A/N: This one's OOC and ever so slightly tongue-in-cheek ;P
Disclaimer: The only thing I own is my soul, and I even lend that out on occasion, but only if you ask nice. Anything that even looks familiar in this story probably belongs to someone else (except the actual story - that's all mine, Mine, MINE [*maniacal laughter*]!)
FOUR DAYS
Part Two: Learning to Buy
I haven't ever really found a place that I call home
I never stick around quite long enough to make it
I apologize once again I'm not in love
But it's not as if I mind that your heart ain't exactly breaking
Brennan sat cross-legged on her soft leather couch, back straight, her laptop propped on her knees. She was attempting to turn the white lie she'd used as an excuse to Angela into the truth by pretending she was working on the next chapter of her book. She managed to fool herself for a while, and actually succeeded to get a few decent paragraphs down. Nothing that took the plot anywhere of course, but very … atmospheric. She shrugged – it all added to the word count. Publishers seemed to like large numbers of words.
She read it out aloud, pleased with the tenor at least and enjoying the sounds the spoken words produced. She rewarded her efforts by pouring another generous glass from the bottle of Australian Grenache blend she'd been keeping for that extra special occasion that had never really cropped up. But she figured that tonight was somewhat of an occasion. She tasted the wine, enjoying its vibrant berry character. She indulged in a second sip, savouring quince and spice.
Brennan put the computer to one side and let her eyes wander around her apartment. The furniture and fittings were stylishly done and she considered the interior designer's fee had been money well spent. This was her third apartment in the last five years, and so far she thought possibly the closest to her ideal space. It was roomy and uncluttered, a place where she could work as well as relax.
She got to her feet and paced restlessly about. The room, like her office at the Jeffersonian, was dotted with artefacts and relics that she'd collected on her travels to some of the world's most remote places. She was justifiably proud of the work she had done in her career, content to have been acknowledged in several arenas by her peers, but equally satisfied to remain nameless for her work in less officially ratified endeavours. Her bookshelves, like her office at the Jeffersonian, were lined with anthropological texts and scientific journals; the only works of fiction were those she kept here - her own novels, and a well thumbed copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" that Booth had given her. She'd never considered the blend to be anything other than practical and convenient; she didn't realise how little of her private self was on display.
She wasn't a cold person, or demonstrative; the protective shield she carried with her always left other people feeling excluded from knowing her properly, and it seemed to be often taken in a negative way. She'd always seemed to be able to have her physical needs fulfilled, but had never placed much importance on building relationships. She mostly only ventured into the dating arena when she felt it wouldn't impinge on her real passion, forensic anthropology. But lately she was feeling as if she was missing out somehow: she wanted to feel, she wanted to be more like Angela, hell, she would even be prepared to be 'heartbroken' (not that she acknowledged that was logically possible) if it would help her to experience life more fully. She sipped her wine absently, enjoying the warmth it generated. There was nothing here that she wouldn't bat an eyelid at packing up and putting in storage, nothing to keep her grounded to this place. Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe a new place would satisfy the unidentifiable urge that was making her so edgy and uncomfortable. The idea of moving on brought her thoughts immediately back to Booth, of how his presence in her life had grown over these past few years, of what it might be like if he wasn't there.
She'd managed to avoid a proper conversation with Booth for three days. Two days since their accidental meeting at the Hoover Building. One day since he'd confronted her in the Jeffersonian's public foyer. Was it only three days since he'd said – that – those things he'd said? Brennan sighed, deciding to face the fear. Since he'd said he'd loved her … in a professional, 'atta girl kind of way'. She was having difficulty processing that information logically, which was why she was in such turmoil now and why she'd been avoiding Booth.
She slumped down onto the couch again, refilling her glass from the bottle on the occasional table. Of course there were precedents, men had told her they loved her before, she was familiar – if uncomfortable - with that. It was usually insincere. But this was Booth. Booth. Ignoring his obvious prevarication, had he been serious? Surely he had; his whole demeanour had spoken of sincerity, even if his flippant coda undermined the intent of his words. She couldn't interpret his intent sufficiently to work out how she felt about the whole situation. She'd been twisting her mind into a circular helix on the subject for days, but still couldn't break the information down into rational baseline parameters from which she could plausibly extrapolate an answer that satisfied her.
She pondered the purplish crimson wine in her glass, taking another deep swallow, letting its spicy sweetness warm her. Booth. She sighed and let her head fall back on the bolster she'd propped behind her shoulders. She let her mind wander, distracting herself by contemplating a way of mathematically constructing a helix by plotting a complex valued exponential function taking imaginary arguments, such as those used in Euler's Formula which, if she remembered correctly, demonstrated the deep relationship between the trigonometric functions and the complex exponential function. Deep relationship. Complex functions. Booth. She sighed more deeply, forcing the air from her lungs, and idly experimented extending her tongue until the movement of her lips produced a noise. She wondered if Booth knew that in the terminology of phonetics, the sound could be described as an unvoiced linguolabial trill, also known to schoolchildren the world over as a raspberry. She tried the words out loud, "Linguolabial trill", having a bit of trouble enunciating the third syllable of the first word and the whole of the second word. After one or two unsuccessful attempts to correctly say the phrase, she concluded it sounded rude when it was said aloud and gave up.
She sat up abruptly, draining her wine and setting the glass on the table. What was she doing sitting back meekly when faced with a problem? She was a scientist, after all – a forensic anthropologist, by golly, and she would use her genius intellect to solve this conundrum in the way she knew best, by looking at the facts, referring back to known controls, and making intuitive leaps based on her more recently acquired – albeit sketchy - knowledge of the human psyche. 'By golly'? Where had that come from - was that something Booth said? She'd never had a Golly. She'd had a doll once. She wondered what had happened to it?
Summoning all her considerable reasoning skills, she refilled her glass and resettled the computer on her lap. She decided to conduct a comparative study of her former lovers using standard criteria to expedite the evaluation. She typed several headings across the page; Name, Physical Attractiveness, Compatability, Pros, Cons, Special Circumstances. 'I really should use a control subject.' She tapped her chin with her left proximal interphalangeal joint, mulling over the problem until a solution presented itself, 'Booth!' She grinned at how clever she was and drained the dregs of her wine. The bottle was disappointingly empty when she went to refuel, which called for a quick trip to her wine cabinet.
Congratulating herself on her foresight in purchasing a dozen of the Grenaches when she'd had the opportunity, she chose another bottle of the same, studying the label as she went through to the kitchen to find the corkscrew. "'The Holy Trinity' is modelled on the Rhone style blend of Grenache, Shiraz and Mourvedre." A frown appeared between her brows "Did the wine have some sort of religious significance?" she wondered. Maybe she'd been inadvertently drinking Eucharist wine; it had been a bit of a bargain. She made a mental note to check with Booth next time she saw him. Perhaps she should have something to eat - her head was feeling a tad fuzzy. She ferreted through her pantry, finally deciding on some Japanese senbei crackers that she found tucked towards the back, bought for a dinner party that she'd never gotten around to having.
Carrying her plunder back to the couch, she concentrated on pouring another glass of red and took pleasure in the crunchy stickiness and exotic flavours of the senbei. She brushed some stray crumbs from her singlet top, and resolutely turned her mind back to the task at hand. Perhaps if she could work out what her expectations had been in other relationships, then she would know how she felt about what Booth had – that – those things he'd said. The wine slid down her throat like liquid silk, quenching the unexpected dryness in her mouth.
On the left hand side of the screen she listed out several names – Jason Defry and Mark Gaffney, Michael Stires, Pete Hamilton, David Simmons and finally Tim Sullivan. She absently added Will Hastings' name at the end, then furiously backspaced with a shudder. What was she thinking – murderers were indisputably outside the parameters of this study!
She took a long draught from the wineglass and straightened her shoulders, raising her chin at the challenge her undertaking presented.
Jason Defry and Mark Gaffney. Hmmm. The two for the price of one offer. Mark undoubtedly enjoyed incredible muscle tone and mass which as a diver was enhanced by the physical demands of his chosen career, and his stamina was astounding. Sexually they were very compatible but there it ended. There was no intellectual stimulation whatsoever. In fact she had preferred it when he didn't speak. The botanist, Jason, on the other hand was a stimulating companion, a clever conversationalist who was quite knowledgeable in many areas. It was a great shame that he held no appeal for her sexually. Not a spark. Nonetheless Brennan remembered the sting of rejection when they both severed their relationship with her. In retrospect, not such a great idea, dating two incomplete men. Apparently two halves do not always make a whole, although she had to admit it had been a novel experience while it lasted. Mental note to self, consider only fully grown men in the future.
Michael Stires. Even typing the name gave her pause. Conversely, she recalled with pleasure the student/mentor relationship they'd initially enjoyed; he'd taught her far more than just forensics. Intellectually and physically stimulating, yet – as it turned out – untrustworthy, insincere and egomaniacal. On the plus side, he had never told her outright that he loved her so at least she couldn't accuse him of hypocrisy. But she found his "choice between reality and perception" unworthy of a person of veracity. She despondently acknowledged her serious lapse in judgment when it came to Professor Michael Stires. In the end even though their relationship was purely recreational, that had soured when he showed his true colours on the stand. Mental note to self, choose a partner with integrity, honesty and a passion for justice and truth. Maybe one who had superpowers, or was at the very least highly proficient in hand-to-hand combat and the art of tactical warfare. The thought made her smile and reflect upon the qualities of the mythical metal "feminum" when fashioned into bullet-deflecting bracelets. She loved that Wonderwoman costume, remembering Booth's face the night he first saw her wearing it. A very unscientific giggle escaped her, and she silenced it with a mouthful of wine.
Pete Hamilton. Another mistake. Who knew he would be so possessive? He had said he loved her; what he really had loved was her body. The whole relationship had been founded on their sexual compatibility. Quite frankly she had thought she was comfortable with that concept, but couldn't forgive him his overweening need to control her – that was another matter. His childish attempts to undermine her devotion to her work had been absurd. He had never attempted to understand her world, or try to assimilate into any part of it. His choice of career – marketing – should have given her fair warning, but she'd been blinded by his sexual energy. As much as she was stimulated by their energetic encounters, she found his juvenile response to any attempted rebuttal of his reasoning (that is, pouting silence) excessively draining. Mental note to self, choose a partner who respects my work and whose work I in turn can respect. And who relishes the benefits of a stimulating exchange of views.
David Simmons. Her first sortie into online dating. His photo really hadn't done him justice; he was lithe and exceptionally fit for someone with such a sedentary job. Everything had proceeded well; he'd respected her work, had seemed content to be with her on her terms, physically they were an excellent match, however she still found the whole cult thing disturbing. He seemed so normal until that all came out into the open. Moreover he could never come to terms with her fondness for firearms. Mental note to self, choose partner who respects my right to my own beliefs, even if they don't agree, or hold different views. And who likes guns.
Sully. Ahh, Sully. That was a close one. Sensitive, intelligent, athletic, funny, strong, endowed with … many good points. For someone who didn't believe in romantic love, she'd known that when Sully had said he'd loved her, he'd meant it. She had thought long and hard about whether to go head off towards the horizon with him on his boat. Logic had told her she should go, Angela had told her to go (ad infinitum!), even Booth had told her to go, but still she'd stayed. Gordon Gordon Wyatt had said she'd stayed because she couldn't live a purposeless life. That was certainly a rational explanation for her decision and not without truth, but it wasn't the real reason. That that stayed locked inside her. But Sully, for all his appeal, didn't really know what he wanted out of life. The tangential nature of his ideas might have been stimulating, had she not found his lack of direction and the transience of his plans unappealing. He was a good agent, no doubt he would be a good short order cook or tour operator or whatever it was he was doing these days, but the way he swapped and changed his goals had been an anathema to her. Mental note to self, choose partner who was focussed and goal orientated, who was committed to his chosen vocation, who was steadfast, unfaltering and dedicated to results. Someone who like to eat burgers, not think about ways to flip them.
She sat back, flexing the cramps out of her fingers and scrubbing her face with both hands to try and clear her head. She began to read through what she had written, cutting and pasting her conclusions into one final summary of her needs. What she read left her confused and bewildered. She re-read her conclusions and reassessed the efficacy of her methods.
Fully grown man – Booth. A partner with integrity, honesty and a passion for justice and truth - Booth. Someone who respects my work and whose work I in turn can respect – Booth. A man who respects my right to my own beliefs, even if he doesn't agree, or holds different views - Booth. Focussed and goal orientated, committed to his chosen vocation, who was steadfast, unfaltering and dedicated to results - Booth. Booth was now apparently the yardstick she measured other men against.
She raised her glass to her mouth, then set it down on the table untouched. She needed a clear head now. Embracing sobriety, she considered this astonishing revelation. She couldn't help but acknowledge Booth's importance in her life, both professionally and personally. She acknowledged her need and desire for a connection with someone, maybe even something more enduring – was this the connection she needed to make? She didn't waste any time considering Booth's physical attractiveness – that was not in question. She had realised a very long time ago that she was acutely attracted to him, but had kept those feelings at arm's length as she had placed a higher value on their working partnership. She doubted whether sexual compatibility would be an issue … and, besides, it would be exhilarating to test her theory.
She turned off the laptop and put it to one side, lying back on the couch. She yawned and stretched, settling more comfortably into the plush upholstery. A secretive smile danced around her lips as she contemplated the possibility of a future with Booth in every part of her life …
The sound of someone pounding on her front door eventually roused Brennan from the deep sleep that she had fallen into. Her dream merged into reality as Booth's voice penetrated her consciousness.
"Bones, I know you're in there. C'mon – its freezing out here – let me in."
She stumbled towards the hall, head still muzzy from too much wine and not enough sleep. "Booth?" Unlocking the deadlock she peered out at him myopically, "What are you doing here? Is something wrong? What time is it?"
"It's late." He said bleakly, then continued in a more diffident tone, unsure of his welcome. "Can I come in? I want to talk to you. I don't want to keep going on like this." He braced himself for an argument, but was shocked into silence when her beautiful face split into a smile. She opened the door wider and Booth leaned in towards her, his eyes narrowing at her appearance.
"Sheesh, Bones, you look like crap – what have you been up to?"
She looked at him unwaveringly, coming to a rapid and inevitable decision. She felt as if someone had switched on a light inside her head. "Buying into my life, Booth. Are you coming in?"
While my heart is a shield and I won't let it down
While I am so afraid to fail so I won't even try
Well how can I say I'm alive
It's just a thought, only a thought
But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine