Title: Beyond the Fear
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: T
A\N: I hope everyone is still continuing to enjoy my little story. Review and let me know what you think!
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The gardens were always different, season to season. Temperance enjoyed watching the blossoms as they developed, changing with the weather, vibrant pinks becoming rustic oranges, to explosive yellows. On certain days, when skeletal remains became her only ally in life, she would take a walk along the rows of rose bushes. She knew her social situations were at their worst, when her closest friend was a pile of bones. Today, perhaps, she wasn't feeling quite so melodramatic, but with Angela calling her bluff, she suddenly felt weary. A pinching anxiety nipped at the bottom of her brain, and a tension headache throbbed.
Hands buried in her coat, she passed a row of tiny snowdrop flowers, their smooth white heads cast downward as though in sorrow. She knelt, her knees pressed almost to her chest as she avoided touching the moist, chilled earth. A breeze rustled through the leaves, and the flowers bobbed, a timed dance that was appeared almost to be choreographed. The greyish green leaves carried a hint of morning dew, and despite the cold, Brennan couldn't resist reaching out to touch the sparkling drop.
"Galanthus nivilas," she heard Jack say, and she lifted her head, drying her fingertip on her jeans. He wore his jacket buttoned all the way up to his chin, a pair of wool gloves and a navy scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. His eyes met hers, and he gestured to the flowers. "They usually don't blossom until the New Year – a foretelling of spring," he said. "That they have appeared already is sign of a very mild winter." Temperance stood, stretching the kinks from her knees.
"It doesn't feel mild," she replied, lifting her eyes to the cloudless sky – the colour was so pale that the atmosphere itself seemed thin. Crisp and devoid of the city smog, Brennan always felt as though the Jeffersonian were placed in the middle of the country. But if she listened hard enough, the highway was still audible, even among the silently bobbing snowdrops. Jack shifted, moving along the rows of winter blooming flowers.
"No," he agreed, flexing his glove-clad fingers. "It's nice here, though." Brennan murmured, passing a bare rose bush. "I usually have to deal with flowers that have died. Or identify particulates from long decomposed fauna. It's nice, sometimes, to see plants in the 'before' image." Brennan lifted her eyes from the petals of a pale blue flower. Jack wasn't watch her, but rather the swaying boughs of a leafless tree at the perimeter of the land. When she followed his gaze, she became aware of the creaking branches as they chafed together. "It's called a primula," Jack said, and she frowned. "The blue flower," he explained, gesturing to her feet. "You'll find that it blooms in yellow, purple and red." Brennan nudged him.
"A lesson in botany?" she asked, and he smiled at her. The corners of his eyes wrinkled with his amusement, and he shrugged by way of apology. "Have you spoke to Angela today?" Brennan asked. Beside her, Hodgins seemed to stiffen inside the padding of his coat, his smile vanishing as though it had never existed at all.
"Briefly," he said vaguely. "She's not exactly the bearer of exciting conversation these days." Brennan, never the best person to read tonal structure or personalities, still sensed a hint of saddened malice in Jack's voice. She shifted, edging along the damp, cold grass towards the wooden gazebo at the bottom of the garden. As if following her incentive, Hodgins followed.
"Angela is afraid to admit her feelings, Jack," she said, her own voice a raspy whisper. She felt like a hypocrite, talking about her best friend as though she herself were somehow a higher being, morally. As she climbed the steps to the gazebo, her boots making no sound on the sturdy oak, Brennan felt the familiar squeeze of fear that almost left her breathless. She told herself to exhale, to permit herself to feel. Yet, without Booth's soft persistence, her silent pleas meant almost nothing.
"Sounds familiar," Jack scoffed, sinking to the bench. He slouched, folding his hands over his torso. In the gloves, his fingers looked longer, chunkier. "But I get it." Brennan folded her legs, drawing warmth from her own body. When she dispelled a breath, the white vapour coated her cheeks. "How's things with Booth?" She glanced sideways and Jack sighed. "Let me guess, our Federal agent is a forbidden topic…?" she half shrugged in response. "Sounds like Angela isn't the only one whose feeling a little scared."
Temperance turned her eyes to the stained oak panelling, to the inscription above the entrance. She admired the cursive stroke, carved expertly into the wood, painted a shade darker for emphasis. She found it curious that, after all the afternoons she'd spent in the little gazebo, she had never noticed it before.
Be happy while you are living. For you are a long time dead.
She frowned, tilting her head. Jack followed her gaze. "It's not very well suited to the Jeffersonian, is it?" she asked, knotting her fingers together. The words seemed to glow in her mind, as though somewhere, she thought to be taking heed. Jack chuckled.
"I'm a scientist through and through, Brennan," he said, "but I'd have to say that, in a place like this, there's nowhere better for such proverbs." She drew her gaze over the words again, slowly this time, pulling the full meaning into her soul, before turning her body towards Jack.
"Why?" she asked. He blinked.
"We deal with death a lot," he explained. "Maybe not all the scientists here… but for us… it's certainly something worth thinking about." Brennan shrugged.
"I'm not sure I put much credence in proverbs and quotes. They're basically just opinions." The trees creaked again, and far beyond the gazebo, two blue coated men wandered along the rows of neat grass, their fingers clenched tight against the cold. Jack slid closer to her, forcing her to look at him. She fought the urge to stand, put space between herself and her colleague.
"Why are you afraid to be happy, Brennan?" he asked. "Why is Angela afraid?" She wished she had the answers he wanted – for herself, too. Happiness was fickle, fragile. She learned at a young age just how easy it was to shatter the illusion of happiness. Instead of voicing this, Brennan shrugged her shoulders. "Do you place credence in sayings such as 'It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all'?" Jack asked, and Brennan felt her shoulders knot a little tighter, the twist of anxiety pressing hard against her heart. "By all outward appearances," he continued, as though he hadn't been expecting an answer, "you and Angela seem so vastly different. Different personalities, different ideas… yet in reality, you're frighteningly similar." Brennan had thought about this too, after their argument in the morning. Hodgins slapped his hands on his thighs, standing, the cotton and wool muffled the noise. Stretching, he popped his knuckles, a rapid series of clicks. "Well, I've named flowers, breathed a little fresh air and contemplated philosophy. It's time for work again." Temperance watched him as he descended the steps, meandering his way through the shrubs, passing by the snowdrops again. He could easily have walked in a straight line, but somehow, she suspected he wanted to prolong his moment of freedom. She partly understood his reluctance to return to normality – whatever it was.
In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated against her breast and she jolted, rummaging inside the fleecy lining. "Brennan," she said, turning away from the seemingly luminous proverb over her head. Jack had disappeared now, swallowed by the enormous Jeffersonian.
"Have you had lunch yet?" Booth asked, pleasantly hopeful.
"Yes," she lied, her stomach growling traitorously. He didn't speak, but his silence was deflated. "Have you…?"
"A blueberry muffin and a coffee," he replied. "I'm not that hungry. To be honest, I just wanted to steal a few minutes with you." She ought to have been touched, and secretly she was, but it was so difficult to admit it. "Hey Bones?" he asked when she was silent for a long moment of personal bleakness. "Had a tough day?" Her afternoon had been quieter than usual, filled with reports and research, yet she felt irritated and nervy.
"It's been one of those days," she confided. "I'd like nothing better than to go home, shower, drink wine and sleep." Glancing at her watch, she kept her eyes focused on the slender silver hand, it seemed pause forever before sliding on. "Unfortunately I've another five hours to go and an hour in traffic home…" Booth sighed with empathy, and for a moment, they were a normal couple, discussing the hardships of life. If it weren't for Camille, he'd probably be at the Jeffersonian with her now.
"Go get some coffee," he soothed, "and I'll see you tonight." Suddenly she wished she hadn't lied about lunch, and she was still confused as to why she had. Her soul felt deflated with dishonesty and loneliness as she hung up her cell phone, tucking it back into her pocket. Her fingers felt numb, chilled by the afternoon air. Turning on her heel, she went to move towards the steps, and froze. The tall man at the foot of the gazebo, dressed in a navy suit and matching tie could only be FBI. Without hearing him speak, she knew that her new partner had been assigned.