This is a means of catharsis used by many people (myself included in the mental sense. I never actually write them...too onerous) to write letters explaining your life. The Letterbox follows Brennan through the unseen chapters of Squint life they skated past in the show. The chapter titles are from Superchick's song Stand in the Rain which is one of my all time favorites (which you should check out on youtube) since it seemed particularly applicable. I thought about putting the first letter here, but I'm holding off for a chapter. Hope you all enjoy.

The Letterbox

"I would love to crawl into bed with you," Booth called as Brennan sulkily threw off her covers. He smirked cheekily. "Just crawl right up and touch all that silky soft-"

"Booth," she warned.

"-cotton," he finished innocently. He frowned. "But if I'm not in bed," he chuckled darkly and enunciated it more clearly, "in bed, then hell you aren't going to be happy either."

"Why are you here?" groaned Brennan. "It's 2:45 in the morning."

"Gotta case," clucked her partner, hitching up his pants.

"So?" she groaned as she shuffled past him as he leaned nonchalantly into the doorway of her bedroom.

"So," Booth stressed, "it's in Kentucky."

"It's where?" Brennan screeched from the bathroom, the door already closed between them.

"Kentucky. Brass wants us there at 8."

"We may not make it even if we drive all night." Her tinny voice echoed weirdly around her small but plush apartment. Booth let his feet wander slightly as he meandered towards the couch, contemplating lying down.

"Maybe not at eight," he conceded, "but we've been ordered from the Most High-"

"Are you making a religious reference?" she called through the door.

"Believe it or not I wasn't," Booth shouted back. "I was referring to the FBI."

"I thought that you referred to the government as Big Brother."

"I don't, but some people do, yeah."

"You work for the government."

"We work for the government," he corrected.

"And you're a big brother!" she called triumphantly. He rolled his eyes but sprang to his feet guiltily from his slumped position on the arm of the couch at the crash.

"Bones! You okay?"

"Fine," she called in exasperation, and he was immediately at the door. "You can come in." Booth reflected later that his ideas of appropriate and his partner's never did match up. He opened it without thinking and threw up a hand when he realized she was nonchalantly standing in a bra and underwear as if they were sweats.

"Bones! Jesus! Cover yourself or…or…something!" He threw a towel at her. "That would have been better!" She obediently held the towel in front of her, but simply grasped a little bunch of it in between her breasts that Booth noticed with a dry mouth were amply straining to be free of a beautiful….really beautiful….brown bra with blue lace trimming.

"Better?" her voice was hurt and she pouted. "You don't think I'm sexually pleasing?"

"Jesus Bones," was all he could manage; he turned his back resolutely to avoid temptation and his embarrassing cocky belt buckle. In a flash he spun back around. "What happened to your hair!"

"That's the crash," she sulked, holding up a saturated patch. It was congealed together with a thick liquid gel.

"It's my vegan coconut lotion. It sort of fell off the shelf and hit me on the head."

"Et tu, Gilligan?" grinned Booth. She looked at him, face completely unreadable. She decided to ignore it.

"Do you mind if I shower?"

"Bones we'll be late-"

"Or I could get this all over your car," she said sweetly, letting her besmeared hand slap some sticky lotion onto his. He yelped but smelled it.

"Smells really good," he mused. Involuntarily his tongue flicked out as she made a face the way she had when he mentioned Bolomo sparkling wine. His face lit up. "It tastes good too!"

"Of course Booth," she said scathingly. "It's all natural waxes and scents. It's very simply beeswax, honey, coconut milk-" she looked as if she could list the entire bottle of fine print. Booth hastily forestalled her with a hand.

"Sure. Yeah. Shower. Sounds good."

"I'll only be a minute." She turned on her heel and dropped the towel as if she forgot she was holding it to grab another clump of hair. "Or two…" she sighed. Booth tripped getting out of the bathroom, swinging the door shut so fast he almost cracked his own skull as he watched her absently unhook the back clasp of her bra, still facing away. The frame rattled with the force of his shock. He could have sworn he heard low laughter.

He sighed as he heard the shower head turn on. This could take a while. Trying to ignore the thought of her naked body beneath steaming spray, Booth began to troll through the little artifacts she kept on her shelves, gazing at them one by one.

Weird…gross… creepy…why does this little fat dude only have one ball…Booth clumsily handled them, trying to scrutinize with more detail. This is a nice vase. Too bad it smells like the stacks at college where the nerds hooked up. Oh, I actually like the sparkly mirrors on this…thing…is that a goat's head coming out of its-what the…He hastily set down the statuette and moved to the other side of the room where her books, music and other more recognizable household amenities lay neatly in their places. Some had dust coating the tops, a testament to her extreme work hours and her non-existent leisure life.

Nice picture, he mused as he gazed at the back of one of her own books. His fingers moved on. Cute. Looks like Russ' girls made this. Parker's baseball he signed for her like a pro…this is nice… Booth realized he had been inadvertently running his FBI ID badge over some of the less breakable items as if scanning them for a store. He smiled. Beep. Hideous ash-tray full of car keys. $4.95. Beep. Red coaster with a…cat? Pony?….$12.95. Beep. Shoebox collaged with magazine cutouts. $10.00.

"Shit," swore Booth as his loosely held ID badge slipped through his fingers and into the shoebox. He hadn't noticed it had a slit cut into the top like a piggy bank. Unfortunately, as he quickly picked it up (it was light…full of papers and his plastic card rustling about the sides as he shook it), to look for another opening. No dice. She- or a friend – had paper mached the lid and sides together long ago. Booth recognized newspaper clippings from the early 90s. It wasn't her usual M.O. either. The box was almost pretty – covered in sunsets and script and song lyrics.

He impatiently turned the box upside down, peering into the slit first to see what was inside. It looked like a bunch of letters. Just envelopes with titles he couldn't read in the half shadows of late night fluorescents. He shook the box viciously, hearing his key card rattle about, turning every which way but the right way to jostle itself out of the hole in the top.

"Shit," he muttered again. "I need that." He glanced warily at the bathroom door. The water was still running and if he strained his ears, he could hear his partner (friend/love of his life) singing softly under her breath, self-conscious he was in the other room, but so obviously ingrained in her customs she couldn't abstain.

There was only one option. He'd have to open the box. Booth thought it over, placing it quickly on the coffee table and squinting hard as it as if – like in Harry Potter – that might help accomplish the task with no additional thought or effort on his part. Just look in the mirror and it shall appear, he chanted. The box just sat there.

"Damn, damn, damn," grumbled Booth, fishing out a pocket knife. He hesitated. Through the top or along one side? Top was noticeable, he concluded. But the sides would take more cutting…He grinned, suddenly relieved. He would just slice along the seams at the bottom and pry it gently open then fold it back closed and sit it upright and no one would be the wiser. Brilliant.

With a whistle of self-congratulations he swiftly curtailed in a discordant note lest she hear, he gently slipped his knife into the soft bottom of the cardboard. It went through like butter; he should have clued in then but continued gently sawing. With an exclamation of surprise, Booth swore more floridly when he realized there was no top of the shoebox; she had turned it upside down and papered over the non existent bottom. The entire box bottom, held over the coffee table, became a gaping hole as letters rained out. At first inundated with blind panic, Booth was immediately intrigued by how many letters fell out. At least 20. Who on earth is she writing to? He wondered. He squeaked when he realized the shower head hadn't been running for a while. He frantically glanced about as he snatched up his key card to find a place to put the letters.


"Yeah? I'm almost done, don't worry."

"Not worried!" Booth called back, his voice flooded with panic that clearly said otherwise. Luckily she didn't pick up on things like that. "Take your time," he hoarsely added. Swearing, he scooped them all up in a pile and stacked them fiercely against the table. He heard the door handle turn and stuffed them hurriedly in his jacket pocket next to his heart. Frightened more than in any war to be caught snooping through her stuff, Booth kicked the box, which flattened under one vicious squash (hell it was all ruined anyway) under the couch.

"You ready to go?" she asked brightly. She was toweling her hair dry. Booth's throat was so tight he couldn't speak as she expertly braided her hair and shrugged into her coat. He was still frozen on the couch when she tossed him his keys. He missed the catch.

"Come on," she said impatiently, gesturing towards the door with her head. "Let's go. Don't worry," she teased incorrectly interpreting his tenseness. "I won't fall asleep; I won't be cruel. We can listen to your stations and yes I washed all the lotion out."

"That's good," he choked as he held the door for her, his eyes scanning the apartment frantically as a means of disposal for the letters without proving what he had done. No chance. After this case he would have to glue the box back together and put them back. Put. Them. Back. His mental voice dictated strictly. He swallowed.

"Et Tu, Gilligan," Bones suddenly laughed. "Oh, I see the humor now."