A/N:I know that the overall meaning of the song 'Come Back Down by Lifehouse' doesn't fit with this chapter, but I was struggling to find something that fit with what I wanted this chapter to be. And this particular excerpt fits just fine, so I'm using it.

Staring right back in the face
A memory can't be erased
I know, because I tried
Start to feel the emptiness
And everything I'm gonna miss
I know, that I can't hide

She slips into the lab unnoticed, her hair ruffled and sticking out in all directions, her collar askew, courtesy of her jacket that she hastily takes off, draping it on the sofa situated in her office, gently rubbing her eyes. She hadn't got much sleep the night before.

It had been about 3 o'clock when Booth had left, and although she had gone with less sleep before, a part of her assumed that this was emotional exhaustion. The part, of course, that had started to believe that psychology wasn't a soft science; still a very small part, and it always would be.

She didn't know what had gone wrong; the sex was incredible, it made her feel safe, comforted, everything that she'd always been lacking. When she'd woken up, she was fine. Her urges had been satisfied, and all that remained was a little nagging in the brain, that Booth would be uncomfortable with this.

He had always seemed... somehow, impartial each time they had discussed sexual intercourse, and she had assumed that this would apply to this situation. He would want their relationship to stay the same, to be the partners and friends they had for the last two years, and she would allow that.

But he had not seemed so thrilled with her compliance to the rules she supposed he had.

Now, she feels.. empty. Hollow, like only half of her is sitting in that office, contemplating what to do. It is irrational, and it illogical, and extremely unlike her. But sleeping with her partner was unlike her, also.

It was also unlike her to be so hurt by Booth's angry departure. Hurt wasn't the right word. She didn't know what was. She just wants to forget this, and go on with her everyday routine. Wake up, come to the lab, solve cases, go home, go to sleep.

But Booth was a big part of this day, and she didn't want to face him. She just wants... to forget. She assumes that Angela is either sleeping in, or on her honeymoon, because she would have already pounced on her drab appearance.

She is glad for this, because somehow, she would dig the truth out of her. But also, she wanted Angela there. To talk, because this was uncharted territory for her. Her feelings did not make any sense to her at all. She felt like a mess, and she had been a mess before, there was no doubt of that.

But not quite like this.

She knows it is illogical to be reminded of her night by inanimate objects, but the bed reminds her of their escapade, the coffee mugs their heated argument, and her door the slamming noise it had made when he left.

She winces when she remembers these. She winces at the fact she is wincing; what has happened to her? Why does this matter so much?

"Sorry if I'm... interrupting anything, Dr. Brennan, but why are you here on a Sunday?" Cam pops her head around the door, looking slightly comical in her confusion. She's wearing those plastic glasses, and one hand wears a green latex scrub.

Brennan rubs her head in confusion, massaging her temples and almost begging everything to go away and leave her to recollect her thoughts in peace. "I uh... thought it was Monday."

"Oh, okay then. Did you get home from the reception alright?" This annoys Brennan; her and Cam are not friends, merely co-workers. She has no right to be poking into if she got home from the reception alright, as it is her private business.

"Why?" Brennan accuses, then eyeing Cam's scrub, as if to ask why she was here on a Sunday.

"I work overtime occasionally, and today was one of these days. A teenaged boy just was murdered in an alleyway last night. And... you just... don't look the best." Cam scratches her head with the gloved hand. This is thin ice for her; the two are on good terms, but you never know with Temperance Brennan. "I'm assuming Booth dropped you home?" She casually asks, perhaps too casually. Not that Brennan would have picked up on the reason for asking.

"That's none of your business, Dr. Saroyan." The walls go up, curt reply spat out like a copy machine that's been set on automatic. Automatically sensing that something is up, and that the something might be in relation to Booth, Cam retreats in silence.

"Wait, Dr. Saroyan. You're in charge of who we get hired out to, right? I know it used to be Dr. Goodman but since you've come I haven't been sure..." She says loudly, so Cam can hear it, on the way back to her autopsy room.

"Yes..." Cam trails off, as if expecting an explanation for the odd question. She doesn't get one.

"Could I... request that I'm no longer on loan to the FBI?"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

He sees the Post-It Note on his desk the next day. A sickly pink, it says "Relations with Jeffersonian Institute cut." Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck her for not wanting more. Fuck him for expecting she would.

He feels like a fool. A messed up, fucked up FBI agent who got too involved. Way, way too involved. It seems like he's aged twenty years in the past twenty four hours, gaining speckles of gray hair and numerous lines across his face in the short time they've been... estranged.

It's obvious she wants him out of her life. They've crossed the line, and she can't justify that night being anything more than a sexual urge, but he can. This scares her, and she wants out. The only way she knows how. Severing all ties.

Mentally exhausted, he walks right back out the door to his office, closing it behind him, and going straight back home.