I can't believe I haven't posted this earlier! I just found it on my lj page, and I found out I hadn't posted it here.
Wow, my fans will be happy... Four fics in one day! =)
So, the idea has been done a thousand times before, and I just wanted to contribute mine. Enjoy!
She opened her eyes as she felt the sunbeams on her face. It was morning already; she really should get out of bed and go to the Jeffersonian to finish the identifications she had started working on yesterday.
She showered quickly, leaving plenty of time for her to get dressed and get some breakfast. She'd never really been fond of breakfast, but due to Booth's regular insistence that she ate some breakfast, she had grudgingly accepted it in her daily morning routine.
Looking around in the kitchen, she realized she didn't have much to eat: because of the recent hectic cases she hardly, if ever, ate at home these days.
Just as she contemplated going out to buy something to eat, she heard her doorbell ring.
She frowned as she looked through the peeping hole and saw Booth standing in front of her door, holding some paper bags which she suspected contained food.
She opened the door. "What are you doing here?" she asked him, frowning, before he could get a word out.
"Thought I'd bring you some breakfast," Booth replied, holding up the paper bags. "I have muffins, two apples and donuts."
How did he know what I want?
Ignoring her inner questions, she opened the door more widely to let him in. She was suddenly very aware of her bath robe.
He went for the couch straight away. He'd been here too often to bother with polite invitations to sit down.
"I'm going to put some clothes on," she told him, and he looked up and nodded, taking in her appearance for the first time.
Right, Seeley, as if you hadn't seen that already. Real smooth, boy.
"'Kay," he replied, diverting his eyes from her form to open the bags in front of him. When he looked up again, she was gone, most likely back to her bedroom to dress.
Shaking off any images of her dressing, he looked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings.
There was a pile of books lying next to the couch, and he crouched next to it, wondering what she'd been reading recently.
He frowned as he saw the title of one of her own books. Was she reading the books she herself had written? He wouldn't put it past her, but the position of the book at the bottom of the pile suggested she hadn't touched it in a while.
He removed the book from its place at the bottom, trying to remember what exactly had happened in that particular book. He'd read all of her books, and he'd been positively surprised by Bones' fluency with words. It was something entirely different than what she usually used in daily language.
When he opened it, a piece of a page fluttered out. He recognized it as the title page and wondered why Bones would have a book in such a state, but the thought was forgotten when he saw there was writing on the page. Writing meant for him, because his own name was at the top.
He held it closer, squinting a little as he recognized Bones' familiar, round handwriting. But it was written much smaller, much less neat than usual, as if she'd been in a hurry. Well, maybe she had been. He took a breath and started reading.
Booth,
Hodgins suggested I write a note, but I am not sure what to write. What do you write when you think you are about to die?
Hodgins wrote a note to Angela, so it would be logical that I write a note to the most important person in my life, which happens to be you.
I cannot remember when, why or how it happened, but maybe that's not important. It happened, and it's here, and it's helping me keep calm in this situation.
It is not rational. I can't logically explain what you have come to mean to me. I can only say with certainty that you have, that you mean a lot to me. More than I'd ever thought someone would mean to me, someone who wasn't blood-related. But you've managed to do so, and I want to thank you for doing that. For making me so annoyingly frustrated at times, for pushing at the right times, for letting me go when you deem it the best decision.
I don't have much time left. I don't know if I will see you again – at this point, it seems a rather pointless wish. But if this gets out, know that while I don't know much about love, I think that is the nature of my feelings for you, Seeley. Love. I love you.
Yours,
Temperance
He stayed there for a long time, staring down at the piece of paper shaking in his hands.
Two years. Two years ago she had written this, in a moment –or rather a time– of desperation, when she thought she'd never get out alive.
To him. Not to Angela, but to him. Saying all these things – and she'd been walking around with them for two years.
He came back to reality when he heard her bedroom door close, signalling she'd be back any second now. He hastily shoved the piece of paper back into the back and opened it at a random page, pretending to be reading.
She walked into the room, furrowing her brow as she saw Booth reading a book. One of her books, she discovered when she looked a bit closer.
"Why are you reading that?" she asked him, and he looked up, appearing surprised.
"I was, uh, just looking for a quote," he said and his eyes returned to the books. "Here… '"There's no way the guy could've thrown Howard that far without falling himself," Andy said, looking up at his partner.' That's what I wanted to know."
It didn't take a genius' mind to tell she didn't believe him. Who would? Stupid, stupid book, he cursed silently.
She sat down on the couch next to him, peering into the first bag to retrieve a muffin. "How did you know I wanted all these things?" she asked, her mouth full with muffin.
"Gut feeling," he grinned, trying desperately to get some of his confidence back. The note kept repeating itself like a macabre mantra. While I don't know much about love, I think that is the nature of my feelings for you. I love you.
He could not pretend it wasn't what he longed to hear, had been longing to hear ever since he'd realized his own feelings: but like this, so suddenly, so unexpectantly, and yet so long ago, this surprised him.
He debated whether he should tell her he'd found the note. But when he saw her eating, simply eating, he couldn't do it. It wasn't the time nor the place; she would be embarrassed, probably, or she would come up with a scientific explanation of how times of despair make people say –or write, in this case– strange things. And who knew? Maybe it was true; maybe she didn't even mean it… He felt a tug as that thought surfaced. Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing. Maybe… there were too many maybes.
The day would come when he could tell her – and maybe, just maybe, she would tell him, too.