Bones Fic: tornado faces the east
notes: yes, i'm behind everything - emails, comments, dinner, you name it - and a little nutty right now. but i kind of had to stop everything and write this. that’s all i got. this is for torigates because i love her to bits.
tornado faces the east
he hesitates, after a quick smile to a disappearing Sweets, and then shuts the door, bolting each lock; with a hand pressed into the wood, he listens to her move around his kitchen. she’s humming. brennan hums. when east meets west. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for mayhem on a cross. 1,900 words, pg.
-
At the door, he can hear the water start to run.
He hesitates, after a quick smile to a disappearing Sweets, and then shuts the door, bolting each lock; with a hand pressed into the wood, he listens to her move around his kitchen. She’s humming. Brennan hums. It's one of those strange, partial quirks that come and go, often more so than usual. They feel too private, almost. But there's a light shift in his mouth, almost another smile, and he takes a deep breath as he turns.
The light softens into a heavy glow, breaking at the frame the cuts the kitchen into the corner. There’s music still, a jazz piece that he picked later, forgotten at the early conversations of dinner. The outside is shifting against the shades of his window too, over his couch and a few tables; all pieces lead back to the kitchen, and a few old photographs from a summer weekend with Parker face the frame as well.
He moves quietly, shuffling his hands into his pockets. There’s a hesitation brimming against his mouth. He’s trying not to think of the confessions from earlier either. It’s not that he can't or maybe, even, it's not that he won't. There’s such a weight to the idea that there's really more to Brennan that he doesn't know. He doesn't like it. He doesn't know how not to like it. He doesn't want her to feel like she can't tell him anything.
He can still taste his own.
Or maybe it was never meant to come up, as it bothers him even that way. Still though, he heads to the kitchen and leans into the frame to watch her. She’s still humming, unaware as her hands dip into the dishes and the water. It’s a routine. At her place, she cooks and he takes on dishes. At his place, he cooks and she takes on dishes. It's an intimate pattern of guesses, little nuances that deliver him into this place, this place that he can acknowledge this something he's not quite ready to say to her.
But he watches her quietly. Her fingers spread in contrast against a dish that she's holding. They always seem long, even when their hands exchange in passing moments. Rebecca used have dishes with flowers. He likes his plain, and Brennan follows only in color, mismatching sizes and shapes. It’s something he's never really understood. She’s never really given an answer back.
"You okay?" and finally, he just asks. The question filters into the surface, shifting only as his voice thickens. He swallows another question, stepping forward and joining her at the sink. He grabs one of the towels he keeps on the side, taking a dish that she hands him.
Quiet, Brennan shrugs. There’s a brief turn of her mouth, but nothing more as she works her hands over the next dish. The whites of her nails shift into the sponge, scrapping away at the last of the food. The sound itself is hard between them, swift as it scratches over the surface. Her skin is flushed and the water's too warm; he can only guess, but he doesn't want to be too forward.
He tries for her, instead, and says, "you would've liked him, Pops - took me and Jared on fishing trips, told us old war stories, and said if he hadn't joined the service, he'd probably be somewhere overseas, between the pyramids and Babylon, trying to find some ancient secret."
She looks up, handing him the next dish. Her mouth relaxes, but her gaze is unreadable, as if she were trying to gauge what kind of response he was expecting. He could just say you can talk to me because she's supposed to know that. It's never that easy either. At least, he'd like her to know that she can because she's never, without fail, not been that person for him. It's not about process. It's about time. What people underestimate about Brennan is that she knows too and hiding, most of the time, is how she copes with expectation and interaction.
"I'm fine, Booth."
He frowns, gripping both the towel and dish in his hands. His finger stretch into the face of the place, his thumb digging into the porcelain. Water slides over his skin, folding into the nooks between his fingers. The cuff of his sleeve slowly dampens as the water starts to run over his hand, uncurling over his wrist as it falls. He watches as she reaches forward, brushing her fingers over his wrist and the fabric.
"It was a long time ago," she says slowly. "I - "
And as she stops, her hand curls around the dish. She pulls it away from him and he can only stare, watching her as she places it into the sink with the others. Her hands then curl around the edge of the sink. He tries not to notice, the quick break and the odd gesture. The mix of actions is never transparent. Sometimes, he can get it. Most times, he wonders if he's missed something.
"You don't have to tell me," he murmurs.
"It happened a long time ago." it's the repetition that sharpens the weight and the odd part is that she's never broken his gaze, watching him as if to see how he's reacting to all of this. She doesn't like to hide things. But she's never told him either. Then again, he has to remind himself, there are things that he's only really alluded to. He has stories too. Most memories of his still live, breathe, and haven't changed; it's never been about what she thinks. He just doesn't know how to tell her.
Turning around, Brennan leans back against the sink. Her mouth twists and she looks off, studying the open frame into his living room. The space seems darker. The water still runs between them and he looks to the sink, watching it as it spills over the small pile of dishes and silverware. He turns the water off and the sound stumbles, lapping away at the pile. He takes the place of her hands, curling his fingers into the sink.
The music seems to fill the silence between the two of them. It falls only in murmurs, almost stilted. Outside, he hears laughter from neighbors. There’s shuffling of feet over their heads. He almost misses the company, wishing desperately that there were some sort of distraction out of this. He’s brought it up. He’s worried. He worries a lot about Brennan. This she does know. But things between the two of them are shaping differently. He knows that she knows this too, and that it's something coming, something that they're going to have to talk about.
"I suppose I've trained myself not to think about it."
She looks back over at him, her mouth twisting shyly. "And I'm sure there's a specific term to it, as both Gordon and Sweets and their psychiatry have. I just, I guess I get it. We're all family, right?"
Her voice shifts and the sound plays at a hesitation, another one. He watches her as she swallows, bringing her mouth back into a slight smile. She’s calmer and he guesses he just can't let go of that moment; in his head, it unfolds sharply. He can play it again and again and it bothers him, really bothers him that something of this magnitude couldn't be shared with him. Then again, he reminds herself, she's never really talked about her foster situation. As he's never talked about his own history. He’s been fighting to rewrite for years.
He swallows slowly; as he can see her, in his head, even if he’s just imagining what he doesn’t know. Assumptions like this scare him too because there are the question of what if she feels like she can’t share anything and, if anything, there’s that simple why.
"We are."
It’s that easy to say. Turning to her, he steps in front of her and faces either side of her hips with his hands. His fingers slip against the surface but he only clutches the sink. It's for both a reassurance and a hope as if to show he's not going to push until she's ready. He keeps himself steady, alert as she sighs softly. Her lips part, her teeth sliding over her lip. It’s her nervous gesture; her hands slip forward, pressing over his shirt. Her fingers stretch, almost unsteadily. The print of her palms is both odd and fixed, easily taken.
He bows forward, if only to offer more of himself. His hands rise and fold over hers, his palms pressing onto her skin. They’re damp, still flushed from the water and the dishes. He tries not to think about it and his fingers are nervous too, stuttering over her skin as they sway back and forth. He tries to roll his thumb into circles, but swallows instead.
"Just -" Sighing, Booth lets his eyes close. "Just don't think you can't talk to me, okay? I don't ever want you to think that you can't talk to me, Bones. Whatever it is."
There’s less of unfamiliarity with his words; Booth knows himself better like this: standing, with support, and holding the weight of what he can. The offer is never about being a good man, god's man, and he has his father to thank for that very small bit of his life. But here, with Brennan and this, there's always a shift in what he understands, in what he lets himself understand.
He needs this. He needs her. And, if he's honest, standing in the familiarity of capability gives him just another piece to pass on. It’s completely terrifying to him. Not that the idea of trust between them, but that little by little and more than often, he's finding himself ready to face this. This, whatever it's going to be.
"I know."
There is a hitch in her voice and she leans forward, her hands pressing back into his. Her mouth touches the corner of his mouth, the gesture alternating between absent and purposeful. He just freezes though, his mouth still and his throat heavy even as it tightens. Her lips sink into his skin, flushed against his lips as they open slightly, almost to return the gesture. His fingers are tighter then over hers, the pull of her hands steady over his chest and into his palms. He needs them there.
And for that to rise into something beyond need, into the understanding that it really is, stills as she draws back, her lips parted slightly. He watches her swallow. He tries to swallow. He can feel the print over his skin and the slight pull of her perfume, both strange to notice and easy to keep. It’s not just the big things, he thinks. He’s starting to fall harder for the little things too.
Squeezing his hands, her fingers slip away. They linger awkwardly as they pass through his and he watches as Brennan turns back to the sink. She turns the water on and hits back over the pile of dishes, slapping sharply into the small puddles from earlier. The noise makes him sigh and he listens as she starts to hum again, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes slowly.
It’s familiar again. "It's your turn to make coffee," she adds.
tornado faces the east
he hesitates, after a quick smile to a disappearing Sweets, and then shuts the door, bolting each lock; with a hand pressed into the wood, he listens to her move around his kitchen. she’s humming. brennan hums. when east meets west. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for mayhem on a cross. 1,900 words, pg.
-
At the door, he can hear the water start to run.
He hesitates, after a quick smile to a disappearing Sweets, and then shuts the door, bolting each lock; with a hand pressed into the wood, he listens to her move around his kitchen. She’s humming. Brennan hums. It's one of those strange, partial quirks that come and go, often more so than usual. They feel too private, almost. But there's a light shift in his mouth, almost another smile, and he takes a deep breath as he turns.
The light softens into a heavy glow, breaking at the frame the cuts the kitchen into the corner. There’s music still, a jazz piece that he picked later, forgotten at the early conversations of dinner. The outside is shifting against the shades of his window too, over his couch and a few tables; all pieces lead back to the kitchen, and a few old photographs from a summer weekend with Parker face the frame as well.
He moves quietly, shuffling his hands into his pockets. There’s a hesitation brimming against his mouth. He’s trying not to think of the confessions from earlier either. It’s not that he can't or maybe, even, it's not that he won't. There’s such a weight to the idea that there's really more to Brennan that he doesn't know. He doesn't like it. He doesn't know how not to like it. He doesn't want her to feel like she can't tell him anything.
He can still taste his own.
Or maybe it was never meant to come up, as it bothers him even that way. Still though, he heads to the kitchen and leans into the frame to watch her. She’s still humming, unaware as her hands dip into the dishes and the water. It’s a routine. At her place, she cooks and he takes on dishes. At his place, he cooks and she takes on dishes. It's an intimate pattern of guesses, little nuances that deliver him into this place, this place that he can acknowledge this something he's not quite ready to say to her.
But he watches her quietly. Her fingers spread in contrast against a dish that she's holding. They always seem long, even when their hands exchange in passing moments. Rebecca used have dishes with flowers. He likes his plain, and Brennan follows only in color, mismatching sizes and shapes. It’s something he's never really understood. She’s never really given an answer back.
"You okay?" and finally, he just asks. The question filters into the surface, shifting only as his voice thickens. He swallows another question, stepping forward and joining her at the sink. He grabs one of the towels he keeps on the side, taking a dish that she hands him.
Quiet, Brennan shrugs. There’s a brief turn of her mouth, but nothing more as she works her hands over the next dish. The whites of her nails shift into the sponge, scrapping away at the last of the food. The sound itself is hard between them, swift as it scratches over the surface. Her skin is flushed and the water's too warm; he can only guess, but he doesn't want to be too forward.
He tries for her, instead, and says, "you would've liked him, Pops - took me and Jared on fishing trips, told us old war stories, and said if he hadn't joined the service, he'd probably be somewhere overseas, between the pyramids and Babylon, trying to find some ancient secret."
She looks up, handing him the next dish. Her mouth relaxes, but her gaze is unreadable, as if she were trying to gauge what kind of response he was expecting. He could just say you can talk to me because she's supposed to know that. It's never that easy either. At least, he'd like her to know that she can because she's never, without fail, not been that person for him. It's not about process. It's about time. What people underestimate about Brennan is that she knows too and hiding, most of the time, is how she copes with expectation and interaction.
"I'm fine, Booth."
He frowns, gripping both the towel and dish in his hands. His finger stretch into the face of the place, his thumb digging into the porcelain. Water slides over his skin, folding into the nooks between his fingers. The cuff of his sleeve slowly dampens as the water starts to run over his hand, uncurling over his wrist as it falls. He watches as she reaches forward, brushing her fingers over his wrist and the fabric.
"It was a long time ago," she says slowly. "I - "
And as she stops, her hand curls around the dish. She pulls it away from him and he can only stare, watching her as she places it into the sink with the others. Her hands then curl around the edge of the sink. He tries not to notice, the quick break and the odd gesture. The mix of actions is never transparent. Sometimes, he can get it. Most times, he wonders if he's missed something.
"You don't have to tell me," he murmurs.
"It happened a long time ago." it's the repetition that sharpens the weight and the odd part is that she's never broken his gaze, watching him as if to see how he's reacting to all of this. She doesn't like to hide things. But she's never told him either. Then again, he has to remind himself, there are things that he's only really alluded to. He has stories too. Most memories of his still live, breathe, and haven't changed; it's never been about what she thinks. He just doesn't know how to tell her.
Turning around, Brennan leans back against the sink. Her mouth twists and she looks off, studying the open frame into his living room. The space seems darker. The water still runs between them and he looks to the sink, watching it as it spills over the small pile of dishes and silverware. He turns the water off and the sound stumbles, lapping away at the pile. He takes the place of her hands, curling his fingers into the sink.
The music seems to fill the silence between the two of them. It falls only in murmurs, almost stilted. Outside, he hears laughter from neighbors. There’s shuffling of feet over their heads. He almost misses the company, wishing desperately that there were some sort of distraction out of this. He’s brought it up. He’s worried. He worries a lot about Brennan. This she does know. But things between the two of them are shaping differently. He knows that she knows this too, and that it's something coming, something that they're going to have to talk about.
"I suppose I've trained myself not to think about it."
She looks back over at him, her mouth twisting shyly. "And I'm sure there's a specific term to it, as both Gordon and Sweets and their psychiatry have. I just, I guess I get it. We're all family, right?"
Her voice shifts and the sound plays at a hesitation, another one. He watches her as she swallows, bringing her mouth back into a slight smile. She’s calmer and he guesses he just can't let go of that moment; in his head, it unfolds sharply. He can play it again and again and it bothers him, really bothers him that something of this magnitude couldn't be shared with him. Then again, he reminds herself, she's never really talked about her foster situation. As he's never talked about his own history. He’s been fighting to rewrite for years.
He swallows slowly; as he can see her, in his head, even if he’s just imagining what he doesn’t know. Assumptions like this scare him too because there are the question of what if she feels like she can’t share anything and, if anything, there’s that simple why.
"We are."
It’s that easy to say. Turning to her, he steps in front of her and faces either side of her hips with his hands. His fingers slip against the surface but he only clutches the sink. It's for both a reassurance and a hope as if to show he's not going to push until she's ready. He keeps himself steady, alert as she sighs softly. Her lips part, her teeth sliding over her lip. It’s her nervous gesture; her hands slip forward, pressing over his shirt. Her fingers stretch, almost unsteadily. The print of her palms is both odd and fixed, easily taken.
He bows forward, if only to offer more of himself. His hands rise and fold over hers, his palms pressing onto her skin. They’re damp, still flushed from the water and the dishes. He tries not to think about it and his fingers are nervous too, stuttering over her skin as they sway back and forth. He tries to roll his thumb into circles, but swallows instead.
"Just -" Sighing, Booth lets his eyes close. "Just don't think you can't talk to me, okay? I don't ever want you to think that you can't talk to me, Bones. Whatever it is."
There’s less of unfamiliarity with his words; Booth knows himself better like this: standing, with support, and holding the weight of what he can. The offer is never about being a good man, god's man, and he has his father to thank for that very small bit of his life. But here, with Brennan and this, there's always a shift in what he understands, in what he lets himself understand.
He needs this. He needs her. And, if he's honest, standing in the familiarity of capability gives him just another piece to pass on. It’s completely terrifying to him. Not that the idea of trust between them, but that little by little and more than often, he's finding himself ready to face this. This, whatever it's going to be.
"I know."
There is a hitch in her voice and she leans forward, her hands pressing back into his. Her mouth touches the corner of his mouth, the gesture alternating between absent and purposeful. He just freezes though, his mouth still and his throat heavy even as it tightens. Her lips sink into his skin, flushed against his lips as they open slightly, almost to return the gesture. His fingers are tighter then over hers, the pull of her hands steady over his chest and into his palms. He needs them there.
And for that to rise into something beyond need, into the understanding that it really is, stills as she draws back, her lips parted slightly. He watches her swallow. He tries to swallow. He can feel the print over his skin and the slight pull of her perfume, both strange to notice and easy to keep. It’s not just the big things, he thinks. He’s starting to fall harder for the little things too.
Squeezing his hands, her fingers slip away. They linger awkwardly as they pass through his and he watches as Brennan turns back to the sink. She turns the water on and hits back over the pile of dishes, slapping sharply into the small puddles from earlier. The noise makes him sigh and he listens as she starts to hum again, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes slowly.
It’s familiar again. "It's your turn to make coffee," she adds.