Author’s Note: Here we go. From the very beginning. Please bear with me – it’s not going to be a very long ride, but I'd really like to tell this story properly.

Setting: The spring and summer of season 4.

Disclaimer: The usual. Definitely not mine.

2. The Rites of Spring

Several weeks earlier

April is the cruellest month, she thinks as she walks towards the Jeffersonian one Sunday morning. This year the colors around her appear to be brighter, more vibrant. She finds it disconcerting.

If Angela were to paint her life as it is now, which colors would she choose? Neither greys, nor a black and white contrast, she hopes. Perhaps muted blues and greens. A dash of terracotta here and there, reflecting the earth that she so often examines with a scientist’s practised eye.

Throughout her adult life, she’s seen herself as someone better suited for serenity rather than happiness, and this is what she wishes for herself. Her life is wider now, and she can breathe more freely. Her partnership with Booth is, as always, spectacularly effective. Her new book is due to be published soon, hopefully to the usual acclaim. She’s firmly established as one of the world-leading experts in forensic anthropology. She hasn’t left the Zack debacle behind – and, if she’s honest with herself, she will probably never leave it behind. Instead, she has assimilated it, for lack of a better word, much as she’s done with her newly acquired relationship with her father and brother.

She has little difficulty in persuading herself that some chemical imbalance is responsible for her faint sense of disquiet.

April – mixing memory and desire. Stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Later that day, she acts on her vaguely formed plan.

“Ange, do you think we have similar tastes in men?”

She watches somewhat fascinated as the artist tries very hard not to choke on the fry she’s eating. Her eyes water and she coughs a few times before getting her breath back.

“Well, sweetie, I sure hope not. I mean, things are weird as it is with me and Hodgins, and I don’t know about you and Booth, but I don’t think you want me in that story.”

Brennan sighs and looks down, playing absently with her napkin.

“That’s not what I meant. I just wanted to ask you if you think that any of your friends would be a suitable date for me.”

Best friend that she is, Angela goes straight to the heart of the matter.

“How long since you’ve had sex, sweetie?”

“I… I don’t remember.”

She does, but she is a little too uncomfortable to go into details. The artist’s perceptiveness can be intimidating under the best of circumstances.

To her credit, Angela knows when to let go.

“That long, huh? OK, let’s see”, the artist muses. “Do you have a type?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Of course you do. Tell me if this rings a bell: tall, intelligent, successful...”

Also dark, handsome, and FBI, she adds to herself, but knows better than to say it.

“Leave it with me, sweetie. You’ll be the lucky recipient of the patented, tried-and-true Montenegro treatment. You’re gonna love it.”

Brennan can only hope that her friend’s obvious enthusiasm will not lead her to make some outrageous choice.

Several days later, Brennan meets her date at the Italian restaurant that has been so praised by food critics recently. She’s wearing a new dress, a long, black, shimmering number that emphasizes her cleavage and moulds around her like a glove. She knows she looks sexy and confident, and this is exactly how she feels.

He looks very appealing – athletic and light-haired, that Nordic blonde that goes beautifully with tanned skin. He’s rather tall as well, and impeccably dressed. She sits down anticipating a very pleasant evening. Clearly, Angela has made a good choice.

She allows her body to take over, as she has done many times before. She finds it very relaxing to shut down the scientist once in a while and rely on the woman instead. She smiles and whispers seductively, fully aware of the fact that the man opposite picks up on every cue.

The appetiser and half the first course proceed very smoothly. The wine is good, the company intriguing.

The first alarm bell starts ringing when she finds herself considering whether the man she’s just met would make a good father, and then linking the probability of a second date to the existence of said paternal traits.

The alarm bell becomes a full-blown siren when she discovers she’s been musing about what their children would look like. Surely, her genes for dark hair would override those for blonde hair. She’s less certain about the eyes, though.

The siren morphs into a whole disaster area rescue operation, complete with fire trucks, ambulances and police cars, when she tries to calculate when exactly she will be at the most fertile in her monthly cycle.

With a stern reminder to her body to behave, her rational self returns to the driving seat. Until the end of the dinner. Then, she flees the scene of the crime as if the hounds of hell are following hot on her heels.

She decides that the spring is to blame. She is not sure what that means.

Apparently, it is an established theme in fanfiction that, whenever Brennan’s on a date, she cannot help comparing the man in front of her with Booth. I didn’t spell it out, because Brennan has bigger fish to fry, but who am I to deviate from conventional wisdom? Please consider it part of the story, if you so wish. And by the way, don't worry - our favorite FBI man will make an appearance in the next chapter.

The references about the month of April are from TS Eliot’s The Waste Land – from the first section entitled, rather appropriately, The Burial of the Dead. I thought it suits Brennan well.

Please keep the reviews coming – they’re absolutely invaluable, as well as much treasured.