DISCLAIMER: Don’t own them, wish I did.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Inner Musings
By BlueAshke
I can't take it anymore. I can't watch her day after day, happy in her little crush. Every time I sit and start drawing, I end up with her face in front of me. I balked when my rendering of those bones turned out to be her mother. I was terrified I had put her features into the Angelator by accident, musing over her beautiful face one more time.
It's a guilty pleasure of mine, you see. In truth, I developed that machine so that I could look at her in 3-D when she's not with me. I suppose it serves me right that she's looking to Booth for comfort, for love. I've never told her how I felt, but how could I? How could I look into those beautiful eyes and say, "Sweetie, you want to know why I only have a boyfriend for three weeks a year? Because I spend the other 49 weeks a year pining after you. Since the day I met you."
I can't do it. So I sit here, day after day, smiling at Hodgins, letting him think that I could fall in love with him as I watch her fall deeper and deeper into Booth's offhand seduction.
I love you, Temperance Brennan.
There, I said it, if only to your picture.
The plight of the homosexual has always fascinated me. Anthropologically speaking, homosexuality is an anomaly, something that does not fit with the society as a whole. Yet many studies have found homosexual instances in nature, which leads me back to the fact that while it appears to be more rare, it serves it purpose.
I serve a purpose.
I desire no children, need no 'protector', am self sufficient, and do not need to 'carry on the family name', as it seems drives some others. I suppose that in a sense, I have the ideal personality for a homosexual.
So why does no one know? Why have I not defined myself for my colleagues, my friends? Why do I allow Booth to believe I am falling for him? Why did I let David back into my bed? Why do I hold myself aloof from the one I love the most?
Admit it, Brennan. You're terrified she doesn't feel the same. What if Angela stops calling you "Sweetie" in that soft tone that you like? What will you do then? Will you ever admit the truth?
I love you, Angela Montenegro.
See? You can say it. Now say it somewhere other than your heart.
The End