The Jedi in Brennan's Head, Part 8/11

[bloodwrites]

Title: The Jedi in Brennan's Head
Author: Bloodwrites
Rating: PG/T
Word Count: 4,439
Genre: Action/Romance
Disclaimer: I own none of the Bones folk, no profit made nor copyright infringement intended.
NOTE: Thanks again for all the words of encouragement, they really mean a lot. And now, without further ado...

Booth had been to the cabin where they were headed once before, when he was protecting a witness about to roll on some heavy hitter in the mob a couple years back. Three things stuck with him about the place: it was beautiful, it was quiet, and there was a stream about a quarter mile away with some of the best trout fishing he’d ever done. Oh, and the placement - the cabin sat in a clearing on a hill, with a perfect vantage of the land below. There was no way anyone would get a jump on him in a place like that.

It was almost eight o’clock by the time they got there, the snowfall steady and the driving lousy. Even in four wheel drive, it was touch and go whether they’d make it up the steep driveway to the cabin, but eventually they did. Booth parked a few feet from the front door and turned to Brennan.

“Stay here - keep the doors locked. You hear anything, you put this thing in gear and drive away.”

Brennan rolled her eyes. “Why do you always tell me that? I would never leave you if - ”

He stopped her with a look. “I mean it, okay? While we’re here, I’m not your partner, I’m not your friend - I’m here to protect you. You end up dying and it just makes me look bad.”

“You don’t have to get so terse about it.”

“Why do you have to argue?” he asked, his voice rising right along with his blood pressure. “Anyone else would just listen to what I’m saying, say ‘Thank you for putting my life ahead of your own, Seeley,’ and maybe bake me a pie - ”

“I don’t bake,” she interrupted.

He took a deep breath and stared straight ahead for a second or two, calming himself down. It was getting late, they were both tired, and he really had to pee. Now was not the time for yet another argument.

“All right, let’s try this again. I’m going in first - I’m sure everything’s fine, but I want to check it out, just in case. You wait here.” He reached over her and popped open the glove box, handing her a .45 that was holstered and waiting. “Hold onto this, but remember - running is safer. If someone’s here, don’t bother shooting - ”

“Just put the car in gear and drive away,” she quoted back to him.

Booth nodded in relief. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

As he was opening the door, Bones suddenly reached over and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Logically speaking, though, there’s no real way he could know we were coming here.”

Booth smiled at her, reminded suddenly that his partner had actually been through something here. He turned to her, looking her in the eye seriously.

“It’s just a precaution, Bones - that’s it. I’ll be fine.”

She dropped her hand quickly, like she was embarrassed for showing any weakness. And maybe the moment required more time or more finesse, but he honestly really did have to pee. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, drew his gun, and went inside.

As soon as Booth had disappeared into the cabin, Brennan began counting seconds - something she’d done as a child to make the time pass more quickly. Of course, she realized that it was impossible to actually accelerate the passage of time - but it felt as though it was moving more quickly, which was what mattered. She noted that it was very pretty here, with snow and ice covered evergreens along the drive, leading to a modest single-story cabin overlooking the valley below. The cabin had large picture windows, which meant she could track Booth’s progress inside, and an expansive deck with a wooden swing that - even from a distance - showed excellent craftsmanship.

Her back of her neck throbbed from where that woman - Allison, Brennan thought with undeniable distaste - cut the device out, dropping it into an evidence jar as though it was nothing of any real consequence. Her jaw ached and she noticed that the left side of her face had swollen slightly, from the removal of Dr. Wilcott’s tracking device. Another piece of her, dropped into an evidence jar, sealed, and forgotten. But she didn’t really want to think about any of that. She returned to her counting, moving her hand closer to the gun Booth had left for her. Just in case.

After what seemed like much longer but was in fact only four hundred and thirty-six seconds, the front door opened and Booth grinned at her from the doorway before he jogged back through the snow to the car. He was not alone, however.

Brennan got out of the car, pulling her new jacket around herself a little more tightly when the cold air and colder snowflakes touched her face. She stretched her back, feeling inexplicably lighter, and couldn’t help but smile at Booth’s companion, a beautiful German shepherd with serious eyes and a long, dark coat.

“That's a dog,” she said, which she realized was a ridiculously obvious thing to say.

He turned around as though he hadn’t known he was being followed, and even though she knew he was pretending, she felt a childish urge to laugh at his show.

“Hey! Where’d you come from?” he asked the dog, who abandoned Booth immediately to sniff Brennan’s hand, and then greeted her enthusiastically when Brennan knelt in the snow.

“Seriously, Booth - she’s beautiful. Where did she come from?”

Booth didn’t linger over introductions, calling over his shoulder as he opened the back of the SUV and began unloading.

“That’s Elsa - our very own K9 cop, on loan. A buddy of mine brought her by earlier, said we could keep her for as long as we need.” There was a long pause before he continued. “Well, technically she’s not a cop… She kind of flunked out of the academy.”

Brennan studied the dog’s pretty, deep brown eyes, unable to resist the urge to address her - despite the fact that of course a dog could not understand human language.

“Is that true?” she asked, softly so that Booth wouldn’t hear her. “I don’t believe it.” Feeling silly, she pet the dog one more time and straightened, raising her voice so Booth could hear again. “How does a dog flunk out?”

Booth reappeared from around the back with his arms full of groceries. “Well, Elsa here has a nasty habit of turning tail and running at the first hint of danger.”

“Well, that’s just common sense,” Brennan said indignantly. “There’s a reason it’s called fight or flight, and in most scenarios it truly is more logical to run from danger than to stay and ultimately lose in battle. That just means in all likelihood she's more intelligent than those other dogs.”

Booth raised his eyebrows at her, as though she’d just said something significant. She thought about the statement for a moment before she realized her seeming inconsistency, then added defensively, “I never said that it was logical for me to stay with you if you were in danger - in fact, I recognize that it’s highly illogical.”

“Well, from here on out I want you to take a cue from Elsa here, and do the logical thing. You two can hit the road together if anything happens, and leave me to do the fighting.”

Before she could argue about how misogynistic and illogical he was being, he nodded toward the back of the SUV.

“Now, how about you stop arguing with everything I say and help me get this stuff inside. It’s freezing out here.”

The cabin was surprisingly homey, with natural wood beams and large windows, a spacious sitting room, and two bedrooms at the back. The bathroom was somewhat cramped, Brennan noted, but she was grateful for the indoor plumbing. The kitchen was utilitarian but certainly sufficient, separated from the sitting room by a small bar.

Once the car was unloaded and they were inside, Booth surveyed the bags of groceries and clothes they’d set on the floor, then looked at Brennan with what seemed like admiration.

“What?” she asked warily.

“It only took one trip for us to get everything inside.”

She nodded, clearly missing the point. “Yes. Why is that relevant?”

“Well… I mean, a lot of women in your situation - strange place, no clothes of their own, no groceries… They might’ve gone a little nuts in the stores. But you really know how to shop: three bags, we’re in, we’re out. Impressive.”

Brennan considered this as she helped him carry the groceries to the kitchen. “I don’t enjoy shopping - I’ve never understood people who do. Artificial lighting, stagnant air, too many people… I don’t find it at all relaxing.”

“And by people, you mean women. Women enjoy shopping - men don’t. That’s a fact.”

She stared at him. “I know lots of men who enjoy shopping.”

He snorted. “You know lots of gay men who enjoy shopping. No straight guy likes to shop.”

“Sully liked to shop,” she said, to which he merely rolled his eyes. She waited for him to pursue the argument further, but he didn’t.

A few seconds later, after she thought the subject had been dropped, he said, “Well, you got the job done - that’s all that matters in my book.” He looked at the bags reflectively for a moment. “I still say you could’ve gotten everything you needed at Walmart, though. No need to traipse all over town looking for a thrift store.”

“Every time I wore those clothes, I would have been picturing children in impoverished nations working under reprehensible conditions. Just their labor practices within this country should be - ” her voice rose, taking on that defensive edge once more.

Booth held up his hand. “All right, I got it - spare me the lecture.”

“Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when you found those jeans, or that shirt - or the jacket. And the shoes. Frankly, you seemed to enjoy the whole thrift store experience a lot more than I did - maybe there’s something I don’t know about you.”

The banter continued on into the evening as they settled in, putting away groceries and claiming spaces, starting up the fireplace and setting blankets against doors and windows to keep out the chill night air. At just after midnight, too exhausted to be concerned about nightmares or their meanings, Brennan collapsed in a surprisingly comfortable double bed in the bedroom she’d claimed. Despite having a second bedroom available to him, Booth had insisted on sleeping on the couch; she could hear him walking around outside her door, checking windows and doors in an effort to keep her safe. Beside the bed, Elsa whimpered slightly - Brennan turned on the bedside lamp to find the dog sitting up gazing at her unhappily.

“You’re supposed to sleep on the floor,” she said. “Maintaining boundaries is important in any human-animal relationship.” She’d read that somewhere, though she couldn’t remember where. Elsa didn’t seem impressed, laying her pretty muzzle on Brennan’s bedspread with a sigh.

“Fine,” Brennan acquiesced after only a moment’s hesitation. “But just for tonight, because it’s cold. After that, we’ll get you a dog bed.”

Brennan patted the side of the bed encouragingly, and Elsa hopped up without hesitation. A moment later, the dog was stretched out lengthwise beside her - within minutes, both Brennan and her new companion were sound asleep.

The warmth in Jedediah’s blood - that sweet, low hum of anticipation - had not dissipated. He’d spent the bulk of the day on the phone with old contacts - wealthy individuals who either owed him their lives, or at least believed they did. It was amazing, Jedediah reflected, what one would do if one believed one’s life hung in the balance. During his time working in Brooklyn, his highly controversial experiments had saved not only the wife of the senator with whom he’d spoken previously, but also a well known Californian entrepreneur, an Asian venture capitalist, and a very wealthy writer from Australia, among others. One could wait years for clinical trials and bureaucratic red tape, or one could go directly to the source and have a visionary like Dr. Jedediah Wilcott perform miracles.

Of course, there had been casualties - that was the inevitable price for these types of services. For the most part, his procedures were perfected on indigents whose names he never learned and whose role in his work would forever go unsung. Working outside the boundaries of mainstream medicine, however, there were no guarantees. His clients went under the knife fully aware of the risks - they were dying, that was the reason they sought Jedediah in the first place. Malpractice was not an issue in Jedediah’s kind of business - his patients would either die reasonably quickly at his hand, or they would die slowly and painfully, usually within weeks of seeking his help.

He was convinced that his work with Dr. Brennan would one day transform him from a man condemned by the mainstream, to a scientist whose work would go down in the annals of medical history. Of course, he would need to find her first. The first day that she’d gone missing brought no leads, despite Jedediah’s many contacts in the world of intelligence. The doctor did not despair, however. He’d waited five years, another five wouldn’t kill him - though he knew that kind of patience wouldn’t be necessary. If he was unable to find her (a possibility he considered highly unlikely), then he would simply wait. Eventually, Dr. Brennan would return to the Jeffersonian. They would begin anew.

What intrigued him was the idea that Agent Booth was in all likelihood with her now. Wherever they might be, they were together - to study the pair in a controlled setting, to watch the way Brennan’s beautiful brain lit up when her agent was nearby… The thought sent a fresh thrill through him.

And so, Jedediah remained in his suite and persisted with his phone calls. On day two, he received his first lead - from the senator, who was close friends with the director of the secret service, who in turn had a friend in witness protection, who thought they’d heard from a friend of a friend… Jedediah kept his cell phone close by and his search engine running overtime. He imagined himself as a wolf on the hunt, loping with endless patience over the terrain, his senses alive.

He had the scent.

For two days, life was peaceful - they slept, they ate, Bones complained about how bored she was, Booth watched the windows… It was a little dull, but nothing too dire. And after the last couple of weeks, Booth figured his partner could stand dull for a while.

The first day had been fine, because Bones mostly slept. Knowing her the way he did, Booth figured it must’ve been a month of Sundays since Bones slept a day away, so he wasn’t too worried. Sure enough, by day two she’d bounced back - with a vengeance. In the morning, they went for a walk in the woods with Elsa. Bones told him the Latin names for all the trees and bushes, and he told her what they were called in the real world. He’d had some field guide training over the years, so he was no slouch - and as a kid, the outdoors had kind of been a safe zone, a place he could go when the old man was too amped up and he needed to get out of the crossfire.

He didn’t say any of this to Bones, of course - they just walked. And talked about plants. And waited.

That night, Booth came into the living room to find Bones curled up on the couch with Elsa, reading a book on forensics. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds before she knew he was there, taking in the picture. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore sweats and the new shirt he’d gotten for himself the other day. Which should have bothered him, he guessed, but looking at the way the blue set off her eyes and the collar stood open at her throat, somehow anger wasn’t the first thing that came to mind.

She looked up when he cleared his throat, and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, forcing a lightness he didn’t necessarily feel.

“So, Bones, what’s on the menu for tonight? I’m cookin’ - name your poison.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He grinned. “Well, I can. On top of being devilishly handsome and a helluva shot, I cook like Wolfgang Puck. So, whaddya want? You can’t live on peanut butter sandwiches and mac n’ cheese forever, and I don’t think takeout’s much of an option around here.”

A few seconds passed while she thought about what he’d said, before she seemed to make up her mind. She set her book down, disentangled herself from Elsa, and stood.

“I’ll help - you don’t need to wait on me. You’re supposed to be my bodyguard, not my slave.”

Booth shrugged. “Whatever you say - the more hands on deck, the better.”

The day before, Brennan had found an old record player in her bedroom closet, so they’d set that up on the bar with a pile of musty records that probably hadn’t been played in twenty years. Booth told her she was in charge of picking out the music, and went to the refrigerator to figure out what to cook. It was true: he did like cooking, but unfortunately Bones - as a damned vegetarian - wouldn’t eat most of the stuff he knew how to make. So, he’d have to get creative.

After a good five minutes with his head in the pantry and still no music, he almost laughed out loud at what she finally decided on: Tijuana Christmas. The woman never failed to surprise him, he’d give her that much.

After some thought, he settled on eggplant parmesan for dinner - he figured it wasn’t too different from the chicken parm he prided himself on, and set to work. Bones made the salad; there were a few times when it definitely seemed like there were too many cooks in the kitchen, but they managed to make it out alive. Within an hour, they were seated at a shaky looking card table in the living room with Elsa drooling at Bones’ feet.

They’d had plenty of meals together over the years, so there really wasn’t any reason this one should be different. Except that he had cooked, which had never happened before. And they were alone in a cabin in the woods, a fire crackling in the fireplace and Bones wearing his shirt and no real cases to talk about between them. Bones had found the card table in one of the bedrooms, so she’d set that using a sheet as a tablecloth and a couple of candles in jelly glasses for lighting. The dishes were mismatched, the music was terrible (Bones seemed to have some morbid attachment to Tijuana Christmas, and refused to change it), but Booth kind of felt like he’d never had a better dinner.

When they were finished and he’d had some time to digest, Booth got up and started clearing the table. Bones followed him into the kitchen as soon as she realized what he was doing.

“You don’t need to do that - I’ll do the dishes.”

He looked up from the sink, already filling with soapy water. “I’ll wash, you dry. And no offense because Tijuana Christmas is very… festive, but you’ve gotta pick something else or I’m taking over music duty.”

“It does get somewhat repetitive, doesn’t it?”

He gave her a look. “I’m gonna have Las Mananitas in my head for the rest of my life, Bones. Yeah, it gets repetitive.”

She went over to the records and looked through, raising her voice to be heard over the running water. “You know, you tend to overuse hyperbole when you’re irritated - I never noticed it before.”

He rolled his eyes but before he could comment, the music started up again. At her choice, he grinned outright.

“Nice, Bones - I didn’t peg you for a Neil Diamond fan.”

It was Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show, something he hadn’t heard for years. Bones kind of danced into the kitchen - well, didn’t dance, but there was a definite rhythmic bounce to her step - and stood beside him at the sink. He handed her a dish towel, both of them moving a little to the music, and set to work on the stack of dirty pots and pans.

There was a few minutes of silence, just the sound of dishes clanking together and Booth’s hands splashing in the warm, sudsy water, before Bones spoke again.

“My father used to play this when I was little. He and my mother would cook together, and sometimes they’d dance in the kitchen - Russ and I would watch, and I remember thinking…”

She was close enough that he could feel where they touched arms, her body heat warming him. He turned slightly so he could see her better; she had that dreamy, faraway look she sometimes got when she talked about her mom.

“You remember thinking what?” he pushed a little, and she rolled her eyes - he thought he could even see a blush starting.

“Nothing, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, just say.”

She sighed. “Fine - I was very young, and so I still believed in castles and fairy tales and those sorts of things. And I’d see my parents and think, ‘Someday, that will be me. I’ll find a prince, and we’ll dance in the kitchen and make hamburgers…’”

The dreamy look faded - she looked away, obviously embarrassed. “I told you it was stupid.”

He leaned over to bump against her shoulder, just to feel her next to him. “It’s not stupid, Bones - that’s what kids do. They watch their folks, and they dream about fairy tales.”

She considered this. “I suppose.” She paused, then clarified. “But I’m no longer interested in marrying a prince.”

He nodded seriously. “Good to know.”

“And I don’t eat hamburgers.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Bones, I know. Why do you think I spent all that time mangling eggplant for you? What about the kitchen dancing part? Are you over that, too?”

The look in her eyes told her she wasn’t, actually, over that part. Before she could come up with an argument, he wiped his hands, set the plate she was in the middle of drying on the counter, and took her in his arms. Space was tight, but frankly in Booth’s experience, that wasn’t a bad thing when it came to dancing. He held her close, moving easily with the music, and he liked that she had rhythm but didn’t actually try to take over. He also liked the way she laughed when he spun her, and the way it felt when she landed back in his arms on the return. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a lot he didn’t like about dancing with Bones.

One song faded into the next, the dishes on hold for the moment, until “Juliet” came on - a quiet song he remembered his mom listening to when he was little, and both him and Bones slowed. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“We should probably finish the dishes,” she said, her breath warm on his neck.

He nodded. “Yeah,” but he didn’t let her go, and she didn’t try to get away.

“You’re a good dancer.”

“Thanks.” He could smell her hair, and it smelled unbelievably good - better maybe than any hair he’d ever smelled before. And Booth had smelled a lot of hair in his time, so that was saying something. There was a voice in his head saying that he needed to stop dancing, get some distance, and pull himself together. He ignored that voice, however, and surprised himself by saying, “My mom taught me.”

She slowed a little to look up at him, searching his face - like maybe he was making a joke that she just didn’t get. When she realized he wasn’t, she nestled her head at his neck again. “I like your mom.”

He smiled. The voice in his head got louder, but Booth kept right on ignoring. He held her a little tighter, and they kept dancing until the record was over and the cabin had gone still. They stopped dancing, but Booth still didn’t pull away. Neither did Bones. She was close enough that all he’d have to do was move a couple of inches forward, and they’d be kissing - close enough that he could see how blue her eyes were, could see her laugh lines and the curve of her lips and the way her collarbone stood out against the line of his shirt.

She was the one who moved. She was so easy to read - he didn’t understand how someone who’d been out in the world as much as she had could still wear her heart on her sleeve like she did, and not even know it. But there it was; she panicked. There were a ton of things Booth knew nothing about, but he knew at least a little about women. And the look on his partner’s face?

That was panic.

He wasn’t sure why kissing him should be such a terrifying thing, but it clearly was - at least to her. He tried not to be hurt by her reaction, tried to tell himself that this was just another weird Bones thing that he’d never understand and it was probably for the best anyway, and forced a light smile once she was out of arm’s reach.

“So - uh, I should probably finish up those dishes and make some phone calls before I turn in. Why don’t you head on to bed, you must be beat.”

The look that followed was one that he actually couldn’t read, because it seemed like hurt and then it seemed like she was pissed off, and then she just said goodnight, grabbed the dog, and disappeared into her bedroom. And Booth decided it was official: he would never, ever understand Temperance Brennan.

TBC