Fic: Our Love/In Reverse (2/10)
Title: Our Love/In Reverse
Author: Constantine
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Brennan/Cam
Rating: M
Summary: A journey through love, mistakes, and the moments lived in between.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bones. No infringement intended.
A/N: I re-edited the first chapter because I thought it needed a little more polish. No need to re-read it, as it doesn’t change the story, but I do think it is better.
Feedback: I am terrible at updating, but if you let me know you want more, I’ll definitely finish this story. Plus, I’ve never tried anything like this before, so I’d love to hear what you think.
Chapter 1
20.
The kitchen is cold, and bright. It vividly contrasts with the black of our funeral attire.
If lies were animate objects capable of physical deception, I am certain there is no place for one to hide here. So when I scratchily say, “I don’t think Booth should be alone,” I know the truth is raw and exposed, gasping for air.
Cam sits at the table. My back to her, my hands grip the sink. The cups from our morning coffee, stained with residue from perfectly ground beans procured from an isolated Amazonian tribe, stare back at me.
“You’re right.”
It is all she says. And that is when I become cognizant of another truth.
She has been waiting for my last sentence, for those exact words, from the moment we stumbled from colleagues to friends, from friends to lovers. It was merely the context which needed to be excavated.
“I am just going to make sure he is alright,” I continue.
There is a long silence.
And then:
“Okay.”
Those four letters break us both.
19.
The Jeffersonian is completely empty. Not even the janitorial staff remain.
206 bones are meticulously displayed on my table.
Christopher Stein. Male. Twenty-eight years old. Caucasian. Striations along his acetabulofemoral joint suggest a lifetime spent as a long distance runner.
I study my way down his body until I reach his smallest phalange.
Nothing.
So, I start again.
Christopher Stein. Male. Twenty-eight years old. Caucasian. Striations along his acetabulofemoral joint suggest a lifetime spent as a long distance runner.
I pick up his frontal bone; it feels heavier this time.
“What are you doing?” Cam asks quietly from the doorway. An old pair of NYPD sweatpants and a white t-shirt replace the black pencil skirted suit she left the house with yesterday morning.
“I have missed something.” I place the frontal bone back on the table and move onto the supraorbital process. “I just need to--”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” she interrupts. She stands next to me now. I am too exhausted to move away. “Come home.”
“Christopher Stein does not have the ability to go home. It is my responsibility to ascertain why that is.”
“How is your responsibility. Why is not.” She guides my hands down until the bone joins the rest of Christopher’s remains. She turns me around until my back is pressed against the table.
She leans forward, whispers her lips against mine. She does it again. And again. And again. When she finally opens her eyes, they are close enough that I can count the red and irritated conjunctiva, each one causing guilt to swirl in my chest for making her climb out of bed in the middle of the night.
“Come home,” she says again. Then more intently, “I love you.”
It is an immutable truth. It quiets my fears, smoothes my flaws. And for tonight, it is enough.
18.
I rush through the hospital doors, not running, but close.
It takes two minutes for the elevator to arrive from the twenty-third floor to ground level. Another five before I am pushing open Dr. Lowell’s office door.
Booth jumps out of his seat as I cross the threshold.
“Bones, tell this guy he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
Immediately, I wish to say it would be unwise for me to make such a determination without proper research into Dr. Lowell’s credentials. That I would also need to thoroughly investigate all of his patient files. Possibly consult with the foremost physicians in his field.
But I do not.
Booth wants this too badly.
The need is transcribed too clearly along the lines of his face.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He said...” Booth stops, unable to get the words to process from his brain and into the room. “He said Parker has cancer. Leukemia. He said six months. But he’s gotta be wrong, Bones. He’s gotta be wrong.”
I look back and forth between Dr. Lowell and Booth and it is the first time in my life that I have wished to be someone else entirely. Someone with vast knowledge of human emotion and words of comfort instead of the coldness of logic and truth.
“We should get a second opinion,” I say.
“I’m the third,” Dr. Lowell offers.
“Leukemia is bone cancer, right? So you can look at Parker’s charts and run some tests, and--”
“Booth, I--”
“Please,” he says desperately. “You can fix him, Bones. I know you can.”
But I cannot.
And neither of us will ever forgive me for it.
17.
Cam pulls into the garage. The door slowly slides down behind us, blocking the humid summer air.
I realize I’m drunk as I stumble out of the car, with my feet bare and Cam’s favorite red heels hanging from my fingers.
She’s halfway to the door by the time I catch up. My heels drop to the floor, and I slip my fingers into the belt loops located on the back of her jeans.
There’s something I need to tell her. A reminder.
“I’m tired,” she says coming to a stop.
I don’t care, so I push myself against her back and walk forward until her body is flush against the door.
“The babysitter--”
“Can wait,” I finish.
Before she can conjure anymore excuses, I bite and lick a secret spot at the base of her neck that always makes her say...
“Tempe...”
And then her palms are flat against the door, and I quickly slide my hands underneath her shirt, around her waist, and directly to the front clasp of her bra.
My lips don’t leave her neck as her breasts fall heavily into my hands. Her nipples pebble between my fingertips.
Once, when this was all new, and I approached the reactions of her body like a scientific study, I spent exactly thirty-seven minutes alternating attention on her nipples between my tongue and my fingers. When I confessed that I imagined the tiny lines that stood out in stark contrast when her nipples hardened to be my fingerprints, she came on the spot.
The memory makes me surrender patience. I turn her around, unzip her jeans, and plunge my fingers into her without hesitation.
She’s wet, hot, clenching.
She slams her head back against the door. She rocks against my fingers, and her ragged breathing throbs relentlessly against my center.
I catch her lips, then her tongue, drunkenly thinking if my brain could only master a single skill, it would be this.
A short, desperate whimper, and I know she’s close. I pull my lips away, open my eyes.
I thrust my fingers once, twice, three more times. Her eyes fly open. She comes fluttering a silent gasp against my skin, and I remember what I wanted say.
“I chose you.”
16.
We sit at our table at our favorite karaoke bar. Even after all these years, I am amazed that I have the caliber of friends which even requires an ‘our table.”
Hodgins leaves to retrieve another round. Technically we are still working on the last, but I have consumed enough alcohol at this point to allow such details to remain unspoken.
Cam and Angela fervently discuss the merits of the last performance, a man of approximately sixty years old singing about fighting for the privilege of partying.
Ever since Hodgins performed a song from the band Jovi and I concluded that living on a prayer was in fact an unsustainable and absurd way to lead one’s life, I have been summarily excluded from these discussions.
“This is for my favorite girl, Bones!” Booth says a bit too loudly into the microphone. Somehow, he has maneuvered around the packed tables and up onto the stage. His tie is loose, and his smile is a little sloppy.
The music starts and I recognize the song instantly. “Day-o! Day-o! Daylight come and me wan’ go home!”
He points the microphone to me, and I cannot help but laugh and smile as I sing the next line. “Day! Me say day, me say day, me say day-o!”
Booth takes over again. He continues the song in a terrible Jamaican accent. The crowd loves it. I love it. It is impossible not to.
Abruptly, Cam stands up. “Going to the bathroom,” is what she says, but it sounds like a wound as opposed to a destination.
I stand up to follow her, but Booth points the microphone at me again.
It’s the last line of the song. And Cam is in the bathroom. And Booth is looking at me with his loose tie and his sloppy smile.
So I sing, “Daylight come and me wan’ go home.” I finish with a flourish that I only half mean.
Angela leans close so that she can be heard over the cheering crowd. “It never gets easier, does it?”
“What?”
She waits a moment, contemplates finishing her thought.
“Loving two people,” she says.
There is a long pause, and I consider lying. But this is Angela, so I don’t.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say quietly.
But sometimes it feels like I’m failing at both, is the answer I keep to myself.
A/N: Hopefully, the reverse narrative isn’t confusing. I would love some feedback on it. Thanks for reading. And I apologize for all the angst.
Author: Constantine
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Brennan/Cam
Rating: M
Summary: A journey through love, mistakes, and the moments lived in between.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bones. No infringement intended.
A/N: I re-edited the first chapter because I thought it needed a little more polish. No need to re-read it, as it doesn’t change the story, but I do think it is better.
Feedback: I am terrible at updating, but if you let me know you want more, I’ll definitely finish this story. Plus, I’ve never tried anything like this before, so I’d love to hear what you think.
Chapter 1
20.
The kitchen is cold, and bright. It vividly contrasts with the black of our funeral attire.
If lies were animate objects capable of physical deception, I am certain there is no place for one to hide here. So when I scratchily say, “I don’t think Booth should be alone,” I know the truth is raw and exposed, gasping for air.
Cam sits at the table. My back to her, my hands grip the sink. The cups from our morning coffee, stained with residue from perfectly ground beans procured from an isolated Amazonian tribe, stare back at me.
“You’re right.”
It is all she says. And that is when I become cognizant of another truth.
She has been waiting for my last sentence, for those exact words, from the moment we stumbled from colleagues to friends, from friends to lovers. It was merely the context which needed to be excavated.
“I am just going to make sure he is alright,” I continue.
There is a long silence.
And then:
“Okay.”
Those four letters break us both.
19.
The Jeffersonian is completely empty. Not even the janitorial staff remain.
206 bones are meticulously displayed on my table.
Christopher Stein. Male. Twenty-eight years old. Caucasian. Striations along his acetabulofemoral joint suggest a lifetime spent as a long distance runner.
I study my way down his body until I reach his smallest phalange.
Nothing.
So, I start again.
Christopher Stein. Male. Twenty-eight years old. Caucasian. Striations along his acetabulofemoral joint suggest a lifetime spent as a long distance runner.
I pick up his frontal bone; it feels heavier this time.
“What are you doing?” Cam asks quietly from the doorway. An old pair of NYPD sweatpants and a white t-shirt replace the black pencil skirted suit she left the house with yesterday morning.
“I have missed something.” I place the frontal bone back on the table and move onto the supraorbital process. “I just need to--”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” she interrupts. She stands next to me now. I am too exhausted to move away. “Come home.”
“Christopher Stein does not have the ability to go home. It is my responsibility to ascertain why that is.”
“How is your responsibility. Why is not.” She guides my hands down until the bone joins the rest of Christopher’s remains. She turns me around until my back is pressed against the table.
She leans forward, whispers her lips against mine. She does it again. And again. And again. When she finally opens her eyes, they are close enough that I can count the red and irritated conjunctiva, each one causing guilt to swirl in my chest for making her climb out of bed in the middle of the night.
“Come home,” she says again. Then more intently, “I love you.”
It is an immutable truth. It quiets my fears, smoothes my flaws. And for tonight, it is enough.
18.
I rush through the hospital doors, not running, but close.
It takes two minutes for the elevator to arrive from the twenty-third floor to ground level. Another five before I am pushing open Dr. Lowell’s office door.
Booth jumps out of his seat as I cross the threshold.
“Bones, tell this guy he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
Immediately, I wish to say it would be unwise for me to make such a determination without proper research into Dr. Lowell’s credentials. That I would also need to thoroughly investigate all of his patient files. Possibly consult with the foremost physicians in his field.
But I do not.
Booth wants this too badly.
The need is transcribed too clearly along the lines of his face.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He said...” Booth stops, unable to get the words to process from his brain and into the room. “He said Parker has cancer. Leukemia. He said six months. But he’s gotta be wrong, Bones. He’s gotta be wrong.”
I look back and forth between Dr. Lowell and Booth and it is the first time in my life that I have wished to be someone else entirely. Someone with vast knowledge of human emotion and words of comfort instead of the coldness of logic and truth.
“We should get a second opinion,” I say.
“I’m the third,” Dr. Lowell offers.
“Leukemia is bone cancer, right? So you can look at Parker’s charts and run some tests, and--”
“Booth, I--”
“Please,” he says desperately. “You can fix him, Bones. I know you can.”
But I cannot.
And neither of us will ever forgive me for it.
17.
Cam pulls into the garage. The door slowly slides down behind us, blocking the humid summer air.
I realize I’m drunk as I stumble out of the car, with my feet bare and Cam’s favorite red heels hanging from my fingers.
She’s halfway to the door by the time I catch up. My heels drop to the floor, and I slip my fingers into the belt loops located on the back of her jeans.
There’s something I need to tell her. A reminder.
“I’m tired,” she says coming to a stop.
I don’t care, so I push myself against her back and walk forward until her body is flush against the door.
“The babysitter--”
“Can wait,” I finish.
Before she can conjure anymore excuses, I bite and lick a secret spot at the base of her neck that always makes her say...
“Tempe...”
And then her palms are flat against the door, and I quickly slide my hands underneath her shirt, around her waist, and directly to the front clasp of her bra.
My lips don’t leave her neck as her breasts fall heavily into my hands. Her nipples pebble between my fingertips.
Once, when this was all new, and I approached the reactions of her body like a scientific study, I spent exactly thirty-seven minutes alternating attention on her nipples between my tongue and my fingers. When I confessed that I imagined the tiny lines that stood out in stark contrast when her nipples hardened to be my fingerprints, she came on the spot.
The memory makes me surrender patience. I turn her around, unzip her jeans, and plunge my fingers into her without hesitation.
She’s wet, hot, clenching.
She slams her head back against the door. She rocks against my fingers, and her ragged breathing throbs relentlessly against my center.
I catch her lips, then her tongue, drunkenly thinking if my brain could only master a single skill, it would be this.
A short, desperate whimper, and I know she’s close. I pull my lips away, open my eyes.
I thrust my fingers once, twice, three more times. Her eyes fly open. She comes fluttering a silent gasp against my skin, and I remember what I wanted say.
“I chose you.”
16.
We sit at our table at our favorite karaoke bar. Even after all these years, I am amazed that I have the caliber of friends which even requires an ‘our table.”
Hodgins leaves to retrieve another round. Technically we are still working on the last, but I have consumed enough alcohol at this point to allow such details to remain unspoken.
Cam and Angela fervently discuss the merits of the last performance, a man of approximately sixty years old singing about fighting for the privilege of partying.
Ever since Hodgins performed a song from the band Jovi and I concluded that living on a prayer was in fact an unsustainable and absurd way to lead one’s life, I have been summarily excluded from these discussions.
“This is for my favorite girl, Bones!” Booth says a bit too loudly into the microphone. Somehow, he has maneuvered around the packed tables and up onto the stage. His tie is loose, and his smile is a little sloppy.
The music starts and I recognize the song instantly. “Day-o! Day-o! Daylight come and me wan’ go home!”
He points the microphone to me, and I cannot help but laugh and smile as I sing the next line. “Day! Me say day, me say day, me say day-o!”
Booth takes over again. He continues the song in a terrible Jamaican accent. The crowd loves it. I love it. It is impossible not to.
Abruptly, Cam stands up. “Going to the bathroom,” is what she says, but it sounds like a wound as opposed to a destination.
I stand up to follow her, but Booth points the microphone at me again.
It’s the last line of the song. And Cam is in the bathroom. And Booth is looking at me with his loose tie and his sloppy smile.
So I sing, “Daylight come and me wan’ go home.” I finish with a flourish that I only half mean.
Angela leans close so that she can be heard over the cheering crowd. “It never gets easier, does it?”
“What?”
She waits a moment, contemplates finishing her thought.
“Loving two people,” she says.
There is a long pause, and I consider lying. But this is Angela, so I don’t.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say quietly.
But sometimes it feels like I’m failing at both, is the answer I keep to myself.
A/N: Hopefully, the reverse narrative isn’t confusing. I would love some feedback on it. Thanks for reading. And I apologize for all the angst.