Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews to the last chapter! I love to hear from you guys. Sorry this has taken so long to post, apparently my boss no long believes in giving me time off. I've recently begun working with a fantastic beta, so hopefully this one will have less typos. Okay, read on!
The night did not pass easily for Temperance. Her dreams were filled with the tortured images of faces contorted in pain, rotting away into nothingness before her eyes, and of strained voices screaming in agony, begging for mercy. She heard the manic laughter of the unseen killer and felt sure that she could smell his rancid breath filling the air with his foul, wicked stench. When in the dream the killer walked past a mirror and Temperance saw the reflection of her own face, she awoke with a violent start, her heart racing in her chest as sweat dripped from her brow onto her pillowcase.
She laid in the dark for a few minutes, willing her ragged breathing to slow, trying to calm herself down. She was shaking slightly, she realized. The darkness of her room felt oppressive, and pushing herself up from the mattress, she quickly stepped across the room and flipped on the light.
It was silly, she knew, but as she crossed back to her bed, she was careful to avoid looking in the mirror. It was irrational, yes, but after the dream she knew that she was afraid of her own reflection. She was afraid of the wild eyes, the vacant stare that had answered in the dream when her gaze had strayed to the mirror. She was a killer. She was the evil she was supposed to fight against. She felt sick.
'Calm down,' she told herself, breathing deeply. 'This is ridiculous. You didn't kill anyone. Relax.' And yet, even as her rational mind explained to her that her brain was just trying to work through the details of the gruesome sights that she had seen, her body remained on alert, refusing to calm.
Eventually, when it became evident that she wasn't falling asleep again, she pushed herself back to her feet and padded softly across her room to the door. She pushed it open slowly and listened in silence. The only sound that greeted her was Booth's deep breathing.
She tiptoed out. A light from the kitchen cast the room in a faint amber glow, the pale light resting softly on Booth's sleeping face. Temperance stood for a moment, staring at him as he slept. His breathing was rhythmic and measured, peaceful and smooth. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. 'Wake up,' she silently willed. 'Wake up.' Booth, however, simply slept on.
Temperance blew out a quick sigh, mentally reminding herself that she was pathetic. She was a grown woman, supposedly independent, and yet here she was, standing in her living room at three am, staring at a sleeping man on her couch, wishing he would wake up and remind her that she was okay. With a slight shake of her head, she turned and walked back into her room.
However, even though she was lying in bed, her mind refused to shut up. 'What was the real reason you asked him to stay here tonight?' her brain nagged. 'What about last night? Why don't you want him to leave?' She covered her face with her hands. She knew the answer to these questions, of course. The case was getting to her; she was feeling pain at the sight of the victims' desecrated remains, she was feeling rage at their unknown killer, she was feeling a chest numbing ache with every new piece of information that she uncovered, but must fundamentally and most importantly, she was feeling. She was supposed to be able to disconnect from the horror of the cases. She had to. Feeling a personal connection led to mistakes, and, even more than that, feeling a personal connection to the dead led to psychological and emotional breakdowns. It had happened before to others in her field; the constant barrage of death that they were forced to deal with led to an emotional overload. If they weren't careful to keep themselves in check, they would be crushed under the weight.
She was never completely detached, of course. She always felt something for the victims, whether they were recent or ancient. She felt pity for them, wished they hadn't had to die, but that was as far as she let her emotions go. Allowing them to go further was dangerous.
And yet, as she lay there in the dark, Temperance knew that it was getting to her this time. She was jaded, exhausted by the deluge of human anguish that surrounded her constantly. On some level, she also understood that this was why she looked for forward to seeing Booth; he didn't work with the dead. While his work brought him in contact with killers, he was always dealing with people who had a pulse. His presence in the lab reminded her that people were still alive outside of the sterile walls of the autopsy rooms. This was why the other "squints" tolerated him so easily as well; he was the personification of life to their world.
She tiptoed out of the room again and looked at him. His breathing was just as measured as before, him face just as calm. His eyelids fluttered slightly with REM, and she smiled. Booth was a good man. He fought for life, for protection for the innocent. Her chest constricted again as she thought of herself in comparison to him. What did she do? She gave faces to those who had already had their lives taken away; she protected no one.
Sinking down into the chair she had slept in the night before, Temperance continued to stare at Booth's face, images from her dream mingling with the bodies in her lab and the image of Booth's sleeping form. Curling her legs under her, she felt her breath hitch. When it hit her that she was sitting in something of a fetal position, she remembered the body from the woods, and the memory was enough to push her over the edge. She buried her face into her knees and silently sobbed until she fell asleep almost an hour later.
Temperance was up before Booth the next morning, thereby avoiding any awkward questions about why she had slept curled in a ball in her living room chair when she had a perfectly good bed empty in the next room. The two went through the same routine as the day before, the only exception being that the car worked when they climbed in, and headed off to work.
Temperance dropped Booth off at his office. "So, you'll call when you're done for the day?" she asked as he gathered his things and prepared to climb from the car.
"Yeah. I don't think I'll be all that late," he answered. When he had all of his things in his hands, he gave her a warm smile. "Alright, I guess I'll see you tonight, then. I'll call you if anything new develops on the case."
Temperance smiled back, her horrible night momentarily eclipsed by Booth's presence. "Okay. See you later on." And with that he had climbed from the car and she had driven off.
She arrived at the Jeffersonian at 8:30 am that morning. It was later than usual for her, and she expected Angela to launch into a round of questions when she entered, but much to Temperance's surprise, Angela was nowhere in sight.
Zach, however, was in sight. And, upon seeing Dr. Brennan, he crossed the room and bid her a good morning.
"Morning, Zach," she answered him as she dropped her things in her office. "Are you feeling better?"
Zach nodded. "Much," he answered. Temperance glanced at him. His skin still looked slightly pale, and the circles under his eyes were still vaguely present, but she noted that overall he seemed much brighter. His eyes seemed more focused, and his voice was stronger. Temperance smiled. She hadn't quite realized how much she had missed having Zach around.
Temperance filled her assistant in on the details of their new case so far. He listened intently, his manner as professional and formal as it always was. When she had finished giving him an overview, she instructed him to pull out the body they had found the day before so that she could begin a more thorough examination.
As Zach began doing just this, Temperance caught sight of Angela out of the corner of her eye. The artist looked slightly pale, and as she walked, Temperance noted that she didn't seem to be quite registering what was going on or what she was doing. Temperance waved to her and got her attention, and Angela walked over.
"Morning, Sweetie," Angela said, her voice tired.
"Morning, Ange. How are you feeling?"
Angela gave Temperance a tight lipped smile. "Fine. Never better."
Temperance shook her head. "You're sick, Ange. Just go home."
"No," Angela answered. "I'm not sick."
Temperance sighed in exasperation. "You always say that. It's okay to be sick once in a while, you know."
Angela remained defiant. "I admit when I'm sick. It's just that today I am not sick."
Temperance shrugged, admitting defeat, and gave her friend a smile. "Okay, whatever you say," she answered. Zach returned then with the remains, and the artist and forensic anthropologist parted company to begin work on their various tasks of they the day.
At 11:30, Temperance was still unclear about what had caused the death of the young girl on her table. She placed the woman's age in the range of 40 to 50, though determining an exact age was almost impossible. Features of the bone suggested the woman had been Caucasian, and damage to the bones suggested that she wasn't in the best of health. Despite these things, Temperance felt the now familiar stab of pain as she viewed the remains. She drew a shaky breath and tried to calm herself. When this didn't work, she realized that she needed a breath. She told Zach to work on cause of death and, snapping off her gloves, she headed back to her office. Maybe she could get some work done on her book before she was needed again.
When Temperance arrived in her office, she found a white envelope sitting on her desk. Her name was on the front, typed, and assuming it was just a staff memo of some kind, she tore it open.
The note that fell out was a far cry from a staff memo. On the white paper, Temperance read the words: "Cover Your DEAd wItH bramblEs aNd roOt. aNother foR tHe count. tIMe tickS againSt yOu."
'The killer,' Temperance's mind instantly reacted. 'How did this get here?'
Before she had time to process this, however, her phone rang. Without a thought, she lifted the receiver. "Brennan."
The voice on the other end of the line was somewhat tentative. "Dr. Brennan? This is Ophelia Stone."
Temperance's brain snapped back. "Oh, hello, Ms. Stone, how are you?"
"I'm well, thank you. I wanted to call and apologize for yesterday. I'm worried that I wasn't very welcoming."
Temperance paused for a beat. "No, I mean, we caught you at a bad time…"
"Yes, well, regardless, I feel just terrible about it. I know you had some questions for me, and I wanted to let you know I'm willing to answer whatever I can tell you, thought I'm not sure how much help I can be."
"Any information you could share with us would be a great help," Temperance encouraged, excited by the possibility of information. "Are you free for lunch?"
Ophelia hesitated for a moment, as if checking her watch. "Sure, I don't think I have anything I need to do this afternoon. Where would you like to meet?"
And so, after making the necessary plans with Ophelia, Temperance quickly gathered her things and hurried from the Jeffersonian.
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