"You look gorgeous, Bren."
I looked up from the bathroom mirror, where I'd been putting on mascara. Angela'd come into the bathroom. She said she was staying late, to clean up some work she'd left undone after she broke up with Jack, I still couldn't believe it, but what do I know about relationships? Nothing. It was terrible, she was clearly upset, and so was he, but I was no one to give advice or ask questions about this type of thing, so I just tried to listen and be sympathetic for her. We were supposed to go to a club tomorrow night for a little 'glug-glug-wahoo,' as she called it.
"Thanks, Ange." I don't even know why I'm going on this date, I mean, Carl seems nice, and the conversation may well be interesting, he's a materials scientist with an interest in dental polymers, and dental records are always so important to our cases, but he's rather unassuming. I was actually surprised when he asked me out, but what else am I going to do on a Friday night, at least for a few hours? I can't stand the inanity of television, and I'm all caught up on my journals, and I haven't had time to go to the bookstore to find something new to read. I suppose I could cancel my date and go to the bookstore, Ian was telling me about Oliver Sacks' new book on neurological disorders before he was killed, but ... no, it would be rude to cancel on Carl, and he seemed like a nice man, even if he was slightly built and only my height, and his features were not perfectly symmetrical, and he had hazel eyes instead of deep chocolate brown... Stop it, Temperance. Stop it. Do not think about your friend and partner that way.
She was standing there, watching me, as I finished putting on my makeup, that look on her face she gets when she's going to start nagging me about Booth again. I hate that. I really do. I mean, she's supposed to be my best friend, doesn't she know how much it hurts my feelings when she teases me about someone I can't have? I suppose not. I mean, I'm terrible at expressing how I feel about anything, and I'm terrible at keeping things going even when I manage to get something approaching the right words out of my mouth, but still, she's known me for ten years, you'd think she'd know by now. Ah, well. Just proof that my middle name should be 'Lonelyhearts.'
"You seem less than excited for your date tonight."
"I'm tired, I still have a little jet lag, and I didn't get a lot of sleep those last few days, what with trying to find out what happened to Dr. Wexler. But I can't cancel on Carl, it would be rude. I should have done it earlier, before we left England, but it was too late by the time I thought of it."
She nodded. "He was cute, Bren, I'm sorry that happened to him. It must be hard to sleep with someone and then have them get killed, right out from under you."
What? She thought I slept with him? "No, Ange, I didn't sleep with Ian. He's a... he was a was a charming cad, but not sufficiently symmetrical and well-structured. But he was a fascinating person, it's horrible what happened, it's a terrible loss for academia and Scotland Yard, I feel terrible for Inspector Pritchard..." An involuntary sigh escaped me. Crap. Perhaps Angela hadn't noticed. Ah, yes. Inspector Cate Pritchard, the raven-haired, stunning, Scotland Yard inspector with the mellifluous accent, the sparkling black eyes, and an enviable ability to speak her mind and make her interests in others plain and known. She'd connected instantly with Booth, and no wonder, they were both excellent investigators, much of a mind when it came to solving the cases we'd worked on, and she and he spoke the same language, one I still sometimes struggled to keep up with, even as long as I'd been working with Booth.
"Inspector Pritchard?" Damn. She'd noticed. I was too tired for this. Maybe I could call Carl and tell him I had the flu, but then I'd have to reschedule to be polite, and I didn't really want to do that either.
"She's the officer who was Ian's counterpart in England. She and Ian had a relationship of sorts, but I gather they both saw other people, and..." Oh, be quiet, Temperance. That 'and' is going to get you in trouble.
"And? Come on, Bren, out with it."
"And... she seemed interested in Booth. Very interested. And... I think he was interested back, although he was clearly being chivalrous in not doing anything about it, since she'd just lost Ian. But... he basically told her she should come visit, and I'm sure she probably will, because who wouldn't, I mean, it's Booth, any woman would be insane not to take him up on an invitation..." There. Fine. You want me to admit how I feel about him, Angela? There. Now, please, just leave me alone so I can go out on my date that will end with a chaste kiss on the cheek before I go home to lie in the bathtub and fantasize about my perfectly formed, chivalrous, completely uninterested in me partner.
"Any woman, Bren?"
"Yes, Angela, any woman." I felt the inevitable blush heating my face as I thought about him in anything but a purely romantic way. Damned biological responses.
"So you admit it!" She had an ear-to-ear grin on her face. I supposed she'd earned it, but it didn't make me feel any better, saying it out loud.
"It doesn't matter. He's not interested in me. I'm not his type." Really not his type. I mean, I don't know anything about sports, I'm an idiot when it comes to pop culture, I think articles about tribes in rainforests are interesting, and they are, really. Why on earth would he be interested in me? I have no ability to connect with everyday people, and as exceptionally intelligent and talented and perfectly structured and oh, what a beautiful man, by any cultural standards, as he is, the fact remains that he is capable of living in the everyday world, and I'm just ... not. Temperance Brennan, emotionally stunted nerd. Just like high school, all over again, when I had that horrible crush on the quarterback, who was always polite to me, because he wanted help with math, and because he was not a mean-hearted person, like some of those other jocks.
"Bren, you're insane." She was looking at me like I really was, and I am. Insane for continuing to harbor non-partnerly thoughts about a partner who'd made it clear we were only friends, in the nicest, most polite way possible, by drawing that line he pretended he needed to be there, on his part. He always knew what I was thinking, he knew me better than he did, he clearly only drew that line because he knew I wanted to try something more with him, and that was just his way of being nice about it. He's so nice, he always tries to protect me, even when he knows I can take care of myself, but he can't help himself, he's so old-fashioned. I supposed I should still get mad about it, like I used to, but I really can't, not when all I really want is to... okay, stop it, Temperance. You are going on a date with someone else who isn't him tonight, in a feeble attempt to distract yourself for a few hours.
"I'm not. He told me."
"What!! What? You never told me that! What did he say?" I don't want to talk about this. Really. But if I tell her, maybe she'll let me alone about Booth, and then I can just sigh about him alone in my bathtub. Well, here goes.
"After Cam was poisoned, he told me... there's a line that people who work together, like we do, when it's so dangerous, that there's a line they can't cross. He was right. Cam never would have been poisoned, probably, if Epps hadn't thought Booth and I weren't involved, which led him to play his horrible game, and involve Parker, and I felt so horrible that I'd so clearly let my feelings show as to endanger both of them, when I knew Booth didn't reciprocate, so I took his warning to heart and did my best to cover my feelings for him."
"Bren! I can't believe you! The man watches your every move like a hawk! Of course he wants you!"
I shook my head. "No, Angela, you're wrong. Booth is a friend, a chivalrous one, and he's merely looking out for my best interests. He's not interested in me."
"Temperance Brennan. The man hasn't been on a date in a year and a half. How on earth can you say that?"
"Oh, Ange, you don't know what you're talking about. Booth has women knocking down his door all the time. He's just... he's old-fashioned, he doesn't like to talk about his life outside work, he's a professional, and you know the way women look at him. He just... doesn't talk about it because it's none of our business. Plus, I made him mad when I teased him about sleeping with Rebecca and Cam. It's none of my business. I'm just his partner." I never should have done that, but the blue-eyed monster of jealously broke that filter between my brain and my mouth, at least before he drew that line and made it clear.
She shook her head now, and let out an aggravated sigh. "So you're just going to go out on a date with a guy who's not Booth and then go home and sleep with him?"
"No. I won't sleep with him." Should I? Well, since it seemed to be the "Truth" in Truth or Dare night here in the bathroom, I might as well. "I haven't slept with anyone since Sully left." Since Sully left. I never should have slept with him in the first place, but I was feeling lonely, and he was charming, and kind, and almost as chivalrous and respectful as Booth, and a respectful lover, but... he just wasn't Booth, and despite the fact that it was clear I could never have Booth, I just couldn't let Sully delude himself that I might come to love him some day.
"But Bren! You're always going on about relieving biological urges, what happened to that?"
I sighed again. "They're all beta-males, Angela. It renders all latent biological urges null, once I confirm that."
"Have you even tried telling Booth how you feel?" God, Angela, why can't you leave me alone! I mean, I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life anyway, why do you have to keep at me like this.
"Angela! No! He's my best friend, next to you, and sometimes I think he's a better best friend than you, because at least he knows when to leave me alone! He doesn't want me, he's made it clear, and yet he values my work expertise, and if I say anything, it will ruin our friendship, ruin our partnership, and then the one thing I get out of bed for everyday, which is work, and solving our cases together, will be ruined! So, just, leave it alone! Leave me alone! I don't want to talk about it anymore!" I can't continue this conversation with her anymore. Time to leave. I brushed past her, at least she looked a little bit shocked, maybe I could get out the door without her saying anything. Good.
As I walked back to my office, drawing deep breaths, I wondered all over again. She was right, at least about going on dates with people who just didn't measure up to Booth. I should stop, it wasn't fair to these men for me to accept dates I had no intention of taking past the first or the second one. I hadn't published anything academic in a while, and I could take up another seminar at the University, the Dean of the Faculty had asked me if I'd consider teach a weekend intensive practical skills seminar-- I might as well. Unless we were working, I was just here doing limbo cases or home reading, or at the gym or the dojo. Well, that was settled.
I got back to my office and gathered my things, shut down my computer, and finished my makeup in the mirror. Angela hadn't followed me, which was good, perhaps I could make it out of here without another provoked emotional outburst. I'd turned and bent to pick up my purse when his voice came from the doorway.
"Hey, Bones, got the rest of that paperwork for you." Oh, God, Booth, you had to stop by now, to provide me a fresh reminder of how inadequate my date's going to be, right before I leave? I'm going to turn around and you're going to be leaning against my doorway, looking incredibly put together in your suits that I think you probably have tailored, because they fit you perfectly, lounging against the frame with perfect physical ease, because everything you do is with perfect physical ease, strength, and grace like a panther, and oh, God, Temperance, stop it, just turn around and steel yourself against that Charm Smile of his that makes your insides turn to gelatinous goo every time you see it, and try not to swoon at the way his eyes, his perfect, chocolate brown eyes, and you don't even like chocolate, twinkle. Turn. Turn. Damnit, body, do what I tell you.
"Hi, Booth," I managed, turning, and oh, God, I love that red tie with the beachballs on it, it's so silly and endearing, and he's got the red and yellow striped socks on, he hasn't worn those in a month, not since that case with the heroin dealer, and God, just finish your sentence, "thanks, I appreciate it." He must have come by just to make sure I've eaten supper, before he goes on some date with some supermodel who knows all about basketball and cares about politics, and then takes her home to do things to her that I'll only dream of in my bathtub, he's so nice, always trying to make sure I've eaten, and am getting enough sleep, he's such a good friend.
"You look nice," he replied, walking in to hand me the file, and oh, God, please, Booth, don't stand so close to me so that I can see that dimple in your cheek and smell your Old Spice cologne and your own leathery, chocolatey scent under it, and did I mention I don't even like chocolate, except your eyes and your smell and your hair? Aaaaaggghhhhh! He's always so polite, complimenting women and holding the door, he does it for everyone, it doesn't mean anything, as much as you might want it to. He's your friend. Your partner. That's it. Okay, Temperance, take the file, smile, thank him, act like something besides a teenager.
"Thank you. I ... uh ... have a dinner engagement." Not a date, because there aren't going to be any after this.
"Anyone I know?" Oh, God, don't make me talk about poor Carl, I really, really, should have cancelled.
"A materials scientist I met at a forensics colloquium before we went to England."
"Ah. Well, have fun." Fun. Sure. Thinking about how I'd rather be eating dinner with you, followed by an all night exploration of your perfectly formed ... aaagghhh! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Swallow, breathe, pick up your purse, smile at him. Put the file down. Good girl.
"Thank you." He stepped aside, sweeping me a bow with a smile. Oh, Lord. Booth, don't bend over so your jacket rides up and I can look at your unbelievably well-muscled rear end, please? "Have a good weekend, Booth."
"You too," he called, as I left the office. Don't look back, don't look back, if you do, you'll run back and throw your arms around him and beg him to reconsider that line, and it will be the end of everything. Keep going, you can do it.
Aaaaaaggggghhhhh! Great, now even my inner voice of frustration sounds like Booth. I'm such a fool.