A/N: We've seen several FF stories where pain meds give Booth loose lips, but I was wondering what we might have heard if Brennan was under the influence and not guarding her tongue? Here's one possibility …. (Set in season 6 in a universe where The Doctor in The Photo never happened.)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing Bones related except my imagination.

She'd killed a man today. A bad man, but still a man nonetheless. Peter Aldridge, suspected serial rapist and murderer. It was like a scene from a movie stuck on continuous replay in her mind. She kept seeing the surprised look on his face, right before he toppled backwards onto the concrete floor, followed by a pulsing wet red stain on his shirt that grew and grew until he was lying in a puddle of his own blood, his body convulsing violently a few times in the final throes of death.

That's why she was sitting at the bar in the Founding Fathers tonight drinking double shots of whiskey. She wanted to numb her mind. She needed to. She'd been hoping the noise and activity of the bar would provide a distraction from her own thoughts, but it was only helping marginally. She didn't regret her actions from earlier in the day, but that didn't prevent her from feeling the weight of his death on her conscience.

Normally, when she killed someone, she mused, Booth was there to comfort her, tease her, cajole her, or just generally help her feel better and to help her keep her perspective. Except for the time she killed Pam Nunan. Although, with a twisted, almost-inebriated sort of logic, she supposed Booth had helped her that time too because she'd been so caught up in her despair at thinking him dead, she'd not had time to linger on thoughts of Miss Nunan or her role in Miss Nunan's demise. Of course, she chuckled to herself, it's a pretty sad state of affairs when you're sitting alone at a bar reminiscing about what "normally" happens after you kill someone. There shouldn't be a normal. Ah, the good old days … remember when?

She signaled the barkeep for another round. After all, she had a high tolerance for alcohol and while she was starting to feel the effects of the four? five? doubles she'd already had, she knew it was going to take several more rounds to sufficiently quiet the demons in her mind, even if only for a little while.

Truth be told, the memory of Aldridge's death wasn't the only scene battling for attention in her mind. No, it was competing with the memory of Hannah running to Booth after Brennan had saved him and their embrace. She'd cupped his face and showered him with kisses telling him how much she loved him and how she was going to make sure he knew it as soon as she got him home alone. She'd run her hands all over him – his arms, his chest, his back – to assure herself that he was okay. Brennan had watched from the other side of the room, enviously, silently wishing that she'd had the right to be touching him that way and trying to draw comfort from what Hannah didn't find wrong.

Booth had been so caught up in Hannah's attention, he'd barely acknowledged Brennan. She wasn't sure he even realized that she'd been the one to pull the trigger that ended Aldridge's life, thereby saving his. He'd been on his knees in that dirty warehouse, hands bound behind his back, and facing the other way with Aldridge's gun pointed at his head when Brennan had managed to sneak close enough to get a clean shot. She'd had to sit there for a few moments watching Aldridge point the pistol at Booth, terrified he'd pull the trigger, and wait for an opportunity where the gun's muzzle wasn't directed at any vital organs, in case he reflexively squeezed the trigger when she shot him while listening to him recite the horrific details of his crimes. Thankfully, his reflexes obviously weren't that good and Booth was unharmed.

Now, she sat here remembering the fear she felt when she realized how precarious Booth's situation was, then her mind would flashback to watch Aldridge die, followed by Hannah's embrace. And, as if her memories of the day weren't enough to torment her, her imagination would jump in next and torture her with ideas of just exactly how Hannah might be showing Booth she loved him, variations of the many ways she'd like to show her love, if she had the right. Unfortunately, she had a very vivid imagination. Kind of a prerequisite for being a best-selling author. Love sucks, she thought as she slammed her glass down and flagged the barkeep for another round.

A/N: Just a short intro … should have next chapter up by tomorrow. Intrigued?