A/N: hiiiiiiiiii. it's been so long! i can't remember the last time i posted something without my lovely counterpart. i'm currently working on a piece of longer, original fiction, but i missed y'all, and couldn't help but post this little fic. i'm thinking it will be a series of little oneshots with varying points of view, all centering around B and B showing their love rather than saying it. Am rating "M" for future smut, although this chapter has none. :) hope you all enjoy...

xoxo mia

Softly, Without Words.

I am out of my element. I know this. My kitchen is full of things I don't recognize and have never used, ingredients spread across the countertop. I have gone to three different stores to find everything on the list, and the curry has stained my shirt. Cursing under my breath, I make my way to the bedroom, and just as I've peeled off the dress shirt, I hear the bell.

"Dammit," I mutter, grabbing a t-shirt and tugging it quickly down. "I'm coming!"

She is waiting patiently on my front steps when I pull open the door, and she glances at my old FBI t-shirt and then at her own clothes. "I think I've overdressed. Where exactly are we going?"

I tug her inside, shaking my head. "We're staying in, Bones. I'm cooking."

She looks at me warily, although I'm not offended. I've certainly never considered myself a gourmet, although I can make a mean grilled cheese and my steaks are grilled to perfection. Truth is, unless I have Parker, I generally eat out most of my meals (generally with her) and seldom bother to cook only for myself.

She follows me back towards the kitchen, and I see her eyes widen as she takes in the spread on the counter. Shrugging her bag from her shoulder, she slips her coat down her slender arms and smiles. "Wow, Booth. That's quite an impressive array of ingredients."

I sigh, nodding, hands on my hips. "Let's hope I don't screw it up."

She cocks her head to the side, as if sizing me up for the job as she sits on a stool at the counter. "You want help?"

I shake my head firmly, setting a wine glass in front of her and filling it half-way with a pinot noir I've seen her drink several times at her house. "It's your birthday -- just sit."

She does as she's told, surprisingly, and takes a delicate sip of the wine, her tongue darting out before she lets out a satisfied sigh. It's hard not to be swept away by it, and I have to shake myself a little to turn away from her, glancing down at the cookbook open in front of me. When I'd asked her what she wanted to eat for her birthday she'd said Indian food, and, knowing nothing about it, I'd headed to the nearest bookstore. It had been harder to dig for a vegetarian cookbook, but I'd found one, scouring it for a recipe that had ingredients I knew she liked that I thought I could possible avoid screwing up royally.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I glance up at her from the cookbook. "Okay, it says to dry roast these seeds in a pan. Won't they burn?"

She smiles easily. "I imagine if you keep them moving they'll just toast lightly."

I consider this for a moment before setting a skillet on the stove. "Hmmm."

"Booth, really, we can go to a restaurant if –"

"Hey," I say, frustrated. "I can do this, Bones, okay? I can follow a recipe."

She nods seriously. "I know you can. I just didn't want you to have to go to any trouble."

Frowning, I look at her. "It isn't."

She looks surprised for a moment, and I realize that, as much as she's been taken to dinner on dates or by her publishers she probably hasn't had anyone cook for her in ages. Someone as independent and self-sufficient as Temperance Brennan would see struggling through a recipe as trouble. But it's her birthday, and I want her to feel special.

To me, she's always worth the effort.

I toss the cardamom pods, cumin and poppy seeds into the warm pan (all things that I've never seen before), stirring them lightly with a spoon, and she's right – after several moments, they start to lightly toast. Conversation flows easily between us, as it always does, but her eyes again widen when I turn off the stove as she sees the small marble bowl I pull out of the cupboard.

"You have a mortar and pestle?"

I look at her a bit sheepishly. "I bought it today. It says you need one in the recipe."

"You can buy these spices already ground, you know."

"It says it's more authentic this way," I insist, and she looks impressed. I feel a swell of pride, like I've been awarded some sort of prize and suddenly all the trips around town during rush hour seem well worth it.

"Let me help," she pesters. "At least let me grind the spices for you – that's not hard."

As much as I wanted her to be able to sit back and relax, I also recognize that isn't who this woman is. She's curious, she's active -- she's hands-on. And so I hand her my new mortar and pestle and watch for a moment as she carefully and skillfully begins to grind the now toasted seeds into a fine powder.

She glances up from her task. "Oh. Are you waiting for this? Am I taking too long?"

How do I explain to her that so often I'm content to just watch her? I've never known someone like Temperance Brennan, never met a woman so focused on whatever she's working on, whatever project is in front of her. Occasionally, when I'm in the mood to torture myself, I wonder what it would be like to have all that skill and attention focused on me, what it would feel like to be at the center of her universe.

"No, no, you're fine," I murmur, searching for a measuring cup to start the rice. "No hurry."

I busy myself for several minutes as she continues to mix the spices, and I pull the brick of tofu out of the fridge, setting it on a cutting board. It is pale and white, looking a lot like smooth cheese, and almost silky in texture. I have no idea what I'm doing.

She startles me with her laugh, and when I look at her, my breath catches at the sight of her lips pulling into a broad smile, her eyes sparkling. "Booth," she murmurs. "You bought tofu?"

I sigh, my knife hovering over the cutting board. "You like it," I say.

She looks amazed, and again, I am struck with the feeling that this is all worth it.

She pinches some of the spice between her fingers, testing its fineness, and smiles. "I suppose this means for your birthday I should learn how to cook steak, huh?"

I picture Bones going to that kind of trouble for me, how I would feel, and a warmth sweeps over me, something in my chest tingling, my stomach flipping a bit. I remember her making me macaroni and cheese, remember sitting down to her table and having her smile at me, how that had felt. For just a few moments, I'd dropped my guard, had ceased to worry about the line, and had simply slipped into the evening with her.

I wanted that again, wanted to feel that way again. And I wanted to make her feel as special tonight as she'd made me feel when she'd set that plate in front of me.

"I just cut this in… pieces, right?"

She gets up finally, coming around the other side of the counter, and when she takes the knife from my hands, her touch is delicate. She stands close, her hip lightly bumping mine, and I can smell her shampoo and some kind of perfume, spicy and just teasing my nose. She slices through the white cube on the cutting board easily, first in strips and then again across. "Here," she murmurs. "Like this."

Her slender fingers move gracefully, and I find myself entranced by her movements – even as she cuts something I'm somewhat terrified to eat. When she glances up at me, my throat goes dry, and we share a look that is not new. It's something we've shared many times before, something that has always remained unspoken, has always been backed away from.

For a moment, I wonder what she would do if this time I kissed her, if I swept down and placed my mouth over hers. Our brief kiss at Christmas last year has not satisfied my curiosity – I want to know how she tastes, want to know how it feels to have the warm pressure of her body against mine.

But I'm scared. And so I swallow and sweep the cubes of tofu into the hot pan, hearing it sizzle. I sprinkle in the spices and add the yogurt and the spinach, and she returns to her seat. Conversation again flows, and we drink wine and when we sit down to eat, and the moment, that brief moment is almost forgotten.

Almost.

Later, she sits back after finishing, patting her belly with satisfaction, a move I recognize as one of my own, and I smile. "Happy?"

"Very." She takes another sip of her wine, the second bottle of the night. "Thank you, Booth. That was incredibly delicious."

It is amazing how easily she can thrill me sometimes, and I sit back myself, admitting that for all my wariness, tofu isn't so bad. She'd eaten with relish, smiling and closing her eyes, and I realized I'd cook tofu for the rest of my life if it meant getting to watch her face as she enjoyed her meal.

I'm still watching her, and she sets her gaze on me, her face serious. "This was a great birthday."

I think that I blush a bit. "I was going to throw a party, have a bunch of people, but –"

"This was perfect."

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

And it's there again, hanging between us. As often as it's appeared throughout our partnership, it rarely pops up twice in the same evening, and this time it's her who drops her eyes first, who pulls back and changes the subject.

Hours later, as I follow her to the door as she prepares to leave, I pause, again remembering the moment in the kitchen. Before I can come to any sort of decision, she's stepping into my arms, hugging me tightly, and I cannot fight the grin that stretches my mouth wide.

"You cooked me tofu," she says again, the amazement back in her voice. "You said you'd hate tofu."

"It wasn't so bad," I admit, squeezing her tightly.

She steps back, her eyes sparkling. "Maybe you'll consider a vegetarian lifestyle, then, if –"

"Not a chance, Bones," I say teasingly, and she smiles widely enough to match my own. A few strands of hair have fallen into her eyes, and without thinking, I brush them out of the way, and the smile slips from her face, the intensity back in her eyes. Swallowing, I let my hand drop.

"Happy Birthday."

And then it is her that's pushing up onto her toes, her lips brushing gently against mine. It is not a passionate crush, nor a wild flurry of tongues. Softly, without words, she is speaking to me, and I let my fingers settle for just a brief moment on her hip before she disappears through my doorway.