there's nothing here but what's here's mine
on annotating prufrock (2/2)
//
by sezzie_dee
Fandom: Bones
Rating: pg13, probably tending towards a light R.
Summary: “It’s all the things she’s never had and never wished for.” For all the ways it could have gone, there was only ever really a single ending. BB, BS. AU(s). Post-Boneless Bride in the River.
Part one is here.
spasm &desire;
It’s fifty six days in when she and Sully have their first real fight.
She’s had fights before, heated ones, ones that aren’t anything like this. This one involves low, accusatory voices and deadpan faces, the kind of quiet fury and sense of underlying disappointment that is all the more powerful for the ways in which it goes unspoken. It’s too personal for her in its intensity, and she wishes she could yell at him and maybe shove him a little and then end up kissing him, fucking him in the heat of the moment and still staying mad but being okay, too. He’s stalking off the boat, though, and telling her not to wait up for him and she doesn’t bother answering. She just sits there, stunned and alone.
Angela doesn’t answer her call.
*
He drives all night.
She doesn’t know where they are, exactly, and she doesn’t know how he finds her but he does because they’re at a dock and he’s there waiting somehow, lurking silently in the shadows and she thinks he hasn’t shaved in days because his chin is rough and scratchy when she touches it, touches his face just to assure herself he’s really there.
(Her arms are looping around his neck and it occurs to him this feels too much like a rescue. Ssh, it’s okay, you’re safe now, I’ve got you, and her hot tears against his skin.)
“Booth,” she begins, you shouldn’t be here, but he cuts her off, his own fingers pressing at her cheekbones, her eyelids, fervidly tracing the contours of her face.
“We need to talk,” he breathes, forehead against hers.
She nods, and their fingers grasp in the moonlight.
*
She’s deftly divesting him of his belt and pants when he stops to take in her appearance, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, hair in tangles and her eyes slightly glazed over. She’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt, one that’s far too big for her and though his brain is foggy with lust it makes the connection quick enough to snap him back to reality with a sickening lurch. He slows and stops, stills her hands, gripping them tightly.
“Bones,” he says, closing his eyes in an attempt to muster some self control, “Temperance, we can’t do this.” She opens her eyes slowly, drowsily, lips parted slightly. Their breaths mingle, and he can taste the alcohol that lingers there as he holds her face gently in his hands. She moves closer, turning the inches of separation to mere millimetres that crackle with a tension he tries to ignore.
“You’ve been drinking. You’re not thinking straight.”
“Everyone’s always telling me I think too much,” she answers defiantly, even though she knows he’s right, knows she should pull away.
He presses his lips to hers and kisses her with a frightening intensity that is enough to leave her momentarily distracted. When she recovers and makes it up on deck he’s already off the boat and stalking down the jetty so she calls out after him, follows, and he slows and turns around to face her, suddenly, gesturing wildly in his own frustration.
“This isn’t going to happen, Temperance. I’m not going to let this happen. And you know why? Because I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to sabotage whatever it is you have going for you. You’re looking for someone to blame, for an excuse, for any reason for him to push you away so you don’t have to deal with him hurting you. But I’m not going to let you blame me and I’m sure as hell not going to let you blame yourself.”
“I think you should go,” she says, coolly, and it isn’t until the words leave her mouth that it occurs to her that that’s what he was doing, going, until she tried to stop him.
“You had a fight, Bones. Suck it up. People fight all the time. You can’t just give up or run away when something goes wrong, but you can’t just stand there and refuse to budge, either. You have to find a common ground. Compromise. It’s what normal people in normal relationships do.” He meets her eyes, tone softening, sighing. “It’s what insane people, in crazy, codependent relationships, do.”
Booth. Why are you here -
“What kind of moron leaves his pissed off girlfriend alone with his boat, anyway? Whatever happened to hell hath no fury, huh? Kind of a dumb move if you ask me.”
He’s standing directly in front of her now, confusing her with his swift change from anger to tenderness and he holds her face in his hands again, searching her eyes for the words to end this on a less damaging note, because he knows if he doesn’t tread carefully he may as well sleep with her for all the trouble it’ll cause.
“I can’t have you regretting this,” he manages eventually, voice uneven. “Us. I couldn’t live with myself, Temperance, if you wound up regretting me.”
She nods, because she thinks she owes him some kind of response, some kind of sign of understanding but she can’t bring herself to speak, and he presses a kiss to her forehead and leaves without another word. Her head aches, and she dazedly massages her temples, draws her arms around herself, suddenly acutely aware of the crisp night air.
Sully comes back the next day with flowers and eyes full to the brim with apology. She rolls her eyes but begrudges him a smile; leans into his warmth when his arm settles around her shoulders.
“I missed you,” he admits, and their fingers companionably intertwine.
(She pretends she can’t feel his eyes on her from the shadows.)
*
“The whole notion of sexual fidelity is a fabrication of societal beliefs pertaining to moral standards. Whether or not you find another person sexually attractive is out of your immediate control - it’s predetermined biology, psychology even.”
“And we all know you don’t place much stock in that,” he jokes, and she shoots him a look.
“Sex doesn’t have to have anything to do with love or commitment. It’s physical chemistry, pure and simple. In fact, the idea of fidelity on a whole is nothing more than a poetic, dressed up version of Neanderthal territorial tendencies.”
“You’re actually condoning cheating,” Booth muses, both amused and slightly annoyed. “Justifying what he did.”
“No. I didn’t say that. I was just pointing out that we only see unfaithful acts as wrong because we’ve been raised in a society that perceives them to be. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“Fidelity isn’t about the sex, Bones,” he tells her, face too close to hers but she doesn’t move away. “It’s about treating someone right. And if you truly care for someone, you shouldn’t be consciously doing something that you know would hurt their feelings. The reasons why it would hurt their feelings are irrelevant.”
“You know… monogamy is an inconvenient trait. Very few animals mate for life. But it’s not monogamy I have an issue with. And monogamy shouldn’t be considered synonymous with marriage. Technically, humans aren’t monogamous.”
“Well, we’re kind of selectively monogamous. The sentiment’s there, but we want to be sure. You know, try before you buy.”
She laughs at that, and he smiles at having drawn her attention away from her work, even if only for a moment because she’s soon back to it, eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
“Did you know that dolphins are the only other animals that have sex for pleasure?”
They’re long past the stage in their relationship where such a topic of conversation could be considered awkward; he’s used to her bluntness and insouciance by now and is no longer prone to choking on his beverages when she brings such things up.
“Are you complaining about that, too? Because I don’t know about you, Bones, but I kind of like the sex for pleasure thing.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Sex for pleasure is... nice, I guess.”
He teases her, breaks the moment with a grin and they laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, once her attention has, inevitably, returned to the exam table.
Nice.
trousers &years;
They’re in the Keys when Sully hears from some guys he knew from the Bureau, heard he’d caught a case of wanderlust again and there was the possibility of him being nearby. Invited him and his missus to small get-together barbeque, and she was a little hesitant about going as a girlfriend but agreed. She’s dressed and hovering awkwardly on the deck when she catches an unexpected pool of liquid; loses her feet from beneath her and her wrist connects with the ground with a sickening crack.
“The things you’ll do to get out of going places,” Sully teases, but worries over her and presses a soothing kiss to her forehead. “Come on, we’d better get you checked out.”
It’s broken (just like she told him) and he tells her she’s earned a get out of jail free card. She doesn’t know what he means, exactly, but he insists on checking into a nice hotel for the night. She can’t deny she enjoys the shower.
“Go,” she urges, when he debates leaving. “Meet up with your friends. I’ll stay here and...” She trails off, glances around the room in search of something appealing to pass the time. She sighs. “...watch television, or something.”
At this he laughs.
“You hate television,” he points out.
“That’s not true,” she argues. “I used to own a television set up until very recently.”
“You smashed it with a baseball bat.”
“That was an accident and it has an extremely long explanation that I’d rather not get into right now. I’ll be fine. Please, just go.”
“Alright,” he says, “but call me if you need anything.”
“I broke my wrist, Sully - I didn’t hit my head,” she laughs, rolling her eyes.
Angela’s delighted when she calls but horrified by the injury - chastises that she’d hoped this holiday would get her away from death and danger. It’s good to hear the artist’s voice. She makes a noise of amusement when she tells her to take advantage of her overnight stay to kick back and relax; to get the smell of the ocean out of her hair for awhile.
“The last time I was in Florida a woman had just been murdered inside a hotel room. How should I find that association in any way relaxing, Angela?”
“Hey, wanna know who else is in Florida?”
“Mickey Mouse?”
“I’m going to let that one go, because you’re trying, but -”
“I wasn’t joking. Mickey Mouse is a well known character from popular culture. I think I used to have a Mickey Mouse watch when I was younger, but I’m not entirely sure. Sully’s already tried convincing me to go to Disneyland but I’m not really interested.”
“Sweetie, go to Disneyland. Go blindly wherever Sully leads you. Please. And pray it’s somewhere fun and off the garden path. But no,” Angela says, refocusing. “I’m talking about your other FBI gentleman friend.”
“The last time I went to Disneyland, it was with Russ and Dad. I don’t really think… wait, Booth is in Florida?”
“Working a case in Fort Lauderdale. Woman’s body found in one of the canals. Zack’s taking a look at it right now. You should see him, Bren. He’s doing great - really stepping up. He misses you, though. We all do.”
She doesn’t reply, not at first. The words are a jumbled mess in her head and she isn’t sure which ones to speak so she busies herself with the edge of the quilt cover instead; takes a deep, shaky breath.
“You okay, there, Bren?”
“I’m fine, Ange. I just... I miss you too. All of you. I miss working with you. Seeing you. Some days more than others.”
Cam pages Angela and she has to go. The termination of the phone call leaves the room silent and suddenly disconcertingly empty. Her wrist throbs in a dull ache.
He answers his phone with his name, like always, and she wonders again why she’s calling but doesn’t shy away. Not this time.
“Booth,” she says. “It’s me.”
*
“I suffered from a fracture to my distal radius in much the same place as last time. When I put my hands out to break my fall, the force of impact was... I broke the wrist of my right hand again,” she concedes with a deep sigh when she realises he isn’t exactly interested in the finer details.
“Yeah, Bones,” he says, with a pointed look at her cast. “I can kind of see that.”
He itches to sign it but she resists; tells him, to his eye roll, that she doesn’t understand the practice of decorating a plaster that stands for discomfort and that’s only going to be thrown away later anyway.
“That’s the thing, Bones. You decorate it, and you keep it.”
“That sounds highly unsanitary,” she says, and wrinkles her nose.
She knows if Angela were here she’d be having a much harder time standing her ground - her injured limb would no doubt be wallpapered in vibrant depictions of nauseatingly happy images until there was no off-white left to be seen in a matter of minutes.
He came bearing Indian takeout and she hones in on the butter chicken, humming in pleasure as the spices assault her tastebuds. She hasn’t eaten food like this in a long time, and for the first time she acknowledges she’s feeling homesick.
“Broken anything before? Other than last time, I mean. When you were a kid?”
“My leg, once, when I was nine. Russ and I were climbing trees and I slipped and fell. I remember because Russ had to carry me home. Mom and Dad were yelling at him, telling him off for letting me climb the tree in the first place. They were so mad at him for not looking after me. I just thought he was my hero.” She smiles awkwardly; rubs the swollen area where her wrist used to be. “I’d forgotten how much it can hurt.”
She falls asleep halfway through Risky Business - which is okay, he supposes, as long as she got to see Tom Cruise dancing around in his underwear because it’s one less thing for him to tease her about for not knowing - and he switches off the set and makes sure the blanket she’s buried herself beneath is covering her properly.
He can’t resist searching for a pen before he leaves.
It takes her two days to find it, to locate the number he scrawled in tiny digits when she wasn’t in a state to stop him. Two of them, near the crook of her elbow.
It only takes a moment for her to understand its significance. It’s a total; a reminder and a promise. Of a pledge she made once, of a goal they’ve set and not yet reached, of business unfinished between them. I’ll see you again, it says, and look, look at what we’ve done so far. She can’t help but look at it and smile.
She knows Sully is suspicious when he sees the marking and doesn’t bother asking where it came from. He doesn’t have to ask, she realises, because he already knows.
It’s his silence on the matter that unnerves her.
“Tell me what you’re feeling, right now,” he says a week later, stopping her before they step back on board his boat.
She stares at him blankly for a few seconds, confused by his non sequitur.
“My wrist hurts,” she offers. “Although in this case the discomfort I’m experiencing seems to suggest that the break is healing quite adequately.”
He looks as if he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. He nods his head, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back.
“Okay,” he says, and gently steers her up the ramp.
She can’t help but think that somehow, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
bliss &stagnation;
“Sully’s taking Brennan to swim with the dolphins,” Angela tells Booth when she gets off the phone with her friend. “How romantic.”
“Romantic,” Booth scoffs. “Anyone can do romantic.”
“No. They can’t. And even less people can do Brennan’s idea of romantic. Even you wouldn’t have been able to take her to swim with the dolphins. Taken her to see some, maybe. Sat and watched the sunset while they splashed about in the water all around you. But that’s my idea of romantic, not hers. That’s the difference between you and Sully, you know. He was willing to get his feet wet.”
“And we’re back to the Sully and me thing. Can we drop this, and look at the case? Remember that, the case, hmm?”
“I used to always think it was Brennan that was the blind one. But she was ready, waiting. For you. You’re the one that kept holding back.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just me that was holding back,” he snaps, suddenly. “And there were lines.”
“Lines are for warning. If someone really didn’t want you to cross, they would’ve built a wall,” she says, knowingly, and the look in her eyes makes him prickle with agitation.
“Let me know when you get a face for this guy, okay?”
He needs to get away. Away from the Jeffersonian and the squints and Bones’ annoyingly perceptive best friend.
Booth, I think you’re tense.
“Not tense, just a little on edge,” he says through gritted teeth as he swipes his card at the platform.
Tense.
He kicks a dustbin on his way out.
*
Day twenty two she’s feeling giddy and outrageous, adventurous like she hasn’t in a long time, and they have sex on the top of the boat with the rain pattering down around them.
They’d been on deck when it had started, when the droplets had begun falling and blurring her vision, causing her to blink erratically in an attempt to dislodge them from her lashes. He’d tried to pull her in for a kiss, pull her inside and out of the wet; she’d pulled away, grinning mischievously as she slipped out of his grasp and scrambled out of his reach.
He’d followed, of course, and she’d let him catch her, let him nudge his leg between hers as she’d arched back, his hand behind her head before it could hit anything. The kisses had been lazy and languid; drowsy but passionate and as his hands began to wander she’d laughed against his mouth, protesting, murmuring, breathing someone will see but paying little attention to her own words. Gasping at his thumb at her breast and because she still wasn’t quite used to the size of him so deep inside of her.
She almost wishes she were one of those people that would give anything for all days to be like this one.
Because she knows she isn’t, not really. And it comes and goes; her patience for such a lack of direction, her tolerance for lying in bed with him twisting her hair around his finger, tracing patterns on her skin and appealing to her to tell him something about herself, anything. She’s all for basking in the afterglow of good sex, of the contentment that comes with drifting in and out of slumber feeling satisfied and sated, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a private person who’s not so used to sharing, and she needs her space and everything that Booth warned her about.
Routine. Purpose.
“So,” he begins between kisses, “have you been in contact with Angela lately?”
“Mmm. I emailed her yesterday. Why?”
“What about Booth?”
“Booth,” she repeats, laughing a little in confusion, moving away. “Why would you ask about Booth?”
“Come on, Tempe. I know you two are close. It’s no big deal. I was just wondering,” he says, shrugs, and she knows he’s not being accusing.
“Booth and I... we were partners. I’m on holiday, so, at the moment, we’re not partners.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “But one kind of gets the impression you guys are friends, too. Temperance, you shouldn’t have to feel like you need to hide any-”
“No,” she says. Quickly, emphatically. “I’m not hiding anything, and especially not anything to do with Booth. It’s... complicated.”
“Try me.”
She talks slowly like she always does when she’s thinking in metaphor, relating it back to something she understands, trying to justify it anthropologically, scientifically.
“Change is the only true constant. Change and time, I guess. Most changes are small, insignificant. But occasionally something big, something critical happens. And species can either adapt, or perish. Evolve, or face extinction. Booth and I...” She plays with the hem of her sweater, uncharacteristically diffident. “Something changed, and neither of us were ready, or quick enough, to adapt. Whatever we had kind of just... petered out.”
I haven’t spoken to him since we left, which isn’t a lie because he didn’t answer his phone. Not the second time, anyway, and the hello? didn’t count.
*
“Bones, holidays usually last a couple of weeks. Months maybe. It might get a little cosy there for awhile but things don’t bother you too much because somewhere in the back of your mind is the knowledge that you don’t have to put up with anything that might be bugging you for too much longer. This thing you’re doing? It’s not really a holiday. It’s living together. And I’d be willing to wager that it won’t take long before loverboy starts stepping on your toes.”
“I’m not sure whether or not I should be concerned that you’re expressing interest in placing bets on my personal life since you’re a degenerate gambler.”
He rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s got her thinking, at least.
portrait &disciple;
And there’s still a girl in there, somewhere.
The girl who alternates between speaking her mind when she probably shouldn’t and saying nothing at all out of a fear that nobody will understand what she’s saying. And it hurts, damn it, to be looked at and not seen, listened to and never really heard and finally, she’d found a place where she belonged, with people that were putting the understanding back into her life and taking away all that misunderstanding from her past. Because there was Zack to share intellectual awkwardness with and maybe lose the awkwardness and focus on the intellect, and Hodgins to be the right mix of science and real world, and Angela to be all the real world she needed and knowing and supportive the way she wishes someone, anyone, could have tried to be to her years earlier, and.
And then there’s Booth, and sometimes she wishes there wasn’t but she knows deep down she’s really happy that there is, because that’s what he does, he makes her happy.
She imagines them in another time and place, without the hindrances of the real world (or maybe the luxury of being exposed to a wider range of them) and where they’re younger, more foolish and far happier. They’d be dating by now - she’s not that naive. Picnics, walks in the park. His hand squeezing hers, their grip casual but intimate and the delighted laughter bubbling up inside of her as he manoeuvres her up against a tree. Nuzzles her neck with quiet affection, nudges his leg between hers, slips his hand beneath her sweater and grazes the underside of her breast. It’s all the things she’s never had and never wished for, but there’s something so fairytale and idyllic about it that the yearning kindles within her and spreads, slowly, a dull warmth that seeps right up to her fingertips and down to her toes.
(it isn’t them, though - it never could be. it might’ve been joy and seeley, maybe, but she wrinkles her nose at the sound of it. it doesn’t fit, she thinks. not like booth and brennan. not at all.)
He asks her to marry him on day one hundred and seventy three.
It’s less of a proposal and more of a casual suggestion but the intent is there, and she thinks she should be taken aback and mildly floored or shocked by it all but she isn’t really, because a part of her has been expecting this all along, thinks maybe accepting his offer to sail around the world was sending out signals she wasn’t ready to transmit. She hasn’t thought about it enough to have an answer for him, though, so she gives a wry laugh and pulls away from him instead.
“Tempe,” he says, pleads almost, nonchalance gone and entirely too serious for her liking.
“Timothy,” she mocks. She manages a small smile, at least. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll consider it.”
She hesitates, and he senses it before she can formulate a response. He presses on, determined.
“I know how you feel about marriage, Temperance, and I respect that. But I’m not going to lie to you and say I’m not hoping I can’t change your mind.”
“Can,” she corrects, without thinking. “You used a double negative, which changes the meaning of your statement to the opposite of what I assume you intended it to be.”
“Can,” he concedes. “Let me know if there’s even the slightest chance that I can convince you to do this.”
She can’t help but think this would be as much out of character for him as it would be for her.
There’s a part of her that acts in gentle reminder, needling that what they have here is special; is unlike anything she’s gotten remotely close to before and that if she was ever going to do this, change her mind - that Sully would be the one to do it with. Only he’s not the settling down type any more than she is.
Booth warned her Sully was a free spirit; flitting between jobs, not in purposelessness or inconsistency but out of a restlessness for new experience, for knowledge. It’s never been something she could fault him on rather than envy, but logically she knows deep down that without that anchor, without one of them having that determination for it to mean something, there’s no point in attempting the compromise.
“I can’t,” she says, struggling to hold back the tears she can feel welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”
His shoulders sag as he exhales slowly. Seeing the defeated look in his eyes she places a hand on his arm, gently, searching for an explanation, anything to console him.
“And it’s not just the whole concept of marriage - although that is a very significant part of it. It’s us, and our relationship. I’m not sure about us, and I’m not saying that to hurt you. I’m trying to be completely honest here. I might be in love with you. I don’t know. I have trouble, dealing with feelings. Assigning names to emotions. To me, love is a chemical process involving endorphins and pheromones. A romanticised justification for fulfilling biological urges. I’m not so good at the psychology part - I hate psychology. But I’m trying to look past all that; I really am. You help me look past all that. But I’m still not sure. Not one hundred percent. And I need to be.
“I’m sorry. Because I wish I could be wildly impulsive and go with something in my gut and say yes. I just... I just don’t want to be someone who commits to something only to have to turn around at the very last minute and realise it still isn’t what I want. I can’t be that someone.
“You’re not saying anything,” she says.
“You sure don’t make it easy for a guy,” he tells her eventually, still not meeting her eyes. “But I already knew that, didn’t I?”
*
“We can’t just lie around having sex for the rest of our lives,” she laughs, rolling away from him and propping herself up on her elbow.
“I’m sure we could try,” he says.
She shakes her head at him amusedly. He grins at her, and when the grin doesn’t fade she eyes him warily.
“What?” she asks slowly, drawing the word out in suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You said ‘for the rest of our lives’,” he points out, and she laughs again.
“I did, didn’t I?” She smiles up at him. “I hope you don’t mean to suggest that it was some kind of Freudian slip indicating that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, because I really -” she accentuates the point with a kiss, “- really, hate psychology.”
“I know,” he says, and kisses her on the tip of her nose.
*
“Do you love him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Hey, you asked what I think. I need to know before I can give you an answer.”
“Booth -”
“Bones, just answer the question, okay?”
She pauses, chews her lip.
“I don’t know.”
He glances sideways at her, gives her a half smile.
“That there, Bones,” he says, tuning the radio into another station, “is your answer.”
*
“You loved everything that he stood for,” Angela says, understanding. “Not him specifically.”
“I don’t think I ever got the chance to. But I’m sure I could have, if we’d had more time. If I’d gotten to know him better. He left so unexpectedly -“
“You could have gone with him,” her friend says, gently.
“No. The timing wasn’t right. I... I can’t live a purposeless life right now.”
“Now you’re just letting Dr Wyatt put words in your mouth. You hate psychology, remember,” Angela reminds her, and they both laugh. Share a smile as their hands squeeze together in comfort. “It’ll happen again, Bren. You told me so.”
“It was a logical conclusion hard to refute,” she says with a sigh.
“You don’t need logic, not coming from me. You’ve got enough of your own. So what I’m giving you? It comes from the heart. You’ll find someone. You’ll get your happy ending. God knows you of all people deserve it.”
geranium &humility;
“All she has to do is say your name, and you come running!”
“You want me to stop answering her calls? ‘Cause once or twice it’s kinda been my coming running that’s, oh, you know, saved her life?”
“You’ve kept her safe, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want you to turn your back on her. But I need... I need her to stop calling you every time something doesn’t feel right. I need her to call me once in awhile.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should take that up with her, hmm?” He falters, just for a moment, but Booth catches it, laughs wryly. “Yeah. I thought so. You don’t want to make this about her. Got news for you, Sul. Your issue is with Bones, not me.”
*
“You know, I guess I owe you a thanks, Booth.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know what you said to her - Temperance, I mean - but whatever it was, you convinced her to come with me. So, even if it was against your better judgement. Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”
He leans back on the railing, shaking his head slightly. He turns away, and lowers his voice in admission when he finally speaks.
“If it was what I said that made Bones get on that boat, it wasn’t because I convinced her to go with you. It’s because she wanted to prove me wrong,” he says, pushing off and making to exit. “See you around, Sullivan.” He pauses in the doorway, turns around before he leaves. “And just... just be good to her, okay? Bones, I mean. She deserves it.”
hollow &mirror;
She has a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach all through dinner and they eat silently, letting the quiet bustle of the restaurant wash over them. He’s got that guarded look in his eye that she’s come to associate with him trying to decide whether or not to try being emotional with her.
They’re halfway down the pier when she realises he isn’t beside her anymore. When she stops and turns he’s standing a few metres behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes crinkling as he stares out at the ocean.
“Listen,” he sighs. “I have something for you.”
The envelope is yellow and creased, as if he’s folded and unfolded it many times trying to decide what to do with it. A tingle of dread, something foreign to her, prickles at her spine.
“What is this?” she asks. He gestures that she should open it and when she does, she frowns. “A ticket. To DC. I don’t... I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Temperance,” he says gently.
She knows. Has known it all along, really - that while mentally, she’d prepared herself for the commitment, subconsciously her heart had started dragging its feet a long time ago.
She experiences a crushing sense of failure and gasps at the intensity of the emotion that hits her; her eyes start to sting and she pulls away in shame and confusion.
“I tried,” she says eventually, turning back to face him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I tried so hard to make it work. To make myself belong. But I can’t... I... it’s not who I am.”
“I know. And I’m glad. That you tried, I mean. At least we gave it a shot, right?”
“Right,” she says.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
He watches her sadly, resignedly as she composes herself and forces a shaky smile.
“I guess this is goodbye, then. For real, this time.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So, what does that mean? What am I supposed to do? Do we kiss? Have sex as some kind of carnal farewell? Did I do it right, last time? I’m not exactly sure what happens next in these kinds of situations.”
He nearly chokes at this, and laughs at her innocence and her logic.
“I think a hug would be nice,” he offers.
It’s all it takes and her arms are wrapping around him, squeezing him tight.
“See? Nice,” he says, and rests his chin on the crown of her head.
“I’m going to miss you.” She mumbles it into his shirt, still feeling awkward and uncertain when she eventually draws back. “Thank you. For everything. For... reminding me to live wide.”
Something boils and overflows inside of her, and she’s reaching out for something, anything, to appease the overwhelming sense of hopelessness she feels and finds it in his lips on hers. Her fingers seek out his skin and she sighs, tilts her head back and moans as he gives in, assaults her throat, her shoulder, the pale flesh of her thighs. It’s heady and desperate, the way the two of them have never really been and as he hoists her up, her legs scissoring around him and she shudders and trembles against him with only his first stroke, it all starts to hurt a little bit less.
She stays on the marina long after the speck of Sully’s yacht disappears into the horizon.
juliet &prelude;
tap. tap. tap.
She’s tossing and turning and the duvet’s off and then on again because she’s too hot, too cold and she can’t seem to get it right so she flops onto her back with an irritated sigh and a roll of her eyes when she realises something’s hitting the window.
tap.
Something’s hitting the window in a tap tap kind of pattern that’s both quiet enough and loud enough to be annoying and impossible to ignore, so she pulls the sheet around her, stark white in the cool gloom of the cabin and makes her way up on deck. He doesn’t notice her at first and she stands there, confused and more than a little chilly now that she’s exposed to the night air and she tries to simultaneously fold her arms crossly across her chest and draw the sheet tighter around her.
tap.
“I’m fairly certain that could be classed as some form of harassment,” she says, startling him mid-aim and he straightens up, stunned.
“Jesus Christ, Bones, put some clothes on, would you?”
“Booth,” she sighs, unfazed, “what are you doing here?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was in the neighbourhood?”
Raised eyebrow in response and he’s running his hand through his hair like he expected it.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his sneakers around in the dirt, adorably sheepish and she softens, moving forward to lean against the railing. His eyes dart around for a moment, as if he doesn’t know quite where to rest them, then stop, unnervingly, when they meet hers. His shoulders sag in defeat and he grins up at her, raising the bundle in his arms.
“I brought Chinese,” he offers, and she rolls her eyes but smiles a little, too.
“You say that as if it means I’m going to let you up because of it,” she says, and they both know that it’s pretty much exactly what it means.
She sighs resignedly and turns to make her way back into the cabin, and for a moment he’s almost worried she’s going against everything he thinks he knows about her and refusing him, until she pauses midway to look over her shoulder expectantly at him.
“Coming,” he says, and hoists himself aboard with a grin.
*
“Sully’s asked me to go away with him for a year. Take a sabbatical. Sail around the Caribbean,” she says, trying for nonchalance but the darting of her eyes betraying her.
“Oh,” he says. To his credit he only looks slightly taken aback. “Oh, okay. You, uh, you going to go?”
There’s a pause, and a shared glance. Stay, his eyes tell her, and to her surprise she catches it. Doesn’t question it.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
It’s enough.
“Okay,” he says, simply, and for some reason she smiles.
“Okay.”
Somehow, she can tell that they will be.
*
The decision was halfway made from the start, she realises later. It feels...
“Nice,” Booth comments, through a mouthful of stolen breakfast, of scrambled eggs that were supposed to be hers.
“Yeah,” she agrees softly, because the pancakes he’s ordered are. “Nice.”
They chew in silence for a few moments.
“No regrets?” he asks her eventually, in a way that tells her it’s been bothering him.
The answer is automatic, given without thought, and she smiles.
“No regrets,” and she means it. And that feels kind of nice, too.
*
{ I don’t own the works of TS Eliot. }
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock | The Waste Land | The Hollow Men
Whispers of Immortality |Portrait of a Lady
//
by sezzie_dee
Fandom: Bones
Rating: pg13, probably tending towards a light R.
Summary: “It’s all the things she’s never had and never wished for.” For all the ways it could have gone, there was only ever really a single ending. BB, BS. AU(s). Post-Boneless Bride in the River.
Part one is here.
spasm &desire;
It’s fifty six days in when she and Sully have their first real fight.
She’s had fights before, heated ones, ones that aren’t anything like this. This one involves low, accusatory voices and deadpan faces, the kind of quiet fury and sense of underlying disappointment that is all the more powerful for the ways in which it goes unspoken. It’s too personal for her in its intensity, and she wishes she could yell at him and maybe shove him a little and then end up kissing him, fucking him in the heat of the moment and still staying mad but being okay, too. He’s stalking off the boat, though, and telling her not to wait up for him and she doesn’t bother answering. She just sits there, stunned and alone.
Angela doesn’t answer her call.
*
He drives all night.
She doesn’t know where they are, exactly, and she doesn’t know how he finds her but he does because they’re at a dock and he’s there waiting somehow, lurking silently in the shadows and she thinks he hasn’t shaved in days because his chin is rough and scratchy when she touches it, touches his face just to assure herself he’s really there.
(Her arms are looping around his neck and it occurs to him this feels too much like a rescue. Ssh, it’s okay, you’re safe now, I’ve got you, and her hot tears against his skin.)
“Booth,” she begins, you shouldn’t be here, but he cuts her off, his own fingers pressing at her cheekbones, her eyelids, fervidly tracing the contours of her face.
“We need to talk,” he breathes, forehead against hers.
She nods, and their fingers grasp in the moonlight.
*
She’s deftly divesting him of his belt and pants when he stops to take in her appearance, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, hair in tangles and her eyes slightly glazed over. She’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt, one that’s far too big for her and though his brain is foggy with lust it makes the connection quick enough to snap him back to reality with a sickening lurch. He slows and stops, stills her hands, gripping them tightly.
“Bones,” he says, closing his eyes in an attempt to muster some self control, “Temperance, we can’t do this.” She opens her eyes slowly, drowsily, lips parted slightly. Their breaths mingle, and he can taste the alcohol that lingers there as he holds her face gently in his hands. She moves closer, turning the inches of separation to mere millimetres that crackle with a tension he tries to ignore.
“You’ve been drinking. You’re not thinking straight.”
“Everyone’s always telling me I think too much,” she answers defiantly, even though she knows he’s right, knows she should pull away.
He presses his lips to hers and kisses her with a frightening intensity that is enough to leave her momentarily distracted. When she recovers and makes it up on deck he’s already off the boat and stalking down the jetty so she calls out after him, follows, and he slows and turns around to face her, suddenly, gesturing wildly in his own frustration.
“This isn’t going to happen, Temperance. I’m not going to let this happen. And you know why? Because I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to sabotage whatever it is you have going for you. You’re looking for someone to blame, for an excuse, for any reason for him to push you away so you don’t have to deal with him hurting you. But I’m not going to let you blame me and I’m sure as hell not going to let you blame yourself.”
“I think you should go,” she says, coolly, and it isn’t until the words leave her mouth that it occurs to her that that’s what he was doing, going, until she tried to stop him.
“You had a fight, Bones. Suck it up. People fight all the time. You can’t just give up or run away when something goes wrong, but you can’t just stand there and refuse to budge, either. You have to find a common ground. Compromise. It’s what normal people in normal relationships do.” He meets her eyes, tone softening, sighing. “It’s what insane people, in crazy, codependent relationships, do.”
Booth. Why are you here -
“What kind of moron leaves his pissed off girlfriend alone with his boat, anyway? Whatever happened to hell hath no fury, huh? Kind of a dumb move if you ask me.”
He’s standing directly in front of her now, confusing her with his swift change from anger to tenderness and he holds her face in his hands again, searching her eyes for the words to end this on a less damaging note, because he knows if he doesn’t tread carefully he may as well sleep with her for all the trouble it’ll cause.
“I can’t have you regretting this,” he manages eventually, voice uneven. “Us. I couldn’t live with myself, Temperance, if you wound up regretting me.”
She nods, because she thinks she owes him some kind of response, some kind of sign of understanding but she can’t bring herself to speak, and he presses a kiss to her forehead and leaves without another word. Her head aches, and she dazedly massages her temples, draws her arms around herself, suddenly acutely aware of the crisp night air.
Sully comes back the next day with flowers and eyes full to the brim with apology. She rolls her eyes but begrudges him a smile; leans into his warmth when his arm settles around her shoulders.
“I missed you,” he admits, and their fingers companionably intertwine.
(She pretends she can’t feel his eyes on her from the shadows.)
*
“The whole notion of sexual fidelity is a fabrication of societal beliefs pertaining to moral standards. Whether or not you find another person sexually attractive is out of your immediate control - it’s predetermined biology, psychology even.”
“And we all know you don’t place much stock in that,” he jokes, and she shoots him a look.
“Sex doesn’t have to have anything to do with love or commitment. It’s physical chemistry, pure and simple. In fact, the idea of fidelity on a whole is nothing more than a poetic, dressed up version of Neanderthal territorial tendencies.”
“You’re actually condoning cheating,” Booth muses, both amused and slightly annoyed. “Justifying what he did.”
“No. I didn’t say that. I was just pointing out that we only see unfaithful acts as wrong because we’ve been raised in a society that perceives them to be. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“Fidelity isn’t about the sex, Bones,” he tells her, face too close to hers but she doesn’t move away. “It’s about treating someone right. And if you truly care for someone, you shouldn’t be consciously doing something that you know would hurt their feelings. The reasons why it would hurt their feelings are irrelevant.”
“You know… monogamy is an inconvenient trait. Very few animals mate for life. But it’s not monogamy I have an issue with. And monogamy shouldn’t be considered synonymous with marriage. Technically, humans aren’t monogamous.”
“Well, we’re kind of selectively monogamous. The sentiment’s there, but we want to be sure. You know, try before you buy.”
She laughs at that, and he smiles at having drawn her attention away from her work, even if only for a moment because she’s soon back to it, eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
“Did you know that dolphins are the only other animals that have sex for pleasure?”
They’re long past the stage in their relationship where such a topic of conversation could be considered awkward; he’s used to her bluntness and insouciance by now and is no longer prone to choking on his beverages when she brings such things up.
“Are you complaining about that, too? Because I don’t know about you, Bones, but I kind of like the sex for pleasure thing.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Sex for pleasure is... nice, I guess.”
He teases her, breaks the moment with a grin and they laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, once her attention has, inevitably, returned to the exam table.
Nice.
trousers &years;
They’re in the Keys when Sully hears from some guys he knew from the Bureau, heard he’d caught a case of wanderlust again and there was the possibility of him being nearby. Invited him and his missus to small get-together barbeque, and she was a little hesitant about going as a girlfriend but agreed. She’s dressed and hovering awkwardly on the deck when she catches an unexpected pool of liquid; loses her feet from beneath her and her wrist connects with the ground with a sickening crack.
“The things you’ll do to get out of going places,” Sully teases, but worries over her and presses a soothing kiss to her forehead. “Come on, we’d better get you checked out.”
It’s broken (just like she told him) and he tells her she’s earned a get out of jail free card. She doesn’t know what he means, exactly, but he insists on checking into a nice hotel for the night. She can’t deny she enjoys the shower.
“Go,” she urges, when he debates leaving. “Meet up with your friends. I’ll stay here and...” She trails off, glances around the room in search of something appealing to pass the time. She sighs. “...watch television, or something.”
At this he laughs.
“You hate television,” he points out.
“That’s not true,” she argues. “I used to own a television set up until very recently.”
“You smashed it with a baseball bat.”
“That was an accident and it has an extremely long explanation that I’d rather not get into right now. I’ll be fine. Please, just go.”
“Alright,” he says, “but call me if you need anything.”
“I broke my wrist, Sully - I didn’t hit my head,” she laughs, rolling her eyes.
Angela’s delighted when she calls but horrified by the injury - chastises that she’d hoped this holiday would get her away from death and danger. It’s good to hear the artist’s voice. She makes a noise of amusement when she tells her to take advantage of her overnight stay to kick back and relax; to get the smell of the ocean out of her hair for awhile.
“The last time I was in Florida a woman had just been murdered inside a hotel room. How should I find that association in any way relaxing, Angela?”
“Hey, wanna know who else is in Florida?”
“Mickey Mouse?”
“I’m going to let that one go, because you’re trying, but -”
“I wasn’t joking. Mickey Mouse is a well known character from popular culture. I think I used to have a Mickey Mouse watch when I was younger, but I’m not entirely sure. Sully’s already tried convincing me to go to Disneyland but I’m not really interested.”
“Sweetie, go to Disneyland. Go blindly wherever Sully leads you. Please. And pray it’s somewhere fun and off the garden path. But no,” Angela says, refocusing. “I’m talking about your other FBI gentleman friend.”
“The last time I went to Disneyland, it was with Russ and Dad. I don’t really think… wait, Booth is in Florida?”
“Working a case in Fort Lauderdale. Woman’s body found in one of the canals. Zack’s taking a look at it right now. You should see him, Bren. He’s doing great - really stepping up. He misses you, though. We all do.”
She doesn’t reply, not at first. The words are a jumbled mess in her head and she isn’t sure which ones to speak so she busies herself with the edge of the quilt cover instead; takes a deep, shaky breath.
“You okay, there, Bren?”
“I’m fine, Ange. I just... I miss you too. All of you. I miss working with you. Seeing you. Some days more than others.”
Cam pages Angela and she has to go. The termination of the phone call leaves the room silent and suddenly disconcertingly empty. Her wrist throbs in a dull ache.
He answers his phone with his name, like always, and she wonders again why she’s calling but doesn’t shy away. Not this time.
“Booth,” she says. “It’s me.”
*
“I suffered from a fracture to my distal radius in much the same place as last time. When I put my hands out to break my fall, the force of impact was... I broke the wrist of my right hand again,” she concedes with a deep sigh when she realises he isn’t exactly interested in the finer details.
“Yeah, Bones,” he says, with a pointed look at her cast. “I can kind of see that.”
He itches to sign it but she resists; tells him, to his eye roll, that she doesn’t understand the practice of decorating a plaster that stands for discomfort and that’s only going to be thrown away later anyway.
“That’s the thing, Bones. You decorate it, and you keep it.”
“That sounds highly unsanitary,” she says, and wrinkles her nose.
She knows if Angela were here she’d be having a much harder time standing her ground - her injured limb would no doubt be wallpapered in vibrant depictions of nauseatingly happy images until there was no off-white left to be seen in a matter of minutes.
He came bearing Indian takeout and she hones in on the butter chicken, humming in pleasure as the spices assault her tastebuds. She hasn’t eaten food like this in a long time, and for the first time she acknowledges she’s feeling homesick.
“Broken anything before? Other than last time, I mean. When you were a kid?”
“My leg, once, when I was nine. Russ and I were climbing trees and I slipped and fell. I remember because Russ had to carry me home. Mom and Dad were yelling at him, telling him off for letting me climb the tree in the first place. They were so mad at him for not looking after me. I just thought he was my hero.” She smiles awkwardly; rubs the swollen area where her wrist used to be. “I’d forgotten how much it can hurt.”
She falls asleep halfway through Risky Business - which is okay, he supposes, as long as she got to see Tom Cruise dancing around in his underwear because it’s one less thing for him to tease her about for not knowing - and he switches off the set and makes sure the blanket she’s buried herself beneath is covering her properly.
He can’t resist searching for a pen before he leaves.
It takes her two days to find it, to locate the number he scrawled in tiny digits when she wasn’t in a state to stop him. Two of them, near the crook of her elbow.
It only takes a moment for her to understand its significance. It’s a total; a reminder and a promise. Of a pledge she made once, of a goal they’ve set and not yet reached, of business unfinished between them. I’ll see you again, it says, and look, look at what we’ve done so far. She can’t help but look at it and smile.
She knows Sully is suspicious when he sees the marking and doesn’t bother asking where it came from. He doesn’t have to ask, she realises, because he already knows.
It’s his silence on the matter that unnerves her.
“Tell me what you’re feeling, right now,” he says a week later, stopping her before they step back on board his boat.
She stares at him blankly for a few seconds, confused by his non sequitur.
“My wrist hurts,” she offers. “Although in this case the discomfort I’m experiencing seems to suggest that the break is healing quite adequately.”
He looks as if he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. He nods his head, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back.
“Okay,” he says, and gently steers her up the ramp.
She can’t help but think that somehow, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
bliss &stagnation;
“Sully’s taking Brennan to swim with the dolphins,” Angela tells Booth when she gets off the phone with her friend. “How romantic.”
“Romantic,” Booth scoffs. “Anyone can do romantic.”
“No. They can’t. And even less people can do Brennan’s idea of romantic. Even you wouldn’t have been able to take her to swim with the dolphins. Taken her to see some, maybe. Sat and watched the sunset while they splashed about in the water all around you. But that’s my idea of romantic, not hers. That’s the difference between you and Sully, you know. He was willing to get his feet wet.”
“And we’re back to the Sully and me thing. Can we drop this, and look at the case? Remember that, the case, hmm?”
“I used to always think it was Brennan that was the blind one. But she was ready, waiting. For you. You’re the one that kept holding back.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just me that was holding back,” he snaps, suddenly. “And there were lines.”
“Lines are for warning. If someone really didn’t want you to cross, they would’ve built a wall,” she says, knowingly, and the look in her eyes makes him prickle with agitation.
“Let me know when you get a face for this guy, okay?”
He needs to get away. Away from the Jeffersonian and the squints and Bones’ annoyingly perceptive best friend.
Booth, I think you’re tense.
“Not tense, just a little on edge,” he says through gritted teeth as he swipes his card at the platform.
Tense.
He kicks a dustbin on his way out.
*
Day twenty two she’s feeling giddy and outrageous, adventurous like she hasn’t in a long time, and they have sex on the top of the boat with the rain pattering down around them.
They’d been on deck when it had started, when the droplets had begun falling and blurring her vision, causing her to blink erratically in an attempt to dislodge them from her lashes. He’d tried to pull her in for a kiss, pull her inside and out of the wet; she’d pulled away, grinning mischievously as she slipped out of his grasp and scrambled out of his reach.
He’d followed, of course, and she’d let him catch her, let him nudge his leg between hers as she’d arched back, his hand behind her head before it could hit anything. The kisses had been lazy and languid; drowsy but passionate and as his hands began to wander she’d laughed against his mouth, protesting, murmuring, breathing someone will see but paying little attention to her own words. Gasping at his thumb at her breast and because she still wasn’t quite used to the size of him so deep inside of her.
She almost wishes she were one of those people that would give anything for all days to be like this one.
Because she knows she isn’t, not really. And it comes and goes; her patience for such a lack of direction, her tolerance for lying in bed with him twisting her hair around his finger, tracing patterns on her skin and appealing to her to tell him something about herself, anything. She’s all for basking in the afterglow of good sex, of the contentment that comes with drifting in and out of slumber feeling satisfied and sated, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a private person who’s not so used to sharing, and she needs her space and everything that Booth warned her about.
Routine. Purpose.
“So,” he begins between kisses, “have you been in contact with Angela lately?”
“Mmm. I emailed her yesterday. Why?”
“What about Booth?”
“Booth,” she repeats, laughing a little in confusion, moving away. “Why would you ask about Booth?”
“Come on, Tempe. I know you two are close. It’s no big deal. I was just wondering,” he says, shrugs, and she knows he’s not being accusing.
“Booth and I... we were partners. I’m on holiday, so, at the moment, we’re not partners.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “But one kind of gets the impression you guys are friends, too. Temperance, you shouldn’t have to feel like you need to hide any-”
“No,” she says. Quickly, emphatically. “I’m not hiding anything, and especially not anything to do with Booth. It’s... complicated.”
“Try me.”
She talks slowly like she always does when she’s thinking in metaphor, relating it back to something she understands, trying to justify it anthropologically, scientifically.
“Change is the only true constant. Change and time, I guess. Most changes are small, insignificant. But occasionally something big, something critical happens. And species can either adapt, or perish. Evolve, or face extinction. Booth and I...” She plays with the hem of her sweater, uncharacteristically diffident. “Something changed, and neither of us were ready, or quick enough, to adapt. Whatever we had kind of just... petered out.”
I haven’t spoken to him since we left, which isn’t a lie because he didn’t answer his phone. Not the second time, anyway, and the hello? didn’t count.
*
“Bones, holidays usually last a couple of weeks. Months maybe. It might get a little cosy there for awhile but things don’t bother you too much because somewhere in the back of your mind is the knowledge that you don’t have to put up with anything that might be bugging you for too much longer. This thing you’re doing? It’s not really a holiday. It’s living together. And I’d be willing to wager that it won’t take long before loverboy starts stepping on your toes.”
“I’m not sure whether or not I should be concerned that you’re expressing interest in placing bets on my personal life since you’re a degenerate gambler.”
He rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s got her thinking, at least.
portrait &disciple;
And there’s still a girl in there, somewhere.
The girl who alternates between speaking her mind when she probably shouldn’t and saying nothing at all out of a fear that nobody will understand what she’s saying. And it hurts, damn it, to be looked at and not seen, listened to and never really heard and finally, she’d found a place where she belonged, with people that were putting the understanding back into her life and taking away all that misunderstanding from her past. Because there was Zack to share intellectual awkwardness with and maybe lose the awkwardness and focus on the intellect, and Hodgins to be the right mix of science and real world, and Angela to be all the real world she needed and knowing and supportive the way she wishes someone, anyone, could have tried to be to her years earlier, and.
And then there’s Booth, and sometimes she wishes there wasn’t but she knows deep down she’s really happy that there is, because that’s what he does, he makes her happy.
She imagines them in another time and place, without the hindrances of the real world (or maybe the luxury of being exposed to a wider range of them) and where they’re younger, more foolish and far happier. They’d be dating by now - she’s not that naive. Picnics, walks in the park. His hand squeezing hers, their grip casual but intimate and the delighted laughter bubbling up inside of her as he manoeuvres her up against a tree. Nuzzles her neck with quiet affection, nudges his leg between hers, slips his hand beneath her sweater and grazes the underside of her breast. It’s all the things she’s never had and never wished for, but there’s something so fairytale and idyllic about it that the yearning kindles within her and spreads, slowly, a dull warmth that seeps right up to her fingertips and down to her toes.
(it isn’t them, though - it never could be. it might’ve been joy and seeley, maybe, but she wrinkles her nose at the sound of it. it doesn’t fit, she thinks. not like booth and brennan. not at all.)
He asks her to marry him on day one hundred and seventy three.
It’s less of a proposal and more of a casual suggestion but the intent is there, and she thinks she should be taken aback and mildly floored or shocked by it all but she isn’t really, because a part of her has been expecting this all along, thinks maybe accepting his offer to sail around the world was sending out signals she wasn’t ready to transmit. She hasn’t thought about it enough to have an answer for him, though, so she gives a wry laugh and pulls away from him instead.
“Tempe,” he says, pleads almost, nonchalance gone and entirely too serious for her liking.
“Timothy,” she mocks. She manages a small smile, at least. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll consider it.”
She hesitates, and he senses it before she can formulate a response. He presses on, determined.
“I know how you feel about marriage, Temperance, and I respect that. But I’m not going to lie to you and say I’m not hoping I can’t change your mind.”
“Can,” she corrects, without thinking. “You used a double negative, which changes the meaning of your statement to the opposite of what I assume you intended it to be.”
“Can,” he concedes. “Let me know if there’s even the slightest chance that I can convince you to do this.”
She can’t help but think this would be as much out of character for him as it would be for her.
There’s a part of her that acts in gentle reminder, needling that what they have here is special; is unlike anything she’s gotten remotely close to before and that if she was ever going to do this, change her mind - that Sully would be the one to do it with. Only he’s not the settling down type any more than she is.
Booth warned her Sully was a free spirit; flitting between jobs, not in purposelessness or inconsistency but out of a restlessness for new experience, for knowledge. It’s never been something she could fault him on rather than envy, but logically she knows deep down that without that anchor, without one of them having that determination for it to mean something, there’s no point in attempting the compromise.
“I can’t,” she says, struggling to hold back the tears she can feel welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”
His shoulders sag as he exhales slowly. Seeing the defeated look in his eyes she places a hand on his arm, gently, searching for an explanation, anything to console him.
“And it’s not just the whole concept of marriage - although that is a very significant part of it. It’s us, and our relationship. I’m not sure about us, and I’m not saying that to hurt you. I’m trying to be completely honest here. I might be in love with you. I don’t know. I have trouble, dealing with feelings. Assigning names to emotions. To me, love is a chemical process involving endorphins and pheromones. A romanticised justification for fulfilling biological urges. I’m not so good at the psychology part - I hate psychology. But I’m trying to look past all that; I really am. You help me look past all that. But I’m still not sure. Not one hundred percent. And I need to be.
“I’m sorry. Because I wish I could be wildly impulsive and go with something in my gut and say yes. I just... I just don’t want to be someone who commits to something only to have to turn around at the very last minute and realise it still isn’t what I want. I can’t be that someone.
“You’re not saying anything,” she says.
“You sure don’t make it easy for a guy,” he tells her eventually, still not meeting her eyes. “But I already knew that, didn’t I?”
*
“We can’t just lie around having sex for the rest of our lives,” she laughs, rolling away from him and propping herself up on her elbow.
“I’m sure we could try,” he says.
She shakes her head at him amusedly. He grins at her, and when the grin doesn’t fade she eyes him warily.
“What?” she asks slowly, drawing the word out in suspicion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You said ‘for the rest of our lives’,” he points out, and she laughs again.
“I did, didn’t I?” She smiles up at him. “I hope you don’t mean to suggest that it was some kind of Freudian slip indicating that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, because I really -” she accentuates the point with a kiss, “- really, hate psychology.”
“I know,” he says, and kisses her on the tip of her nose.
*
“Do you love him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Hey, you asked what I think. I need to know before I can give you an answer.”
“Booth -”
“Bones, just answer the question, okay?”
She pauses, chews her lip.
“I don’t know.”
He glances sideways at her, gives her a half smile.
“That there, Bones,” he says, tuning the radio into another station, “is your answer.”
*
“You loved everything that he stood for,” Angela says, understanding. “Not him specifically.”
“I don’t think I ever got the chance to. But I’m sure I could have, if we’d had more time. If I’d gotten to know him better. He left so unexpectedly -“
“You could have gone with him,” her friend says, gently.
“No. The timing wasn’t right. I... I can’t live a purposeless life right now.”
“Now you’re just letting Dr Wyatt put words in your mouth. You hate psychology, remember,” Angela reminds her, and they both laugh. Share a smile as their hands squeeze together in comfort. “It’ll happen again, Bren. You told me so.”
“It was a logical conclusion hard to refute,” she says with a sigh.
“You don’t need logic, not coming from me. You’ve got enough of your own. So what I’m giving you? It comes from the heart. You’ll find someone. You’ll get your happy ending. God knows you of all people deserve it.”
geranium &humility;
“All she has to do is say your name, and you come running!”
“You want me to stop answering her calls? ‘Cause once or twice it’s kinda been my coming running that’s, oh, you know, saved her life?”
“You’ve kept her safe, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want you to turn your back on her. But I need... I need her to stop calling you every time something doesn’t feel right. I need her to call me once in awhile.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should take that up with her, hmm?” He falters, just for a moment, but Booth catches it, laughs wryly. “Yeah. I thought so. You don’t want to make this about her. Got news for you, Sul. Your issue is with Bones, not me.”
*
“You know, I guess I owe you a thanks, Booth.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know what you said to her - Temperance, I mean - but whatever it was, you convinced her to come with me. So, even if it was against your better judgement. Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”
He leans back on the railing, shaking his head slightly. He turns away, and lowers his voice in admission when he finally speaks.
“If it was what I said that made Bones get on that boat, it wasn’t because I convinced her to go with you. It’s because she wanted to prove me wrong,” he says, pushing off and making to exit. “See you around, Sullivan.” He pauses in the doorway, turns around before he leaves. “And just... just be good to her, okay? Bones, I mean. She deserves it.”
hollow &mirror;
She has a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach all through dinner and they eat silently, letting the quiet bustle of the restaurant wash over them. He’s got that guarded look in his eye that she’s come to associate with him trying to decide whether or not to try being emotional with her.
They’re halfway down the pier when she realises he isn’t beside her anymore. When she stops and turns he’s standing a few metres behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes crinkling as he stares out at the ocean.
“Listen,” he sighs. “I have something for you.”
The envelope is yellow and creased, as if he’s folded and unfolded it many times trying to decide what to do with it. A tingle of dread, something foreign to her, prickles at her spine.
“What is this?” she asks. He gestures that she should open it and when she does, she frowns. “A ticket. To DC. I don’t... I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Temperance,” he says gently.
She knows. Has known it all along, really - that while mentally, she’d prepared herself for the commitment, subconsciously her heart had started dragging its feet a long time ago.
She experiences a crushing sense of failure and gasps at the intensity of the emotion that hits her; her eyes start to sting and she pulls away in shame and confusion.
“I tried,” she says eventually, turning back to face him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I tried so hard to make it work. To make myself belong. But I can’t... I... it’s not who I am.”
“I know. And I’m glad. That you tried, I mean. At least we gave it a shot, right?”
“Right,” she says.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
He watches her sadly, resignedly as she composes herself and forces a shaky smile.
“I guess this is goodbye, then. For real, this time.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So, what does that mean? What am I supposed to do? Do we kiss? Have sex as some kind of carnal farewell? Did I do it right, last time? I’m not exactly sure what happens next in these kinds of situations.”
He nearly chokes at this, and laughs at her innocence and her logic.
“I think a hug would be nice,” he offers.
It’s all it takes and her arms are wrapping around him, squeezing him tight.
“See? Nice,” he says, and rests his chin on the crown of her head.
“I’m going to miss you.” She mumbles it into his shirt, still feeling awkward and uncertain when she eventually draws back. “Thank you. For everything. For... reminding me to live wide.”
Something boils and overflows inside of her, and she’s reaching out for something, anything, to appease the overwhelming sense of hopelessness she feels and finds it in his lips on hers. Her fingers seek out his skin and she sighs, tilts her head back and moans as he gives in, assaults her throat, her shoulder, the pale flesh of her thighs. It’s heady and desperate, the way the two of them have never really been and as he hoists her up, her legs scissoring around him and she shudders and trembles against him with only his first stroke, it all starts to hurt a little bit less.
She stays on the marina long after the speck of Sully’s yacht disappears into the horizon.
juliet &prelude;
tap. tap. tap.
She’s tossing and turning and the duvet’s off and then on again because she’s too hot, too cold and she can’t seem to get it right so she flops onto her back with an irritated sigh and a roll of her eyes when she realises something’s hitting the window.
tap.
Something’s hitting the window in a tap tap kind of pattern that’s both quiet enough and loud enough to be annoying and impossible to ignore, so she pulls the sheet around her, stark white in the cool gloom of the cabin and makes her way up on deck. He doesn’t notice her at first and she stands there, confused and more than a little chilly now that she’s exposed to the night air and she tries to simultaneously fold her arms crossly across her chest and draw the sheet tighter around her.
tap.
“I’m fairly certain that could be classed as some form of harassment,” she says, startling him mid-aim and he straightens up, stunned.
“Jesus Christ, Bones, put some clothes on, would you?”
“Booth,” she sighs, unfazed, “what are you doing here?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was in the neighbourhood?”
Raised eyebrow in response and he’s running his hand through his hair like he expected it.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his sneakers around in the dirt, adorably sheepish and she softens, moving forward to lean against the railing. His eyes dart around for a moment, as if he doesn’t know quite where to rest them, then stop, unnervingly, when they meet hers. His shoulders sag in defeat and he grins up at her, raising the bundle in his arms.
“I brought Chinese,” he offers, and she rolls her eyes but smiles a little, too.
“You say that as if it means I’m going to let you up because of it,” she says, and they both know that it’s pretty much exactly what it means.
She sighs resignedly and turns to make her way back into the cabin, and for a moment he’s almost worried she’s going against everything he thinks he knows about her and refusing him, until she pauses midway to look over her shoulder expectantly at him.
“Coming,” he says, and hoists himself aboard with a grin.
*
“Sully’s asked me to go away with him for a year. Take a sabbatical. Sail around the Caribbean,” she says, trying for nonchalance but the darting of her eyes betraying her.
“Oh,” he says. To his credit he only looks slightly taken aback. “Oh, okay. You, uh, you going to go?”
There’s a pause, and a shared glance. Stay, his eyes tell her, and to her surprise she catches it. Doesn’t question it.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
It’s enough.
“Okay,” he says, simply, and for some reason she smiles.
“Okay.”
Somehow, she can tell that they will be.
*
The decision was halfway made from the start, she realises later. It feels...
“Nice,” Booth comments, through a mouthful of stolen breakfast, of scrambled eggs that were supposed to be hers.
“Yeah,” she agrees softly, because the pancakes he’s ordered are. “Nice.”
They chew in silence for a few moments.
“No regrets?” he asks her eventually, in a way that tells her it’s been bothering him.
The answer is automatic, given without thought, and she smiles.
“No regrets,” and she means it. And that feels kind of nice, too.
*
{ I don’t own the works of TS Eliot. }
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock | The Waste Land | The Hollow Men
Whispers of Immortality |Portrait of a Lady