Work Text:
She doesn’t recall when it stopped happening. The fact that it had escaped her wasn’t all that surprising - she’d never really conformed to everyday social parameters; breezy gossip and similar unconstrained conversation were, at best, inconsequential - and at worst, downright mystifying. What bothered her was that she had eventually noticed it, or had noticed it missing, so to speak. That was…unlike her. There was simply no explanation for the fact that out of all the topics of discussion she was included in and surrounded by, that particular comment - once commonplace - was one she’d apparently been paying close attention to at a subconscious level.
She hadn’t heard it in months, either when with Booth or on her own. It was trivial, really, but it was concerning her. She’d found herself expecting it, hovering at the end of interactions to see if someone would venture a sly comment or a bawdy insinuation. It never came - not anymore. The straw that broke the camel’s back had occurred mere hours ago, when Angela had joined them at the diner just as Booth was in the process of force-feeding her a spoonful of gelato (she’ll reluctantly admit that the outcome was enjoyable). As her partner had reached over and swiped his thumb over the corner of her lip, catching an errant drop of chocolate and making her grin in the process, her friend had simply grabbed the menu and enquired as to which flavor he recommended.
No innuendoes, no waggling eyebrows, no playful jabs.
The lack of reaction had been anxiety-inducing, and she’d been mulling over it all afternoon, eschewing her usual tasks due to the paralysis of analysis. She derived a great deal of pleasure from her partnership with Booth; they were so synchronized at times that it seemed inevitable for questions pertaining to the nature of their relationship to arise. Coupled with the fact that they were both attractive - with symmetrical facial structures and athletic builds that one could safely assume would aid in stimulating highly satisfying mutual pleasure (not that she had given this more than a glancing thought) - it did, understandably, make sense that their commitment to remaining strictly platonic would be doubted.
And now - inexplicably - that was no longer occurring.
She’d debated whether she should bring it to Booth’s attention for an inordinate amount of time; on the one hand, other than Angela, he was the person she most frequently turned to when she needed assistance deciphering shifts in social discourse - but on the other, this particular mystery pertained to something that was between him and her, and the metaphorical line had suddenly loomed in her mind, exerting a lasso-like grip that made her insides flutter.
As the hours between lunch and the end of the working day had ticked by, the line’s grip had become as tenuous as her self-restraint, and by seven o’clock, she’d called him to suggest mid-case drinks.
Now, courage bolstered by his solid presence next to her, she takes a pull of her beer and asks her (carefully composed) question.
'Have you noticed something different when we’re talking to our colleagues as of late?’
His eyebrows raise to his hairline, expressive eyes narrowing in confusion. One long finger taps an unsteady rhythm on the neck of his own drink. She can’t tear her gaze away from it, watching the condensation get wiped away by the pad of his thumb. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When was the last time that we were mistaken for a couple?’
Blinking, he shrugs somewhat nonchalantly, but Brennan sees his Adam’s apple bob. ‘I dunno, Bones. I don’t keep track of these things.’
A deep, uncomfortable knot starts to build in her stomach. She’d not considered the possibility that her partner hadn’t made the same observation she had; if it seemed outrageously obvious to her, how could he - who could read people so well and was able to weave in and out of every social situation with an innate ease that filled her with inexplicable warmth - have missed it?
‘What’s wrong?’ Even now, he’s looking at her in that particularly intense way of his, the one that signifies he’s realized she’s upset before her own brain has clued her into the fact.
Frustratingly, she finds herself flushing. ‘I just…’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t had anyone approach me and insinuate that we’re a couple in quite some time.’ She releases a breath. Inhales sharply. Gathers her thoughts. Spits them out - facts, facts, facts. 'There doesn’t seem to be a rational explanation for the shift in frequency or complete extinction of a topic that both strangers and our colleagues - and friends, may I remind you - have spent years speculating on.’ Looking down at the beer cradled in her hands, her shoulders tense as she deliberates how to express her feelings. It takes her brain only a fraction of a second to determine a much less risky tactic to progress the conversation; an attack. ‘How have you not picked up on that, Booth?’
As soon as the words are out of her mouth she realizes her brain has worked too fast this time; she’s scared to hear his answer, to meet his eyes. Nevertheless, she feels his gaze boring a hole in her cheek, permeating every cell in her body, making the blood hum in her circulatory system. There have always been numerous metaphors for how her partner makes her feel.
His hand encircles her wrist, encouraging her to place her beer on the bar. She’s immediately aware of how delicate her hand looks next to his; gossamer against tan. It’s pleasing, the contrast - too pleasing - and she feels her pulse quicken. Had his hands always been this large? The carpals, metacarpals and phalanges woven together to create a structure that seemed to mold to her skin as if touching her were its primary purpose?
‘What’s really bugging you about this?’ he teases softly. As if - once again - he knows something she does not.
Swiveling in her stool to face him, she determines there’s no point in beating around the tree.
‘I find myself feeling irrationally unhappy about it.’
‘Why?’ A thumb strokes over the inside of her wrist.
She closes her eyes, embracing cowardice as the metaphorical knot in her stomach continues its expansion. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well hell, Bones,’ he sighs. ‘Maybe we’re just old news.’
She feels her jaw jut out just so. 'I find that unacceptable, considering we weren’t even ‘news’ to begin with.’
He laughs out loud this time, an endearing chortle that automatically makes her own lips quirk up, acknowledging the ridiculousness of her stubborn statement. ‘So let me get this straight. You suddenly want people to think we’re together?’
‘It’s not that,’ she feels herself scrabbling at straws, trying to clarify why this has left her feeling bereft, with that knot in her stomach that’s threatening to engulf her. 'It’s the shift in behavior that I find so uncomfortable.’
‘I thought you hated being mistaken for a couple!’
‘You’re deliberately missing the point, Booth! I can’t fathom why you’re so calm about this!’
He looks at her incredulously. ‘Ca-calm about this?’ I don’t get why this is an issue to feel any sort of way about!’
‘I dislike the idea that something has changed and that we’re the only ones that can’t see it, or that their perception of us has changed due to…a shift in our behavior that we’re not aware of,’ she huffs, and they’re silent for a while. When she finally gives in and looks at him, he’s pensive, brows knit together in concentration, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. She places her free hand on his, mimicking his own touch, her fingers smoothing over the dark ink of 'soul’. He lets go of her wrist and twines his fingers with hers.
‘I don’t think it’s that.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘No, Bones,’ he puts down his beer, reaching for her elbow to shift her so that they’re facing each other. ‘I don’t think that that’s why you’re upset about it.’
‘Now you’re not making any sense. I’m telling you that’s why I’m upset,’ she tries.
‘You think they’re giving up on us.’
Stunned, she opens her mouth to retaliate. Nothing comes out, other than… ‘Giving up on us what?’
‘Getting together.’
His eyes flicker with something, and she recoils as if she’s been slapped.
Oh.
The knot in her stomach twists, a flash of urgent anxiety. And suddenly she realizes the restlessness she’s been feeling is more than just impatience at the sudden absence of speculation about her and Booth’s relationship.
It’s also a completely bewildering dread at the idea that she’s - they’ve - run out of time.
Oh.
Suddenly, the coziness of the dinner feels stifling, the clinking of glasses and thrum of voices drumming unpleasantly into her chest in such a manner that makes her want to unbutton her blouse and claw at her throat. She wrenches her hand away from his and all but topples off the stool, grabbing her bag and throwing a fistful of notes down on the counter and hurtling out of the door before she can register her partner’s protests. Outside, the February air does nothing to sooth the flush of her skin, the growing ache in her chest. Tears prick at her eyes, because she hadn’t willed it into existence - this complex unfurling and outpour of raw happiness and joy and love she felt toward the man she’d been working with for all of five years. It had been tampered down, secured in place by the fucking line but simultaneously fed by give it time, Bones and everything happens eventually. She wonders which one of those almosts - the ones that had been on a steady incline as of late - had been one missed opportunity too many. Had triggered her friends and mere strangers to come to conclusion that it was never going to happen.
She cannot even pinpoint when she had begun waiting for it to happen.
‘Hey..hey!’ He’s at her back all of a sudden - of course he is - so close she can feel the heat of his chest as he comes to stand behind her. She whisks around to tell him to leave her be, even though she’s not sure that’s what she really wants; she’s too overwhelmed with realizations, too embarrassed at how a trivial, gossip-fuelled conversation topic has caused her to get irrationally torn up over something that feels completely out of her control - but as she turns to him, his hands come up around the back of her shoulders. Succumbing to something bigger than him or her, she slips into his arms, burying her head in the crook of his neck, hiding from him while simultaneously burrowing ever closer.
They stand like this for an inordinate amount of time; he’s swaying them slightly, shifting metronomically from one foot to another in the cold. Her arms had instinctively slipped under his jacket and encircled his waist, fingers seeking the warmth of his back, playing with the hem of his shirt. After a while, she feels a hand wind itself into her hair, cupping her head, protective but insistent in guiding her face to meet his.
‘Just - rewind this conversation a second, Bones, okay? I think…,’ he begins gently, the beginnings of a smile playing across his lips, ‘..I think that you’re worried about something that you really don’t need to worry about.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because people no longer talking about us doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It’s quite unsettling.’
‘Because?’ he presses.
‘It has led me to feel somewhat like we’ve…’
‘Missed our moment?’
Overcome by a wave of inexplicable reassurance - he gets it, and that’s all that matters - she brings her hands up to clasp around his neck, needing him closer - as close as she can get him.
‘We haven’t missed our moment, Temperance.’
‘How do you know?’ She searches his face for some semblance of sadness or confusion. Instead, ink-black eyes, dark with something that makes a wicked heat pool low in her belly, automatically flit to her lips before meeting her gaze again. She shivers, her nose brushing against his. 'Is our moment now?’
‘Now?’ he laughs, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. ‘Maybe,’ Another kiss, at the corner of her mouth, ‘it’s whenever we want it to be.’
‘So, what now?’ she whispers.
‘I want to kiss you. Badly.’
‘I want to kiss you every day,’ she admits. ‘Can we start there?’
‘Kissing every day? Yeah,’ he smiles against her lips. ‘Yeah. I can work with that.’