-EPILOGUE-

Brennan was angry. Or at least, she tried to make it seem that way. It was nearly impossible to stay angry with Booth for too long, especially when he grinned. Screw guns; Booth's smile was the deadliest weapon he had to his name.

"I swear, Booth. Sometimes you can be such a child. This is a museum, not a playground. I'd be willing to bet Parker could have behaved better than you. And he's five, Booth. Five!"

He nudged Brennan's elbow softly, his eyes dazzling with their usual playfulness. "I take that as a compliment." This only earned him another smoldering glare of blatant disapproval. "Aw, c'mon, Bones. Lighten up, will you?"

Brennan sighed, feigning annoyance. "No, I will not lighten up, as you put it." She punctuated Booth's words with two sloppy air quotes, a trick she had learned from Angela. "You need to tighten up. Only you, Booth, only you, could wriggle your way out of a mess like that by flirting with an impressionable security guard. Only you!"

Booth chuckled and draped his arm loosely around Brennan's shoulders. She squirmed a bit under his touch, obviously aggravated by the gesture. He only tightened his grip. "You say that like it's a bad thing," Booth said, clearly unabashed by her efforts to free herself.

Brennan groaned at his happy-go-lucky, carefree disposition. This man was incorrigible—albeit rather comical. But she'd never let him know that. Laughing at his childish antics was exactly what he wanted. Why stroke his ego?

"Seriously, Bones. You have to admit that was funny."

Brennan met his gaze. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the urge to smile. Okay, so maybe it had been a little funny. Fluttering her eyes shut, Brennan played out the whole scene in her mind.

There was Booth, posing as General George Washington in 'Crossing the Delaware,' his face serious and stiff. His eyes, however, betrayed otherwise. A sparkle of impish delight ruined his pathetic attempts at acting. Of course, his foolish behavior wouldn't have been a problem had they not been in a public place. A museum, really—the Metropolitan Museum of Art, no less. And in the very room where the portrait was displayed with clusters of people trying to observe peacefully. He had even gone so far as to climb on the bench positioned directly before the masterpiece, thus provoking the young (and rather attractive) security guard to take action.

She was tactful at first; giving Booth a warning or two, explaining that such inappropriate behavior was intolerable here at the museum. Booth was not so easily persuaded. Much to Brennan's dismay, he addressed the woman in character—as General George Washington.

"Can't you see I'm busy now, Miss?" he had asked in a pitiful British accent. "I really must be back to my troops now, if you don't mind. Those redcoats are going to get it tonight." Then, probably as an afterthought, he cocked his head and faked a shiver. "'Tis a trifle cold out, wouldn't you agree?"

Brennan just about died from embarrassment at that point. She felt her cheeks burn crimson, and she tried to keep her eyes downcast. Of course, he wasn't done. Not yet, anyway.

"Sir, I advise you to step down. The museum will have to take serious action if you—"

But Booth cut her off, all the while keeping his character. "Really, Miss, I must protest. I'm running low on time, and as you can see," he paused to gesture to the men in the painting, "my men are quite exhausted."

The security guard sported a naughty grin. It was obvious to Brennan—and apparently to Booth, too—that the young woman had mistaken his display as flirting. In the same ridiculous accent, the girl decided to go along with his act. "Well, General, if all goes well tonight, would thee mind accompanying me for, say, a cup of tea? Maybe a dance or two? I mean, I understand that you war heroes have lots of business to attend to, but every man, even a soldier, needs a break. Right?" To make her point all the more clearer, the guard tossed her blondish curls behind her slim shoulders and waggled her eyebrows mischievously.

Booth, who was just tickled pink by the whole ordeal, abandoned his imitated stance, but chose not to step down from the bench. "Who am I to disappoint a fine lady like yourself?"

Reaching in his pocket, Booth took out a scrap of paper and pencil, quickly jotting down a phone number. Brennan felt her temper flare as he handed the slip to the woman. But perhaps it wasn't her hot temper that was flaring. Perhaps it was jealousy.

"My name's Lucy," the woman said, forgetting her stupid accent. She was beaming with pride. Brennan just wanted to pop her one. "I'll see you later, General." And with a suggestive wink, Lucy turned away, her hips swaying slightly, leaving a stunned Brennan and a delighted Booth behind her.

Brennan opened her eyes and refocused her attention on the smirking man before her. Damn that smile! she thought bitterly. It was utterly useless to deny the hilarity of it. Brennan could just tell that Booth knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes—those big, brown, eyes dancing with amusement—confirmed her suspicions. "Okay, so maybe it was a little funny," she relented.

Booth linked their arms together, threading his elbow through hers. He escorted the confused scientist deeper through the galleries. "Just a little?"

"Okay, so it was a lot funny," she conceded. "Are you happy now?"

"Yes," Booth said triumphantly—nah, more like smugly. "Yes, I am."

Brennan swatted at his shoulder playfully with her free arm, earning an indecipherable grin from Booth. Then after a moment of silence, a new thought occurred to her. "Was it real?"

"Was what real?"

"The number."

"What number?"

"The number you gave to Lucy."

"Who's Lucy?"

"The security guard!"

"What security guard?"

Her giddy frame of mind had dissipated to annoyance. Feeling her frustration rising, Brennan yanked her arm away from Booth's. "The security guard that you so shamelessly seduced not five minutes ago!" She stopped walking, instead opting to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground.

He flashed her that infuriating smile of his. "Oh, right...That security guard."

How many times has he used that damned smile of his today? "Well?" Brennan tapped her foot impatiently.

Booth shrugged his shoulders. "Well what?"

"I'm not playing that game again, Booth. Don't you dare try to play innocent."

He sighed and shook his head. "No, the number wasn't real, and no, I don't want to actually date her," Booth said, trying to sound cheerful and upbeat despite Brennan's frosty mood.

She scoffed. "I didn't ask you if you wanted to date her."

Booth took Brennan's hands in his own, turning her body to face his. "No, but you thought it."

Leave it to my own bitter envy to screw up a first date. Startled by her own unbidden thought, Brennan brought a hand to her forehead, rubbing it gently. Is that was this was? A date? Admittedly, the suggestion to skip work to escape to New York was born from an argument, and the setting was unconventional at best, but Booth (a man) had asked Brennan (a woman), to accompany him on a non-work related rendezvous. That sounds suspiciously like a date, Brennan.

"Can we move on, Booth?" She met his eyes, trying to appear desperate. She really didn't have to act. "Please?"

"Whatever you say, Bones. Whatever you say."

With an impish grin, Booth caught Brennan's hand in his own, swinging gently. At first, Brennan stiffened at the awkward (yet pleasantly tingly) sensation. This was Booth. They were partners—partners in the whole sense of the word. Granted, most partners don't hold hands on day trips to cities and museums...nor do they declare their undying love for each other buried underground. But what Brennan and Booth had was different. They...clicked.

Wow. I sound really cheesy. And pathetic, Brennan reprimanded herself. Perhaps they should hire me to write those soap operas.

But then she relaxed. This was Booth. She didn't have to be nervous with Booth. She could be herself with Booth—her quirky, literal self. He accepted her for who she was. He treated her like a person, not some useless scrap of squint. And that's what she loved about him.

Hand in hand, they perused the labyrinths of corridors and stairwells connecting the wings of the museum in a comfortable silence. Quite honestly, Brennan couldn't think of anything to say. "Booth, I love you, too," perhaps? No, too blunt. And she knew petty small talk was out of the question. They had been partners for what, two years? You can do better than what the weather's like, Brennan.

Looking for a distraction, she allowed her eyes to rake over the exquisite architecture: the marble floors, the stone banisters, the fountains and fancy furnishings. She decided no words were needed. What's that that Angela would say? Something like...Sometimes all you need is a simple touch? Or maybe actions speak louder than words? Something philosophical like that. Perhaps I shouldn't always tune her out.

Rounding a corner, the duo came upon a crowded room. Brennan felt small and insignificant among the thousands of masterpieces. Children clung to their mother's shoulders and pawed through purses. Old men huddled closely to their wives. Herds of sticky schoolchildren visiting the museum on a field trip poked and prodded at their peers, not paying any mind to the pictures.

Weaving his way through the mob, Booth led Brennan to a particular peculiar canvas. He cocked his head and examined the artwork with great precision. She watched as his eyes picked it apart into tiny pieces. Involuntarily, a smile wormed its way to her lips. Perhaps he really appreciates the work...

Then the seriousness of the moment vanished in a blink of an eye when Booth opened his mouth.

"Head..." he murmured, his finger lightly tracing the letters engraved into the plastic tablet positioned underneath the painting. "I guess even a genius like Picasso had a hard time coming up with nifty titles, huh?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. She wanted to smile, but she wouldn't—no, couldn't—give into his antics again. She settled for a light smack across his chest. "You're missing the point, Booth. Look at this," Brennan ordered, pointing to the intricate designs. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

The painting in question was remarkably breathtaking, albeit a bit strange. A woman's head covered a smallish canvas. Broad strokes of paint smeared the picture in hues of silver, black, and indigo. The face was contorted and squished as if it been forced into a glass vase that was far too small. Black tendrils of hair outlined in periwinkle wrapped around her head.

Extraordinary, yes...but very, very odd.

"It looks like a ripped rag doll sewn back together again."

"You're missing the point, Booth," she sighed, exaggerating her exasperation. "This is a fine example of Cubism." At Booth's blank expression, she elaborated. "See how the left side of the woman's head seems to face the right? How her nose faces forward and to the side at the same time?"

Booth squinted, and after a long moment of two, he nodded slowly.

"Cubism depicts a multitude of viewpoints, rather than just one, in an effort to represent the subject in greater depth. Picasso was one of the first to implement Cubism in his art. His methods made him famous. In this painting, he melded the woman's profile and full face together," she stated matter-of-factly.

Booth shrugged. "My money's still on the rag doll."

Brennan scoffed at his ignorance. They walked through the gallery in an amicable silence; Brennan observed, and Booth...well...he observed Brennan observing.

"You're really into this stuff, aren't you? I thought it'd be too vague for your taste. You know, not enough science," Booth offered after some time.

"I'm an anthropologist, Booth. It's my job to understand other cultures and lifestyles."

"Yeah, but—"

She cut him off. "Art is like a science. Each painter tries conveys an emotion—a message, really—hidden in his art. You have to pick apart each stroke, each color, to uncover what's beneath. Everything's important; from the texture to the boldness to the design...it's the whole package, really. That takes skill. The greats, like Picasso and Matisse and Da Vinci, they managed to encompass a thousand emotions in just one work of art. Those are the true geniuses, Booth."

He smiled. It wasn't his smug smile. And it wasn't his naughty smile. And it definitely wasn't his charm smile. It was a smile she had never seen before. She swallowed the lump in her throat; she liked that smile. Involuntarily, she found herself smiling along side of him.

"What?" she asked shyly. "What's with the smile?

"I'm just watching...you."

Brennan found that she was blushing profusely. "Oh," she murmured quietly, almost silently.

For a moment or two, the pair stood frozen in place, grinning and staring like idiots.

"You're not getting shy on me now, are you, Bones?" Booth asked, his voice laced with its usual boyish pride.

"No," she answered curtly, "I-I'm n-not shy."

Booth's grin widened. "Really? 'Cause you seem kinda shy to me."

Brennan met his gaze. "No." Her voice was firm, but her eyes suggested otherwise. "I'm really not."

"Yes, you are."

"No. I'm not."

"Uh-huh."

"No."

"Yessiree."

"No!"

His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Yes..."

And before Brennan could object, she felt Booth's lips crushed against her own. Her immediate reaction was to kiss him back; she was only human. Reveling the tender feeling of his lips massaging her own, she wrapped her arms around his neck, urging him closer. He sucked gently, earning a soft moan in response. Brennan felt her eyes flutter shut. God...this shouldn't feel so good.

And then, poof, the moment ended.

"Ewe!" sang a chorus of voices from behind.

"Look at the lady kissing, Mommy!"

"Ick! That's dis-gust-ing."

Regretfully, Brennan sprang apart from the warm embrace and cast a guilty glance at the older woman ushering three rather exuberant children away from the scene. "I-We...We apologize, ma'am. I hadn't realized...I'm so sorry," she pleaded, trying to sound innocent. Judging by the woman's suspicious glare, Brennan figured she wasn't succeeding.

"Yeah," Booth said. "We'll try to keep our hands off each other."

Brennan instantly reddened. The first thing that came to her mind was to stomp on Booth's foot—hard. And stomp she did.

"Ouch!" Booth hissed, looking pointedly at Brennan.

She ignored him and focused her attention on the angry mother. "Please, we really didn't mean any harm."

The lady muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Kids these days...No sense of decency," and then spluttered a few more choice words before moving on to the next painting.

When Booth was satisfied that the woman and her unfortunate children were out of earshot, he turned to face Brennan and whined, "Heels hurt, you know." He cast a sideways glance at the indent on his shoe. "Was that really necessary?"

Brennan nodded. "Yes. I needed to teach you a lesson."

"I was flirting."

"In front of a woman with three children. I wouldn't want them to pick up on any of your bad habits."

"How is stomping on my foot better than mild innuendo? It probably went over their heads, anyway."

Brennan softened. He had a point. Damn him! Quickly, her mind manufactured a flimsy response. "Perhaps I just wanted to step on your foot."

"And perhaps you're just buying more time so you can ignore the fact that we kissed."

She felt her cheeks flush crimson. There he goes again with his damned valid points!

"Temperance," Booth whispered, lifting her chin with his finger. "Do you remember what I said? Before, I mean? When we were trapped?"

Brennan, suddenly overcome with a rush of apprehension, kept her eyes downward and murmured, "No...I don't."

"Really? 'Cause something like that's kinda hard to forget."

Brennan twiddled her thumbs. "Perhaps you should refresh my memory."

Booth smirked. "So that's how it's going to be?" She nodded slowly. "Alright then." He leaned in a bit closer, and Brennan could feel his hot breath on her face. "I love you, Temperance."

The beginnings of a smile curled Brennan's lips, and she tilted her head to meet his eyes. "I don't want to become one of those girls, Booth."

Booth frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not going to be the typical housewife, slaving over a hot stove, tending to the garden or playing with the kids. I can't give you a white picket fence or a tidy green lawn, complete with a few gnomes and bicycles. I won't spend the days baking or doing the laundry, and I certainly won't be the one ironing your suits." Booth opened his mouth to say something, but a hand to his chest stopped him. "I'm not finished. If you're looking for someone like that, someone who'll gladly throw on an apron or weed the backyard, I'm not the one for you. But if you can sacrifice all that, if you're willing to accept me as I am, I'm ready."

Booth flashed his pearly whites at her, taking her by the shoulders. "I wouldn't have you another way."

"Good."

"Good."

"So...is that your way of saying you love me, too?"

Brennan laughed a low, throaty giggle. "No. But this is."

In one swift motion, she closed the gap between their faces, gently kissing his lips. Booth wrapped his arm around her waist, nudging her closer to the warmth of his body. Their tongues battled for control, never ceasing in their relentless grappling. Brennan moaned in his mouth and raked her fingers through his hair, grinning at the sensation.

Rather reluctantly, Booth tore his mouth away and gently pressed his forehead against hers. "Do...do you think we should...should...make a reservation...at a hotel?" he panted, grinning from ear to ear.

Brennan nodded earnestly. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

---

I'll let your imaginations take it from here; I'm certain they're more than capable! (-Wink, wink-)

I'd like to thank all of you one last time for your support and reviews and whatnot. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Look out for more of my fics...I have a few more ideas rolling around in my mind.

I love feedback!

Thanks again!

-Susan :o)