Chapter Text
Dr. Temperance Brennan prided herself on being rational, independent, and more than capable of navigating the world on her own two feet. The fact that both of her feet were oddly sinister is irrelevant.
So when Seeley Booth—former sniper, current FBI pain-in-the-gluteus maximus—scooped her up bridal-style after a minor field mishap, it triggered something deep and primal in her cerebral cortex. Something akin to: Abort mission. Loss of autonomy imminent.
"Booth!" Brennan screeched, flailing ineffectually as he carried her across the uneven terrain of the excavation site. Her boots, one of which dangled at a crooked angle thanks to her compromised ankle, kicked helplessly at the air. "What are you doing?!"
"Carrying you, obviously. Stop screeching, my damn ears hurt," he replied, calm as anything, like she hadn’t just turned into a flailing, high-IQ wind turbine in his arms. His biceps flexed slightly as he adjusted his grip beneath her knees, ignoring the way she half-squirmed, half-dug her fingers into his jacket. "You twisted your ankle. It’s what partners do."
"No, it’s not!" she yelped, fists now clenched at the lapels of his coat. "What partners do is support each other’s professional growth, not treat one another like damsels in distress!"
He grinned, flashing that infuriatingly charming dimple. "A very well-educated damsel, who is in fact in distress. Your ankle is twice the size it should be, Bones."
"This is completely irrational! You’re altering my biomechanical posture! My spine is compressed at an unnatural angle!" Her hands, traitorous as they were, tightened around his shoulders each time he shifted her weight slightly, muscles in his forearms taut with the effort of maintaining balance on the sloping terrain.
"Well, I was going for heroic and manly, but thanks for the science lesson."
Booth adjusted her again as she tried to scoot away from him midair—an escape attempt that lasted all of half a second before she squeaked and latched onto his lapel like a koala.
"I do not screech," she hissed under her breath, glaring up at him.
"You literally just did."
"It was a startled exhalation due to gravitational instability!"
"Mmhmm. Gravitational instability. Sometimes you squints talk shop just to piss me off."
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They’d been conducting a routine survey of a Civil War-era battlefield-turned-suburban construction site. Dust clung to everything—boots, knees, clipboards. The weak winter sun struggled through a hazy curtain of cloud, casting long shadows across the uneven ground where fractured roots jutted up like arthritic fingers clawing toward the sky. Brennan, completely engrossed in the stratified layers of disturbed soil, had barely registered her surroundings beyond the sediment composition.
“Betula uber?” she muttered, brushing her fingers over the gnarled bark of a fallen sapling. “The common consensus is that this species is only native to Smyth County. We are approximately 200 miles east, making this a rather interesting find. Hodgins will be quite excited.”
“Great,” Booth grumbled, crouching beside her. “Now bug boy’s gonna be even more of a maniac than usual. Can we just not tell him? Can’t hurt, right?”
He was already in a foul mood. A rookie at Quantico had swiped his orthopedic chair—his chair—and returned it missing a wheel, resulting in a spectacular mid-coffee spill and some muttered swearing that even made Charlie look up. His lower back throbbed. Hacker was crabby because some doctor wouldn’t comp his new chair requisition, which meant Booth was also stuck with coffee that tasted like regret and a headache from expired children’s Advil he’d pinched from Parker’s nightstand.
“Booth, the chain of evidence is extremely important. The species of this tree could be vital to ascertaining where the killer had been prior to the murder. Pollen found in their treads could lead us to the exact—”
And then she faceplanted.
Hard.
“BONES!!!”
To her credit, she didn’t cry out. She sat up stiffly, brushing her gloved hands down the front of her coat, and declared with her usual infuriating precision, “My ankle is... compromised.”
Booth had rushed to her side, crouched low beside her like a coiled spring, and before she could begin the inevitable monologue about capillary damage and soft tissue bruising, he’d done it—swept her up with one powerful movement, like a firefighter in a romantic comedy with better abs. One of the techs snapped a picture.
Knowing Booth’s luck, that photo would be tacked to Cullen’s office bulletin board before the end of the week with a caption like “Dr. Brennan, Queen of the Digs.”
"This is undignified," Brennan grumbled now, her arms locked around his shoulders tighter than she’d like to admit, cheek brushing uncomfortably close to his collarbone.
"You’re just mad because I’m taller than you right now."
“Your center of gravity being higher than mine is irrelevant. I’m ‘mad’ because you have hijacked my locomotion by forcibly moving me into a supine position without cause or forewarning."
“That sounds like something I’d be charged with on Star Trek,” he said cheerfully. “Felony kidnapping. Hijacking of locomotion. Five years in Federation jail.”
She exhaled sharply. Not quite a laugh. But not not one either. “I don’t know what that means.”
As they trudged across the excavation site—Booth’s boots crunching across old gravel and half-rotted wood, Brennan’s good foot bouncing slightly with each step—they passed a group of interns loitering near the FBI van. The cold air made their breaths puff like dragons as they stopped mid-conversation to gape.
Booth waved at them like a prom king in a victory lap. “Nothing to see here. Just helping the doc avoid dirt-based re-injury.”
Brennan tried not to think about how he was carrying her so effortlessly, arms snug around her waist and knees, spine perfectly aligned despite the uneven footing. She had, of course, admired his musculature before—objectively, clinically. But this? This was interactive data.
“I am perfectly capable of walking on my own!”
“Then why are you still in my arms?”
Her eyes narrowed to furious slits. “Because you’ve got unnaturally strong deltoids and a reckless disregard for consent in biomechanical relocation.”
Booth nearly tripped from laughing. He staggered briefly, then righted them both, still chuckling. “You make kidnapping sound so academic.”
“Because it is academic! This is against all principles of Newtonian physics. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, Booth.”
“Yeah, and you being cute and mad about it is my reaction.”
She blinked. He blinked.
"...Forget I said that," he added, clearing his throat.
"Done," she said quickly, looking away—though she couldn’t explain why her face suddenly felt hot in the chill air.
When they finally reached the Jeffersonian’s garage entrance, Booth carried her straight past Hodgins, who leaned dramatically against the doorframe holding a foam crown.
“Princess delivery incoming!”
Booth kicked the door open and muttered something about bug boys and budgets. Brennan just groaned, cheeks still burning. The metallic scent of the lab welcomed them, cool and sterile, as Booth gently lowered her onto the edge of a stainless steel table with exaggerated care.She crossed her arms tightly, trying to reassemble her dignity.
“You will never do that again.”
“Sure,” he said. “Unless you trip again. Or fall into a ditch. Or get shot. Or slightly scuff your toe on a rogue pebble.”
“Booth.”
“Bones.”
They stared at each other in a standoff worthy of the OK Corral. Ten seconds in, she broke. Grumbling under her breath, she slid off the table and limped toward her office like a war-worn juggernaut, muttering something about egregious abuse of male upper body strength.
“Fine,” she tossed back. “But next time, at least give me time to adjust my center of gravity.”
Booth raised a hand in salute, lips twitching. “I’ll send you a memo before the next rescue mission.”
Ridiculous. Unscientific. Infuriating.
But maybe—just maybe—a tiny part of her didn’t mind being carried after all.
Not that she'd ever admit it.