So here we are, the Booth chapter!

So do to a request, I'm gonna start putting like a little countdown on all of the Brennan chapters so that you'll know how many days are left until she comes home:)

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, FOX does!

Booth was not a bad writer. He was no Temperance Brennan, critically acclaimed author, but he wasn't bad, either. He wrote a lot, actually, though he'd never admit that to anyone who wasn't on their death bed.

It's not like he had a journal, no, he wouldn't be caught dead with a journal- he just wrote letters. Lots of letters. The kind of letters that you don't send because they were simply a way for him to vent, to put all of his frustrations out on paper and in front of him. He kept them in the back of the bottom drawer of his bed-side table, safe and hidden away from everyone except him.

Usually, when he went to write such letters, the words poured out and in the end they practically wrote themselves. Tonight, however, he was debating his skills as a writer, because as he sat at his desk, staring at the wall, a pencil in his left hand and a mound of eraser dust piling up next to the sheet of paper, he could not think of a single thing to write.

He was near giving up completely, but he dug not too far into his memory and the motivation for writing the letter became apparent again.

He had gone to a new diner with Perotta that night for dinner. It was called 'Joe's' and the food was revolting, and to be truthful, it wasn't the only thing that made his face pinch up in distaste.

"So how have you been?" Peyton smiled warmly, flipping the laminated, front-and-back-menu over.

"I'm fine, but listen; we should probably talk about the case." He suggested, at first he thought maybe his approach had been too abrupt, but she didn't seem phased at all.

"The typical response is, 'I'm good and how are you?', but this is cool, too." She teased. Booth nodded, flipping the menu back over.

It was quiet for several seconds, but the stillness was interrupted by the waiter's voice.

"Welcome to Joe's." He said in a less than enthusiastic voice, "What can I get you to drink?" He asked, not bothering to even look at them.

"Um, you want a beer?" Booth asked Perotta. The blonde woman shook her head.

"Actually, I don't drink beer. It…smells nasty." She responded, her nose wrinkling up. For Booth, this was the first red flag of the evening.

He liked a woman he could sit down on the couch and knock back a few beers with. In fact, he could recall many times when he and Bones had popped a few tabs and toasted to God-knows-what. To him, at least, beer had a certain evocative sense to it; it brought back so many memories and feelings, it was a trigger for something greater (which is an odd thing to think about an alcoholic drink made from barley, but then, we all have our quirks).

"Oh. Okay." He responded.

"Excuse me, I don't want to rush you," The waiter said in an annoyed tone, "But it's really busy and I just need your drink orders." He sighed. The two agents glanced around the small space and noted that there were maybe three costumers. Booth glanced down at the drink menu quickly, Perotta followed suit.

"I'll have a Bud light." He didn't really have to think about it because that was the only drink option other than water, coffee, milk and orange juice.

"Get me a water, I guess." Perotta stated after reviewing the menu once more.

"Coming right up." The waiter's monotonous tone rang dully through the air. Peyton pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

"So where's Dr. Brennan?" She asked unknowingly. She may as well have asked, 'How was the play Mrs. Lincoln?' Peyton's eyes flashed good-naturedly once more. He didn't like her eyes. He wasn't sure why, they just gave him a sick feeling.

"She's …in Africa." He finally answered. He wasn't sure, but he could almost see the corner of her mouth float minutely into a smile. He didn't like that. In fact, it made him mad. But he quickly calmed himself. Perhaps she hadn't smiled, perhaps it was his imagination. Perhaps he was making up excuses not to fall for her. But he quickly dismissed this theory.

The rest of the night dragged on and on for what seemed like far too long.

He'd ordered a burger and so had she. He couldn't place why, but he didn't like the idea of her not getting a salad or a veggie burger or something. It felt weird, especially after all of these years eating across from a vegetarian, to see a woman eat meat.

He found out that she liked to talk. A lot. This wouldn't ordinarily bother him, except for that he believed that if you're going to speak, speak passionately. She just seemed to be talking to hear the sound of her own voice.

But what he really did not like was the sick to his stomach feeling he got whenever he looked at her. By the end of the night, he'd figured out why he didn't like to stare into her eyes.

It was because when he looked into her eyes, he could see someone else. Whenever Perotta laughed and made her screechy giggly sound, he heard the deeper chortle of someone else. When he looked around him, he saw not Joe's, but the Royal Diner and when he studied the girl sitting across the table from him, he saw not Perotta, but a woman. A woman who spoke with the utmost intensity and who argued her point to the very end and who was just looking to be a normal person. It made him upset and angry and disappointed and nervous and frustrated all at the same time. But finally, the dinner had ended.

"I had a nice time." Perotta commented quietly. He'd known exactly what that phrase led to. He couldn't count the number of times on all of his fingers and toes that a girl's tongue had uttered that very phrase and had soon after found its way into his mouth. He didn't want to kiss her. He couldn't kiss her, because if he did, she would think that something was there and he was nearly positive that there was nothing there. So instead of leaning in and pressing his lips firmly and yet gently to hers and then lingering on the moment for a split second longer than he needed to, he answered with a simple,

"Yeah, it was a nice Tuesday night." As he pressed down on the 'unlock door' button, hoping that would be a cue enough to her to exit the SUV. She did leave, but not before planting a rapid, tiny peck on his cheek.

As she shut the door and he began to drive off, he couldn't help but remember the time when the lips of another had quickly pressed upon his cheek, grazing for a minute period of time on his skin, making pure electricity flood through his veins. He found it amazing that one small touch could have that great of an effect on him.

All in all, he wasn't quite sure if it was one thing in particular that had prompted him to write the letter, or if it was a combination of things. The only thing he could come up with was that everything that happened reminded him of her.

As soon as he'd gotten to his apartment, he'd sat at his desk and attempted writing, tried to think, tried to place everything down on paper, so that it wouldn't all be locked up in his brain any longer. He would write her a letter, a letter much like the other ones he'd written that were tucked in the back of his drawer. Only this time, maybe he would send her the letter. Maybe. Maybe not…

He rubbed his temples and finally turned the lamp off, ready to stop for today. He would continue tomorrow, and with any luck, would have more than two words written down. He shrugged off his jeans and climbed onto his bed. There he stared at the ceiling a while longer, still thinking about what to write…

There you are:) Perhaps you liked it, perhaps you think I could've done something better, weeeeell, I know of a way that you (YES, YOU!) ann voice your opinions! Just press that handy little review button and tell me what's on your mind!

Thank you lots,

Rhea

[Zack holds his fist to Brennan]

Zack : You're supposed to bump my fist with yours.

Brennan : Why?

Zack : I'm told it's a widely acknowledged gesture of mutual success.

Angela : (grin) I love it when you two impersonate earthlings.