Author's Note: This drabble is dedicated to Shelly, because she's got an awesome Bones fic in the works. Feedback is love.
097. Writer's Choice (Lost)
"I take it there's going to be another book?" Booth asks, catching sight of the glowing computer screen.
"Should be," says Brennan, quickly minimizing the open document before he can get close enough to read any of it. But her brow is furrowed, he notices, the familiar spark of life he normally sees in her when discussing her books strangely absent.
"Creative difficulties?" he guesses. He imagines it must be very hard keeping straight everything in the writing of a novel. Hell, he has trouble keeping track of what he's writing in a case file, and that doesn't even involve imagination. He sits on her sofa, jumping when she switches the computer monitor off and the room is plunged into darkness.
"Not exactly." Booth jumps again when the lamp next to him comes on, and he forces himself to take a deep breath as Brennan comes over to sit beside him. She gives him an odd look, then shrugs and continues. "Sometimes when I'm writing…I do things that aren't rational. The characters, the plot—I know what the logical next step is, but sometimes it just feels wrong. So I write it another way, and then…then I don't know what to do."
"Temperance…" He locks eyes with her, momentarily forgetting what he's saying. "Art doesn't have to be rational. Shouldn't be."
Brennan frowns, looking young and lost. "But I don't know how to be irrational."
"Temperance," he says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. He takes her hand in both of his and keeps it there. "Have a little patience. You'll know when you've got it right."