Fic: One Eye Pointed Upwards
Title: One Eye Pointed Upwards
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Brennan, Booth/Brennan, the whole Scooby gang
Word Count: About 7,800
Spoilers: Season 6, but nothing for "The Doctor in the Photo." I have yet to watch the episode & have been working like a mad woman all day to finish it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the show. Does this surprise you? Oh, if I only did. Also, as an additional disclaimer: I am giving a trigger warning for this story, only because there is language used in the beginning that could very well carry painful associations for some (i.e. words I would not normally throw around). I felt it was important to not hold back, however, in the interest of being honest.
Summary: This story is almost my love letter to Brennan in a way. Not only that, though, it's also my love letter to Booth, and Cam, and Angela, and the show in general. It's the first fic I've ever written--after fifteen years of reading fic--and only the second fictional story I've written in my entire life. The experience has been a very cathartic one for me, particularly because of how deeply I relate to Brennan as a character. This story is my attempt to show her in all her complexities & depth--her past, her present, and (hopefully) where she's going.
P.S. I wrote this without a beta, by the way. So: comments are love, but please be kind. Heh. Did I mention this is my first-ever fic? And that I put my heart & soul into it?[/is scared]
Pre-Fic Note: The title of this story comes from the song Tamburitza Lingua, for those who are curious. It's one of two songs that helped inspire this fic for me. The other is one that I'd like to share to help get everyone in the right frame of mind before we jump into Brennan's head.
(those of you who follow my journal normally are probably not surprised right now. God knows I can't do anything without including music)
All right, enough blathering! Let's do this.
---
---
Brennan is quick opening & closing trunks. Booth notices, but says nothing. There are layers upon layers of history in her eyes, in her words, and he is never sure how far is too far to push.
Weeks after Gordon Gordon has left town, he looks up at her over predictable drinks & slyly grazing knees and asks her what happened after they let her out of the trunk.
Brennan's knees go still.
"I was sent to a new foster home, Booth." She shrugs.
If there's one thing Booth is smart at, it's reading people. He only needs to take one look at her face to know that's not the whole story. He also knows it's the only story he's going to get.
The rest of the story is this:
Prior to being pulled out of that trunk, Temperance Brennan spent two days curled in the dark--counting breaths, tracing the fractured radius of her left wrist, and bouncing her leg to stave off the steadily rising crescendo of panic filling up her abdomen. She fixed her gaze to nothing and vowed to do better next time.
When they finally returned to pull her out, the sun blinding her eyes and no longer real, the trunk was soaked in urine & she stumbled when they slapped her across the face. Three days later, she sat with a garbage bag full of her belongings & let the social workers lead her to her new home. Where didn't matter. Nowhere was home anymore.
What's wrong with you, huh? You gonna answer me? Just wanna waste my money & then stand there like a creepy mute? You think you're so smart, but you can't clean a fucking dish?
(stupid)
(clumsy)
(retard)
(we warned you)
The water was so hot. I still don't think it was fair.
There was no longer anyone to whom she could return the call of "Polo" to break the silence of a friendless school day. No presents from Mom or Dad under the Christmas Tree. Just a garbage bag of memories and tennis shoes covered in names.
Permanent marker,
so she'd
never
forget.
Black lines written clean;
sharp against her rubber sole,
so the remembering
would
stop.
("These are the things that matter," she'd tell herself. This is what you can hold onto.)
With each new home, Brennan got a little bit better at saying goodbye & never truly saying hello.
It hurt less that way.
---
Halfway through the Gravedigger trial, Brennan shakily confesses to Booth that she has nightmares.
What she doesn't tell him is that they're not new.
Years before she was ever abducted & buried alive, Temperance waited for her death in El Salvador & counted her breaths again:
Tick. . .
tick. .
tick.
(boom)
Each second lasts surprisingly long when you're terrified and pretending to be stoic.
She knows rationally that death is nothing to be afraid of, but the palpitations in her chest are telling a different story.
She is not prepared to die.
Furious over the loss of control, she vows that nothing & no one will ever make her feel trapped again.
When the Gravedigger returns and looks at her across the witness stand, demanding an answer, she knows she's been beaten. She is as trapped as ever.
Brennan claims to hate psychology, but every week there she is again on Sweets' couch. He is teaching her facial expressions & what it means when Booth offers her fruit pie. He interferes & he pesters & he makes vague assertions about gambling that turn her world upside down. What has she become? What has happened to her life; to her career; to whatever indefinable, essential dyad she & Booth have created?
Angela & Hodgins are suddenly married. She no longer feels in control of her own objectivity, of her own identity. It's entropy in motion--and she is slipping, slipping--"I'm never gonna make you fall" ringing in her ears.
Every muscle in her body, every cell in her brain, is screaming at her to flee.
So she does.
She doesn't need to turn around to know Booth is gazing after her as the cab pulls away, but she does anyway. They both know they've been here before--the missed opportunity, the smell of the night rain. A long goodbye is coming, and it is downright heartcrushing.
---
Brennan wakes to coffee,
Cranky Mother Hen BoothEyes,
the imprint of a sofa cushion zipper against her face.
Good morning, Jeffersonian Institution.
"You know, Bones, some people actually like sleeping in their own beds at night."
She avoids his gaze & sits up, allowing her blanket to gather at her waist. "I was working late last night, Booth. Unlike you, I am not engaged in a sexually active, monogamous relationship, and thus it is irrelevant where I sleep."
He opens his mouth to protest, but is stopped short by her shirt's neckline, which has migrated in the night to dangerous depths, and God damn't this is why she needs to sleep in her own bed he thinks to himself, mentally reciting the 12 Steps of Bones-aholics Anonymous.
His fists clench.
(It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair.)
"How about breakfast?" One day at a time--let go, let God--he reminds his traitorous heart. Let go. She gave you your answer. Let go.
(We're never going to be able to let go, it reminds him back.)
She looks up at him, distracted. "What?"
"Breakfast, Bones. The most important meal of the day. Time for good doctors everywhere to feast on pancakes & Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n Fruity monstrosities."
"The origin of the word "breakfast" comes from the Middle English "breken" and the Old Norse "fasta," Booth. It simply means to break one's fast from the previous night's meal. It's not carte blanche to add to this country's obesity epidemic."
"You see, you're grouchy like that because you're hungry."
She stares at him, pulling on her shoes. Her shirt is still inciting outbreaks of The Serenity Prayer in his head, and he wonders what would happen if he sued her clothing for sexual harassment.
"You know what would make it better? Bacon."
---
7:05 pm and the front door shuts behind her. Goodbye, world. (and stay out)
Sometimes Bones does like sleeping in her own bed. Most times, truth be told.
Sometimes she also gets lonely. The light clicks on and there are places to sit everywhere. The sofa, the chic yet practical couch cushions, chairs around the dining room table--a veritable feast of sedentary options. Yet she is alone.
She sleeps alone, she brushes her teeth alone, she eats alone, she dreams alone.
It's as she expected.
(I call. Every year. On your birthday. You never pick up.)
(Take a hint.)
You weren't there, Russ. You weren't there.
Exit stage right--the curtains close when the show is over. Gambling on an intermission has never been the type of luxury her heart could afford.
I miss that. Someone caring where I am all the time.
She still has her work, her brain, her skills. It's enough. She knows it's enough. She's not half a person, waiting to be completed by some ridiculous Platonic delusion of a soulmate. She is one whole entity; her own puzzle made up of her own jigsaw pieces. Imperfect though they may be, they're hers alone & they belong to & with no one else.
She is not lonely. She is not a victim.
She is a survivor.
Even so, sometimes she catches herself looking at a particular chair and wondering how it would receive the weight of Booth's frame on a casual Sunday night. Would he appreciate her fine thread count or insist on shopping for new bedding? Would he laugh if she sang "Hot Blooded" to their newborn baby?
Would she make a good mother? A good wife?
It makes no literal sense, she knows, but her heart hurts when she thinks of these things.
She wants Booth to be happy.
What he wants, she can't provide him.
They are at a stalemate.
---
It's 1983 in Bones' memory, and through the lens of time a 7 year old Brennan sits in the waiting room of her dentist's office, swinging her legs & talking incessantly.
". . .but Russ, this magazine is wrong."
Their mother, returning from the restroom & rummaging through her purse, looks questioningly at him as he sighs. "She never talks this much at school, you know. Or at all, actually. Some of the kids think she's deaf. One asked the other day if she was French. What does that even mean?"
She nods & hands him two quarters. "Go. Downstairs there's a vending machine. Buy yourself a candy bar & hide it underneath your jacket when you come back. Don't let the dentist see you."
Russ is gone before she can so much as turn around. Temperance, meanwhile, is staring at her with disturbing intensity. How is it possible for a seven year old to look so perturbed?
"Oh, rats. I'm sorry, honey. Did you want one too?"
"This magazine is wrong, Mom."
She blinks. ". . .Okay. What's wrong with it?"
"It asks you to draw a circle around the object that doesn't belong--the one that's wrong. Then it shows a picture of three men & a chimpanzee. See?" She points. "But, Mom, they're all primates. They all belong. What doesn't belong are the shorts on the chimpanzee, but the magazine says that's the wrong answer. That's not the wrong answer!" Arms waving, she continues, pint-sized body practically vibrating with indignation on the pleather seat. "Chimpanzees do not! wear! shorts!"
She has to bite her lip, ignoring the curious stares from around the room. It was so hard not to laugh, looking at her when she got like this. All earnest eyes and innocent genius. She had no idea how special she was.
"I want you to remember something, Tempe. You're not wrong. You do belong. Now, always, and forever."
"I don't know what that means."
"You will."
Fast-forward to 2010, and Bones still isn't sure she knows what her mother meant, but she wants to. And she wishes her mother were here to explain--explain what it means to belong; explain why she named her daughter "Joy" at birth, only to later change it to Temperance; explain why she robbed banks, kept secrets, and wasn't there to comfort her as a young & lonely Joy/Temperance/whoever cried over bullies and pranks, the orphan in her yearning for a Cinderella ending she could call her own.
She still remembers the note slipped inside her locker: "Stay home tonight. No one wants to see Morticia in a prom dress."
(Smurfette didn't break jaws & dissect pigs. Everyone knew that.)
In the wake of Secret Santa--with its echoing hallway laughter & communal slapping of backs, her humiliated escape as she ran away, pantleg caught in her shoe--Christine Brennan promised her daughter an upcoming lesson in shadowy eye makeup & the art of flirting. She squeezed her shoulders & assured her it would, quote, "drive the boys wild," adding, "which will serve them right, the little punks, as you can then reject them & break their puny hearts without mercy. You know your father would buy a front row ticket to that show. 'Course he'd come with a shotgun, but. . ."
The following week, she disappeared.
Once in foster care, Brennan decided the boys were wild enough when left to their own devices. She kept her non-shadowy eyes glued to her AP textbooks, stretched her still-healing wrist, & charged full speed ahead.
She told herself it could always be worse and counted the days by the hours, the hours by the minutes, the minutes by the seconds. One second at a time.
2 + 2 = 4. You breathe in; you breathe out. No muss, no fuss. What matters is the truth. What matters is the solution.
(Happiness is a promise that can't be kept. Love is a treasure that can only be lost.)
Some of the foster homes were nice; some of them were loud & mean; none of them were permanent. It didn't matter. Their eyes were dull, vacant, and full of lies. The insults & kicks slid off her back like water, no better or worse than a dozen half-hearted hugs.
Their meals sat in her belly like poison--tiny bites cut just so, eyes on her plate, wishing she were gone, just gone.
I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave.
(none of this means anything)
By the time she hit college & dared to touch lash to mascara for the first time, she knew her mom had been right about at least one thing:
She wasn't wrong.
She might not belong, but she wasn't wrong.
(And chimpanzees still didn't wear shorts.)
---
Booth sleeps with Hannah now, but he still dreams of Brennan.
Most of the time, the nocturnal hauntings consist of scientific ramblings & conversations at the Founding Fathers that somehow turn into tropical arguments in the Maluku Islands. Occasionally, he finds himself naked at the lab or playing a surprise round of Strip Poker with Bones & Angela in his office. (What? He's a guy)
Tonight, his dream is different.
This is no coma, but tell that to the ring on Bones' finger.
What kind of messed up shit is my brain playing on me now? Wakeupwakeupwakeup. . .except please, please don't. Don't wake up. Jesus, Mary, & Joseph, this is wrong, but don't you dare wake up.
She is not only in his bed, diamond glinting in the light, but she is pregnant. Beautifully, wonderfully pregnant. And wearing an extremely non-maternal nightgown. God damn, subconscious. Way to be on the ball.
"Do you love me?" she asks.
(He knows this script)
"Yeah," he replies. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"
She takes his face in her hands & brings him close. "I need you to prove it to me, Booth." Lips grazing as she goes, she makes her way to his ear. "I love you. I love you and I want you, but I can't see you. I can't see me. We've fallen, Booth. Tell me. Help me see."
Where is the writer? He realizes with a start that he's lost his place.
Before he can respond, his phone is ringing. Back to the real world and all its confusion.
Back to the FBI.
Back to Hannah and her blonde, chicken-noodle-soup-for-the-soul (smells like teen) spirit.
Back to Bones. No diamond ring. No nightgown.
How could she not know by now that he loves her? That he loves everything about her?
Damn her.
He wishes he could go back to sleep.
---
"So, have you ever thought about us?"
"What?" Booth looks over at her like she's crazy, which he frequently thinks she might be.
"I apologize. I should've been more specific. What I meant was, have you ever fantasized about us sexually?"
"We are not going to discuss that, Bones. Not now, not ever." He clenches his fists around the steering wheel as he forces out a laugh. He knows he's been snapping at her left & right since his return from Afghanistan. He doesn't know how to make it stop. All he can do is duck & cover, avoid & escape--New Relationship Smile plastered on his face like everything is fine. Oh, so fine.
"I don't see why you're so uncomfortable with the topic. I admitted to considering the possibility of sexual relations between us to both you & Sweets, and masturbation is a completely healthy, natural--"
"WHOA. Stop. Right there. Just stop. You don't say things like that. Not unless you want us to end up in that ditch over there."
Brennan pauses to peer over at the ditch in question, then turns back to him, eyebrows raised. "I would not want to end up in that ditch, no. I don't, however, see what that has to do with either you or me and the topic of self-gratification. The nights in Maluku were long, Booth. I'm an adult woman with needs. What do you imagine I did to release the tension? Played mahjong with the natives?"
"There you go again!" Booth slaps the steering wheel in frustration. It really was possible she was going to be the death of him. Actually, more like probable. Poor coroner was going to have to list cause of death as "unbidden mental images of one Dr. Temperance Brennan--world-renowned forensic anthropologist--heavy breasts, flared hips, meticulous hand sliding purposefully between long legs. . .skin soft, muscles stretching, lips wet. . ." Cam would probably have a field day with that one. "Medical reports rarely wax poetic to that degree, Seeley. Though frequently the kind of books I read do."
"Can we talk about something else now?" he barks out, shooting her a quick look before honking his horn at a passing squirrel. (That'll learn it) His pupils are dilated, she notes, though whether that's more from anger, arousal, or something else, she's not positive. Even after all these years his face is able to withhold secrets from her, but she can still tell this conversation has reached its limit. He is shifting in his seat & loosening his tie--her fingers itch to reach over & remove it.
Maybe then he wouldn't be so taciturn.
"Fine." She sighs, turning to stare out the window. "Perhaps you'd like to talk about sports. I watched a hockey game last night. It made me think of you."
He turns to her in surprise. Just when he thought he had her figured out.
Truth was, he'd never have her figured out. Bones was like a riddle that never stopped unfolding, full of contradictions and hidden shadows--gifts to be given at only the right time.
He only knew one thing: that he always wanted to be there beside her to turn the next page.
Like a book he couldn't put down, loving her was a constant cliffhanger.
It seemed fitting in its way that she was an author.
---
Angela's belly is steadily growing bigger. Eventually it becomes unavoidable that Brennan should find herself tagging along behind her waddling form, listening to her best friend coo over bibs & overalls.
"Oh my God, sweetie! Do you see this? Do you?"
Bones leans over to look. "It appears to be a glow worm who lights up when you squeeze him. He looks quite happy."
"Didn't you have one of these when you were little? Hodgins is going to freak."
"I don't recall what I played with as a baby, Ange." In front of Brennan is a purple onesie with an embroidered dolphin splashing on the front. It's winking at her like it knows something she doesn't.
She already feels incredibly uncomfortable.
I don't belong here
(. . .can I go now?)
Angela rolls her eyes & pats her on the back. "I know, Bren, but--okay, what about when you were older? Remember that talk we had about your inner child? Tell me one thing you played with as a kid. Just one thing. And, no, it can't be a chemistry set, so don't even go there."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Brennan sighs, exasperated. "Fine. I had a pogo stick."
Angela laughs. "You what?"
"A pogo stick. You jump on it and--"
"No, I know. But. . .really?"
Bones shrugs & allows herself a small smirk. "Yes. My parents hated it. I used it constantly, even inside the house. I found it to be an excellent way to get their attention, especially if one of them was using the phone."
"Okay! And I am suddenly terrified. Hodgins, Bren. . .plus me. Together as one human. What were we thinking?"
"I promise I won't buy your child a pogo stick if that makes you feel any better."
Angela's eyes are far from reassured, but she smiles anyway, one hand stroking her middle. "Thanks, I think."
Interrupting the moment, Brennan's cell phone vibrates against her hip--her own constant, if inanimate, companion. Pausing to check the message, Bones looks back up to find her friend's face contorting ecstatically over a tiny pair of patent leather Mary Janes. There are practically mini-fireworks of metaphorical estrogen detonating above her head. When did this happen? Where will she fit?
(Everything is changing)
She keeps her voice level.
Just. . .put your heart in a box, she'd told him.
(2 + 2 = 4. This is what you can hold onto.)
"It's Cam. She'd like to know when we'll be back at the Jeffersonian. Apparently Hodgins is grounded again."
". . .Oh, God."
"We don't even have a case. What could he possibly have done?"
"I don't even want to know. I say you and I take our sweet time heading back and we let Cam deal with it. She gets bored if nothing blows up around there for too long."
Bones nods & fingers the purple onesie with the anthropomorphic dolphin. She feels Angela approach from behind, her gait creating an unsteady yet predictable rhythm.
"You like that, don't you?"
"Dolphins aren't purple."
"I didn't ask that." Angela is arching one patient 'brow at her, awaiting a reply. Bones sighs. She already looks like a mother.
"Yes, I do."
"Because of your mom, right?"
Brennan remains silent for a moment before responding. "They're pretty. I like them; she liked them too." She shakes her head--once upon a time there was a dam built to hold back the memories, and these are cracks. Just cracks. "That's all."
Angela grabs her hand & takes the onesie off the rack. "I think we should buy it."
"What if you have a boy? Booth would say that purple is not a very masculine color."
"Who says my baby has to conform to a bunch of WASPy gender norms, Dr. Brennan?"
Bones gives a surprised laugh, tilting her head in agreement. "Fair enough."
"Plus, if my baby doesn't wear it, I'll just hang onto it so yours can someday."
"That would require me choosing to procreate first, Angela." Bones looks down at this, suddenly extremely interested in her phone again. She'd much rather focus on text messages than be having this conversation right now, especially amidst shin-bruising strollers and stalking salesgirls. Though, God, here's another one from Cam about karaoke on Friday night. Is everyone really that bored without a murder to solve?
"Oh, come on, Bren. You were a hot second from pumping out an army of little baby Booths until that coma came along. How do you know you two won't get back to that point again?" Angela dips her head, attempting to catch Brennan's gaze. "Hello? Earth to Brennan? Best friend o' mine?"
"Does no one remember what happened the last time I sang?" Bones' face is scrunched in irritation as she stares at her phone, striking the keys.
"What? Okay, no more CrackBerry for you today." Swiping the source of distraction out of her friend's hands, Angela ushers her forward in the aisle.
"That's not a BlackBerry, Ange."
"Same difference, sweetie."
Brennan purses her lips, exhaling, & then hedges, "I'm glad you're happy, Ange. You seem happy, I mean."
Angela smiles. "I am happy, Bren."
"And Booth--he seems happy too, don't you think?"
". . .I think Booth wants to be happy, and he'll keep trying until he's as close to happy as he can get."
I can't make him happy. Doesn't she understand?
"I don't understand."
"He doesn't have you, Bren."
"Angela. . ."
"Look, I know. You don't belong with anyone. You're a lone wolf, raised by wolves, bla bla bla. I've heard it before, all right? But here's the deal: you two belong together. Hannah is not here to stay. You are."
Bones' eyes widen. "I was most certainly not raised by wolves, Angela."
"All I'm saying is it ain't over 'til it's over. Both of you left the party, but the streamers are still hanging & the music is still playing. Party's still goin', babe."
"Okay, now I really have no idea what you're talking about."
Angela puts her hands on Brennan's shoulders & groans. "Let me tell you something. The happiest day of my life wasn't when I got married. It wasn't even when I found out I was pregnant. It was sitting with Jack on this dinky curb in Paris, just watching the sunset. I knew, right then, that no matter what life threw at us, I was right where I was supposed to be. That's what I want for you, Bren. For you to be where you're supposed to be & know it."
"It's an erroneous assumption to presume one can ever know that. Newton's Laws of Motion, Angela. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Life is a series of events & choices, not destiny." Brennan crosses her arms as if to hold onto herself--to hold onto her center (things fall apart; the centre cannot hold), her truth (the best lack all conviction)--but her voice lacks anger. To her friend's ears, she simply sounds tired. "I know neither you or Booth would probably understand, but the happiest moment of my life was in a small Rwandan village, walking onto my first official dig as a certified Forensic Anthropologist. I'd never been more proud."
"Potato, Pot-ah-to, hon'. Kind of sounds like we're saying the same thing here, if you think about it." She links their arms together & gently leads the way. "Can I ask you something, Bren?"
"Of course. Unless it's about me procreating. I'd prefer we not discuss that anymore."
Angela grins. "No, it's not about that. What I wanted to know is, what was it about anthropology? I mean, I know, with your parents and all, you wanted answers. But you were hooked even before then, weren't you?" She squeezes Bones' arm suddenly & playfully, causing her to look over, alarmed. "Little baby Temperance, reading about mummies & monkeys & wanting to run away to live with the witch doctor in Timbuktu, am I right? Otherwise, you wouldn't still be flying off to Indonesia & solving murders with Booth now, getting all perky-eyed over tribes of guidos. There's something else there."
"There are no witch doctors in Timbuktu, Angela. Witch doctors are found in--"
"Honey. Really?"
Brennan chews her lip & gives a nod. Touche, Angela.
"I apologize. It's been explained to me that correcting others unnecessarily can create embarassment and cause one to appear tactless and uncaring. It is something I'm working on; however, it seems lately that the more I try--the more I make an effort--the more I simply upset the people around me. I think I used to be better, Angela. I was better when I didn't try. Maybe, as you would say, I wasn't meant to."
"We're not still talking about correcting people, are we?"
Please don't look so sad.
"I'd rather we didn't talk about this either, Ange."
"Okay, okay. Back to mummies and monkeys, then. You still haven't answered my question."
Brennan looks up to face her.
(Eye contact is important, Bones. It lets people see you. It lets you see them.)
Booth told her that once, touching her fingers as they sat on the steps of the Washington Monument. His breath, whiskey red; his cocky, lazy grin leaning into her personal space; the five o'clock shadow on his skin making her want to howl at the moon as she stared him down in return.
(I see you, Booth. I've always seen you.)
In the end, he looked away first. Years before dreams, stories, gambles, & heartbreak, one man looked away first & one woman let him. She knew it was right & she blamed herself anyway.
Years before that, one boy left his home at the side of his grandfather, little brother in tow. No mother. No father. A lifetime of nightmares to bury & forget.
Years before that, one girl looked in the mirror & squeezed her nails into her palm until it didn't hurt anymore. No grandfather, no brother, no mother, no father, no friends. Alone, just alone. A lifetime of nightmares she wouldn't allow herself to feel, let alone forget.
Sometimes there are no bad guys.
(She never failed to look him in the eye again.)
"All right, Angela. Don't blow a casket. It's not that exciting of a story, I assure you. It started with me learning to read, which happened at the age of three. I would sneak into Russ' room & steal his comic books, drawing all over them & memorizing the words. It made him furious of course, but Dad thought I was some kind of prodigy." She rolls her eyes at this.
"Sounds about right. Also, hon', it's gasket, not cas--y'know what? Not important. Carry on."
Bones squints her eyes at her suspiciously. "Anyway. So, one day when I was probably about five years old, I asked my father where I came from. . ."
"Oh, boy. I'm guessing Max wasn't the birds & the bees type, right?"
Brennan's eyebrows pinch together, confused. "No. No, there was no mention of birds or bees, but I'm guessing that's some type of colloquialism, isn't it?"
Angela winks at her, pleased. "Yes. Now, answer my damn question. I'm hormonal & carrying a wide load here--it's making me impatient."
(Birds do it, bees do it, even educated MDs do it)
. . .oh
"Well, after I asked, he came home the next day with a book for me. The Beginnings of Humankind, by Donald Johanson & Maitland Edey. He told me--you won't understand this yet. Keep reading until you do. It won't take you long, kiddo."
"Wow. Yeah, um, I was playing with barbies."
"I never cared for barbies. I did, however, have a stuffed dog when I was nine whom I named Lucy. I believe she was officially called a Pound Puppy."
It's all Angela can do not to laugh. "I am so not surprised. Please, continue."
"I became obsessed. I carried the book with me everywhere, looking up the words, driving my family crazy. My mom couldn't get me to put it down even at the dinner table." She snickers, her eyes sad & far away. "In time, my father was right; I did understand, and I wanted to know more. He began bringing me home new books every week on everything from biology to Berbers, mummies to moksha. It's--it's not just bones, Angela. I knew. Emotions are ephemeral, life is ephemeral, but our bones, our traditions, the things that tie us together despite our superficial differences--all of that lasts." She pauses. "The world has never been a particularly easy place for me to navigate, Ange. But in the pages of those books, I learned one thing. When you lose yourself in every culture, it no longer matters if you belong in none."
"You just are what you are, right? A human being: lost like the rest of us."
Angela reaches forward for an awkward hug, her womb holding them apart. She's never wanted to travel back in time to braid friendship bracelets with a five year old so bad in her life.
"Hey, can I be an anthropologist too?"
Brennan smiles.
---
The voice of Sweets belting out a spirited rendition of "She Blinded Me With Science" welcomes Booth as he enters the bar. Daisy Wick is standing in front of the stage, holding a lighter & beaming up at him. Together again, the happy couple. Oh, for Christ's sake.
He spots Cam sitting with Angela & Hodgins at a table by the corner. They nod him over, cheeks wide & flushed, appearing more relaxed than he's felt in months. "Appearing" being the operative word. He doesn't look below the surface anymore; he knows he doesn't belong. Moving on means letting go.
We are, all of us, your squints.
(not anymore)
"Lemme guess--ginger ale?"
"Ahh, so close, G Man. 7-Up. Keeps the food from comin'-up." Angela winks.
Cam winces & sets her own drink down. "Okay. Dead guys, I can handle. Pregnant lady barf? Let's not."
Booth chuckles slightly & rests his elbows on his knees. "It's a good thing being a mother to Michelle allowed you to skip that part."
"I will toast to that, big man. Except you. . .don't have a drink. Let's fix that." Cam raises her hand to signal the waiter, rolling her eyes when he breezes right by her. She waves her hand after him dismissively. "Third time he's done that now. I'm gonna trip him next time, you watch." Grinning, she turns back to Booth & swings one slim leg over the other, getting comfortable. "So, where's Hannah tonight? She still on her way?"
"She's working on a story. Something involving lobbyists & politicians and, I don't know. Stuff that will probably get her into trouble. Y'know, the usual." His fingers tap nervously on the table, face feigning confidence; he's skating on thin ice these days, but he's happy. He has someone who loves him, who will let him love her. It's enough. He knows it's enough. (You can't always get what you want.)
He clears his throat. "She sends her love."
Angela & Cam both nod slowly at him in sync, then slide their eyes toward one another like they've formed some kind of mutual understanding or pact. He doesn't like it.
"Well, you tell her we said hi, Seeley. And send that love right back."
I need to get out of here.
"Hey, where's Bones?"
Hodgins gives him a warning glance, muttering, "Don't go there, dude."
"She's, um, she's at the bar." Cam's wearing an expression he's never seen on her before. There are morse codes & sirens being sounded in her eyes, like The Blitz is coming. The mysterious pact is beginning to make much more sense now. Angela won't even look at him.
He begins to twist around & see when Angela reaches forward to stop him. "Booth, don't. She's on a date."
Anger immediately swells in his gut. "So? I'm with Hannah now, remember? What's with you guys?"
He stands up, feeling off-balance & defensive. The bar is suddenly far too loud & he just wants to go home. Cam immediately follows & stops him with a hand to the shoulder. "Seeley, she's drunk. Really drunk. None of us are leaving 'til she calls a cab-drunk. Something is wrong."
Before he can reply, he sees her.
Temperance.
(moderation)
(restraint)
Joy.
Sometimes he thinks her parents got it right the first time.
(He knows the truth of her)
Her head is thrown back in laughter as she sits on the stool, skin slick & glowing under the lights. She's probably been dancing, he thinks, unconsciously holding his breath. This bar plays music before the karaoke freaks arrive. What time did she even get here? She usually works late.
He tries desperately to avoid looking below the surface--to see who she's with, to see what she's wearing, to see any of it--but he can't help himself.
Green cotton dress. Bare skin on her back. Goosebumps on her arms. It's winter, Bones. Why doesn't your jackass of a date offer you his jacket?
Bright eyes; dark lashes. Brown hair.
Husky voice carrying over the noise of the crowd, unmistakably hers with a familiar hint of flirtation & tequila.
God damn't.
Leaning over her shoulder, stroking her throat--a jacket wearing jackass is whispering in her ear, licking the lobe, causing her to laugh once more.
Booth's jaw clenches. He's never wanted to punch someone so badly in his life.
"Seeley, I know what you're thinking, but don't. She's a grown woman."
He starts. He didn't realize she was even still standing there. "Jeez, Cam. I--she's drunk, all right? This guy's taking advantage of her. Do you realize that's the damned zygote?"
Cam glances down & sees that his hands are shaking. He's staring after Brennan like a wounded bear. Oh, dear. These two.
"Angela mentioned something about the cougar cruise, yes. Dr. Brennan arrived here with him tonight, Booth. That's not really my concern. My concern is your partner, sitting over there getting plastered, rebuilding that shell you worked so hard to crack for all these years. Now, are you gonna storm over there like a jealous boyfriend & piss her off, or are you gonna be a friend & find out what the hell is going on with our girl?"
"Damn, Camille. Were you this bossy when we were together?"
"Would you have liked me otherwise?"
Good point.
Booth looks back over to Bones, who is now holding one of her date's hands in both of hers, squinting into it & saying something. By the looks of things, he imagines she's probably pointing out his phalanges & making it all sound unbearably sexy. The zygote is staring down at her wide-eyed, acting like he's never been touched by a woman before.
He really, really wants to punch this guy in the back of the head.
Deep breath.
It's gonna be a long night.
---
"Bones. What in God's name are you doing?"
Brennan looks up from her date's hand, startled. There's a blurry Booth weaving in front of her & he doesn't look happy.
"I'm engaging in foreplay, Booth. Also known as dating. What does it look like?" (Sweets would call that an angry face.)
Why won't he stand still?
"It looks like you're getting shit-faced with a twelve year old, that's what it looks like."
Her date pipes in. "I'm not twelve, dude."
"Not now." Booth glares at him like he wishes he had his gun.
Cam suddenly appears behind him, clapping her hands cheerfully. "Hey, guys! I'm not interrupting, am I?" Brightly smiling, she elbows Booth in the ribs. Under her breath--"I will hurt you, big man. Fix this. Fix it now."
The zygote raises an eyebrow, not unkindly. "Who's this, Temperance? Friend of yours?"
Cam points to herself, then Brennan. "Fresh dead; long-time dead. We work together. And yes, we're friends. She's very important to all of us." She locks eyes with her colleague--reaching inside--hoping to help her understand.
You're not alone.
(What was once lost can now be found)
Click.
Bones suddenly, frantically wants to leave.
"I'm sorry; I think I need to go." The legs of the stool knock loudly against the floor as she stands up, hands smoothing down her dress.
"Would you like me to see you home? I can at least call you a cab." To her date's credit, he looks genuinely concerned, though clearly disappointed. He reaches forward to steady her by the arm, thumb stroking the skin. Booth's fingers are twitching at his side.
"No, no. I'll be fine. But thank you for a lovely evening. I'll call you." She leans forward & kisses him on the cheek, watching him as he goes. Where is her jacket?
She feels utterly disoriented.
Out of nowhere, a man's jacket appears on her shoulders. It's Booth's. "It doesn't look like you brought one, Bones. I thought you might be cold."
"Thanks, Booth."
"I'm--look. I know you're capable of getting home by yourself, but after a night of whatever it is you've been drinking, I'm guessing you could use a friend. What do you say you let me take you home, huh? I don't really feel like listening to Screech & Jessie over there croon about love all night anyway."
Bones peeks at the stage. Ms. Wick is dancing back & forth, rapping something about "Whatta man" Sweets is. Over in the corner, Angela looks positively horrified. Hodgins, meanwhile, is laughing so hard the table is shaking.
"Where's Hannah?"
"She's working on a story. C'mon, Bones. We're still friends, aren't we?"
Good question.
She gives a short nod. "Okay. Let's go."
"Oh, and Booth?"
"Yeah?"
"It was tequila."
(I knew it)
Cam shakes her head & closes her eyes. So many issues, so little time.
---
"You know, Booth, you were kind of a cockblocker back there." Unlocking the door to her apartment, she walks through, leaving it ajar.
Booth nearly chokes on her words. "Since when do you know words like cockblocker?"
Brennan points to her home's lone television. "Since I bought that. I've found it to be very useful so far in my study of idioms & pop culture."
All he can do is shake his head. Of course. Why else?
"Also, I find Jon Stewart to be very amusing."
Oh. Well.
"Are you always this articulate with a blood alcohol level of oh-point-eight million?"
Brennan looks at him like he's crazy. Which she frequently thinks he might be. (Two sides of the same coin--they are not opposites) "That would be impossible. I am, however, fairly self-controlled, yes."
"Except when you're getting totally wasted."
She shoots him a look.
"Sorry. I'm just, I'm worried about you, Bones. What's happening here? You want to go on a date with a 24 year old, fine. You want to knock a few back, I'm there. I'm your partner--I'll always back you up. But something is off & you know it. I can tell."
There's a lost little girl look all around her, and he wishes more than anything in the world he could turn back the clock for both of them. Run back to last year & do it all differently. No thirty, forty, or fifty years. Just today, tomorrow, and the day after that. One day at a time. Your heart is open, he'd tell her. No promises needed.
(I'll always be here)
He doesn't know the curtains closed long ago.
(There's no such thing as always)
You're the one who needed protecting.
Sometimes he feels like his life is stuck on a repeating loop. One foot in front of the other; walking in circles, going nowhere. Like a crappy Tilt-a-Whirl ride he never purchased a ticket for & can't get off.
(He never stops trying)
He'd wanted to go on the Log Ride: fast, wet, twisting & turning. Walking into the lecture hall all those years ago, he saw her & he knew, deep in his bones, that's the one for me.
After beatings, addiction, wars, & women, he's learned one thing: sometimes the Ferris Wheel is good enough. Sometimes loving someone, even if you're not in love with them, is good enough.
Sometimes 1st place is out of reach.
Sometimes 2nd place is a pipe dream.
He's tired of fighting.
You do what you can do.
(Maybe that's all he was ever meant for)
"C'mon, Bones. Please. Talk to me."
She takes in a shaky breath. "I will admit, I have been feeling out of sorts for some time now. Indonesia, all of the changes. . .and, the case with the cougar cruise? It affected me."
"Because of the foster kids, right?"
Her hands are playing with the hem of her dress, hair covering her face as she looks down. He gently nudges her chin with the tip of one finger. "Hey. Eye contact, remember?"
Tears are gathering on her lashes. She nods. "I remember."
"Sweets was a two, you know. His score, I mean."
Bones hums to show she heard, but says nothing. She hasn't broken eye contact, but she's somewhere far away. He needs to find a way to bring her back.
"Temperance. What were you?"
She blinks, wiping at her mascara. "I was a one, in the beginning. By the end, I was a four."
Booth swallows. His heart feels like something's grabbing it. "How many?"
She knows what he's asking & stands up, holding out a hand before he can join her. "I'll be right back."
---
When Bones returns, she is carrying a pair of worn & tattered tennis shoes in her arms.
They are covered in names.
Permanent marker, so she'd never forget
Booth takes one look at her face & grabs her by the shoulders, throwing her into his arms.
He can feel her tears on his neck.
"Shh. I know, baby. I know."
"Booth. . ."
He's never heard her voice waver like that before.
"Are we still the center? Are we gonna hold?"
(surely some revelation is at hand)
He crushes her into him tighter, pressing kisses into her hair. He's barely holding on to the line, here. It's been so long since they've even touched. "We're still the center, Bones. We'll always be the center."
"Angela said I was going to die alone."
He chuffs a breath, dread echoing in his chest. "She was kidding, Bones. I promise." It won't be true. I won't let it be true.
Booth takes her face in his hands. "As long as I'm alive, you'll never be alone. I'm a phone call away, always. I don't care if Hannah's there, if I'm with Parker--you call, whenever you need. Okay? We'll figure it out. You don't need to protect me from you."
There is a sudden electricity in the air that makes her head feel light.
You don't need to protect me from you.
She feels like things are shifting, falling, out of place. She wants to weep & laugh at the strangeness of it, a frightened surge of hope bubbling up inside. Life is so absurd & tragic.
Bones smiles & covers his hands with her own. "Friends, then? No matter what?"
"No matter what."
They were on their way.
---
The change didn't come overnight. The thing about a Ferris Wheel is that it's slow. You sit back, glide over the horizon, and enjoy the ride.
After hours on a Tilt-a-Whirl, it's downright relaxing.
Nevertheless, in time the ride did come to a close. Amicable farewells were shared & a good night to all--the calling card of two lovers who meant no harm; they simply matched the other's needs, and they bore no regrets.
Angela & Hodgins had their baby. An adorable & feisty mix of black-haired beauty & squint-speaky temper. Cam was designated an official aunt after bringing in a lifetime supply of Gucci diaper bags to work. No one should have to go out lookin' fugly just because they're covered in spit-up, Angela.
Things at the Jeffersonian continued much as they always did. Fresh dead; long-time dead. The unsung heroes at the end of the day, at the end of a life.
Sweets & Daisy of course eventually married. An impromptu flashmob broke out at the reception, much to Bones' confusion & Booth's dismay. Vincent Nigel-Murray surprised everyone by joining in.
And as for Brennan?
Well.
She got a little bit better at saying hello & never truly saying goodbye.
(It hurt less that way)
---
---
OH MY GOD, IT'S DONE. Thanks for partipating; drinks are on your left.
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Brennan, Booth/Brennan, the whole Scooby gang
Word Count: About 7,800
Spoilers: Season 6, but nothing for "The Doctor in the Photo." I have yet to watch the episode & have been working like a mad woman all day to finish it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the show. Does this surprise you? Oh, if I only did. Also, as an additional disclaimer: I am giving a trigger warning for this story, only because there is language used in the beginning that could very well carry painful associations for some (i.e. words I would not normally throw around). I felt it was important to not hold back, however, in the interest of being honest.
Summary: This story is almost my love letter to Brennan in a way. Not only that, though, it's also my love letter to Booth, and Cam, and Angela, and the show in general. It's the first fic I've ever written--after fifteen years of reading fic--and only the second fictional story I've written in my entire life. The experience has been a very cathartic one for me, particularly because of how deeply I relate to Brennan as a character. This story is my attempt to show her in all her complexities & depth--her past, her present, and (hopefully) where she's going.
P.S. I wrote this without a beta, by the way. So: comments are love, but please be kind. Heh. Did I mention this is my first-ever fic? And that I put my heart & soul into it?[/is scared]
Pre-Fic Note: The title of this story comes from the song Tamburitza Lingua, for those who are curious. It's one of two songs that helped inspire this fic for me. The other is one that I'd like to share to help get everyone in the right frame of mind before we jump into Brennan's head.
(those of you who follow my journal normally are probably not surprised right now. God knows I can't do anything without including music)
Click to viewAll right, enough blathering! Let's do this.
---
---
Brennan is quick opening & closing trunks. Booth notices, but says nothing. There are layers upon layers of history in her eyes, in her words, and he is never sure how far is too far to push.
Weeks after Gordon Gordon has left town, he looks up at her over predictable drinks & slyly grazing knees and asks her what happened after they let her out of the trunk.
Brennan's knees go still.
"I was sent to a new foster home, Booth." She shrugs.
If there's one thing Booth is smart at, it's reading people. He only needs to take one look at her face to know that's not the whole story. He also knows it's the only story he's going to get.
The rest of the story is this:
Prior to being pulled out of that trunk, Temperance Brennan spent two days curled in the dark--counting breaths, tracing the fractured radius of her left wrist, and bouncing her leg to stave off the steadily rising crescendo of panic filling up her abdomen. She fixed her gaze to nothing and vowed to do better next time.
When they finally returned to pull her out, the sun blinding her eyes and no longer real, the trunk was soaked in urine & she stumbled when they slapped her across the face. Three days later, she sat with a garbage bag full of her belongings & let the social workers lead her to her new home. Where didn't matter. Nowhere was home anymore.
What's wrong with you, huh? You gonna answer me? Just wanna waste my money & then stand there like a creepy mute? You think you're so smart, but you can't clean a fucking dish?
(stupid)
(clumsy)
(retard)
(we warned you)
The water was so hot. I still don't think it was fair.
There was no longer anyone to whom she could return the call of "Polo" to break the silence of a friendless school day. No presents from Mom or Dad under the Christmas Tree. Just a garbage bag of memories and tennis shoes covered in names.
Permanent marker,
so she'd
never
forget.
Black lines written clean;
sharp against her rubber sole,
so the remembering
would
stop.
("These are the things that matter," she'd tell herself. This is what you can hold onto.)
With each new home, Brennan got a little bit better at saying goodbye & never truly saying hello.
It hurt less that way.
---
Halfway through the Gravedigger trial, Brennan shakily confesses to Booth that she has nightmares.
What she doesn't tell him is that they're not new.
Years before she was ever abducted & buried alive, Temperance waited for her death in El Salvador & counted her breaths again:
Tick. . .
tick. .
tick.
(boom)
Each second lasts surprisingly long when you're terrified and pretending to be stoic.
She knows rationally that death is nothing to be afraid of, but the palpitations in her chest are telling a different story.
She is not prepared to die.
Furious over the loss of control, she vows that nothing & no one will ever make her feel trapped again.
When the Gravedigger returns and looks at her across the witness stand, demanding an answer, she knows she's been beaten. She is as trapped as ever.
Brennan claims to hate psychology, but every week there she is again on Sweets' couch. He is teaching her facial expressions & what it means when Booth offers her fruit pie. He interferes & he pesters & he makes vague assertions about gambling that turn her world upside down. What has she become? What has happened to her life; to her career; to whatever indefinable, essential dyad she & Booth have created?
Angela & Hodgins are suddenly married. She no longer feels in control of her own objectivity, of her own identity. It's entropy in motion--and she is slipping, slipping--"I'm never gonna make you fall" ringing in her ears.
Every muscle in her body, every cell in her brain, is screaming at her to flee.
So she does.
She doesn't need to turn around to know Booth is gazing after her as the cab pulls away, but she does anyway. They both know they've been here before--the missed opportunity, the smell of the night rain. A long goodbye is coming, and it is downright heartcrushing.
---
Brennan wakes to coffee,
Cranky Mother Hen BoothEyes,
the imprint of a sofa cushion zipper against her face.
Good morning, Jeffersonian Institution.
"You know, Bones, some people actually like sleeping in their own beds at night."
She avoids his gaze & sits up, allowing her blanket to gather at her waist. "I was working late last night, Booth. Unlike you, I am not engaged in a sexually active, monogamous relationship, and thus it is irrelevant where I sleep."
He opens his mouth to protest, but is stopped short by her shirt's neckline, which has migrated in the night to dangerous depths, and God damn't this is why she needs to sleep in her own bed he thinks to himself, mentally reciting the 12 Steps of Bones-aholics Anonymous.
His fists clench.
(It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair.)
"How about breakfast?" One day at a time--let go, let God--he reminds his traitorous heart. Let go. She gave you your answer. Let go.
(We're never going to be able to let go, it reminds him back.)
She looks up at him, distracted. "What?"
"Breakfast, Bones. The most important meal of the day. Time for good doctors everywhere to feast on pancakes & Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n Fruity monstrosities."
"The origin of the word "breakfast" comes from the Middle English "breken" and the Old Norse "fasta," Booth. It simply means to break one's fast from the previous night's meal. It's not carte blanche to add to this country's obesity epidemic."
"You see, you're grouchy like that because you're hungry."
She stares at him, pulling on her shoes. Her shirt is still inciting outbreaks of The Serenity Prayer in his head, and he wonders what would happen if he sued her clothing for sexual harassment.
"You know what would make it better? Bacon."
---
7:05 pm and the front door shuts behind her. Goodbye, world. (and stay out)
Sometimes Bones does like sleeping in her own bed. Most times, truth be told.
Sometimes she also gets lonely. The light clicks on and there are places to sit everywhere. The sofa, the chic yet practical couch cushions, chairs around the dining room table--a veritable feast of sedentary options. Yet she is alone.
She sleeps alone, she brushes her teeth alone, she eats alone, she dreams alone.
It's as she expected.
(I call. Every year. On your birthday. You never pick up.)
(Take a hint.)
You weren't there, Russ. You weren't there.
Exit stage right--the curtains close when the show is over. Gambling on an intermission has never been the type of luxury her heart could afford.
I miss that. Someone caring where I am all the time.
She still has her work, her brain, her skills. It's enough. She knows it's enough. She's not half a person, waiting to be completed by some ridiculous Platonic delusion of a soulmate. She is one whole entity; her own puzzle made up of her own jigsaw pieces. Imperfect though they may be, they're hers alone & they belong to & with no one else.
She is not lonely. She is not a victim.
She is a survivor.
Even so, sometimes she catches herself looking at a particular chair and wondering how it would receive the weight of Booth's frame on a casual Sunday night. Would he appreciate her fine thread count or insist on shopping for new bedding? Would he laugh if she sang "Hot Blooded" to their newborn baby?
Would she make a good mother? A good wife?
It makes no literal sense, she knows, but her heart hurts when she thinks of these things.
She wants Booth to be happy.
What he wants, she can't provide him.
They are at a stalemate.
---
It's 1983 in Bones' memory, and through the lens of time a 7 year old Brennan sits in the waiting room of her dentist's office, swinging her legs & talking incessantly.
". . .but Russ, this magazine is wrong."
Their mother, returning from the restroom & rummaging through her purse, looks questioningly at him as he sighs. "She never talks this much at school, you know. Or at all, actually. Some of the kids think she's deaf. One asked the other day if she was French. What does that even mean?"
She nods & hands him two quarters. "Go. Downstairs there's a vending machine. Buy yourself a candy bar & hide it underneath your jacket when you come back. Don't let the dentist see you."
Russ is gone before she can so much as turn around. Temperance, meanwhile, is staring at her with disturbing intensity. How is it possible for a seven year old to look so perturbed?
"Oh, rats. I'm sorry, honey. Did you want one too?"
"This magazine is wrong, Mom."
She blinks. ". . .Okay. What's wrong with it?"
"It asks you to draw a circle around the object that doesn't belong--the one that's wrong. Then it shows a picture of three men & a chimpanzee. See?" She points. "But, Mom, they're all primates. They all belong. What doesn't belong are the shorts on the chimpanzee, but the magazine says that's the wrong answer. That's not the wrong answer!" Arms waving, she continues, pint-sized body practically vibrating with indignation on the pleather seat. "Chimpanzees do not! wear! shorts!"
She has to bite her lip, ignoring the curious stares from around the room. It was so hard not to laugh, looking at her when she got like this. All earnest eyes and innocent genius. She had no idea how special she was.
"I want you to remember something, Tempe. You're not wrong. You do belong. Now, always, and forever."
"I don't know what that means."
"You will."
Fast-forward to 2010, and Bones still isn't sure she knows what her mother meant, but she wants to. And she wishes her mother were here to explain--explain what it means to belong; explain why she named her daughter "Joy" at birth, only to later change it to Temperance; explain why she robbed banks, kept secrets, and wasn't there to comfort her as a young & lonely Joy/Temperance/whoever cried over bullies and pranks, the orphan in her yearning for a Cinderella ending she could call her own.
She still remembers the note slipped inside her locker: "Stay home tonight. No one wants to see Morticia in a prom dress."
(Smurfette didn't break jaws & dissect pigs. Everyone knew that.)
In the wake of Secret Santa--with its echoing hallway laughter & communal slapping of backs, her humiliated escape as she ran away, pantleg caught in her shoe--Christine Brennan promised her daughter an upcoming lesson in shadowy eye makeup & the art of flirting. She squeezed her shoulders & assured her it would, quote, "drive the boys wild," adding, "which will serve them right, the little punks, as you can then reject them & break their puny hearts without mercy. You know your father would buy a front row ticket to that show. 'Course he'd come with a shotgun, but. . ."
The following week, she disappeared.
Once in foster care, Brennan decided the boys were wild enough when left to their own devices. She kept her non-shadowy eyes glued to her AP textbooks, stretched her still-healing wrist, & charged full speed ahead.
She told herself it could always be worse and counted the days by the hours, the hours by the minutes, the minutes by the seconds. One second at a time.
2 + 2 = 4. You breathe in; you breathe out. No muss, no fuss. What matters is the truth. What matters is the solution.
(Happiness is a promise that can't be kept. Love is a treasure that can only be lost.)
Some of the foster homes were nice; some of them were loud & mean; none of them were permanent. It didn't matter. Their eyes were dull, vacant, and full of lies. The insults & kicks slid off her back like water, no better or worse than a dozen half-hearted hugs.
Their meals sat in her belly like poison--tiny bites cut just so, eyes on her plate, wishing she were gone, just gone.
I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave.
(none of this means anything)
By the time she hit college & dared to touch lash to mascara for the first time, she knew her mom had been right about at least one thing:
She wasn't wrong.
She might not belong, but she wasn't wrong.
(And chimpanzees still didn't wear shorts.)
---
Booth sleeps with Hannah now, but he still dreams of Brennan.
Most of the time, the nocturnal hauntings consist of scientific ramblings & conversations at the Founding Fathers that somehow turn into tropical arguments in the Maluku Islands. Occasionally, he finds himself naked at the lab or playing a surprise round of Strip Poker with Bones & Angela in his office. (What? He's a guy)
Tonight, his dream is different.
This is no coma, but tell that to the ring on Bones' finger.
What kind of messed up shit is my brain playing on me now? Wakeupwakeupwakeup. . .except please, please don't. Don't wake up. Jesus, Mary, & Joseph, this is wrong, but don't you dare wake up.
She is not only in his bed, diamond glinting in the light, but she is pregnant. Beautifully, wonderfully pregnant. And wearing an extremely non-maternal nightgown. God damn, subconscious. Way to be on the ball.
"Do you love me?" she asks.
(He knows this script)
"Yeah," he replies. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"
She takes his face in her hands & brings him close. "I need you to prove it to me, Booth." Lips grazing as she goes, she makes her way to his ear. "I love you. I love you and I want you, but I can't see you. I can't see me. We've fallen, Booth. Tell me. Help me see."
Where is the writer? He realizes with a start that he's lost his place.
Before he can respond, his phone is ringing. Back to the real world and all its confusion.
Back to the FBI.
Back to Hannah and her blonde, chicken-noodle-soup-for-the-soul (smells like teen) spirit.
Back to Bones. No diamond ring. No nightgown.
How could she not know by now that he loves her? That he loves everything about her?
Damn her.
He wishes he could go back to sleep.
---
"So, have you ever thought about us?"
"What?" Booth looks over at her like she's crazy, which he frequently thinks she might be.
"I apologize. I should've been more specific. What I meant was, have you ever fantasized about us sexually?"
"We are not going to discuss that, Bones. Not now, not ever." He clenches his fists around the steering wheel as he forces out a laugh. He knows he's been snapping at her left & right since his return from Afghanistan. He doesn't know how to make it stop. All he can do is duck & cover, avoid & escape--New Relationship Smile plastered on his face like everything is fine. Oh, so fine.
"I don't see why you're so uncomfortable with the topic. I admitted to considering the possibility of sexual relations between us to both you & Sweets, and masturbation is a completely healthy, natural--"
"WHOA. Stop. Right there. Just stop. You don't say things like that. Not unless you want us to end up in that ditch over there."
Brennan pauses to peer over at the ditch in question, then turns back to him, eyebrows raised. "I would not want to end up in that ditch, no. I don't, however, see what that has to do with either you or me and the topic of self-gratification. The nights in Maluku were long, Booth. I'm an adult woman with needs. What do you imagine I did to release the tension? Played mahjong with the natives?"
"There you go again!" Booth slaps the steering wheel in frustration. It really was possible she was going to be the death of him. Actually, more like probable. Poor coroner was going to have to list cause of death as "unbidden mental images of one Dr. Temperance Brennan--world-renowned forensic anthropologist--heavy breasts, flared hips, meticulous hand sliding purposefully between long legs. . .skin soft, muscles stretching, lips wet. . ." Cam would probably have a field day with that one. "Medical reports rarely wax poetic to that degree, Seeley. Though frequently the kind of books I read do."
"Can we talk about something else now?" he barks out, shooting her a quick look before honking his horn at a passing squirrel. (That'll learn it) His pupils are dilated, she notes, though whether that's more from anger, arousal, or something else, she's not positive. Even after all these years his face is able to withhold secrets from her, but she can still tell this conversation has reached its limit. He is shifting in his seat & loosening his tie--her fingers itch to reach over & remove it.
Maybe then he wouldn't be so taciturn.
"Fine." She sighs, turning to stare out the window. "Perhaps you'd like to talk about sports. I watched a hockey game last night. It made me think of you."
He turns to her in surprise. Just when he thought he had her figured out.
Truth was, he'd never have her figured out. Bones was like a riddle that never stopped unfolding, full of contradictions and hidden shadows--gifts to be given at only the right time.
He only knew one thing: that he always wanted to be there beside her to turn the next page.
Like a book he couldn't put down, loving her was a constant cliffhanger.
It seemed fitting in its way that she was an author.
---
Angela's belly is steadily growing bigger. Eventually it becomes unavoidable that Brennan should find herself tagging along behind her waddling form, listening to her best friend coo over bibs & overalls.
"Oh my God, sweetie! Do you see this? Do you?"
Bones leans over to look. "It appears to be a glow worm who lights up when you squeeze him. He looks quite happy."
"Didn't you have one of these when you were little? Hodgins is going to freak."
"I don't recall what I played with as a baby, Ange." In front of Brennan is a purple onesie with an embroidered dolphin splashing on the front. It's winking at her like it knows something she doesn't.
She already feels incredibly uncomfortable.
I don't belong here
(. . .can I go now?)
Angela rolls her eyes & pats her on the back. "I know, Bren, but--okay, what about when you were older? Remember that talk we had about your inner child? Tell me one thing you played with as a kid. Just one thing. And, no, it can't be a chemistry set, so don't even go there."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Brennan sighs, exasperated. "Fine. I had a pogo stick."
Angela laughs. "You what?"
"A pogo stick. You jump on it and--"
"No, I know. But. . .really?"
Bones shrugs & allows herself a small smirk. "Yes. My parents hated it. I used it constantly, even inside the house. I found it to be an excellent way to get their attention, especially if one of them was using the phone."
"Okay! And I am suddenly terrified. Hodgins, Bren. . .plus me. Together as one human. What were we thinking?"
"I promise I won't buy your child a pogo stick if that makes you feel any better."
Angela's eyes are far from reassured, but she smiles anyway, one hand stroking her middle. "Thanks, I think."
Interrupting the moment, Brennan's cell phone vibrates against her hip--her own constant, if inanimate, companion. Pausing to check the message, Bones looks back up to find her friend's face contorting ecstatically over a tiny pair of patent leather Mary Janes. There are practically mini-fireworks of metaphorical estrogen detonating above her head. When did this happen? Where will she fit?
(Everything is changing)
She keeps her voice level.
Just. . .put your heart in a box, she'd told him.
(2 + 2 = 4. This is what you can hold onto.)
"It's Cam. She'd like to know when we'll be back at the Jeffersonian. Apparently Hodgins is grounded again."
". . .Oh, God."
"We don't even have a case. What could he possibly have done?"
"I don't even want to know. I say you and I take our sweet time heading back and we let Cam deal with it. She gets bored if nothing blows up around there for too long."
Bones nods & fingers the purple onesie with the anthropomorphic dolphin. She feels Angela approach from behind, her gait creating an unsteady yet predictable rhythm.
"You like that, don't you?"
"Dolphins aren't purple."
"I didn't ask that." Angela is arching one patient 'brow at her, awaiting a reply. Bones sighs. She already looks like a mother.
"Yes, I do."
"Because of your mom, right?"
Brennan remains silent for a moment before responding. "They're pretty. I like them; she liked them too." She shakes her head--once upon a time there was a dam built to hold back the memories, and these are cracks. Just cracks. "That's all."
Angela grabs her hand & takes the onesie off the rack. "I think we should buy it."
"What if you have a boy? Booth would say that purple is not a very masculine color."
"Who says my baby has to conform to a bunch of WASPy gender norms, Dr. Brennan?"
Bones gives a surprised laugh, tilting her head in agreement. "Fair enough."
"Plus, if my baby doesn't wear it, I'll just hang onto it so yours can someday."
"That would require me choosing to procreate first, Angela." Bones looks down at this, suddenly extremely interested in her phone again. She'd much rather focus on text messages than be having this conversation right now, especially amidst shin-bruising strollers and stalking salesgirls. Though, God, here's another one from Cam about karaoke on Friday night. Is everyone really that bored without a murder to solve?
"Oh, come on, Bren. You were a hot second from pumping out an army of little baby Booths until that coma came along. How do you know you two won't get back to that point again?" Angela dips her head, attempting to catch Brennan's gaze. "Hello? Earth to Brennan? Best friend o' mine?"
"Does no one remember what happened the last time I sang?" Bones' face is scrunched in irritation as she stares at her phone, striking the keys.
"What? Okay, no more CrackBerry for you today." Swiping the source of distraction out of her friend's hands, Angela ushers her forward in the aisle.
"That's not a BlackBerry, Ange."
"Same difference, sweetie."
Brennan purses her lips, exhaling, & then hedges, "I'm glad you're happy, Ange. You seem happy, I mean."
Angela smiles. "I am happy, Bren."
"And Booth--he seems happy too, don't you think?"
". . .I think Booth wants to be happy, and he'll keep trying until he's as close to happy as he can get."
I can't make him happy. Doesn't she understand?
"I don't understand."
"He doesn't have you, Bren."
"Angela. . ."
"Look, I know. You don't belong with anyone. You're a lone wolf, raised by wolves, bla bla bla. I've heard it before, all right? But here's the deal: you two belong together. Hannah is not here to stay. You are."
Bones' eyes widen. "I was most certainly not raised by wolves, Angela."
"All I'm saying is it ain't over 'til it's over. Both of you left the party, but the streamers are still hanging & the music is still playing. Party's still goin', babe."
"Okay, now I really have no idea what you're talking about."
Angela puts her hands on Brennan's shoulders & groans. "Let me tell you something. The happiest day of my life wasn't when I got married. It wasn't even when I found out I was pregnant. It was sitting with Jack on this dinky curb in Paris, just watching the sunset. I knew, right then, that no matter what life threw at us, I was right where I was supposed to be. That's what I want for you, Bren. For you to be where you're supposed to be & know it."
"It's an erroneous assumption to presume one can ever know that. Newton's Laws of Motion, Angela. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Life is a series of events & choices, not destiny." Brennan crosses her arms as if to hold onto herself--to hold onto her center (things fall apart; the centre cannot hold), her truth (the best lack all conviction)--but her voice lacks anger. To her friend's ears, she simply sounds tired. "I know neither you or Booth would probably understand, but the happiest moment of my life was in a small Rwandan village, walking onto my first official dig as a certified Forensic Anthropologist. I'd never been more proud."
"Potato, Pot-ah-to, hon'. Kind of sounds like we're saying the same thing here, if you think about it." She links their arms together & gently leads the way. "Can I ask you something, Bren?"
"Of course. Unless it's about me procreating. I'd prefer we not discuss that anymore."
Angela grins. "No, it's not about that. What I wanted to know is, what was it about anthropology? I mean, I know, with your parents and all, you wanted answers. But you were hooked even before then, weren't you?" She squeezes Bones' arm suddenly & playfully, causing her to look over, alarmed. "Little baby Temperance, reading about mummies & monkeys & wanting to run away to live with the witch doctor in Timbuktu, am I right? Otherwise, you wouldn't still be flying off to Indonesia & solving murders with Booth now, getting all perky-eyed over tribes of guidos. There's something else there."
"There are no witch doctors in Timbuktu, Angela. Witch doctors are found in--"
"Honey. Really?"
Brennan chews her lip & gives a nod. Touche, Angela.
"I apologize. It's been explained to me that correcting others unnecessarily can create embarassment and cause one to appear tactless and uncaring. It is something I'm working on; however, it seems lately that the more I try--the more I make an effort--the more I simply upset the people around me. I think I used to be better, Angela. I was better when I didn't try. Maybe, as you would say, I wasn't meant to."
"We're not still talking about correcting people, are we?"
Please don't look so sad.
"I'd rather we didn't talk about this either, Ange."
"Okay, okay. Back to mummies and monkeys, then. You still haven't answered my question."
Brennan looks up to face her.
(Eye contact is important, Bones. It lets people see you. It lets you see them.)
Booth told her that once, touching her fingers as they sat on the steps of the Washington Monument. His breath, whiskey red; his cocky, lazy grin leaning into her personal space; the five o'clock shadow on his skin making her want to howl at the moon as she stared him down in return.
(I see you, Booth. I've always seen you.)
In the end, he looked away first. Years before dreams, stories, gambles, & heartbreak, one man looked away first & one woman let him. She knew it was right & she blamed herself anyway.
Years before that, one boy left his home at the side of his grandfather, little brother in tow. No mother. No father. A lifetime of nightmares to bury & forget.
Years before that, one girl looked in the mirror & squeezed her nails into her palm until it didn't hurt anymore. No grandfather, no brother, no mother, no father, no friends. Alone, just alone. A lifetime of nightmares she wouldn't allow herself to feel, let alone forget.
Sometimes there are no bad guys.
(She never failed to look him in the eye again.)
"All right, Angela. Don't blow a casket. It's not that exciting of a story, I assure you. It started with me learning to read, which happened at the age of three. I would sneak into Russ' room & steal his comic books, drawing all over them & memorizing the words. It made him furious of course, but Dad thought I was some kind of prodigy." She rolls her eyes at this.
"Sounds about right. Also, hon', it's gasket, not cas--y'know what? Not important. Carry on."
Bones squints her eyes at her suspiciously. "Anyway. So, one day when I was probably about five years old, I asked my father where I came from. . ."
"Oh, boy. I'm guessing Max wasn't the birds & the bees type, right?"
Brennan's eyebrows pinch together, confused. "No. No, there was no mention of birds or bees, but I'm guessing that's some type of colloquialism, isn't it?"
Angela winks at her, pleased. "Yes. Now, answer my damn question. I'm hormonal & carrying a wide load here--it's making me impatient."
(Birds do it, bees do it, even educated MDs do it)
. . .oh
"Well, after I asked, he came home the next day with a book for me. The Beginnings of Humankind, by Donald Johanson & Maitland Edey. He told me--you won't understand this yet. Keep reading until you do. It won't take you long, kiddo."
"Wow. Yeah, um, I was playing with barbies."
"I never cared for barbies. I did, however, have a stuffed dog when I was nine whom I named Lucy. I believe she was officially called a Pound Puppy."
It's all Angela can do not to laugh. "I am so not surprised. Please, continue."
"I became obsessed. I carried the book with me everywhere, looking up the words, driving my family crazy. My mom couldn't get me to put it down even at the dinner table." She snickers, her eyes sad & far away. "In time, my father was right; I did understand, and I wanted to know more. He began bringing me home new books every week on everything from biology to Berbers, mummies to moksha. It's--it's not just bones, Angela. I knew. Emotions are ephemeral, life is ephemeral, but our bones, our traditions, the things that tie us together despite our superficial differences--all of that lasts." She pauses. "The world has never been a particularly easy place for me to navigate, Ange. But in the pages of those books, I learned one thing. When you lose yourself in every culture, it no longer matters if you belong in none."
"You just are what you are, right? A human being: lost like the rest of us."
Angela reaches forward for an awkward hug, her womb holding them apart. She's never wanted to travel back in time to braid friendship bracelets with a five year old so bad in her life.
"Hey, can I be an anthropologist too?"
Brennan smiles.
---
The voice of Sweets belting out a spirited rendition of "She Blinded Me With Science" welcomes Booth as he enters the bar. Daisy Wick is standing in front of the stage, holding a lighter & beaming up at him. Together again, the happy couple. Oh, for Christ's sake.
He spots Cam sitting with Angela & Hodgins at a table by the corner. They nod him over, cheeks wide & flushed, appearing more relaxed than he's felt in months. "Appearing" being the operative word. He doesn't look below the surface anymore; he knows he doesn't belong. Moving on means letting go.
We are, all of us, your squints.
(not anymore)
"Lemme guess--ginger ale?"
"Ahh, so close, G Man. 7-Up. Keeps the food from comin'-up." Angela winks.
Cam winces & sets her own drink down. "Okay. Dead guys, I can handle. Pregnant lady barf? Let's not."
Booth chuckles slightly & rests his elbows on his knees. "It's a good thing being a mother to Michelle allowed you to skip that part."
"I will toast to that, big man. Except you. . .don't have a drink. Let's fix that." Cam raises her hand to signal the waiter, rolling her eyes when he breezes right by her. She waves her hand after him dismissively. "Third time he's done that now. I'm gonna trip him next time, you watch." Grinning, she turns back to Booth & swings one slim leg over the other, getting comfortable. "So, where's Hannah tonight? She still on her way?"
"She's working on a story. Something involving lobbyists & politicians and, I don't know. Stuff that will probably get her into trouble. Y'know, the usual." His fingers tap nervously on the table, face feigning confidence; he's skating on thin ice these days, but he's happy. He has someone who loves him, who will let him love her. It's enough. He knows it's enough. (You can't always get what you want.)
He clears his throat. "She sends her love."
Angela & Cam both nod slowly at him in sync, then slide their eyes toward one another like they've formed some kind of mutual understanding or pact. He doesn't like it.
"Well, you tell her we said hi, Seeley. And send that love right back."
I need to get out of here.
"Hey, where's Bones?"
Hodgins gives him a warning glance, muttering, "Don't go there, dude."
"She's, um, she's at the bar." Cam's wearing an expression he's never seen on her before. There are morse codes & sirens being sounded in her eyes, like The Blitz is coming. The mysterious pact is beginning to make much more sense now. Angela won't even look at him.
He begins to twist around & see when Angela reaches forward to stop him. "Booth, don't. She's on a date."
Anger immediately swells in his gut. "So? I'm with Hannah now, remember? What's with you guys?"
He stands up, feeling off-balance & defensive. The bar is suddenly far too loud & he just wants to go home. Cam immediately follows & stops him with a hand to the shoulder. "Seeley, she's drunk. Really drunk. None of us are leaving 'til she calls a cab-drunk. Something is wrong."
Before he can reply, he sees her.
Temperance.
(moderation)
(restraint)
Joy.
Sometimes he thinks her parents got it right the first time.
(He knows the truth of her)
Her head is thrown back in laughter as she sits on the stool, skin slick & glowing under the lights. She's probably been dancing, he thinks, unconsciously holding his breath. This bar plays music before the karaoke freaks arrive. What time did she even get here? She usually works late.
He tries desperately to avoid looking below the surface--to see who she's with, to see what she's wearing, to see any of it--but he can't help himself.
Green cotton dress. Bare skin on her back. Goosebumps on her arms. It's winter, Bones. Why doesn't your jackass of a date offer you his jacket?
Bright eyes; dark lashes. Brown hair.
Husky voice carrying over the noise of the crowd, unmistakably hers with a familiar hint of flirtation & tequila.
God damn't.
Leaning over her shoulder, stroking her throat--a jacket wearing jackass is whispering in her ear, licking the lobe, causing her to laugh once more.
Booth's jaw clenches. He's never wanted to punch someone so badly in his life.
"Seeley, I know what you're thinking, but don't. She's a grown woman."
He starts. He didn't realize she was even still standing there. "Jeez, Cam. I--she's drunk, all right? This guy's taking advantage of her. Do you realize that's the damned zygote?"
Cam glances down & sees that his hands are shaking. He's staring after Brennan like a wounded bear. Oh, dear. These two.
"Angela mentioned something about the cougar cruise, yes. Dr. Brennan arrived here with him tonight, Booth. That's not really my concern. My concern is your partner, sitting over there getting plastered, rebuilding that shell you worked so hard to crack for all these years. Now, are you gonna storm over there like a jealous boyfriend & piss her off, or are you gonna be a friend & find out what the hell is going on with our girl?"
"Damn, Camille. Were you this bossy when we were together?"
"Would you have liked me otherwise?"
Good point.
Booth looks back over to Bones, who is now holding one of her date's hands in both of hers, squinting into it & saying something. By the looks of things, he imagines she's probably pointing out his phalanges & making it all sound unbearably sexy. The zygote is staring down at her wide-eyed, acting like he's never been touched by a woman before.
He really, really wants to punch this guy in the back of the head.
Deep breath.
It's gonna be a long night.
---
"Bones. What in God's name are you doing?"
Brennan looks up from her date's hand, startled. There's a blurry Booth weaving in front of her & he doesn't look happy.
"I'm engaging in foreplay, Booth. Also known as dating. What does it look like?" (Sweets would call that an angry face.)
Why won't he stand still?
"It looks like you're getting shit-faced with a twelve year old, that's what it looks like."
Her date pipes in. "I'm not twelve, dude."
"Not now." Booth glares at him like he wishes he had his gun.
Cam suddenly appears behind him, clapping her hands cheerfully. "Hey, guys! I'm not interrupting, am I?" Brightly smiling, she elbows Booth in the ribs. Under her breath--"I will hurt you, big man. Fix this. Fix it now."
The zygote raises an eyebrow, not unkindly. "Who's this, Temperance? Friend of yours?"
Cam points to herself, then Brennan. "Fresh dead; long-time dead. We work together. And yes, we're friends. She's very important to all of us." She locks eyes with her colleague--reaching inside--hoping to help her understand.
You're not alone.
(What was once lost can now be found)
Click.
Bones suddenly, frantically wants to leave.
"I'm sorry; I think I need to go." The legs of the stool knock loudly against the floor as she stands up, hands smoothing down her dress.
"Would you like me to see you home? I can at least call you a cab." To her date's credit, he looks genuinely concerned, though clearly disappointed. He reaches forward to steady her by the arm, thumb stroking the skin. Booth's fingers are twitching at his side.
"No, no. I'll be fine. But thank you for a lovely evening. I'll call you." She leans forward & kisses him on the cheek, watching him as he goes. Where is her jacket?
She feels utterly disoriented.
Out of nowhere, a man's jacket appears on her shoulders. It's Booth's. "It doesn't look like you brought one, Bones. I thought you might be cold."
"Thanks, Booth."
"I'm--look. I know you're capable of getting home by yourself, but after a night of whatever it is you've been drinking, I'm guessing you could use a friend. What do you say you let me take you home, huh? I don't really feel like listening to Screech & Jessie over there croon about love all night anyway."
Bones peeks at the stage. Ms. Wick is dancing back & forth, rapping something about "Whatta man" Sweets is. Over in the corner, Angela looks positively horrified. Hodgins, meanwhile, is laughing so hard the table is shaking.
"Where's Hannah?"
"She's working on a story. C'mon, Bones. We're still friends, aren't we?"
Good question.
She gives a short nod. "Okay. Let's go."
"Oh, and Booth?"
"Yeah?"
"It was tequila."
(I knew it)
Cam shakes her head & closes her eyes. So many issues, so little time.
---
"You know, Booth, you were kind of a cockblocker back there." Unlocking the door to her apartment, she walks through, leaving it ajar.
Booth nearly chokes on her words. "Since when do you know words like cockblocker?"
Brennan points to her home's lone television. "Since I bought that. I've found it to be very useful so far in my study of idioms & pop culture."
All he can do is shake his head. Of course. Why else?
"Also, I find Jon Stewart to be very amusing."
Oh. Well.
"Are you always this articulate with a blood alcohol level of oh-point-eight million?"
Brennan looks at him like he's crazy. Which she frequently thinks he might be. (Two sides of the same coin--they are not opposites) "That would be impossible. I am, however, fairly self-controlled, yes."
"Except when you're getting totally wasted."
She shoots him a look.
"Sorry. I'm just, I'm worried about you, Bones. What's happening here? You want to go on a date with a 24 year old, fine. You want to knock a few back, I'm there. I'm your partner--I'll always back you up. But something is off & you know it. I can tell."
There's a lost little girl look all around her, and he wishes more than anything in the world he could turn back the clock for both of them. Run back to last year & do it all differently. No thirty, forty, or fifty years. Just today, tomorrow, and the day after that. One day at a time. Your heart is open, he'd tell her. No promises needed.
(I'll always be here)
He doesn't know the curtains closed long ago.
(There's no such thing as always)
You're the one who needed protecting.
Sometimes he feels like his life is stuck on a repeating loop. One foot in front of the other; walking in circles, going nowhere. Like a crappy Tilt-a-Whirl ride he never purchased a ticket for & can't get off.
(He never stops trying)
He'd wanted to go on the Log Ride: fast, wet, twisting & turning. Walking into the lecture hall all those years ago, he saw her & he knew, deep in his bones, that's the one for me.
After beatings, addiction, wars, & women, he's learned one thing: sometimes the Ferris Wheel is good enough. Sometimes loving someone, even if you're not in love with them, is good enough.
Sometimes 1st place is out of reach.
Sometimes 2nd place is a pipe dream.
He's tired of fighting.
You do what you can do.
(Maybe that's all he was ever meant for)
"C'mon, Bones. Please. Talk to me."
She takes in a shaky breath. "I will admit, I have been feeling out of sorts for some time now. Indonesia, all of the changes. . .and, the case with the cougar cruise? It affected me."
"Because of the foster kids, right?"
Her hands are playing with the hem of her dress, hair covering her face as she looks down. He gently nudges her chin with the tip of one finger. "Hey. Eye contact, remember?"
Tears are gathering on her lashes. She nods. "I remember."
"Sweets was a two, you know. His score, I mean."
Bones hums to show she heard, but says nothing. She hasn't broken eye contact, but she's somewhere far away. He needs to find a way to bring her back.
"Temperance. What were you?"
She blinks, wiping at her mascara. "I was a one, in the beginning. By the end, I was a four."
Booth swallows. His heart feels like something's grabbing it. "How many?"
She knows what he's asking & stands up, holding out a hand before he can join her. "I'll be right back."
---
When Bones returns, she is carrying a pair of worn & tattered tennis shoes in her arms.
They are covered in names.
Permanent marker, so she'd never forget
Booth takes one look at her face & grabs her by the shoulders, throwing her into his arms.
He can feel her tears on his neck.
"Shh. I know, baby. I know."
"Booth. . ."
He's never heard her voice waver like that before.
"Are we still the center? Are we gonna hold?"
(surely some revelation is at hand)
He crushes her into him tighter, pressing kisses into her hair. He's barely holding on to the line, here. It's been so long since they've even touched. "We're still the center, Bones. We'll always be the center."
"Angela said I was going to die alone."
He chuffs a breath, dread echoing in his chest. "She was kidding, Bones. I promise." It won't be true. I won't let it be true.
Booth takes her face in his hands. "As long as I'm alive, you'll never be alone. I'm a phone call away, always. I don't care if Hannah's there, if I'm with Parker--you call, whenever you need. Okay? We'll figure it out. You don't need to protect me from you."
There is a sudden electricity in the air that makes her head feel light.
You don't need to protect me from you.
She feels like things are shifting, falling, out of place. She wants to weep & laugh at the strangeness of it, a frightened surge of hope bubbling up inside. Life is so absurd & tragic.
Bones smiles & covers his hands with her own. "Friends, then? No matter what?"
"No matter what."
They were on their way.
---
The change didn't come overnight. The thing about a Ferris Wheel is that it's slow. You sit back, glide over the horizon, and enjoy the ride.
After hours on a Tilt-a-Whirl, it's downright relaxing.
Nevertheless, in time the ride did come to a close. Amicable farewells were shared & a good night to all--the calling card of two lovers who meant no harm; they simply matched the other's needs, and they bore no regrets.
Angela & Hodgins had their baby. An adorable & feisty mix of black-haired beauty & squint-speaky temper. Cam was designated an official aunt after bringing in a lifetime supply of Gucci diaper bags to work. No one should have to go out lookin' fugly just because they're covered in spit-up, Angela.
Things at the Jeffersonian continued much as they always did. Fresh dead; long-time dead. The unsung heroes at the end of the day, at the end of a life.
Sweets & Daisy of course eventually married. An impromptu flashmob broke out at the reception, much to Bones' confusion & Booth's dismay. Vincent Nigel-Murray surprised everyone by joining in.
And as for Brennan?
Well.
She got a little bit better at saying hello & never truly saying goodbye.
(It hurt less that way)
---
---
OH MY GOD, IT'S DONE. Thanks for partipating; drinks are on your left.