What Happened At Club Amsterdam?
At midnight, Booth and Brennan sat on a futon and didn’t look at each other. Sofas and pillows surrounded them and their drunken party of agents left them alone an hour ago. Booth held his tie in one hand and his belt in the other. His tuxedo lay open and disheveled. He glanced down and saw his open fly. Behind him, Brennan stared at her feet, her heels gone. They lay strewn on the floor. The designer gown she bought earlier that day looked rumpled but not ruined, her light make-up smudged and her perfect hair no longer perfect, but tousled all on the right side of her face. For a moment, Booth surveyed the room. He saw the disheveled state of the futon and Booth dropped his belt to the floor. When it clattered against the hardwood, Brennan jumped and her head spun to Booth in a blur. She stared at him in shock. Booth’s own head turned and he took in the fact that Brennan did not look like her usual golden self, but pale and weary. Their eyes met and Booth saw the shock in her eyes. A
