As the final eager fan in a line that could certainly have circled the earth several times left, clutching the autographed book as if it were made of gold, Brennan sighed, dropped her pen, and rubbed her eyes tiredly. Five hours of over-enthusiastic, loud fans, with the occasional sincerely interested teen scientist, out on a Saturday afternoon. Great for book sales, but after a while, trying on the nerves. She was tucking the pen away and preparing to make a dash for the bookstore’s back exit, avoiding the inevitable annoying stalker-fans, when suddenly her vision went black as two hands reached in from behind her to cover her eyes.

“Guess who!” came the whisper.

She had to remind herself to turn off the instant throw-to-the-floor-and-elbow-in-attacker’s-nose reflex in public. Then again, if the voice wasn’t an immediate indicator, there was still Parker’s hysterical giggling at Daddy’s antics to tip her off. “Booth, either remove your hands or I’ll do it for you.”

He did as she said – knowing full well that the threat was anything but idle – and grinned at her. “Hey. Book signing?”

She nodded. “Just finished.”

“You looked like you wanted a break.” Booth reached down to ruffle his son’s hair. “Parker’s here for story hour.”

“What’s that?”

“Every weekend, they have someone read a book to all the little kids around. It’s pretty neat.” He paused. “I don’t know what they’re reading today, but you’re more than welcome to join me. I’d be glad to have some company. Parents usually just sit in the back and look awkward.”

Well . . . normally this would be weird, if that made any sense at all, but she was tired, and she didn’t have to be anywhere tonight anyway, and sitting down to listen to a simple, easy-to-understand children’s story sounded quite relaxing. “Sure.”

“Come on!” Shyly grabbing her hand as well as Booth’s, Parker tugged, urging the two of them to the children’s corner in the back of the store, where several other children had already settled on the rug around a big stuffed chair. He joined them, leaving his father and Brennan to sit on the colorful, cushy old couch in a set of mismatched but comfy furniture with some other adults waiting for children. Thankfully, Brennan noticed, none of the nearby parents seemed ready to pounce on her and demand autographs, interviews, pictures, begging her to read their original manuscripts –

“Bones!”

She glanced up, startled. “What?”

“They’re about to start.”

XXX

The store owner sat down in the big storyteller’s chair, ending up a little lost in the huge cushions. “Are we all ready for today’s story?”

The kids shouted gleefully, and she beamed at them. “Good! Today’s story is one of my favorites. It’s called ‘The Nightingale,’ by Hans Christian Andersen.” Opening the book, she began to read. “‘In China, you know, the emperor is Chinese, and all those about him are Chinamen also. The story I am going to tell you happened a great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is forgotten. The emperor’s palace was the most beautiful in the world. It was built entirely of porcelain, and very costly, but so delicate and brittle that whoever touched it was obliged to be careful. In the garden could be seen the most singular flowers, with pretty silver bells tied to them . . .’”

The children watched, fascinated into silence, as the woman held up the book to show the illustrations. She went on. Brennan felt herself relaxing. She’d known this story since she was a little girl.

“ ‘"Hark, hark! there she is,” said the girl, “and there she sits,” she added, pointing to a little grey bird who was perched on a bough.

“ ‘“Is it possible?” said the lord-in-waiting, “I never imagined it would be a little, plain, simple thing like that. She has certainly changed color at seeing so many grand people around her.”

“ ‘“Little nightingale,” cried the girl, raising her voice, “our most gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him.”’”

Booth looked at the woman next to him. Brennan was unusually relaxed. Her eyes were bright, and the tired lines in her face had smoothed as she watched the storyteller show the book, with a painting of a little grey bird among the trees.

“ ‘“My song sounds best in the green wood,” said the bird; but still she came willingly when she heard the emperor’s wish.’”

Booth smiled to himself. The nightingale had come to court a lot more willingly than Bones had come to the FBI. The woman had used every resource at her disposal to impress upon him the annoyance she felt at being used as just another cog in the machine. But then again, he had to admit – now that she was in, she was definitely in for good.

“ ‘The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into the emperor’s eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song became still more touching and went to every one’s heart. The emperor was so delighted that he declared the nightingale should have his gold slipper to wear round her neck, but she declined the honor with thanks: she had been sufficiently rewarded already. “I have seen tears in an emperor’s eyes,” she said, “and that is my richest reward. An emperor’s tears have wonderful power, and are quite sufficient honor for me;” and then she sang again, more enchantingly than ever.’”

Brennan bit her lip. The part about the emperor’s tears had set her mind drifting slightly, and though it was irrational, she couldn’t help but think that the few times she had cried in the past year or two, nearly every time, Booth had been there beside her. Never chiding her, never pointing out the uncharacteristic display of emotion; just there, with her, without being told, whenever she needed it.

The next part of the story had always made her sad as a little girl. The poor grey bird was made a fixture of the court and given a cage and silken fetters, as if that was a life worth having. Then the mechanical nightingale, covered in gold and silver and jewels, appeared with its mechanical song, and the real nightingale was suddenly second-best.

“ ‘But where was she? No one had noticed her when she flew out at the open window, back to her own green woods.’”

Booth noticed the little sigh that escaped his partner’s lips. She may be a hard scientist, he mused, but deep down, he knew she understood a child’s fairy tale. On the rare occasion that something was serious enough to hurt her, she knew where to go. Young Temperance, scarred by her family’s absence, had turned to science, with remarkable success. Then he smiled. Dr. Temperance, shocked by the sudden discovery of her mother’s body, had been more than willing to accept solace in his own late-night gifts of food and conversation.

Meanwhile, the story continued. The nightingale’s absence grew more serious when the mechanical bird stopped working. Nobody could fix it. The emperor grew ill; the court despaired of his life, and as he lay in bed, he saw the hooded figure of Death sitting nearby, ready to take him away. But the little grey nightingale came and sang from a branch outside the window, a song so painfully beautiful that Death himself was moved and vanished in a white mist, leaving the emperor to live. The emperor spoke to the bird.

“ ‘“Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your sweet song. How can I reward you?”

“ ‘“You have already rewarded me,” said the nightingale. “I shall never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again.”’”

Even after all this time working with Temperance Brennan, Booth had to admit that the best memory he had of their partnership was that she trusted him enough to let herself cry in his presence. Not often, not much, but it still meant more to him than anything.

“ ‘“I will sit on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant’s cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you . . .”’”

He drew in a long breath. I love your heart better than your crown. Daring another glance at the woman beside him, Booth felt his hands start to sweat as he realized how accurate those words were. She was brilliant; he didn’t deny that for a moment. But she was so much more than just a brain. Though it had taken a simple, sweet tale to make him realize it, Booth suddenly knew, surely as he’d ever known anything, that he loved her heart a thousand times better than he loved her mind, and he always would. His heart was pounding as he looked back at the book, not seeing it anymore.

“ ‘ . . . as the emperor came out and said, “Good morning!”’” the woman finished, closing the book. “The End.” Looking around at the eager little faces, she smiled. “Did you like it?”

The children chorused their earnest Yes’s, beginning to stand and look for their parents. Parker quickly returned to his father and Brennan. “Did you like the story, Dr. Bones?”

“Yes, I did.” She smiled at the boy. “Did you, Parker?”

He nodded gleefully. “Yeah! Daddy, can I have a pet nightingale?”

Booth let out a nervous sort of cough-laugh. “Ahh. That one might be difficult, Bub.”

As the three of them rose to leave the store, Brennan watched Booth curiously. He seemed a little distracted, though Parker’s antics had him smiling fondly at the little boy. “Booth, I should go. My car’s out back.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. Have a good weekend, Bones.” He patted Parker’s shoulder. “Say good-bye to Dr. Brennan, kiddo.”

“Bye Dr. Bones!” The boy waved enthusiastically (he had taken an immediate liking to Brennan from the beginning, and even her normal hesitance with children had melted into a very sweet relationship).

“Good-bye, Parker.” She turned to leave. A question on the tip of her tongue, she glanced back, and caught Booth staring after her, and suddenly her heart started hammering as she saw the pure, unveiled hunger burning in his eyes. She shivered hotly, unable to look away as she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, frozen under his searching gaze.

Tearing her eyes away, ignoring the sudden hot blush rising in her face, she forced herself to go. Chancing a last look, Booth saw her face was covered in confusion, and there was just the faintest rosy flush on her fair cheeks. Maybe she’d been paying attention as much as he had.

XXXXXX

Monday morning arrived without ceremony, until a knock at her office door roused her from paperwork.

“Dr. Brennan? This just arrived for you.”

“Thank you.” Taking the little box the messenger handed her, she sat at her desk and untied the string, fully expecting to see the complimentary “I (heart) BOOKS” coffee mug she seemed to get every time she did a book signing. Honestly, the things were trite and silly and completely –

A little gasp escaped her lips as she peered inside. Instead of the expected cup, there was something lovely and delicate inside the box. She pulled it out. It was a little book – a pocket-sized translation of The Nightingale, with beautifully drawn illustrations, pages edged in gold, the bird on the cover paused in mid-flight, trilling a silent song above soft, pastel flowered vines around a white castle.

Smiling, handling the little book with reverent care, Brennan opened it. Inside the front cover was a handwritten note that gave her cheeks a sudden rush of vivid color.

“Bones?”

Her heart leapt to her throat. She looked up. It was him. And she set the book on her desk – it was lovely, but right now, there were other things to think about.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s Note: I hope you liked it. Sorry for the shifting perspectives, but I like to consider both of their POV’s. This challenge was just too good to pass up. I love my faerie tales!!!