This Is Life
Rated T for implications. No sex in this chapter I'm afraid, but keep reading!
"Brennan, I finished the reconstruction on the vic," Angela said, stepping into her office and brandishing a sketch pad in her hand. "If my drawing is accurate, and I totally believe it is, this girl was pretty." Brennan nodded, taking the pencil sketch into her hand.
She already expected that the girl would be. She had wide almond shaped eyes and although there was no colour, Brennan knew they were dark brown, high cheekbones, a heart shaped face, full lips and a little nose. Angela had drawn her with long flowing hair and a tiny smile. She liked to believe that the bodies they identified once harboured smiles on their faces.
"She was pretty," Brennan agreed. "It's perfect, Angela."
Returning the drawing to her friend's hand, Brennan turned back to her notes. "Alright Tempe, what gives?" Angela asked, crossing her arms, her expression stern. Brennan frowned, pulling a magnifying glass across one of the photographs, narrowing her eyes at the woman's femur.
"I think the woman was stabbed, Angela. I doubt those injuries would have killed her but…" Angela shook her head.
"That's not what I mean," she said. "You've confined yourself to this office all afternoon, pouring over pictures and notes and God knows what else!" Brennan lifted her head, brushing her hair aside.
"Goodman wants some answers, Ange. I can't wander about the lab all day, you know that." Angela frowned, shaking her head.
"Nuh uh, something is going on. There's something you're not telling me!" Her tone accused, and she wasn't smiling. "You're keeping secrets, Brennan. What secrets?" Brennan sighed, smoothing her hand across her forehead, a dull throb beating insistently against her temples.
"Angela—"
"Lie to me, Brennan and I'll know about it." Her friend's tone was warning and her expression made Brennan think of a child being reprimanded. Suddenly she felt afraid to lie. Angela was intuitive, street savvy and would sooner or later come to the conclusion that no one else would:
"I slept with Booth," she said.
Angela was still for a long moment and Brennan felt the smallest amount of gratification in knowing that her friend didn't quite know how to respond. When her mouth formed an 'O', Temperance turned one corner of her mouth up and nodded.
"Yeah. Oh."
Angela dropped unto the sofa, setting her sketch book aside, resting her elbows on her knees. "Well, why so glum? Was it… you know… bad?" Brennan shook her head, frantic, her hair fanning around her cheeks that glowed pink.
"No! It was…," she sighed, pressing her forehead to her desk. "It was perfect, Ange." When she sat up, a photograph had stuck there, and she pulled it away, her shoulders slumped. "That's what bothers me. When he fell asleep last night-"
"Booth stayed over?" Angela asked, her jaw slack. "So this is more just a… fuck thing?" Brennan growled.
"Yes," she sighed. "I kept thinking about how I never wanted him to be gone. And then this morning, when he was, I realised it would be another seven days until he was back and last week was torment," she inhaled deeply, shaking her head. Angela was shaking her head, too.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there," she said, lifting her hand. "Last week? This has happened before? You and Booth are… regularly doing this then?" Brennan shook her head.
"No. Just twice." Her cheeks flamed. "The first time… it was a distress thing. Booth was comforting me. But this time-"
"Comforting you? Why?" Angela drank the information in, relishing the gossip.
"The lights went out in the FBI Archives. I was shook up, because of what had happened with the dogs… and the FBI agent and… Jesus Angela," she shook her head.
"You had sex, with Booth, in the FBI archives? God Brennan, you really are dirty little minx." Brennan groaned into her hands, her cheeks burning. "So how does the situation stand?"
Temperance thought of Booth, working on his case file, engrossed in his reports, and wished they'd said something more than they had last night. She wished they'd had a real conversation that involved more than perfunctory small talk. It was as though Booth was avoiding something.
"He said we needed to talk about some things. We never did, though. When I asked about it…," she sighed. "He just told me to sleep." Angela's shoulders slumped. "I'm going crazy, Ange. I can't stop thinking about him. I don't even like Booth. He's irritating and arrogant and egotistical and cocky! He's everything I hate about men." Angela shook her head, almost disappointed.
"Oh sweetie, of course you like him," she said.
"He irritates me!" Brennan insisted, trying harder to convince herself rather than Angela.
"You adore him," Angela insisted.
Brennan pulled her drawer open, rummaging inside for aspirin. Her hand stilled, and her head seemed to pound harder, in tandem with her racing pulse. "Yeh…" she said. "I do." And it bothered her that she didn't know what Booth had wanted to say. It bothered her more that he never explained his change in mood – the Jekyll and Hyde transformation from handsome and happy to…
Horny and furious.
Angela took her sketch book and stood, her eyes sympathetic. "You see, Brennan, love them and leave them, sweetie. Sentimentality is just… blah!" Temperance shook two pills into her palm, shaking them as though they were dice.
"There is so much sentimentality, Angela. In the way he touches me…," she blushed. "He's not the same Booth that you all know." Angela grinned, pressing her back against the door.
"That's why he's perfect, sweetie. He can whip you into a frenzy in the office and satisfy you in bed. What more could you possibly want?" Brennan contemplated this, tossing the pills into her mouth and washing them away with half a glass of water. It was purely psychological, but she felt the pain ease inside her head.
"What if…," Brennan paused, glancing sideways at her friend. "What if I am too afraid to admit that it's exactly what I want?" Angela, ever the fountain of wisdom was silent for a long time, her dark eyes fleeting across the office, her brow furrowed in a deep frown.
"No one can force to admit anything, Brennan," she said at last. "But my advice? I suggest you do – because a guy like that… they don't come along that often and there are plenty of women out there who would totally snatch him away." Then she grinned. "Women like me!" Brennan picked up her pen, signifying the end of their conversation. Angela pulled the door open and stepped into the lab. With her back turned, she spoke. "Bren? Think hard about what I said. Underneath the incorrigible attitude and macho display, I think he's a really good man."
When she was gone, Brennan dropped her pen, closed her eyes and resigned herself to the fact that, for the first time in years, she didn't give a damn about bones or identification.
She couldn't recall a time whenever her job had ever defeated her. Despite how difficult her tasks were, she solved the problems with a logical mind. Rational leaps of scientific faith. But with Booth, there was no logic. The way she felt couldn't be rationalised or categorised.
Emotionally, she failed.
She had to admit defeat.
The phone on her desk trilled and she jolted, snatching the receiver into her hand and barking her name down the phone.
"Bones? Are you alright?" His voice soothed and unnerved her. It was the most peculiar feeling.
"Not really," she admitted, pressing her fingertips to her pulse, feeling how it thudded against her skin. "Um, you said we needed to discuss some things. What things?" If she was going to admit any feelings, she needed to know what reservations he might be harbouring.
"That's why I called," Booth said. "Do you think, when you've finished, we could go out? Maybe for dinner?" Brennan felt her neck flush as she remembered how they'd foregone food the night before.
"That isn't like a code, is it, Booth?" She asked, raking her fingers through her hair.
"A code?" He queried.
"You aren't suggesting that we go back to my apartment and have sex, right?" He laughed gruffly, and she imagined he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
"No, Bones. I think we really need to talk. Face to face. Man to woman. Heart to heart." Brennan looked at the images before her, and decided she much preferred dealing with the dead. They didn't frighten her like the living. Like life.
"I don't like heart to hearts, Booth," she admitted, swallowing hard.
"No," he replied. "Me neither. But sometimes, we need to take a leap and ignore our fears." She nodded, aware that he couldn't see her response. It didn't matter, he seemed to understand. "How's eight thirty?" Brennan checked her watch. It wouldn't take long. In a few short hours, she'd be expected to speak of emotions and feelings and there was no avoiding it.
"Eight thirty is fine," she said, disconnecting the call.
Take a leap of faith, she thought, and admit defeat.
Flicking on her tape recorder she brought it to her lips. "Victim was Asian, possibly from the Indian sub-continent. A mark left in her femur suggests penetration from a long, sharp instrument…"
End.
A/N: I'm going to dedicate my next chapter to leaps of faith and emotional revelations. I hope you'll come back. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story so far! It's your kind words that encourage me to write, even when I'm over-worked and so tired! Thanks!
