment. She had never before stepped foot in Septime La Cave. Low blue lighting suffused the dark wine bar – she was oblivious to its artful trendiness, caring only that she could disappear into the darkness. The air tasted of sweat and sweetness. Selecting a secluded corner, she ordered a bottle of red wine.

xxx

Brennan shivered. A blanket of goosebumps covered her body. Slowly, she attempted to open her eyes, squinting into the darkness. Her head pounded. One eye resisted; it felt bigger than it should. As if pulled by a magnet, her right hand found its way to the source of the pounding: the back of her skull was sticky and wet. Groggy and confused, she began to catalogue her physical state: she was slumped on the ground against a brick wall; a hard, cold wetness seemed to attack every skin cell. Craning her head forward awkwardly to look down at herself, her stomach lurched, a wave assaulting her. She turned, vomiting heavily, and yelped as she placed both hands on the unforgiving ground to steady herself and her left wrist gave way in pain. She fell to the side, landing hard on her right shoulder.

Where was she? What had happened? She was injured somehow. Righting herself gingerly, her shaking hand reached for her phone in her jacket pocket. But she wasn't wearing it. Spinning, she looked dazedly at her clothes, observing with disconnected surprise that she was coatless, her blouse was ripped, her bra and torso exposed. She had been wearing leggings and boots, but they were no longer upon her body. Her knickers too were absent. She looked at her almost naked self with detached horror. Brennan held her breath and only one thought entered her head: 'Booth. I need Booth'.

With singular focus and extreme effort to ignore the nausea and pain - which she now also detected in her ribs - she contorted herself on to all fours. She couldn't seem to hold any weight on her left wrist, so she hobbled towards her handbag which she spied across the urban alley – the metre or so distance feeling like a mile. Her bare knees and hands were on fire as they grazed the uneven tarmac. Emptying the bag's contents onto the sodden tarmac and rummaging through the items, against the odds she found her phone. With fumbling fingers and fighting spinning and bleary eyesight she dialled Booth's number.

Friday 1.30am

Booth listened to the soft rumble of Hannah snoring beside him. They had both had long - though fulfilling - days at work. He loved his work with the FBI but the grim reality of facing death daily took its toll. Furthermore, the last few days weighed heavily on him. It had taken him many miles and many months to move on from Bones's rejection. His love for her couldn't simply be switched off overnight.

Now he found himself in a delicately balanced position. It had been a relief to return from Afghanistan, back to his son, to the Hoover. To Bones. He had learnt from the best: he compartmentalised. His feelings for his partner were in the past. They were great friends, the best of work partners, their murder-solve success rate unrivalled in his department. Working with her was something in which he took pride, and he was inspired by her brilliance every day.

As he had embarked upon a new relationship with Hannah, he had not given much thought to how Bones would be affected. She had said she couldn't change. To him, that meant that she couldn't ever make herself available to love him, however much he loved her. He had understood that patience had been needed to win her over but then he had gambled. And lost. The line had been drawn. As a recovering gambling addict, he had been self-disciplined enough to walk away.

Their working relationship had continued unhindered. Bones had embraced Hannah; she had even saved her life. Booth had felt that now he had the best of both worlds. Bones was still in his life, together they were doing what they do best, and at home he had a woman who loved him. The deck of cards was well stacked into an attractive pyramid.

Then two days ago Bones had pulled out a card.

Lying in bed next to his girlfriend, he flinched at the recent memory of Bones sobbing in his SUV. He had been so worried about her over those three days of the Lauren Eames case, as had her colleagues. She had reacted to the case with uncharacteristic emotion, seeming to take the death so personally. Following her in his car had seemed unnatural, a betrayal, but his gut instinct had told him that her safety was compromised – he had been right, rescuing her from an oncoming vehicle as she obliviously examined evidence in the road, drenched to the bone from the rain.

He had never seen her so vulnerable. Even at her weakest moments such as being buried alive and in New Orleans after a violent attack, she had kept her front of emotional steel intact. Seeing her cry, over him, had cut him to the quick. And now, two days later, it continued to eat at him. In the moment, he had done his best to let her down gently. It had been an utter surprise to hear her admit her feelings for him, that she had changed her mind. He had so long ago accepted her decision that he had been caught off guard.

There was nothing practically he could have done. He had asked if he could call someone, but she had pulled herself together and claimed she was fine on her own. Time was that he would have kept a friendly eye on her, ensured that she was eating, and they would have poured over work files late into the night, sharing Thai food. It was only appropriate once Hannah was in his life that there was a clearer distinction between work and home life. At times since his return from Afghanistan he had let his mind wander to what she was doing of an evening. Was she still at the lab? He missed their evening drinks. But he would suppress such thoughts and refocus his attention to his girlfriend. He was happy. Wasn't he?

Since her admission in his car, he had barely seen her. He had called her best friend Angela a number of times. She had reported that Brennan seemed calmer and less distraught than she had done, but also that she hadn't returned home. A new case had come in and Bones was focused on the body in the lab. He hadn't asked her to join him in the field, feeling that a few days distance would do them both good. So, he kept tabs on her via her best friend. Now, he wondered if he had chosen the right course of action. He hadn't told Hannah about their emotionally charged exchange, and this too weighed on his conscience.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. Relieved to have an excuse to leave the sleepless bed, he quickly grabbed it and headed out of the bedroom to avoid waking his girlfriend.

It was Bones. Immediately his senses were on high alert.

'Booth?' He just about heard the cracked voice.

'Bones? Bones, what's wrong?'

'I…I…. you need to…I …help me…' he heard her stutter thickly.

'Bones. I need you to listen to me. Where are you?' He started dressing himself, cradling the phone beneath his stubbled chin as he wrestled a t-shirt and pulled at his jeans. His ears started pounding, his chest tightened. Bones didn't sound like Bones.

'I…I …don't know… I… Something…'

'Bones! Bones!' Booth shouted as he received no further reply. His Ranger training kicked in. His ability to remain cool under pressure is a key contributing factor to his success as a sniper, in the army and as an FBI Agent. Despite his rising heart rate, he managed to regain a calm voice.

'Bones, I'm running a trace.' He reached for Hannah's phone and called the FBI, requesting an urgent trace on Brennan's number. The location identified, Booth finished dressing as quickly as possible. A series of terrifying scenarios ran through his mind and with all his strength he dismissed them. Bones needed him and he needed to get to her now.

'Seeley?' Hannah moaned.

'Sorry, baby, I didn't mean to wake you. It's Bones. Something's happened. I have to go.' He fought with his shoes as he spoke.

'Is Temperance ok?' Hannah pushed a long strand of golden hair from her leonine eyes.

'I don't know. I gotta go.' Booth rushed out the door without a kiss goodbye.