Title: Any Two Points

Rating: T

Summary: After her confession to Booth, Brennan decides that she doesn't believe in second chances anymore.

Disclaimer: Bones belongs to FOX, Hart Hanson, and everyone else who works for the show. I make no profit in writing this story.

Spoilers: Speculation surrounding 06x09. No spoilers for future episodes.

Author's Note: Okay, confession: I haven't seen 06x09 yet. But I do read spoilers (kinda hard not to get spoiled for this episode, anyway) and so I have an idea of what went down. And I've decided that I don't want to watch this episode until January, when there are new episodes so that I won't have to wait in agony during the hiatus. :) Having said that, here's my two cents' worth on what goes down after "The Doctor In The Photo".

Also, this is currently a one-shot. But if you think it should transform into a multi-chapter fic, by all means, the reviews box is open. Thanks for reading!

She says, any two points can make a line

But I know I can never make you mine

- "Two Points", Deb Talan

Now, she drives to work by herself. She picks up her own coffee at a small coffee bar just a few blocks down from the Jeffersonian, a white-washed place tucked between two brownstones, with azaleas planted at the front and the day's brew written on on chalk and blackboard in front of the store awning. She tries to avoid the Royal Diner unless everyone else is going there - she finds there is no point eating there anymore when her favorite table - their favorite table - is not occupied by someone else, and there is nobody to force her to eat apple pie.

She always arrives at 8 AM, on the clock, not a minute more, not a minute less. She sends Dr. Edison to pick up the remains if there is a case, and expects the interns to handle the de-fleshing and cataloging of injuries by themselves, and only consults when absolutely necessary. She thinks that he should be thankful - one less body to protect from the bad guys, one less squint to take care of out in the field. She does not think she is special anymore; not that she ever was, to her mind, although now that she has had the time to examine her feelings, she can conclude that everything is ephemeral after all, and that now, she has no right to his time or to his words than that of a colleague.

In the mornings when there is no case - which is now happening with increasing frequency - she finishes her email correspondence by ten in the morning, and polishes off her coffee at approximately the same time. Sometimes Angela drops by, the curve of her belly protruding from underneath her fashionable blouses, a hand cradling the bulge protectively. Her best friend is staying at home more and more often, and they'd had to bring in a temporary replacement to handle the work load. The new girl, Alice, is capable enough, but still finds the Angelatron confusing and has a tendency to do the facial reconstructions by sketch and clay rather than the 3D rendering the entire team has gotten used to. This is fine by Brennan. After all, the equipment is expensive and is still patent pending, and would prefer that the technology just remain in Angela's hands.

After ten, Brennan usually makes her way down to Bone Storage. Sometimes, she sees shadows at the doorway and wonders if it is Booth, but it is usually just one of the security guards making their rounds. She briefly wonders where Micah is, before reeling in her wandering thoughts as her eyes focus on the bones in front of her. She misses Zach - again, a fleeting emotion that she blocks and bricks up and throws at the back of her mind - despite what everyone else said, he cared about her in his own manner. But she shakes her head, brushes her bangs away from her field of vision, and starts cataloging her observations with the newest set of remains. This is when she is most centered, most herself - there are no tears in Bone Storage, no recriminations or regrets. Only the careful marks of a life lived on the bone. She picks up the scapula, each delicate rib, rubs her fingers across the mandible of the skull. Her fingers feel the creases and hollows of each bone, waiting for their own story to be told. And she listens. She is a very good listener.

Sometimes, she remembers to eat lunch; sometimes, she doesn't. When she remembers, she slides off the gloves from her hands and tosses them into the nearest wastebasket and then walks back, upwards, back to the main floor of the lab. Sometimes, she feels like Dante clawing his way back from the bottomless pit. Hell is fire and brimstone, according to the more popular depictions - but she muses that hell is most probably being disconnected from everything and everyone around you. She mentions to Cam that she is going off for lunch and her boss offers her company, but she politely turns the other woman down. She is learning to breach the holes in her defenses. Step one: re-learning how to be alone.

She takes her car and drives down to a small eatery she has discovered on one of her late-night jaunts by herself. They serve a mean vegetarian curry, and she enjoys the bite of spices on her tongue. Sometimes, she brings a book with her. Other times, she keeps her eyes on the sidewalk, observing the pedestrians going about their day-to-day business. She feels quiet here, at peace. She has already resigned herself to being alone. It is easier. Being alone is different from being lonely, and she accepts that she is better off by herself - there is less chance of making a mistake, of living with regrets.

Sometimes, she drops by a bookshop nearby to peruse the latest titles. She enjoys being surrounded by the printed word: the wealth of knowledge, the timbre of voices. She tries and avoids the Crime & Suspense section; she has been accosted by fans asking for autographs before, and it just reminds her that she is behind on her latest novel. She toys with the idea of killing off either Kathy or Andy - she finds that she has no energy to keep up with her characters anymore, and muses on the idea for that particular storyline while idly flipping through the pages of a hardbound fiction novel with the title Stormfall.

After awhile, she walks back to where she parked her car and turns on the ignition. She flips the radio station to one that plays smooth jazz and expertly turns the steering wheel as she merges back into traffic. The sky is the blue of a perfect summer's day, clouds scuttling across the horizon, a soft breeze rustling through the trees.

She works through the afternoon and only looks up from the remains when she hears her phone buzzing with an oncoming text message. Hodgins is inviting her for dinner at his place. She replies back with a polite negative. They insisted on her company during the first few days, but that has become further and father in between these days. She accepts it with an easy grace. She wants to make it easier for everyone.

Once she is done with her examination of the remains, she rises back up to the surface again, blinking in the light. Only a few techs are still remaining; Cam's office light is dim. She makes her way back to her office to write up her report. Her back is tense, and she experimentally rolls her shoulders and neck to ease the muscles. Her fingers fly across the keyboard and she managed to wrap up her conclusion before the clock strikes midnight. The evening security guard looks pointedly at her, as though he is saying that she should get going. She shuts everything down, closes her door, and lies down on her couch for awhile, mustering up the courage to return to her empty apartment.

This particular evening, she dims the lamps and lies down on her couch, propping her head up on one of the couch's arm rests. She stares at the replica of an Egyptian mommy encased in glass in front of her. More often than not, these days she wishes she could be like this mummy: preserved forever, a replica of a life, shuttered away from everything that could hurt it. It needed sterile air, sophisticated equipment to preserve the remains, a glass box to shut away the world. Her bright blue eyes glimmer in the almost-darkness. Is that what you really want, Temperance?

Her iPod, docked and connected to her speakers, starts playing a low bass song, the rhythm almost like a heartbeat. What was the song again? Portishead, she remembers. Angela had been singing to it after her break-up with Hodgins. The electronically-enhanced voice pipes over the speakers. Give me a reason to love you. She laughs, a tinge of bitterness in her tone. She does not have any reasons as to why she should be loved.

Perhaps because of the music, or because she is tired, she does not hear the rustle of the door opening, the soft footsteps on the floor. She flicks her eyes upwards as a figure, dark and shadowed, looms over her. For a moment, instinct kicks in - she has to defend herself. But from what? She would become like Lauren - in fact, she was Lauren, that last case she had worked with Booth on, so many weeks ago - except that she will not struggle. There is nothing else to struggle for.

The man's features coalesce into something less sinister, more familiar. "Long night, huh?"

She sits up from the couch. "I was on my way home."

He sits beside her, leaving enough of a gap between their bodies so that she wouldn't be tempted to reach out to him. "I never pegged you for a Portishead fan."

"Angela was the one who gave me the song."

He gives her a shadow of his old smile. "That, I can believe."

"What do you want, Booth?"

His hands are laced together tightly, his trenchcoat dotted with raindrops. He is like a lion, ready to pounce. "We spent so much time in this office, haven't we?"

"Are you feeling nostalgic all of a sudden?"

He looks at her and his brown eyes are dark, unfathomable. "I miss you," he states simply, his voice steady.

She cocks her head slightly. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that I miss you, Bones."

"You simply repeated what you just said."

"Because there's no underlying meaning behind the words, Bones. I miss you and I want to spend time with you right now."

She looks at her own hands. They are slim and tapered, and she can see the bones underneath the flesh. Carpals, metacarpals, phalanges. She curls her fingers into fists. "What about Hannah?"

"She's in Argentina right now, following the press corps."

"So now I'm the consolation prize?" She knows the words will sting, and she sees the proof of pain in his eyes, the downward curve of his lips.

"I deserved that, I guess." He leans back against the sofa. "I told you before, Bones," he says softly. "You are the standard."

She grits her teeth. She wants to run away, to slap him in the face, find some channel for the sudden rising of anger that she feels. She wants to kick something, punch something, feel something buckle beneath her fists. "You're with her now, Booth. You should go home."

He flips his poker chip out of his pocket and starts twirling it around his fingers. She knows he only does this when he is upset about something and needs to regain some semblance of control. "What if I was wrong, Bones?"

"We all make mistakes, Booth. It's part of human nature."

"Do you believe in second chances?"

She looks at him directly. "No."

She doesn't look back as she walks away.