Disclaimer: Bones does not belong to me. It never has, and it never will. ¿Comprenden? Me alegro oírlo.
A/N: This ficlet was written in the early stages of Season Five. Obviously this isn't canon, but I like to think of it as a way that B/B could have happened, a way that they could have drifted together without any further ceremony, fuss, or angst.
When it finally happens, it happens in a cemetery. Ironic, really. In most Western European cultures, cemeteries are the place where the dead are laid to rest, where relationships end. But their relationship has never followed cultural norms, and it doesn't start doing so now.
In a sense, their relationship has always been about death. Both of their careers deal with it, after all. They bond over blood and bones and rotting flesh, over guilt and pain. A morbid way of relating, some would say. But more than death, their partnership deals with life. Justice for the dead, yes, but also closure for the living.
They help each other find closure for their pasts. They teach each other how to live. In many cultures and religions (superstitions, she would say), death is considered a beginning. Reincarnation, Paradise, Hell, Guinee, Misvan Gatu, fertilizer… it doesn't really matter. Some are permanent, others changeable, but all spell a new start.
Suddenly, it all falls into place (even though she doesn't know what that means and he never thought it would be this simple). They've always known what they mean to each other, deep down. They may have couched it in terms like 'atta girl' or 'coffee' or 'partners', but it's been there all along. And suddenly, that extra padding… it falls away. It's not protecting them like they thought it would. And if it serves no purpose, then it ought to go. They're both pragmatic like that.
(Later, she'll call it Occam's Razor in action; he'll call it common sense.)
It's a cold, grey D.C. day, nothing unusual. The funeral isn't for someone that they know. But they're sitting on a bench and drinking coffee and they're them and it all makes sense. She reaches over and clasps his hand. He squeezes it gently.
"I've been thinking lately," she begins.
He raises an eyebrow. "Dangerous, Bones," he tells her, smirking.
She huffs slightly. "I'm being serious, Booth," she informs him.
He nods apologetically and gestures for her to continue.
"And I think that your metaphorical line got erased at some point during our partnership. Logically, examining at my actions over the years, I can only conclude that I care deeply for you. And unless my reasoning is flawed, I think that you care about me too." She takes a deep breath, her expression becoming slightly less certain. "So, why are we still acting as though the line is in place?"
He gapes at her for a moment. Then, "Because we're scared. And if you ever repeat that…"
"I'm done running," she tells him. "The only running I'm willing to engage in will occur with a – what's the phrase? – 'exercise buddy'."
She smiles nervously, proud of herself for getting the terminology correct. And she waits.
Suddenly, a wide smile breaks out on his face.
"Bones," he says, "will you be my exercise buddy?"
"Of course," she says, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. Which it is.
And it's rational and illogical and wonderful, and they fit together; they're both beaming like they're fit to burst, so naturally they kiss. And even though it's starting to drizzle, and there are mourners watching a body being lowered into the earth, life goes on.
"In the midst of life, we are in death," the preacher intones, reading from a prayer book.
And in the midst of death and blood and bones, there is life. They bond over macaroni & cheese and family and music. They dance and laugh and share. They are the center – and the center will hold.