A/N 1: Thank you for all those reviews you left for the first chapter! To recap: (1) Brennan lives in Michigan and has dyed her hair strawberry blonde, (2) Booth, Brennan, and Cam knew each other in high school, (3) Aubrey and Sweets are of the same age and are not that much younger than Booth because this is my AU. Also, I'm about 70% sure I'll fuck up the crime parts. Again, had not been proofread by anyone else. See ya at the bottom of the chapter!

Rating changed from T to M.

Content Warning: Gore, nudity, smoking, anxiety

"Ow!" Exclaimed Vincent after falling on his side on the floor with a thud, interrupting Brennan from her thoughts. He quickly looks up and sees that she has turned around just as quickly, just staring at him from where she's standing by the couch, a tired look on her face. "Oops."

"Get up, Vincent." Brennan deadpans. "Angela, I know you're behind that wall as well. You can come out now."

Angela, ignoring the lithe young man on the floor, purposefully walks towards her friend. "Bren, life and death? Seriously? I mean, I knew you were a Dr. Death and I'm sure they could find some other doctor who's actually willing to help them. Wasn't the whole moving-away-without-telling-anyone thing enough of a hint? And the whole 'you're our best chance at solving this'? What's up with that?" She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing in skepticism.

"I've been gone for quite a while, and so I'm unsure as to whether another forensic anthropologist has outranked me as the most qualified in the country." Brennan frowns and cocks her head towards the pile of folders stacked on the coffee table. "I guess I'll find out."

Hours pass through her fingertips, the afternoon breeze softly blowing the thin white curtains hanging on the door to her small veranda. Papers and photos and copies of X-rays cover half the floor of Brennan's bedroom, Brennan herself sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her, eyes trained on the files, her face stoic, the gears in her head turning and processing every iota of information within her grasp. She's lost deep in her thoughts, unaware of the knocking on her door until the very person presented herself in front of her.

"Hey, I brought you coffee and a sandwich." Says Angela, gaze going over the files scattered all over.

Brennan looks up, receiving the tray from Angie and setting it down beside her. "Thanks."

"This is… Wow. I mean, what do you make of all of this?"

"A burnt body was found duct taped onto a crucifix inside a church in Pennsylvania on the evening of the 4th of July last year. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the sternum." Brennan points to one side of her room where numerous photos and paper were grouped together. "The victim was a priest in his mid-60s. No one has seen anyone walk in when everyone went home for the night. All leads point to nothing except a single piece of small column about 3 inches tall made from ivory tusk lodged in his throat."

Angela winces at the photos of human remains, grimace painted across her features at the prospect of such grave ways to die and the cruelty of having performed such merciless acts. Nonetheless, she keeps still and continues listening.

"November 4th, a decomposed skull was found at the top of an elementary school flagpole in West Virginia, tied to the rope they use to raise the flag. They haven't found the body but they matched the dental records with those of a 26-year old college freshman. Severity of decay puts time of death 3 days before the skull was found. They found a similar ivory column a few feet from the flagpole, covered in human remains. It must have fallen off from the victim's head when it was reeled up onto the top of the pole.

"And then January 7th this year, they found a set of burnt remains in a car in the underground parking lot of the International Trade Center in D.C.. The victim was a lawyer, 37, has no personal relationships even with co-workers. Likewise, there were no witnesses, no leads. Time of death was also a week before the body was found." Brennan sighs and touches the crime scene photo of the third victim as if she could feel the skull under her fingertips.

Sitting down at an arm's length beside Brennan, she watches the way her friend looks at the files, every move seems stiff and cold. "Why do those deaths seem familiar?"

"These murders," says Brennan, looking up at Angela and failing to hide how upset she is, "albeit not exactly the same, they're patterned after my books."

"Your what?" Inquires Angela instantly.

As she explains, Brennan started gathering the files into a pile. "The Kathy Reichs series. I've been writing under the pseudonym Joy Ruth Keenan."

"I'm sorry, what?!" Comes the shocked reply from Angie.

"I've been writing the Kathy Reichs series under the pseudonym Joy Ruth Keenan. I—"

"You're Joy Ruth Keenan?!" The other woman responds. "That's crazy. I would've known."

Brennan sighs, "I thought you already knew. When you went over last year and joked about how I should give you an entire set because I have 2 copies of each book on the series and I did. You have also answered the phone at least 5 times when my publisher Claudia called. And once when you insisted that we should go out and drink with Jake, you asked me where I got the money to buy and operate the vineyard, and I told you that I got it from writing."

Angela seats slumped across from Brennan, her mouth hanging open in confusion, trying to make sense of everything. "Claudia is your publisher? I thought she was your lawyer. And how am I supposed to remember having asked where you got your money, when I told you the next day that I don't remember anything after those orange tsunami shots. Plus, I was there when Max gave you a virtual tour of their new villa in France via video call, sweetie. Your parents are loaded."

"Angie, you know I hate asking my parents for money. And I can't really blame you. I've been refusing to do promotions and have my photo printed at the back of my books."

"That makes a lot more sense. No one knows what she looks like. She's never hosted a single signing or reading event. Not even a TV appearance. She doesn't even give away enough biography on the back of her books. And you're Joy Ruth Keenan…" She trails, bewildered, a loose hand over her own mouth as she sees her blue-eyed friend in front of her in a different new light.

"My parents call me Joy, it's a childhood nickname. And my mother's name is Ruth," Brennan explains. "But this isn't about me."

The concern grows in her face as she realizes the gravity of the situation. "Right. Right. The dead. Oh my god, sweetie, are you okay?"

Brennan gets up and retrieves a fresh shirt from her closet. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be? Murder is always horrible. I wrote fictional novels, Angela. They're supposed to stay fictional. The murderer is the one whom we should be blaming for all of these."

When Brennan disappears into the bathroom, Angela hears the faucet running and stands up to sit across the files on the bed, thinking, and calls out to her friend. "So when Michelangelo says that there are lives at stake, he meant that he thinks there will be more victims?"

"Yes." She walks back to her room in a gray V-neck tee and faded jeans. Brennan reaches for the files and stops to explain to her friend. "My publisher is already printing my fourth novel. If it goes in stores before the killer is caught, there's going to be a rise in body count."

"Bren," Angela sighs, walking after Brennan as she turns to leave the room, "this is not on you, okay? It's not your fault that there are sick bastards in the world."

"I know." Brennan lies through her teeth. But she blinks once like she always does when she lies. And she's not sure whether her friend is aware about this little tell of hers but she decides to push it anyway. "I'm going to talk to Booth. Can you make sure Vincent checks if we're ready for bottling on Monday?"

"Yeah. Sure." Angela nods, still dumbfounded at the sudden influx of strange and surprising revelations that unfolded in front of her in a very short span of time.

She trudges quickly along the stairs of the small motel. Glancing at the numbers on the doors as she passes them by, she stops in front of room 208. Grasping the stack of files on her right arm, she knocks on the wooden door. When no one answers, she knocks again, the papers almost falling off her arm. With frustration, she starts pounding the side of her fist on the door, hard and purposeful. She rolls her eyes and presses an ear to the door, listening for movements inside. She tries to rattle the door knob, to no avail.

Internally, she curses at him for showing up in her vineyard—in her life—and dragging her into the heap of heavy mess that's she's literally trying to balance in one arm right now. The rage in her chest was starting to bubble up and Brennan decides in that glorious brain of hers that she's going to pound thrice for the last time and if no one answers the door, she's going to leave him and the files and the cases behind and continue on with her life as a vigneron. With a huff, she brings her fist mid-air, poised to knock, and the door suddenly swings open, revealing Booth, holding a gun to her, rivulets of water glistening on his chest, the contrast of the white towel against his tanned skin unmistakable as its ends unhook from his waist.

Her eyes trail lower, tracing the path that the lone droplet travels from his clavicle to his abdomen and over his hips, and his uhm… She blinks rapidly, a soft blush creeping its way up her neck. Turning her head away, she tells him flatly, "Lower the gun, pick up the towel, get dressed. Meet me at Sally's in 15 minutes."

His eyes widen and he shuts the door but not nearly as fast as it took for her to disappear in front of him.

When she pulls up at the diner, her face numb from having rolled down her window on the short trip from the motel. But the chill of the late afternoon in March does nothing to help her body calm down. She slams the door close, her thoughts roaming wild as she trudges into the diner.

She hadn't seen him for a long time, that much she knows. Yet she still wonders how much she remembers about him just so she can compare those to what he is now—how much he's changed. They both did. After all, they were just kids then—ignorant, stubborn, disillusioned.

Images of him kept flashing in her head—the soft dip between his eyebrow, his lips, his wide shoulders, the week-old stubble on his chin that spread on his lower cheeks, his lips, his chest, his strong biceps, the veins on his forearms gripping the firearm, the dark hues of his nipples, the extension of his pubic hair, his sculpted hips, the impressive display of his dick even as it was flaccid, his lips, his shoulders, his dick, his chest, his arms, his chest, his arms, his lips on her breasts, his lips between her thighs, his hands holding her hips as his dick slams repeatedly in and out of her—

"Hey, Temperance." Greets Nancy, the waitress who takes the second shift at the diner. Fair skin and blonde hair, she's no more than 40. Over the course of 4 years, she and the other staff of the diner have grown familiar to Brennan and her quiet observing eyes. "You okay? You look a little pale but you're kinda sweating."

Brennan looks up at the waitress and forces a smile, shaking her head a little. "Oh. I'm fine. We tasted a few barrels earlier." She blinked. "Anyway, I was just thinking."

"Must be pretty serious then. The way you were staring at those salt and pepper shakers, you could be charged for murder." She remarks, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the customer.

"I believe it's impossible to be charged for the murder of inanimate objects." Brennan notes sincerely.

"I sure do hope so. What with all those bionic inventions popping up everywhere, who knows." The waitress shrugs. "Did Leo tell you about the man here last night?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm actually waiting for him right now."

Nancy nods, knowing it's not her place to push for information, especially after having found her in that trance. "Well, what can I get you?"

"Just a cup of chamomile tea, please. Thank you." Brennan gave her an honest smile and the blonde turned to leave. The diner was not as packed yet—it is after all too late for afternoon snacks and too early for dinner. She taps the files beside her, thankful that the last booth at the very end of the diner was not occupied when she came in, for what she and Booth will discuss might horrify the other customers.

Nancy is just setting down the cup of tea in front of Brennan when he slides in on the booth, sitting opposite her. Nancy smiles at the man and nods at him, "Seems you know Tempe after all." Booth offers him a curt smile and she asks him, "You gonna order?"

"A cup of coffee and a burger."

The waitress leaves and Booth clears his throat, "You looked at the files?"

"Yes." Brennan says, putting the stack on the table and sliding it over to him. "You're here which means you know about my pseudonym, my books. Do you concur?"

The warm browns of his orbs are cast downwards, following the lines of the ends of the manila folders. "Yes."

"The ways in which the remains were found are similar to those in my book. "

"Yes." He repeats.

"Am I a suspect?"

His face snaps up and stares at her. "No."

"But you believe I can be of help."

"Yes." He says again, his features growing more serious, detached, professional as he answers her rain of questions. "We have to catch the killer before somebody else dies. In order to do so, we will need a fresh set of eyes. We're hoping you could provide us some insight and reveal new evidence that could point us to the killer."

When Nancy comes back with Booth's order, he slides the stack of files at the edge of the table by the window and the two customers remain quiet until the waitress is out of earshot. She asks coldly, not batting an eye, "Who examined the remains?"

"The Jeffersonian. Cam is the head of the Medico-Legal Lab."

"I'm fully aware of that." Brennan states. "But she's a forensic pathologist. Who's the forensic anthropologist in-charge of the case?"

"Dr. Zack Addy, former child prodigy—IQ above 163. He received his doctorate at 26."

"He seems capable enough. Why do you need me?"

"Because as of October last year, he's 27."

Brennan's brows shoot upwards at the slightest. "I'm quite certain Cam found it rational and reasonable to hire him. The Jeffersonian only hires the best in their fields."

"He's a kid."

"Not at all. When you're 21, you're considered an adult everywhere in the world." She argues, taking a sip of her tea.

"We need more, Bo—" He cuts himself off, reminded of how she doesn't want to be addressed in the old moniker. Booth sighs and leans forward, whispering. "Please. We need you on this case."

"How did you know where to find me?" She asks, eyes narrowing into thin slits.

"It's the FBI." At Booth's reply, Brennan's eyebrow shot up and Booth added, "And I had to blackmail Sully."

She leans back and stares at him for a long time which he tries to make less awkward by taking bites out of his burger one after the other. She shifts her gaze on the plate of fries in front of her and slides out of her seat. "Arrange for myself to fly out with you tomorrow and where I will be staying. We observe professionalism to its full extent. That means no bringing up the past, no asking about the present, no conversations about our personal lives unless otherwise related to the case which I very much doubt will be. I'll work on these murders as long as I see fit. If at any moment I find my expertise of no more importance to the case, our agreement will be terminated. Those are my terms. Do you accept?"

He swallows the bite he was chewing, his Adam's apple bobbing up then down in the process. "Yes."

"Okay." She says, sliding a dollar under the saucer of her tea cup. "Is everything you have on the case in those files?"

"Yes."

"What time is your departure?"

He has his head turned sideways towards her standing form. He is still, unmoving, even his hands seem to refuse to let go of the burger, to hold on to something that represents not just the tangibility of her presence alone, but also her acceptance. "9:15 AM. Cherry Capital."

She nods, staring ahead at the door dazedly. "I have nothing else to learn from these files for now. You can brief me about the case when we arrive in D.C. so I can meet your team. I'll meet you at the airport at 8:30."

The sun has just set when Brennan steps out of the diner. She starts the truck and reaches for the glove compartment, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and places it in her lap before driving away.

Brennan huffs the last puff of smoke from her lips as she leaps down from her truck. She quickly heads for the outdoor entrance to the cellar, each step heavy as she descends the stairs. "Vincent?" She calls out, her eyes adjusting to the dimmed difference of the indoor illumination.

"Yeah?" Vincent answers, raising his head from the piles of paper on the table before him.

"I have to leave town for a while." She stops beside him, perching a hand on her hip.

The young man twists to face her, silent panic evident in his face. "For how long?"

"Indefinitely."

"What are we talking about?" Angela pipes in as she walks towards them, setting the box of empty wine bottles on the table.

Turning to her friend, Brennan drops her hands to her sides and distributes her weight on both feet. "Oh, the FBI from this morning. I agreed to go to DC. We're leaving tomorrow."

"Okay..." Angela trailed. "But Bren, is everything going to be okay?"

"I'm not sure anyone can answer that question, Angie. No one can see into the future," she chuckles, "that's just impossible. Although as for the vineyard, I'm fairly certain Vincent can manage on his own for a while."

Vincent nods at them both enthusiastically.

"That's not what I'm worried about, sweetie." Angela sighs. "You'll be facing a lot of the things that could remind you of what you've run away from."

The blonde woman scoffs, "You know I hate psychology. Besides, once I've done everything I can to help with the case, I'll go back home. I'll be quick. In and out. No talking about the past, no asking personal questions. Things will be strictly professional between us. It better be or I will have to leave. They know that."

"I don't want you to spiral into a bigger meltdown and move halfway around the world!" She counters, an open palm gesturing across the room to paint how far she means.

Brennan releases half a chuckle. "Ange, your concern for me is highly appreciated, and I love you too—you're my dearest friend. But I'll be fine. You shouldn't worry."

The brunette's brows are knit together, confused and annoyed and worried as hell for her friend who tries to bury her vulnerability under layers of rationalization, professionalism, intelligence, and independence. "Right. Like Worry isn't my middle name."

"It isn't. You don't have one." Chimes in Brennan, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, you're right. Of course." Angela snorts defensively. "When do you leave?"

She tells her friend with vigor, "Tomorrow at 9:15, Cherry Capital. Would you mind dropping me off at the airport? Bringing a car would be an inconvenience since—"

"Oh, I'd insist anyway. And I'm going to hug you now."Angela walks over to her friend and puts her arms around her in a firm embrace. "You have to promise to call me when you feel the need to, okay?"

"Angela," Brennan trails.

Pulling back, Angela holds her friend's shoulders at an arm's length and says, "Look, I know you're a strong, independent, genius woman; and trust me that no one will ever tell you otherwise. But all those layers of reason and logic wouldn't keep you safe from being hurt because you're also just human. And hurt is one of the feelings that human beings have to deal with in their lifetimes." She sighs. "You're not a cold fish, Brenn. If anything, you're a—"

"—a Vulcan, yes, I know." She laughs, finishing the sentence before Angela does.

"Live long and prosper." Vincent chimes from his seat at the table, his right hand raised to do the Vulcan salute.

"Vino not delectable." Brennan says lowly, throwing a playful frown at Vincent.

"Bloodyh—" He looks at Angela with his mouth agape, "She's said it!" He says, motioning to Brennan at the obvious shock over what her boss has just told him.

Seeley Booth lies on the bed of his motel room, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything all at once that if he's asked to tell someone about his thoughts, he'd fall silent. As for his emotions, anxiety fills him to the brim; a slow bubbling of worries and nervousness all mixed up to form a concoction of scenarios in his head that is now making him fidgety and sweaty even though he knows the airconditioning works just fine. With a frustrated sigh, he sits up and runs a hand through his hair before reaching into the nightstand for his mobile.

Can you talk? He types and sends. Half a minute later, his cell vibrates in his hand.

"What's up?" Comes Cam's voice through the line.

His breathing rapid, his pupils dilated through the darkness, grasping for an object to fix his stare on. "I'm not okay."

"Hey, what happened? Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm at the motel. I'm safe here but I don't know what to do, Cam. I just—" His voice tries to remain calm but fails at hiding the panic in it. "I saw her and talked to her. She's flying to D.C. with me. But she seems to be doing good here. You know she's blonde now?" He chuckles sadly and continues rambling, each word more frantic and sadder than the last. "I'm not sure I should be here. A mean, after all the shit I brought on her? She doesn't deserve to be bothered, Cam. She's better off without having seen me ever again. I really should've transferred this case to another agent as soon as we found out about her involvement. I never should've been here."

"Seeley. Listen to me. You need to take deep breaths, alright? Breathe with me. Inhale. Exhale." She says as she does, her delicate voice urging her friend into the breathing exercise for about 5 minutes. "Any better?"

"I—yeah." Booth answers, a bit calmer now. "I don't know how to be around her, Cam, I don't. She wants me to call her 'Dr. Brennan' but I can't just act like I had just met her."

"But you have to. That's what she wants and you have to respect her wishes, Booth." She reasons. "I get that you're guilty and bothered but you have to consider that maybe she's not. After all, it has been fifteen years. Maybe we should consider that what she wants to distance herself from may have nothing to do with you or your past. Seel, this trip is about the case. She's a genius, I'm sure she knows that. We have to give her credit, I mean, she did know how to compartmentalize even in high school."

He lets out a long sigh, standing up and walking towards the door. He flings it open and inhales the crisp cold air. "But she was angry. She didn't want to talk to me and made me leave both times."

"What did you expect after that nasty breakup? That she'd run to hug you?"

"You just said that was fifteen years ago!" Booth emphasizes, confused.

"Didn't make you feel any less guilty." She points out. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you that you're not at fault for what happened because you are and you need to own up to your mistakes. But Booth, we have to set aside your personal guilt for now because it's what she wants, okay? It's what she's asking for."

He exhales loudly, his chest collapsing at the gush of air leaving his lungs. "You're right. Okay."

"How did you get her to agree to help us with the case, anyway?"

The crescent midnight moon looms over his form and he steps forward into the balcony to fully bathe in the celestial glow, shivering a little at the wind that hugs him. "I went to her with the files and told her she's our best chance at solving this. If she had said no after reviewing the case, I would've backed off completely. You know that right?" The voice on the other line hums her agreement. "I just don't want to go home without having tried everything. Some person's life is at risk."

"I get it. But Bren has changed a lot, you know. It's not just you. I'm her friend, too. Or at least, I was. We lost touch since she disappeared 6 years ago when—" She cuts herself off and was quiet for a second or two. "You know, it's not really my story to tell. But if you say she's doing good then I'm really happy for her. A lot has happened to her, Booth. If putting up walls around herself was what it took for her to survive, then we should respect that even if it somewhat inconveniences us."

The following day, Booth and Brennan board the plane to DC at 9:00 in the morning and are thankfully seated away from each other (otherwise, one of them would've sweated his way home). They arrive at Reagan National Airport just a little after 1 in the afternoon and quickly file toward the exit doors of the airport where Agent Aubrey waits against the black FBI-issued pick-up truck, two cups of coffee balanced in a disposable paper tray while he sips on his caramel macchiato with 2 pumps of vanilla and a copious amount of cinnamon.

"Aubrey!" Booth called out as he made their way over to him. "Dr. Brennan, this is Agent James Aubrey."

The young agent nods at them, smiling, and offers them their coffee. "I also have 2 turkey sandwiches in the car, do you guys want any?"

Brennan shakes her head. "We should go to the Jeffersonian Institution now."

"Can I help you with that?" Aubrey asks them, pointing at their carry on bags.

"Just open the back," Booth says, taking a gulp of his coffee and walking over to the back of the Tahoe. He extends a hand towards Brennan's bag and she obliges, then opens the door of the backseat and slips in.

"Hey, Doc. How was your flight?" Aubrey greets as he starts the car. Booth is still outside, just making his way to the passenger seat quite leisurely.

"Agent Aubrey," she sighs, "For future references, I feel the need to inform you that I'm neither keen on nor do I welcome social conversations as well as any other kinds of conversations which will not be pertaining to the case." Brennan deadpans, looking to her left, and brings the cup to her lips.

Aubrey offers her a tight-lipped smile and nods politely, "Okay. Got it."

Booth opens the door to the passenger seat and clicks his tongue at the road ahead of them before taking a sip of his coffee. "Let's go."

In memorized strides, Booth leads the way to the Medico-Legal Lab with Brennan matching him step for step about a meter behind. They turn to their right where glass automatic sliding doors open when it senses them. Stepping inside, Brennan's eyes catch a bright room with a full set of cleaned skeleton lying atop a lit table on her left as they pass by. Up ahead, a platform equipped with various forensic tools and other paraphernalia. Booth nods at the first guard he sees and asks, "Cam?"

"In her office." The man replies.

Booth walks over to the corner office to his left and knocks at the glass door even though it is thrown wide open. When they receive no response, Booth pokes his head in and walked in. "Cam," he calls out. "Hey!" Booth says louder but still gathers no acknowledgment from the pathologist murmuring what would constitute as a song over an open body on her stainless steel autopsy table. At first, Brennan watches everything through the glass doors outside but later turns away and instead opts to observe the platform from where she is standing.

"Oh god!" Cam gasps when she finally looks up from the cadaver she's an arm-deep into, eyes wide in surprise. "Christ, you scared me, Booth…" She says, ridding herself of the gloves and taking off her earbuds.

"She's outside, wants to be briefed right away." He says, and Cam nods, taking off her apron and walking over to the sink to wash her hands. "Where's the rest of the squint squad?"

"In their offices." The pathologist answers, drying her hands on a hand towel hanging near the sink. Her heart the slightest bit of uneasy in her chest as she looks outside where she sees Brennan studying the platform from afar, her back to them. "I thought you were kidding about the blonde hair thing." Cam whispers to her friend. "She looks so… different."

"A lot less pale," Booth remarks. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not." Counters Cam quickly, starting to make their way towards the waiting anthropologist.

"I am." He admits softly as they come to a stop behind Brennan.

A/N 2: Yes, there will be quite a few Star Trek references from now on. Wow, okay, please do let me know if you think I should keep on writing specific details about the serial killer case or if I should just focus on the relationships. Because right now, I'm feeling pretty lazy. Leave reviews, s'il vous plaît. Live long and prosper.