Bones - The Metaphor in the Cell
Title : The Metaphor in the Cell
Author: Stablergirl
Fandom: Bones
Characters: Booth, Brennan, Angela, Hodgins
Pairing: Booth/Brennan UST
Genre: Angst
Rating: Teen
Prompt: 25. a cell @ story_lottery
Summary: In which we realize that Brennan is struggling with her decisions...
Spoilers: 100th Episode! (takes place about a week later)
Warnings: Heartache
Word Count: 2,216
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, I only own the self-indulgence of this piece. No infringement intended.
A/N: I couldn't resist. Hopefully this will make sense to you guys, I wrote it in like an hour and a half at 11 PM, so we'll see what it looks like in the morning...
They begin, at once, to agree on virtually everything.
It is not only Angela who is suspicious, but because she is the most open and because she was not present for any aspect of that certain night she is the one who eventually questions it out loud, despite the fact that lately she's been practicing the skill of letting sleeping dogs lie and not pressuring people for 'the goods' quite as often as her instincts beg for her to do so.
She and Hodgins and Cam have discussed how little productivity there is when agreement is reached so seamlessly and effortlessly, when Booth simply says thanks and Brennan simply says you’re welcome and there is no debate about the reasons for anything.
The team is worried the outcomes of their cases will be incorrect.
Angela is worried about other things as well.
So it is one week and two days since the night she doesn’t know anything about when everybody is in the lab and Booth nods his head - mindless and agreeable.
The case is about a religious zealot whose overactive beliefs and irrational ramblings led somehow to his skull being cracked by what Hodgins thinks was a garlic press. Fodder, usually, for Brennan and Booth to be at each other’s throats in a sexually charged argument about God and religion and anthropology and science, which Angela was specifically looking forward to.
But Brennan doesn’t look up from the skeletal remains and Booth has his hands in his pockets as she explains the injuries without making a single comment about the absurdity of Jesus arriving on a comet.
Brennan states that the murder weapon seems to have been a garlic press without looking at Booth for a comedic reaction, without commenting on how truly ridiculous every aspect of this entire case actually is.
Booth stares at her, practically unblinking, comedic-reaction-free, and he nods his head - mindless and agreeable.
He says “I’ll get right on it.”
She doesn’t ask to go out into the field with him, and he doesn’t invite her. He says “Thanks,” and she says “You’re welcome,” and then he simply exits on unhurried feet, and she simply heads back toward her office and removes her rubber gloves.
Angela glances at Hodgins, who glowers meaningfully in response, and then she turns to follow Brennan down the stairs.
“Bren,” Angela calls. Brennan continues as if she hadn’t heard, and Angela feels her brow furrow slightly. She calls again “Brennan,” and with this Brennan’s head turns just enough so that Angela knows she heard her calling - probably both times.
“Angela,” Brennan sighs, almost steeling herself to offer what seems like a prepared request: “I am extremely busy, can I take a rainy check?” she asks and Angela resists the urge to smile.
“Rain check, sweetie, you want to take a rain check.”
“Oh,” Brennan responds flatly as she sits down behind her desk.
“And no, you can’t.” Angela closes Brennan’s office door and crosses her arms, looking her friend over with careful eyes, taking in the objects on the desk and noting the way there aren’t any files open there, no stacks of papers, there aren’t any skulls or bones of any kind. There is a chain of paper clips. An open bag of trail mix. A closed copy of Brennan's new book. Angela notices that there’s a blanket on the sofa, and a folded pile of clothes on one of the cushions. She purses her lips and squints as Brennan begins typing on her keyboard, ignoring Angela soundly and with fierce determination. “Something strange has happened,” Angela states.
“That is an inadequate adjective to use if you’d like me to know what you’re talking about,” she responds.
Angela feels herself getting irritated already, but fights it because conversations like these with Brennan require patience and strength of mind. She inhales deep and long and exhales her tension, cleansing her aura to the best of her ability.
“Why are you sleeping in your office?” Angela asks.
“I’m not.”
“There’s a blanket and clothes right there in front of my face. That looks like a nest to me...sleepover material.”
Brennan shrugs and still refuses eye contact. “I took a nap yesterday and felt that it wrinkled my clothing. I changed and left my wrinkled clothes there to be dry-cleaned at a later time.”
There’s a lengthy pause interrupted only by the click-clack of Brennan’s fingers hitting keys.
“Something happened between you and Booth.”
Brennan sighs. “Yes,” she answers, still working away as if the world is the same and things haven’t turned Twilight-Zone around the Jeffersonian lately.
“You’re getting along way too well,” Angela notes suspiciously, taking a seat across from Brennan and reaching out to fiddle idly with the chain of paper clips, an activity which prompts an irritated glare. She drops the paper clips and sighs.
“Getting along well implies something good, so the idea of getting along too well with someone defies logic,” Brennan states coldly.
Angela thinks she starts to understand, albeit with some conclusions jumped to rather quickly, and she sits up a little straighter and feels the corners of her mouth twisting into what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “Oh my god,” she starts to drawl.
“Please leave me alone,” Brennan mumbles.
“Oh my god!” Angela repeats. “You and Booth are finally doing it!” and she’s about to launch into congratulatory applause and excitement, not-so-polite requests for details, possibly some form of a victory dance or jog around the outskirts of the office space - something extremely Angela in nature.
She's about to celebrate, blatantly, when Temperance Brennan slams her hands down hard and loud against the keyboard.
Twice.
She slams her hands down twice before pushing the keyboard away from her and letting it bounce against the frame of the computer monitor.
Angela is frozen. Shocked.
Speaking, Brennan’s voice is firm, coiled tight: “I do not understand this," she states and it means a thousand different things.
Angela waits...unsure.
Brennan goes on, still firm, still seemingly on the edge of something: "I have made it perfectly clear to you that I do not want to speak to you right now. I followed all of the instructions given to me previously about how to indicate such things."
There is a question on Angela's lips for further explanation, but she doesn't get a chance to ask it.
"I’ve avoided eye contact," Brennan lists, "created another task with which to busy myself, I walked away from you, ignored your request for attention, and when none of that worked I verbally requested that you LEAVE me ALONE,” she finally looks Angela in the eye and Angela actually feels herself lean back - intimidated, for some reason emotionally scolded. “But, here you are," Brennan states flippantly, waving her hands toward Angela in an annoyed gesture of confusion, her voice shaky now and uneven. "And you're making blind assumptions without any evidence or facts of any kind, making you sound completely ignorant, fishing for information into a matter that is none of your business,” she accuses and Angela blinks, burned, as Brennan shakes her head and lets out a far from genuine chuckle. "God forbid I have any single aspect of my life that is not explored and criticized and picked apart by you," she spits. Angela sits back even further, still silent, her mouth dropping open in bewildered surprise at this turn, this emotional lashing. "You're intruding," Brennan states and something about it sounds like Angela's worst nightmare, "and you have no facts, as usual. I have no idea why I’m at all surprised.”
Angela is quietly stunned. She knows misdirected anger when she sees it, but that does not detract from the amount of sting a cut like this one can deliver. Best friends always know exactly where to aim, she thinks to herself.
She bites at her lip, helplessly, trying not to show much emotion, and she nods.
Brennan is not finished: “Perhaps,” she continues, “you should go consult Doctor Sweets about finding ways to focus on your own problems instead of constantly picking apart everybody else’s. He might have some sage psychological wisdom on that topic,” Brennan suggests in flat irritation.
Angela squints. She swallows. She tries to stay silent and fails.
“That’s good advice, Bren,” she responds quietly, “Why don’t you think that over for a second and see if that applies to anybody else.”
Brennan tucks her hair behind her ear defiantly and turns back to her computer screen with flushed features and shallow breathing, barely maintaining her control. Angela watches in fascination as Brennan brings her keyboard back to its usual position on the desk and continues typing.
There is once again a pregnant pause.
"You should talk about whatever this is," Angela suggests gently. "What you're doing isn't healthy. The team is worried about how it might affect the results on our..."
“Please leave me alone,” Brennan interrupts, her fingers stilling against the keys and her eyes sliding closed, exhausted.
And Angela frowns because she has seen Brennan in a million situations, watched her fall apart countless times, but she has never seen Brennan behave this particular way. It's emotional. Illogical. Nothing at all like the Brennen she knows.
"Brennan..." she tries.
"I'm sorry, Ange," she mutters. "Maybe later I'll..." she shakes her head and leaves the sentence unfinished. "But for now...just...please."
Angela feels the burn of hurt feelings but she silently respects the request despite that, because sometimes things and people need time and patience and she's been trying to get better at this, so she follows directions.
The request had been for her to leave...and, vaguely confused and fully concerned, that's exactly what she does.
She pretends to work for about three minutes. Then she stands and changes her mind.
She goes directly to Cam’s desk, informing her that she’ll be taking the afternoon off for mental health purposes, nervous she'll pressure her friend if she's in the same building, nervous she'll do or say something regrettable, nervous she'll do or say anything at all, really. Cam approves the time off without asking questions - one of Cam’s best qualities, in Angela’s opinion.
Then, stopping to buy some peaches and plums and iced tea, Angela goes to the park and sits in the grass, attempting to forget her hurt feelings and come up with a plan for how to approach this problem...how to dig in and find out what happened...how to find out why Brennan would act this way.
She tries to come up with a plan.
She hears the echoes of Brennan's accusations.
She tries to come up with a plan, but she doesn't quite succeed.
I am not a gambler. I’m a scientist. I can’t change…I don’t know how.
It’s twenty minutes later, as Angela is contemplating things in the grass of a nearby park, that Hodgins unknowingly knocks on that same office door, pushing in without waiting for a response.
“So I located four different models of garlic pressers that could have possibly killed this guy and we won’t know which one's a match unless I get approval from you to do a little…”
He stops because something isn’t right.
She’s at her desk and her head is in her hands and something is definitely not right.
“Uh…” he fumbles, looking over his shoulder to hopefully find Angela and wave her in. But Angela is nowhere to be found and he’s left here alone.
Brennan clears her throat but does not lift her head.
Hodgins doesn’t move.
“I’ve been thinking lately about lysosomes,” she mutters.
He stares at her and shuffles a little on his feet, unsure whether he should turn and run or sit and listen. He opts for something in between, fidgeting restlessly and self-consciously as she sits there hunched in front of him.
“Lysosomes?” he repeats.
“Yes,” she answers, “I never considered them much before because they've always simply been a necessary part of cell activity - something you learn about in biology 101. They're doing what they're predisposed to do - breaking down what needs to be broken down and defending the cell from…” she pauses and clears her throat. Hodgins glances over his shoulder again but sees no flash of jet black hair or any sign of jeans or a brightly colored t-shirt. He only sees lab coats and steel gray walls. He sighs as she goes on: “Defending the cell from foreign bacteria and waste. But upon further consideration lysosomes are extremely complex,” she decides, finally picking her head up and looking at him so that he notices the moisture in her eyes and becomes more alarmed than he had been before.
He switches gears and feels himself get a little bit protective.
He looks at her intently and tilts his head, pushing the hand not holding his clipboard into one of his lab coat pockets.
“The lysosome is definitely a complex piece of biological machinery,” he agrees. “The big guy put a lot of thought into that one.”
She nods slightly in agreement, and he feels concerned that once again she does not argue on the point of God or Creationism. She just sighs and says: “A lysosome is programmed to become a patch like a bandage in the plasma membrane when there is a wound…” she informs him.
“I know,” he responds. “Very cool.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, of course you knew that,” she offers, laughing slightly through her words, self-deprecating, apologetic, “you’re an expert in your scientific field so you would have…studied…”
He nods his head.
She clears her throat and her gaze seems to fog over a little, staring off into space in thought. He thinks she seems ponderous, different than usual.
He thinks of the way she’s been quiet lately, the way she hasn’t had a single argument with Booth in over a week, the way she’s been drone-like and bored…
He feels protective of her.
“What’s going on?” he asks quietly, tentative and nervous he’ll insult her or shake her from her pensive coma. She licks her lips and frowns.
“I’ve just been thinking…” she states, her eyes fixed on the surface of her desk, her brow furrowed. “...that lysosomes are these complex and precariously balanced parts of the cell, and they contain particular enzymes designed to digest and protect the cell from bacteria and viruses and harmful waste, and they can heal wounds and digest organelles…they’re the healers within the cell…the problem solvers…”
Hodgins nods again, unwilling to interrupt.
“And then sometimes…” she breathes, her eyes filling with water in an instant and her hands reaching out to fiddle with a paper clip on the desk, “They cause autolysis and they destroy the entire cell from the inside out.”
This last is exhaled in a weighted kind of way and Hodgins can feel his heart lift up into his throat for a second, he can feel his lungs clench in empathy and he can feel the frown on his face deepen and he would defend her, he knows. She is a member of his family and he would defend her if she needed defending, but he is unsure what this is and he’s never been the best at defending someone against an invisible enemy, so he waits.
She looks at him and she blinks, sad, defeated almost, and he shakes his head at her. He doesn't know what to say.
She speaks instead: “If they were...I would think that must be very difficult,” she states simply and he feels himself wanting to reassure her. “It must be very...” she breathes deeply and clears her throat, “very difficult to be biologically predisposed to be both a protector and a destroyer at the same time.”
The silence hangs in the air.
He does not know what to say to her except that he would…if he could, he would…protect or...
She is like a sister to him in this strange family of theirs and he would defend her...but...
He doesn’t understand.
The door behind him swings open and he can tell by the look on her face that it’s Seeley Booth.
She moves behind her computer monitor and wipes at her eyes.
Hodgins takes a deep breath and turns to see the look of pained exhaustion on Booth’s face, the look of commiseration, heartache, defeated confusion. Hodgins straightens his shoulders in determination and for a brief moment considers the makeup of the cell.
“Booth, I was looking for you,” he declares but Booth’s stare is fixed on Brennan’s red eyes and sloping shoulders. Hodgins pats him on the back and pushes him toward the door. “I have some results I want you to see and I need your help with a little experiment.”
The office door swings closed behind the two men so that Temerance Brennan is left completely alone in the empty quiet.
And for the millionth time she finds herself carefully calculating the odds of success and the odds of failure, and she thinks, restless, about the difficulty of the fate of the lysosome...