Bones Fic: miles on end
notes: for torigates, her prompt ‘pie’ and ‘booth/brennan’ as I slowly work my way through the alphabet meme. as always, inspired the loads of season-four conspiracy conversations that we always end up having. also, if you haven't - join bones_bigbang! more the merrier. as always, i hope you enjoy!
miles on end
there’s something undeniably different, seeing her like this; it's nothing new, but nothing old, and straightening this out feels so strange to him. sometimes, we’re really just sixteen. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for the beaver in the otter. 3,376 words, pg.
-
She's still laughing, right over the radio, as she covers her face with nervous hands.
There’s something undeniably different, seeing her like this; it's nothing new, but nothing old, and straightening this out feels so strange to him. It’s not like he hasn't had this conversation with himself before, anyway.
Curling his fingers around the strap of his seat belt, he slides the latch into lock and steers his hands over the wheel. The car trembles, just a little, and he's smiling even as Brennan starts to calm down, the two of them staring at the small group that crosses in front of the truck. She’s breathless. She's flushed too. He likes seeing her like this. There’s a slight edge to the vulnerability, open and not quite for him, but for him all the same.
"I can't - " she stops herself, grinning widely at him, "I can't - what did we just do again?"
He laughs softly and sort of knows anyway, why India isn't possible and leaving makes even less sense than it stood for before. There are a lot of things, within the guise of context, that he still wants to do. But leaving, right now, isn't possible. Because there was a before Brennan, what doesn't see himself is the after - after Brennan, terrifyingly enough, seems less and less possible more than ever. He doesn't know how to be that kind of scared.
"Don't worry about it."
His mouth curls, as he starts the car and pulls them away from the sidewalk. "You've got your bad deed down for the day, Bones. You should be proud."
She grins again and as his smile stays, his fingers drawing over the radio knob. He pulls them into a turn, wincing as the song spirits into some complete mess of sound that he has no particular interest in. He turns the volume down, instead, and relaxes as the car moves into soft murmurs. They’re quiet then.
The car passes through the coming night traffic; bars and clubs, three-dollar beers and college kids gearing up to leave the city. He likes the summer, likes the city in the summer as it takes to wide, open spaces and the parks are in full bloom. He takes Parker to baseball games, runs more, and there's always the occasional old friend, a lunch and an anniversary that he never fails to not keep too, as it's the way he's always been. But now, the lights are ever steady and run as spots and blurs on the side of the car, pouring between the two of them for company.
The diner faces them though, at a turn, and he almost stops, swimming for some sort of excuse. It’s still a tradition, but then they're moving forward with new ones. He likes the new ones better.
"I have pie still, in the 'fridge."
She looks over, brushing her hair away from her face as she nods. It’s almost a running joke in his head, pie and sex and Sweets' ridiculous metaphors that somehow churn his head into a series of ifs and buts. She's never asked why they've started going to his place though, often switching to hers. It’s the appeal of privacy and it's that privacy, and what it stands to mean, that kind of thrills him.
"We'll have to graduate you to cake, good chocolate cake."
He scoffs, shaking his head. "Don't even suggest that, that's criminal."
She laughs again, and it's an awkward play of words, even as he comes to a stop. The red light waves over the car, peering into the glass and running a flush over his knuckles. He feels a little warm because honestly, honestly he can't get enough of listening to her laugh, of being able to sort of give back the things that she gives to him. Maybe, one day he'll tell her about it; but it's that kind of thing that has to stand as is, he's falling more for and it might be easier to admit like this. It still sounds ridiculously cheesy in his head, and it's too much of a struggle to really pick at the way she might return anything.
But he sneaks a glance over at her, as the light changes, and steals somewhat of a smile from her. The corners of her mouth are turned and they part, as she sighs softly. She doesn't see him watching and he wonders briefly if that's really true. All the same, he likes when they have the time to themselves. They can function outside of work and that's important to him.
It becomes small conversation then, scattered warmly here and there as he continues the drive. The city is quieter, as they pull closer to his place, and the cars line the sidewalks and homes with no signs of movement. There are windows alight, spotted with brief blurs of televisions and people in the middle of their night routines. He’s starting to relax more too, the slight tension thinning over his shoulders as he eases back into his seat. He’s never thought of himself as here, here and not somewhere else, kind of like the look Jared got when he suddenly started on India.
When he stops the car, he only reaches for the keys. He turns the car off and then shifts, looking over at Brennan. She’s staring back at him, unfazed. He doesn't know for how long, but he feels that familiar, nervous flush that writes itself into his skin. He tries to smile, but then he finds himself just serious.
"I was ready to go," he says quietly. "I think - I don't know. I'm so used to it, I guess. When it comes to him and I just, haven't been ready to be ready to not be there."
None of it makes sense to him, as the words come out, and he feels like he's fumbling in front of her without any purpose. The expression on her face doesn't change either, as she just listen and he needs that. It's like she almost always knows. There’s something he'd like to say, but doesn't know how to say; as testament to their relationship, he feels a little more than out of his skin. It’s comfort zones, it's not and being honest around Brennan is never the issue, it's the response to it that worries him. Like everything else.
"I think it's good."
She sounds so sure, so careful as she studies him. He watches as she bites her lip too, picking at the skin with her teeth. It’s an awkward habit, nervous but not entirely too nervous. She’s careful there too.
"That he goes by himself," she adds, "as, well, I'm sure he's used to the circumstances like everyone else. I mean - "
She stops then, too, as if she's completely lost her thought. He watches as she sets herself into a frown, her mouth sliding into a thin line. He gets it though, reaching forward and letting his hand curl around her arm. His fingers slide along the inside of her wrist and he smiles softly.
"I get it."
He wants to make sure that she knows. And he appreciates it too, that she's trying to offer back some sense of reassurance. She doesn't have to because Brennan does things for him in other ways; she's without big gestures, which is what he likes the best, but sometimes, sometimes it's just nice to hear that she's aware too.
"Good." She's watching him and then turns, looking down to his hand around her arm. His fingers still, but he doesn't move it. Instead, he watches her as she studies it. He can almost hear her working through it, bones and skin and things that just come easy to them anyway.
It’s then that his fingers move, sliding away from her arm and then her wrist again. They still, then shift into the palm of her hand as she opens it underneath his fingers. Slowly, he begins to trace the lines in her skin. He’s trying to swallow, but the need sort of fades. He watches as her fingers rise, curling around the back of his hand. They press lightly. The weight is always familiar, but it's the familiarity that's changed. Some days, he's more aware of possibility than he allows himself to be on the others.
But then he wants to talk to about this, about them and what things are starting to mean. Of course, it's never been the first time and yet, tonight there are a series of things that are just standing, as they've always been, stronger and stronger. It’s the simple things too: the way her hand curls back around his and how easy it's always been. It’s never been anything less than that either.
"Thanks," he says slowly. "You know, for coming with me tonight. And for letting me talk to him."
She shrugs, "I wanted to come."
There isn't any excuse he can give to break this up either, to head inside and lead them back into their habits, all brand new from pie to sitting at his kitchen table, with the television murmuring in the other room. Two nights ago, she fell asleep next to him on the couch. It was Clint Eastwood night. He still has the occasional pull in his neck, from the angle that he fell asleep. It was nice though. It’s something he wants to keep getting used to.
It’s that they're always on the verge of this, and he can't help but wonder if he's struggling when he doesn't have. They stand at a pass. They always have.
"We should go in."
His mouth plays at a smile, as she nods. Neither of them moves though and Brennan's hand seems to tighten around his. Her thumb slips over his palm, rolling lightly into a small circle. She stops then, only to start again, and he tugs her gently to face him.
"I have pie, remember -" but really, he's thinking about the way this feels. He can't help it. He doesn't know how to function outside these smaller moments. They’re important to him. It’s how he's really fallen in the first place; it's also still scary to really come out and tell himself well, I'm in love with her because a part of him is still too used to being burned. It’s history, just history, written in too many ways.
He thinks then, too, that he might go ahead and just kiss her, that maybe that's the way that he should just go. He likes romance, he likes surprising people, but this, this has never been just something else. There’s different and defining different, as it stands to be something else completely. It’s confusing and thrilling and so damn obvious, as he just wants to be met halfway. He wonders if that's selfish. He doesn't know.
"You're staring at me."
Her voice cuts through his thoughts, a mix of confusion and amusement, as her mouth plays into a slight smile. He flushes, almost instantly, and feels sixteen instead of standing in place. Her head tilts to the side and she pulls her fingers back, settling them over her lap. He’s only half-aware, studying her, as she seems to calm, the amusement taking over the smile on her mouth.
He reaches forward. His fingers slide over the few strands of hair that seemingly fall out of place, lining the length of her jaw. They graze against the tips of his fingers, as he pushes them back tucks them gently behind her ear. He feels almost small, even as she leans into him, and wonders if he's reading too much into all of it, as it stands against his own habits.
"Sorry," he says, but he's not. His voice only shifts lazily; thicken as he shifts in his seat. The strap of his seat belt pulls over him, and he ignores it, cupping her face then and pressing his mouth over hers.
It just happens.
Of course, he's thought about it and thought about how she might be, just as the two of them are and if this happens. But Brennan is kissing him back without any hesitation, and her mouth opens over his, her fingers curling around his jacket. He breathes into her and tastes a little bit of her beer, a little of something sweeter. His tongue flicks over hers, rolling lightly against it, and then drawing back over her lip.
It’s making him a little dizzy and the warmth runs along his skin, somewhere between a nervous flush and something else, something that he doesn't know how to really understand yet. But he pulls back, almost too quickly, and looks down at her with wide eyes. His body's shifted into an odd angle, the turn pulling at odd pockets of tension. His hand has kept to framing her cheek and she's looking right at him, quiet and pensive.
He doesn't know what this means. And it's completely different from how he feels, how he knows he feels. She’s left him in the dark and now, like most times, he's wondering if he should offer an out. Because he can and he should, should make it easier for her until she's ready. If she's ready, he thinks. He doesn't know if can handle knowing if she's ready and it might not be him.
"I -"
He lingers into a sigh, not entirely sure what to say. He watches as she licks her lips and nods, drawing back to unbuckle her seat belt. It snaps loudly between them and suddenly, the outside shifts back into place. He’s aware of being in front of his place, the shift of light coming from the street lamps and the patterns of home that are on. He can taste disappointment, as he's already ready for it.
She opens the door and steps out first. His heart is pounding hard against his chest. He can't watch her, turning and closing his eyes. He counts to ten in his head, curling his hands around the wheel. His fingers tighten into fists and he can feel himself search for reassurances. It was a mistake, this wasn't a mistake. He wants to kiss her again so she can see. He’d like her to just see.
Sighing, he pulls himself out of his seat. The door opens slowly and another car skids by, the basses of its radio throbbing back in its wake. He frowns. Behind him, there's an alarm ringing in the distance. Brennan is waiting for him on the sidewalk, her arms folded against her chest and her gaze drawn to the sidewalk. He doesn't know how to make her laugh again, like earlier, and he sort of wishes he kept to that sound, to the smaller things. He’s not sorry for being greedy or maybe, he is. He’s not entirely too sure.
"So pie," he says. And he claps his hands together, joining her on the sidewalk. He forces a smile. "You and me and pie. None of that chocolate cake crazy talk. It's about the pie."
She looks up at him, almost surprised. It’s the way her mouth sort of wrinkles, somewhere between a sigh and amusement. But she does laugh, softer than before. He misses the earlier sound; how new and different, how easy and simple, and how it was everything standing right next to him.
"I won't go there."
He blinks. "Where?"
It's forgotten, everything for the moment. And she grins, then, her mouth shifting into that wide and brilliant smile. She laughs too and it's different, a sharper shift than he expects. He just stands there, confused and caught completely off-guard as she shakes her head.
"Nowhere."
"You - " and he can't help himself either, reaching for her arm, and then grinning, "I don't want to know - but did you just make a joke, Bones?"
Her eyes seem brighter, even as the smile fades into a heavy amusement. She cocks her head to the side and her hair spills in a heap over her shoulders.
"You don't want to know," she says dryly. She feigns innocence too, a nervous shift from foot to foot as she seems to be fighting to smile again. She’s blushing, he thinks as he leans closer, and he just has no idea what's happening to the two of them. Like this. It’s always been like this, him and her and whatever is coming to pass.
He doesn't want this to be perfect either, he's beginning to realize. As it wouldn't be them, him or her, if everything just fell into place as expected. He likes to think that it could be new for the both of them, even if they're at different points of whatever this is; he hates that, calling what's happening between the two of them this and that, but then he has nothing left but to repeat himself. She probably thinks it's funny. He just doesn't want her to regret anything.
But all of this is just as confusing and shifting, daunting as he struggles to figure some sort of way through it. He can still taste her too, the mix of warmth that seems unable to leave him. Looking down, he slides his hand over her wrist and back into her own, just like the car. He finds himself watching as her fingers curl into his, without any hesitation, and he's worried again, worried that he might be reading too much into very little.
"I don't know what this is."
He says it finally and it doesn't sound right. It feels like a lie, a little more of the truth, and he's wondering if that'll scare her still. His mouth settles into a frown and he looks up at her, watching as she sighs softly. She looks away, but her fingers seem to tighten over his. And maybe he's just waiting, waiting for that moment where she tells him that she's not looking for anything or dances around, even, with context and monogamy and the historical context of relationships and how relevant they really are. Maybe, he's not letting her be ready.
"I don't know what this is," he repeats softly, tugging her closer. "And I - I just want you to know that there's something here, whether you take it as something or don't. I'm here, okay?"
The words linger and then are swallowed by a passing car, writing its radio into the near-quiet street. There’s laughter in the distance and they should really go upstairs. He shouldn't have said anything. Maybe, it's more about learning the difference between when he's ready and what's the right time. It’s more than just that.
She looks up at him though and he can't read her, watching as she shifts closer to him. He feels a little ridiculous holding her hand like this, letting her hold his hand back, and it's all the pressure of what he's just done, coming back to greet him finally.
"I'm here too."
The words are quiet, but firm and he's not entirely sure if they mean what he wants them to mean, or if it's even fair to think that they do. But he takes them, he takes them and studies her, more aware of how close she is and how she's stepped forward, not back and away. It means something. It should be about the smaller things. He can live with the smaller things right now. Maybe, this is what's meant to be fair.
He finds himself smiling softly, regardless, and leans forward to press his mouth into her hair. She leans back into him, refusing; it seems, to give back his hand and he's okay with that. It's something, he tells himself again. They’ll go inside in a minute. For now, he closes his eyes and keeps himself close to her. He keeps aware of her, how she fits and how she stands; it's never been about shying away, but he knows now how she reaches for him, how she meets him, and how he's starting to understand this. Sometimes, it's not about change.
She’s always told him everything. And he can wait, this much he does know.
miles on end
there’s something undeniably different, seeing her like this; it's nothing new, but nothing old, and straightening this out feels so strange to him. sometimes, we’re really just sixteen. bones. booth/brennan. post-ep for the beaver in the otter. 3,376 words, pg.
-
She's still laughing, right over the radio, as she covers her face with nervous hands.
There’s something undeniably different, seeing her like this; it's nothing new, but nothing old, and straightening this out feels so strange to him. It’s not like he hasn't had this conversation with himself before, anyway.
Curling his fingers around the strap of his seat belt, he slides the latch into lock and steers his hands over the wheel. The car trembles, just a little, and he's smiling even as Brennan starts to calm down, the two of them staring at the small group that crosses in front of the truck. She’s breathless. She's flushed too. He likes seeing her like this. There’s a slight edge to the vulnerability, open and not quite for him, but for him all the same.
"I can't - " she stops herself, grinning widely at him, "I can't - what did we just do again?"
He laughs softly and sort of knows anyway, why India isn't possible and leaving makes even less sense than it stood for before. There are a lot of things, within the guise of context, that he still wants to do. But leaving, right now, isn't possible. Because there was a before Brennan, what doesn't see himself is the after - after Brennan, terrifyingly enough, seems less and less possible more than ever. He doesn't know how to be that kind of scared.
"Don't worry about it."
His mouth curls, as he starts the car and pulls them away from the sidewalk. "You've got your bad deed down for the day, Bones. You should be proud."
She grins again and as his smile stays, his fingers drawing over the radio knob. He pulls them into a turn, wincing as the song spirits into some complete mess of sound that he has no particular interest in. He turns the volume down, instead, and relaxes as the car moves into soft murmurs. They’re quiet then.
The car passes through the coming night traffic; bars and clubs, three-dollar beers and college kids gearing up to leave the city. He likes the summer, likes the city in the summer as it takes to wide, open spaces and the parks are in full bloom. He takes Parker to baseball games, runs more, and there's always the occasional old friend, a lunch and an anniversary that he never fails to not keep too, as it's the way he's always been. But now, the lights are ever steady and run as spots and blurs on the side of the car, pouring between the two of them for company.
The diner faces them though, at a turn, and he almost stops, swimming for some sort of excuse. It’s still a tradition, but then they're moving forward with new ones. He likes the new ones better.
"I have pie still, in the 'fridge."
She looks over, brushing her hair away from her face as she nods. It’s almost a running joke in his head, pie and sex and Sweets' ridiculous metaphors that somehow churn his head into a series of ifs and buts. She's never asked why they've started going to his place though, often switching to hers. It’s the appeal of privacy and it's that privacy, and what it stands to mean, that kind of thrills him.
"We'll have to graduate you to cake, good chocolate cake."
He scoffs, shaking his head. "Don't even suggest that, that's criminal."
She laughs again, and it's an awkward play of words, even as he comes to a stop. The red light waves over the car, peering into the glass and running a flush over his knuckles. He feels a little warm because honestly, honestly he can't get enough of listening to her laugh, of being able to sort of give back the things that she gives to him. Maybe, one day he'll tell her about it; but it's that kind of thing that has to stand as is, he's falling more for and it might be easier to admit like this. It still sounds ridiculously cheesy in his head, and it's too much of a struggle to really pick at the way she might return anything.
But he sneaks a glance over at her, as the light changes, and steals somewhat of a smile from her. The corners of her mouth are turned and they part, as she sighs softly. She doesn't see him watching and he wonders briefly if that's really true. All the same, he likes when they have the time to themselves. They can function outside of work and that's important to him.
It becomes small conversation then, scattered warmly here and there as he continues the drive. The city is quieter, as they pull closer to his place, and the cars line the sidewalks and homes with no signs of movement. There are windows alight, spotted with brief blurs of televisions and people in the middle of their night routines. He’s starting to relax more too, the slight tension thinning over his shoulders as he eases back into his seat. He’s never thought of himself as here, here and not somewhere else, kind of like the look Jared got when he suddenly started on India.
When he stops the car, he only reaches for the keys. He turns the car off and then shifts, looking over at Brennan. She’s staring back at him, unfazed. He doesn't know for how long, but he feels that familiar, nervous flush that writes itself into his skin. He tries to smile, but then he finds himself just serious.
"I was ready to go," he says quietly. "I think - I don't know. I'm so used to it, I guess. When it comes to him and I just, haven't been ready to be ready to not be there."
None of it makes sense to him, as the words come out, and he feels like he's fumbling in front of her without any purpose. The expression on her face doesn't change either, as she just listen and he needs that. It's like she almost always knows. There’s something he'd like to say, but doesn't know how to say; as testament to their relationship, he feels a little more than out of his skin. It’s comfort zones, it's not and being honest around Brennan is never the issue, it's the response to it that worries him. Like everything else.
"I think it's good."
She sounds so sure, so careful as she studies him. He watches as she bites her lip too, picking at the skin with her teeth. It’s an awkward habit, nervous but not entirely too nervous. She’s careful there too.
"That he goes by himself," she adds, "as, well, I'm sure he's used to the circumstances like everyone else. I mean - "
She stops then, too, as if she's completely lost her thought. He watches as she sets herself into a frown, her mouth sliding into a thin line. He gets it though, reaching forward and letting his hand curl around her arm. His fingers slide along the inside of her wrist and he smiles softly.
"I get it."
He wants to make sure that she knows. And he appreciates it too, that she's trying to offer back some sense of reassurance. She doesn't have to because Brennan does things for him in other ways; she's without big gestures, which is what he likes the best, but sometimes, sometimes it's just nice to hear that she's aware too.
"Good." She's watching him and then turns, looking down to his hand around her arm. His fingers still, but he doesn't move it. Instead, he watches her as she studies it. He can almost hear her working through it, bones and skin and things that just come easy to them anyway.
It’s then that his fingers move, sliding away from her arm and then her wrist again. They still, then shift into the palm of her hand as she opens it underneath his fingers. Slowly, he begins to trace the lines in her skin. He’s trying to swallow, but the need sort of fades. He watches as her fingers rise, curling around the back of his hand. They press lightly. The weight is always familiar, but it's the familiarity that's changed. Some days, he's more aware of possibility than he allows himself to be on the others.
But then he wants to talk to about this, about them and what things are starting to mean. Of course, it's never been the first time and yet, tonight there are a series of things that are just standing, as they've always been, stronger and stronger. It’s the simple things too: the way her hand curls back around his and how easy it's always been. It’s never been anything less than that either.
"Thanks," he says slowly. "You know, for coming with me tonight. And for letting me talk to him."
She shrugs, "I wanted to come."
There isn't any excuse he can give to break this up either, to head inside and lead them back into their habits, all brand new from pie to sitting at his kitchen table, with the television murmuring in the other room. Two nights ago, she fell asleep next to him on the couch. It was Clint Eastwood night. He still has the occasional pull in his neck, from the angle that he fell asleep. It was nice though. It’s something he wants to keep getting used to.
It’s that they're always on the verge of this, and he can't help but wonder if he's struggling when he doesn't have. They stand at a pass. They always have.
"We should go in."
His mouth plays at a smile, as she nods. Neither of them moves though and Brennan's hand seems to tighten around his. Her thumb slips over his palm, rolling lightly into a small circle. She stops then, only to start again, and he tugs her gently to face him.
"I have pie, remember -" but really, he's thinking about the way this feels. He can't help it. He doesn't know how to function outside these smaller moments. They’re important to him. It’s how he's really fallen in the first place; it's also still scary to really come out and tell himself well, I'm in love with her because a part of him is still too used to being burned. It’s history, just history, written in too many ways.
He thinks then, too, that he might go ahead and just kiss her, that maybe that's the way that he should just go. He likes romance, he likes surprising people, but this, this has never been just something else. There’s different and defining different, as it stands to be something else completely. It’s confusing and thrilling and so damn obvious, as he just wants to be met halfway. He wonders if that's selfish. He doesn't know.
"You're staring at me."
Her voice cuts through his thoughts, a mix of confusion and amusement, as her mouth plays into a slight smile. He flushes, almost instantly, and feels sixteen instead of standing in place. Her head tilts to the side and she pulls her fingers back, settling them over her lap. He’s only half-aware, studying her, as she seems to calm, the amusement taking over the smile on her mouth.
He reaches forward. His fingers slide over the few strands of hair that seemingly fall out of place, lining the length of her jaw. They graze against the tips of his fingers, as he pushes them back tucks them gently behind her ear. He feels almost small, even as she leans into him, and wonders if he's reading too much into all of it, as it stands against his own habits.
"Sorry," he says, but he's not. His voice only shifts lazily; thicken as he shifts in his seat. The strap of his seat belt pulls over him, and he ignores it, cupping her face then and pressing his mouth over hers.
It just happens.
Of course, he's thought about it and thought about how she might be, just as the two of them are and if this happens. But Brennan is kissing him back without any hesitation, and her mouth opens over his, her fingers curling around his jacket. He breathes into her and tastes a little bit of her beer, a little of something sweeter. His tongue flicks over hers, rolling lightly against it, and then drawing back over her lip.
It’s making him a little dizzy and the warmth runs along his skin, somewhere between a nervous flush and something else, something that he doesn't know how to really understand yet. But he pulls back, almost too quickly, and looks down at her with wide eyes. His body's shifted into an odd angle, the turn pulling at odd pockets of tension. His hand has kept to framing her cheek and she's looking right at him, quiet and pensive.
He doesn't know what this means. And it's completely different from how he feels, how he knows he feels. She’s left him in the dark and now, like most times, he's wondering if he should offer an out. Because he can and he should, should make it easier for her until she's ready. If she's ready, he thinks. He doesn't know if can handle knowing if she's ready and it might not be him.
"I -"
He lingers into a sigh, not entirely sure what to say. He watches as she licks her lips and nods, drawing back to unbuckle her seat belt. It snaps loudly between them and suddenly, the outside shifts back into place. He’s aware of being in front of his place, the shift of light coming from the street lamps and the patterns of home that are on. He can taste disappointment, as he's already ready for it.
She opens the door and steps out first. His heart is pounding hard against his chest. He can't watch her, turning and closing his eyes. He counts to ten in his head, curling his hands around the wheel. His fingers tighten into fists and he can feel himself search for reassurances. It was a mistake, this wasn't a mistake. He wants to kiss her again so she can see. He’d like her to just see.
Sighing, he pulls himself out of his seat. The door opens slowly and another car skids by, the basses of its radio throbbing back in its wake. He frowns. Behind him, there's an alarm ringing in the distance. Brennan is waiting for him on the sidewalk, her arms folded against her chest and her gaze drawn to the sidewalk. He doesn't know how to make her laugh again, like earlier, and he sort of wishes he kept to that sound, to the smaller things. He’s not sorry for being greedy or maybe, he is. He’s not entirely too sure.
"So pie," he says. And he claps his hands together, joining her on the sidewalk. He forces a smile. "You and me and pie. None of that chocolate cake crazy talk. It's about the pie."
She looks up at him, almost surprised. It’s the way her mouth sort of wrinkles, somewhere between a sigh and amusement. But she does laugh, softer than before. He misses the earlier sound; how new and different, how easy and simple, and how it was everything standing right next to him.
"I won't go there."
He blinks. "Where?"
It's forgotten, everything for the moment. And she grins, then, her mouth shifting into that wide and brilliant smile. She laughs too and it's different, a sharper shift than he expects. He just stands there, confused and caught completely off-guard as she shakes her head.
"Nowhere."
"You - " and he can't help himself either, reaching for her arm, and then grinning, "I don't want to know - but did you just make a joke, Bones?"
Her eyes seem brighter, even as the smile fades into a heavy amusement. She cocks her head to the side and her hair spills in a heap over her shoulders.
"You don't want to know," she says dryly. She feigns innocence too, a nervous shift from foot to foot as she seems to be fighting to smile again. She’s blushing, he thinks as he leans closer, and he just has no idea what's happening to the two of them. Like this. It’s always been like this, him and her and whatever is coming to pass.
He doesn't want this to be perfect either, he's beginning to realize. As it wouldn't be them, him or her, if everything just fell into place as expected. He likes to think that it could be new for the both of them, even if they're at different points of whatever this is; he hates that, calling what's happening between the two of them this and that, but then he has nothing left but to repeat himself. She probably thinks it's funny. He just doesn't want her to regret anything.
But all of this is just as confusing and shifting, daunting as he struggles to figure some sort of way through it. He can still taste her too, the mix of warmth that seems unable to leave him. Looking down, he slides his hand over her wrist and back into her own, just like the car. He finds himself watching as her fingers curl into his, without any hesitation, and he's worried again, worried that he might be reading too much into very little.
"I don't know what this is."
He says it finally and it doesn't sound right. It feels like a lie, a little more of the truth, and he's wondering if that'll scare her still. His mouth settles into a frown and he looks up at her, watching as she sighs softly. She looks away, but her fingers seem to tighten over his. And maybe he's just waiting, waiting for that moment where she tells him that she's not looking for anything or dances around, even, with context and monogamy and the historical context of relationships and how relevant they really are. Maybe, he's not letting her be ready.
"I don't know what this is," he repeats softly, tugging her closer. "And I - I just want you to know that there's something here, whether you take it as something or don't. I'm here, okay?"
The words linger and then are swallowed by a passing car, writing its radio into the near-quiet street. There’s laughter in the distance and they should really go upstairs. He shouldn't have said anything. Maybe, it's more about learning the difference between when he's ready and what's the right time. It’s more than just that.
She looks up at him though and he can't read her, watching as she shifts closer to him. He feels a little ridiculous holding her hand like this, letting her hold his hand back, and it's all the pressure of what he's just done, coming back to greet him finally.
"I'm here too."
The words are quiet, but firm and he's not entirely sure if they mean what he wants them to mean, or if it's even fair to think that they do. But he takes them, he takes them and studies her, more aware of how close she is and how she's stepped forward, not back and away. It means something. It should be about the smaller things. He can live with the smaller things right now. Maybe, this is what's meant to be fair.
He finds himself smiling softly, regardless, and leans forward to press his mouth into her hair. She leans back into him, refusing; it seems, to give back his hand and he's okay with that. It's something, he tells himself again. They’ll go inside in a minute. For now, he closes his eyes and keeps himself close to her. He keeps aware of her, how she fits and how she stands; it's never been about shying away, but he knows now how she reaches for him, how she meets him, and how he's starting to understand this. Sometimes, it's not about change.
She’s always told him everything. And he can wait, this much he does know.