Just a piece of paper by Chibiness87
Pairing: B/B
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. *sigh*
A/N: Uber fluff for those in the need of it. I had a bad week, so I wrote this to cheer myself up. No infringement on any other work intended.
It was just like any other piece of A4 paper with some writing on, except it wasn't, and so much more, in fact.
In the end, it was shockingly easy to get her to agree to it. You knew her position on the subject; had for years, even before you had both, finally, succumbed to what was painfully obvious to everyone else around. You even respected her opinion, and had never once pushed the matter.
And then, she was kidnapped. Again. And suddenly you remembered why you had drawn that line in the first place, because the utter panic you had felt almost drowned you. You had almost lost it all, this time, and it was only your insistence of getting Zach involved, using that brain of his to pinpoint her location that you were able to save her. Again.
And when she was in your arms, beaten, crying, but alive, you knew you couldn't continue like this anymore. You didn't tell her then, of course. You waited, waited until the bruises faded, the nightmares lessened, her jumpiness at even the slightest noise almost completely disappeared. And then you brought it up.
"Why?"
The question, her puzzled face, you expected. The harsh, biting tone, you could guess at. Her tenseness, however, the way you just knew she had jumped into flight or fight mode, shocked you. But you hadn't been working with her for over 5 years without working out how to make her see things from more than one point of view.
You knew you couldn't rush her, that for her to be able to make a final decision she had to be shown facts, and then given time to be able to interpret them in a way that made sense to her. And so you gave her what she needed. Yes, it was a commitment. Yes, anthropologically, it was against the 'natural order' of things. Yes, there was every chance of things falling apart with or without the piece of paper. But yet, you wouldn't love her any less, weren't going to leave her any more, would respect her with or without it; so really, did it make a difference if there was a piece of paper or not?
And then, with that last question asked, you left her alone in her office in the house you had bought together the year before, letting her think it over, to come to her own conclusions. Because, even if she said no, kept to her guns and beliefs, well, it would be a disappointment, of course it would, but you'd rather have her happy and free, than miserable and tied to you. The last thing you want is to make her feel threatened, caged.
So when she came out a few hours later to your summons of dinner, and she didn't look at you for the whole meal, you began to gear yourself up for the rejection you were sure was to come. It shocked you, elated you, made you want to fall on your knees and thank her, God, the world, when she raised her head and met your eyes for the first time since you mentioned the whole idea to her her, and smiled.
"Ask me."
When later asked by, what felt like, the entire Jeffersonion medico-legal employment list what you had done to make her agree to it, you couldn't reply. It wasn't that you didn't want to, it was that you couldn't really remember yourself. There was her name, of course. And something about happiness, and respect, and love. But of everything you can't remember, the things that you do are probably the most important. The, "Marry me, Bones," and her, "Yes," said through a smile, and what she would forever deny as tears.
It was just like any other piece of A4 paper with some writing on, except it wasn't, and was so much better, in fact. Your signatures. And names. And the date. Along with some legal stuff that was expected on these type of things. And, of course, the title of the document.
'Marriage licence.'
End