Temperance Brennan can be picky at times. Especially when it comes to her writing habits (which, she finds ironically, seem to have changed over the years in the same way that her life has – moving from chaotic and, on occasion, utterly messy, to organized and serene).
Now, she finds that the best time to write is when (most) other people are not around; when it's finally quiet, when the motion of the world has ceased to surround and envelope her with the cacophony of noise that seems to come with the daylight.
Actually, nighttime seems to be the best time for a lot of things (unlike other children, she had never been afraid of the dark – in fact, as a kid, she had reveled in it, rejoiced in it, secretly reading under her covers until the late hours of the night, fascinated by one of her science textbooks, rereading the chapter they'd had to read for class that day, and then of course being all sleepy and groggy the next morning). She found that, over the years, she preferred to do many things during the night rather than in the bright, sometimes harsh daylight. Like having quiet, heartfelt conversations with the man currently lying next to her in the bed, reading his own book while she sits here and types away on her laptop. They'd had many conversations here, and not always ones that were said through whispered words, but instead through the brush of a hand along a shoulder, an arm wrapping protectively around the other, or a gentle press and meeting of lips.
At these thoughts she looks up and glances over at Booth to find that he has put his book down on the bedside table, and that his eyes are already trained on her; she wonders how long he's been watching her sit here and type.
She arches an eyebrow questioningly, but he only smiles in answer, his warm brown eyes shining with warmth. Her response is the grin she can't help letting spread across her face in return, and she sets her laptop down, turns off the bedside lamp, and in the welcoming darkness settles herself into waiting arms.