A/N: I think we had a little misunderstanding... I didn't mean to scare you when I said the two parts were different in mood/theme! I think some of you took that as meaning that this next part would be totally depressing, judging by the reviews you left. That's definitely not what I meant, and you'll see that once you've read this chapter. :) By the way, I'm glad that you enjoyed the exchange of I-love-you's... I wasn't sure how it would be received, since it wasn't passionate and pulse-pounding and very film noir the way a lot of fics are about it. This just felt natural to me, and I was happy that you seemed to agree.

Anyway, enjoy this next chapter (I enjoyed writing it), and let me know what you think!

'Cause I'm hopeful, yes I am
Hopeful for today
Take this music and use it
Let it take you away
And be hopeful, hopeful
And He'll make a way
I know it ain't easy but
That's okay, 'cause we hopeful...

- Hope, Twista f/ Faith Evans

Life is rhythmic. Every aspect, from the rigidly scientific to the deeply spiritual, has a rhythm about it, a pattern—something one can settle into and feel, and move with. The sun rises, the sun sets; the tides ebb and flow; cells divide and multiply. Perennials burst forth from the hardened crust of winter and, as surely as a newborn child takes their first gasp of air, brightly-colored buds will protrude from their stems and open themselves to the world. We fall into these patterns that pass and overlap one another effortlessly, and it becomes our life. We fall into the rhythm of life, and it allows us the pleasure of hearing the tempo for what it is—music.

With as much difficulty as she had adjusted to life with Jamal, she adjusted to life without him. She fell out of her old patterns—making lunches, correcting school assignments, cleaning up after the perpetual hurricane that an eleven year old boy is wont to be—and into a new set. Or rather, it was her old set, before Jamal, which felt so foreign to her now as to be new.

She became responsible, once again, for only herself. When she woke in the morning, she made breakfast for one. When she was racing the clock on a murder case, often stuck in the lab for hours at a stretch, she did not worry about who would be able to pick him up from school. She worked late, well into the night and often early morning, simply because she could—there was no bedtime to enforce, no school to prepare for in the morning.

Her patterns were not entirely the same as before, though. Now that they had appraised their relationship and made necessary adjustments, she found herself occupying a new sphere—Booth's. It wasn't as if they weren't a constant presence in each other's lives before, but there was a palpable difference in their relationship and interactions. Their words were less guarded, their actions less reserved, and with everything out in the open there was no reason to read into anything the other said—the what if's were gone. No longer did they agonize over the unasked questions: What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if he's not interested? What if I'm misunderstanding him? What if she laughs in my face? What if? What if? The undercurrent of sexual tension fled their interactions, and was replaced by the rhythm of two people working in comfortable tandem with one another. They were now, more so than ever before, two halves working as a whole unit, in all aspects of their lives. Her clothes claimed a corner of his closet, and his bar soap was in her shower, because God forbid he smell like women's body wash. They were like little flags, laying claim to their territory—This is mine.

oOoOoOoOo

"Remember, the reservations are at six," Booth reminded through the phone as Brennan pulled into the gas station, rolling her eyes.

"I know, Booth," she said, parking the car at an empty pump.

"It's four-thirty now," he said. "You're not even here yet, and you still have to get ready…"

"Booth, I am perfectly capable of keeping track of time!"

"I know," he said, groaning. "It's just, this is dinner with my boss's boss's boss, and they invited me, and I feel like I'm the sacrificial ram or something and if I screw something up they're gonna throw me in the fire. So I just don't want to be late, okay?"

"I understand," she said. "I'm just going to put gas in my car, then I'm going home. I'll be at your place by five-thirty."

"Five-twenty would be better."

"I'm hanging up now," she said.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want you to go all Zoolander on me," Booth said with a strained chuckle.

"I don't know what that means," she said. He sighed.

"Nevermind. Just… I'll see you later." They hung up and she tossed the phone in the passenger's seat, unscrewing the tank cover and swiping her card. She leaned against the car as she squeezed the trigger, staring at the various graffiti decorations on and around the pump. She generally wouldn't stop for gas in this part of town—she usually took the interstate around these neighborhoods on her way home from work—but this afternoon she was pressed for time and traffic was bad. Booth had been stressing about this dinner for the entire week, and had spent all morning at breakfast reminding her about it.

Suddenly someone jumped out at her from around the other side of the gas pump and grabbed her arm, taking her by surprise, and she let out a startled yell. The perpetrator stumbled back against the side of her car, and began to laugh raucously.

"I got you!" he yelled, hardly able to speak from laughing so hard. She put a hand on her chest and felt her racing heart, and shook her head, unable to stop smiling despite her shock.

"God, Jamal, you scared me!" she said, feeling her adrenaline rush abate, replaced with a slow-dawning joy. It had been over a month since she had waved goodbye to the boy in the social services parking lot, and now he stood in front of her again, as if he had simply fallen out of the sky. When he finally got control of himself, he stood before her with his arms crossed, as was typical of him, surveying her.

"Whatcha doin' here?" he asked.

"Filling up my gas tank, what does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, still unable to control the stupid smile that had plastered itself across her face. He rolled his eyes.

"I didn't mean that," he said. "I got eyes. I meant, what you doin' at this gas station? This ain't by yo' house."

"It's on the way," she said, letting the nozzle sit in the car even though it had long since finished fuelling up. "The short way, to get around all the downtown traffic." Jamal nodded, having uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops.

"Gotcha," he said, brushing past her and removing the nozzle from the car, placing it back in the cradle. It was one of the things he had always liked to do when he lived with her—they would take the car to the gas station to fill up the tank, and he would beg for her to let him put the gas in the car. She thought it was a peculiar request, but she let him, and it turned into a routine of theirs. She would sit in the car and he would take the money to the cashier, then pump the gas into the vehicle, all while she sat and watched bemusedly.

"So, what are you doing here?" she asked, looking around for his aunt's beat-up car. His shoulders bounced up and down.

"I'unno," he said. "Hangin' out."

"At a gas station?" she asked.

"No, at the fair," he quipped, grinning wickedly. She gave him a look, but it was supremely ineffective due to her unrelenting smile. Nothing could wipe it from her features at that moment.

"Ha ha," she said. "Does your aunt know you're here?" He nodded, pulling a pack of gum and a book of stamps out of one of his deep jean pockets.

"She sent me for stamps," he explained. "An' I got gum with the change. Want some?" Brennan declined and he shrugged, unwrapping a piece and cramming it into his mouth. The air between them stung with cinnamon and gasoline. Brennan disliked the idea of sending a child Jamal's age to a gas station by himself, particularly in a neighborhood such as this one, but knew it was not her call to make. Not anymore.

"You can gimme a ride home?" he asked suddenly, brows raised to confirm that it was indeed a question and not a statement. The memory of Booth's dinner with his boss's boss's boss briefly crossed her mind, and then was banished.

"Yes," she said. "I'd love to." Jamal pumped his fist and ran around to the other side of the car, letting himself in. Brennan sent Booth a text before she pulled out onto the road, a brief but loaded message: "Taking Jamal home, can't make dinner." Almost instantly he sent back an "OK" and she knew he understood her absence. It was one of his hallmarks—that understanding of priorities—and it was one of the things she truly loved about him.

Jamal pointed her down a labyrinth of streets that lead her deep into the heart of a neighborhood the city had all but forgotten. The roads were pitted and cracked, and while much of the neighborhood was government-sponsored project housing, it didn't look like codes enforcement had taken a look at any of these buildings in years. Slowly they moved past the project buildings and crossed into another section of the neighborhood that seemed to be slightly nicer duplexes and apartments.

Jamal instructed her to pull into the parking lot of a small single-story apartment complex within the neighborhood. There were a few cars and several bikes in the parking lot, and if Brennan had bothered to do the math, she would have found that her one car had a higher value than all the rest of the vehicles combined, bicycles included. The U-shaped building itself were in dire need of a new paint job, and sheets of varying patterns hung in most of the windows in place of blinds or true curtains. Despite the dilapidated condition of the complex, though, the small plots of grass in front of the units were mostly taken care of, many scattered with lawn chairs, some with forgotten children's toys lying in the dirt.

She followed Jamal to a heavy door that had "104" painted across the top of the doorway, the way one would paint a house number on a street curb. He opened the unlocked door and beckoned her into the apartment, and she followed him nervously, unsure of how his aunt would take to finding her there. Would she be insulted, or angered, to find her nephew's ex foster parent in her home unannounced? Just as she thought she should turn and leave, she heard the woman's voice booming from the kitchen.

"Jamal, you got the stamps?" she yelled over the TV that blared in the sparsely decorated living room. Two small girls—they were perhaps three and five—sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it, mesmerized as the Yo Gabba Gabba theme song played. Jamal grabbed Brennan by the hand and lead her into the kitchen, where she was once again face-to-face with his aunt. The woman sat at the dining room table, snapping the ends off of green beans methodically—ends in the trash can, beans in the bowl on the table.

"Jamal, I need you to—" She stopped half-way through her sentence, taken aback by the unexpected visitor. Brennan opened her mouth to speak but was unsure of what to say. Hi, I picked up your nephew at a sketchy gas station where he was hanging out without parental supervision. Somehow she didn't think that would be well-received. Jamal spared either of them from having to speak, though.

"Auntie, look, I seen Doc at the gas station an' she gimme a ride home," he explained, tossing the booklet of stamps on the kitchen counter. Talia processed for a moment, and then her look of uncertainty was replaced by a warm smile.

"Well alright!" she said, standing from where she sat at the kitchen table and wiping her hands on her apron, holding one out to Brennan. "I 'member you, Dr. Brennan ain'it?"

"Yes," she said. "And you're Talia?"

"Uh huh," she said, stepping into the doorway between the kitchen and living room. "Y'all git in here!" The two girls jumped up and scurried into the kitchen, looking up at Brennan cautiously when they realized she was there. She didn't blame them—she knew they had been in the system when Talia was undergoing drug rehabilitation, they had good reason to be suspicious of strangers in their home.

"This is Dr. Brennan," Talia introduced. "She the lady who took Jamal for a while. Dr. Brennan—"

"Temperance," she offered, abnormally uncomfortable with her own esteemed title in this setting.

"Temperance," Talia corrected. "These's my girls, Shante and Jakya. Y'all be nice an' say hello."

"Hi," they said in unison, the younger Shante hiding behind her older sister, who still gave Brennan a hard look. The resemblance between Jakya and Jamal was stunning—their creamy brown tone, their identical eyes and noses, and the distrusting look she gave him was one straight out of the little boy's repertoire. They could easily pass for siblings. Shante was much darker, like Talia, and built more like a linebacker than her willowy sister and cousin. Brennan returned their greeting and, satisfied, the girls shuffled back into the living room, which was empty save for one couch, one chair, and a small television sitting on an end table against the far wall. Plain white sheets covered the windows, and the walls were bare but spotless. From what Brennan could see of the apartment, Talia kept it extremely clean, even if very sparsely furnished.

"You go on," Talia said to Jamal, who was standing around in the kitchen with the two women. "'Less you wanna snap beans!" Jamal made a disgusted face and left, throwing himself down on the couch in the living room and changing the channel, to the outraged cries of his younger cousins. Talia let out a loud warning, and the fussing stopped immediately.

"You jus' gonna stand there an' look pretty or you gon' help?" Talia asked, using her foot to push a chair out from underneath the small table. She was still in her Merry Maid's uniform, the same one Brennan had seen her in the day she took Jamal, right down to the worn-out sneakers. Brennan took the seat offered to her and went to work on the legumes, and found that she was not nearly as quick at it as Talia was.

"What are you making?" Brennan asked, partly out of curiosity and partly for conversation's sake.

"Snap beans 'n ham," Talia said. "Was gon' make potatoes too but I ain't got the time for it. Been so busy, hardly got time to get anything done. You stayin' to eat?" Brennan was surprised by the offer, and answered hesitantly.

"I don't want to impose…"

"Oh hush," Talia said, waving her off and smiling. They worked quietly together at the table, and Brennan occasionally looked up and surveyed Talia with interest. The women seemed to be within two or three years of each other in age, but life had taken much more of a toll on Talia than Brennan. Whether it was her past drug use or the daily labor of her job, or both, she appeared older, and physically worn down.

"He been talkin' 'bout you," Talia said out of the blue a few minutes later. Brennan looked up.

"Me?" Talia nodded.

"He think a lot of you," she said. "Him an' me both." Brennan snapped a bean and smiled, tossing the ends in the trash can between them.

"Thank you," she said.

"No," Talia said, reaching across the trash can and grabbing Brennan's hand in hers. "Thank you. You took damn fine care'a him when he ain't had nobody. All that stuff you give 'im—you ain't had to, but you did it anyway. You took him an' treated him like he was yours, made him feel like he belong." Talia paused for a moment, giving herself time to regain her composure, then continued.

"He like a son to me, you know? His momma died when he was five—my brother ain't wanna raise a kid so I took him up. After I went to the clinic, they made Jamal's daddy take 'im 'cause he ain't had nowhere else to go. Then after he went to jail… I tell you, I was sick worryin' 'bout him, just sick with it. Didn't know where he was, who had him, if they was treatin' 'im right… same as my girls, just made me sick to think about." Brennan felt a deep empathy for the woman—over the past month she had often found herself consumed with wondering the same things about Jamal, and she'd only had him for three months. This woman had raised him as her own son for five years.

"That's what got me clean," Talia said. "Had their pictures stuck up on my mirror at the clinic, all three of 'em. Every day I'd look at myself in the mirror an' see them lookin' back at me, an' no matter how bad it was, I had to do right by them. Crack was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life, an' I almost lost everything 'cause of it. Thank God I got it back." Brennan didn't know what to say. She stared at Talia, working her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to conjure up something meaningful to respond with.

"You are an impressive woman," she finally said. "I very rarely say that to people, because I'm not impressed by others all that often. But you've endured incredibly difficult situations in your life to take care of your family… of all of your family… and that impresses me, and I respect that highly." Talia smiled widely at her, and she returned it.

"Who'd'a ever thought?" Talia asked nobody in particular. "The day I'd be sittin' in my kitchen, makin' friends with some rich white lady snappin' my beans and tellin' me she think I'm impressive. I tell ya, God is good and He's in a good mood!" She slapped her knees and laughed unabashedly, and Brennan couldn't help but join in. Religious beliefs notwithstanding, Talia was right; the scenario was one that Brennan never would have envisioned herself taking part of.

Within an hour the beans were steamed, the ham was fried, biscuits had risen in the heat of the oven, and the small dinette table was set with an extra place. Having forgotten their previous apprehensions, Shante and Jakya battled Jamal for Brennan's attention, telling jokes and stories at a high volume across the table. Talia took her seat and the kids settled immediately, clasping their hands in their laps and bowing their heads. To be polite, Brennan mimicked the motion, but kept her eyes open.

"Lord," Talia began, "Thank you for this blessed day—for a roof over our heads and food on the table, and mostly for all us sittin' here tonight. You sending Temperance here today was a true blessing and we thank you for her, and hope she know that she's always welcome in this house." Brennan looked up, and was surprised to find that while all of the children's heads were bowed, Talia was staring directly at her from across the table, smiling warmly.

"Amen," Talia finished, giving Brennan a slight nod.

"Amen," the children chorused, snatching their forks up off the table and digging into their plates.

After the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Brennan insisted that she had to head home to console Booth after leaving him alone with his higher-ups. Jamal convinced her to stay for a round of Spoons, which she did, and finally they let her go. The entire group walked her out to her car, bidding her a noisy goodbye in an otherwise quiet night.

"You come back on Sunday," Talia said, leaning in through Brennan's car window as she cranked the ignition. "We usually eat 'round four, after church. And bring a dessert, pie or somethin', a'ight?"

"Are you sure?" Brennan asked. Talia gave her a look that clearly suggested she should stop asking that question.

"Y'all want Aunt Tempe to come back on Sunday?" Talia asked the children, who exploded with loud confirmations. Talia turned back to Brennan. "That good enough?"

"Yes," Brennan said, her cheeks actually sore from the amount of smiling she had done that evening. "I'll see you on Sunday, then." They said their goodbyes and she pulled out of the complex parking lot, navigating her way out of the crowded neighborhood and back onto the main road.

Half-way to Booth's place, she realized she was still smiling.