Bones Fic: some walls have ears
some walls have ears booth/brennan, pg.
there’s a reason for middle points and for keeping them too. post-ep for tough man in the tender chicken. 1,660 words.
notes: for the ever-awesome, wonderful torigates.
-
Brennan comes back from the bathroom and he’s sliding into jacket, frowning when a loud laugh cuts across the bar.
“I think this is it for me,” he grimaces. She’s surprised and tries not show it, reaching for her bag.
“Already?”
He shrugs, smiling.
“Yeah, you know, it’s the weekend and I haven’t had one of those to myself in awhile. It’s kind of nice, thinking about it.”
She nods. It’s late for them - and she thinks them because this is what they do: come to the bar, have dinner, and talk like the routine is something new. It doesn’t both her but it’s sort of supplementary to the usual Chinese and rotating apartments.
“Want company?” she asks.
He looks down at her. She smiles a little, picking up her jacket. She struggles into it, the sleeves catching at her palms. Booth reaches for her and she looks up, just as he straightens the collar away from her throat.
“Yeah,” he says absently.
She smiles again, or really tries to, ignoring the blush that rises to her cheeks. Instead of thinking about it, she steps around him and takes the lead out of the bar. They pass the others briefly; there’s Cam and Hodgins framed in an odd conversation and Angela smiles as they pass by, offering a small wave to sort of expunge the rest of the day. Brennan still has thoughts but she’s glad that she decided to take the step and offer a form of apology.
Behind her, Booth’s hand settles at the small of her back. They weave around a few large groups, two girls that stumble to a table in a corner. There is too much laughter and Brennan gets why Booth wants to leave a little earlier than they usually do.
She turns to him outside, as his hand drops. “Feel better?” she asks, and she slides her hands into her pockets. The car is parked another block over and they start to walk slowly.
It’s cold tonight and Booth’s cheeks flush slightly.
“I think so.”
“Good.”
She worries about him, she thinks. She wouldn’t tell him and even if he guessed, it would be something that came together almost accidentally. It has nothing to do with whether or not she feels like she can talk to him, it’s because she knows he hates when she worries and it would be the kind of thing he’d just push away.
“I’m glad we have our thing,” she says. She nudges him and smiles too.
“Our thing?”
He looks over at her in amusement. His mouth turns slightly and she ducks her gaze, focusing ahead.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Our thing, where we - we talk. I know we talk and that if ever there were a particular problem, you and I would have some time to talk about it. Or make time.”
“We would make time.”
Brennan blinks. “You don’t agree?”
They stop at the car. She leans against the driver’s door. Her fingers pull at the lining of her pockets as she watches Booth stop and then shift, foot to foot. His shoes shuffle against the sidewalk.
He takes a minute too long to answer. She frowns again and then he looks up quickly, offering a tight but warm smile.
“Bones, I’d like to think that if there was a problem, the two of us would just come out with it. It’s not about making time. The time’s already there.”
“True,” she says.
She flushes again, despite herself. There’s a breeze that picks up, and she reaches for the collar of her jacket, turning it up to cover her neck and throat. She swallows and remembers leaving her scarf in the office.
They’re quiet too. He looks at her, she looks away, and it’s a quick, small attempt at passive-aggressive behavior. She doesn’t like that she feels suddenly shy, or there are these moments that they go in-between, as if they were ready for something but stopping to wait.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says. She nods and he unlocks the car so that she put her bag in the back. They haven’t walked in awhile, she thinks.
But the area is too quiet for midweek. Despite the crowd of the bar, there are clusters of cars here and there, lining the streets with small pockets of space. The tree lights blur in the reflection of passing windows.
They’re quiet too. Booth walks close. She keeps stealing glances, wondering if there’s something more, something more she could say or do to make him feel better. It worries her, and sometimes, she thinks about telling him; it’s the idea that he make take it in a terrible way or in a way where she might not be able explain to him.
She’s also aware of him these days, in the strangest of ways. She’s half-inclined to call it the fragments of her worries. It’s also more than that; she finds herself understanding the smaller pieces of what makes them, the intimacy that others seem to be keen on pointing out. These are things she wants to keep to herself first.
“Heard from Max?”
She blinks, startled by the question. Her dad is an odd, occasional conversation piece still.
“No.”
Clearing her throat, she follows him as they cut across the street to the park. The gate is only half-open, one of the iron doors cocked slightly. There is a wreath tied to a few bars.
“I’m not worried,” she shrugs, “because he said he’d be back when he was ready to head back. He wanted to take some time out for my mother - observe their anniversary his way with the vacation he’s taking.”
“I get it.”
He studies her. Brennan keeps her gaze straight ahead. She tries to ignore it and smile but keeps herself serious. It’s a mix of the moment and the moment before, bits of the day that are still stuck with her.
“You miss him.”
“I -” she hesitates, only slightly, and then shrugs again. “I do miss him,” she says. “We have our days. I miss having our days.”
“Still hard?” he asks.
“Still strange.”
He reaches for her, taking her arm. They stop, only a few feet from the entrance. Booth’s hand is firm as he tugs her hand out of her pocket. Her fingers curl and he pulls her forward, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmurs into her hair. Her eyes are wide as she feels him sigh and press closer. “I didn’t mean to, well - thanks for what you said earlier, you know?”
She smiles despite her confusion. She’s flushed too and breathes, if only to relax herself a little more.
“It’s the truth,” she tells him and says it as if she means nothing less. She needs him to remember that she says things and means them well, not because she wants to placate him. She hopes he knows that she thinks he’s better than that. She always has.
Booth’s mouth grazes her temple then. His mouth is soft and hot. The smell of beer is faint. She lets her fingers curl lightly in his jacket, if only to offer him a reassurance.
“I just don’t want to lose it, you know? I don’t want to lose it and then lose a little more - like losing our days. I don’t really want to lose our days.”
“You won’t,” she murmurs.
“It’s still scary, I guess.”
He pulls back a little, meeting her gaze. “I’m still - I don’t know. It still is.”
She nods. They stand like this; his arm feels secure around her shoulders, his fingers spreading over her jacket and playing lightly over the fabric. She’s aware of a few things: the cold, the sounds from the crowds that pass to and from the bars and restaurants. It sounds like everything’s filled, not quiet, and she wants to go somewhere else, a place where nobody really can see them.
“Are you still thinking about your vacation?”
The question tastes too abrupt and she pulls back further, taking a step to create space between the two of them. Her hands slide back into her pockets. She feels a little she missed something. It’s like her argument with Angela early; she wants to learn how to be careful in the right way.
“No,” he says. She looks at him and frowns. He sighs. “I spent the whole summer trying to recover. That was like a vacation. I guess - I still need to be me for awhile.”
“You are you,” she says softly.
He sighs. “Sometimes.”
She shakes her head. It somehow starts to spill with a mix of coherency and incoherency, as if she really can’t hear herself instead of being practical about everything. Her heart begins to race and she’s sure she’s flushing again; it’s a sudden thing, too sudden for her to really think about things like control and effort.
“There’s no sometimes,” she tells him. She doesn’t think. She reaches for him too, her fingers lacing through his without thinking. “There’s no ifs. You are you, Booth. If you wake up and decide you don’t like brown sugar anymore, then you don’t like brown sugar anymore. You are still you.”
He laughs softly. There’s somewhat of a smile too, the corners of his mouth pressed. His fingers brush against her jaw.
“So you keep telling me.”
She’s pointed and soft, taking his hand. She pulls it gently from her face, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Her fingers flutter against the back of his hand but she lets it be.
“I will keep telling you,” she promises, swallowing.
Booth nods. He smiles and then it fades. He looks away too. Laughter seems to follow down the street, somewhere behind her or to the side - she’s not really paying much attention. She waits.
He slides his arm over her shoulders again. “Thanks,” he says.
there’s a reason for middle points and for keeping them too. post-ep for tough man in the tender chicken. 1,660 words.
notes: for the ever-awesome, wonderful torigates.
-
Brennan comes back from the bathroom and he’s sliding into jacket, frowning when a loud laugh cuts across the bar.
“I think this is it for me,” he grimaces. She’s surprised and tries not show it, reaching for her bag.
“Already?”
He shrugs, smiling.
“Yeah, you know, it’s the weekend and I haven’t had one of those to myself in awhile. It’s kind of nice, thinking about it.”
She nods. It’s late for them - and she thinks them because this is what they do: come to the bar, have dinner, and talk like the routine is something new. It doesn’t both her but it’s sort of supplementary to the usual Chinese and rotating apartments.
“Want company?” she asks.
He looks down at her. She smiles a little, picking up her jacket. She struggles into it, the sleeves catching at her palms. Booth reaches for her and she looks up, just as he straightens the collar away from her throat.
“Yeah,” he says absently.
She smiles again, or really tries to, ignoring the blush that rises to her cheeks. Instead of thinking about it, she steps around him and takes the lead out of the bar. They pass the others briefly; there’s Cam and Hodgins framed in an odd conversation and Angela smiles as they pass by, offering a small wave to sort of expunge the rest of the day. Brennan still has thoughts but she’s glad that she decided to take the step and offer a form of apology.
Behind her, Booth’s hand settles at the small of her back. They weave around a few large groups, two girls that stumble to a table in a corner. There is too much laughter and Brennan gets why Booth wants to leave a little earlier than they usually do.
She turns to him outside, as his hand drops. “Feel better?” she asks, and she slides her hands into her pockets. The car is parked another block over and they start to walk slowly.
It’s cold tonight and Booth’s cheeks flush slightly.
“I think so.”
“Good.”
She worries about him, she thinks. She wouldn’t tell him and even if he guessed, it would be something that came together almost accidentally. It has nothing to do with whether or not she feels like she can talk to him, it’s because she knows he hates when she worries and it would be the kind of thing he’d just push away.
“I’m glad we have our thing,” she says. She nudges him and smiles too.
“Our thing?”
He looks over at her in amusement. His mouth turns slightly and she ducks her gaze, focusing ahead.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Our thing, where we - we talk. I know we talk and that if ever there were a particular problem, you and I would have some time to talk about it. Or make time.”
“We would make time.”
Brennan blinks. “You don’t agree?”
They stop at the car. She leans against the driver’s door. Her fingers pull at the lining of her pockets as she watches Booth stop and then shift, foot to foot. His shoes shuffle against the sidewalk.
He takes a minute too long to answer. She frowns again and then he looks up quickly, offering a tight but warm smile.
“Bones, I’d like to think that if there was a problem, the two of us would just come out with it. It’s not about making time. The time’s already there.”
“True,” she says.
She flushes again, despite herself. There’s a breeze that picks up, and she reaches for the collar of her jacket, turning it up to cover her neck and throat. She swallows and remembers leaving her scarf in the office.
They’re quiet too. He looks at her, she looks away, and it’s a quick, small attempt at passive-aggressive behavior. She doesn’t like that she feels suddenly shy, or there are these moments that they go in-between, as if they were ready for something but stopping to wait.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says. She nods and he unlocks the car so that she put her bag in the back. They haven’t walked in awhile, she thinks.
But the area is too quiet for midweek. Despite the crowd of the bar, there are clusters of cars here and there, lining the streets with small pockets of space. The tree lights blur in the reflection of passing windows.
They’re quiet too. Booth walks close. She keeps stealing glances, wondering if there’s something more, something more she could say or do to make him feel better. It worries her, and sometimes, she thinks about telling him; it’s the idea that he make take it in a terrible way or in a way where she might not be able explain to him.
She’s also aware of him these days, in the strangest of ways. She’s half-inclined to call it the fragments of her worries. It’s also more than that; she finds herself understanding the smaller pieces of what makes them, the intimacy that others seem to be keen on pointing out. These are things she wants to keep to herself first.
“Heard from Max?”
She blinks, startled by the question. Her dad is an odd, occasional conversation piece still.
“No.”
Clearing her throat, she follows him as they cut across the street to the park. The gate is only half-open, one of the iron doors cocked slightly. There is a wreath tied to a few bars.
“I’m not worried,” she shrugs, “because he said he’d be back when he was ready to head back. He wanted to take some time out for my mother - observe their anniversary his way with the vacation he’s taking.”
“I get it.”
He studies her. Brennan keeps her gaze straight ahead. She tries to ignore it and smile but keeps herself serious. It’s a mix of the moment and the moment before, bits of the day that are still stuck with her.
“You miss him.”
“I -” she hesitates, only slightly, and then shrugs again. “I do miss him,” she says. “We have our days. I miss having our days.”
“Still hard?” he asks.
“Still strange.”
He reaches for her, taking her arm. They stop, only a few feet from the entrance. Booth’s hand is firm as he tugs her hand out of her pocket. Her fingers curl and he pulls her forward, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmurs into her hair. Her eyes are wide as she feels him sigh and press closer. “I didn’t mean to, well - thanks for what you said earlier, you know?”
She smiles despite her confusion. She’s flushed too and breathes, if only to relax herself a little more.
“It’s the truth,” she tells him and says it as if she means nothing less. She needs him to remember that she says things and means them well, not because she wants to placate him. She hopes he knows that she thinks he’s better than that. She always has.
Booth’s mouth grazes her temple then. His mouth is soft and hot. The smell of beer is faint. She lets her fingers curl lightly in his jacket, if only to offer him a reassurance.
“I just don’t want to lose it, you know? I don’t want to lose it and then lose a little more - like losing our days. I don’t really want to lose our days.”
“You won’t,” she murmurs.
“It’s still scary, I guess.”
He pulls back a little, meeting her gaze. “I’m still - I don’t know. It still is.”
She nods. They stand like this; his arm feels secure around her shoulders, his fingers spreading over her jacket and playing lightly over the fabric. She’s aware of a few things: the cold, the sounds from the crowds that pass to and from the bars and restaurants. It sounds like everything’s filled, not quiet, and she wants to go somewhere else, a place where nobody really can see them.
“Are you still thinking about your vacation?”
The question tastes too abrupt and she pulls back further, taking a step to create space between the two of them. Her hands slide back into her pockets. She feels a little she missed something. It’s like her argument with Angela early; she wants to learn how to be careful in the right way.
“No,” he says. She looks at him and frowns. He sighs. “I spent the whole summer trying to recover. That was like a vacation. I guess - I still need to be me for awhile.”
“You are you,” she says softly.
He sighs. “Sometimes.”
She shakes her head. It somehow starts to spill with a mix of coherency and incoherency, as if she really can’t hear herself instead of being practical about everything. Her heart begins to race and she’s sure she’s flushing again; it’s a sudden thing, too sudden for her to really think about things like control and effort.
“There’s no sometimes,” she tells him. She doesn’t think. She reaches for him too, her fingers lacing through his without thinking. “There’s no ifs. You are you, Booth. If you wake up and decide you don’t like brown sugar anymore, then you don’t like brown sugar anymore. You are still you.”
He laughs softly. There’s somewhat of a smile too, the corners of his mouth pressed. His fingers brush against her jaw.
“So you keep telling me.”
She’s pointed and soft, taking his hand. She pulls it gently from her face, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Her fingers flutter against the back of his hand but she lets it be.
“I will keep telling you,” she promises, swallowing.
Booth nods. He smiles and then it fades. He looks away too. Laughter seems to follow down the street, somewhere behind her or to the side - she’s not really paying much attention. She waits.
He slides his arm over her shoulders again. “Thanks,” he says.