ANGELA

I stop at the doorway of the bones room, checking up on Brennan, unseen. I'm worried about her.

People don't understand Brennan like I do and that's because they're not willing to invest the time and energy to find out what's beneath her cool façade. She's one of the most intelligent people in the world, I'd guess, and she wields her intellect like a sword to keep people from getting too close. I used to think it was foster care that had really messed her up, until Hodgins had volunteered his take that it was more than that.

"It would be hard for any kid to be abandoned then turned over to foster care. But for a kid with Asperger's?"

"Asperger's. What's that?"

"A form of autism."

"Autism? No way. Uh-uh. Are you forgetting who we're talking about here? Brennan, the genius. The top forensic anthropologist in the country? I know she's a little awkward but-"

"It's not uncommon for people with Asperger's to have superior intelligence. Does this sound familiar? Difficulty forming friendships, difficulty understanding feelings and expressing empathy, interpreting sarcasm and jokes, understanding and identifying emotions," Hodgins ticks off. "Limited range of interests, appears cold and aloof, self-absorbed—"

"I get it. So if she has this As—As—

"Asperger's."

"Asperger's. Ending up in foster care—"

"Would have been beyond terrifying. Hell. It would have been hell. It's a testament to her strength that she's made this life for herself…"

Asperger's or not, she's just Brennan to me. Something's going on with her and I'm not sure what, but I'm going to do my best to squeeze it out of her.

"Hey," I greet, as I walk into the room. Brennan looks up, but she's clearly still preoccupied. "You've been staring at Leishenger's skull a really long time. Are you trying to get that thing to talk to you?" I joke. This time when she looks at me, she's confused.

"Are you being metaphoric?"

"No, I was just trying to lighten the mood. Didn't work." At all. Her eyes and her attention are already back on the skull again.

"The mastoid process is generally not a target in close-quarter combat," she mulls aloud. "Perhaps I should examine it microscopically." Wow, she really has been out of it, which is worrisome. The last time she was so engrossed in a set of remains – a chill rushes through me – it hadn't been good.

"You told me that an hour ago. What is going on? I mean, is this about Vincent?" Lowering the skull, she nods, still not looking at me.

"Yes," she admits somberly. She looks at me, briefly, then lowers her head again,

"Yeah." I turn my head away. It still doesn't feel real that he's gone.

"And…" She pauses long enough that my attention snaps back to her. I get the impression she's struggling to decide if she should say something, then seems to make up her mind. "I got into bed with Booth last night." My jaw drops open and my eyes bug out.

"Wh—" I can't even speak, I'm so stunned.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Brennan asks. How do I even answer that? I mean… oh my god!

"Because I don't want to yell 'hallelujah' so close to losing Vincent," I explain when I find my voice. I mean… oh my god!

"I think I did it because of Vincent." Did it? Did what? Climb into bed with Booth? Or was there something more. I mean… oh my god!

"Wait! Whoa!" I blow out a breath, gathering my thoughts. "What exactly happened after you crawled into bed with Booth?" I can barely contain myself. I hold my breath waiting for an answer. Brennan shifts on her feet the way she does when she's uncertain and I am about to scream in anticipation. I mean… oh my god!

She never does answer, but the breathy laugh and the lift of one corner of her mouth then the other, makes words unnecessary. Oh my god… oh my god… oh my god. I don't think my smile could be any bigger.

"I got the G.C. mass spec results back on the bullet that killed Vincent," Hodgins announces, rushing into the room and heading straight for the computer. I love the man, but if he doesn't get out of here, I may have to kill him.

"Honey, no, not right now," I practically shout. But he has to go. Now. "I'm sorry. I love you, but go tell Cam," I order. He stares at me shocked and Brennan looks over her shoulder at him and her brows lift, surprised as he is. "Go. Away." Mouth hanging open and with a confused sigh he starts back towards the door, then pauses to look at me again. I'm in no mood to be polite. "A-way," I order again. Throwing up his hands he leaves the room and Brennan has my full attention again. "Are you saying…" I shake my head and blink my eyes. "Do you mean… Did you and Booth…" There's that smile again.

"Yes." That's it. 'Yes.' Sometimes it's difficult to have a best friend you have to pry everything out of.

"And?" I draw the word out in hint. She tilts her head and there's that confused look again.

"And, what?" I mentally scream in frustration.

"Details, Brennan, details! How was it? How was he? Is he as confident in the sack as he seems? The gun in his holster – is it a snub nose or magnum?" She frowns.

"I don't think Booth would like me to answer that. He's a very private man." I'm about to protest when she seems to reconsider. "Although…" This time she's the one drawing out the word "…I will say his physique is very pleasing and the length of his refractory period is…" she laughs low in her throat, "…quite impressive." Leave it to her to muddle up a sex talk with scientific gobblety-gook.

"His refractory period," I repeat. I don't try to disguise the roll of my eyes. "What is a refractory period, she asks, not really wanting to know."

"The time between orgasm and when a man – or woman – can be `aroused again." Alright. A bit sterile, but we're getting somewhere. She suddenly gives me a sly smile and I brace for whatever's to come. "Or, as you like to say, 'how long until he can get down with it again.'" I'm shaking my head before she's through. Brennan and slang are not a good mix.

"Sweetie, no. No," I insist, then correct, "You mean 'get it up.' And for the record, I have never said that. Have you been watching Jersey Shore again?" When she looks at me her eyes are blank. I'm losing her. "The Guido tribe documentaries?" She pulls down the magnifying lamp down to examine something that's caught her attention on Leishenger's skull. I sigh heavily. "Never mind." She shoves away the lamp abruptly and grabs the calipers.

"Forty-four millimeters," she mumbles to herself. "I know what happened." Setting the calipers down on the tray, she dashes for the door.

"Brennan." I'm actually shocked when she stops and turns around to look at me.

"Several years ago, we had a case involving sexual role play—"

"Oh, yeah," I cut her off with a laugh, "Giddy up, Cowboy."

"Yes, that's the one," she confirms. "Booth called it 'crappy sex'." That gives me a moment's pause. Hodgins and I aren't into pony play, but a little bit of role playing now and then adds some spice to our sex life. Then again, we are talking about Booth.

"Well, yeah. He's a devout Catholic who secretly wishes he was Ward Cleaver." Brennan frowns.

"I don't know what that means."

"Leave It to Beaver?" I hold my breath hoping she knows this little piece of trivia, but the blank look says it all. "Never mind. Booth is a throwback, sweetie. He wishes he lived in Post WWII America when families still dressed for church every Sunday and sat down together for dinner each night. A wife, two kids, a dog for his son and a cat for his daughter and a house in the suburbs. He actually believes in God, country and family. It's not an act. Pony play? No way." She shrivels her nose and shakes her head.

"Booth doesn't care for cats." I sigh, mentally. That's all she took away? Sometimes it's just best to leave it alone .

"You were saying? Crappy sex?"

"Pony play is not as uncommon as some people believe and some variation of 'pet play' has long been a part of some cultures. The Ottawa and Ho-Chunk tribes, for instance, would perform fertility dances while dressed as swans or geese, while the Iroquois and Pueblo tribes would dress as eagles. In 14th century Europe, in "Aquamanile in the Form of Aristotle and Phyllis," Aristotle is depicted wearing a bridle with a woman sitting astride his back, which is why pony play is sometimes referred to as 'The Aristotelian Perversion. In 1911, cave drawings—"

"Sweetie, while I find all this fascinating," I lie through my teeth, "What does it have to do with you and Booth?" Laying a hand on my stomach, I give the baby a nudge to encourage it to move off my bladder before I have to race from the room. Nothing doing. I'm not going anywhere until I get something out of Brennan.

"As I told Booth, whether or not pony play is 'crappy sex' is purely subjective, but after he'd waged his argument, I'd had to concede he was right." I wait expectantly for more. Nothing.

"Let's pretend I can't see inside your head," I suggest, then add, "Not that I'd probably understand most of what goes on in there anyway. His argument?"

"He told me…"

"Here we are, all of us, basically alone, separate creatures just circling each other, all searching for the slightest hint of a real connection. Some look in the wrong places. Some, they just give up hope because, in their mind, they're thinking, 'Oh, there's nobody out there for me.' But all of us, we keep trying over and over again. Why? Because every once in a while, every once in a while, two people meet and there's that spark. And yes, he's handsome and she's beautiful, and maybe that's all they see at first. But making love? Making love. That's when two people become one."

By the time she finishes, my eyes are bugging out of my head, my mouth is hanging open and I'm having difficulty putting a coherent sentence together. I mean… oh my God. And now, the pinch of her brows and tilt of her head says I have confused her.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" she asks me for the second time in the last five minutes.

"I… I… I…," I stutter, "I don't even know where to begin," I admit then give my head a little shake. "I… wow… Booth said that? And you remembered it?" I mean we're talking emotions and feelings here, not five-hundred-year-old remains found in some creepy crypt.

"I remember every word Booth has ever said to me." Her matter-of-fact tone tells me Brennan has no clue of the enormity of what she's said. I need to stew on this thought for a little while and maybe give it a test ride later. For now…

"And Booth? I always knew the soul of a poet lived beneath his tough guy exterior but…" I blow out an impressed breath. Man, there are times I've wished I'd taken Booth on a test drive… not that he'd offered.

"I don't believe in souls…" I part my lips to scream when she finishes with, "…but I know what you mean. Booth is a very romantic man," she agrees but something in her tone makes my eyes narrow.

"You are happy, aren't you, sweetie?" I ask then wait for an answer. She turns her face away from me and shifts from leg-to-leg. Time ticks by one silent second at a time. When she finally looks at me again she lifts a hand and drops it.

"I don't always know what I feel," she admits, "And right now, all I can concentrate on is finding anything that might help Booth get Broadsky. I need to speak with Hodgins now."

And just like that, I'm staring at an empty doorway. Not that I'm surprised. When Brennan's done speaking, she's simply done. Truthfully, I'm more shocked she engaged for as long as she did.

I take a pair of steps backwards and slowly lower myself down onto the stool, pressing a hand against my stomach as I find my balance. The little guy is reacting to my emotions, doing somersaults with a kick tossed in here and there for good measure.

Brennan may not be sure what she's feeling, but there are three things I know with absolutely certainty: She's in love with Booth, she is happy… and if anything happens to Booth, I don't know if she'll ever let anyone get close to her again…