A/N: Are you buckled in? You must be 6"0 to ride this rollercoaster (mind the rating, ahem.)
Brennan ceded the door to Booth, allowing him to walk in. He closed it behind himself as she wordlessly pulled a towel out of the linen closet and handed it to him. Recalling a stash of clothes she used to keep for their later nights doing paperwork, she retrieved them too- all five sets. She watched him dry his face and hair and arms, fascinated and conflicted about what she should be thinking about the man in front of her."I'm sorry," he spoke again, kicking off his wet shoes, "I'm dripping on your floor."
She gestured to the piles of clothes she set on the chair next to him. He picked them up to change in the bathroom, "Thanks," she heard him say as he shuffled away from her. She took the opportunity to reclaim her wine glass and open another bottle of Riesling, imagining that numbing the impending conversation would be worth Angela's scrutiny.
Waiting for him on the couch, she giggled to herself, blaming both Booth and the wine. He sat down next to her and deftly pulled the wine glass away from her, frowning. "What's so funny?" he asked, his eyes darting across her face, searching.
"It's trivial- dripping on my floor- but it was so sincere." She smirked at the notion, and at him, reaching for her wine glass only to have it swiftly taken away again and set back on the coffee table. Whether it was her actions or her notions about his apology, she elicited a brief chuckle from Booth.
"Bones, I didn't want you to find out that way," he admitted after their laughter had died down. He appeared to be sincere to her, but she couldn't tolerate the pity seeping into his features.
She pulled at his t-shirt, pinching a small piece of fabric between her fingers near his left pectoral muscle, and released it quickly, "You should take them home, all of them. Terrence and I had a very unfortunate disagreement about their presence here."
Booth glanced around quickly, chastising himself for missing the signs of a second inhabitant- but he couldn't find any in his immediate surroundings. He hadn't seen any in the bathroom either. "Where is Terrence?"
Brennan swept the wine glass off of the table and into her hand, taking a long drink from it before Booth could reach for it again. She pulled it away from him, challenging him to take it from her. He didn't, so she brought the cup to her lips again. "Back in South Africa," she told him after a second swallow.
She felt his eyes on her, evaluating every contraction and expansion of each muscle fiber. It was insufferable, but the alcohol tamed the aggravation while it lowered her inhibitions. "I'm sorry," she heard him express again, but this time it was not trivial, and no amount of alcohol could tame her frustration. It reeked of pity.
"I don't need your pity, Booth, I need a partner," she asserted, removing herself from the couch to refill her glass.
"If you keep drinking, maybe you can have both. I'll help you into the bathroom when you start puking so you can devolve into hysterics about how much. Terrence meant to you. Will you explain to me in great detail that you treated him like shit for his own good?" He was sarcastic and approaching malicious. It sparked a rush of catecholamines that could only result in confrontation.
Brennan could feel her body swimming in cortisol and adrenaline. It provoked her to be equivalently snide. "And when you help me into a cab to Angela's, I'll be so confused that I'll think you're Terrence and I'll confess my love for you. Would you enjoy that, too, Booth?"
"What?" he responded in the same volume of their dispute. Brennan assumed he was trying to anger her further.
She slammed the wine bottle down on the table after topping off her glass to finish what was left in the bottle. She gulped down several swallows- her every movement and decision had been amplified by the cocktail of adrenaline and alcohol in her blood. She slid it ungraciously onto the table, some of its contents sloshing of the sides. She watched, no, inspected him for the first time since they began shouting. Just when they began a petulant staring contest, she answered him, "You heard me, Booth. Take your condescension somewhere else."
"I didn't know," he told her- she almost believed him. He had lowered his volume. His posture, his tone, his eyes- they were sincere.
"How convenient," she retorted, "It isn't relevant anymore, though, is it?" reaching for her wine glass again, almost like a safety net.
"Of course it's relevant!" he shouted back at her, bridging the gap quickly between them. Brennan dropped her wine glass on the table unceremoniously as he captured her in his arms and kissed her with all the passion he had once before. She did not hear it shatter on the floor.
In a delirious haze of adrenaline and alcohol and oxytocin and dopamine and- Brennan decided to stop rationalizing it and just give in. As he backed her against the wall, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and his lips left her own: engaging her sensitive earlobes, the erogenous regions in the crook of her neck, across her shoulders, and finally the flushing parts of her chest exposed by her V-neck. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer with a squeeze of her thighs, encouraging and his ministrations.
He pulled her away from the wall, allowing her feet to touch the ground before he began backing them towards the bedroom. Lying back on the bed, looking up at him, she was pliant under his meandering lips, malleable in his roving hands and submissive to his every declaration of love and forgiveness whispered into her ears- each playing a part in eliciting her own confessions.
Then, after having peeled off his shirt and her own, did she experienced an unfortunate moment of clarity. It came in two forms: guilt and nausea.
Booth reconnected their lips, continuing oblivious to her jarring revelation. "Booth-" she pleaded, fighting back two very quickly imbibed bottles of Riesling.
He froze and looked at her with those darting, inspecting eyes, "What's wrong?"
"She's having your baby," she whispered, and gently pushed him away as she had once done before, leaving him to fall dejected at her side. She rolled off the bed, unable to withstand the expression she knew was on his face. She locked herself in the bathroom, allowing the thunder of scalding water against her bathtub deafen her to the sounds of him leaving. Only her physical equilibrium returned in the haze of her foggy bathroom.
After the water chilled, she braved the scene of the crime again. On her nightstand, next to the clock that indicated she had a brief four minutes before Angela and Hodgins' arrival, he had thoughtfully left her a glass of water.
A/N: Typos fixed post-publishing. Sorry about that- unacceptable, to say the least. I think I got them all.