I signed up for Love Month, which is brought to you by the amazing BGA on Live Journal, way back in its first 2011 round, and when I heard it was making a comeback this summer, I had to jump on board. My contribution was a small fic (naturally. as fic is my only internet skill), and since I've conquered the super difficult Live Journal posting, I thought I'd go ahead and share it here as well while I have the document out in front of me. The prompt (Brennan writes Christine a fairy tale, but it's actually the story of her and Booth) was given to me by RositaLG, and it is sort of filled, sort of not (naturally. as my muse's response to prompts is usually "you can't make me do anything"). Jenn has all my thanks for talking me off the ledge when I reached my "I hate everything" phase earlier today and being rational and helpful and making everything better. Thanks for reading!

Let Me In to Your Encryption

Let me in
where only your thoughts have been.
Let me occupy your mind
as you do mine.

Heart's a Mess, Gotye

There is a case, and it involves a child.

And though the child resembles theirs in neither looks nor age nor sex, there is a case and it involves a child. They share no words, but it is no great surprise when Booth and Brennan find themselves on opposite sides of their daughter's bed almost immediately after they relieve Max of his babysitting duties.

As Christine sighs softly in her sleep and turns over, Booth has the fleeting thought that they should stop doing this. Really. Because a little girl repeatedly waking up to her parents staring at her has got to have damaging effects. And he vows (just as he had the last time, and the time before that) that this will be the last night he (she, they) let's this happen.

Their burdens will never be her burdens.

In the earliest years of their partnership, when Brennan had been reminded daily through Booth's mere presence of their almost moment, she had buried her attraction to him under layers of hostility. And then, Booth had become her friend. As defensiveness and hostility lessened and a puckish prosecutor forced them to remember how wonderful sex between them almost certainly would be, Brennan had found new ways to fight that brief moment when she would feel something so strongly for him, it had threatened to overwhelm her.

And it could have been love. She sees that now. But it had been a different sort of love than she has for him in this life shared, and she sees this as well, because there are different kinds of love just as there are different kinds of family.

She hadn't looked away from him back then. Not every time. Not entirely. She had picked a single detail on his person to focus on; the pattern of his tie, the pulse point of his neck. And as Brennan sits next to Christine and loves her so much, she finds that she has to do this same thing to keep from shaking her awake.

She focuses very hard on Christine's long eyelashes and on the tiny muscle spasms causing her daughter's proximal phalanx to twitch every 1.5 seconds. On the features that are hers and then the features that are Booth's and then the places that they blend together. And she's so concentrated on this, Booth's hand makes it almost all the way to Christine's cheek before she notices.

"Booth," she hisses, "no."

Booth looks guilty for a fraction of a second, and then he feigns confusion. He points to his ear and shrugs, and Brennan's eyes narrow.

"No," she repeats, a few decibels louder.

"Relax, Bones, I just-

"Don't wake her up."

"She's not going to wake up."

He sounds certain. Overly certain. And so Brennan is not surprised when Christine's eyes begin to sleepily flutter open.

"Good morning," Christine mumbles.

Booth lets his hand cup her cheek without reservation. "Not quite, buddy. Go back to sleep."

"And then breakfast?"

Brennan shakes her head and leans forward to adjust the blanket. "It's very late, Christine. I'm sorry we woke you."

Instead of closing her eyes, she looks more alert with each passing moment. "Grandpa said you wouldn't be back until morning."

"We're a few hours early." Booth musters up a weak smile. "Sleep, okay?"

"A story first? Just one," she tries. When her parents exchange a look and do not deny her outright, she pushes again. "One story. Please?"

Without speaking, they agree (just as they had the last time, and the time before that) that this will be the last night.

They squeeze onto her single bed and it's not comfortable for either of them by any means, but the six year old in the middle is achingly content and secure and safe, and as has so often been the case since she was conceived, any discomfort and inconvenience is worth it.

The partners realise at approximately the same time that neither of them had selected a book from the shelf in the far corner. There's another silent war between them as they each attempt to force the other out of the bed through sheer will alone. They're both drained. And they both understand that whoever gets off this bed will immediately sacrifice their small shred of space to the other two occupants.

When there doesn't appear to be an end in sight to the standoff, Brennan takes an alternate route.

"Once upon a time, there lived a girl-

"What kind of girl?"

She hesitates, but quickly collects herself. Across from her, Booth bites back his first genuine smile of the evening.

"A very smart, very capable girl, who-

"Mommy, I want a real story."

"Considering that you have yet to allow me to finish a sentence, I do not believe you could possibly have enough data to draw conclusions regarding the quality of this story."

"A real story with pages and pictures-

"Anthropologically, there is a great deal of significance in oral-

"It's not as fun without pages."

Brennan becomes increasingly affronted and Booth begins to openly laugh.

"Maybe you should get up and grab a book, Bones."

"Maybe you should," she snaps back before returning her attention to their daughter. "I'm a bestselling author."

"For grown-ups. Daddy won't let me read your books."

"Yes, well-

"Turning the pages is the best part."

Brennan is prepared to give an educational response, but Booth laughs again and suddenly it is very important to her that he be the one to retrieve a suitable book not because of bed space, but on principle. Her gaze meets his sharply.

The laughter dies as he watches her, wary of her next move. "I think you should bring us a book."

"I don't think-

"Bring us a book, or I will recite passages from one of my books aloud. Evidently, they are the only stories I have which can be considered 'real'."

"You wouldn't dare."

He doesn't know why he says it. There is nothing in their history which would give him cause to doubt that yes, she would dare. She would dare every goddamn time.

She doesn't get further than taking a breath to speak before Booth jumps off the bed.

"I got it! Don't. I'm moving, okay, Bones? See me moving?"

Booth returns with the Paper Bag Princess, and Brennan – feeling charitable – does not overtake the bed space in his absence. With Christine squished between them, they begin a rotation; Brennan's practiced, smooth speech, followed by the less experienced, somewhat halting reading of Christine, and then Booth's playful style, one page at a time.

Today, they had closed a case and it had involved a child. And as they force themselves to relax, they place that case, bit by bit, in a box with all the other cases that have managed to cut them that fraction deeper than anticipated.

The next day, Booth spends some extra time in the gym and Brennan spends some extra time in limbo, and they nail the box shut.

The new book is started on a whim more than anything else. It's Brennan's turn to pick up Christine and Booth isn't home when they get in, and though she only steps into her small office to put down her bag, she has a thought.

Nearly an hour later, she looks up from her computer and blinks when Booth comes to an abrupt stop over the threshold. Christine comically crashes into his legs and lands on the floor.

"Sorry, Bones," he apologises as he helps their daughter up. "Your door was open... you usually shut it when you're working on your next bestseller."

Brennan frowns. "How did you know I'm writing?"

"You make a face like you're mad," Christine adds helpfully. "But you're not mad."

"You make a face," Booth agrees.

Brennan rolls her eyes. "Given the high number of occasions you claim I 'look mad,' I'm surprised you can make these distinctions."

"Christine said mad," Booth is quick to point out. "You can't trust her adjectives; she's six."

Christine looks appropriately offended, Booth shrugs, and Brennan backs her chair out from beneath her desk. "Do you need something?"

He shakes his head. "Just getting dinner started. Do you want me to come back when it's ready or-

"No." She stands and begins to power down the computer. "There's no deadline for this."

Their periods of inactivity never last long. Soon, they get another case, Christine gets the flu (and so, Booth and Brennan get the flu), Brennan has end of term papers to grade and Booth has a week of training seminars to attend. But eventually there comes another day when it is still and quiet, and as Brennan tidies her home office, she discovers a post-it stuck beneath her keyboard. And after a moment's thought, she sits down at her computer and begins to write.

It's many months later when Brennan comes home to an envelope – a little larger than legal sized – resting on the island where she usually puts her messenger bag. Most of her couriered mail is received through the Jeffersonian, and it's with mild curiosity that she picks it up and joins Booth on the couch.

"Dinner's in the oven," Booth informs her, making eye contact briefly before turning his attention back to the game.

She draws her legs to one side and begins to tear open the envelope. "You made dinner?"

It's not that he's incapable, but more that he's less inclined when he's the only one home. And she knows that right now, Christine is at Angela's.

"I ordered pizza," Booth clarifies. A commercial break begins and he puts an arm along the back of the couch behind her. "I was thinking that maybe later we could... what? What is it?"

He watches Brennan frantically stuff the contents back inside the envelope, and raises an eyebrow when she tries to nonchalantly put it aside.

"Nothing," she answers casually.

Curiosity sufficiently piqued, Booth drops his feet from the ottoman and reaches over her lap. "You can't react like that and not-

"It's private, Booth!"

"Just let me see!"

There's a scuffle, and though Booth is stronger, she is wily and about as easy to hold on to as a fish that's just been taken out of water.

But the house is empty and that's a rarity, and it isn't long before the envelope takes a backseat as they become preoccupied with better – and more naked – things.

She's not playing fair, but then, he knows what she's doing and cannot bring himself to care, so there is very little guilt experienced by either party.

"You've got too many clothes on."

"So do something about it."

"Ow! Bones, your elbow-

"We need a bigger couch."

"What we need is to start making it to the bed like adults."

"We could move."

"Don't you even think about it."

Brennan thinks – not for the first time – that there is nothing quite like being with Booth. Even when (maybe especially when) they are being just a little bit silly. She's a leading forensic anthropologist. He's a federal agent. They lead serious lives and every once in a while they don't. And it is their best kept secret. It is something so unusually theirs and theirs alone, the knowledge of these moments is enough to make her heart squeeze in her chest in a manner that is uncomfortable without being entirely unwelcome.

Her mouth twists into a half smile, and Booth automatically smiles in return. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," Brennan shrugs. "Just, sometimes, I really like you."

His smile widens and he bites gently on her shoulder. "Sometimes, I really like you too."

When they're sitting on the floor later, eating pizza straight out of the box, Booth stuffs the last of his crust in his mouth and leans over her, snatching up the envelope from where it had been abandoned.

"Booth," Brennan protests half heartedly.

He doesn't open it. As much as he likes to tease her, going through her mail isn't something he believes he has any right to do. But he does give it a shake.

"It feels like a book. And that makes me curious, Bones, because I can't for the life of me think of a book that would make you look as uncomfortable as you do right now."

"I'm not uncomfortable." Brennan lunges for the envelope and glares when Booth holds it just beyond her reach.

"You've got a nice flush going on and everything."

She leans against the couch and sighs. Then she wordlessly waves him onward. She's not embarrassed. But she is surprised. It's a new development and she likes to have time to sort her feelings at her own speed before sharing. But though she has not yet decided how she feels, she knows how Booth will react. Excitement. Support. Because he likes to make an especially big deal of the things she declares unimportant (her birthday, holidays, vacations) and sometimes his enthusiasm is infectious. Sometimes, there's a part of her that can't wait to be infected.

There's a note typed on expensive stationary, and Booth pulls this out first.

"Temperance; I know we haven't discussed a public release, but I'm hoping that seeing the final product will open you up to the idea..." he stops reading aloud and looks back in her direction, eyebrows quirked in confusion. "What is this?"

Brennan chooses to do no more than wave him onward once again.

The thin, glossy hardcover that slides out into his hands is festively coloured, but not overdone. And though it should be the first thing he notices, the name of the author catches his attention after these things.

Temperance Brennan.

It's strange to see her first and last name together without being preceded by the title he associates with them. Something about it seems as whimsical as the cover itself. For the first ten seconds or so, he can't manage anything more than open-mouthed staring.

"You wrote a kids' book?"

"No," Brennan protests defensively, despite the fact that there is only marvel to be heard in his tone. "Not a real one... it's not supposed to be published."

He begins to flip absently through the pages. "Bones, this is amazing."

She peeks over his shoulder and takes in the illustrations, and she has to admit that they are pleasing. Captivating. The sort of pictures she imagines she would have loved as a child.

There's a shiver of pride she feels when she sees her name in print like this. It's fleeting, and very different from the pride she has in her academic publishings, but she has created a world in which her characters (and her, by extension) are accepted in a very average way. She is gifted. She is proud to be extraordinary. But it is nice to occasionally make connections on ordinary levels without having to compromise who she is.

Brennan is pulled from her musings when Booth opens the book to the first page and begins a far more thorough examination of the content.

"Booth." She successfully snatches the book away this time. "You can't read it."

"Why not?"

"It's for Christine."

"I figured that much out myself," he laughs.

"No, I mean, I wrote it just for Christine. I came home one day a few months ago and I thought... I wrote it and asked my editor to arrange for one copy to be printed. As a favour to me."

"Is this because she told you you weren't a real writer?"

"That is not what she said."

"It's not fun without pages. That's what she said."

"Not as fun, is what she said. And the answer is no. I wrote it because I think she'll enjoy it. You can't read it before she comes home."

Booth crosses his arms. "Now Christine gets to read your books before I do? No, Bones, this is where I draw the line."

"It's a children's book, Booth! Don't be ridiculous. I told you; I didn't expect it to be published in the first place."

"Well, it is, and I'm not waiting to buy a copy in-store."

"It's not going to be in stores. I'll call Sarah tomorrow and inform her that while I appreciate the offer, I have no interest in releasing it. It was a moment of frivolity, nothing more."

Booth nudges her shoulder with his. "Sounds kind of like how another series by a bestselling author I know started out." She doesn't respond, and his voice loses its teasing edge. "You have a gift, Bones."

"I have many gifts," she dismisses.

"Will you at least sign it for me?"

Brennan huffily snatches a pen up from the coffee table and scrawls her name across the inside title page.

"Satisfied?"

"Nope."

"What else do you want?"

He pretends he doesn't hear the exasperation in her tone. "You should share it with the rest of the world, Bones."

"You haven't even read it yet."

"I don't need to."

She rolls her eyes, but she does give the note from her editor another read. "We'll see."

Christine falls asleep in the car on the way home, and it's close enough to her bedtime that they can put her straight into her pajamas and then tuck her in for the night. But Booth tries to make a case in favour of waking her up.

"C'mon, Bones; the kid needs a bath."

"She can have one in the morning, Booth. You're not waking her up just for a story."

"But-

"No!"

Another two days pass before they can get their timing right and they're both home to put her to bed. They end up jammed together on the mattress like that night so many nights ago (and a few nights since then) and when Christine requests her go-to book for this week, Booth stares at Brennan expectantly until she sighs and climbs off the bed.

"I'll be right back."

Christine's brow furrows when Brennan walks past the bookshelf and out of the room. "Where's she going?"

"You'll see," Booth sing-songs.

Her eyes light up in anticipation and she scrambles to sit upright, gaze fixed on the door until Brennan comes back through it.

She is not kept waiting.

When Brennan settles back on the bed, she hands Christine the book for inspection and waits patiently as she studies the cover, carefully sounding out the words.

"That's your name." Christine's eyes widen.

"Yes," Brennan confirms.

"Is this your book?"

"I wrote it, yes."

"Come on, Bones, let's go already," Booth urges impatiently.

Brennan's instinct is to put it away simply because he's putting so much pressure on her to do the contrary, but instead she ignores him and focuses on the wonder shining in the eyes of her progeny before helping her open the book to its first colourful page.

"This story does not begin once upon a time; rather, it begins at the very particular hour of six in the evening. This story begins at six in the evening on a very cold Tuesday, in the month of May. And on this Tuesday in May, a young girl named Marigold sat impatiently on her bed and watched large drops of rain fall against her bedroom window."

Christine turns the page and burrows further into the soft body of her mother, and Brennan hesitates. "Would you like a turn?"

Christine shakes her head, and the lack of verbal response indicates to both parents that she is slowly but surely winding down for the night. She will make it to the end of the story, but she will fall asleep soon after it is finished.

Booth leans over to get a better look at the illustrations, and Brennan gently clears her throat.

"Marigold was a very smart, very capable girl of seven, and though her parents would disagree, she was quite sure that she had been waiting years for the rain to come to a stop."

Booth smirks at this descriptive throwback to the oral story their child had refused to accept as legitimate, and Brennan briefly meets his eye and gives him a small, wry smile. And life, tonight, on this particular Thursday in June, is very, very good.

He waits until she slides into the bed beside him to broach the subject. Because there are days when it seems to him that she becomes softer as the hour grows later. He moves his hand over her hip and attaches his lips to the base of her neck, sucking gently.

"What are you doing?"

The suspicion in her tone is immediate, and Booth is forced to consider that today may not be one such day.

But he is not easily deterred by her.

"I'm trying to make you remember why you love me. That way it's fresh in your head if you happen to get mad after this conversation."

"If you're concerned that what you are going to say may cause me to stop loving you, perhaps you should reconsider saying it," Brennan responds dryly.

He begins trailing kisses over her shoulder, and continues for several minutes before he speaks again. "You should publish your book."

"You've very clearly stated your opinion on the matter. Multiple times, in fact. I don't understand why you're so fixated on this."

"You don't go on digs half as often as you used to."

He's perhaps as surprised by these words as she is, because they hadn't been intended and he's not quite sure where they had come from. But he can't reflect on this because he's too busy gauging his partner's reaction.

Brennan doesn't answer him right away, and though it's tempting to try and prod her along, he can hear the gears spinning in her brain and he gives her time.

"If I wanted to go on a dig, I would, Booth. I believe I would go even if it meant risking an argument between us. Because experience has taught me that even if you do not want me to go, you will not try to make me stay if it is important to me. And you will be there to pick me up at the airport even though it isn't necessary."

Booth doesn't challenge these facts. He finds comfort in the knowledge that she is secure in her belief that this would not be something that could ruin them. They have done so much worse to one another and still, here they stand. And the truth is, even if he could convince her to stay, the guilt that would weigh on his conscience would be a high price to pay.

"You were putting out a book every year and a half for a while."

"I just finished a book," Brennan says indignantly. "And the quality is equal to that of the others."

"But it's been more than two years since your last one."

Brennan's eyes narrow and she shifts away from his touch. And Booth realises that the words had not come out exactly as delicately as intended.

"I'm busy, Booth. Novels are at the bottom of my list of priorities."

"You've always been busy."

"And I used to spend as much time outside the United States as I spent within it. And then I met you, and I stayed a little longer. And then longer still. And now we have Christine. I choose the opportunities that mean the most to me. You don't go on nearly the same number of out of town assignments as you once did," she turns the tables.

"Because I don't want to, Bones."

"Why is it acceptable for you to 'not want to', and not me?" When he takes longer than half a second to reply, she's out of the bed, arms akimbo, and she stares him down with an expression that is made more dangerous by how guarded it is. "You do this all the time, Booth. At what point in our history did you become convinced that your influence over me is so profound as to have entirely eradicated my free will?"

"That's not what I-

"Then what, Booth? What is the problem?"

"I just want you to be sure, Bones. I want you to be sure you're not ever going to wake up with regrets."

It's not about a children's book. They realise this at very close to the same time. Because for years, she had believed he had all the answers to emotional dilemmas and though she knows so much better now, there are times when his insecurities catch her off guard. But once upon a time it had been Booth's job to tell her when she crossed lines, and the longer they've known each other, the more she's found cause to do the same.

"Booth," she sighs.

Are you going to betray me?

What is it that I should have done, Bones? What did you want me to do?

I have the sense that everything's changing.

You know when a dentist gives you anaesthetic and tells you not to operate any heavy machinery or make any important decisions within twenty-four hours? All right, this case was bigger than a root canal.

Their early years had been a canvas of her being afraid and him feigning fearlessness. Of him reassuring her that it is worth it to give trust a second chance. Until their world had bottomed out and the worst had happened (again), and she had survived. And in the aftermath, somewhere along the way, he had become afraid. And because she does not do well pretending, she has her own way of offering reassurance. It is raw and unfiltered, and it is exactly what he needs. Because while her problem is sometimes her inability to pretend, his problem is that he often pretends too much.

Booth winces as Brennan lowers herself into the chair in the corner of the room and crosses her arms, staring steadily until he can't handle it any longer.

It's his turn to sigh. "Just there, I sounded like an asshole, didn't I?"

Brennan nods stiffly. "Yes."

"Can I get a Mulligan?"

Her brow creases and he knows that she doesn't understand the expression, but she doesn't take the bait. Instead she leans forward in the chair and fixes him with the full weight of her concentrated attention.

(It's unnerving for him, as always. And in these moments it is clear that she can see the truth of him just as easily as he can see the truth of her)

"You have disappointed me in the past, and you are likely to disappoint me again. Just as I have disappointed you and am likely to disappoint you again."

Booth rolls his eyes. Sometimes he still thinks he wouldn't mind if she would pretend just a little bit. "Uplifting."

"I'm not trying to be uplifting. I'm telling you that this is not an example of a time I have been disappointed. That's all I can do, Booth. That's all I should have to do."

He swallows and swings his legs over the side of the bed so that he's sitting on the edge, close enough to touch her. And though he knows she's telling the truth, he can't help driving his point home in hopes that the next time she is disappointed, she remembers this.

"You don't always talk to me."

Brennan shrugs uncomfortably. "You don't always talk to me either, Booth. We are uncommunicative at times."

Booth doesn't deny this, but he puts one hand on her knee and applies light pressure. "We try though, right? Before it gets so bad we can't fix it. We can't keep testing those odds, Bones. Sooner or later... I mean, that's simple probability."

She smirks and his eyes narrow.

"What."

"Nothing. I just find it arousing when you talk squinty to me."

"Probability hardly counts as squinty," he grumbles. "I'm not an idiot."

The ghost of a smile on Brennan's face widens and she moves to straddle him, knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his legs. Booth's hands automatically move to her hips to keep her balanced.

"Are we done fighting?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" she puts her face near his neck and inhales deeply.

"I'm trying to have a serious conversation here."

"I am taking you very seriously."

"Now you're being patronising, too. That's great, Bones."

Brennan laughs lowly and bites his shoulder just hard enough for it to sting. "Yes, Booth, we try," she finally murmurs. "We always try."

He relaxes. It's true that they occasionally find communication, in the traditional sense of the word, challenging. But they excel in operating outside of tradition. In nonverbal communications across conference rooms and crowded bars and opposite edges of their daughter's tiny bed. And it makes the words, when they do say them, mean so much more. So Booth embraces the way a simple we always try makes him so happy and he offers a few words of his own.

"Arrhythmia," he says lowly, tilting his head so that he can smell her hair. "Humeroradial joint. Lateral malleolus."

Booth feels Brennan's pulse quicken. She pulls away so that she can see his face, and though her bright smile remains, her eyes darken considerably with lust and love and many of the messy emotions in between. He is listening to her. Learning from her. Just as she listens and learns from him.

And the moment is added to a different box, to be opened the next time they have to try.