A/N: Firstly, thank you as always to all the reviewers, you make my day! Nextly, I'm glad everyone seems to have enjoyed the gratuitous smut from the previous chapter. This one's a little angsty but hopefully acceptable. Oh, and lastly, GO CANUCKS! (for all you non-NHL lovers, that is my hockey team, and they are now yours too) Love to you all! - MC

The memories of the last twelve hours are enough to keep the dark theme of my recent thoughts at bay, at least for a time. I work diligently in my office, reviewing Cory's medical records and family history before Booth arrives at my office.

His shadow darkens the doorway and I don't look up because I know why he is there, and I am not entirely sure I want to be a part of it. He enters the room slowly, coming to stand on the other side of my desk. I continue to read the files before me, or at least pretend to. His hands come down to rest on my desk, making the wood groan under the solid weight of him.

His fingers enter my field of vision and take hold of the file in my hands, pull them from me gently. I meet his eyes but it's hard to hold his gaze, I can feel him looking right through me, and it makes me feel naked, and vulnerable.

"Temperance," he says softly, his voice soothing me, assuring me. "It's time to talk to Eli."

I know he is waiting for me to respond and I bring my eyes to his again, letting the warmth in them comfort me. "Okay," I answer with a nod.

"You sure?" he asks me, his eyebrows raised. "Because I can go alone if you…"

I stand, grabbing my coat. "Let's go."

XX

We don't drive to Annie Daniels' home, or to a group home, but instead to the FBI office. I'm glad we'll be talking to Eli here, where I am at least marginally more in my own element. I know that had we been talking to him at one of those facilities I myself stayed in for a time, the rooms that smell of 409 and an underlying tinge of hopelessness, I would never have made it through the door. We enter the building and I find the palms of my hands sweating lightly as the elevator ascends to the eleventh floor. My heart and breathing rates have also increased, and no matter how much I remind myself how irrational this is, I cannot seem to control it. I become frustrated with myself, annoyed that every time a case involves children in foster care, I seem to lose any rational thought. Sweets would say I take these cases so personally because of my own dealings in the system; that I connect myself with these children. I would say I hate psychology. Even when it makes sense. Especially then.

I know Booth senses my tension, and I also know that he knows better than to question me again. But he does reach out, brushing his fingers against mine for the briefest of moments, and I am grateful for it. It amazes me, how much can be conveyed through a simple touch, especially from this man. We step off the elevator as the doors ding and open before us, the sounds of an office sweeping over us. Phones ringing, copy machines copying, office chatter all mixed with the smell of coffee.

Booth holds open the door of the interrogation room for me and I step forward, my chin titled upwards in determination. I enter the room and take my seat, and I see Eli in the flesh for the first time. He has dark hair that has been allowed to grow quite long, hanging into his eyes. His eyes are round, dark, and have an empty, haunted look in them. I can see my younger self in that look so well. The light dusting of freckles and teeth that are still too large for his head don't take away from the fact that while he may be nine in body, he is no longer a child.

His eyes search mine as I sit down, and I attempt to smile at him, before I think better of it. Booth sits beside me, but for once his presence does little to improve my mood. He introduces us, but Eli is barely listening to him, as I am only faintly registering his words myself.

I can't explain why but I feel like he has recognized a similarity between us and he is clinging to it, to me. Perhaps I am clinging back, and this is precisely what I had been afraid of.

Booth looks from Eli to me and back, before clearing his throat for our attention, and proceeds to ask his usual questions, though twisting them a little for a child to better understand. Eli answers them politely and evenly, and I can see that this mask he has put on is still very fragile. It will be some time before he perfects it, allows it to harden and conform to his face so well that one day he won't know where the mask ends and his own self begins, or if there is even any of the real Eli left beneath it.

I know that moment happened for me, and it was Booth that finally helped me to take it off, to realize there was still some significant amount of the old Temperance left behind after all. I find myself praying that Eli will find someone like this, to soften him just a little.

"So you can't think of anyone that might have been mad at Cory?" Booth asks him. "Nobody that she got in a fight with?"

Eli stops for a moment, his dark eyes lowering as he thinks. He raises them again and looks at me as he replies, "She fought with her boss at work a lot. She was always talking about him and how he was a grade A asshole."

Booth is taken aback at this young child's use of profanity, but as Eli watches me I make no reaction. It doesn't surprise me coming from someone who was raised by a 23 year old.

"You shouldn't say words like that, Eli," Booth says gently. "Even if Cory says them."

"Cory can't say anything anymore," he replies. Booth is silent. There's really no response to something like that.

"I'm sorry, Eli," I say to him, and it's the first words I have spoken. He looks at me and again I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Where with other people he may dismiss my apology as empty words, here I have to believe he sees that I not only mean them, I have felt them. He nods at me and I feel my throat constricting.

Booth stands to leave and I put a hand on his shoulder, lean in so my lips brush his ear. "Give me one of your cards." He doesn't question me and I love him even more for it.

I take the card and give it to Eli, who has watched our exchange with curious eyes. He takes it, looks at it, then at me. "This is Agent Booth's number. I'm with him most of the time. If you ever need anything, you call us, okay Eli?"

He nods again, holding the card tightly to his chest, as if it is a lifeline. In a way, it is. Booth thanks him and we leave, and I can already feel my strength crumbling. I rush past Booth to his office, so thankful the blinds are closed as I push the door open and lean on his desk for support. I feel as though the air has been sucked from my lungs.

I hear him shut the door gently behind us and come up behind me. He puts his hand on my neck and I turn around to bury my face in his chest. I don't cry and I'm grateful for it, just let out a shaky breath and cling to Booth as though he is my lifeline.

In a way, he is.

XX

I sit in a chair facing Booth's desk as he takes report from the crime techs, both the ones from Cory's restaurant and from her apartment. I watch him as he talks on the phone, my eyes following his lips, my thoughts drifting to the way they fell on my skin, the way they make me forget everything that is wrong with the world.

He hangs up the phone and says with a sigh, "There were several prints taken from her house that didn't match anyone in the FBI or police database, but other than that nothing of interest from the apartment."

I nod and he continues. "As for the restaurant, it looks like the techs found some blood spatter behind the bar that had been cleaned. They're confident that it was where she was killed."

"So should we run the manager's prints against the mystery ones from the victim's apartment?" I ask, leaning forward.

He smiles one of his devastatingly cocky smiles and leans back in his chair. "Already got the cops bringing him in, baby."

I smirk, "Don't call me baby."

He grins, wiggling his eyebrows, "Oh we're going to play that game again? Because you eventually warmed up to the name Bones, as I recall."

I roll my eyes, "There's a difference between warming up and giving in," I reply. I go to stand, "I'm going to go back to the lab and go over the bones again, see if there's anything I might have missed the first time."

He puts his hand out to stop me and I look at him. I can tell he's searching for the right words so I wait.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay, Bones?" he asks quietly.

I nod. "Yes, Booth. I know that I'm taking this case personally, as I do with all the cases like this, but for whatever reason I can't help it. I can handle it though. I really can."

He nods and shrugs, "Whatever you say Bones."

I roll my eyes for the second time, press a kiss to his lips and turn on my heel.

I have work to do.

XX

I tilt my head back, feeling the tense muscles ease slightly as I rotate my neck from side to side, letting out an exhausted sigh. The bones of our victim lie before me, spread out from my last exam.

"Long day?" Cam's voice echoes across the platform towards me. I turn, startled, to see the impeccably dressed woman walking towards me, looking as though she might be about to walk down a runway instead of across a forensic platform.

"Very," I respond tiredly, swiping a loose strand of hair out of my eyes with my wrist. I know she has to be professional, but I always wonder at how she can manage to look the way she does when she is essentially carving up corpses half the day.

She stops in front of the examination table, her manicured fingers curling around the edges of the surgical steel as she leans closer to the bones. "Let me guess. You're not any closer to finding out who killed her."

I look at her and give my head a simple shake. "I've been over these bones several times. I can tell you she was right handed, that she broke her left ulna when she was a child, and that she wore very impractical shoes. Something tells me none of this will help Booth catch her killer."

Cam smirks, her brown eyes warming me a little. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Doc. Sometimes the answer just isn't in the bones. But it's somewhere. And you'll find it. You always do." She smiles and turns, bidding me goodnight as she makes her way home.

I mull over her words, chewing on my lip as I discard my gloves and exit the platform, my steps hastening as I recall that there is one large piece of evidence that I as yet have not been updated on. I take the corner to Hodgin's work area quickly, and nearly smash into him as I do so.

"Whoa, there, Doctor B!" he exclaims, reaching out a hand to steady me. "I was just coming to find you, got a lotta stuff to show you from that platter. It was a veritable hotbed of information."

"What sort of information?" I ask, following him to his station where he brings up several slides for me.

"Thought you'd never ask," he smiles triumphantly and I am too interested in what he's found to be irritated with him. "Firstly, the blood does match Cory's, DNA confirmed it," he begins, pointing to the screen with a gloved finger as his blue eyes are flicking from one spot to another on his own screen. He is starting to speak quickly with excitement and I know that this is part of the job that he really enjoys.

"Next, there are traces of similar substances on this platter that match the particulates found in her wound bed, which is just a double conformation that this is the murder weapon."

I nod tersely, this is all information I had expected. But I know that he is saving the most interesting parts for last. "And now," he announces, "for the really good stuff." He brings up an enlarged image of something red and flaky looking.

I squint at it, "Is that paint?"

"Very good, Dr. B," he confirms, though I can see he is slightly deflated that I stole his lightening, or whatever that saying is. "Red nail polish, to be specific, Maybelline brand 'crimson catastrophe'. Looks like whoever struck Cory with this platter chipped their nail polish while they were doing it."

"How do we know that it wasn't there from a previous incident?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"Because it was embedded with the blood," he explained.

I smile, "Excellent work Dr. Hodgins."

"They don't call me King of the Lab for nothing," he bows.

I smirk, "No one calls you King of the Lab." I see his smile falter and quickly add, "But perhaps they should." He grins and I turn on my heel to call Booth.

XX

I take my seat at our usual table at the diner, sliding into the familiar booth as I pick up a menu. Though I have had its contents memorized for some time, this process of flipping through the menu has become a ritual of sorts, and the tradition is comforting.

I run my fingers along the edges of the laminated paper, feeling the softness of it from many years of use, mostly by me and Booth. As I think of him, he slides into the seat across from me, and my heart flutters. I feel myself smiling as he meets my eyes, and ridiculous as it is, I realize I've been missing him.

He reaches across the table and picks up my hand, dropping a kiss on it before setting it back down. "Hi," he grins.

"Hi," I reply, feeling my stomach lurch from his actions. Pull it together, Temperance, honestly.

"So I talked to this manager, turns out he's been on vacation for the last three weeks. So I guess he's off the hook. Though he really is a 'grade-A asshole'."

"Too bad we can't arrest someone just for that," I reply as Booth signals our waitress for coffee.

"If only," he answers. "Though I have to say the prisons would be at capacity."

"Hmm," I agree as our waitress places coffee in front of us, and a slice of pie for Booth, although he has not asked for it. "Well the manager wouldn't have been a suspect anyway, not unless he wears 'crimson catastrophe' nail polish," I add, sipping my coffee.

"I see your day has been much more productive," he says, his eyebrows raised in interest.

"Well, to be specific, Hodgins' day has," I answer. "He found nail polish embedded in the blood on the platter."

"So one of the other waitresses did it," Booth muses, his hands surrounding his coffee cup.

"Or the hostess," I add. "We just have to go back to the restaurant and see if any of the girls are wearing red nail polish. Maybe we'll get lucky and the killer will still have it on."

He begins to look uncomfortable and I pause, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. "What is it?"

He looks at me, then looks away. The "open" sign for the diner is flashing in the window next to him, painting his face in brilliant neon. I feel as though it is flashing a warning at me. "Well, Bones, maybe I should go and question these waitresses without you."

I set my cup down and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Why?"

He rubs the back of his neck in distress and I can see he is not looking forward to this conversation. "Well, I just think…I think you're a little bit too close to this case, Bones. And now that we've got the information we need, maybe I should just take it from here."

"Booth, I am perfectly capable of controlling my emotions," I snarl, somewhat taking away from the point I am trying to make.

"Yeah, I can see that," he retorts sarcastically.

My anger is rising, I can feel it racing through my veins, tainting my thoughts, and the words that I speak. "You can't stop me from being a part of this. I've worked hard on this case, I deserve to see it put to an end."

"Look, Bones, you're right about that. But it may not be put to an end if you happen to fly off the handle at one of the suspects, as you have been known to do in the past."

I freeze and I can see that he has immediately regretted his choice of words. "Fly off the handle?" I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.

He backpedals, "Bones, look, I –"

"You make me sound like I'm some hormonal lunatic that needs to be caged, Booth! And it's funny that you should criticize my ability to remain objective, considering your track record."

He balks. "My track record? Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That you've 'flown of the handle' a couple times yourself, Agent Booth."

He waves his hands in front of his face, dismissing me. "Bones, I'm not going to argue about this. You're too close to this case, you're identifying too much with the people involved, and it could compromise this interrogation. I'm doing this for your own good."

"For my own good. I'm not five years old!"

He narrows his eyes at me and I stand, finished with this. His expression changes from annoyance to panic. I throw a few dollars on the table and whisper, "Goodnight Agent Booth," before turning for the door. The waitress gives me a sympathetic look as I rush past, and I am shockingly tempted to knock the tray of coffee from her hands.

I can hear Booth calling after me, but I don't turn around. I know that if I do, the look on his face will cause my heart to melt, and I don't want that to happen. So instead, I jump in my car and drive away, muttering "Fly off the handle".

XX

12:15am

My alarm clock reminds me mockingly of the hour as I roll over for the tenth time in as many minutes. I sigh, my limbs twisted in the tangle of sheets I have created with my restlessness. He should have called by now, I think to myself. But he hasn't. Not even so much as a text in fact.

I sit up and straighten the sheets, casually checking my phone to make sure I haven't missed any alerts. Nothing. I won't let myself admit that I'm starting to get worried. Have I messed everything up before it even had a chance to be something?

I shake my head, refusing to allow myself to think about this, and flop back onto the pillows. I scrunch my eyes shut, willing my brain to surrender.

1:43am

I should just call him. I'm the one who was out of line. He was just acting in the best interests of the case.

I stare out my window, hoping to see the soft sweep of headlights rounding the corner to my house, straining to hear the muffled sound of a car door slamming shut. Nothing. It's started to rain, the droplets that slide down my window distorting the night sky as they make their way to the sill. The moon becomes stretched into an oblong smear, the stars blur.

It isn't until the objects of my bedroom begin to blur as well that I realize tears have started to slip from the corners of my eyes. I brush them away, angry with myself (Temperance Brennan doesn't cry over any man), and flip onto my stomach.

2:51am

Who does he think he is? Yes, admittedly I am taking this case personally, as I have already acknowledged; but he should trust that I am able to compartmentalize sufficiently enough to behave in a professional manner. If he thinks I'm incapable of that, then he obviously doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does.

2:55 am

I throw back my covers.

I never used to be like this.

Before him I was a completely rational human being. I never let myself become so worked up I couldn't sleep at night. Never became so illogically angry at someone that I would spend my night entangling myself in a web of sheets as I toss and turn in frustration; snippets of conversation looping through my overactive mind and relighting the flame of my fury each time I quell it. And I certainly have never been so overly emotional that I've ripped back my covers and grabbed my car keys, speeding through the empty streets at all hours of the night.

But apparently, this is who I have become. And, as I slow at a red light in a deserted intersection, the street lights reflecting off the wet pavement, I'm unsure what angers me more; our argument, or the realization that I am turning into someone I don't recognize.

My knock at his door is not unexpected.

He answers it so quickly that I know he hasn't been sleeping either, and I get some small satisfaction from this. He says nothing as he opens his door wider, ushering me in. As I walk past him, and the warm, clean smell of him engulfs me, I find that most of my anger has already dissipated. How does he do that?

I sink down on his couch and realize that for once in my life, I have no words. Normally when I know I will be engaging in an uncomfortable conversation I will plan an outline of what I might say, so that I can be as clear and articulate as possible. Now, I stare at the curled edges of a sports illustrated magazine he has sitting on his table, not looking up as the weight of him next to me causes the cushions to sink.

We are both silent for a time, the hockey players on his muted television flying across the ice in front of us, the pale flickering light leeching the color from our faces. His tap is dripping in the kitchen. He shifts, clears his throat, and asks, "Are you still mad at me?"

I shrug my shoulders, and look at him for the first time since entering his home tonight. "I don't know anymore. I changed my mind between being angry at myself, and angry at you, so many times over the past few hours. I can't seem to remember what I finally concluded before I got here."

He nods, and I wager that he has had a similar experience here tonight. I think to myself yet again that we are not so different as everyone believes us to be. "Would it help you decide if I told you that I'm sorry?" he asks. I can tell he wants to touch me in the way he leans towards me, but he isn't sure yet how I will respond.

I look at him, see the way his hair is mussed on one side, note the curves of his muscles under his thin undershirt, and feel a pull deep within myself, the same pull I have been feeling for years and have only recently been able to categorize. I decide then that this person I am becoming may not be so bad after all. She is more vulnerable, yes, it's true. Vulnerable to anger and pain. But she is also more vulnerable to feelings of happiness, though it's still hard to say that word out loud.

"Yes, Booth. It helps," I whisper. My throat is constricting and I am surprised at the level of emotion I am experiencing. I realize that most of my anger was actually fear that he had realized he'd made a mistake with me, this hot-headed, "fly off the handle" type woman.

We reach for each other at the same time, and he pulls me into his lap. I straddle him, my body sinking into him as I wrap my arms around his neck and heave a sigh of relief. I bury my face into him, nuzzling my nose into the hollow of his neck, in an uninhibited display of affection. His hands span my back, sliding down until his fingers skim under my shirt. We stay like this for some time, lulled by the rising and falling of each other's breathing, until he feels me drifting off against him. He stands, holding me against him like a child, and walks to his bedroom. From where my head lies against him I whisper, "Booth?, "

"Yes, Bones?"

"I'm sorry too."

"I know, Bones. I know."

A/N well that's all she wrote! And by "she" I mean me. I hope you enjoyed, please review if you can find it in your heart.