Bones Fic: motion walking
motion walking booth/brennan, r.
not all choices are supposed to be promises in your head; there’s some merit to the aftermath. slight spoilers for a night at the bones museum. 3,016 words.
notes: for tidbit2008. ♥ i didn't forget! i'm just old lady slow, like usual. *laughs*
-
In the kitchen, she finally makes coffee.
By now, it’s the sort of thing that he’s come to expect, Brennan being Brennan with all kinds of unpredictable quirks. But there’s coffee, and coffee finally feels familiar, a familiar that he can get behind.
“I have a car, you know.”
She looks up at him. He moves from the open door, to the counter and to lean next to her. In the other room, the television is on. It’s all murmurs and there’s a game, like always, that neither of them pay attention to.
“I like taking you home,” he says, shrugging. “It’s a routine. I like routines. You like routines. It’s a win-win situation.”
The corners of her mouth turn. He smiles too, looking away.
“Angela gave you a ride today, anyway.”
“True,” she says.
He’s been thinking a lot about the other night, just the other night in a long, endless string of nights that he’s getting back to remembering, or wants to remember. They seem interchangeable at best. The point is that he does know and understand what it’s like to see her blush, the way the color seems to flush against the arch of her neck. He knows how easy it seems to just push her hair back, away from her neck and shoulders, the scope of her dress as it exposes just enough skin to make him think things that he just shouldn’t.
It’s the way things are these days. He just can’t stop remembering that night, their moment, and everything seems too ready to unravel.
He clears his throat.
“You know Sweets wants to see us again,” he says, and then turns back to watching her. Her hands are flat against the counter. The coffee pot snaps and rumbles. “I think he misses us, really,” he says and laughs, “but he does and I was thinking - well, Sweets wants to see us again.”
“I know.”
She nods too. He’s surprised, frowning.
“You do?”
She would tell him, he thinks too. Brennan usually tells him.
“Yes,” she says. “He has been trying to approach me, several times, on the subject. I just haven’t had time.”
“Would you see him again?”
She meets his gaze. She seems to soften too. He tries to put a finger on what he’s seeing, as if there were something to see, something necessary.
“No,” she says slowly. “After all, the book is finished. I think too his usefulness has transferred fulltime onto other things, our cases for example.”
“It was nice talking to him though,” Booth shrugs. He’s almost too casual with his answer. “I don’t know,” he says, “I mean, it could be good, right?”
He thinks that talking to Sweets might be good, might be best, considering the kinds of things in his head, or lack of things - depending on how he decides to look at it.
But Brennan seems taken back. She’s frowning, almost distant, and the kitchen’s a little too quiet for his tastes. He has to look away, and then pushes himself away from the counter. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks the short line of the counter, moving to a window that sits by a table she has in the kitchen. There’s mail on the table, neatly stacked to a corner, and the light from the window is sneaking in, blurred and hazy from the low lights in the kitchen.
He sees Brennan’s reflection step towards him. She shifts nervously. She watches him too, so he waits, hopes that she’s going to say something too so that he’s not the only feeling like he’s crazy.
He watches her step forward.
“Yes, but -”
She sighs softly. “I think I prefer to talk to you about these things, about important things. I’m certainly not going to be on par with everything, of course. I think - I think I struggle with … a few more.”
“Right.”
“I like talking with you.”
He hides a smile. Turning away from the table, he looks back at her. He sits too, leaning against one of the corners. Brennan steps back.
“Do you want coffee?”
She looks away, reaching for one of the cabinets. He watches her as she opens one of the cabinets, pulling out two mugs.
He should go, he thinks. He should go because he wants to stay, and wanting to stay is the equivalent of a really, really bad idea that he’s not ready to take the leap for. He imagines that the two of them being alone is going to be something different because it is something different, and it’s like change is making the decision to move faster than they’re ready for.
“I bought milk for you,” she adds.
She shrugs shyly. He smiles. Thanks, he almost says to her. He’s always liked his coffee black, or thought that he liked his coffee black. Now, he likes milk and she remembered. He likes that she remembers.
“No,” he says. “I’m fine. I should probably head back home. There’s no traffic but it’s an early day. I have Parker this weekend too. Want to finish early tomorrow and all.”
“Sounds wonderful,” she murmurs.
He flashes a half-smile. He likes to think that he’ll be here again, or they’ll have another night at his place; it’s that necessary pattern, that pattern that he’s come to depend on. He likes that he can talk about Parker and that he can always talk about Parker. These are things that don’t change.
It’s like the other night, standing there, right in front of her, with that opportunity, an opportunity that might’ve led to something, anything more that what they already have. It’s not to say that he’s not happy with this, with them and where they are, but he understands too, he remembers what it’s like to want more.
He stands and moves away from the table, back to her and the counter, leaning closer as she stops too. Her hip rests against the corner and neither of them pays attention to the coffee anymore.
“There’s a lot of things that scare me,” he says finally, and it sort of drops, just drops as he studies her. There is no one around now, here, and he’s not really thinking about it, suddenly.
“Scare you?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
They stare at each other. It feels something somewhere between strange and ready. He doesn’t know how to place it: Brennan smiles a little, and then he smiles back with a lump in his throat that makes everything feel tight.
“I get scared too, you know,” he says and then means it, his voice getting low and soft. “It happens.”
He reaches forward, letting his fingers brush against her cheek. He tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. Her lips part and he can’t stop thinking about what it might be like to kiss her, to really kiss her, and have something outside the consequences of reasons and brain scans and all the things that really holding him back.
“Booth,” she says softly but he shakes his head. He takes a minute too, letting his palm cup the side of his jaw and waiting for her to pull back. It would be easier if she pulled back. It would be so much easier.
He pushes forward.
“I wish … it should be easy, you know, being able to talk about things, things about us, things about me, things about … anything, really.”
She frowns. “You can talk to me, Booth.”
“It’s not that,” he says, and his other hand comes up to frame her face. He steps forward too, into her space, and she’s looking up at him, waiting, just waiting for something to happen - that much he knows.
He kisses her.
His mouth opens slowly against hers, one of his hands sliding back and threading through her hair. He can taste a little bit of her beer, from the bar earlier, and something sweeter, stickier as his tongue slips over hers. It doesn’t really matter anyway. She makes a soft sound and then another one, causing Booth to growl softly.
His head is spinning. He’s almost gone.
Pulling back, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. He’s breathing heavily and Brennan’s hands are suddenly curled in his shirt. He doesn’t know what to say or do, if there’s anything to say or do, and it’s something bigger than himself that scares and thrills him all the same.
So he kisses her again. He really kisses her, deepening the kiss with a wide mouth as Brennan presses against him. He can feel the counter against his back and then turns them, pinning her into the counter instead. He slides a hand to her hip, his fingers pressing against her hip.
“Oh,” she says against his mouth, “oh,” she breathes, and he can taste it, and it makes his head spin faster. He’s kissing her, really kissing her, and he doesn’t want to stop, or can’t stop; they’re both interchangeable at best.
He drags his teeth slowly over her lip and snags it, sucking softly. He feels her hips press into his, his leg slips between hers, and it’s moving too fast, so fast, when they’re only supposed to be talking. They’re just supposed to be talking.
He pulls back slowly. His hand is still resting on her hip. “Sorry,” he says.
“Okay,” she says back. She shakes her head, “It’s okay.”
She’s breathless too, watching him flushed and soft. Her lips are wet, pink, and he’s trying not to think about falling into this again. He really wants to kiss her again, and then again, but it’s not the smart thing to do. He needs to do the smart thing
His hand drops. She sighs first, soft and assuming.
“I mean,” he starts, and then stops, forcing himself to stand straighter. “I mean - I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
He watches her. There’s a quick frown but he catches it, and the guilt is there too, waiting for him to pick up on it. He can’t move this fast, he shouldn’t move this fast, but it seems too much like the right thing to do, like catching up to place that he should already be at.
“Maybe you should go,” she says quietly. She turns away too, her hands framing her hips. The coffee has been forgotten but sputters as she reaches for it, fumbling with the plug to turn it off.
“I should.”
He slides his hands into his pocket. He steps towards too, as if to offer some sort of reassurance in the mean time. His fingers twist a little.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says too. And then smiles, as if to say it’s okay or we’re okay because it’s easier.
She nods. “We’ll have breakfast tomorrow,” she adds. “Early,” she says, “and then we will - we will talk.”
When she says it, he imagines them again back at the exhibit. Tasting her, he remembers the chance and the change that chance, at that particular moment, decided to offer him. He could do it again, he thinks.
But she’s giving him a chance to go.
And suddenly, it makes no sense for him to go - or it makes sense, just if he were trying to run away. They’ve been through enough, or too much, and both of them seem to make some kind of difference. It’s just not what he needs or wants.
“Talk,” he repeats.
His eyes close, and then they open, watching her wait for him, for a decision. He swallows and shakes his head. He doesn’t wait for her to say no, or wait for her to say yes. He makes his decision first.
He reaches for her hand.
“Seeley,” she says and says it softly, as if she’s been waiting to say his name, into his ear as he pulls her into her lap. His hand cups the back of her neck and his eyes, in the dark, are wider with expectation, more than anything else. This is happening, he thinks, and her fingers are sliding between the two of them, circling the waist of his jeans, then the clasp, and all he can really come to terms with this, how she’s said his name, and why she’s said his name.
It’s what really changes their direction again.
Booth has an entire list.
She sleeps on her stomach.
They’ve been in and out, really. It takes him a minute to realize this too, another to remember that they’ve just had sex, and it wasn’t just sex, it was another step, something more that he’s not entirely prepared for.
But he’s quiet anyway, and lets his hand press over the slope of her back, spreading his fingers over her skin. He traces the long, slow line of her spine and brushes his mouth over her shoulder as he shifts closer. Brennan makes a soft noise.
“This okay?” he asks finally, and decides that the room is too dark for him, way too dark. He wants to see her again, see more of her again. It’s as if everything is coming to the surface in a panic.
“Yes,” she says sleepily.
He smiles away, even though she can’t see him. She shifts a little, closer and he walks his fingers back up her spine, over the long plane of her shoulders. He counts each touch like a walk, like he’s trying to memorize all that he can about her because doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.
It’s just that the sheets are knotted around their legs and he’s too aware of how her skin feels under his hand, about how serious she is about sex and how the two of them stand with each other, this close and in this way.
“You need a television in your room, Bones,” he murmurs.
She scoffs. Her eyes open. There is a brief smile and he leans forward, brushing his mouth over hers. Her mouth is soft, hot, and he swears he feels her smile too, again.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?” he asks, teasing her. “No game scores for you, huh? Or no documentaries on PBS?”
She groans softly.
“I like reading in bed better.”
“You would,” he murmurs. It’s the sort of thing that makes him ache, then makes him worry because this has happened, and he’s sure they’re going to be okay because they’re always okay. But he wants more than that, he’s always wanted more than that, and the scariest thing, here and now, is that he’s coming face to face with more than just a secret.
He swallows. “I like,” he says too, “that you like reading in bed.”
She’s quiet but turns. The sheets pull over his stomach, sliding lightly against his skin as she lets her fingers run over his arm. He exhales a little, and then smiles at her, shrugging.
“It’s nice,” he adds.
She studies him but says nothing. He’s left to watch her hand, the way it slowly settles on his chest and then moves over his skin. He feels like he’s flushed, warm, and waiting for something that he doesn’t know how too. Her fingers are long, her hands narrow, and they’re more then just practical hands for him; soft and certain, careful and honest. She’s tracing circles, little circles, and it’s a gesture unlike her, or something he’s really not ready to see. It makes him nervous with anticipation.
“I would like to say -” she stops and turns, her leg sliding over his. He almost blushes and feels her mouth graze his skin. “I imagine I could say that this changes things,” she tells him, “and that there are things that we most definitely have to talk about.”
She says it seriously, almost with too much certainty, and he wonders if she’s hiding something too. They’ve always learned to meet each other halfway.
“So let’s talk about it,” she offers. He pulls her closer too, sliding an arm around her waist and letting her rise to shift over him.
He studies her, looking up at her. She doesn’t smile. He doesn’t smile. Instead, she lets her fingers brush along his jaw. She brushes her lips against his and he sighs a little into her mouth.
“Not now,” he says. “Not right now.”
When she says then, he says it too.
“This is just for us.”
Sweets is waiting at the counter.
The diner in the morning is a little too crowded. Brennan spots him first, and then tugs Booth’s hand briefly, nodding towards the other man. He nods back and they both smile, almost shyly.
But Booth orders coffee first. “We don’t have time for much, Sweets,” he says, and then the other man nods, studying them. “It’s busy, busy day, you know. Fighting for justice and all that.”
“How are you?” Sweets asks instead, and he’s watching Brennan too, not Booth, which makes Booth a little uncomfortable. She comes up and between them, smiling politely to the waitress as she makes an order.
Booth forces himself to sit. He smoothes a hand over a non-existent wrinkle in his sleeve; the stop at his place was a little too quick. They agreed to this, she reminded him in the car. Booth made the call. Sweets agreed to the time. It’s like they’re keeping up appearances.
“This is an adjustment period,” Booth says first. “We’re getting around,” he says too and then chuckles lightly.
“For the both of you?”
Brennan looks up. Sweets smiles widely at both of them, like he’s right about something, and then turns to look at Booth too. The smile disappears quickly and it’s the first time Booth wants to say something to him, like he’s too certain about all the other conversations that he’s had. It doesn’t belong to you, Booth wants to say, and really, this is about sudden declarations and an agreement that belongs to no one here. He shakes his head and Brennan clears her throat.
“Yes,” Brennan says, “for the both of us.”
Booth hands her coffee first.
not all choices are supposed to be promises in your head; there’s some merit to the aftermath. slight spoilers for a night at the bones museum. 3,016 words.
notes: for tidbit2008. ♥ i didn't forget! i'm just old lady slow, like usual. *laughs*
-
In the kitchen, she finally makes coffee.
By now, it’s the sort of thing that he’s come to expect, Brennan being Brennan with all kinds of unpredictable quirks. But there’s coffee, and coffee finally feels familiar, a familiar that he can get behind.
“I have a car, you know.”
She looks up at him. He moves from the open door, to the counter and to lean next to her. In the other room, the television is on. It’s all murmurs and there’s a game, like always, that neither of them pay attention to.
“I like taking you home,” he says, shrugging. “It’s a routine. I like routines. You like routines. It’s a win-win situation.”
The corners of her mouth turn. He smiles too, looking away.
“Angela gave you a ride today, anyway.”
“True,” she says.
He’s been thinking a lot about the other night, just the other night in a long, endless string of nights that he’s getting back to remembering, or wants to remember. They seem interchangeable at best. The point is that he does know and understand what it’s like to see her blush, the way the color seems to flush against the arch of her neck. He knows how easy it seems to just push her hair back, away from her neck and shoulders, the scope of her dress as it exposes just enough skin to make him think things that he just shouldn’t.
It’s the way things are these days. He just can’t stop remembering that night, their moment, and everything seems too ready to unravel.
He clears his throat.
“You know Sweets wants to see us again,” he says, and then turns back to watching her. Her hands are flat against the counter. The coffee pot snaps and rumbles. “I think he misses us, really,” he says and laughs, “but he does and I was thinking - well, Sweets wants to see us again.”
“I know.”
She nods too. He’s surprised, frowning.
“You do?”
She would tell him, he thinks too. Brennan usually tells him.
“Yes,” she says. “He has been trying to approach me, several times, on the subject. I just haven’t had time.”
“Would you see him again?”
She meets his gaze. She seems to soften too. He tries to put a finger on what he’s seeing, as if there were something to see, something necessary.
“No,” she says slowly. “After all, the book is finished. I think too his usefulness has transferred fulltime onto other things, our cases for example.”
“It was nice talking to him though,” Booth shrugs. He’s almost too casual with his answer. “I don’t know,” he says, “I mean, it could be good, right?”
He thinks that talking to Sweets might be good, might be best, considering the kinds of things in his head, or lack of things - depending on how he decides to look at it.
But Brennan seems taken back. She’s frowning, almost distant, and the kitchen’s a little too quiet for his tastes. He has to look away, and then pushes himself away from the counter. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks the short line of the counter, moving to a window that sits by a table she has in the kitchen. There’s mail on the table, neatly stacked to a corner, and the light from the window is sneaking in, blurred and hazy from the low lights in the kitchen.
He sees Brennan’s reflection step towards him. She shifts nervously. She watches him too, so he waits, hopes that she’s going to say something too so that he’s not the only feeling like he’s crazy.
He watches her step forward.
“Yes, but -”
She sighs softly. “I think I prefer to talk to you about these things, about important things. I’m certainly not going to be on par with everything, of course. I think - I think I struggle with … a few more.”
“Right.”
“I like talking with you.”
He hides a smile. Turning away from the table, he looks back at her. He sits too, leaning against one of the corners. Brennan steps back.
“Do you want coffee?”
She looks away, reaching for one of the cabinets. He watches her as she opens one of the cabinets, pulling out two mugs.
He should go, he thinks. He should go because he wants to stay, and wanting to stay is the equivalent of a really, really bad idea that he’s not ready to take the leap for. He imagines that the two of them being alone is going to be something different because it is something different, and it’s like change is making the decision to move faster than they’re ready for.
“I bought milk for you,” she adds.
She shrugs shyly. He smiles. Thanks, he almost says to her. He’s always liked his coffee black, or thought that he liked his coffee black. Now, he likes milk and she remembered. He likes that she remembers.
“No,” he says. “I’m fine. I should probably head back home. There’s no traffic but it’s an early day. I have Parker this weekend too. Want to finish early tomorrow and all.”
“Sounds wonderful,” she murmurs.
He flashes a half-smile. He likes to think that he’ll be here again, or they’ll have another night at his place; it’s that necessary pattern, that pattern that he’s come to depend on. He likes that he can talk about Parker and that he can always talk about Parker. These are things that don’t change.
It’s like the other night, standing there, right in front of her, with that opportunity, an opportunity that might’ve led to something, anything more that what they already have. It’s not to say that he’s not happy with this, with them and where they are, but he understands too, he remembers what it’s like to want more.
He stands and moves away from the table, back to her and the counter, leaning closer as she stops too. Her hip rests against the corner and neither of them pays attention to the coffee anymore.
“There’s a lot of things that scare me,” he says finally, and it sort of drops, just drops as he studies her. There is no one around now, here, and he’s not really thinking about it, suddenly.
“Scare you?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
They stare at each other. It feels something somewhere between strange and ready. He doesn’t know how to place it: Brennan smiles a little, and then he smiles back with a lump in his throat that makes everything feel tight.
“I get scared too, you know,” he says and then means it, his voice getting low and soft. “It happens.”
He reaches forward, letting his fingers brush against her cheek. He tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. Her lips part and he can’t stop thinking about what it might be like to kiss her, to really kiss her, and have something outside the consequences of reasons and brain scans and all the things that really holding him back.
“Booth,” she says softly but he shakes his head. He takes a minute too, letting his palm cup the side of his jaw and waiting for her to pull back. It would be easier if she pulled back. It would be so much easier.
He pushes forward.
“I wish … it should be easy, you know, being able to talk about things, things about us, things about me, things about … anything, really.”
She frowns. “You can talk to me, Booth.”
“It’s not that,” he says, and his other hand comes up to frame her face. He steps forward too, into her space, and she’s looking up at him, waiting, just waiting for something to happen - that much he knows.
He kisses her.
His mouth opens slowly against hers, one of his hands sliding back and threading through her hair. He can taste a little bit of her beer, from the bar earlier, and something sweeter, stickier as his tongue slips over hers. It doesn’t really matter anyway. She makes a soft sound and then another one, causing Booth to growl softly.
His head is spinning. He’s almost gone.
Pulling back, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. He’s breathing heavily and Brennan’s hands are suddenly curled in his shirt. He doesn’t know what to say or do, if there’s anything to say or do, and it’s something bigger than himself that scares and thrills him all the same.
So he kisses her again. He really kisses her, deepening the kiss with a wide mouth as Brennan presses against him. He can feel the counter against his back and then turns them, pinning her into the counter instead. He slides a hand to her hip, his fingers pressing against her hip.
“Oh,” she says against his mouth, “oh,” she breathes, and he can taste it, and it makes his head spin faster. He’s kissing her, really kissing her, and he doesn’t want to stop, or can’t stop; they’re both interchangeable at best.
He drags his teeth slowly over her lip and snags it, sucking softly. He feels her hips press into his, his leg slips between hers, and it’s moving too fast, so fast, when they’re only supposed to be talking. They’re just supposed to be talking.
He pulls back slowly. His hand is still resting on her hip. “Sorry,” he says.
“Okay,” she says back. She shakes her head, “It’s okay.”
She’s breathless too, watching him flushed and soft. Her lips are wet, pink, and he’s trying not to think about falling into this again. He really wants to kiss her again, and then again, but it’s not the smart thing to do. He needs to do the smart thing
His hand drops. She sighs first, soft and assuming.
“I mean,” he starts, and then stops, forcing himself to stand straighter. “I mean - I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
He watches her. There’s a quick frown but he catches it, and the guilt is there too, waiting for him to pick up on it. He can’t move this fast, he shouldn’t move this fast, but it seems too much like the right thing to do, like catching up to place that he should already be at.
“Maybe you should go,” she says quietly. She turns away too, her hands framing her hips. The coffee has been forgotten but sputters as she reaches for it, fumbling with the plug to turn it off.
“I should.”
He slides his hands into his pocket. He steps towards too, as if to offer some sort of reassurance in the mean time. His fingers twist a little.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says too. And then smiles, as if to say it’s okay or we’re okay because it’s easier.
She nods. “We’ll have breakfast tomorrow,” she adds. “Early,” she says, “and then we will - we will talk.”
When she says it, he imagines them again back at the exhibit. Tasting her, he remembers the chance and the change that chance, at that particular moment, decided to offer him. He could do it again, he thinks.
But she’s giving him a chance to go.
And suddenly, it makes no sense for him to go - or it makes sense, just if he were trying to run away. They’ve been through enough, or too much, and both of them seem to make some kind of difference. It’s just not what he needs or wants.
“Talk,” he repeats.
His eyes close, and then they open, watching her wait for him, for a decision. He swallows and shakes his head. He doesn’t wait for her to say no, or wait for her to say yes. He makes his decision first.
He reaches for her hand.
“Seeley,” she says and says it softly, as if she’s been waiting to say his name, into his ear as he pulls her into her lap. His hand cups the back of her neck and his eyes, in the dark, are wider with expectation, more than anything else. This is happening, he thinks, and her fingers are sliding between the two of them, circling the waist of his jeans, then the clasp, and all he can really come to terms with this, how she’s said his name, and why she’s said his name.
It’s what really changes their direction again.
Booth has an entire list.
She sleeps on her stomach.
They’ve been in and out, really. It takes him a minute to realize this too, another to remember that they’ve just had sex, and it wasn’t just sex, it was another step, something more that he’s not entirely prepared for.
But he’s quiet anyway, and lets his hand press over the slope of her back, spreading his fingers over her skin. He traces the long, slow line of her spine and brushes his mouth over her shoulder as he shifts closer. Brennan makes a soft noise.
“This okay?” he asks finally, and decides that the room is too dark for him, way too dark. He wants to see her again, see more of her again. It’s as if everything is coming to the surface in a panic.
“Yes,” she says sleepily.
He smiles away, even though she can’t see him. She shifts a little, closer and he walks his fingers back up her spine, over the long plane of her shoulders. He counts each touch like a walk, like he’s trying to memorize all that he can about her because doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.
It’s just that the sheets are knotted around their legs and he’s too aware of how her skin feels under his hand, about how serious she is about sex and how the two of them stand with each other, this close and in this way.
“You need a television in your room, Bones,” he murmurs.
She scoffs. Her eyes open. There is a brief smile and he leans forward, brushing his mouth over hers. Her mouth is soft, hot, and he swears he feels her smile too, again.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?” he asks, teasing her. “No game scores for you, huh? Or no documentaries on PBS?”
She groans softly.
“I like reading in bed better.”
“You would,” he murmurs. It’s the sort of thing that makes him ache, then makes him worry because this has happened, and he’s sure they’re going to be okay because they’re always okay. But he wants more than that, he’s always wanted more than that, and the scariest thing, here and now, is that he’s coming face to face with more than just a secret.
He swallows. “I like,” he says too, “that you like reading in bed.”
She’s quiet but turns. The sheets pull over his stomach, sliding lightly against his skin as she lets her fingers run over his arm. He exhales a little, and then smiles at her, shrugging.
“It’s nice,” he adds.
She studies him but says nothing. He’s left to watch her hand, the way it slowly settles on his chest and then moves over his skin. He feels like he’s flushed, warm, and waiting for something that he doesn’t know how too. Her fingers are long, her hands narrow, and they’re more then just practical hands for him; soft and certain, careful and honest. She’s tracing circles, little circles, and it’s a gesture unlike her, or something he’s really not ready to see. It makes him nervous with anticipation.
“I would like to say -” she stops and turns, her leg sliding over his. He almost blushes and feels her mouth graze his skin. “I imagine I could say that this changes things,” she tells him, “and that there are things that we most definitely have to talk about.”
She says it seriously, almost with too much certainty, and he wonders if she’s hiding something too. They’ve always learned to meet each other halfway.
“So let’s talk about it,” she offers. He pulls her closer too, sliding an arm around her waist and letting her rise to shift over him.
He studies her, looking up at her. She doesn’t smile. He doesn’t smile. Instead, she lets her fingers brush along his jaw. She brushes her lips against his and he sighs a little into her mouth.
“Not now,” he says. “Not right now.”
When she says then, he says it too.
“This is just for us.”
Sweets is waiting at the counter.
The diner in the morning is a little too crowded. Brennan spots him first, and then tugs Booth’s hand briefly, nodding towards the other man. He nods back and they both smile, almost shyly.
But Booth orders coffee first. “We don’t have time for much, Sweets,” he says, and then the other man nods, studying them. “It’s busy, busy day, you know. Fighting for justice and all that.”
“How are you?” Sweets asks instead, and he’s watching Brennan too, not Booth, which makes Booth a little uncomfortable. She comes up and between them, smiling politely to the waitress as she makes an order.
Booth forces himself to sit. He smoothes a hand over a non-existent wrinkle in his sleeve; the stop at his place was a little too quick. They agreed to this, she reminded him in the car. Booth made the call. Sweets agreed to the time. It’s like they’re keeping up appearances.
“This is an adjustment period,” Booth says first. “We’re getting around,” he says too and then chuckles lightly.
“For the both of you?”
Brennan looks up. Sweets smiles widely at both of them, like he’s right about something, and then turns to look at Booth too. The smile disappears quickly and it’s the first time Booth wants to say something to him, like he’s too certain about all the other conversations that he’s had. It doesn’t belong to you, Booth wants to say, and really, this is about sudden declarations and an agreement that belongs to no one here. He shakes his head and Brennan clears her throat.
“Yes,” Brennan says, “for the both of us.”
Booth hands her coffee first.