Bones Fic: a library of trying to make accidents
note: for barilace! dude, i swear i was planning on sitting down and making up a mix, which i will, and instead, though, i ended up writing this? so part one of your xmas gift, lol.
a library of trying to make accidents
he’s getting better about these things. there’s a long-standing error of thinking that he gets it too. understand that, really, this isn’t monopoly. bones. booth. booth/brennan. post-ep for the bone that blew. 3,500 words, pg.
There’s a goodnight that follows him out into the hallway, Parker’s yawn fading as he makes sure the door stays open just a crack. He keeps a note in his head, reminding himself that Rebecca’s going to show up at seven tomorrow, not the agreed eight, because of another purposed trip that she’s whisking their son away to. He’s getting better about these things, but it remains harder to swallow considering the ideas that he still carries about time and place.
Leaning against the wall by the door, he turns his head and watches the small crack into the guestroom. He tries to listen to Parker, hopes that he’s moving around; to some strange sense of normalcy, he’s still addicted to the smaller things, the sense that Parker still tosses a little before actually falling asleep. Or reads, sneaking a book with the flashlight that he hides somewhere in the guestroom - Booth knows it’s in the closet, one of the drawers, and doesn’t have the heart to point it out or touch it. It’s more for him, then his son.
There’s a brief curse in the kitchen.
It isn't loud, but he almost forgets about Brennan, the invite from Parker and not him after Max’s display at the lab. He smiles anyway, his mouth cocked to amusement. He didn't mean to leave her to the kitchen. He pushes himself away from the wall, walking back quietly away from the room and curling his fingers into his pockets.
The living room is almost a mess. A couple case files are scattered over the coffee table, tucked underneath several pads and pile of pens. Parker has a few books too, magazines from the supermarket, and a flyer from the local fair that they’re going to miss this year again. Her jacket is the only thing that’s really out of place, facing the arm and into a pillow.
He stops for a moment, staring at it and then looking to her as she paces his kitchen, muttering to herself. Her hands open cabinets and she’s pulling glasses out to put them back again. It’s the coffee, she’ll say. He knows her that well. The stress wears away from her face too and she’s looking for things, he’s sure, that she already knows are there.
“Parker says goodnight.”
His voice cuts her to a stop in the kitchen and she turns, half-sheepish from getting caught and grinning a little, despite herself. There’s a beer in her hand when she faces him, the neck wet from the ice, and her hair unwinds into disarray. It frames her face, warming her chin in waves, and he can feel his fingers start to itch tightly.
“He does?”
She always looks surprised. He nods, amused. “Yeah - He’s still a little excited from earlier.”
The beer remains unopened in her hand and he steps closer, leaning into the counter as she rests into the space in front of him. She looks nervous. She always looks nervous in his place. A few times does nothing to really tread into making any assumptions about how she thinks or feels about being here. She always comes when he asks and that, he has to think, means something rather than nothing at all.
It is odd how they’re here. He’s struggling more with the idea of anything around the two of them. It’s not to say that he doesn’t care or won’t care more, considering the idea of them moving into something more. Maybe, it’s because he doesn’t want to ruin a good thing. Or maybe, more than likely, he doesn’t have that room to play with anymore. He has a son, not a risk, and the family that made him comes with far more bag.
Booth clears his throat. Stop, he tells himself.
“Max is really good with kids.”
He doesn’t mean to drop it again. It’s just easy to distract himself. There’s somewhat of a smile across her mouth too, instant but not instant as she shies into looking down. It’s different with her father around, more revealing that she intends into to be - or, well, at least he thinks so. There are very few moments that he has where he can completely piece together the things that she doesn’t say. That hasn’t changed, but she talks to him and that, more so than what he can and cannot figure out, is much more important to him.
He’d like to think too that he knows her a little more than either of them say, that it’s reciprocated back within instances. It scares him to sort of face it, to even leave it to half-admissions at best.
She sighs finally, back away from her own smile. “I know.”
Her eyes are still living back at the lab, over the balcony where they stood and watched Max and Parker experiment with every small item that they found. There’s that look again, from her eyes and down to her mouth, with the way that she carries herself in anxious curiosity. He can't completely place where she's going or if it's place, if anything that he should follow. It's instinctive. He wants to reassure her, but it’s not his place. It’s still very much between her and Max.
“Talk to him?” Booth is gentle though, watching her fingers as they spread over the neck of the beer. She lets it dangle, just a little bit, and then presses it back into his palm.
She shrugs. “Not yet.”
“You did before -”
“Oh, no,” she sighs. “He was just asking me about the time we built the volcano with Russ and if I remembered it.”
The picture almost makes him laugh - he has several of them, pieced together by the memories from her, her brother, and Max, to every extent. He likes to imagine that he might’ve known her this way too, as kids and then straight into adulthood.
It’s almost too rare, the good things, and he’s not trying to pinpoint them all to degrees. He does it too, especially with Jared in the area and Parker asking questions. Rebecca won’t tell him anything, so he’s left to telling their son what he can piece together.
His mouth curls slightly. “You built a volcano?”
“I don’t remember.”
She's quiet again, shrugging. There’s wistfulness behind her shrug, her mouth tightening slightly as she hands over the beer. There is no hesitation either, from him to her, and he takes it as she leans back, still fitted against the counter. He watches as her shoulders scrunch, tilt, and then fold into that tight awkwardness that she’s been carrying around since the day before. He wonders if it’s more of her arm, feels guilty, and then spins the bottle of beer around his fingertips, tilting it into a small salute her way. It comes on cycle, the things that he wishes that he could've done a little better and the things that she should've never been caught in between if he hadn't been a step faster and further.
“You talked though?”
He goes back to what's easier. He is trying to be is supportive from all angles. She does it more than he does and without noticing much, it seems. He’s okay with that. The acknowledgment is always there, but a part of him feels the guilt, again, when she steps out to help him or reassure him, needing it in such a way that he’s far from used to. It’s how he’s always been.
She sighs though, pauses, and turns away from him for the moment. He can watch as her eyes close tightly. Her hands curl into fists, tight too, and she rubs them into her eyes, still worked thin from the trip they took a couple days ago. She yawns a little. He wonders if it's wearing thin.
“I’m trying.”
She says it finally, nodding and pressing away from the counter. She steps away from him and moves to the sink, her fingers trailing over the countertops. Her nails click and sigh and he’s left staring at the beer in his hands.
He still nods when she looks back over. “Trying is good.”
“I promised,” she says simply.
It lingers for him, her voice soft and warm, unfolding as he lets her keep his gaze. The intention is there, loud and clear, the acknowledgment not lost to the days of repetition where they do have these talks and he, if anything, forgets from time to time because it’s easier.
She looks away.
They’re quiet again. He stays at his end of the counter, staring back down at the unopened beer in his hand. He tries listening for Parker again, but the space is too quiet and nothing moves from the other end of the apartment. He faces the bottle, thinks of phone calls that he should make, and lets his fingers tighten around the neck instead. He’s been drinking less, not that he’s a drinker, but it’s just that Parker’s around more, trip or no trip, and the job is shifting him into being busier.
Half of it, too, is that Jared has stepped back into town. He’s yet to really say something to his brother and Brennan, if anything, hasn’t asked about anything since that night. He appreciates it, sure, but finds himself knowing full well if she asked, he would answer without any hesitation. Now, they seem to be breeching into another phase of understanding each other. And understanding each other means less secrets; it’s not his intention to hide anything from her. It’s never been, but some things are still happier as is, as distant memories for the sake of his sanity and the pieces that he gives his son.
There are something that he’s yet to say out loud.
“Where’s your beer?”
Booth asks her anyway, half-amused and half-aware. The distraction goes and hand-in-hand with the day as he tries to listen for Parker, briefly, again - he hopes that he’s gone to sleep.
She shrugs though. “You only have one in your refrigerator.”
“I do not.”
He’s indignant, rolling his eyes into a flush of embarrassment. He knows it's true. It’s been too busy of a week. Parker’s been at Rebecca’s with the new guy, his caseload seems to remain best as a pile of choices, and there are still stresses, things that just stretch into the memories of the way he’s handled himself over the past couple weeks here.
There’s an anniversary coming up too; someday soon, he left home for the first time and Jared, Jared remained behind with the fists of their father. It's almost too poetic and every time he closes his eyes, he's stuck with his brother's accusations and victims, even after promises, losing their names. God, he hopes that Parker stays the hell away from that fence. That he's good enough, strong enough, to keep his son away from that kind of history. There's the guilt again and he's tightening his fist over the beer, looking away from Brennan.
She’s in mid-ramble anyway and he picks her up, looking back as she turns into his corner to rest against the counter. His gaze glazes over and her mouth is still moving, picking at the easy things. Kind of like what he does. Home to home, work space to work space - something’s just don’t change.
“-- you have a lot of a old takeout. Takeout should only last two days - are you trying to be vicarious with your bachelor-ness?”
He’s still missed half of what she was saying, sticking to what he knows. “Not a word, Bones.”
“I don’t have takeout problems, Booth. You do.”
She barely blinks too, staring at the beer in his hand. She's slouching again though, the arch of her shoulders opening her discomfort. He feels affectionate, amused, turning his mouth slightly. What he wants to do is take his hands and wrap them into her shoulders, straightening her because she shouldn't be this tired again. He has that guilt permanently etched into his throat and shakes his head instead, uncapping his beer and handing it to her first.
“We’ll share.”
The words are out of his mouth before he really thinks about it, his hand shuffling the opened beer forward. It's probably warm now and her fingers hesitate, drawing over the curve of his thumb as she takes it back. The pads of her fingers are warm and brief and he has to just pause for a second to take it all in.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her mouth wavering.
He watches as she steals his stance, mirroring him across the counter. He takes his hands to his pockets though, shuffling them inside for the safety of the habit. He still leans close though, nudging her.
There’s something to be said about how they’ve become them now instead of before. He can half-say that he might be in love with her, half in love with her because it sounds a little better and it’s easier to be certain about. He certainly cares and it’s buying weight, changing things without him telling it to change things.
He wonders more anyway. How she feels. What she knows. The small, slighted, and impossible things that he really won’t ever have a complete answer to unless he comes out and asks her. He stops himself from going on, the thoughts shifting into territory that is old, not new, and almost too used to the process that works in his head.
It’s dangerous to drop that stuff though and he doesn’t, won’t do anything to gear himself away from what needs to be done and what’s there. He’s not about to get up and sing it all to the world, even though he’s pretty sure that the world knows a lot more than the two of them.
She’s still holding the beer though.
“I don’t like when it’s kids.”
She says it first, means it in that way that only she seems to understand. There’s nothing clinical to her voice, not in the same way they see each other in interrogations or at work. There’s just a slight softness, a curiosity, and everything that could be more is simply more, complicated and tucked away.
His mouth tightens. “I know.”
He watches as she takes a sip, finally, of the beer. It presses into her mouth and when she pulls the bottle back, a little bit licks at the bottom of her lip. He catches it before she does, reaching forward and letting his thumb trickle briefly over her lip to wipe it away.
His hand is fast enough, pulling back as he ignores her eyes, and agrees into the line of their conversation.
“I don’t want to be that parent.”
“You’re not,” she says quietly, “and you burned the application, so it’s okay now since you burned the application.”
It’s almost instant for her. He doesn’t understand that half the time, how some sort of response can come forward the way she makes it. She trusts him that much he knows, and he spends more time wondering why. It’s clear here and one of those moments is slowly starting to unfold between them.
“I did. It felt good.”
He nods, to reiterate, pointing to the beer for the subject change. He says something along the lines of you’re hogging the beer, serious and nervous but a joke all the same.
She grins a little, her mouth turning sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
It doesn’t matter anyway. He barks out a little laugh, his mouth turning slightly as he shakes his head. She hands over the beer and he takes it, his fingers brushing over hers.
He’s half-aware of her watching and he’s studying the floor, still listening to the apartment out of habit. He imagines Parker fast asleep now, almost like him when he was a kid; the things that you lose in the desert, he thinks, being able to sleep without reservations and hesitations.
His fingers start to pick away at the label in his hand as he looks back at her. He meets her gaze, watching as her eyes soften and her mouth stays curled. There’s that warmth again. It fluctuates between them, simply because of the ever-changing pressures and instances. It makes sense.
“I worry a lot,” he says slowly into a sigh, softening his mouth, “not because of my job or the things I see. I’m already over that line, I guess. I worry because I’m not there all the time because Rebecca and I made a choice or ourselves and somewhere, somewhere down the line I don’t want to hate me for it.”
It’s a little bit about Parker. It’s a little bit about Jared. It’s a little about the things that he’s seen and done and still wears more like badges than his own faith. He keeps her gaze, waiting for that tiny shift in confusion, hoping that she gets it and doesn’t get it. He can’t have both, but it’s just hard to admit.
“I think -”
She pauses, looking down. Her mouth seems to tighten too, the first he’s really seen when they stand like this. But her voice takes the opposite charge, softening as her mouth opens again and she looks back up.
“I think -” she only hesitates slightly, “that sometimes you just forget how good of a man you are, Booth. You shouldn’t because you are.”
For a moment, he just doesn’t understand.
He hears those words on occasion, from friends, from the people he works with, from case numbers that translate into victims and victims’ families. It loses a lot of merit that way, a little because of confidence and a little because of the things that he still sees. At home, at work - it’s never just a promise, it’s what it is and he’s just learned how to move with it.
He sighs quietly, putting the bottle down on the counter. There’s the urge to be defensive, but it’s stumbling. He suddenly wishes he didn’t, his hand naked and pulling for something else to hold. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, especially when she goes and says it like that.
He looks back up at her.
His mouth parts with a response, but nothing falls. She seems to look away and he doesn’t want her to look away, he doesn’t want her to feel like she has to look away. His hands are reaching for her before he really realizes it too, curling lightly over her face. Her skin is too warm, almost flushed into his palms. It’s too much to acknowledge that he’s sharing a gaze with her, the same eyes of confusion that’s making his heart ready to walk out of his chest. It’s all invasive and unnerving and she’s not pushing back, her hands curling around his at her face instead.
So he kisses her.
She tastes a little like coffee, a little like the beer, flat and then warm as her mouth opens against his first. He doesn’t know what to do, if they should be moving this way, but finds himself kissing her back. His lips peel over hers, catching them and sucking lightly at the warmth that he’s been watching all this time. She’s pressing against him and he’s pressing against her, pressing back into the counter as it charges too fiercely between them.
Booth is a little dizzy, too charged to wonder if he should like being a little dizzy. Her fingers seem to tighten over his and braver, he lets his tongue slide into her mouth, just to lap away at what he tastes. There’s a slight shuffling of sound between them, the pressure of pleasure vibrating into his mouth as they start to relax.
They’re anchoring each other.
It’s scary. It’s fierce. And it’s only just too much, resting into her like this. He remembers Parker in the bedroom and tomorrow, when Rebecca has to come and pick up. He remembers files. He remembers names. He then knows nothing else other than pulling away, slow and absolutely terrified. It weighs a little in his head, but not completely as he looks down at her. Her eyes are closed and they’re both breathing heavily; lips flushed and wet, his hands are still held under hers.
“Thanks,” he tries to say, but it just escapes as a sound and not a word, nothing more or less for him to understand.
The kitchen is too quiet and there’s light that passes around them from the outside, the television waking upstairs from the neighbors. He’s still holding her and she’s still watching him, neither moving with any clue of what to do.
“You’re welcome,” she says quietly.
Her hands drop then first, her gaze never breaking from his. He doesn’t sigh and realizes that he’s holding his breath, tight and confused, as his hands follow to his sides to step back.
The silence sticks. They stay here with what they know.
a library of trying to make accidents
he’s getting better about these things. there’s a long-standing error of thinking that he gets it too. understand that, really, this isn’t monopoly. bones. booth. booth/brennan. post-ep for the bone that blew. 3,500 words, pg.
There’s a goodnight that follows him out into the hallway, Parker’s yawn fading as he makes sure the door stays open just a crack. He keeps a note in his head, reminding himself that Rebecca’s going to show up at seven tomorrow, not the agreed eight, because of another purposed trip that she’s whisking their son away to. He’s getting better about these things, but it remains harder to swallow considering the ideas that he still carries about time and place.
Leaning against the wall by the door, he turns his head and watches the small crack into the guestroom. He tries to listen to Parker, hopes that he’s moving around; to some strange sense of normalcy, he’s still addicted to the smaller things, the sense that Parker still tosses a little before actually falling asleep. Or reads, sneaking a book with the flashlight that he hides somewhere in the guestroom - Booth knows it’s in the closet, one of the drawers, and doesn’t have the heart to point it out or touch it. It’s more for him, then his son.
There’s a brief curse in the kitchen.
It isn't loud, but he almost forgets about Brennan, the invite from Parker and not him after Max’s display at the lab. He smiles anyway, his mouth cocked to amusement. He didn't mean to leave her to the kitchen. He pushes himself away from the wall, walking back quietly away from the room and curling his fingers into his pockets.
The living room is almost a mess. A couple case files are scattered over the coffee table, tucked underneath several pads and pile of pens. Parker has a few books too, magazines from the supermarket, and a flyer from the local fair that they’re going to miss this year again. Her jacket is the only thing that’s really out of place, facing the arm and into a pillow.
He stops for a moment, staring at it and then looking to her as she paces his kitchen, muttering to herself. Her hands open cabinets and she’s pulling glasses out to put them back again. It’s the coffee, she’ll say. He knows her that well. The stress wears away from her face too and she’s looking for things, he’s sure, that she already knows are there.
“Parker says goodnight.”
His voice cuts her to a stop in the kitchen and she turns, half-sheepish from getting caught and grinning a little, despite herself. There’s a beer in her hand when she faces him, the neck wet from the ice, and her hair unwinds into disarray. It frames her face, warming her chin in waves, and he can feel his fingers start to itch tightly.
“He does?”
She always looks surprised. He nods, amused. “Yeah - He’s still a little excited from earlier.”
The beer remains unopened in her hand and he steps closer, leaning into the counter as she rests into the space in front of him. She looks nervous. She always looks nervous in his place. A few times does nothing to really tread into making any assumptions about how she thinks or feels about being here. She always comes when he asks and that, he has to think, means something rather than nothing at all.
It is odd how they’re here. He’s struggling more with the idea of anything around the two of them. It’s not to say that he doesn’t care or won’t care more, considering the idea of them moving into something more. Maybe, it’s because he doesn’t want to ruin a good thing. Or maybe, more than likely, he doesn’t have that room to play with anymore. He has a son, not a risk, and the family that made him comes with far more bag.
Booth clears his throat. Stop, he tells himself.
“Max is really good with kids.”
He doesn’t mean to drop it again. It’s just easy to distract himself. There’s somewhat of a smile across her mouth too, instant but not instant as she shies into looking down. It’s different with her father around, more revealing that she intends into to be - or, well, at least he thinks so. There are very few moments that he has where he can completely piece together the things that she doesn’t say. That hasn’t changed, but she talks to him and that, more so than what he can and cannot figure out, is much more important to him.
He’d like to think too that he knows her a little more than either of them say, that it’s reciprocated back within instances. It scares him to sort of face it, to even leave it to half-admissions at best.
She sighs finally, back away from her own smile. “I know.”
Her eyes are still living back at the lab, over the balcony where they stood and watched Max and Parker experiment with every small item that they found. There’s that look again, from her eyes and down to her mouth, with the way that she carries herself in anxious curiosity. He can't completely place where she's going or if it's place, if anything that he should follow. It's instinctive. He wants to reassure her, but it’s not his place. It’s still very much between her and Max.
“Talk to him?” Booth is gentle though, watching her fingers as they spread over the neck of the beer. She lets it dangle, just a little bit, and then presses it back into his palm.
She shrugs. “Not yet.”
“You did before -”
“Oh, no,” she sighs. “He was just asking me about the time we built the volcano with Russ and if I remembered it.”
The picture almost makes him laugh - he has several of them, pieced together by the memories from her, her brother, and Max, to every extent. He likes to imagine that he might’ve known her this way too, as kids and then straight into adulthood.
It’s almost too rare, the good things, and he’s not trying to pinpoint them all to degrees. He does it too, especially with Jared in the area and Parker asking questions. Rebecca won’t tell him anything, so he’s left to telling their son what he can piece together.
His mouth curls slightly. “You built a volcano?”
“I don’t remember.”
She's quiet again, shrugging. There’s wistfulness behind her shrug, her mouth tightening slightly as she hands over the beer. There is no hesitation either, from him to her, and he takes it as she leans back, still fitted against the counter. He watches as her shoulders scrunch, tilt, and then fold into that tight awkwardness that she’s been carrying around since the day before. He wonders if it’s more of her arm, feels guilty, and then spins the bottle of beer around his fingertips, tilting it into a small salute her way. It comes on cycle, the things that he wishes that he could've done a little better and the things that she should've never been caught in between if he hadn't been a step faster and further.
“You talked though?”
He goes back to what's easier. He is trying to be is supportive from all angles. She does it more than he does and without noticing much, it seems. He’s okay with that. The acknowledgment is always there, but a part of him feels the guilt, again, when she steps out to help him or reassure him, needing it in such a way that he’s far from used to. It’s how he’s always been.
She sighs though, pauses, and turns away from him for the moment. He can watch as her eyes close tightly. Her hands curl into fists, tight too, and she rubs them into her eyes, still worked thin from the trip they took a couple days ago. She yawns a little. He wonders if it's wearing thin.
“I’m trying.”
She says it finally, nodding and pressing away from the counter. She steps away from him and moves to the sink, her fingers trailing over the countertops. Her nails click and sigh and he’s left staring at the beer in his hands.
He still nods when she looks back over. “Trying is good.”
“I promised,” she says simply.
It lingers for him, her voice soft and warm, unfolding as he lets her keep his gaze. The intention is there, loud and clear, the acknowledgment not lost to the days of repetition where they do have these talks and he, if anything, forgets from time to time because it’s easier.
She looks away.
They’re quiet again. He stays at his end of the counter, staring back down at the unopened beer in his hand. He tries listening for Parker again, but the space is too quiet and nothing moves from the other end of the apartment. He faces the bottle, thinks of phone calls that he should make, and lets his fingers tighten around the neck instead. He’s been drinking less, not that he’s a drinker, but it’s just that Parker’s around more, trip or no trip, and the job is shifting him into being busier.
Half of it, too, is that Jared has stepped back into town. He’s yet to really say something to his brother and Brennan, if anything, hasn’t asked about anything since that night. He appreciates it, sure, but finds himself knowing full well if she asked, he would answer without any hesitation. Now, they seem to be breeching into another phase of understanding each other. And understanding each other means less secrets; it’s not his intention to hide anything from her. It’s never been, but some things are still happier as is, as distant memories for the sake of his sanity and the pieces that he gives his son.
There are something that he’s yet to say out loud.
“Where’s your beer?”
Booth asks her anyway, half-amused and half-aware. The distraction goes and hand-in-hand with the day as he tries to listen for Parker, briefly, again - he hopes that he’s gone to sleep.
She shrugs though. “You only have one in your refrigerator.”
“I do not.”
He’s indignant, rolling his eyes into a flush of embarrassment. He knows it's true. It’s been too busy of a week. Parker’s been at Rebecca’s with the new guy, his caseload seems to remain best as a pile of choices, and there are still stresses, things that just stretch into the memories of the way he’s handled himself over the past couple weeks here.
There’s an anniversary coming up too; someday soon, he left home for the first time and Jared, Jared remained behind with the fists of their father. It's almost too poetic and every time he closes his eyes, he's stuck with his brother's accusations and victims, even after promises, losing their names. God, he hopes that Parker stays the hell away from that fence. That he's good enough, strong enough, to keep his son away from that kind of history. There's the guilt again and he's tightening his fist over the beer, looking away from Brennan.
She’s in mid-ramble anyway and he picks her up, looking back as she turns into his corner to rest against the counter. His gaze glazes over and her mouth is still moving, picking at the easy things. Kind of like what he does. Home to home, work space to work space - something’s just don’t change.
“-- you have a lot of a old takeout. Takeout should only last two days - are you trying to be vicarious with your bachelor-ness?”
He’s still missed half of what she was saying, sticking to what he knows. “Not a word, Bones.”
“I don’t have takeout problems, Booth. You do.”
She barely blinks too, staring at the beer in his hand. She's slouching again though, the arch of her shoulders opening her discomfort. He feels affectionate, amused, turning his mouth slightly. What he wants to do is take his hands and wrap them into her shoulders, straightening her because she shouldn't be this tired again. He has that guilt permanently etched into his throat and shakes his head instead, uncapping his beer and handing it to her first.
“We’ll share.”
The words are out of his mouth before he really thinks about it, his hand shuffling the opened beer forward. It's probably warm now and her fingers hesitate, drawing over the curve of his thumb as she takes it back. The pads of her fingers are warm and brief and he has to just pause for a second to take it all in.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her mouth wavering.
He watches as she steals his stance, mirroring him across the counter. He takes his hands to his pockets though, shuffling them inside for the safety of the habit. He still leans close though, nudging her.
There’s something to be said about how they’ve become them now instead of before. He can half-say that he might be in love with her, half in love with her because it sounds a little better and it’s easier to be certain about. He certainly cares and it’s buying weight, changing things without him telling it to change things.
He wonders more anyway. How she feels. What she knows. The small, slighted, and impossible things that he really won’t ever have a complete answer to unless he comes out and asks her. He stops himself from going on, the thoughts shifting into territory that is old, not new, and almost too used to the process that works in his head.
It’s dangerous to drop that stuff though and he doesn’t, won’t do anything to gear himself away from what needs to be done and what’s there. He’s not about to get up and sing it all to the world, even though he’s pretty sure that the world knows a lot more than the two of them.
She’s still holding the beer though.
“I don’t like when it’s kids.”
She says it first, means it in that way that only she seems to understand. There’s nothing clinical to her voice, not in the same way they see each other in interrogations or at work. There’s just a slight softness, a curiosity, and everything that could be more is simply more, complicated and tucked away.
His mouth tightens. “I know.”
He watches as she takes a sip, finally, of the beer. It presses into her mouth and when she pulls the bottle back, a little bit licks at the bottom of her lip. He catches it before she does, reaching forward and letting his thumb trickle briefly over her lip to wipe it away.
His hand is fast enough, pulling back as he ignores her eyes, and agrees into the line of their conversation.
“I don’t want to be that parent.”
“You’re not,” she says quietly, “and you burned the application, so it’s okay now since you burned the application.”
It’s almost instant for her. He doesn’t understand that half the time, how some sort of response can come forward the way she makes it. She trusts him that much he knows, and he spends more time wondering why. It’s clear here and one of those moments is slowly starting to unfold between them.
“I did. It felt good.”
He nods, to reiterate, pointing to the beer for the subject change. He says something along the lines of you’re hogging the beer, serious and nervous but a joke all the same.
She grins a little, her mouth turning sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
It doesn’t matter anyway. He barks out a little laugh, his mouth turning slightly as he shakes his head. She hands over the beer and he takes it, his fingers brushing over hers.
He’s half-aware of her watching and he’s studying the floor, still listening to the apartment out of habit. He imagines Parker fast asleep now, almost like him when he was a kid; the things that you lose in the desert, he thinks, being able to sleep without reservations and hesitations.
His fingers start to pick away at the label in his hand as he looks back at her. He meets her gaze, watching as her eyes soften and her mouth stays curled. There’s that warmth again. It fluctuates between them, simply because of the ever-changing pressures and instances. It makes sense.
“I worry a lot,” he says slowly into a sigh, softening his mouth, “not because of my job or the things I see. I’m already over that line, I guess. I worry because I’m not there all the time because Rebecca and I made a choice or ourselves and somewhere, somewhere down the line I don’t want to hate me for it.”
It’s a little bit about Parker. It’s a little bit about Jared. It’s a little about the things that he’s seen and done and still wears more like badges than his own faith. He keeps her gaze, waiting for that tiny shift in confusion, hoping that she gets it and doesn’t get it. He can’t have both, but it’s just hard to admit.
“I think -”
She pauses, looking down. Her mouth seems to tighten too, the first he’s really seen when they stand like this. But her voice takes the opposite charge, softening as her mouth opens again and she looks back up.
“I think -” she only hesitates slightly, “that sometimes you just forget how good of a man you are, Booth. You shouldn’t because you are.”
For a moment, he just doesn’t understand.
He hears those words on occasion, from friends, from the people he works with, from case numbers that translate into victims and victims’ families. It loses a lot of merit that way, a little because of confidence and a little because of the things that he still sees. At home, at work - it’s never just a promise, it’s what it is and he’s just learned how to move with it.
He sighs quietly, putting the bottle down on the counter. There’s the urge to be defensive, but it’s stumbling. He suddenly wishes he didn’t, his hand naked and pulling for something else to hold. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, especially when she goes and says it like that.
He looks back up at her.
His mouth parts with a response, but nothing falls. She seems to look away and he doesn’t want her to look away, he doesn’t want her to feel like she has to look away. His hands are reaching for her before he really realizes it too, curling lightly over her face. Her skin is too warm, almost flushed into his palms. It’s too much to acknowledge that he’s sharing a gaze with her, the same eyes of confusion that’s making his heart ready to walk out of his chest. It’s all invasive and unnerving and she’s not pushing back, her hands curling around his at her face instead.
So he kisses her.
She tastes a little like coffee, a little like the beer, flat and then warm as her mouth opens against his first. He doesn’t know what to do, if they should be moving this way, but finds himself kissing her back. His lips peel over hers, catching them and sucking lightly at the warmth that he’s been watching all this time. She’s pressing against him and he’s pressing against her, pressing back into the counter as it charges too fiercely between them.
Booth is a little dizzy, too charged to wonder if he should like being a little dizzy. Her fingers seem to tighten over his and braver, he lets his tongue slide into her mouth, just to lap away at what he tastes. There’s a slight shuffling of sound between them, the pressure of pleasure vibrating into his mouth as they start to relax.
They’re anchoring each other.
It’s scary. It’s fierce. And it’s only just too much, resting into her like this. He remembers Parker in the bedroom and tomorrow, when Rebecca has to come and pick up. He remembers files. He remembers names. He then knows nothing else other than pulling away, slow and absolutely terrified. It weighs a little in his head, but not completely as he looks down at her. Her eyes are closed and they’re both breathing heavily; lips flushed and wet, his hands are still held under hers.
“Thanks,” he tries to say, but it just escapes as a sound and not a word, nothing more or less for him to understand.
The kitchen is too quiet and there’s light that passes around them from the outside, the television waking upstairs from the neighbors. He’s still holding her and she’s still watching him, neither moving with any clue of what to do.
“You’re welcome,” she says quietly.
Her hands drop then first, her gaze never breaking from his. He doesn’t sigh and realizes that he’s holding his breath, tight and confused, as his hands follow to his sides to step back.
The silence sticks. They stay here with what they know.