In Search of a Hero

10: Perchance to Dream

Brennan didn't need the energetic sound of Earl's rooster greeting the morning to wake her up the next day. Her sleep had been restless, coming in fits and starts, broken by the noisy squeak of old springs beneath an equally-as-old lumpy mattress as she tossed and turned. Long before the faintest hint of light began to relieve the night sky, she lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.

At fault was her active imagination, fueled by the surprisingly acute nature of her reaction to Captain Seeley J. Booth. It affected even what should have been a simple bath.

The bathroom itself had provided a fascinating wealth of material for her wayward fantasies. On the surface, it was just a small, white-painted room with no decorative touches to soften its purpose. A big clawfoot tub set against one wall, with a high, arching fawcett, separate taps for hot and cold water, and above them, a long-handled sprayer hanging from a hook. A white porcelain sink jutted out beneath a metal cabinet with a mirrored door. The toilet sat next to the sink, a simple affair with a square tank bolted into the wall behind it.

But Brennan couldn't resist taking a closer look. Tidy and cleaner than she might otherwise have expected in a household of men, even a finger run along the inside of the tub picked up no trace of soap residue. The brief time Booth had spent upstairs after they returned home couldn't account for the condition of the room, she decided, and wondered if his time spent under the strict protocols of the military was due the credit.

A curious peek into the cabinet behind the mirror convinced her the guess was right. The contents were no different than what she expected from a man's toilette: a toothbrush and a small silver tube of Pepsodent, a Bakelite comb stuck into the bristles of a palm-sized hairbrush, a round tin of hair cream, a half-empty jar of witch hazel and a bottle of Bayer aspirin, a box of razor blades and a safety razor with the handle worn nearly smooth from years of use. What gave Booth's training away was the neat rows the items were arranged in, each of them exactly the same distance from the edge of the shelves. She picked up a porcelain mug emblazoned with the word "Tony's" and a colorful barber's pole. Nearly empty, the soap brush stored inside was thick with dried lather. Unable to resist, she raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply.

It was a mistake. Sandalwood and spice overwhelmed her senses, bringing with them the memory of that unexpected kiss in the grass. The scent filled every breath, filled the room as if the walls were painted with it. The delicate lilac of her own soap wafted to nothing, like it was no more than the simple bar of Ivory left on the soap dish by the tub. Booth's presence was so strong, he might have been standing right next to her.

Brennan hurried through her bath, taking care to leave the tub as clean as she'd found it, and fled to her room as quickly as possible. It was no escape. The sultry fragrance followed her there, taunting her with the feel of his lips on hers. Instead of fading from her nostrils, it seemed to grow stronger, rising anew with every frustrated toss and turn.

Stop it, Temperance!

A stern scolding was no use. She recognized the signs of desire and need, the traitorous reaction of her own body, the liquid heat spreading like warm honey through her veins . . . She was young and healthy and she had known the heady release of making love with a man attuned to her pleasure as well as his. And it had been so long . . . .

The sound of footsteps on the stairs drummed in time with the heavy thud of her heart. Her breath caught in her throat as she imagined calling out for him . . . seeing the door open and his shadow waiting . . .

But of course, there was no such moment. The footsteps crossed easily to the room across the hall. A door opened, and closed. Brennan rolled to her side, and stared at her own door through the darkness, listening intently, every sound that filtered through the thin walls an image.

A tinny squeak of bed springs. He's sitting on the bed to take off his shoes.

One thump. Another. Tossing the shoes somewhere in the room.

A drawer sliding open. Sliding shut. Pajamas?

Footsteps again, softer now. Bare feet.

The bedroom door. More steps. The bathroom door opening. Closing.

Water running in the tub. The toilet flushing. More water, running in the sink. The quiet protest of tight hinges. The medicine cabinet.

The clink of a small glass tumbler being placed on the sink. Silence, except for the water, then the sound of spitting. Brushing his teeth.

The hinges again, and the glass tumbler returned to its shelf, and a final protest of hinges.

And then nothing . . . until the taps were slowly turned off and there came the faintest sound of sloshing in the tub and then . . .

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh . . ."

Eyes wide in the dark, Brennan gasped as the sound reverberated through the walls. Suddenly, her vivid imagination was a curse. She could see that big male body sinking into the water, the heat lapping against his skin as Booth leaned back in the tub and groaned with sensual pleasure as the aches of the day washed away. She saw the wide shoulders rising above the water, the knees bent to accommodate the length of his legs. She saw him lather soap into a washcloth and slide it over his arms . . . the ribbons of frothy bubbles that disappeared into the dark, curly hair on his chest . . .

Stop this, Temperance!

It was no good. She knew the human form, had worked with cadavers and patients and visited morgues to study the recently deceased. She'd taken a lover, had intimate knowledge of his body. A slim, lean body completely different from the brawny, powerful frame that now filled her fevered thoughts.

Her eyes closed. Sully, sweet and gentle, who'd taken such care with her. Who smiled at her with such love. Who wanted to make a home with her . . . a home where she'd become someone's wife, someone's mother, and Temperance Brennan would cease to be.

In the room next door, water drained from the tub and then sloshed against the sides as Booth stood. A brief silence, as she imagined him toweling his skin dry, then water again, but lighter. The sprayer, clearing away the soap.

After that, a quiet shuffle. Getting dressed. Pajamas?

The bathroom door opening. Bare feet crossing the hall, the somewhat hesitant steps reminding her of what she'd read in his file about the injuries to his feet.

The bedroom door closing. Bed springs, as squeaky as her own. And then . . . nothing.

Brennan lay awake, listening intently for anything. She hoped he snored, loud and obnoxious enough to puncture the unwelcome fascination she had for him. But there was nothing.

She wondered what she might do if he called out in his sleep, if his experiences in the war had scarred him with nightmares. But there was nothing.

The house settled into the night with creaks and sighs. The window she'd left open to the breeze allowed in the faint sound of a car moving slowly down the street and somewhere, a dog barking.

And hours later, when an angry rooster ruffled his feathers and called out the neighborhood's alarm, she merely blinked and continued staring at the ceiling.

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Apologies for the short chapters. I've had such a difficult time finding a creative voice since the start of stay-at-home orders and it feels so good to finally *want* to write again, that I'm just going with whatever comes, however it comes. Here's hoping the mojo sticks around! *fingers crossed*