Bones Fic: i started a mystery lane
notes: for torigates. ♥ one of those drabble-comments that were too big to fit into the comment box. *g* i finally finished it.
i started a mystery lane
he never understands that, but it’s there and it’s a part of her too. in the wake of every choice, there’s an our father that decides to follow. bones. booth, booth/brennan. spoilers up to the bone that blew. 2,655 words, pg.
-
The streetlight outside the diner cracks against the glass, spreading wide and into resting over their plates.
He’s watching her fingers. Usually, she’s for the fries, his fries, and everybody says it's just a weird quirk to her, picking pieces of food of his plate that he’s pretty sure she does for the sake of having a little habit like that. Brennan has that strange tendency. It’s not that he minds either.
He hasn’t touched his food though - a burger, cold already, and the fries, probably a little less than barely lukewarm. They’re tired and the moment, these moments, sort of do better as passing opportunities away from the guise of work and case numbers, their friends and the people who think they know them. He’s aware, even more so now, of a growing intimacy, small and compact, almost scared of reveal itself to the two of them. He knows he's thinking too much of the smaller times, of the trip to China and his birthday, no less, that carried these new things, well - old things - all the way back to the surface. He wonders if she knows, really knows, but she does remain aware of something; it’s one of those things that they haven’t gotten used to bringing up.
It’s okay though.
Brennan sighs first, her gaze to the window. Occasionally, someone passes. She’s never looking for someone, just watching, and maybe, waiting. He never understands that, but it’s there and it’s a part of her too; he’s merely privy to what she shows, all thin, honest mistakes if he really thinks about it.
“It’s still a little strange.”
Her voice cuts through the space between them. He looks up at her, his mouth folding into a frown.
“What?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she murmurs, “having him around, I think. I know I promised - but it’s strange and I think he knows that or maybe, I know that more than he does. I don’t know. He’s my father.”
What’s strange about them now is their honesty, whether or not it reveals too much or too little. What he does know, at least from his end, is how to appreciate it and how much easier it is to talk to her and not to talk to her with someone just around, watching and knowing. Her father, despite the things that have already happened, is still one of those topics that comes and goes. Max is a good man, not the best man, but a good man that has the kind of chance, second chance that Booth can recognize. He walked the desert, Max hid in a maze of alleys. Somehow, they all eventually become the same thing.
His fingers curl around a fry, handing it to her. “It’s okay, you know.”
“I know.”
The fry dangles between her fingers. She offers a half-smile, cocking her head to the side. There’s amusement. Then, following, there’s understanding. She shakes her head. He doesn’t get it, but it’s okay. As long as they stay here, just like this.
Now, she’s studying him.
He keeps her gaze just for a little bit, not to be shy but to study her eyes. They're bright, warm if they can be warm; he tries not to get poetic or cheesy, but there's always been something to her eyes. His mouth softens, tries to smile, but he feels that strange, frequent habit of shyness. What he won’t tell her is that it’s easier for her to talk to him, for him to know her, and not the other way around. There are still too many things that he’s trying to come to terms with, that, if he’s honest with himself, he’s pretty sure it’s just going to stay a long time coming.
Looking away, his gaze moves to the glass. The lights, inside, seem to dim. There are guys in corners hanging up the Christmas decorations. The green and red wind around posts and lights dangle over the swoops of stores, just to cover signs and highlight the yearly sentiments. It doesn’t hold his attention long, breaking when a small clump of people pass in front of the window.
He meets her gaze again or rather, through the glass, he watches her watch him. There’s softness, there and from her that he’s not too sure of. He doesn’t want to think about it, but it’s there and he can never pull himself too far away from even just acknowledging it.
“Have you -”
Her voice breaks the silence, but stops from getting to the full question. He does know what she’s asking.
“No,” he pauses, his mouth tightening a little. “I haven’t. It’s not important. He’s always done his thing. I guess, I don’t know. Some things stay the same, some things change.”
He doesn’t want to talk about Jared. He still doesn’t want to talk about Jared. He knows it’s Brennan, it’ll always be Brennan, but memories are like everything, wrapped too tightly, tucked too far away, resting and always waiting for that one, stupid moment that he might go and crack. It’s bad enough that he wasn’t there, that he knows things like father and days and how they’ve driven him to be a better man, a better person; still though, he knows what casualties smell like.
Jared carries a glass well.
Brennan nods when he looks at her, trying to keep the conversation walking cautiously. He appreciates it, watching her mouth as it moves.
“He’s staying away.”
He shrugs. “I’m angry.”
“You should be.”
What she is, always is, is honest. The intentions are never the same, but like this, when looking at him; she never fails not to tell him. He tries to understand how to appreciate it, worrying most of the time that he doesn’t do it enough and that one day, like the others in his life, she’ll walk away too. The kind of punishment route that he started first.
The you should be feels funny though, hearing it from her mouth, and he almost looks away, almost lost, in hopes that he’s translating everything wrong. Sometimes, most times, when they get like this he feels on edge; not because he doesn’t want to sit here with her, but because he’s not used to having that sort of edge to a relationship like this.
He keeps his gaze away though, turning to look back at the window. He’s not really paying attention. People sway and return into this strange, sort of blur, and he’s aware of actions and small conversations inside the diner itself. He’s nervous, but he really doesn’t want to be nervous.
“You should be,” she says again, putting the fry down. “I was angry too, but I know - well, I was the wrong kind of angry. I’m wrong sometimes. Or human, I guess. Either works with the semantics of the context. But you have to let yourself be angry too. You’re allowed to, good or bad, and well, Sweets -”
He smirks, looking back again. “Can I tell him you gave him credit?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m very funny, Bones. Hysterical, actually.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
There’s a variation to this, which is probably why Sweets is so fascinated by the two of them. It’s almost funny, and then, it’s not; the two of them are never comfortable in that office or having a third that sways another sense of presence into their conversation. It’s theirs and they’ve learned to make it theirs. Booth finds himself understanding this best of all, even though the two of them are far from being at that same level.
He wonders a lot. He wonders what’s going to happen when they are.
So he sighs first. He doesn’t mean to sigh first, loud enough too - they end up watching their waitress, Fran or something rather. She’s new, Brennan had pointed out earlier. They’re getting better at recognizing the pieces that fall outside of them, if that means anything.
But he’s back to her words, her you should or you should be that fell out of her mouth honestly and almost earnestly, two steps backwards instead of forwards. It was placating enough, but then again, it’s Brennan and when she means to placate, it never comes out as being like. He feels the worry, the you should be rising back up into his head and spinning into a scenario that wants him to start to play, but he draws back.
He asks the questions instead. “You would tell me if you were -”
“Angry?” As she cuts him off, she softens.
“Angry.”
He nods. He doesn’t like the taste of the words. Angry means a lot of things to him. Rebecca was angry. His mother was angry - family really, almost always meant something angry to him. It wasn’t until he walked into the desert; until he lost himself over there that he stopped being as angry as he knew was carrying himself around as.
In a way, he still is. Coming to terms with things isn’t always coming to terms. There are a lot of things that he still has to say, maybe not to the right people but it’s still something different when saying it out loud, ready or not ready, just hearing it makes a strange difference.
Brennan doesn’t answer right away though. He feels the nerves rising and twisting inside of him, his throat taunt and dry. She takes that pause and reaches for another fry, swinging her fingers over his plate.
She sighs, her shoulders rising into a shrug.
“Well, I guess I would have to,” she pauses, looking up, “considering, we do work together in a high-stress environment that often translate into our own emotions and personal settings. And I do tell you when I’m angry - sometimes, I’m not good at it. But I do tell you, right?”
His mouth curls a little. “You do.”
“Why ask the question then?”
She’s confused then, looking up at him. Her gaze is warm and he feels that pressure in his throat soften; not completely, never completely, as there are different moments and different responses, always creeping forward to replace the next one.
“It’s weird,” he starts slowly, looking down into his hands. The lines stare back up at him. “It all catches up with you, I guess - I left all that stuff at home when I -”
“When you went overseas?”
His mouth curls at the interruption. “Yeah, that.”
He waits for her to say something else. So that he doesn’t have to say something else. A lot of the times, when he talks about his things - issues, calling it that, makes it something that he has to pay attention to. It’s not that he’s not aware, he’s more aware of the things that people think he is, it’s just that he doesn’t know where to start or, really, how to stop when it’s time.
The words are there though. He’s called Jared. He will call Jared again, out of habit, but they need to know. She doesn’t need to know. Not yet - well, that makes it something else too.
Booth looks up at her.
Her gaze is warm. Most of the time, he feels like he should be sitting at this end. He wonders if she does understand more than she lets on, crossing her opinions of him to herself, waiting for some moment to tell him what she’s really thinking. It’s what Rebecca did. It’s how they fell apart.
But there are things that he clings too, notions that they have that he’s never had with anyone else. That he knows, that he keeps - he has to, considering that she knows the things that she knows and he knows the things that he knows and whatever line is between them, they keep it steady.
He shifts in his chair, starting slowly. “You have to understand that he’s angry with me - I’m sure there are things I don’t know about that he’s still, I don’t know, I guess holding onto or whatever. I know I left. I know I had to get out.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She says it before he can really process it. Her hand reaches too, not for what’s on his plate, but for his. His mouth closes, tightens as her fingers brush over the crease of his fist. It’s not the first time or the last that they reach - telling himself this, time and time again; it’s like justifying his habits and losses all over again. It’s what he does best.
And what he does know too, even with how he is now, is that he doesn’t want to lose her, this, and any constants that he creates. He wants to stay a good man in her eyes, maybe not the best, but a good man in her eyes means more than he really would like to say.
“I don’t want it to be,” he admits, finally. Her fingers are almost too soft.
They’re quiet again. The murmurs of the diner seem louder than before. Their waitress, Fran-something, passes them again. She doesn’t stop, merely looking in about seeing their plates, both still more than half-filled.
Brennan’s hand still rests over his, her fingers moving slightly. It’s a brush, it’s not a brush, and his mind is wrapping around the idea of fault and not his fault. There’s something about the way she said it, openly and almost with this strange sense of vulnerability. He’s analyzing again and he’s pretty sure that a lot of it has to do with the way she rubs off on him.
She breaks the silence again. “He’ll stop being angry.”
“I know.”
“Just not today,” she continues to tell him, “or even tomorrow, it’s just one of those things that has to happen on its own.”
Booth shrugs, “Like you and Russ.”
“I think that was just an accident.”
He laughs. And she smiles for him, that soft turn of her mouth as they relax. What he doesn’t get, he decides, is how they do this, whether or not the intention is supposed to make sense. He wonders what she thinks, if she thinks about this the way he does too.
Her hand hasn’t moved.
He doesn’t care either. He should care, he thinks, and she should care too. There are factors and facets, things that keep the pages between them as they are and as they will always be. But what remains and what he knows seem to be rearranging themselves without asking. Again.
His throat is dry. He tries to move his hand. His fingers are too coarse, too big, and feel fumbling and awkward underneath hers. Her fingers are for precision, for movement that doesn’t involve shooting and victims and the faces that have become too much of a part of him, outside the past that he tries to keep steady and away from becoming another issue.
Still, he admits it to her. “I didn’t want to be angry forever though.”
It says very little and it says too much. He lets the words sit and shift, unwinding as her hand starts to draw back by her thumb. His mouth presses tightly, trying not to follow the sensation of the pads of her fingers against his skin. They press against the lines, against the creases and some scars that remain invisible, and then are gone as her hand returns to her side of the table.
Brennan’s gaze has returned to the window, to outside and the things that he keeps going back to. The Christmas lights, the lists that he and Parker have ready for the holidays this year. The things that he wants to do. But all of those aspects take an unsettling step back, as his eyes move to her, and disappear as he starts reading her again.
“I know,” she says finally.
i started a mystery lane
he never understands that, but it’s there and it’s a part of her too. in the wake of every choice, there’s an our father that decides to follow. bones. booth, booth/brennan. spoilers up to the bone that blew. 2,655 words, pg.
-
The streetlight outside the diner cracks against the glass, spreading wide and into resting over their plates.
He’s watching her fingers. Usually, she’s for the fries, his fries, and everybody says it's just a weird quirk to her, picking pieces of food of his plate that he’s pretty sure she does for the sake of having a little habit like that. Brennan has that strange tendency. It’s not that he minds either.
He hasn’t touched his food though - a burger, cold already, and the fries, probably a little less than barely lukewarm. They’re tired and the moment, these moments, sort of do better as passing opportunities away from the guise of work and case numbers, their friends and the people who think they know them. He’s aware, even more so now, of a growing intimacy, small and compact, almost scared of reveal itself to the two of them. He knows he's thinking too much of the smaller times, of the trip to China and his birthday, no less, that carried these new things, well - old things - all the way back to the surface. He wonders if she knows, really knows, but she does remain aware of something; it’s one of those things that they haven’t gotten used to bringing up.
It’s okay though.
Brennan sighs first, her gaze to the window. Occasionally, someone passes. She’s never looking for someone, just watching, and maybe, waiting. He never understands that, but it’s there and it’s a part of her too; he’s merely privy to what she shows, all thin, honest mistakes if he really thinks about it.
“It’s still a little strange.”
Her voice cuts through the space between them. He looks up at her, his mouth folding into a frown.
“What?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she murmurs, “having him around, I think. I know I promised - but it’s strange and I think he knows that or maybe, I know that more than he does. I don’t know. He’s my father.”
What’s strange about them now is their honesty, whether or not it reveals too much or too little. What he does know, at least from his end, is how to appreciate it and how much easier it is to talk to her and not to talk to her with someone just around, watching and knowing. Her father, despite the things that have already happened, is still one of those topics that comes and goes. Max is a good man, not the best man, but a good man that has the kind of chance, second chance that Booth can recognize. He walked the desert, Max hid in a maze of alleys. Somehow, they all eventually become the same thing.
His fingers curl around a fry, handing it to her. “It’s okay, you know.”
“I know.”
The fry dangles between her fingers. She offers a half-smile, cocking her head to the side. There’s amusement. Then, following, there’s understanding. She shakes her head. He doesn’t get it, but it’s okay. As long as they stay here, just like this.
Now, she’s studying him.
He keeps her gaze just for a little bit, not to be shy but to study her eyes. They're bright, warm if they can be warm; he tries not to get poetic or cheesy, but there's always been something to her eyes. His mouth softens, tries to smile, but he feels that strange, frequent habit of shyness. What he won’t tell her is that it’s easier for her to talk to him, for him to know her, and not the other way around. There are still too many things that he’s trying to come to terms with, that, if he’s honest with himself, he’s pretty sure it’s just going to stay a long time coming.
Looking away, his gaze moves to the glass. The lights, inside, seem to dim. There are guys in corners hanging up the Christmas decorations. The green and red wind around posts and lights dangle over the swoops of stores, just to cover signs and highlight the yearly sentiments. It doesn’t hold his attention long, breaking when a small clump of people pass in front of the window.
He meets her gaze again or rather, through the glass, he watches her watch him. There’s softness, there and from her that he’s not too sure of. He doesn’t want to think about it, but it’s there and he can never pull himself too far away from even just acknowledging it.
“Have you -”
Her voice breaks the silence, but stops from getting to the full question. He does know what she’s asking.
“No,” he pauses, his mouth tightening a little. “I haven’t. It’s not important. He’s always done his thing. I guess, I don’t know. Some things stay the same, some things change.”
He doesn’t want to talk about Jared. He still doesn’t want to talk about Jared. He knows it’s Brennan, it’ll always be Brennan, but memories are like everything, wrapped too tightly, tucked too far away, resting and always waiting for that one, stupid moment that he might go and crack. It’s bad enough that he wasn’t there, that he knows things like father and days and how they’ve driven him to be a better man, a better person; still though, he knows what casualties smell like.
Jared carries a glass well.
Brennan nods when he looks at her, trying to keep the conversation walking cautiously. He appreciates it, watching her mouth as it moves.
“He’s staying away.”
He shrugs. “I’m angry.”
“You should be.”
What she is, always is, is honest. The intentions are never the same, but like this, when looking at him; she never fails not to tell him. He tries to understand how to appreciate it, worrying most of the time that he doesn’t do it enough and that one day, like the others in his life, she’ll walk away too. The kind of punishment route that he started first.
The you should be feels funny though, hearing it from her mouth, and he almost looks away, almost lost, in hopes that he’s translating everything wrong. Sometimes, most times, when they get like this he feels on edge; not because he doesn’t want to sit here with her, but because he’s not used to having that sort of edge to a relationship like this.
He keeps his gaze away though, turning to look back at the window. He’s not really paying attention. People sway and return into this strange, sort of blur, and he’s aware of actions and small conversations inside the diner itself. He’s nervous, but he really doesn’t want to be nervous.
“You should be,” she says again, putting the fry down. “I was angry too, but I know - well, I was the wrong kind of angry. I’m wrong sometimes. Or human, I guess. Either works with the semantics of the context. But you have to let yourself be angry too. You’re allowed to, good or bad, and well, Sweets -”
He smirks, looking back again. “Can I tell him you gave him credit?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m very funny, Bones. Hysterical, actually.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
There’s a variation to this, which is probably why Sweets is so fascinated by the two of them. It’s almost funny, and then, it’s not; the two of them are never comfortable in that office or having a third that sways another sense of presence into their conversation. It’s theirs and they’ve learned to make it theirs. Booth finds himself understanding this best of all, even though the two of them are far from being at that same level.
He wonders a lot. He wonders what’s going to happen when they are.
So he sighs first. He doesn’t mean to sigh first, loud enough too - they end up watching their waitress, Fran or something rather. She’s new, Brennan had pointed out earlier. They’re getting better at recognizing the pieces that fall outside of them, if that means anything.
But he’s back to her words, her you should or you should be that fell out of her mouth honestly and almost earnestly, two steps backwards instead of forwards. It was placating enough, but then again, it’s Brennan and when she means to placate, it never comes out as being like. He feels the worry, the you should be rising back up into his head and spinning into a scenario that wants him to start to play, but he draws back.
He asks the questions instead. “You would tell me if you were -”
“Angry?” As she cuts him off, she softens.
“Angry.”
He nods. He doesn’t like the taste of the words. Angry means a lot of things to him. Rebecca was angry. His mother was angry - family really, almost always meant something angry to him. It wasn’t until he walked into the desert; until he lost himself over there that he stopped being as angry as he knew was carrying himself around as.
In a way, he still is. Coming to terms with things isn’t always coming to terms. There are a lot of things that he still has to say, maybe not to the right people but it’s still something different when saying it out loud, ready or not ready, just hearing it makes a strange difference.
Brennan doesn’t answer right away though. He feels the nerves rising and twisting inside of him, his throat taunt and dry. She takes that pause and reaches for another fry, swinging her fingers over his plate.
She sighs, her shoulders rising into a shrug.
“Well, I guess I would have to,” she pauses, looking up, “considering, we do work together in a high-stress environment that often translate into our own emotions and personal settings. And I do tell you when I’m angry - sometimes, I’m not good at it. But I do tell you, right?”
His mouth curls a little. “You do.”
“Why ask the question then?”
She’s confused then, looking up at him. Her gaze is warm and he feels that pressure in his throat soften; not completely, never completely, as there are different moments and different responses, always creeping forward to replace the next one.
“It’s weird,” he starts slowly, looking down into his hands. The lines stare back up at him. “It all catches up with you, I guess - I left all that stuff at home when I -”
“When you went overseas?”
His mouth curls at the interruption. “Yeah, that.”
He waits for her to say something else. So that he doesn’t have to say something else. A lot of the times, when he talks about his things - issues, calling it that, makes it something that he has to pay attention to. It’s not that he’s not aware, he’s more aware of the things that people think he is, it’s just that he doesn’t know where to start or, really, how to stop when it’s time.
The words are there though. He’s called Jared. He will call Jared again, out of habit, but they need to know. She doesn’t need to know. Not yet - well, that makes it something else too.
Booth looks up at her.
Her gaze is warm. Most of the time, he feels like he should be sitting at this end. He wonders if she does understand more than she lets on, crossing her opinions of him to herself, waiting for some moment to tell him what she’s really thinking. It’s what Rebecca did. It’s how they fell apart.
But there are things that he clings too, notions that they have that he’s never had with anyone else. That he knows, that he keeps - he has to, considering that she knows the things that she knows and he knows the things that he knows and whatever line is between them, they keep it steady.
He shifts in his chair, starting slowly. “You have to understand that he’s angry with me - I’m sure there are things I don’t know about that he’s still, I don’t know, I guess holding onto or whatever. I know I left. I know I had to get out.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She says it before he can really process it. Her hand reaches too, not for what’s on his plate, but for his. His mouth closes, tightens as her fingers brush over the crease of his fist. It’s not the first time or the last that they reach - telling himself this, time and time again; it’s like justifying his habits and losses all over again. It’s what he does best.
And what he does know too, even with how he is now, is that he doesn’t want to lose her, this, and any constants that he creates. He wants to stay a good man in her eyes, maybe not the best, but a good man in her eyes means more than he really would like to say.
“I don’t want it to be,” he admits, finally. Her fingers are almost too soft.
They’re quiet again. The murmurs of the diner seem louder than before. Their waitress, Fran-something, passes them again. She doesn’t stop, merely looking in about seeing their plates, both still more than half-filled.
Brennan’s hand still rests over his, her fingers moving slightly. It’s a brush, it’s not a brush, and his mind is wrapping around the idea of fault and not his fault. There’s something about the way she said it, openly and almost with this strange sense of vulnerability. He’s analyzing again and he’s pretty sure that a lot of it has to do with the way she rubs off on him.
She breaks the silence again. “He’ll stop being angry.”
“I know.”
“Just not today,” she continues to tell him, “or even tomorrow, it’s just one of those things that has to happen on its own.”
Booth shrugs, “Like you and Russ.”
“I think that was just an accident.”
He laughs. And she smiles for him, that soft turn of her mouth as they relax. What he doesn’t get, he decides, is how they do this, whether or not the intention is supposed to make sense. He wonders what she thinks, if she thinks about this the way he does too.
Her hand hasn’t moved.
He doesn’t care either. He should care, he thinks, and she should care too. There are factors and facets, things that keep the pages between them as they are and as they will always be. But what remains and what he knows seem to be rearranging themselves without asking. Again.
His throat is dry. He tries to move his hand. His fingers are too coarse, too big, and feel fumbling and awkward underneath hers. Her fingers are for precision, for movement that doesn’t involve shooting and victims and the faces that have become too much of a part of him, outside the past that he tries to keep steady and away from becoming another issue.
Still, he admits it to her. “I didn’t want to be angry forever though.”
It says very little and it says too much. He lets the words sit and shift, unwinding as her hand starts to draw back by her thumb. His mouth presses tightly, trying not to follow the sensation of the pads of her fingers against his skin. They press against the lines, against the creases and some scars that remain invisible, and then are gone as her hand returns to her side of the table.
Brennan’s gaze has returned to the window, to outside and the things that he keeps going back to. The Christmas lights, the lists that he and Parker have ready for the holidays this year. The things that he wants to do. But all of those aspects take an unsettling step back, as his eyes move to her, and disappear as he starts reading her again.
“I know,” she says finally.