Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The social worker dropped him off in front of a low-slung beige house with peeling white trim and the smell of old fryer grease clinging to the screen door.

It was his third state this year.

His seventh home.
Eighth, if you counted the emergency shelter in Nebraska.

They called him Matthew Craig now, and the sooner he stopped correcting people, the fewer bruises he’d end up with.
But even if the name sat on his tongue like ash, he kept his back straight.

Inside the house, the foster mother didn’t speak much—just pointed up the stairs and barked something about chores. The man—Rick, he’d been told—looked at him with the kind of slow, calculating grin that made Gil’s stomach knot. He nodded once, gave no smile, and climbed the stairs.

The girl was already in the room.
Thin. Too thin. 16 years young according to the forster Mother. Just like him.
Sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, knees drawn up to her chest, a paperback clutched in both hands like it might vanish if she let go. Her dark hair was unevenly cut—like she’d done it herself with dull scissors—and her eyes flicked up at him, hard and assessing.

Gil closed the door softly behind him. "You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to." He said, voice soft but steady, with just the faintest trace of his Highland lilt.

The girl blinked once. "I wasn’t planning on it."
He smiled—just barely.
He liked her already.
He dropped his bag on the floor, claiming the top bunk without a word.

After a moment, he added, "I’m Gil. Or—I mean. I’m supposed to be Gil. They call me Matt now."
"You don’t look like a Matt."
"You don’t look like a—" he paused, realizing she hadn’t given her name.

"Temperance." Her voice was flat, practiced. "Temperance Brennan."

He held out a hand like they were business partners. She hesitated, then took it. Her fingers were colder than his.

That night, he heard her crying.
It was barely audible, muffled by the thin mattress and the blanket she’d pulled over her head. But he heard it all the same.
He stayed still for a long time, unsure what the rules were here. Some homes, comforting meant trouble. In others, staying quiet meant more trouble.

Finally, he whispered, "Are you okay?"
"Yes." Immediate. Defensive.
"I used to say yes, too."
Silence.

Then, slowly: "He hit me. Last night. For reading after lights out."
Gil’s throat closed. "Did he touch you anywhere he shouldn’t have?"
"No," she said.
Then, smaller, "Not yet."

He climbed down the ladder as quietly as he could and sat cross-legged on the floor near her bed.
She peeked out from beneath the blanket.
"Listen, Temperance Brennan," he said, eyes serious, "I don’t know how long we’ll be here. But while we are, no one touches you. Not without going through me."

"You’re just a kid," she said.
"Yeah, well," he said, voice dry, "I’m a big kid."
She looked at him—really looked at him—and something like trust flickered in her eyes.
"You talk funny," she murmured.
"I’m Scottish. Or I was, before they decided I wasn’t."
"I believe you."

That was the first time someone had said that since his parents died. His breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.
"Thanks," he said, finally.

She scooted over a few inches, a tiny movement that left enough space for him to lean against the bed frame beside her.
They didn’t talk again that night. But she didn’t cry anymore either.

Later that week Rick raised his hand at dinner. Gil saw it coming, saw the way he moved behind her as she spilled a bit of milk, saw the tension coil in the man’s wrist.
Gil didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in, took the slap himself.
Didn’t flinch.
Rick snarled something and stormed out.
Temperance didn’t thank him.
Not with words.
But that night, when he climbed into the top bunk, he found a note tucked under his pillow. It was scrawled in uneven handwriting:

“You don’t look like a Matt. You look like a Gil. I believe you. – T”

He pressed the note to his chest.
Let himself cry, just once, where no one could see.

Chapter Text

It was the noise that got to her most.

The Jensens liked to drink and shout. Not at her, not always — sometimes at each other, sometimes at the television, sometimes at nothing at all. But the sound carried through thin walls and thinner patience, and Temperance hated how her pulse jumped every time a bottle shattered or a door slammed.

At fifteen, she knew she shouldn’t flinch. She knew fear made you a target. But knowledge didn’t always stop reflex.

That was why Gil had started the ritual.

Every night, when the house was winding down into drunken chaos, he’d knock twice on the wood of their bunk beds.
Not loud enough to get noticed, just a soft tap-tap.

And she’d knock back.

Tap-tap.

It meant: You awake? I’m here.

It meant: I hear you. I’ll make sure you’re safe.

Tonight, though, the yelling downstairs was louder than usual. She couldn’t concentrate on her book. The words blurred together. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying not to tremble, when there it was — tap-tap .

She knocked back automatically.

A minute later, the latter groaned.

Gil climbed up, tall enough to fill out the entire bed frame, shoulders slightly hunched to make himself smaller.
He had to, being 6 feet at almost 16.
His expression was calm, even faintly amused, as though making noise past curfew wasn’t a risk at all.

“They’re loud tonight,” he said softly, laying down beside her.

She nodded, fingers clenched in her blanket.

He sat on the foot of her bed crosscross aplesauce, leaning his back against the wall. “You want me to tell you about the constellations again?”

She blinked. “Through the ceiling?”

“Through memory.” His lips twitched. “Use your imagination, Tempe.”

Against herself, she smiled a little.

So he started talking — about Orion, about Cassiopeia, about how the Greeks had turned fear into stories that people still whispered thousands of years later. His voice was steady, low, grounding.

After a while, she unclenched her fists.

“Do you really believe those myths?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “But I believe in the people who made them. They were scared too. They wanted to see patterns in the dark.”

She thought about that. About patterns. About how two soft knocks on a wall could be more reassuring than any myth.

“You do that for me,” she whispered.

Gil looked over, surprised. Then his expression softened, gentler than she’d ever seen it.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the idea.”

They stayed like that for a long time, until the yelling downstairs turned into silence, until her eyes grew heavy.

When she finally drifted toward sleep, she felt the mattress shift just slightly — a hand brushing over the blanket at her shoulder. Not invasive. Just steady.

A promise in the quiet hours.

Chapter Text

Temperance Brennan was not used to being wrong.

At fifteen, she already knew more than most of her teachers. Facts lived inside her like oxygen: dates, species names, the way a femur could tell you a person’s whole history. She carried knowledge like a shield.

But shields didn’t stop fists.

Mr. Jansen had rules.
Arbitrary ones.
Dinner dishes had to be washed within thirty minutes.
Shoes lined up at exact angles.
Voices lowered after 8:00 p.m.
Temperance didn’t mind structure — she liked order — but she hated the why behind it. Because “he said so.” Because “that’s how it’s done.”

So when she corrected him about the chemical makeup of bleach while scrubbing the counters, it wasn’t rebellion. It was fact.

And fact was supposed to matter. To adults. To her. To Everyone.

The slap caught her off guard. Sharp. Quick. A warning more than a punishment. But it still stung.

By the time she stumbled into their shared bedroom, Gil was already there, eyes dark. He didn’t need details — he could see them written in the angle of her jaw, the set of her shoulders.

“What happened?” he asked evenly.

“I was right,” she said.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I was right, Gil.” Her voice sharpened. “He said bleach had ammonia in it. I corrected him. It doesn’t. Mixing them makes toxic gas. That’s dangerous.”

Chapter Text

Gil had a talent for disappearing.

Not in the dramatic sense — not vanishing in front of your eyes — but in the way he could move through a house like a ghost. Barefoot, breathing light, never touching the floorboards that creaked.

So when he appeared in Temperance’s doorway one Saturday morning with a finger to his lips and a grin tugging at his mouth, she didn’t even ask. She just put her book down and slipped on her sneakers.

They didn’t leave through the front door. They never did. Instead, Gil lifted the rickety window in the laundry room, and Temperance followed him out into the overgrown backyard.
By the time Mr. Jansen stirred awake, they’d already made it three blocks.

“Where are we going?” she whispered, though her pulse thrummed with the excitement of not-knowing.
“You’ll see,” Gil said.

The library wasn’t much — two floors, old carpet that smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner — but to Temperance, it might as well have been a palace.
Gil flashed her a conspiratorial look as they stepped inside, as if they were crossing into sacred ground.
“You’ve got two hours,” he said. “Use them wisely.”
She did.

She darted through the shelves, pulling down books on archaeology, anatomy, ancient languages.
The stack grew taller and taller on the table in front of her.
Gil returned with a pile of his own: philosophy, mythology, aincent Languages.

For once, no one was shouting. No one was watching. The only sound was the turning of pages.

After about an hour, Gil leaned over, tapped her wrist. “Tempe.”
She looked up, annoyed at the interruption.
He pointed to her stack. “You can’t read six at once.”
“I can try.”
“Mm.” His mouth twitched. “Or you can let me show you something better.”

She narrowed her eyes, but curiosity won. “Fine.”
He led her to the children’s section. She almost protested — she was too old for this, too serious — but he crouched in front of a shelf and pulled out a thin picture book with a dog on the cover.
“Larry,” he said, tapping it. “This one’s my favorite.”
Temperance crossed her arms. “That’s not educational.”
“It is,” he argued. “Educational in happiness.”

She rolled her eyes but sat beside him on the carpet.
He read aloud, voice animated, giving each character a distinct accent.
By the time Larry the dog had rescued his ball from the neighbor’s garden, Temperance was laughing and leaning onto Gil's broad shoulder slightly.
Actually laughing.
The sound startled her.
It startled him too, judging by the softness that settled in his expression.
“Told you,” he said gently.

On the walk back, they shared a bag of cheap pretzels Gil had bought with the crumpled dollar bills he always seemed to find. The salt clung to their fingers, the sun warm on their backs.

“Do you think,” Temperance asked suddenly, “that this will last?”
Gil slowed his steps, considering.
“No,” he said honestly. “But that’s the point.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“These hours,” he explained, “they’re borrowed. They’re not forever. But that makes them matter more. Because they’re ours.”

Temperance mulled that over as she licked salt from her thumb.
“Then we’ll keep borrowing,” she decided firmly.
He smiled. “Exactly.”

When they climbed back through the laundry window, no one had noticed they were gone.
Dinner was late, tempers high, voices sharp again.
But Temperance didn’t flinch as much this time. She had something to hold onto.
Borrowed hours. Borrowed joy.
And the certainty that Gil would always find a way to make more.

Chapter Text

Gil didn’t expect anything on his birthday.
He never did.
Birthdays had stopped being “special” the year his parents died, since they passed in that Car Crash. The reason Gil flat out refuses to step into Cars.

After that, they became just another day to survive. In foster care, it was safer not to mention them at all. You couldn’t be disappointed if no one remembered.

But Temperance remembered.

She remembered everything.

So when Gil slipped into their room after dinner, shoulders tight from a long day of walking on eggshells around the Jensens, he stopped short.

Because there on his bed was a paper plate. On the paper plate was a grocery-store cupcake, vanilla with blue frosting, slightly smushed from being smuggled home in her backpack. And stuck in the middle of it was a single match, like a makeshift candle.

Temperance sat cross-legged on her bed, arms crossed, trying to look nonchalant. But the faint pink at her ears gave her away.
“Happy birthday,” she said flatly.
Gil blinked. “You—how did you—?”
“You told me once. Last year. I remembered.” She frowned, as if daring him to argue. “And I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I traded.”
His brows lifted. “Traded?”
She nodded. “Homework answers. Algebra.”

Gil laughed, low and surprised. “Tempe—”
“Don’t ruin it,” she cut in.
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He sat on the bed, picked up the plate. The cupcake looked ridiculous, frosting leaning to one side, match wobbly in the center. But to him, it was the most perfect thing in the world.
“You going to light it?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “You trying to burn the house down?”
Her lips twitched. “Maybe.”

He grinned, struck the match, and for three seconds, the tiny flame flickered against the dimness of their shared room.
“Make a wish,” she said softly.

Gil closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he blew out the flame.
Temperance leaned forward, sharp-eyed. “What’d you wish for?”

“You know I can’t tell you,” he teased.
“That’s statistically improbable,” she muttered. “Wishes don’t alter outcomes.”
He smiled, frosting already on his thumb as he broke the cupcake in half and handed her the bigger piece. “Maybe. But sometimes hope does.”

She accepted the cupcake but didn’t eat right away.
Instead, she studied him in the half-light, as if she could read the wish on his face.

Finally, she said, “Seventeen’s old.”
“Thanks,” he deadpanned.
“I mean it,” she pressed. “You’re... you’re closer to being out.”
He sobered. “Yeah.”
“That doesn’t mean leaving me behind,” she added fiercely.

His chest tightened. He reached across the narrow space between their beds, tapped her knuckles with his.
“Never, I'd never leave you behind.” he promised. “Where I go, you go. Got it?”
She nodded once, sharp. “Good. Got it.”

And for the first time in years, his birthday didn’t feel like something to endure.
It felt like something to remember.

Chapter Text

It started because Temperance didn’t understand basketball.

Not the rules — she could recite those after skimming a library book for half an hour. Not the statistics, either — she’d rattled off scoring averages to a stunned PE teacher once.
No, what she didn’t understand was why people liked it.

“They’re just bouncing a ball,” she told Gil one afternoon, sitting cross-legged in the cafeteria with her nose in a borrowed anatomy text. “And then putting it through a hoop. That can’t possibly be entertaining.”

Gil, stretching his long legs under the table, gave her a look halfway between exasperation and affection. “That’s like saying bones are just calcium.”
“They are.”

“Yeah, but they’re also structure. Strength. Story. Basketball’s the same. It’s not just the ball or the hoop. It’s the rhythm. The movement. The teamwork.”

She blinked at him. “That makes no sense.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll show you."

That was how Temperance Brennan found herself sneaking into the school gym at ten o’clock at night, following a six-foot-six seventeen-year-old built like a wardrobe with shoulders broad enough to block the door.

Gil moved with practiced ease, checking corners like a soldier. “Janitor left half an hour ago. We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“Breaking and entering is illegal,” she pointed out, hugging her jacket closer.

“It’s not breaking if the window was already unlocked.”
She frowned. “That’s a logical fallacy.”
“Noted,” he said cheerfully, pushing the gym door open. “Come on.”

The gym was cavernous and echoing, lit only by the dim glow of emergency exit signs. Gil produced a scuffed basketball from his backpack like a magician revealing a rabbit.

“You stole that.”

“I borrowed it from lost-and-found. Which, by the way, is basically a graveyard for abandoned sports gear.”
He spun the ball lazily on one finger, smirking at her expression. “So. You ready to learn the sacred art of fun?”

“I don’t see how this qualifies as sacred."

“You will.”

The first ten minutes were a disaster.
Temperance caught the ball like it was radioactive, hands stiff, body braced. When Gil told her to dribble, she slammed it into the floor so hard it bounced over her head and rolled halfway across the court.

“You’re supposed to control it,” he called, jogging after it.

“I was controlling it.”

“Tempe, you launched it into orbit.”

Her glare could’ve stripped paint.
He softened immediately. “Okay, okay. My fault. Start small. Just bounce, catch, bounce, catch.”

She tried. Once. Twice. The third time, the ball veered sideways and thudded into the bleachers.
Temperance threw up her hands. “This is inefficient.”
Gil laughed so loudly it echoed. “That’s the point! It’s not about efficiency. It’s about play.”
She stared at him like he’d grown another head.

Eventually, after much cajoling, she managed three consecutive dribbles without losing the ball. Gil clapped like she’d won the championship.

“See? You’re a natural.”

“I’m objectively not.”

“You’re objectively trying. That counts.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched upward. Just a little.

When he showed her how to shoot, it went about as well as expected. Her first attempt smacked the backboard with a hollow clang. Her second didn’t reach the rim. Her third hit Gil in the shoulder.

“Statistically improbable,” she muttered, cheeks flushed.
“Statistically hilarious,” he countered, tossing the ball back.

By the tenth shot, though, she made it. A clean swish.
Her eyes went wide. “I did it.”

Gil grinned so hard it hurt. “Told you.”
For the first time all night, she smiled outright — sharp, bright, unguarded.

It hit him like sunlight.

They played until her arms ached and his laugh was hoarse.
When she finally dropped onto the bleachers, breathing hard, Gil plopped down beside her. Their shoulders brushed.

“See?” he said softly. “Fun.”

She stared at the court, expression thoughtful. “It was… tolerable.”
“Tempe.”

Her mouth twitched again. “Fine. Fun.”
They sat in companionable silence, the empty gym echoing with the ghost of their laughter.

After a while, she asked, “Why do you care so much about me experiencing this?”
Gil glanced at her, serious now. “Because you deserve more than survival. You deserve… this. Stupid games. Bad shots. Laughing until your ribs hurt.”
Her throat tightened.
She looked away quickly.

“Someday,” he continued, “you’ll be so busy saving the world with all that brilliance, you won’t have time for stuff like this. So I’m making sure you get it now.”

She swallowed hard. “That’s illogical.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”
And for once, she didn’t argue.

When they slipped back through the window half an hour later, Temperance carried the ball under one arm like contraband.
“You’re keeping it?” Gil asked, surprised.
She nodded. “For practice.”
He smiled. “Atta girl.”

And though the world outside was still sharp and unforgiving, in that moment, inside that quiet, borrowed bubble of joy, Temperance Brennan felt — fleetingly, impossibly — like how a teenager was supposed to feel like, or at least how she guessed they feel.

Chapter Text

It was Temperance who found it.
She had been walking back from the library alone, her bookbag heavier than her shoulders liked, when she spotted the body on the edge of the road — a raccoon, stiff and curled, fur still glossy but eyes clouded. Most kids would have turned away. Temperance crouched.

Cause of death? she wondered. Trauma? Disease?
She didn’t have the tools, but she had the curiosity.
By the time she reached the foster house, she was buzzing. Gil was in their shared room, sketching something in a battered notebook. She didn’t knock.

“I found a raccoon,” she blurted.
He looked up, blinking. “Alive?”
“Dead.”
Most people would’ve flinched. Gil just tilted his head. “And?”
“We could examine it.” Her voice sharpened with eagerness. “Its skeletal structure, maybe tissue samples. If it’s fresh enough, we can still observe the organs—”
He smiled faintly. “Of course you want to dissect a raccoon.”
Her stomach twisted. “You think it’s strange.”
“No,” he said quickly. “I think it’s very you. Show me.”
And just like that, she wasn’t alone.

They waited until the Jensens were out — gone to buy groceries and beer.
In the quiet window of freedom, Gil and Temperance snuck to the shed behind the house. The raccoon lay wrapped in a garbage bag she’d retrieved earlier.
Gil winced at the smell. “Well, that’s unpleasant.”
“You get used to it,” Temperance said, nose wrinkling but voice steady.
He raised a brow. “Planning on making a career of this?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.
He chuckled. “Of course you are.”
They laid the animal on a bench, using old newspapers as a barrier. Temperance produced her “tools” — a paring knife from the kitchen, tweezers from her backpack, a magnifying glass, and latex gloves she’d swiped from the science lab.
“You’re terrifying,” Gil muttered, pulling on a glove.
“Efficient,” she corrected.
Before starting, she glanced at him. “You don’t have to help. I can do it alone.”
He shook his head. “You don’t do anything alone, Tempe. Not anymore.”
And that was final.

The first incision was clumsy — the knife not sharp enough, the fur resisting. Temperance frowned, adjusting her angle, explaining every move as if narrating for a classroom.
“See, the thoracic cavity should be here. If the ribs are intact, we’ll be able to—”
“Slow down,” Gil said, steadying her wrist. His touch was gentle but grounding. “No rush.”
She exhaled and nodded.
They worked together — awkward at first, then smoother, like two halves of a practiced team. Temperance’s hands precise, Gil’s steady. She identified structures with crisp accuracy; he asked questions, genuinely curious.
“That’s the liver.”
“Yes. It filters toxins. You can tell it’s healthy because…”
“And those are lungs.”
“Yes, but damaged. See the bruising? Likely blunt force trauma.”
They leaned close over the body, voices low, absorbed. For once, the world outside didn’t matter.
At one point, Temperance paused, frowning. “Most people wouldn’t do this with me.”
“Most people aren’t me,” Gil said simply.
She glanced at him, startled. He didn’t flinch from her gaze.
“You’re not strange, Tempe,” he added softly. “You’re brilliant. And if this is what makes you happy, I’ll be here with gloves on.”
Her chest ached, sharp and unfamiliar.

They cleaned up meticulously — newspaper burned in the fire pit, tools scrubbed, gloves buried. The raccoon’s remains were wrapped again, carried to the edge of the woods.
Gil dug the hole while Temperance watched, silent.
“You want to say something?” he asked once the earth was covered.
She hesitated. “It feels… disrespectful not to. But I don’t believe in rituals.”
“Then make one,” he said.
So she did — a factual, clinical, but oddly reverent list of what they’d learned: estimated age, cause of death, condition of the organs. Spoken aloud, it sounded almost like a eulogy.
Gil listened without interruption.
When she finished, he touched her shoulder. “Perfect.”
They walked back to the house in silence, the air cool against their sweat.
Inside their room, Temperance finally murmured, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not thinking I’m… wrong.”
He leaned back in his chair, tired but smiling. “Tempe, you’re the most right person I know.”
For the first time in years, she believed it.

Chapter Text

The meeting room smelled like burnt coffee and disappointment. Temperance Brennan sat stiff-backed in the hard plastic chair, hands folded on her lap like she was in court. Gil sat beside her, one long leg bouncing under the table, his fists curled tight.
Across from them, two caseworkers shuffled papers with the kind of careful detachment that said they didn’t want a fight.

“Matthew” the older one said, using his new name they had given him and insisted on using, “you’re seventeen now. Close to aging out. It makes more sense to place you with families prepared for older youth. Temperance, on the other hand—”

“No,” Gil cut in, voice low but sharp.

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he repeated. “You don’t get to separate us.”

Temperance’s pulse spiked. She leaned forward. “Statistically, bonded pairs separated in unfamiliar environments exhibit elevated cortisol levels and a marked decline in resilience.”

The younger caseworker frowned. “That’s not—”

“It’s true,” she pressed, words spilling faster. “Look at Harlow’s rhesus monkey studies. Infant monkeys isolated from bonded companions demonstrated significant psychological distress, often self-harming behaviors.”

Gil picked up smoothly, his accent sharpening as it always did when he was angry. “And let’s not forget wolf packs. Separate a bonded wolf pair and you don’t just get sad wolves, you destabilize the whole group structure. That’s us. We’re a unit.”

The caseworkers exchanged glances — that familiar look adults always wore around them, halfway between pity and annoyance.

“Temperance,” the older one tried gently. “It’s not the same—”

“It is the same,” Temperance snapped, louder than she meant to. “We’ve been through six homes. Six. Every single one we’ve survived because we had each other. You take that away, and you’re not just moving kids around on a chart. You’re destroying the only protective factor we have left.”

Her chest heaved. She didn’t usually raise her voice, but panic sharpened every word.
Gil reached under the table, squeezing her hand once.

“Listen,” he said, calm again but firm. “She’s right. I’ve protected her since the day we met. You separate us, you’re not just cruel — you’re negligent. And we’ll fight you every step of the way.”

The younger caseworker muttered, “They always do this.”

The older sighed, rubbing her temple.

Once Temperance realized the floodgates were open, she couldn’t stop.
“Separating bonded primates results in decreased life expectancy. Separating mated bird pairs causes failure to thrive. Even domestic dogs —”
“— develop separation anxiety,” Gil finished, smirking faintly. “Chew up shoes, destroy furniture. You want us chewing the drywall at our new placements?”

The younger worker gave him a flat look. “That’s not funny.”
“Neither’s this situation.”

Temperance leaned forward, eyes bright and fierce. “Even plants grow better in groups. Have you studied the nurse log phenomenon? In the Pacific Northwest, fallen trees act as nurturing grounds for seedlings. Isolated seedlings rarely survive. Together, they thrive. That’s us. He’s my nurse log.”

Gil choked. “Thanks, Tempe. Comparing me to rotting wood.”
Her lips twitched. “A particularly nutrient-rich log.”

The older caseworker pinched the bridge of her nose. “You two can’t keep—”
“We can,” Gil interrupted smoothly. “We can keep citing studies all day. Bees. Elephants. Dolphins. Separate bonded pairs, you shorten lifespans and increase stress behaviors. Do you want the paperwork when one of us snaps?”
Temperance nodded fervently. “Bonding isn’t optional. It’s survival.”

By now, the caseworkers looked exhausted. One scribbled notes furiously, probably to cover the fact that they were losing this argument to two traumatized, nerdy teenagers.

Finally, the older one muttered, “Fine. We’ll try to place you together. But if it doesn’t work—”

“It’ll work,” Gil said firmly.

“Together or not at all,” Temperance added, steel in her voice.

The placement wasn’t perfect. None of them were.

The Bennetts were middle-aged, tired-looking, and clearly not thrilled about taking in two. But the caseworkers, perhaps worn down by the science barrage, had insisted.

When Temperance and Gil arrived, the Bennetts showed them their rooms — across the hall, not side by side, but close enough.
Mrs. Bennett hesitated. “You two… are very close.”
Gil folded his arms. “We’re family.”
Temperance nodded. “Separating bonded pairs—”
“Tempe,” Gil cut in gently, “let’s give them a break.”
Her mouth clicked shut.

But later, when they unpacked in their respective rooms, she crept into his, clutching her backpack like armor.
“What if they decide it’s too much?” she whispered.
“Then we’ll fight again,” he said simply, dropping onto the sagging mattress. “You and me, Tempe. Indivisible.”

She crawled onto the bed beside him. They sat shoulder to shoulder, silent, until their breathing evened out.

It didn’t take long for the Bennetts to notice their rhythms.
Temperance would only eat if Gil was at the table. Gil wouldn’t sleep until he’d checked her room first. They studied together, moved like orbiting planets, their gravitational pull impossible to ignore.

One night, Mr. Bennett frowned. “Don’t you two think you’re… a little dependent?”
Temperance stiffened. “We’re bonded.”
Gil smirked. “Better than being detached.”
The Bennetts sighed, but didn’t push.

The first real test came when Mrs. Bennett suggested Temperance attend a girls’ youth group. Alone.
Gil opened his mouth, ready to argue. But Temperance surprised him. She straightened, lifted her chin, and said, “No, thank you. Gil and I function best together. Separating bonded pairs decreases adaptability.”
Mrs. Bennett blinked. “Bonded pairs?”
Temperance rattled off three animal studies in rapid succession.
Gil couldn’t help it — he laughed.
The Bennetts exchanged a look, somewhere between confusion and resignation.
They didn’t ask again.

Weeks later, Temperance sat at the kitchen table, nose buried in a biology textbook. Gil sprawled across from her, balancing a pencil on his upper lip.
“You know,” he said lazily, “we might’ve actually scared them into keeping us together.”
She glanced up. “Statistically, it was the only rational outcome.”
“Or maybe,” he said, smirking, “they just didn’t want to hear you compare me to rotting wood again.”
She flushed. “It was a valid metaphor.”
“It was adorable.”
Silence fell, but it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable, like the quiet that followed a storm.
For the first time in a long time, Temperance let herself believe they might actually be safe — not forever, but for now.

Gil caught her gaze, eyes warm. “Told you. Indivisible.”
She nodded.
And under the fluorescent kitchen light, with textbooks and bad coffee between them, they won their quiet victory.
Together.

Chapter Text

They were walking back to the Bennetts' house from the bus stop when Temperance froze.
It was subtle — a sharp intake of breath, a pause mid-step. Gil noticed instantly. He always did.

“What is it?” he asked, scanning the street.
Across the road, a neighbor was unloading groceries from the trunk of a sedan. The metal lid popped open, hinges groaning, revealing the hollow dark.
Temperance’s eyes locked on it, her shoulders rigid, breath flat and shallow.

Gil’s stomach sank. He knew that look.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tempe?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She tore her gaze away, marching forward like nothing had happened.
He caught up, long legs matching her clipped stride. “You’re not fine.”
“Irrational,” she muttered. “It’s completely irrational.”

He didn’t push — not yet.

They didn’t talk again until later that night, back in their shared room at the Bennetts’. Gil sprawled across the floor, sketching constellations in the corner of his notebook. Temperance sat at the desk, pretending to study but tapping her pencil against the margin in restless, uneven beats.

Gil was sprawled across the floor, his long limbs filling out the available free space without furniture, reading a greek mythology book in Old Greek that his Teacher had lent him. Temperance sat at her desk, biology textbook open but eyes unfocused.

She’d been restless all evening — tapping her pencil, shifting in her chair, sighing too often. Gil noticed, of course. He always did.
“You’re chewing your lip again,” he said without looking up.
She startled slightly, then dropped her pencil. “Am I?”

“Mmhm.” He marked his page, turned his gaze to her. “Want to tell me why?”
“No.” The denial came fast, sharp. Then she hesitated, shoulders hunching. “Maybe.”

Gil sat up, waiting. He’d learned better than to push.
Finally, she swiveled in her chair, arms crossed tight. “It’s irrational.”
“Plenty of things are. Doesn’t mean they don’t matter.”

Finally, she set the pencil down. “You’re waiting.”
Gil looked up. “Always.”

Her throat tightened. For a long moment she said nothing.
Then, very quietly: “When I was younger — before I met you — I was placed with a family. A couple. They had… strict rules. I dropped a plate once. Ceramic. It shattered.”

Gil sat up slowly, his expression sharpening.
Temperance’s voice stayed flat, clinical, as though reciting a report. “They said I was wastefull. Careless. That I need to learn to be carefull. I was carefull, I swear, it was just. The water was so hot and-and the soap was slippery and I dropped it." Temperance's voice got faster, as if she coud push it out of her mind if she'd say it fast enough. "They locked me in the trunk of their car. It was winter. I don’t know how long. It felt like days, but it was only a couple hours. Until the next morning. I couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t move much, just wiggle. Couldn’t see. I thought—” Her words caught, the first fracture in her control. “I thought I might die there... - As you can see.-" She interupted herself, stumbling over her words a bit. "Clearly I didn’t. But it left… residual associations.”

Silence.

"Residual associations, for fuck's sake." Gil’s hands curled into fists on his knees, voice soft as a pillow. “Tempe...”
“I survived,” she rushed on, as if the outcome negated the cruelty. “But statistically, exposure to situations of confinement and darkness in childhood can create persistent fear responses. It’s not logical. Cars are not inherently dangerous. Neither are enclosed spaces. Yet my brain—”
“Stop.” His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through her spiral.

She blinked, startled at the slicing tone in Gil's voice.

Gil moved closer, crouching down infront of her and grabbed her hands gently. His hands engulved Temperance 's smaller ones like a bear paw does to a human hand. “Don’t call it irrational. Don’t make it sound like some lab experiment gone wrong. You were a kid, Tempe. They hurt you. Of course you’re afraid.”
Her jaw clenched. “Fear is inefficient.”
“Fear is human.”
She looked away, blinking hard. “I hate being human.”
He exhaled, softer now. “Yeah. Me too, sometimes.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the desk lamp. Then Gil squeezed her hands gently, like he coud break Temperance given he'd use enough force to squeeze her hands.
“You’re safe now,” he said. “With me. No trunks. No locked doors. Ever.”
Her throat burned, a hot tear rolled down her face, followed by another. Temperance didn’t bother to wipe them. “You can’t promise that.”
“Watch me,” he said fiercely, gently wipeing her face with his left thumb, his right hand holding both of her smaller hands now. “If I have to rip every car in this country apart with my bare hands, I’ll keep you - and myself - out of them.”
She let out a shaky laugh — startled, unwilling, but real.
Gil grinned faintly. “There. Better.”
She studied their joined hands for a long time, then whispered, “Thank you.”
“Always,” he murmured.

And even though the fear didn’t vanish, though the memory still clawed at the edges of her mind, for the first time Temperance felt the weight of it ease. Not gone — but shared.
And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

The eighth-grade homeroom buzzed with pre-winter-break chaos.
Wrapping paper rustled, candy canes snapped between teeth, the air thick with too much perfume and the kind of giddy energy only December could bring.

Temperance Brennan sat at her desk, spine ramrod-straight, trying to look like she didn’t care. Secret Santa was “statistically inefficient,” she’d declared last week, but Gil had caught the flicker in her eyes when the slips of paper were drawn. She cared.

And now, as her Secret Santa approached with a lopsided grin, she let her guard slip just enough to look hopeful.
It was him. Her crush. She’d never admit it aloud — not even to Gil — but her pulse jumped when he handed over a small wrapped package.
“Uh, hope you like it,” the boy muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

Temperance peeled the paper away carefully. Inside was a plastic figurine: Brainy Smurf.
Her face lit for a second — before dimming just slightly.
“Thank you,” she said primly, tucking the toy into her palm.

Across the room, Gil — her own giant shadow, her anchor — caught the whole exchange. He saw the way her lips pinched, the quick swallow of disappointment she thought no one noticed.
Later, when the classroom emptied into the holiday break, Gil ambled beside her. “Brainy Smurf, huh?”
“He is the intellectual,” she allowed. “But…” She hesitated. “I would’ve preferred Smurfette.”
Gil raised a brow. “Because she’s female?”
“Because she’s the female,” Temperance corrected. “Representation matters.”

That night, in their shared foster home room, Gil got to work. The foster house was finally quiet — the younger kids in bed, the television blaring downstairs, the Jensens arguing in the kitchen about bills.
He’d saved a couple of discarded toys from yard sales two months ago — one of them a scuffed-up Smurfette figure. He dug it out of his drawer, grinning.
“Sorry, lass,” he murmured to the figurine, setting up his supplies on the rickety desk. “You’re about to get a makeover.”

He set the figure on the rickety desk and sighed. “Right then, lass. Let’s make ye less of a blonde stereotype and more… Tempe.”
He popped open the paint. The smell hit immediately, sharp and chemical.

He dabbed his brush in the reddish-brown mix, leaning close to the figurine’s tiny plastic head. His hand — the same one that could throw a punch hard enough to floor a bully — was absurdly careful.
“Bloody idiot,” he muttered in Gaelic, remembering the boy in class.
Amadan truagh. Poor fool. Giving her Brainy Smurf like that. As if she didn’t already out-brain everyone in the room by breakfast. As if she wasn’t lonely, secretly hoping for Smurfette because — well, hell, she deserved to be seen.

He steadied the brush. Another string of Gaelic curses slipped out, muttered low and rhythmic, the way his father used to when working on fiddly repairs. He cursed the boy, the system, the whole bloody universe that kept overlooking her.

Stroke by careful stroke, the yellow hair turned a soft auburn, almost the exact shade of Temperance’s.
Gil leaned back, squinting. “Better. Much better.”

Next came the lab coat. He dug through the fabric scraps until he found an old handkerchief, frayed at the edges. He cut two clumsy rectangles, pricked his finger twice trying to stitch them, and swore again in Gaelic — more colorful this time.

“Mo chreach, I should’ve paid attention when Mrs. O’Connor tried teaching us sewing.”

Still, he kept at it, tongue caught between his teeth, until he’d cobbled together a coat that, if you squinted, looked like something a scientist might wear.
He slipped it onto Smurfette. It sagged to one side, but damn if it didn’t make her look distinguished.
Gil grinned. “Dr. Smurfette Brennan. Has a nice ring to it.”

Not done yet.

He tore a scrap of paper from the back of his notebook, folded it into the tiniest rectangle, scribbled faint lines across it like a notebook. He glued it into the figurine’s hand, fingers sticky, cursing once more when it stuck to his thumb first.
When he finally got it right, he sat back and exhaled.

There she was: Brainy Smurfette. Smurfette with Temperance’s hair, a scientist’s coat, a notebook clutched like truth itself. A miniature Brennan-Smurfette.
Perfect.

Gil smiled, softer than he meant to. “She’ll love ye.”
He packed the figure into a little cardboard box and wrapped it in yesterday’s comics section — the only “gift wrap” he could find. Then he scrawled a note in his blocky handwriting.

He tucked it under his pillow, ready to slip it onto her desk in the morning.
As he slid into bed, he muttered one last curse in Gaelic at the boy who’d given her the wrong Smurf. Then he added, quietly, “She deserves better. And she’ll always bloody get it from me.”

The next morning, Temperance found a small box on her desk, wrapped in the comics section of yesterday’s newspaper. A note was taped crookedly on top:

For Tempe. Because Brainy’s not enough. — Gil

She opened it, fingers trembling despite herself.
Inside was the transformed figurine, lab coat crisp, hair her shade, notebook clutched tight.
Her breath caught.
She stared, wide-eyed, then looked up at him. He was leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but failing — his grin too soft, too hopeful.

“Well?” he asked.
Temperance held the figure like it was glass. “You… you made her.”
“Course I did,” Gil said. “Brainy Smurfette. With a lab coat. Who else is gonna represent future Dr. Brennan?”
Something in her chest loosened, just a little.
“Thank you,” she whispered. And for once, she didn’t sound clinical — she sounded sincere.
Gil’s grin widened. “Anything for you, Tempe.”

Temperance realized suddenly. “Wait. What did you get from your Secret Santa?”
Gil dug into his backpack and pulled out a cheap pack of socks, still stapled together. “Riveting, huh?”
Her brow furrowed. “That’s… disappointing.”
He shrugged. “Eh. I needed socks anyway.”

But she could tell — the way his eyes slid away, the forced lightness in his voice. It wasn’t the socks. It was the reminder that no one thought hard enough to get him something real.

Temperance looked back at the Brainy Smurfette in her hand. Her throat tightened.
That night, when Gil came back from the kitchen, he found a drawing propped on his pillow.
Done in pencil, precise and careful: a tall, broad figure sketched with the rough outline of a knight’s armor, standing protectively in front of a smaller one. Above it, in her neat handwriting, two words:

My Guardian.

Gil sat on the bed, staring at it for a long time.
When Temperance appeared in the doorway, awkward and self-conscious, he just smiled — wide, warm, unstoppable.
“Best damn Secret Santa gift I’ve ever gotten,” he said.

Chapter Text

It didn’t feel like Christmas in the Jensen house.

The foster parents had a tree in the living room, sure — gaudy with cheap tinsel, stacked high with presents for their biological family, which consisted of four ninty year olds in wheelchairs whoem were the Jensen's parents, two Uncles that kept sneering at Gil and calling him 'Boy' in a tone that made Temperance want to knock them both out and Gil's broad shoulders curl into themselves in an attempt to seem smaller.
None of those gifts were for Gil or Temperance. The Jensen's seemed to sneer at the mere thought of that, unpromtedly snapping that 'Money was tight. You don’t earn us much with your care.'
They weren’t allowed to touch the admitably overdecorated tree, weren’t allowed to sit too close to it, weren’t allowed to look too long.

So, Temperance didn’t.

She threw herself into reading her latest library book, jaw tight, insisting aloud that “holidays are culturally constructed and therefore arbitrary and in modern times only serves to push capitalism onto it's consumers and the population in total.”

Gil let her rant, but he saw the way she lingered near windows lit with neighbors’ decorations. He saw the way her hands flexed when carols came on the radio, like she wanted to hold on but didn’t know how.
So he decided they’d have Christmas anyway.

On Christmas Eve, Gil came back from his after-school shift with a branch tucked under his coat — evergreen, stolen from the edge of the park.
He shook snow off it and propped it in the corner of their small shared room in a chipped vase.
“There.” He dusted off his hands. “Christmas tree, version minimalist.”
Temperance blinked. “That’s… a branch.”
“Aye.” He grinned. “A festive branch.”
She tilted her head, considering. Then the corner of her mouth twitched. “…It’ll do.”

They’d agreed: two gifts each. Handmade, because money was out of the question.
Temperance went first. She handed him a folded square of paper, smudged with graphite. He unfolded it and stared at a careful sketch: the two of them, side by side on their beds, a tree branch in the corner, the faint outline of Larry-the-dog from the Children’s book curled on the floor, drawn from Temperance's impecable memory.

Gil swallowed hard. “Tempe…”
“I know it’s not practical,” she rushed. “But you like art, and drawing improves fine motor skills, so—”
He shook his head, smiling softly as he gently interupted her. “It’s perfect.”

Then it was his turn.

From his pocket, he pulled a small bundle wrapped in an old handkerchief.
Inside was a shortbread biscuit, dense and buttery, baked the night before in secret when the Jensens had gone out.

“I thought—” He hesitated. “Back home, my mum used to make these at Christmas. Not quite her recipe, but close enough for the real thing.”
Temperance touched the golden baked good gently, like it was fragile. “You made this?”

“Aye. Just flour, butter, sugar, ye know. The works. Nothin’ fancy. But it tastes like… Scotland.”
She broke the biscuit in half, handed him the larger piece. “Then we’ll share it.”

They ate the shortbread in silence, crumbs dusting their blankets. It wasn’t much. Just a branch, a drawing, a cookie that crumbled too fast.
But when Temperance leaned her head against his arm, eyes drooping, Gil thought maybe this was what Christmas was supposed to feel like. Not piles of presents. Not fancy decorations. Just being together, making something out of nothing.

“Gil?” she murmured sleepily.
“Aye?”
“Next year… do we get another branch?”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Aye, lass. Every year. Our own tradition."

And in that little room, with their one crooked branch, Christmas didn’t feel so far away after all.
It was quiet, until Temperance hesitantly broke the warm silence.

"You won’t leave me, will you Gil?" came the hesitant question out of Temperance’s mouth, her blue eyes fixed onto the tree branch, suddenly more awake.

"No Tempe. I'm never leaving you behind. 'S a promise." Gil muttered against her hair. "Why woud ye ask?"

Temperance turned her head away, but to late Gil already saw the small tear rolling down her flushed red cheeks. "I just. It was a stupid question. Forget it Gil."

Gil shook his head slowly. "No can do Tempe. Talk to me please. Come on little lass." Gil gently reached out to wrap his arm around Temperance’s shoulders, but she wiggled free, away from his hold.

"No. Just drop it Gil! Okay." She all but glared down at the still seated baffled scottish teenage boy.

"Tempe. Just-" Gil tried again, voice low and soothing.

"No. No Matthew. Just drop it. Just fucking forget it. You'll just leave aswell, won’t you. You'll pack up your stuff and disapear on me aswell, right? Leave me behind." Temperance ranted irritated, then turned around and climbed out of the small bedroom window. "Don’t follow me. You and your fucking accent that actually had me beliving you cared."

Baffled into silence, Gil watched her slip out of the Window gracefully, unsure what he was to do now or where he even went wrong.