A/N: Hello to anyone who reads author's notes. I have come to a compromise with myself (which is actually quite impressive since I am constantly disagreeing with me). I tried posting my stories all at once to prevent huge delays in updates, but with multi-chapters like this I don't like spamming people's inboxes, so I've decided to post a chapter every day or so instead. Hopefully this is an acceptable solution.
As for this story, it's in Brennan's POV. I've written for her a few times already, mostly with the mindset that she thinks like she speaks. This one's a little different. I think she withholds a lot, and her being a writer, I decided to try making her a bit more open, and descriptive. Let me know if it seems too OOC! Anyway /giant author rant. I hope you enjoy this!

- MC

The morning light slices across my face, blinding me.

The sun, having risen in all its golden glory some minutes ago, reaches its warm fingers towards my eyelids, illuminating the lacework of crimson capillaries weaving across them. I scrunch my eyes shut, willing my overactive brain, always working, always moving, to be still.

But it persists. And as if to strengthen my brain's rebellious resolve to deprive me of a full night's sleep; a sharp rap echoes at my front door. I groan and roll over, my hair spilling over the edge of the bed.

I know this knock. I know it like I know the creator of it is standing on the other side of my door, holding two steaming paper cups of coffee, and perhaps a brown bag containing sugary confections that I will eat even as I worry about the simple sugars they are made of finding their way to my thighs.

The knock comes again, and I relent. Sitting up slowly I push my brown curls out of my eyes and stumble out of bed, my feet slapping on the cool wood of my apartment's floor as I arrive at the door.

I am smiling despite myself even before the door is fully open, because I know the warm, sweet face that is waiting on the other side, already making my stomach clench uncomfortably with excitement and a glinting edge of happiness.

"Mornin' Bones," he attempts to greet, his lips having trouble forming the words around the colored paper bag of Dunkin Donuts he has secured between them. I do my best to glare, and frown at him for waking me, though I know that it is leaning more towards a reproachful grin than anything so melancholy as I was aiming for.

"Good morning, Booth," I answer sleepily, my voice still thick, my tongue languid and lazy in my mouth. I reach forward and take one of the coffee cups from him, and I am tempted to take the bag of donuts from his mouth using my teeth. As I wonder what he might do if I chose to take this course of action, he removes the bag from his mouth with his free hand and walks inside.

I close the door behind him, and take in the smell of him as I do so. He smells of spicy aftershave, and clean skin. I turn and see that he is already seated at my kitchen table, the sun streaming in through the blinds to cast his face into alternating bands of light and shadow. I watch him take out a maple donut – my favorite – and place it on a napkin.

I should feel uncomfortable at being so disheveled in front of him, wearing only an old FBI academy t-shirt and small black shorts, my hair in an unruly mass of curls around my shoulders, but I do not. I may have felt so around anyone else, but not this time. I sit heavily in the chair across from him and briefly wonder if he will notice that the shirt I wore to bed belongs to him, left from some hot summer night he spent on my couch after hours of paperwork.

He is already looking at his last name emblazoned above my left breast, and my question is quickly resolved. Again I should feel uncomfortable that he knows I sleep in something that belongs to him, that to me still smells of him, but I can't bring myself to.

My eyes meet his, challenging him to say something. He doesn't, instead taking a large bite of his donut. I smile, both inwardly and outwardly, and stretch my long legs under the table, my bare calf brushing the edge of his pant leg.

"So?" I ask him casually, watching his face, studying him in the way I know unnerves him. He glances up at me, his brown eyes warming with the sunshine flowing across my kitchen.

"So what, Bones?" He asks, smirking at me in the way he knows causes my stomach to flip. Not literally of course. But it sure as hell feels like it.

"Aren't you going to tell me we have a case?" I ask, taking a bite of the maple donut, and simultaneously resolving to go for a run.

"What?" he shrugs, his eyes teasing, "can't a guy bring a girl coffee and donuts in the morning?"

I laugh, low and throaty, and see him swallow because of it. "Of course he can, but at 6:15 in the morning," I add, glancing at the clock on the microwave, "something tells me you're not just here to hang out with me."

"You caught me, Bones," he laughs back, and it is my turn to swallow. "We've got a body dump out in Virginia, it's right up your alley."

"Do I have time to shower?" I ask, my hand subconsciously going to rake through my tangle of curls.

He leans forward and grasps a wayward curl, hooking it around his finger before letting it drop gently against my collarbone. "Yeah, you've got time to shower. I've got my coffee and the Funnies, take as long as you want," he grins.

My body still thrumming from even the whisper of his touch, I grin back and stand, taking my coffee with me, cradling it in my hands and feeling the warmth of it soaking into my palms as I walk towards the shower.

XX

Twenty-five minutes later we are speeding along the Interstate towards Virginia. The sun has fully risen in the sky now, its weak winter glow warming us through the windshield as we drive. I look to my left and observe Booth's profile, the solid slope of his nose, his prominent brow, his strong jaw, and then he glances at me and I am caught.

"See something you like there, Bones?" he teases.

I bite back a laugh and avoid his question, twisting a heavy turquoise stone necklace in my fingers as I question him about the scene.

"Well," he sighs, "I don't know much, really. All I've been told is that a body was found in a field in Virginia, very decomposed."

I nod quietly, letting the necklace fall from my hands and land gently on my chest, slipping between my breasts. He watches it fall, and then quickly overcorrects as we weave slightly in the lane of traffic. "See something you like, there, Booth?" I tease. I have definitely improved at this banter of ours over the years.

He colors, the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink I have never seen before, and says nothing. This is the game we play, and we have gotten very good at it. Perhaps too good.

What had started as a mild sexual curiosity has evolved into a more complex and intricate relationship than either of us has ever been involved in. I'm not sure which of us is more scared. But I know that there will be a day when the dam breaks, and we will face what we feel for each other, for better or worse.

There was a time when that knowledge would have sent me running for the nearest flight to a country with an unpronounceable name. But like so many things, it is different with Booth. After five years, we have both succumbed to what I have been trying to teach him all along.

Evolution is inevitable.

My mind spinning with these thoughts, I hardly notice that we have slowed down. Booth pulls to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under the tires. We exit the car and I pull my jacket more tightly around myself, the cold air making my lungs sting.

Booth comes around the side of the truck and hands me my kit, leading the way through the field of frozen mud and wasted corn stocks to where yellow tape can be seen glinting in the distance.

We approach and Booth introduces us to a Sheriff whose name I do not bother to take into account. My eyes are already locked on the glint of bone I can see protruding from the frozen earth. I step gingerly towards the final resting place of what I can already see to be a young woman in her early twenties.

The few officers and crime scene techs step away from me, watching as I bend next to the victim, snapping my gloves on. I can feel the ice on the ground biting through my jeans as my knees make contact with the frigid ground.

I can see that this woman spent a lot of time on her feet, in heels. Her right arm shows stress markers that show it was used much more strenuously then her left. Her clothes are nowhere to be seen, but some of her hair remains, a sandy blonde that is closely the color of the frozen cornfield that surrounds us.

I can feel Booth behind me. "What can you tell me, Bones?" he asks, his voice all business now; no trace of the teasing tone I have learned is reserved solely for me.

"A young waitress, probably middle class judging by her dental work. That's all I can really say for now," I answer, looking up at him, his face in shadow as the sun shimmers icily behind him. The plumes of our breath meet and mingle as we discuss how to best extract her from the frigid grave in which she lies.

XX

A few hours later, a belly full of diner food and a memory full of easy bickering with Booth, I begin my initial inspection of the bones. Ms. Wick, to my dismay, has come up in the rotation, and she has assisted me in piecing together the remains that now lay displayed before me. After having to silence her for the third time, I send her on a superfluous task so that I can get some work done, at which point I methodically inspect each bone, my eyes playing over every groove, and niche, one by one. I stop once to send particulate samples to Dr. Hodgins, but beyond this my focus is solely on the remnants of this young woman lying before me.

Time passes and I do not notice. I circle the body for the fifth time, willing it to tell me more. As I lean to hunch over the victim's vertebra, I hear Ms. Wick flouncing up the stairs to the platform. I can now see her on the periphery of my vision, nearly vibrating with the desire to speak. Her brunette ponytail flips from side to side as she shifts from one foot to the other. I sigh and stand up in exasperation, my concentration lost.

"Yes, Ms. Wick," I allow her. She rushes forward, encroaching on my personal space, but I do not back down.

"Dr. Brennan!" she nearly squeals, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement, "I wanted to tell you that Dr. Hodgins believes he may have found something probative from the particulates you gave him earlier this afternoon!"

"Probative how?" I inquire, my interest piqued.

She shrugs, the grin still plastered to her face. "I don't know. But!" she raises a gloved finger; "he said it was important, so I came to tell you."

"Thank you, Ms. Wick," I reply evenly, removing my gloves. I stretch quickly, my back sore after hunching for such a long period of time. The last of rays of the sun are hurling themselves across the lab in thick orange beams, glinting off the shining metal that composes my home away from home, and I realize I must have been examining the remains for far longer than I had thought.

I walk across the platform, my feet echoing on the metal, and scan the area for the curly head of hair that I am looking for. I spot him at his desk, eyes glued to a computer screen showing a magnified slide of some metallic substance.

He spins in his chair as he hears me approach, large blue eyes meeting mine as a smile spreads across his friendly face. I nod at him. "Ms. Wick tells me you have something for me," I offer as a greeting.

"Sure do, Dr.B!" he replies, spinning his chair back to the computer he points at the screen. "The metal shavings you gave me from her neck are a simple aluminum alloy used in…well everything, actually. But these particular shavings had something embedded in them that is in itself, unique."

"And what was embedded in it?" I prompt.

"Tomato sauce, and traces of oregano. Which makes me think this was some sort of pan used in cooking. You said she was a waitress right? Could be something." He shrugs and puts his hands behind his head, clearly pleased with himself.

"Good, thank you Dr. Hodgins, that's useful," I reply.

"What's useful?" Booth's voice echoes across the lab. Hodgins and I turn to see Booth walking towards us, hands in his pockets. I find myself irrationally thinking that I wish he would put his hands in my pockets.

"Hodgins has a lead on the murder weapon," I reply, automatically stepping towards him. "Some kind of cooking pan perhaps, we're still looking into it. I know that it was less than half an inch thick, and had a curved, smooth edge. It was lodged into her cervical vertebra."

"So she was whacked in the back of the head with a pan?" Booth summarizes.

"Essentially." I reply. "Though to be more precise she was 'whacked' in the back of the neck," I correct, stepping forward and pressing my fingers to the back of his neck to show him. "Here."

I take my hand away and he clears his throat, his face slightly flushed. "Good, great work, Bones," he answers, putting a guiding arm around my shoulders. His arm is heavy around me and I like the feeling. "Let's call it a day, huh?" he asks, steering me towards my office.

"But Angela hasn't finished the facial reconstructions yet!" I protest as we enter my office.

"Well how long will that take?" Booth asks, starting to remove my lab coat. He pulls it from my shoulders and I feel myself slipping my arms from the sleeves.

"Well, several hours, I should think," I reply. "She's also running her dental work through some new identification software, which may take overnight."

"Exactly, Bones. Overnight, as in tomorrow. Okay?" he wheedles, holding my coat out for me with a wicked, and hopeful grin on his face.

I feel my resolve crumble and curse him inwardly. The old Temperance would have stayed all night. But then, the old Temperance never had anything better to do. I sigh, making sure he knows that I am acquiescing under protest, and allow him to help me with my coat.

We wave goodbye to our colleagues and walk out into the chilly evening. Booth's arm is back around my shoulders and I feel myself leaning into him, shielding my body from the cold with his solid warmth.

"So, what do you think, Thai again?"

I shake my head, my hair falling into my eyes. He absently sweeps it out of my face, hooking it behind my ear. "We eat take out way too much, Booth. It isn't healthy."

"So what do you suggest?" he asks, releasing me as we approach his car.

"Come over and we can make something," I offer, sliding into my seat, the faux leather cold enough to take my breath away.

"Good idea, Bones," he smiles, pulling out of the lot.

"Let's make something."

XX

The steam from the boiling pot of water is hot on my face as I lift the lid, pouring the pasta in and giving it a stir. Booth comes up behind me to peer over my shoulder, and I find it hard to tell which is causing me to flush, the steam or the feeling of his warm breath flaring across my neck.

I shiver and he notices, but instead of stepping away, he steps closer. "Almost ready?" he asks, handing me a glass of wine. I take it gratefully and glance up at him.

"Maybe ten minutes," I answer, sipping my wine as I go to stir the sauce. The French blues music he has chosen from my CD collection slips its way into the kitchen, enveloping us in its golden fog. This music always makes me think of walking down a street in high heels at night, the neon lights of a faceless city reflecting in puddles on the streets.

"What kind of sauce is that?" he asks, watching as I bring the wooden spoon to my lips and taste it.

"Sun dried tomato cream," I reply, holding the spoon out to him.

He takes my wrist and brings it to his lips. I watch motionlessly as his tongue sweeps out and scrapes the spoon, lapping up the white sauce. The "mm" that comes from him sends warmth sliding down my spine like melted butter.

He releases my wrist and I go back to stirring, drinking more wine. I half expect him to come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist as I stir. I surprise myself by realizing this isn't so much of an expectation as it is a wish. I want to feel his arms around me, his chin heavy on my shoulder, his heart beating against my back, as I make this dinner for us.

As if reading my mind, he comes to stand so closely behind me that I can feel the heat from his body on my back. I wait for him to put his hands on my waist, or drop a kiss behind my ear, but instead I feel his large fingers circle my wrist again, and pull me around until I am facing him.

Before I know what's happening, he's leading us in a slow, sultry dance around the kitchen. I laugh as my hand automatically goes around his neck, my other coming up to meet his. I never knew you could dance to the blues, but apparently it's possible. "What song is this?" he asks, and his breath is so hot against my ear that my eyes flutter shut.

"It's called Rêves d'Oasis," I reply, breathless.

"Bless you," he jokes at my pronunciation of the guttural word, spinning me.

I laugh again. It's so easy to laugh with him. "My sauce is going to burn," I chide as he turns to take us around the island once more. The smell of him is causing my body to come alive beneath my skin; as is the feeling of him so warm and solid, pressed against me so tightly I'm sure he can feel my nipples through his shirt.

He sighs dramatically and dips me backwards, deep enough that my hair is trailing on the floor and I can feel his nose brushing my chin, before setting me upright. "Fine, party pooper," he teases, and I scowl at him over my shoulder as I give the sauce a final stir. "But keep your dance card open for later," he adds, going to set the table.

I smile, turning off the burners and lifting the pot of pasta to drain it. He chats happily to me about Parker as I set a colander in the sink and tip the heavy pot of water over it. The steam quickly bites into my thumb and becomes too much, I release the pot with a curse and the boiling water slaps against it before I can pull it away, the pot clattering noisily in the sink.

Booth rushes to me and I curse again as I see half the pasta is now lying in my sink. "Bones are you alright?" he asks, taking my thumb in his hand he leads me to the freezer.

"I'm fine, Booth, it's just a mild burn," I answer. "And I hope you aren't too hungry because I just lost half the pasta down the drain," I add, my thumb beginning to throb.

"Bones," he sighs, "you gotta be more careful." I watch in fascination as he takes my thumb into his mouth, sucking it gently as he opens my freezer. I can feel his tongue sliding hotly against it, his teeth pressing into the underside, and now the pain is long forgotten. My knees are almost wobbly as this continues; until he locates the ice he's looking for. Wrapping it quickly in a towel, he releases my thumb from his mouth and presses the ice against it.

"Here, keep the ice on it and go sit down, I'm taking over, Martha Stewart," he scolds going to the sink to scrape up the remnants of the pasta.

"I don't know what that means," I reply, sitting at the table.

"Let's just say she's the Temperance Brennan of cooking and household decoration," he explains, coming to spoon the salvaged pasta onto our plates. "Except you never did time in the slammer," he laughs, ladling sauce onto the pasta.

"W- a celebrity chef spent time in jail?" I ask, my thumb aching distractingly. My focus is now on his lips, remembering the feeling of them enveloping my thumb. My attention returns to him as he explains about her crimes involving the stock market.

"Well, that's not so bad," I muse, watching him take a bite of the pasta. "I expected you to tell me she'd baked someone into one of her pies, or something.

Booth scowls as he chews, "That's gross, Bones, I'm eating."

I shrug and take a bite before replying, "No grosser than anything we've seen at work."

He sips his wine, the light from the lamp above our heads catching in the amber liquid and sending refractions across his face. "Exactly, Bones. Let's leave work at work tonight."

"Fine," I agree, "how is it?" I bite into my salad, remembering the argument we'd had about how he needs to eat more vegetables, and note that he still hasn't touched his.

"It's heavenly, Bones," he replies, taking another big bite. "Thank you for all your hard work."

"You can reward me by eating your salad," I reply with a teasing smile on my face. He rolls his eyes and spears some spinach with his fork, shoveling it in his mouth. I laugh, absently turning my wine glass in my fingers.

"Happy now, Mom?" he asks, finishing the last of it.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Booth."

He watches me eat for a moment, before finishing the last of his pasta. "How's your thumb?"

I shrug, taking another sip of wine. It's my second glass and I can feel it on the edges of my mind, warming my thoughts and the blood running through my veins. "It's throbbing," I answer, "but I'll live."

"Let me see," he asks, holding out his hand.

"Oh, you're a medical doctor now?" I ask. My stomach flips at the reproachful look he gives me and I relinquish my hand. He unwraps it, the flesh red and angry, and brings it closer to his face. For a heart stopping second I think he is going to put it in his mouth again, and my body hums in anticipation. I feel my tongue snaking out to run across my bottom lip, and I know he knows what I'm thinking.

He brings the injured digit closer still, and leans down to place a gentle kiss on it. I release the breath I hadn't known I was holding, and draw my thumb back. The air between us is thick, crackling with emotion and energy.

"I'll start on the dishes," I half-whisper, and stand to take our empty plates.

"I'll do them later. Aren't you going to dance with me?" he asks.

"You don't have to do them," I answer, ignoring his question as I fill the sink with water. I pull the closest pot into the soapy liquid, my thumb stings but I ignore it. He comes up behind me and snakes his arms around my waist, just the way I had wanted. His chin is heavy on my shoulder as he squeezes me gently, pulling me back against the hard plane of his chest.

My eyes flutter shut as the sensation of his beard scraping softly on my neck overwhelms me, and I let the pot I'm scrubbing sink to the bottom of the water, my hands floating freely. He starts to sway us as he hums in time to the music, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against my back. He turns me again, my hands dripping with hot, soapy water that slides down my arms as I bring them around his neck.

"Booth," I say, meaning it to come out in a scolding tone, but hearing it, it sounds nearly breathless. "You're getting me wet," I laugh, indicating my hands.

His whole body shudders with soft laughter and I realize what I have said. I can feel myself coloring, the telltale blush creeping across my chest and up my neck. "You know what I mean," I chuckle, and he pulls me tighter against him.

"Yeah Bones, I know what you mean."

I sigh and put my head down on his shoulder so I don't have to meet his eyes in my embarrassment. I feel his hand coming up my back, snaking through my hair, and it takes all the strength in me not to whimper with pleasure. I can see what is happening between us, what has been happening between us, the culmination of five years of loyal companionship and trust, all coming to a head on this day, at this moment.

My cell phone rings.

Or not.

This time I can't suppress the groan of disappointment that escapes me, and I hear one echoing from him as well. I pull away reluctantly, my limbs loose and willowy, and retrieve my phone from the island.

"Hi, Ange," I greet, trying not to let her hear the disappointment in my voice. Behind me I can hear Booth taking over the dishes. I speak to her for a few minutes before hanging up and walking to Booth, the last plate in his soapy hands. Before I allow myself to think about my actions, I lean against his back, resting my head on him, my arms snaking around his waist possessively. I can feel him laugh softly as I say, "Ange made the ID. She wants us to come in."

He turns in my arms and plants a soft kiss to my forehead, and bending, another one to my cheek. "Then I guess we should go in," he replies.

"Yes," I sigh, looking up at him briefly before turning towards the door. "I guess we should."

XX

A/N that's it for today, please let me know what you thought! I love hearing from you. -MC