A/N: Well, here you have it--the next chapter. (Cue ominous music.) I'll be perfectly honest: this chapter caused me quite the struggle for a number of reasons. One: I had to juggle meeting all of the squints at once, Booth & Brennan included. Cam's not here in the story just yet. She will be, but fitting her into it, as well, was hard. Two: Trying to throw Rachel's feelings into the mess was difficult. I can only imagine what the poor girl must be feeling. Three: Writers' Block. 'Nuff said. Thanks for all of my fabulous reviews!!!
Note To Erin (I would have replied to it seperately, but I couldn't because it was anonymous): I appreciate your honesty! Yes, it's true that Rachel resembles her mother, but we all know how Brennan gets when she's in work mode. I can't divulge all of my secrets just yet--I have a plan for the plot. :o) Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: Alas, it's still not mine.
-CHAPTER 8-
Fear. By all rights, fear is an emotion—a complicated, pesky emotion. That's why fear was a difficult concept for Rachel to grasp. Fear is irrational. Being afraid, she knew, wouldn't benefit anyone, especially herself, as it's just a silly feeling. She could easily understand that there are chemical responses to high stress situations: increased heart rate…clammy hands…shaky voice. Those are all perfectly reasonable reactions to stimuli. Fear, the actual emotion, however, can't be explained by science. And that's what got Rachel in a tizzy.
She gazed into the eyes of her estranged father. That day, when blue met brown, there was a moment. A moment when Rachel wholly understood the meaning of fear. A moment when a whirlwind of emotions—dread, panic, apprehension, doubt, uncertainty, abandonment, depression—all came to life. A moment when she wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock and be left to wallow in her tears. But even when her eyes went glassy, she refused to look away. She didn't want to look away. What if he were to vanish before her very eyes? How would she be able to handle that?
That's silly; he's not going to disappear.
And then there was his question, still hanging in the air. It was so casual, so innocent. This a new a squint? The bothersome voice lurking in her mind was persistent, constantly repeating those very words. It never left her so much as a moment's peace. The incessant echoes pounded through her head, leaving the dull beginnings of a migraine. Rachel tried to form words, but her attempts fell flat. Her mouth just opened and closed a few times like a fish's puckered lips facing the kiss of death.
"No, Booth," Angela intervened. Rachel sighed as relief washed over her. "This is Emma, my niece." Her voice was surprisingly calm; not a hint of distress was evident. "Emma, meet Seeley Booth, the liaison for the Jeffersonian."
"Aw, come on, Ange. Don't sell me short." He stuck out a hand for Rachel to shake. "It's Special Agent Seeley Booth. I'm FBI." He grinned cheekily, flashing only hints of white, and Rachel nearly melted as she returned the gesture. "How old are you, Emma?"
She still didn't trust her voice, but when she glanced at Angela for help, she only received a nod of encouragement in return. "Th-Thirteen," she mustered, just barely above a whisper. "But I'll be fourteen next month."
Seeley nodded. "Call me Booth." His tone was still casual. Nothing clicked. Not even of flicker of understanding or hurt was detectible in his eyes.
A rush of numbing disappointment fell over Rachel. She had secretly hoped that he would recognize her right away, and then everything could go back to normal. But now the notion seemed silly. Nothing would ever go back to normal. Ever.
"I didn't know you had a sibling, Ange," Booth said.
"I have a sister. Name's Annie. You'll have to meet her sometime."
The rest of their conversation was lost to Rachel. Instead, she immersed herself observing the inner-workings of her mother's lab. Sara Greene was brushing what was presumably debris off a bone; her delicate fingers rested lightly on the object of her ministrations. She was clearly absorbed in her work. Her eyes never left the ivory rod for more than a mere second.
Zach—that rude, lanky man—was still clutching a pile of x-rays in his left hand. His focus darted from the ongoing conversation, her mother, and Sara interchangeably. A frown graced his tired features. Small, gray circles settled under his eyes. He probably hadn't gotten a good night's rest in days.
Her eyes carefully avoided the slight figure hunched over a pile of bones in the corner. She didn't want to look at her, really. Rachel already endured the pain of seeing her father. That was difficult enough. She wasn't stable. Lingering too long on her mother would push her overboard.
Then a distraction presented itself without warning: "Mommy!"
Simultaneously, everyone cocked their heads towards the entrance to of the Jeffersonian. A little girl with a mound of black curls jogged closer to the platform. A doll's limb hung hap hazardously from the child's hand, bobbing along in rhythm with her steps. Decked out in a pink jumper and matching buckle shoes, she trotted behind a short man clad in a white t-shirt and jeans.
"There's my Lissie," Angela said in way of greeting.
Lissie bounded towards her mother with outstretched arms. With a squeal of glee, Lissie's feet dangled off the floor as her mother captured her in a warm hug. Her black locks toppled over her shoulders in messy braid, and her stockings had a fraying whole near the ankle.
"Did you have fun with Dad today?" she asked, returning the child back to the ground.
"Yeah, I guess. He was too busy to play, though. Said something about a—I don't really know," Lissie said matter-of-factly. "He had Winnie watch me."
Angela placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head towards the curly haired man. "Jack, how many times do I have to tell you to put down that damned dissertation of yours to spend some time with your daughter? Winnie gets paid to clean, not lug around an eight-year-old girl all day. I know it's important, but—"
Lissie cut her off mind rant, wagging her finger at her mother. "Mom, you said a bad word! Dad told me to never, ever say that word! How could you?"
Rachel had to suppress a giggle. She assumed that the man getting the stern talking to was Dr. Jack Hodgins—Angela's poor husband. Rachel watched in amusement as Angela tried to explain herself to Lissie.
"Well, Alyssa, you see…Sometimes," Angela stuttered, "adults have to—vent anger. That was just my way of—venting anger."
Lissie raised her eyebrows, a bemused expression plastered to her pretty face. "Kinda like Daddy when he vents his anger by snapping that rubber band-y-thingy he keeps on his wrist?"
Angela's eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes, honey," she said stiffly. "Just like Daddy does."
Lissie shrugged her shoulders. "Okey-doke-y." That said, Lissie pranced over to one of the chairs with wheels. With gusto only an eight-year-old could possess, she propped her elbows on the cushion and hoisted her feet on the chair. Quite skillfully, she adjusted her rump till she was hanging dangerously close to the edge. In one swift motion, she rested her pointed toe ever so lightly on the tiled floor and spun herself round and round in circles, followed by a litany of giggles.
When she was certain that her daughter was wholly absorbed in her game, Angela squared her shoulders and turned to face her husband. "I thought that we had agreed that you were supposed to quit that nasty habit of yours!"
He feigned innocence. "I did—I am. Really!"
Angela just scoffed in reply.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, the man changed the subject to something supposedly safer. "Who do we have here?" Jack gestured to Rachel, still standing to the side, watching and waiting.
Rachel smiled softly, still thoroughly amused. "I'm Emma, Ange's niece. I suppose that would make you my uncle. It's a pleasure."
"Call me Hodgins, please." He raised his eyebrows at Angela, any hints of anger lost. "Annie has a daughter?"
Angela shrugged her shoulders. "Of course."
"And you're telling me this just now?"
"It never came up in conversation," Angela said, exasperation laced in her tone. Not all of her anger had subsided.
Rachel hoped that Hodgins would overlook the ambiguity of Ange's answers. If this were to work, things would have to be consistent. One slip of the tongue could foil the whole thing. Eventually the truth would surface. Eventually.
"Well, if everything's all set here, Emma and I have some catching up to do. Don't we, Sweetie?" Angela smiled a tad overenthusiastically and adjusted the straps of her pocketbook. "Jack, watch Lissie, will you? No dissertation. If you must work, call Martha from paleontology or something to watch her. Lissie loves Martha."
Rachel smiled nervously when Hodgins nodded a brief goodbye. Sara grinned sheepishly, trying to avoid too much eye contact. Rachel figured she was a shy one. Zach didn't waver from his work; something must have been awfully interesting in that pile of x-rays of his.
Rachel let herself steal one last glance at her mother. The slight figure worked diligently over the pile of bones. Her eyes were focused. Distraction didn't seem to exist. Afraid that grief would get the best of her, Rachel turned away, only to find herself face to face with Booth—her father.
"I'm sure I'll see you soon, Emma. Pleasure to meet you. Don't let Ange talk you to death, 'kay?" He flashed her another cheeky smile and made his way over to the skeleton.
"The pleasure is mine," Rachel whispered. "The pleasure is all mine."
Rachel stood still in a daze. That was her father. Her father. Does he even know I exist? Does he even care that I exist? Does anyone care I exist? I'm not Emma! I'm Rachel—Rachel Something-Or-An-Other. What's my last name? I don't even know my last name! It was Wood. But I'm not a Wood. I'm a Booth. I'm Rachel Booth. Can't he see that? Can't any of them see that?
She barely noticed the light hand resting on her shoulder. "Give it time, Rachel. Just give it time."
With a sober nod, Rachel walked out of the Jeffersonian and into the numb cold and wet rain, desperately clutching the solace that Ange's hand provided. A flimsy black umbrella deflected the droplets of rain. Maybe lunch with Angela was exactly what she needed.
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