Bones Fic: at best, we remain as circles in orbit
note: for torigates. ♥ now, to drag my ass to the gym. ugh.
at best, we remain as circles in orbit
like two little kids, they hit the doors as they close. life lessons for manuals. bones. booth; booth/brennan. post ep for fire in the ice, some spoilers for double trouble in the panhandle. 1,600 words, pg.
-
Like two little kids, they hit the doors as they close.
Laughing loudly, he waves at Hank, the rink owner, one last time before he turns and rests with his back pressed against the glass.
"This was fun," he says breathlessly.
She’s still grinning widely, relaxed. It’s been kind of a day, he thinks. He shifts towards her. The glass is cold, sticky with a chorus of fingerprints; Saturdays are for kids, morning and afternoon, and he owes Parker a Saturday or two but it's him and Rebecca at each other's throats again. It seems to be a theme, or rather a habit that he's been carrying around too heavily. The link lingers too, going back to stuff that only dad seems to be good at picking' right out of him, dead or alive or dead or alive.
But he’s really not supposed to be watching her like this: from the way her cheeks flush just a little bit to that smile - something, he wants to say, that he hasn't seen in awhile. He can't remember why. Something to do with her dad. Something to do with Russ. But we're working it out, she says still even though she reads like she's been expecting all of this, all along.
This is different though. This is her opening up to him; in a weird way, it’s been happening little by little, more and more, but tonight, it felt kinda different. He doesn’t know what it is or how it’s supposed to ready. There’s this uncanny draw and it only makes him sorta wish that he could something more to her. It’s just the two of them and he likes that, despite the continuous links to the other people, here, it was just the two of them.
“Really,” his mouth curls. “This was fun.”
She looks up at him, wisps of hair peek out of her hat. They hit her skin in little curls. It's funny to see because Booth doesn't know her too well like this, with the sort of vulnerability that just comes out. But he lets himself watch her mouth curl. She shifts, pressing back against the glass, and then nudges him. There’s coyness to her too. It started back before in Texas. Or Oklahoma. Doesn’t matter, state lines and all, but he really did get to see her on par with her element. She’s coming out more, enjoying herself more. It’s funny, what a little time in the field does to a person. He misses that. He'll never really tell her, but the closest he'll get to the beginning, to back when this job wasn't as weary, is working with her. It's nearly exciting again. It means a little more.
"It was."
Her gaze wanders out into the parking lot, that smile of hers steady. He follows too, relaxing. He's stuck though, in between wanting to face this rising sense of intention and not. He keeps his eyes trained steadily. The truck stands alone, facing Hank's or some other guy stealing a little time in the empty lot. Restaurants and hotels are climbing over them, lights mingling and merging, folding into different colors. He sees the shadow of the monument too, Washington at its best, and has to smile too, just a little, because he's getting there. Better. He’d like to think so, at least.
"We - " she hesitates, her voice softening. "I don't know. I mean, I do know. I know a lot of things. Things that don't even have to do with anthropological studies or bones. I know things. But we should do this more."
His mouth turns, amused. "This?"
He’s only teasing her, a thousand things unraveling in the back of his mind. What he wants, what he can't have, what he could have if only he were a bit more forward with this idea of them. It’s easier to think to himself, to admit quietly, or laugh off the observation of a friend or two. What she said inside, something about change, comes to mind again. It’s just a little too scary right now.
Or is it really? There’s a part of him now, which goes back and forth, waiting for him to make some sort of decision. Booth feels too familiar in the ritual. It’s really about what there is to lose and what he's not ready to lose, the lines of comfort something that has been kinder to him with the years. But it seems too much like a luxury and whatever earnestness that wants to surface between them, he remains to be more than a little scared.
She’d laugh if she knew. Or roll her eyes a lot. With Bones, he really doesn't know.
"This?"
She takes his words slowly as if she's been watching him. He’s still a little dizzy - in spurts, really. Maybe, she was watching him. Maybe, he doesn't know. He should know. He usually can pick up these things. At least, he thinks so. But she drops her gaze, her smile fading a little. Her boot toes the sidewalk, crawling over tile crack. Behind him, he can hear the muffling charge of the cleaning crew. He almost wished they had stayed inside a little longer. There's traffic in front of him and he has to remind himself that the doctor cautioned him to stay awake just in case. It's back to everything else, the motion of real life.
"Forget it," he murmurs. It was stupid. An attempt to be playful.
"No."
She shakes her head. "I'm not going to forgot it. That's silly. And I suppose I did mean this, if this is anything near relative. Or traditional - we should start some sort of tradition. I enjoy traditions."
He laughs softly. "It's okay, Bones."
It still seems stupid to say. And not without knowing that he can imagine them here, with a kind of tradition, him and her and Parker too. A makeshift family is all he's really known anyhow and he likes that he can depend on surrounding his son with people that he knows will make a strong mark. But she's always been different, in her own way, and he doesn't know how to explain it. It’s too romantic, too far off from what he really wants to put out there and yet, here he is, thinking about her in some grand scheme of a confession.
But he pushes himself off the glass, extending a hand to her like he did on the ice. She doesn't have to take it, but it's there. He knows it's always going to be there. It’s weird, really, but he's been comfortable with carrying these things around as if they were some sort of fundamentals that keep him sane.
There's no hesitation. She takes his hand.
She takes his hand and he watches as her fingers curl into his. It’s glove to glove, still with the pressure of her palm facing his. Booth has to swallow, a sudden tightens heavy in his throat, and she's smiling, just a little, as she watches him. He knows what her skin feels like, how it fits, and how it should fit, the difference only resting in moments. She doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. He wonders if he's missed something, but with the way she's looking at him, it seems all kind of pointless anyway to push.
"It'll be fun."
She’s warmer, biting her lip. It’s her tell. Poker-speak. Sweet's did this stupid exercise with them last week, something about studying them or whatever. Bones was convinced that he was trying to secretly do one of his plans of trying to pin them down better. There was something about secret-secrets or spies or something. It sounded better when Bones said it.
His mouth curls and he nods, shifting forward on his toes and then pressing his lips against her forehead. His mouth skips against her skin. It seems too chaste, almost nervous, and he lingers too long. He can hear the shift in her breathing; soft pants that clear in the air against his chin. Her hand is still wrapped in his. They're bent strangely, him leaning into her as she seems to be waiting for something more.
He should let go. It would smart to let go seeing as he's nearly thinking about kissing her. He can't kiss her. He wants to kiss her. He really doesn’t know how to take that step.
"It'll be fun," he agrees finally, swallowing.
The sound of his voice is unexpectedly heavy. It shifts for him, taking him back and echoing in the small corner where they stand. He lets go of her hand and slips both of his into his pockets. He smiles a little, easy to hide and act as a reassurance as she seems to give him that, nodding. She starts to walk first, for the parking lot, bowed slightly. She’s digging into her pockets, looking for something. Her phone, most likely.
She said something once, too, about reality and lifelines. As he watches her, he picks it back up. It’s never really about what she says or how she says it, although when it’s relevant, it can be. These moments, no longer rare, carry an entirely different weight.
His gloves feel too warm, too ready to reach. He wants to hate that. He doesn’t know how to hate that. It’s a dilemma that he’s better at ignoring. Then, for now, later - it’s how he continues moving in circles.
His hand tries not to curl in his pocket. There’s going to be another day.
at best, we remain as circles in orbit
like two little kids, they hit the doors as they close. life lessons for manuals. bones. booth; booth/brennan. post ep for fire in the ice, some spoilers for double trouble in the panhandle. 1,600 words, pg.
-
Like two little kids, they hit the doors as they close.
Laughing loudly, he waves at Hank, the rink owner, one last time before he turns and rests with his back pressed against the glass.
"This was fun," he says breathlessly.
She’s still grinning widely, relaxed. It’s been kind of a day, he thinks. He shifts towards her. The glass is cold, sticky with a chorus of fingerprints; Saturdays are for kids, morning and afternoon, and he owes Parker a Saturday or two but it's him and Rebecca at each other's throats again. It seems to be a theme, or rather a habit that he's been carrying around too heavily. The link lingers too, going back to stuff that only dad seems to be good at picking' right out of him, dead or alive or dead or alive.
But he’s really not supposed to be watching her like this: from the way her cheeks flush just a little bit to that smile - something, he wants to say, that he hasn't seen in awhile. He can't remember why. Something to do with her dad. Something to do with Russ. But we're working it out, she says still even though she reads like she's been expecting all of this, all along.
This is different though. This is her opening up to him; in a weird way, it’s been happening little by little, more and more, but tonight, it felt kinda different. He doesn’t know what it is or how it’s supposed to ready. There’s this uncanny draw and it only makes him sorta wish that he could something more to her. It’s just the two of them and he likes that, despite the continuous links to the other people, here, it was just the two of them.
“Really,” his mouth curls. “This was fun.”
She looks up at him, wisps of hair peek out of her hat. They hit her skin in little curls. It's funny to see because Booth doesn't know her too well like this, with the sort of vulnerability that just comes out. But he lets himself watch her mouth curl. She shifts, pressing back against the glass, and then nudges him. There’s coyness to her too. It started back before in Texas. Or Oklahoma. Doesn’t matter, state lines and all, but he really did get to see her on par with her element. She’s coming out more, enjoying herself more. It’s funny, what a little time in the field does to a person. He misses that. He'll never really tell her, but the closest he'll get to the beginning, to back when this job wasn't as weary, is working with her. It's nearly exciting again. It means a little more.
"It was."
Her gaze wanders out into the parking lot, that smile of hers steady. He follows too, relaxing. He's stuck though, in between wanting to face this rising sense of intention and not. He keeps his eyes trained steadily. The truck stands alone, facing Hank's or some other guy stealing a little time in the empty lot. Restaurants and hotels are climbing over them, lights mingling and merging, folding into different colors. He sees the shadow of the monument too, Washington at its best, and has to smile too, just a little, because he's getting there. Better. He’d like to think so, at least.
"We - " she hesitates, her voice softening. "I don't know. I mean, I do know. I know a lot of things. Things that don't even have to do with anthropological studies or bones. I know things. But we should do this more."
His mouth turns, amused. "This?"
He’s only teasing her, a thousand things unraveling in the back of his mind. What he wants, what he can't have, what he could have if only he were a bit more forward with this idea of them. It’s easier to think to himself, to admit quietly, or laugh off the observation of a friend or two. What she said inside, something about change, comes to mind again. It’s just a little too scary right now.
Or is it really? There’s a part of him now, which goes back and forth, waiting for him to make some sort of decision. Booth feels too familiar in the ritual. It’s really about what there is to lose and what he's not ready to lose, the lines of comfort something that has been kinder to him with the years. But it seems too much like a luxury and whatever earnestness that wants to surface between them, he remains to be more than a little scared.
She’d laugh if she knew. Or roll her eyes a lot. With Bones, he really doesn't know.
"This?"
She takes his words slowly as if she's been watching him. He’s still a little dizzy - in spurts, really. Maybe, she was watching him. Maybe, he doesn't know. He should know. He usually can pick up these things. At least, he thinks so. But she drops her gaze, her smile fading a little. Her boot toes the sidewalk, crawling over tile crack. Behind him, he can hear the muffling charge of the cleaning crew. He almost wished they had stayed inside a little longer. There's traffic in front of him and he has to remind himself that the doctor cautioned him to stay awake just in case. It's back to everything else, the motion of real life.
"Forget it," he murmurs. It was stupid. An attempt to be playful.
"No."
She shakes her head. "I'm not going to forgot it. That's silly. And I suppose I did mean this, if this is anything near relative. Or traditional - we should start some sort of tradition. I enjoy traditions."
He laughs softly. "It's okay, Bones."
It still seems stupid to say. And not without knowing that he can imagine them here, with a kind of tradition, him and her and Parker too. A makeshift family is all he's really known anyhow and he likes that he can depend on surrounding his son with people that he knows will make a strong mark. But she's always been different, in her own way, and he doesn't know how to explain it. It’s too romantic, too far off from what he really wants to put out there and yet, here he is, thinking about her in some grand scheme of a confession.
But he pushes himself off the glass, extending a hand to her like he did on the ice. She doesn't have to take it, but it's there. He knows it's always going to be there. It’s weird, really, but he's been comfortable with carrying these things around as if they were some sort of fundamentals that keep him sane.
There's no hesitation. She takes his hand.
She takes his hand and he watches as her fingers curl into his. It’s glove to glove, still with the pressure of her palm facing his. Booth has to swallow, a sudden tightens heavy in his throat, and she's smiling, just a little, as she watches him. He knows what her skin feels like, how it fits, and how it should fit, the difference only resting in moments. She doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. He wonders if he's missed something, but with the way she's looking at him, it seems all kind of pointless anyway to push.
"It'll be fun."
She’s warmer, biting her lip. It’s her tell. Poker-speak. Sweet's did this stupid exercise with them last week, something about studying them or whatever. Bones was convinced that he was trying to secretly do one of his plans of trying to pin them down better. There was something about secret-secrets or spies or something. It sounded better when Bones said it.
His mouth curls and he nods, shifting forward on his toes and then pressing his lips against her forehead. His mouth skips against her skin. It seems too chaste, almost nervous, and he lingers too long. He can hear the shift in her breathing; soft pants that clear in the air against his chin. Her hand is still wrapped in his. They're bent strangely, him leaning into her as she seems to be waiting for something more.
He should let go. It would smart to let go seeing as he's nearly thinking about kissing her. He can't kiss her. He wants to kiss her. He really doesn’t know how to take that step.
"It'll be fun," he agrees finally, swallowing.
The sound of his voice is unexpectedly heavy. It shifts for him, taking him back and echoing in the small corner where they stand. He lets go of her hand and slips both of his into his pockets. He smiles a little, easy to hide and act as a reassurance as she seems to give him that, nodding. She starts to walk first, for the parking lot, bowed slightly. She’s digging into her pockets, looking for something. Her phone, most likely.
She said something once, too, about reality and lifelines. As he watches her, he picks it back up. It’s never really about what she says or how she says it, although when it’s relevant, it can be. These moments, no longer rare, carry an entirely different weight.
His gloves feel too warm, too ready to reach. He wants to hate that. He doesn’t know how to hate that. It’s a dilemma that he’s better at ignoring. Then, for now, later - it’s how he continues moving in circles.
His hand tries not to curl in his pocket. There’s going to be another day.