the anatomy of a tidal wave
"Do you ever think about it?" He questions unexpectedly, his fingers twisting at his sides. She doesn't answer him in words. [Booth/Brennan, Bones, PG-13]
the anatomy of a tidal wave
1.
Booth’s grandfather comes to town. This is where it begins, ends, and how it sets off everything in between.
2.
His name is Hank, Hank Booth, only he says it like a secret agent from one of those cult spy movies, Bond, James Bond. Booth laughs - Seeley Booth - this is going to get confusing, Brennan can tell already.
(They’re not cult spy movies, Bones. Pretty sure everyone in the world knows who James Bond is.
Booth-
Yeah?
Shut up.
Wow.
See? I’m learning from you. )
But he’s smart, and witty, and funny, and knows how to talk to her, how to appeal to her intellect. She can see the similarities in their mannerisms, how they act and think and look and speak, the way the relate to each other, their dynamic, and you know, this is all strangely fascinating to her-she doesn’t know why-it’s just Booth and his grandfather but for some reason it feels intimate, sneaking a peak into his childhood, his life before her.
(I recognize that look, Booth says. She’s studying us. We’re not science experiments, Bones.
I’m not studying you, she shoots back. It’s just…intriguing. )
It’s not exactly a lie.
They stop by the diner for a quick lunch, a time used for catching up and introductions.
“Introductions,” Hank snorts. “Like we need ‘em. I’ve been hearing nothing but Bones for the past five years.”
“Pops. Really.”
“Well it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, boy, you got yourself a fine young woman here-”
“Stop,” Booth begs, his forehead in his hand, “please. Just stop.”
Brennan doesn’t know whether to laugh or blush, so she settles for a small mix of both, though outwardly - she’s more offended than anything.
(“I’m not property, Booth.”
“We know, Bones. We know.”
It’s just, they’ve got their own appearances to keep up.)
Then Booth’s phone rings and they’ve got a case and Hank is suddenly raring to go.
“You’re coming?”
“Son, I didn’t come all the way down here to have tea parties and watch I Love Lucy. I was in Korea, you remember? Let’s catch this bastard.”
Brennan’s not exactly sure what most of that means, but now she sees where Booth gets it. She has to admit, she’s sort of impressed.
(This is a long case.)
I know, and it’ll go on longer. Too many dead ends. Too many liars.
(…You sound happy about this.)
Not happy, Bones. We’ll catch the murderer, we always do. Nothing wrong with taking our time.
(Why?)
Because.
(That’s not an answer.)
Because-he’ll stay until we close the case. And I-want him to stay.
(I understand.)
I knew you would.
Eventually they arrest the guy-I loved her, you know, you just don’t get it -and that is one motive Brennan will never get.
“It’s good,” Hank says, as Booth loads his bag into the car, and off of her curious glance, adds, “that he’s got you, I mean. He was the same as a kid, too. Always trying to protect everybody else. Never had anybody but me there to protect him.”
“Is this about-” Brennan stops, wary of prying or crossing any personal lines. This is something she’s developed. “I mean, his father?”
“It was hard,” he answers. “He was just a kid, dealing with more than any kid should have to deal with. It wasn’t fair. And it was hard, to let him go when I did. But now-he’s got you.”
For some reason it feels like an attack. “Booth is a full grown man,” Brennan replies, but frowns at the sound of her own voice. She can imagine Sweets and his psycho-analysis with That’s your ego-defense system triggering a response, Dr. Brennan and really, she doesn’t want any part of that. “He can take care of himself.”
“He needs you,” Hank points out, with the air of someone who’s been informed a little too much about a situation he has nothing to do with. “And you need him. Funny how life works out like that.”
There’s a poignant pause.
“But you knew that,” he continues. “You know that, don’t you.” It’s not a question.
She doesn’t answer him in words.
(Instead, it comes later, when goodbyes are finally necessary against the afternoon sun.
“I can’t drive at night,” Hank explains. “My vision isn’t what it used to be. And I hate airplanes.”
It’s slow but it comes naturally, the feel of Booth’s fingers linking with hers.)
3.
“Hey, Booth.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you consider describing our relationship as mutualism?”
“English, Bones.”
“…Do you think we need each other?”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”
A beat.
“It is. It is.”
4.
It’s one of those late nights at the lab where they end up ordering Thai food and filling out paperwork. The delivery boy comes late (don’t they always) and accidentally gives them two more cartons of Mee Krob than they asked for, but Booth doesn’t complain.
“It’s the little things, Bones,” he tells her, patting his stomach. “Now hand me your empty boxes and let’s get back to business.”
By the time he returns, she’s standing by her desk, staring intently (almost wistfully, he thinks, but no, that can’t be right) at a picture of the two of them at some Jeffersonian event, he can’t remember which. It’s completely candid, one of those shots you’d find in a picture frame for a display, buy this and you’ll look just as beautiful. She’s leaning in to whisper something in his ear, her hand resting lightly on his cheek. He’s laughing or smiling or doing something that involves lighting up his entire face. Her hair is in a waving bun, her eyes dark and blue and outlined, her cheeks flushed, her lips (fuck, he could go on for hours about her lips), and they look-
-well, they look happy. Together.
“Do you ever think about it?” He questions unexpectedly, his fingers twisting against his sides. He wants to bury them in her soft hair, silky and smooth and almost auburn, up to his wrist, tangled around his knuckles, and he’s back to-oh god-her lips, fuck , her lips, pink and full, her bottom one red and raw where she slides it underneath her teeth; he can imagine her lip gloss, the taste against his tongue, something fruity, maybe, a beach in summer, coconut, he doesn’t know, and she has no idea what this is doing to him, she-
-interrupts him with, “Yes.” The word is foreign in the back of her throat. She tries it again. “Yes. I mean, I’ve-it’s only natural. Yes. I’ve thought about it.”
“So.” He clears his throat. “Why not?”
She smiles, wry. “There’s no line, is there?”
“Special circumstances, Bones,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “This is you and me. Special circumstances.”
“I said no to this for a long time,” she tells him slowly, her eyes irrationally locked on the door, like just by staring at it she can escape through it.
Booth leans his weight on her desk, trying for casual. He doesn’t want her to run.
“To who?” He asks (casually).
She takes a moment. “Angela,” she starts off big. “Cam. Hodgins. Sweets.” It’s like she’s already made a mental checklist. “Your grandfather. Your boss. Sully, David, Michael-every boyfriend I’ve had, since meeting you. Everyone.”
He waits. “And?” He finally prompts, tilting her chin up.
She exhales, releasing the tension in her muscles. He can feel it, a shift of energy in her body. “Myself, mostly.”
“Yeah,” he says, gradually dropping his hand. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“Give me a reason,” she demands, abruptly somewhere between defensive and impassioned. “Give me a reason, and I swear I will.”
“I can think of a million,” he responds, his words heavy.
“Well, that’s highly improbable, Booth-”
“Fine,” he forfeits, “but I can sure as hell come close.”
“We can’t.”
“That’s not true,” he sighs, tiredly running a hand through his hair. “We should, though. We should. That’s what matters.”
“I know.”
(Booth-
No. Not yet.
But I-
I need you to be here for me. As a friend.
I can do that. For now.
For now, he agrees.)
5.
“You told him to give you a reason? What kind of reason?”
“Any reason. A rational reason.”
“You’re not going to win this, you know.”
“It’s not an argument, Ange.”
“Sweetie, with you two? It’s always an argument.”
“Not this time. We’re-”
“You’re what?”
“Two people.”
“You’re two people-in love. ”
“Love is simply a chemical process which-never mind. We’re partners.”
“Oh, please, like that hasn’t gotten old. Partners who want to have sex with each other.”
“Angela.”
“Sorry, sweetie, it’s that celibacy thing. I’m still trying to get back on track.”
“What about-”
“No, and we’re not talking about me. This is about you. And Booth. Give me a reason why you shouldn’t.”
“There’s too much at stake.”
“Okay. But leaving it as you are now? Puts even more at stake.”
And Brennan is left with this. It makes sense , almost; it lingers on the edge of her consciousness, like part of a big picture, something she’s trying desperately to step back and take in. A puzzle where are the pieces fit perfectly but she doesn’t know how.
That’s a sentence she’s said maybe one other time in her life. I don’t know how.
The knock at her door comes as both a surprise and the most anticipated moment of her life. It’s one in the morning. She knows it’s Booth. All she needs to know now is the how what where when why.
She’s wearing a white wife beater and a pair of grey sweatpants. Booth is in a full suit, cocky belt buckle and gaudy tie in place-he’s just gotten off work. His socks are an almost offensive shade of red. He’s not smiling.
“You said you needed a reason.”
“I know.”
“Do you still need one?”
He grins disarmingly, showing her all of his teeth. For a moment, she feels kind of lost, like there’s some big joke he’s in on and she’s waiting for an explanation (which often happens) but he just shrugs his shoulders and takes a step closer, inviting himself into her apartment.
So this is what they call being charming. Her heart brain is saying nononono but what comes out of her mouth is still, “Yes. I do.”
“I love you,” he confesses, without hesitation.
…Oh.
It’s so simple.
And all the pieces fall into place.
(It’s a blur, after that, but she feels like she tried and resisted and pushed until she just couldn’t and his lips were hot and sweet and tender against hers and he tasted like something stupid and poetic-she can’t believe she’s saying this-but it was fresh and wonderful, a dark cloud on a rainy day, dew and morning and new beginnings.
And then it becomes a storm, demanding and forceful and fuck, his hands are everywhere, in every part of her in every sense; his skin is flush against hers until there’s no space between them, literally figuratively, and his mouth is thirsting, teeth scraping against her neck, her nails raking up his back, and it should feel rough and hurried but she has had rough and hurried and she’s never felt anything like this before, and she wants to cry, maybe she does.)
He says it again later, and it echoes off into the still night and warmth of her bedroom.
I love you.
(Booth.)
What?
(I don’t know how.)
6.
Sweets is the first one to know. They don’t tell him. They walk into his office and sit down.
“Oh my God,” he says, staring at them open-mouthed. “No. Way. ”
It is all downhill from there.
Their reactions vary.
Angela throws a party, complete with a rare celebratory wine (most likely from Hodgins’ collection) and a Congratulations! banner, which she admits to buying at Wal-Mart last minute.
They stand in shock and horror for about five minutes before Sweets slides up and whispers, Give her this one, she’s currently suffering from a hormone imbalance.
Booth glares and forces a smile, mouthing this is all your fault before moving to hug Angela. Brennan turns on her heel, and walks away.
(“Collecting myself,” she responds. “What’s the phrase-regaining my breath.”
“Catching your breath, but that’ll do.”
She re-enters her office five minutes later with an attempt at smile. She tries, she really does.)
Cam says something like, “Finally, Jesus Christ. Four years I’ve been waiting for this, Seeley.”
“Don’t call me Seeley, Camille. ”
And there’s the “Oh, fuck you” with a smile on her face.
Hodgins goes off-How long’s it been going on? Are you withholding information from your boss? The rest of the FBI? They’ll split you up, won’t they? But not because of me, don’t worry. Keeping secrets from corrupt corporate governments is what I do. -and leaves them with a pat on the back.
Very conspiratorial, he says on his way out. I like it. And all in the name of love.
Daisy’s first course of action is to invite them on a double date with her and Lancelot , which they vehemently decline.
“Just remember,” Fischer says, “it’s ‘till death do us part.’ Until. Death.”
(We’re not married, Fischer.)
“Really.” Clark stares. “How does this relate to the case? Anybody? Can we please just focus?”
“Wait.” Wendell kinks an eyebrow, clueless. “Weren’t you already together? You acted like it.”
“Lovely,” Mr. Nigel-Murray says. “Did you know that forty percent of working relationships-”
(Yes, we did.)
7.
The thing is, the way they turn out isn’t exactly conventional.
Conventional? You two don’t even know the meaning of the word conventional.
Well actually, Angela-
Listen. You’ve been doing this backwards, upside-down, and fucked to high heaven since the day you both started working together. This isn’t anything new, Brennan.
It’s been three months (adding on to five years) and they’re already practically living together. Her dresser is filled with his socks and shirts and boxers. His closet holds ten of her dresses, not to mention six pairs of her shoes. She stocks his fridge full of vegetarian foods while hers holds mostly beer and the occasional salmon (“You need protein, Bones, some sort of protein - this is called a compromise, in relationships”) though that’s as far as it goes. She thinks she’s even got one of Parker’s baseball mittens (“Glove, Bones, it’s called a glove”) lying around her living room somewhere. They seem to switch apartments as naturally as the days rolling by, the seasons changing themselves, spring-summer-autumn, waking up with his palm pressed flat against her hip and his breath tickling the back of her neck. When sleeping together really just means sleeping together and a seemingly innocuous kiss to her temple means everything. And Brennan will never admit it to anyone else, but she wants this to be her life forever.
“Forever. That’s pretty irrational for you, Bones.”
She holds the back of her hand to her mouth, but she’s smiling.
“People like us,” she says. “We change each other.”
He looks down at her legs across his lap and her head in the crook of his neck and his thumb tracing the delicate lines of her palm.
“Yeah,” he replies. “We do.”
It’s just three words.
Three words she can’t say. Three words she doesn’t know how to say. Not like this.
But he’s patient and understanding and he doesn’t press her, saying twice as many times for the both of them. I love you, he says she wakes up in the morning, less than a foot from his face. I love you , when he drops her off at the lab. I love you every time she messes up a pop-culture reference or phrase (which she does a lot) and I love you when she hugs him with her head on his shoulder, breathing him in (because she can do that now). And I love you just because. He says that one the most.
The thing that surprises her - it’s true every single time.
But she does. Know this. She does.
8.
She spends a lot of her free time writing. Not that she didn’t before; just now, he’s beginning to notice it. While he watches the game, she sits next to him with her laptop open, pouring over pages and pages of words. At work, waiting for an identification, or a new lead. She’s drowning in inspiration, her ideas novel and circling, with maybe, maybe a bit of real life thrown in. Her agent is pleased, her editor enthralled, her publishers overjoyed.
205 Bones is released into stores by the end of the month, and is once again a New York Times Best-Seller. Brennan gives Booth his own copy, though he goes out and buys one anyway-it’s his way of supporting her. She’s mysterious and won’t tell him what it’s about but he’s got a case and doesn’t get around to it.
(You know, my book.)
Jesus, Bones, not now. I’ll read the new one later, okay? Tonight.
(No, that isn’t what I meant.)
Well, what did you mean?
(Andy.)
What about him?
(He’s you.)
I know. We all know, Bones.
(Oh.)
Why is that important now?
(Read the new book, and you’ll find out.)
Booth reads. He gets home before her - it’s not unusual when they’re not working a case - and picks up her newest book from its place on his nightstand, where it’s been sitting cover-down so he can see her face-up for the better part of a week. It’s silly, he knows, but he honestly enjoys staring at her picture and feeling proud, though he doubts she’d buy that for a second.
(Semantics, Bones. I don’t need to read it to feel proud of you. I just am.
You’re shameless she says to him, but her eyes dance.)
He’s so absorbed that by the time she arrives, the sound of her key sliding in the lock and the door creaking open (he meant to fix that) is enough to send him reaching for his gun, until he realizes he’s in reality where no killer is waiting around the corner to slaughter him with a machete. Her boots are surprisingly light on his hardwood floor as she makes her way to the bedroom, pausing to throw her coat over the couch and her keys on his kitchen table. He waits with her book open, resting on his stomach, where she can easily see.
“Wow,” she says when she walks in, kicking off her shoes. “What time did you get home?”
The fact that she calls his apartment home, for the both of them, makes the corners of his mouth twitch and his chest swell with - he can’t quite name the feeling; it hovers on the tip of his tongue, an arrangement of letters and words and colors, things he doesn’t know how to say. Every single overused cliché has suddenly never been more accurate. (Accurate , he thinks later, and laughs. Not that it’s a particularly big word, just that not too long ago, he would’ve said truer. )
He glances at the clock. “About ten. Been an hour and a half.”
“Wow,” she repeats, taking the pins out of her hair. “And you’re already halfway. Impressive.”
“Yeah,” he says, “and if you tell me anything, you’re sleeping on the couch. No. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
Brennan laughs (he is thinking ridiculous lines from Hallmark cards like the most beautiful sound in the world and loveyouloveyouloveyou ) and unzips her dress. It falls to the floor, pooling around her feet, but Booth doesn’t look at her body. He’s too preoccupied with her smile.
What this says about him, he’ll never know.
“Keep reading,” she tells him. “Just keep reading.”
She puts on some random worn shirt of his and comes to bed, inquiring about his day, and then falls asleep telling him about hers. She sleeps on her stomach, her head turned to face him, arms under her pillow. He finds it endearing-but then again, almost everything about her is, in one way or another.
He turns the page.
It’s one in the morning by the time Booth finishes. He closes the book, awed and vaguely amused; of course Brennan would plan it out like this.
He turns over on his side, in her direction. He reaches out a hand and brushes hair away from her face, cupping her cheek. She stirs slightly, slapping at him. He grins.
“I finished,” he whispers lightly in her ear.
Her eyes open, bright, reflecting moonlight. Her smile is slow and reaches places inside him the eyes can’t see.
“Say it,” he orders, still grinning. “Say it out loud.”
She watches as he moves to lean over her. The sheets shift and twist around his body. The muscles in his arms are even more pronounced as he hovers over her, his chest bare. She has the sudden urge to feel his full weight on her, to have him close, his lips on hers. He complies without a thought, deliberate and unhurried, before trailing kisses down her neck.
“Say. It.” He murmurs, in between each one. “Say it.”
She won’t torture him with it. “I love you,” she answers, her fingers in his hair. “I love you.”
And this is their beginning all over again.