What He Offered

Chapter 10: Consoling the Damsel

So… a second pairing. Yes, Bones saw the necessity of it: Vic had his Brennan, and now Tim would have his J. R. (why only initials, though? That seemed bizarre). This new plot thread was going to make for some potentially tangled story lines; she hoped Booth (or his ghost-writer Dr. Cameron) had the narrative chops to pull it off.

She spared a moment to return to the description of J. R.'s physical appearance. The haircut she remembered as one she herself had worn for a time and now regretted having adopted, perhaps because she associated it with a sad period of her life. As to the garment choices, she saw her mother now in her mind's eye slipping out the door on her way to the office wearing the very same sort of clothes: the modest white blouse beneath a fuzzy baby-pink pull-over, the gathered, knee-length skirt patterned with vines and flowers, the low-heeled shoes. How had they known? She owned so few photos of her mother; it was unlikely Booth had happened upon one of her in her work outfits. Perhaps he and Dr. Phil had done nothing more than select a diametrically-opposed fashion style to the eco-warrior look she herself had favored in those days. Yes, she decided, that made the most sense.

She wondered how Tim and J. R.'s romance would turn out; not well, she suspected, at least in the short term. She picked up the tale again.

A Tale of Twin Booth, cont'd

Tim was glad to see that J. R. was already in the lounge when he returned with the coffees. She was sitting as demurely as any schoolgirl in one of the chartreuse-colored chairs at the long conference table: spine straight, calves and ankles together, hands folded neatly in her lap. As she had removed her lab coat, he now saw that her white blouse was of light-weight cotton, long-sleeved, and her skirt was spring-green in color patterned all over with cheerful daisies. Tim set the drinks down on the table in front of her, and pulled out the chair opposite. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. Careful," he said, as she reached for one of the cups. "It's hot."

"Wow, it sure is!" She agitated her hand, trying to cool her palm. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome." He emptied his pockets of extra sugar packets, and put them on the table within her reach. "Just in case."

She titled her head, and smiled at him winsomely. "That was so thoughtful. Thank you, Agent Booth."

"Please, call me Tim."

"All right: Tim." She took a tiny sip of her coffee, set the cup back on the table, and looked at him expectantly.

"Right, well… you must be wondering why I asked to speak to you, and you probably have plans for the evening, so time is short, and I should just cut to the chase…" He was babbling again. She smiled up from under her lashes at him, amused but not in a cruel way. "Sorry. Start again: J. R., I have reason to believe you are Dr. Brennan's younger sister, her twin, in fact."

The smile faded quickly from her lips, and she turned her face away. "Me? Dr. Brennan's sister?" She tried a light-hearted laugh, but it fell flat. "Just look at me! The very idea is preposterous. Really, Tim, I don't know how you…"

He reached across the table, and lay a hand over hers. "Joy Ruth…"

She yanked her hand from under his, and glared. "Don't call me that!"

There was some Brennan in her, after all. He raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "I apologize, J. R., no offense intended. I am absolutely certain, though, that you are Brennan's lost twin."

J. R. lowered her eyes, and did not answer. Her lower jaw jutted out fractionally, and worked to the right; he'd seen Brennan do that, too.

"Does Brennan know? That you work here?"

"No! And, please, don't tell her. I need this job!"

She looked so panicked; why? "You're afraid if she knew, she'd have you fired?"

"Yes. She hates me." Her voice was so small, Tim almost didn't catch her words.

"J. R.! She's your sister! She doesn't hate you!"

She shot him a mulish look. "You say that because you're a twin, and you love your brother." She dropped her chin, and her hair swung forward, further obscuring her face. "If she loves one of us, it's Russ, and look how she treated him!"

"You were there, in the vehicle bay yesterday when she slapped him?" Tim could not keep the astonishment from his voice. "We had all personnel clear the area."

"I stayed out of view." She raised her head then, and regarded him frankly. "I'm good at passing unnoticed, Agent… Tim. It's a skill I've perfected over the years. It helps, of course, that there's nothing remarkable about me."

Tim met her gaze, and in it, read the truth. "There's more to it than that, J.R. You're hiding in plain sight. That's not your natural hair color, for one, though the dye job is very good. And I bet anything those lenses are clear glass." He nodded his appreciation. "Very Clark Kent."

He had teased a reluctant smile from her. "Wrong alias, Tim. The name is Diana Prince." She set her glasses on the table, squared her shoulders, placed balled fists against her hips, and lifted her chin. "I'm Wonder Woman!"

He laughed. "Yes, I see it now." They shared a smile, and then, remembering the matter at hand, Tim sobered and J. R. followed suit. "So… about your mother, Christine Brennan… I'm very sorry for your loss."

J. R. reached for her coffee cup, but did not pick it up. Apparently, she could not trust her trembling fingers. "I knew she was dead," she whispered. "I've always known."

"You have? But… how?"

A single tear, as large and lustrous as the pearls she wore around her throat, escaped her control and raced down her cheek. "She would have come back for me — for us, I mean — if she could. Only death could keep her away."

"And, your father? His remains were not found with hers."

"Dead, I expect." More tears began to streak her face; she brushed at them ineffectually. "My parents were the most loving, most devoted people in the whole world. They would never have left us kids voluntarily. They were probably innocent by-standers caught up in some senseless violence, witnesses that had to be eliminated." The tears were flowing faster now, but she managed, "Wrong place, wrong time, nothing they could do…" And then, she could hold back no longer: with a sob, she dropped her face into her hands, and wept.

Tim was up and out of his chair like a shot, rounding the table and sinking into the seat beside her. He reached into his jacket's inner pocket, and removed the freshly-laundered linen handkerchief he had secreted there that morning. Before he could extend it to her, however, J. R. swiveled in her seat and, throwing herself at him, buried her face in his shoulder. Tim was taken aback, quite literally, but his reflexes came to his aid: as if of their own accord, his arms lifted and encircled her loosely, his head leaned reassuringly against hers, and every so often, his right hand rubbed her upper back. Her tears soaked the fine wool of his twelve-hundred dollar suit coat, but Tim found he did not mind in the least.

He wondered, as she spent her grief, how he could tell her the truth about her parents, a truth so different from the one she imagined. Obviously, she had not been within earshot of her siblings the day before, or she would have heard that her parents had once been part of a criminal gang of bank robbers. She probably also wasn't aware that her mother hadn't died that December day, but had lived another two years on the run. If there had been gossip about the Keenans in the lab, it had not reached J.R.'s ears.

Eventually, J. R. drew back from him and, with a sheepish expression, accepted the handkerchief he tendered. Tim watched her dry her eyes and cheeks, and mused how unfair it was that some women emerged from a crying jag with bloated cheeks, blotchy skin and crimson eyes, and others, like J. R., were more beautiful than before, their eyes shiny with their recent tears, their skin delicately flushed, their cheeks glistening. J. R. wiped away the last of the wet and ruined make-up from her face, and, without quite meeting his eye, motioned with the soiled handkerchief in her fist. "I'll wash this, and get it back to you."

"No need. Keep it. I've got others."

She smiled wanly, neither acceptance nor refusal. "I… apologize. For… just now. You're the first person — the only person — I've been able to talk to about this. No one else knows those remains were…" She shook her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Tim lay his hand over hers where they rested tightly clenched together in her lap. This time she did not jerk away. "I suspect you've been feeling all alone, unable to tell your friends and co-workers about your loss, and cut off, as a result, from any comfort or sympathy."

"Yes." She nodded, still unable to look at him. "It's been very hard, trying to keep up a good front, hiding the pain."

"Well, that's all done now. I'm here for you, J. R. You don't have to pretend with me." He gave her hands an encouraging squeeze and let go. "You can be yourself."

She turned a searching look on him. "Why, Tim?"

"Sorry?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"