Bones Fic: kids in the hall
kids in the hall
in front of her, the coffee stands near-empty. newspaper secrets are never for sale. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for mayhem on a cross. 4,560 words, pg.
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In front of her, the coffee stands near-empty.
The second cup, not first, and she's always a little early anyway, mostly out of habit; the diner does stand quietly midday, her favorite time of the weekend, with pocket spaces and quiet tables, the light smell of coffee and cooking. It’s an odd thing to keep to, but she's never been less than frank with her own habits. Some things won't change.
Next to her, the window opens into the lazy Saturday. There are small clumps of people passing from store to store, weaving through cars and into restaurants. She thinks of calling her dad again. Then she stops. Max is keeping himself distant because of a few memories. There are birthdays and anniversaries, all of which she knows are coming up. She talked to Russ earlier in the week. Without saying, they're both ready for those conversations.
But she's agreed to meet Booth and Parker for pie, after their park time. Mostly, she knows it's for Booth. Parker's mother is going on another vacation, whisking the boy away with her. She likes Rebecca, she has no reason not to, but at the same time, there's this strange pull of understanding that she has more for Booth, shuffled between her own understanding of time and how the cards are really dealt out.
This isn't the first time she's been a witness either. This isn't the first time she's been invited. She likes that she's getting invited. She tries not to let it feel selfish.
"Another coffee, sweetheart?"
Looking up, she shakes her head at the waitress. She’s new - an older woman that smiles on point and writes with tight fingers and early signs of arthritis. There’s no recognition on her face. Brennan's a weekend regular too. Her fingers curl around the handle of her mug, pulling it forward.
"No," she murmurs, "but thank you."
She tucks it between her wrists, facing the mouth with both of her thumbs. She can taste the heaviness of the flavor still, from the first cup and the one she had earlier this morning. She's been doing more writing, as of late, and her hours are becoming stranger again. She likes them too. It’s a seed of unpredictability that no one else has. It's a selfish thing and she's well aware of that, but secrets are for her too. Sometimes, she feels like she doesn't have many secrets.
Her gaze frames into focus again, back at the window as she spots Parker and Booth crossing the street. They’re flushed, grinning widely as Parker keeps a small soccer ball tucked into his side. Her mouth turns slightly and she watches them. There’s a pull of curiosity, unraveling somewhere between affection and understanding. Booth is a good father. It’s the only chance that anyone gets to see him be this open and this vulnerable; she often marvels at her own idea of chance, of being allowed into his life like this. She knows what it could mean and it really scares her.
Swallowing, she watches them as they come to the door.
The bell rings, slapping into the glass as Booth laughs and scuffles his son forward. The little boy's eyes light up and he runs over to her table, their table and takes the seat next to her. He grins shyly, handing the soccer ball back to Booth as he takes the seat across from her.
"Hi Bones!"
Parker is a mix of Booth and Rebecca, dark eyes and unruly hair; his smile is all Booth, wide and unprecedented. His shyness is strange to her, on the other hand, and there's this pull of affection that she has for the little boy. That much, she does understand.
"Hello."
She looks up then, to Booth, and watches as he smiles in amusement. There are grass stains and dirt, split between the two of them, and Booth has caught some along his face. She watches as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it drop behind him and against the chair. Then she reaches forward, shuffling her coffee to the side and slides her fingers over his cheek. She brushes the dirt away.
"The park was great," he says, flushing under her fingers, "and I think we're going to have to steal Bones away from her silly Saturday meetings - right, Buddy?"
Parker laughs. "Right."
She smiles awkwardly, caught between shyness and amusement; her meeting this morning was a lie, a small one, because she knows how rare and thin Booth's time with his son is. She knows what it's like to want that private moment. She appreciates the invitation.
But the conversation falls back onto Parker, as he brings up little things like school and his friends, in between an order for himself and Booth. She tries to follow, letting the stories color the way she pieces him together, the way Booth watches him, and the way she's allowed to see this. He asks about Max and she has to force herself to phrase her words properly. She knows she can't tell a child about her issues with her father. They’re having problems and with the reveal she gave into the other day, there's a lot more that she knows that she needs to confront before she can even fathom a proper relationship with Max.
Booth is watching them too. From the corner of her eye, she can see the different shifts in his face; his responses are affectionate, warm, and she's trying not to fall into overanalyzing any of them because she knows where that will lead her. There’s so much to talk about anyhow and she feels like she's more than a little behind. She wants to do this properly. Somehow, it's starting to feel like an excuse.
Parker drops a hand on her arm. She looks down, then up, and she realizes that she's holding her coffee a little too tightly. At the counter, their waitress is organizing their order, blueberry pie for both Booth and his son. She could laugh at the moment, but smiles at Parker instead.
“Can I ask you something?”
He’s shy again. Booth told her once that he doesn't quite understand what to make of her. He knows what he knows from what he tells him about her. She wonders about the conversations that the two of them. It’s why she's a little reluctant to go on these things. It’s all these lines, walls, and metaphors that are unraveling in her head. There’s too much she wants to do and say.
She does nod, then, and Parker's interrupted briefly by their waitress. Two plates are shuffled in front of them, slices of pie full of whipped cream and extra sauce. Her mouth turns and she meets Booth's gaze, shaking her head as he grins back with amusement.
Parker starts again. “You read a lot of books?”
There is nothing odd about the question or remarkable, if anything, but she's caught a little off-guard. He’s spooning a piece of pie into his mouth, some of the cream already tucked over his face. Another smile plays at her lips and she reaches for her napkin. Her fingers curl into the fabric, but they don't move.
She sticks to the question, studying the little boy thoughtfully. There are memories, from then and from now, that play against her. There are things that still hold to her, from the way Russ had to leave to the basic, very basic points of survival that she taught herself to have. Books, all her books were her way of going in and out, weaving herself away from a situation and facing more. Maybe that's why she writes. She hasn't asked herself yet.
“Everything I learned,” she says slowly, “came from reading a lot of books - when, I suppose, when I was your age.”
"I like books."
Booth looks at the both of them, amused. "He was hoping that he'd get to read some of yours -"
"Oh."
And somehow, a blush seems to work itself onto her cheeks. She can feel her mouth start to turn too, her teeth picking nervously at her lip. She doesn't know how to say anything back to that. She’s almost caught, between flattery and amusement, being shy and completely awkward with facing something to say back.
"I - "
She takes a deep breath - what does she say? She’d like to say she’s good with children or knows, with some discretion, the difference between the right answer and the wrong answer. She looks up at Booth, then away from him, back to Parker; the little boy keeps her gaze, watching her earnestly.
He’s not going to be little anymore, she thinks. That’s how long she’s known Booth.
"I think that they might be something you'd read when you're older." She adds, then swallowing, "and then, you're welcome to read them if you'd like."
Parker nods, seemingly satisfied. He digs into his pie again, shooting himself into a new topic. She’s only half-listening, her fingers playing at the mouth of her mug. She’s not completely sure what he was asking about, if there was anything to ask about. She thinks she appreciates it. She’s not sure how to appreciate it.
The coffee is starting to fade against her palms, her thumbs drawing away from the mug. She picks at the hand, and then swallows, looking back at Parker as he laughs softly at something his dad says. She looks up at Booth, flashing a light smile. She’s confused all the same and he shrugs, shaking his head.
Later, it seems to say.
But after, she ends up following Booth to his place under the guise of a late dinner and an argument that she can't quite remember, as it was never important to begin with.
It's too early for dinner, she doesn't tell him. He pockets his keys when they step inside, turning to lock the door as she tugs her jacket off. Her shoulders rise, under the release of the jacket's weight, and she runs a hand through her hair. The strands feel thin and she winces, her nails caught briefly in the ends. She's quiet as she sits on his couch, tucking her legs underneath her as he disappears into the kitchen.
"He's getting so big," she calls.
There's a hitch in her voice, even as she looks around the apartment. It echoes and her ears are full, ringing with the dull murmur of her question. The shades are rolled up and the windows open into different heights of light, all blurring into the floor. It weaves through the carpet and climbs onto pieces of chairs and tables, spreading some pictures into view.
She smiles lightly when she spots a picture of the two of them, at a function Booth came with her too; they're serial back-up daters, Angela told them that night, as if it were a private joke neither of them were privy too. Booth steps back out from the kitchen; his hand wrapped around two beers. He puts down the first, opening the second and then handing it to her as he sits down.
"He is," he agrees. And she thinks that this is the best part of these weekends, the ones that she does get to see him. She loses all concepts of time and even more figuratively, of place. They’ve been spending weekends together since the beginning, pocketed in between fluctuations of different choices. But even without him, she was always thinking about these moments. She enjoys them, friend or not. She always has.
He is her friend though, she corrects herself. She frowns lightly, over her beer, and the corners of her mouth are tight. She feels her lips turn into each other and her teeth skim them. It’s never been about friendship. That’s always been there. She knows this. She’s always known this. Big moments, small moments, and what goes beyond them, what's always gone beyond them is the fact that they're still here. It’s the fact that it's - whatever it is - has always been two steps ahead. Maybe, it's been her own way of acknowledging what's happening.
"Did you tell him to say that?"
Booth blushes, shaking his head. "No."
Her mouth relaxes and she sighs softly, her relief clear. He reaches forward, tugging her beer from her hands and putting it on the coffee table in front of her. He still hasn't touched his and it rests, unopened and next to her. The light from the window hits the necks and an odd, amber color hits back against the wall. There’s a horn outside his window and laughter as people pass outside, in the hallway behind them.
"He likes you."
She doesn't know why that sounds funny, but she's quiet. Booth smiles again, shrugging. "He likes you," he repeats, "and I think that he's getting to that phase where it's going to be just soccer and more and more new things. I kinda wish it were baseball or maybe, maybe football. But I can't complain. He's got a friend in school too that's into Harry Potter and that kiddie James Bond series - I don't even know. But I figure you'd be the right person."
"Oh."
Again, she tries to respond but the words disappear from mind. Her mouth curls into a frown and then relaxes, as she shifts back onto the couch. She turns away from him, sitting straighter and staring into the room. They’ve done this before. They’ve talked like this before. She doesn't know why this is so funny to her. She doesn't know why it feels funny. It doesn't mean that this is different.
It shouldn't be different. It's never been about confrontation and she feels like she's missing something, that something is waiting for her to turn and just take it. She’s never had a problem with everything else. But this, here, is becoming different again and while she's sure she has an idea of what it means, it scares her more that it's coming faster and not letting her anticipate what the change might be.
"Can I tell you something?"
She looks back at him, studying him. Booth is worried. The lines of his face are running into his mouth, the corners fighting to push his mouth into a frown. She almost reaches forward, if only to trace the worry marks in his forehead. She can almost hear him in her head. He's worrying about if he's said the wrong thing. This is Booth.
"Sure," he says slowly. "You know that you can tell me anything."
She does. She can see him then, back in the room with Sweets; that room was never the same and the car, even as the moment was shuffled back for another time, rang clearly in her ears for the rest of her night. There's a lot, she's been wanting to say, there's a lot of me that I don't know how to share. It's no one's fault, it's just how she's learned to move on and away from these things. At best, it can be read as avoidance. But then again, nobody's really wanted to know.
Sighs softly, she swallows.
"I like when you invite me - to these things, with you and Parker. I know it sounds silly and I feel very silly saying this to you, but I do. I like spending time with Parker."
Each word is punctuated with hesitation and she can hear herself go through you to Parker, drawing over the vowels as if she were almost slurring. Her cheeks are warm and she dips forward, burying her hands into her lap. Her fingers spread against her jeans and she pulls at them.
"I like when you're there too."
His response is quiet, tentative, and she watches as one of his hands closes over hers. His fingers break between her palms, pulling one hand away from her lap. Their fingers lace, out of habit, and drop between them over the couch. She stares at them, and then looks over at him; his gaze is never readable in these moments, but here, she starts to see the same lace of affection from the diner. It’s something that's becoming a constant.
"I wanted to tell you."
His hand is warm, almost too warm, but her fingers tighten into his. He tries to speak, but she shakes her head, looking down again. She’s not good at this.
"There's a lot," she says quietly. "It's not that I'm keeping secrets from you, Booth. There are things that I'm not quite sure how to talk about. It's hard for me to talk about things that don't pertain to the lab or -"
She shrugs.
"Max doesn't know. Russ either."
It’s the most honest she's been with anybody. Not to say that she's never honest - she just understands how and what to give people, how to carry herself through the ironies of a situation without getting too attached. Attachment worries her. Sometimes, it even scares her more. She’s gotten her heart broken in different ways and sometimes, most times, she's glad that people just don't know that.
He nods slowly. "I'm here."
And she nods back, because she knows and it's so simple to hear and to trust him when he says i'm here because this is Booth and she believes Booth when he says these things. It’s instinctive and necessary, the makeup of how they've always been. It’s never changed and there are times where the constant scares her because of how they both depend entirely on it.
Leaning forward, she brushes her lips against his cheek. It feels awkward to her, but necessary - as if to say thanks. She wants to be more affectionate, appropriately so. There’s no particular line of reason, in her head, but there are things that she does want and conveying to them seems to be the likely step.
So she lingers too and her lips part over his skin, as she slips into a sigh. She doesn't mean to. He feels warm under her mouth and his hand slips from hers, cupping her hip as he tugs her closer. She’s aware of shifting forward, as if to accommodate the space. But her hand moves out from under his and turns over his arm, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"This is - "
Her voice is soft, against his jaw now, and he nods slowly, " - weird?"
She nods too. There's a growing sensation of laughter, crawling up and against her throat. The pull is warm. It tickles and she swallows, trying to grab some semblance of control over what she's doing. It shouldn't matter but she has to think about it, she needs to think about it. These things only make sense if she does.
But Booth draws back first, his hand still lingering against her waist. His gaze, now, stands unreadable even as his mouth curls slightly. He shakes his head and she almost wants to ask what, but she doesn't know how to push her forward in that sense. She doesn't want to blurt it out either.
"Movie?"
And it's relatively easy; it seems, for him to smile. She wishes for some distraction, as the components of the moment are weighing too heavily in her mind. But she draws herself back, reaching for her beer and then settling in her corner as if to take control of the space again.
"Sure," she nods. She’s relieved.
When she wakes up, the television is buzzing into an off-colored blue and the windows are open into a day that's completely left them, the slight glow from the street lamps walking into the room.
She remembers the suggestion of a movie, his and not hers. Her eyes are heavy and her beer is empty, forgotten back on the coffee table. There is tension pressing into her neck, a long arch that tightens when she shifts to sit up. Her hand is curled around Booth's thigh as she pushes herself up and he's look back at her, his mouth half-curled in sleepy amusement.
"Sorry," he yawns. "I guess the week was longer than we realized."
She can only nod. She tries to ignore his we. Her mind starts to grapple with the processing; dinners are normal, weekends are normal, as are little things like coffee and pie and even movies are normal. This stands on its own merit.
Bringing her hands to her face, she rubs her eyes. Her head swims with a slight heaviness. She shifts and her legs fall forward, her feet dropping over her boots. She looks down and they're buried on the floor, skewed as if she just kicked them off. She lets one of her hands shift back and starts to rub her neck. She’s not really hungry. She doesn't want to go either. She doesn't know why she's thinking of leaving all of the sudden.
"Pizza?"
She looks back over him, as he quips, and falls into a slight smile, the corners of her mouth turning. She nods, but neither of them moves; only burrowing back into the couch. Her hair is starting fall back against the sides of her face, skimming under her jaw and over her eyes.
Booth shifts forward, his fingers warm over her skin as he pushes it back from her face. It's nothing new too as they fall into these gestures all the time privately. First her, then him. Then her, following him. It’s a cycle and a pattern, each privy to how much closer they really are. But it's only for them. She leans into his hand too, her eyes closing as his fingers skim down the curve of her cheek.
When her eyes open again, his gaze is serious, so serious and she knows, just knows that it's that kind of moment. Booth is never not open with her and she can't remember a time where she doesn't know that something is trying to be said. It's not about appropriate or necessary either and there's no one, absolutely no one to come in and take it. There’s no change, no interruption. Her stomach slowly starts to knot in nerves and she lets a shy hand shift forward, her fingers brushing against the buttons of his shirt.
"We'll have to watch it again," he says quietly. "The movie."
Her throat is starting to burn and she studies him, trying to grasp some knowledge of what he's thinking. She can't do this if she doesn't know. And while she can see things, she can't completely understand. Or maybe, maybe it's that she already knows -
"Okay," she nods instead, "I can watch it again."
She's not even sure what the movie is called anymore or if it even matters; he's been trying to get her to catch up on classics, the little nuances that make him. She likes it. She hasn't exactly figured out how to tell him but, then again, maybe this isn't really the time.
And maybe, maybe she really is that scared and that admission can only come out as a cycle, selfish and for herself. It feels like a push. Maybe. Only, then, sometimes. But he doesn't reply. His mouth settles into a slight frown, slight smile as if he's trying to decide. The air feels slow, so slow, as he shifts forward and the couch sinks, between them as he draws his mouth over hers.
Her mind sinks, as her mouth turns into a soft gasp, back against his. She can taste coffee and beer and even a little bit of that cream, the faint sweetness from their diner meet-up. Her fingers curl into his shirt, her thumb sliding under the fabric between buttons. Her nail catches on the button and it makes tiny pop, muffled against him. She presses closer and deepens the kiss, twisting so she can be closer.
His tongue slides slowly into her mouth, drawing over lip and then her teeth as it presses over hers. Her mouth makes a soft noise and the vibration sinks between them, plucking at the weight that starts to grow. She’s flushed, almost hopelessly so, as her mind begins to still. Slowly though, he lowers them back into the couch. The shift is almost uncomfortable and the angle is awkward, tight, but she keeps kissing him. Her legs tangle slightly with his and everything feels like it's spinning. There are names of reactions and chemicals, a passive attempt to make some sense of this. But she's kissing him, really kissing, and sense, all the sense she has, leaves her quickly.
Booth pulls away first.
Her eyes open to him, over her as his fingers fan lightly against the line of his jaw. His mouth opens, but she shakes her head and tries to smile, stilling her fingers against his. It feels funny to be this aware, aware of how intimate they are with each other. He shifts up then and her legs pull back, as she rises to settle, somewhat against his side. She looks down and she's blushing, just trying to figure this out.
"We can watch it one more time," he says again. His voice thickens. He's trying not to look at her either, something between a smile and a frown written into his mouth. It's as if he were trying to piece together an out. He’s flushed or maybe she's projecting, the warmth heavy in her cheeks as she studies him.
Her hair spills against her face too, unruly and out of place as she tries, pushes for a way to say something back. She almost hates that she thinks he's giving her an out, but she doesn't want an out and the most frustrating part of all of this is that she doesn't know how to tell him. This is something that she'd like to be good at. Like him. Booth is good at all of these things. This is the one truth she knows.
"I - I don't mind."
It sounds awkward and almost forced, but she pushes herself to smile, however small; it's for a reassurance and maybe, maybe she'll be able to tell him more. It doesn't have to be now - right? She hopes it doesn't have to be know because now, she thinks, now she doesn't know to think.
He smiles anyway, soft and shy again. "Okay."
They'll still order pizza, maybe, even though she remembers something about cooking. Maybe, it was a different day. And she's breathless, still, grappling with the thoughts that still stand to watch her try to get this. It doesn't matter. It should matter. It’s only further proof that it's been there longer than she's realized, maybe even for him too; there's some comfort in that thought, small but there.
This isn't going away. It’s going to be there. It’s always been there. Talking about it is scary and it's even scarier how aware she is, even more with the print of his mouth over hers. Her lips are dry and there's this funny ache, climbing as she sneaks another gaze at him. She wants to kiss him again. But one thing at a time. She's nervous. She doesn't want him to see her nervous quite yet.
Slowly, her fingers curl around his. They’re always warm.
in front of her, the coffee stands near-empty. newspaper secrets are never for sale. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for mayhem on a cross. 4,560 words, pg.
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In front of her, the coffee stands near-empty.
The second cup, not first, and she's always a little early anyway, mostly out of habit; the diner does stand quietly midday, her favorite time of the weekend, with pocket spaces and quiet tables, the light smell of coffee and cooking. It’s an odd thing to keep to, but she's never been less than frank with her own habits. Some things won't change.
Next to her, the window opens into the lazy Saturday. There are small clumps of people passing from store to store, weaving through cars and into restaurants. She thinks of calling her dad again. Then she stops. Max is keeping himself distant because of a few memories. There are birthdays and anniversaries, all of which she knows are coming up. She talked to Russ earlier in the week. Without saying, they're both ready for those conversations.
But she's agreed to meet Booth and Parker for pie, after their park time. Mostly, she knows it's for Booth. Parker's mother is going on another vacation, whisking the boy away with her. She likes Rebecca, she has no reason not to, but at the same time, there's this strange pull of understanding that she has more for Booth, shuffled between her own understanding of time and how the cards are really dealt out.
This isn't the first time she's been a witness either. This isn't the first time she's been invited. She likes that she's getting invited. She tries not to let it feel selfish.
"Another coffee, sweetheart?"
Looking up, she shakes her head at the waitress. She’s new - an older woman that smiles on point and writes with tight fingers and early signs of arthritis. There’s no recognition on her face. Brennan's a weekend regular too. Her fingers curl around the handle of her mug, pulling it forward.
"No," she murmurs, "but thank you."
She tucks it between her wrists, facing the mouth with both of her thumbs. She can taste the heaviness of the flavor still, from the first cup and the one she had earlier this morning. She's been doing more writing, as of late, and her hours are becoming stranger again. She likes them too. It’s a seed of unpredictability that no one else has. It's a selfish thing and she's well aware of that, but secrets are for her too. Sometimes, she feels like she doesn't have many secrets.
Her gaze frames into focus again, back at the window as she spots Parker and Booth crossing the street. They’re flushed, grinning widely as Parker keeps a small soccer ball tucked into his side. Her mouth turns slightly and she watches them. There’s a pull of curiosity, unraveling somewhere between affection and understanding. Booth is a good father. It’s the only chance that anyone gets to see him be this open and this vulnerable; she often marvels at her own idea of chance, of being allowed into his life like this. She knows what it could mean and it really scares her.
Swallowing, she watches them as they come to the door.
The bell rings, slapping into the glass as Booth laughs and scuffles his son forward. The little boy's eyes light up and he runs over to her table, their table and takes the seat next to her. He grins shyly, handing the soccer ball back to Booth as he takes the seat across from her.
"Hi Bones!"
Parker is a mix of Booth and Rebecca, dark eyes and unruly hair; his smile is all Booth, wide and unprecedented. His shyness is strange to her, on the other hand, and there's this pull of affection that she has for the little boy. That much, she does understand.
"Hello."
She looks up then, to Booth, and watches as he smiles in amusement. There are grass stains and dirt, split between the two of them, and Booth has caught some along his face. She watches as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it drop behind him and against the chair. Then she reaches forward, shuffling her coffee to the side and slides her fingers over his cheek. She brushes the dirt away.
"The park was great," he says, flushing under her fingers, "and I think we're going to have to steal Bones away from her silly Saturday meetings - right, Buddy?"
Parker laughs. "Right."
She smiles awkwardly, caught between shyness and amusement; her meeting this morning was a lie, a small one, because she knows how rare and thin Booth's time with his son is. She knows what it's like to want that private moment. She appreciates the invitation.
But the conversation falls back onto Parker, as he brings up little things like school and his friends, in between an order for himself and Booth. She tries to follow, letting the stories color the way she pieces him together, the way Booth watches him, and the way she's allowed to see this. He asks about Max and she has to force herself to phrase her words properly. She knows she can't tell a child about her issues with her father. They’re having problems and with the reveal she gave into the other day, there's a lot more that she knows that she needs to confront before she can even fathom a proper relationship with Max.
Booth is watching them too. From the corner of her eye, she can see the different shifts in his face; his responses are affectionate, warm, and she's trying not to fall into overanalyzing any of them because she knows where that will lead her. There’s so much to talk about anyhow and she feels like she's more than a little behind. She wants to do this properly. Somehow, it's starting to feel like an excuse.
Parker drops a hand on her arm. She looks down, then up, and she realizes that she's holding her coffee a little too tightly. At the counter, their waitress is organizing their order, blueberry pie for both Booth and his son. She could laugh at the moment, but smiles at Parker instead.
“Can I ask you something?”
He’s shy again. Booth told her once that he doesn't quite understand what to make of her. He knows what he knows from what he tells him about her. She wonders about the conversations that the two of them. It’s why she's a little reluctant to go on these things. It’s all these lines, walls, and metaphors that are unraveling in her head. There’s too much she wants to do and say.
She does nod, then, and Parker's interrupted briefly by their waitress. Two plates are shuffled in front of them, slices of pie full of whipped cream and extra sauce. Her mouth turns and she meets Booth's gaze, shaking her head as he grins back with amusement.
Parker starts again. “You read a lot of books?”
There is nothing odd about the question or remarkable, if anything, but she's caught a little off-guard. He’s spooning a piece of pie into his mouth, some of the cream already tucked over his face. Another smile plays at her lips and she reaches for her napkin. Her fingers curl into the fabric, but they don't move.
She sticks to the question, studying the little boy thoughtfully. There are memories, from then and from now, that play against her. There are things that still hold to her, from the way Russ had to leave to the basic, very basic points of survival that she taught herself to have. Books, all her books were her way of going in and out, weaving herself away from a situation and facing more. Maybe that's why she writes. She hasn't asked herself yet.
“Everything I learned,” she says slowly, “came from reading a lot of books - when, I suppose, when I was your age.”
"I like books."
Booth looks at the both of them, amused. "He was hoping that he'd get to read some of yours -"
"Oh."
And somehow, a blush seems to work itself onto her cheeks. She can feel her mouth start to turn too, her teeth picking nervously at her lip. She doesn't know how to say anything back to that. She’s almost caught, between flattery and amusement, being shy and completely awkward with facing something to say back.
"I - "
She takes a deep breath - what does she say? She’d like to say she’s good with children or knows, with some discretion, the difference between the right answer and the wrong answer. She looks up at Booth, then away from him, back to Parker; the little boy keeps her gaze, watching her earnestly.
He’s not going to be little anymore, she thinks. That’s how long she’s known Booth.
"I think that they might be something you'd read when you're older." She adds, then swallowing, "and then, you're welcome to read them if you'd like."
Parker nods, seemingly satisfied. He digs into his pie again, shooting himself into a new topic. She’s only half-listening, her fingers playing at the mouth of her mug. She’s not completely sure what he was asking about, if there was anything to ask about. She thinks she appreciates it. She’s not sure how to appreciate it.
The coffee is starting to fade against her palms, her thumbs drawing away from the mug. She picks at the hand, and then swallows, looking back at Parker as he laughs softly at something his dad says. She looks up at Booth, flashing a light smile. She’s confused all the same and he shrugs, shaking his head.
Later, it seems to say.
But after, she ends up following Booth to his place under the guise of a late dinner and an argument that she can't quite remember, as it was never important to begin with.
It's too early for dinner, she doesn't tell him. He pockets his keys when they step inside, turning to lock the door as she tugs her jacket off. Her shoulders rise, under the release of the jacket's weight, and she runs a hand through her hair. The strands feel thin and she winces, her nails caught briefly in the ends. She's quiet as she sits on his couch, tucking her legs underneath her as he disappears into the kitchen.
"He's getting so big," she calls.
There's a hitch in her voice, even as she looks around the apartment. It echoes and her ears are full, ringing with the dull murmur of her question. The shades are rolled up and the windows open into different heights of light, all blurring into the floor. It weaves through the carpet and climbs onto pieces of chairs and tables, spreading some pictures into view.
She smiles lightly when she spots a picture of the two of them, at a function Booth came with her too; they're serial back-up daters, Angela told them that night, as if it were a private joke neither of them were privy too. Booth steps back out from the kitchen; his hand wrapped around two beers. He puts down the first, opening the second and then handing it to her as he sits down.
"He is," he agrees. And she thinks that this is the best part of these weekends, the ones that she does get to see him. She loses all concepts of time and even more figuratively, of place. They’ve been spending weekends together since the beginning, pocketed in between fluctuations of different choices. But even without him, she was always thinking about these moments. She enjoys them, friend or not. She always has.
He is her friend though, she corrects herself. She frowns lightly, over her beer, and the corners of her mouth are tight. She feels her lips turn into each other and her teeth skim them. It’s never been about friendship. That’s always been there. She knows this. She’s always known this. Big moments, small moments, and what goes beyond them, what's always gone beyond them is the fact that they're still here. It’s the fact that it's - whatever it is - has always been two steps ahead. Maybe, it's been her own way of acknowledging what's happening.
"Did you tell him to say that?"
Booth blushes, shaking his head. "No."
Her mouth relaxes and she sighs softly, her relief clear. He reaches forward, tugging her beer from her hands and putting it on the coffee table in front of her. He still hasn't touched his and it rests, unopened and next to her. The light from the window hits the necks and an odd, amber color hits back against the wall. There’s a horn outside his window and laughter as people pass outside, in the hallway behind them.
"He likes you."
She doesn't know why that sounds funny, but she's quiet. Booth smiles again, shrugging. "He likes you," he repeats, "and I think that he's getting to that phase where it's going to be just soccer and more and more new things. I kinda wish it were baseball or maybe, maybe football. But I can't complain. He's got a friend in school too that's into Harry Potter and that kiddie James Bond series - I don't even know. But I figure you'd be the right person."
"Oh."
Again, she tries to respond but the words disappear from mind. Her mouth curls into a frown and then relaxes, as she shifts back onto the couch. She turns away from him, sitting straighter and staring into the room. They’ve done this before. They’ve talked like this before. She doesn't know why this is so funny to her. She doesn't know why it feels funny. It doesn't mean that this is different.
It shouldn't be different. It's never been about confrontation and she feels like she's missing something, that something is waiting for her to turn and just take it. She’s never had a problem with everything else. But this, here, is becoming different again and while she's sure she has an idea of what it means, it scares her more that it's coming faster and not letting her anticipate what the change might be.
"Can I tell you something?"
She looks back at him, studying him. Booth is worried. The lines of his face are running into his mouth, the corners fighting to push his mouth into a frown. She almost reaches forward, if only to trace the worry marks in his forehead. She can almost hear him in her head. He's worrying about if he's said the wrong thing. This is Booth.
"Sure," he says slowly. "You know that you can tell me anything."
She does. She can see him then, back in the room with Sweets; that room was never the same and the car, even as the moment was shuffled back for another time, rang clearly in her ears for the rest of her night. There's a lot, she's been wanting to say, there's a lot of me that I don't know how to share. It's no one's fault, it's just how she's learned to move on and away from these things. At best, it can be read as avoidance. But then again, nobody's really wanted to know.
Sighs softly, she swallows.
"I like when you invite me - to these things, with you and Parker. I know it sounds silly and I feel very silly saying this to you, but I do. I like spending time with Parker."
Each word is punctuated with hesitation and she can hear herself go through you to Parker, drawing over the vowels as if she were almost slurring. Her cheeks are warm and she dips forward, burying her hands into her lap. Her fingers spread against her jeans and she pulls at them.
"I like when you're there too."
His response is quiet, tentative, and she watches as one of his hands closes over hers. His fingers break between her palms, pulling one hand away from her lap. Their fingers lace, out of habit, and drop between them over the couch. She stares at them, and then looks over at him; his gaze is never readable in these moments, but here, she starts to see the same lace of affection from the diner. It’s something that's becoming a constant.
"I wanted to tell you."
His hand is warm, almost too warm, but her fingers tighten into his. He tries to speak, but she shakes her head, looking down again. She’s not good at this.
"There's a lot," she says quietly. "It's not that I'm keeping secrets from you, Booth. There are things that I'm not quite sure how to talk about. It's hard for me to talk about things that don't pertain to the lab or -"
She shrugs.
"Max doesn't know. Russ either."
It’s the most honest she's been with anybody. Not to say that she's never honest - she just understands how and what to give people, how to carry herself through the ironies of a situation without getting too attached. Attachment worries her. Sometimes, it even scares her more. She’s gotten her heart broken in different ways and sometimes, most times, she's glad that people just don't know that.
He nods slowly. "I'm here."
And she nods back, because she knows and it's so simple to hear and to trust him when he says i'm here because this is Booth and she believes Booth when he says these things. It’s instinctive and necessary, the makeup of how they've always been. It’s never changed and there are times where the constant scares her because of how they both depend entirely on it.
Leaning forward, she brushes her lips against his cheek. It feels awkward to her, but necessary - as if to say thanks. She wants to be more affectionate, appropriately so. There’s no particular line of reason, in her head, but there are things that she does want and conveying to them seems to be the likely step.
So she lingers too and her lips part over his skin, as she slips into a sigh. She doesn't mean to. He feels warm under her mouth and his hand slips from hers, cupping her hip as he tugs her closer. She’s aware of shifting forward, as if to accommodate the space. But her hand moves out from under his and turns over his arm, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"This is - "
Her voice is soft, against his jaw now, and he nods slowly, " - weird?"
She nods too. There's a growing sensation of laughter, crawling up and against her throat. The pull is warm. It tickles and she swallows, trying to grab some semblance of control over what she's doing. It shouldn't matter but she has to think about it, she needs to think about it. These things only make sense if she does.
But Booth draws back first, his hand still lingering against her waist. His gaze, now, stands unreadable even as his mouth curls slightly. He shakes his head and she almost wants to ask what, but she doesn't know how to push her forward in that sense. She doesn't want to blurt it out either.
"Movie?"
And it's relatively easy; it seems, for him to smile. She wishes for some distraction, as the components of the moment are weighing too heavily in her mind. But she draws herself back, reaching for her beer and then settling in her corner as if to take control of the space again.
"Sure," she nods. She’s relieved.
When she wakes up, the television is buzzing into an off-colored blue and the windows are open into a day that's completely left them, the slight glow from the street lamps walking into the room.
She remembers the suggestion of a movie, his and not hers. Her eyes are heavy and her beer is empty, forgotten back on the coffee table. There is tension pressing into her neck, a long arch that tightens when she shifts to sit up. Her hand is curled around Booth's thigh as she pushes herself up and he's look back at her, his mouth half-curled in sleepy amusement.
"Sorry," he yawns. "I guess the week was longer than we realized."
She can only nod. She tries to ignore his we. Her mind starts to grapple with the processing; dinners are normal, weekends are normal, as are little things like coffee and pie and even movies are normal. This stands on its own merit.
Bringing her hands to her face, she rubs her eyes. Her head swims with a slight heaviness. She shifts and her legs fall forward, her feet dropping over her boots. She looks down and they're buried on the floor, skewed as if she just kicked them off. She lets one of her hands shift back and starts to rub her neck. She’s not really hungry. She doesn't want to go either. She doesn't know why she's thinking of leaving all of the sudden.
"Pizza?"
She looks back over him, as he quips, and falls into a slight smile, the corners of her mouth turning. She nods, but neither of them moves; only burrowing back into the couch. Her hair is starting fall back against the sides of her face, skimming under her jaw and over her eyes.
Booth shifts forward, his fingers warm over her skin as he pushes it back from her face. It's nothing new too as they fall into these gestures all the time privately. First her, then him. Then her, following him. It’s a cycle and a pattern, each privy to how much closer they really are. But it's only for them. She leans into his hand too, her eyes closing as his fingers skim down the curve of her cheek.
When her eyes open again, his gaze is serious, so serious and she knows, just knows that it's that kind of moment. Booth is never not open with her and she can't remember a time where she doesn't know that something is trying to be said. It's not about appropriate or necessary either and there's no one, absolutely no one to come in and take it. There’s no change, no interruption. Her stomach slowly starts to knot in nerves and she lets a shy hand shift forward, her fingers brushing against the buttons of his shirt.
"We'll have to watch it again," he says quietly. "The movie."
Her throat is starting to burn and she studies him, trying to grasp some knowledge of what he's thinking. She can't do this if she doesn't know. And while she can see things, she can't completely understand. Or maybe, maybe it's that she already knows -
"Okay," she nods instead, "I can watch it again."
She's not even sure what the movie is called anymore or if it even matters; he's been trying to get her to catch up on classics, the little nuances that make him. She likes it. She hasn't exactly figured out how to tell him but, then again, maybe this isn't really the time.
And maybe, maybe she really is that scared and that admission can only come out as a cycle, selfish and for herself. It feels like a push. Maybe. Only, then, sometimes. But he doesn't reply. His mouth settles into a slight frown, slight smile as if he's trying to decide. The air feels slow, so slow, as he shifts forward and the couch sinks, between them as he draws his mouth over hers.
Her mind sinks, as her mouth turns into a soft gasp, back against his. She can taste coffee and beer and even a little bit of that cream, the faint sweetness from their diner meet-up. Her fingers curl into his shirt, her thumb sliding under the fabric between buttons. Her nail catches on the button and it makes tiny pop, muffled against him. She presses closer and deepens the kiss, twisting so she can be closer.
His tongue slides slowly into her mouth, drawing over lip and then her teeth as it presses over hers. Her mouth makes a soft noise and the vibration sinks between them, plucking at the weight that starts to grow. She’s flushed, almost hopelessly so, as her mind begins to still. Slowly though, he lowers them back into the couch. The shift is almost uncomfortable and the angle is awkward, tight, but she keeps kissing him. Her legs tangle slightly with his and everything feels like it's spinning. There are names of reactions and chemicals, a passive attempt to make some sense of this. But she's kissing him, really kissing, and sense, all the sense she has, leaves her quickly.
Booth pulls away first.
Her eyes open to him, over her as his fingers fan lightly against the line of his jaw. His mouth opens, but she shakes her head and tries to smile, stilling her fingers against his. It feels funny to be this aware, aware of how intimate they are with each other. He shifts up then and her legs pull back, as she rises to settle, somewhat against his side. She looks down and she's blushing, just trying to figure this out.
"We can watch it one more time," he says again. His voice thickens. He's trying not to look at her either, something between a smile and a frown written into his mouth. It's as if he were trying to piece together an out. He’s flushed or maybe she's projecting, the warmth heavy in her cheeks as she studies him.
Her hair spills against her face too, unruly and out of place as she tries, pushes for a way to say something back. She almost hates that she thinks he's giving her an out, but she doesn't want an out and the most frustrating part of all of this is that she doesn't know how to tell him. This is something that she'd like to be good at. Like him. Booth is good at all of these things. This is the one truth she knows.
"I - I don't mind."
It sounds awkward and almost forced, but she pushes herself to smile, however small; it's for a reassurance and maybe, maybe she'll be able to tell him more. It doesn't have to be now - right? She hopes it doesn't have to be know because now, she thinks, now she doesn't know to think.
He smiles anyway, soft and shy again. "Okay."
They'll still order pizza, maybe, even though she remembers something about cooking. Maybe, it was a different day. And she's breathless, still, grappling with the thoughts that still stand to watch her try to get this. It doesn't matter. It should matter. It’s only further proof that it's been there longer than she's realized, maybe even for him too; there's some comfort in that thought, small but there.
This isn't going away. It’s going to be there. It’s always been there. Talking about it is scary and it's even scarier how aware she is, even more with the print of his mouth over hers. Her lips are dry and there's this funny ache, climbing as she sneaks another gaze at him. She wants to kiss him again. But one thing at a time. She's nervous. She doesn't want him to see her nervous quite yet.
Slowly, her fingers curl around his. They’re always warm.