I've been swept away by the tragic romance of Booth and Brennan tonight. I've been writing on Kryptonite, but I just wanted to write something in the moment, without having to think of storylines. So I did. And this is the result.
I don't own Bones. Please review!
It hurts.
She can't pretend it doesn't – for once, she can't compartmentalize into neat little boxes. Not when the thing that's hurting is the space the boxes are kept in.
She grabs a tissue from the coffee table, leaning against the couch miserably. This has never been her, the sad, lonely woman spending her evening crying over a man. She had always thought she was better than that. She didn't cry over men. And if she did, it was brief and quiet, not messy like now. She wasn't the woman to get swept up by her feelings.
She isn't.
Except now…
Now she is.
She's alone at home. That part doesn't bother her; she is not disturbed by silence and solitude.
It's the alternatives that she misses.
An evening with Angela – what she constantly referred to as 'girl talk', or one of those movies that seemed specifically aimed at emotional women –although she must admit they have made her cry, too–, wine and unhealthy food. She had never understood the relevance of these nights, but they had been entertaining.
Or Booth. Just an evening, going over paperwork, watching a game of baseball or a movie, or just driving around in his car – the things they had occasionally done, before – before Hannah. Before Afghanistan. Before that talk with Sweets.
Them.
She misses it. She misses them. She knows it's impossible to miss something that is still there, but she does. Their friendship has altered, and it's not necessarily the added romantic undertones that have caused the change, but it plays a role. It's in the fact that he has somebody to go home to now, while she – she is still alone, and is starting to doubt if she will ever have someone to go home to.
Before, she couldn't be bothered with these questions. Her personal happiness, although of course a factor, was not as important as her work.
But then Booth came along and changed the entire notion of what her happiness meant.
And now, now she wants to love somebody for thirty, forty or fifty years. She wants to be loved, to feel loved and cherished and she wants to feel all those things she sees in Angela's eyes whenever Hodgins is around. She wants to love.
Except now, she's missed her chance.
Hannah is the recipient now, receiving the love of a man she knows could love so well, so intensely – she knows, because she'd been the recipient once, when she'd been too foolish to realize, to see that she could give, too.
Regret felt bitter. She doesn't know if Booth felt the same way after she had told him no, but if he did, she must now compliment him on the way he continued his life.
She feels broken.
She cannot explain what is broken, except she doesn't feel whole anymore. Her life feels a little less like her life.
She wonders what Booth is doing at this moment. She knows him well enough to know that he cannot be unaffected by her admission. Simple logic tells her that he has not stopped caring about her… the only different thing is that now, another woman is taking up much of his love.
He will feel guilty, because as an alpha male, he feels responsible for her happiness. And he has seen that she is unhappy – unhappy, she repeats to herself, she is unhappy– and he will blame himself. Maybe Hannah will notice, and ask what is wrong, but she doubts he would tell her. He is intensely private about their relationship, she has noticed that when she saw Hannah's surprised reaction at information about their past – and he would not tell her about this. Not in the least because if he did, he would have to explain their entire story, from the very first kiss to the last night, and he would feel protective of their moments, and he would not want to share them with a newcomer, no matter how much he loves her.
She surprised herself by her insight – maybe the wine is making her more human. She takes another swig , grateful at least that the bottle is still mostly full. If she would get drunk, she would really have lost it. And after the last few days, all she needs is control. Science. Logic. Things that are measurable and quantifiable.
But tonight, she cries. Tonight, she lets logic go and embraces the pain. Tonight, she will grief.
See? No real structure, just going from one place to another, but this is the path my mind took.
God, I've missed writing...