Title: Blame It on the TheraFlu
Summary: "Definitely the medication. Possibly the fever. Probably both." Booth intrudes on Brennan's sick day. Written for the 2005 Bubbleficathon on LJ. hannasus requested a latex glove and for Booth to take off his shirt. (Wrote this in December '05, but never posted it here.)
Spoilers: Through "The Man in the Fallout Shelter"

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Temperance loved her job. She was good at what she did, and she had no false modesty about that fact. She truly enjoyed going into work every day, delving into a case, whether it be something current or ancient history. She liked her staff, which wasn't a necessity but it certainly helped. But most of all she loved that what she did made sense. It was scientific, empirical, and left little room for questions and doubt. Each case was a box of mismatched pieces that she arranged and clicked into place to form a picture. A work of art, in its own right.

Other women her age might skip out on work now and then, not for any real reason, just to escape the tedium of their daily lives. Spend a few hours shopping or getting a manicure; call in sick just to sit on the couch and watch movies all day. Temperance didn't recall ever skipping a day of work – or, for that matter, college, high school, or elementary school – for something so unimportant.

For the first time in over two years, she called in sick to the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab with a fever, body aches, and a bone-rattling cough. She'd hardly ended the call before she collapsed onto the couch and fell into a fitful sleep.

The phone rang late in the afternoon, jarring her awake.

"Hello?" she croaked. She listened in silence for a moment. "No." She paused. "Fascinating, but I'm still saying no." She sighed, running a hand through her tangled hair. "Which part of 'no' is confusing to you?"

Calling in sick had been a bad idea, she decided as the person on the other end continued to talk.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Bring it over." She punched the phone off with her thumb, tossing it onto the coffee table. With a growl of frustration, she pushed herself up off the couch and headed to her bedroom for a change of clothes.

No doubt about it, she was definitely being punished.

"I brought Chinese," Booth said by way of greeting as she swung the door open an hour later. He held the bag up in front of him, as if he expected some sort of prize for such a thoughtful gesture.

"You also brought me casework when I'm getting over a 101 degree fever," Temperance reminded him, leaning wearily against the doorjamb.

"Yeah, but, Bones – Chinese!" He waved the bag enticingly in front of her nose. It was only the earnest smile on his face that kept her from slamming the door and crawling back to bed.

"There had better be Kung Pao chicken in that bag," she muttered, stepping back to let him pass through.

"Take it up with Sid. He packs the bag, I bring it over, I don't argue. You think I'm an idiot?"

"Only sometimes," she said to his back, shutting the door and securing the chain lock.

"In the kitchen?" he asked over his shoulder, ignoring her remark with all the skill she'd become accustomed to over the past few months.

She nodded, following him in to the small kitchen space. "On the table is fine."

"I have to say, Bones, I've never seen you less excited to look at dead bodies and tissue samples and forensic evidence before. Usually you're chomping at the bit to get in on a case."

Temperance slumped down onto one of the kitchen table chairs. "This is the first sick day I've taken in years. Forgive me for thinking that physical illness might allow me a break from looking at desiccated corpses."

Booth paused in setting the food out on the table. Looking at her closely, he said, "this case, it's a favor. But if you need the rest, just say the word and I'll bump it back to the Agency."

She quirked a smile at him. "Now you choose to be considerate." She snuck a peek into the closest container. "I feel better than I did this morning, which, granted, isn't saying much. But it looks like Sid came through with the Kung Pao chicken, and I'm heavily medicated. I'll last a few hours."

He smiled in return. "Thank you." He had a nice smile, a fact she'd noted before and chosen not to dwell upon. Maybe it was the medication, but she found herself appreciating it now; the warmth in his eyes when he smiled. It made him seem open, honest; she knew he had secrets to keep just like the rest of them, but he was still able to smile as if he had nothing to hide.

"Water," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?"

"Well, since you failed to bring anything to drink, you can grab me a bottle of water out of the fridge."

"Like I said. Bossy," Booth replied, shaking his head as he crossed the kitchen. Temperance noted a slight wince on his face as he reached into the refrigerator.

"Are you okay?"

"Just great," he said, straightening up. Settling into the chair next to her, he set the bottles on the table with one hand. With the other, he pulled the neck of his sweater down an inch to reveal a red, angry cut along his collarbone. "I have your boy Zack to thank for this, actually. Parker and I were playing with that damn robot, my little guy said 'flip', the robot apparently thought he meant 'attack'."

Temperance cringed sympathetically. "Zack probably should have mentioned he didn't have the voice recognition quite online yet."

"Might have been useful, yeah."

"Let me see that cut again," she said, reaching her hand out to pull his neckline down. "Actually, you know what, just take your shirt off."

"What?" Booth sputtered. "Bones, I know come-ons aren't exactly your area of expertise, but—"

She cut him off with an arch look. "I just want to get a look at the cut, see if you need stitches. You don't want it to scar."

"It's fine," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Booth."

"So bossy," he muttered, shrugging out of his jacket.

"It's not my fault I'm the only one in the room with a doctorate."

"Seems to me that's not the same as an MD," he said, his voice muffled as he yanked his shirt over his head.

"It still makes me better equipped to deal with injuries. Now sit still and let me have a look," she said as he draped his sweater over the back of his chair. She leaned in to peer at the cut, unconsciously placing a hand on his bare shoulder for balance.

"Parker got a kick out of it," he said as she squinted at the long slash crossing from his shoulder down to his upper chest. "Once he saw that I wasn't hurt, he kept asking if I could make the robot do it again."

"He seems like a sweet boy."

"No help from me, that's for sure."

"Don't say that," she said, frowning at him. "He obviously adores you."

"Well, he's still young. His mother will disabuse him of that soon enough." He winced again as she lightly pressed at the cut with her right hand. "Ouch."

"Sorry." Her fever must be creeping up again, Temperance decided, because she was suddenly all too aware of the warmth and solidity of his shoulder and chest under her hands. Leaning back, she declared, "it's fairly deep, but I don't think you need stitches."

"I could have told you that," he said with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest.

"However," she continued, "we should at least get that cleaned up and bandaged. I've got some supplies in the bathroom, I'll show you."

He followed her down the hallway to the bathroom. "Nice place," he commented.

"Thanks," she replied, reaching into the medicine cabinet. "So," she remarked casually, glancing at him, "where do the rest of those scars come from?" She'd noticed what looked like a surgical scar on the right side of his abdomen and a few jagged scars along his torso, and she wasn't above a little human curiosity.

Booth leaned his shoulder carefully against the doorjamb. "Let's just say I know more about injuries than you might think," he said shortly.

"So it's a military thing," she postulated, setting the hydrogen peroxide and gauze down on the edge of the sink.

"Something like that. Look, Bones, we can save the trips down memory lane for some other time."

"And you accuse me of being closed off," she said, turning and leaning back against the sink.

"No, I said you ask for information without offering anything of yourself," he said pointedly.

Temperance held up her hands. "Fair enough. For now." She gestured to the supplies. "Clean it out with the hydrogen peroxide, tape it up with the gauze."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," he said, brushing past her to enter the small space.

"I'm going to take a look at the file."

"Don't eat all of the egg rolls," he warned her as she moved out into the hallway. She took a long look at his muscled back as he turned away, leaving the bathroom door ajar. Shaking her head sharply to jolt herself out of reverie, she made her way back to the kitchen and dropped down at the table with a sigh.

Definitely the medication. Possibly the fever. Probably both. Either way, Angela would be proud of this new development, to be sure.

She was munching on an egg roll and reading through the case when Booth reentered the room. He pulled his sweater back on – she refused to think of this as unfortunate – and they worked without further mishap for the next hour. It was a cold case, and there was only so much she could do without seeing the subject up close, but she was able to form an opinion based on the data given.

"Not that you need anyone else to tell you this, but you're good."

She smirked and was about to respond, but a bout of coughing caught her unexpectedly.

"You okay?" he asked when her coughing quieted down.

"I hate being sick," she groused, rising from her chair and grabbing their empty plates off the table.

"You know what they say about doctors being the worst patients," he said, following her across the room. She turned on the tap and reached for the dish soap, mixing it with the hot water.

Chuckling, Booth leaned a hip against the counter and reached for the box of latex gloves she kept next to the kitchen sink. "You just can't leave things at the office, can you?"

She shrugged, twisting the tap off. "My job is unpredictable. I like to be prepared."

"Never pegged you for a Girl Scout." He held up a hand as if to ward off her response. "And please, don't tell me you don't know what that means."

"Actually, that one I understood." She sunk her hands into the soapy water and began to scrub at the dishes with a sponge. His presence beside her was unnerving, which annoyed her. Being sick was wreaking havoc on her carefully constructed defenses, and she didn't like that one bit.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Yes," she said truthfully, her shoulders slumping.

"You go lie down, I can finish up here," he said, grabbing the sponge out of her hand.

"No, it's fine, really." He flicked soapy water in her direction, and she snapped her head up indignantly.

"Go. I intruded on your sick day, it's the least I can do."

"I guess I could write up some notes about my findings for your Agency people," she said.

"Atta girl."

She grabbed her legal pad and a pen from the table and moved to sit on the couch in the living room. Propping the pad of paper on her lap, she began to write, but it wasn't long before exhaustion began to take hold of her. Surrendering to the need for sleep, she slid down on the couch so her head was resting on the throw pillow and let her eyes slide closed. She saw the lines of his bare back in her mind's eye; saw every smile he'd ever given her flash in front of her. She didn't want to think about him, but she was too tired to resist, and besides, she'd already decided to blame it on the drugs. She listened to the sound of running water from the other room; it was comforting, somehow, a welcome change from the usual silence of this little apartment. She breathed deep and listened until she dropped off to sleep.

Temperance sluggishly opened her eyes to a darkened apartment. All of the lights had been switched off, leaving only the moon shining through the blinds for illumination. Her eyes focused slowly, landing on a piece of paper propped up on the coffee table.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, reaching out to switch on the lamp on the end table. She leaned her elbows on her knees, pushing her hands through her hair as she read the scribbled handwriting on the paper.

Bones,

Thanks again (for the casework and the doctoring). Left the rest of the food in the fridge. Feel better – someone has to be around to keep us in line.

SB

She smiled despite herself, wondering if Booth realized he was voluntarily associating himself with the squint squad. Something to use against him Monday morning, she decided as she shuffled off to her bedroom to sleep through the rest of the night.

end