A/N: If you hadn't gathered already, today is the birthday of some1tookmyname and there is a twitter tradition now well-established of showering a birthday girl in fic when their day rolls around. This is my contribution to that effort - it's been a bit of an... adventure shall we say and I'm all kinds of nervous, but Tracy, I do hope you enjoy. There aren't many people I'd write two fics in a week for ;)
This would not have been possible without Tadpole24 or sunsetdreamer. You should read their birthday fics too, cause they're both very talented ladies who deserve some love!
The Hour She First Believes
.
It's not that it's an accident the first time he says it (at least, they all mostly choose not to think about it that way), it's just that it catches them both unawares.
Though they are excellent partners, oddly well-matched individuals and in five months, the two sole people responsible for bringing a small child into the world, they still have some issues with communication because, well, that's just who they are. A stubborn FBI agent and an even more stubborn forensic anthropologist who, metaphorically speaking, aren't always talking the same language.
It doesn't make it any less sincere or any less accurate, it's just one of those things that seems easier left as unsaid between them, even as their relationship develops.
I love you.
Because he does. And she does. You don't spend six years going back and forth, struggling with friendships and distance and Significant Looks without landing yourself somewhere in the vein of a loving relationship when it finally all comes together. They might not use their words, but for the first four months they find more than a few other ways to get the very same feeling across.
It's a happy, unspoken arrangement.
That is, until one of them actually speaks.
.
He's irritable all week; quick to snap at the interns, a little short with the other agents that buzz around him and always sniffing away, refusing to finally concede defeat and reach for a tissue.
("Here, Booth." Brennan extends the box.
"Nah, really, I'm fine."
"You're not. Your constant sniffing is significantly disruptive."
"I'm hardly making a sound!" His nose begins to itch as he glares at her over the table and without really thinking he gives another short sniff.
Her eyebrow arches, "Booth."
"No."
"I can't concentrate! We'll be here an extra thirty minutes at this rate just to complete this paperwork."
"What? Just because I'm making a little more noise than usual?"
"Because you won't admit you're sick. And now it's not just affecting your work, it's affecting mine – so would you please just take one of these?" She extends the Kleenex out towards him once again.
"I'm fine, okay? I take one of those, it's like admitting that I'm actually sick. And I'm not. So I'll just keep on as normal and hopefully this thing will move right along to the next guy."
She looks at him for a long moment with an exasperated look; he should know better than to try to argue superstition over science but she's almost too weary to argue the point. Instead, he edges closer, a slow smile spreading on his face as he tries to win back her favour with no small amount of charm. His hand skirts over her knee and she leans into him just so as his face turns in towards her own.
Satisfied that she's mollified for the time being he's about to brush his lips over hers when she pushes him a good few feet backward and sounding distinctly amused informs him, "You are sick Booth, and I have no desire to be as well."
With an extra teasing pat to his knee, she drops the tissue box into his lap and moves across the room behind her desk.
"You can sit where you are."
From his position on her couch he goes to protest.
"And you can stay there 'til we're done.")
It's a rainy Tuesday when he finally wakes with a fever and achy joints. Brennan runs a cool hand over his forehead and declares him unfit for work, phoning the slightly-too-chirpy young woman in HR to inform her that Booth won't be in.
"High fever, joint pain, headaches," she lists in a flat tone that had he been any more cognisant, Booth might have affectionately referred to as squint speak.
"So, uh, he has the flu?"
Brennan sighs but agrees.
"And you are?"
"Dr Temperance Brennan."
"I'm sorry, who?"
"Booth's partner."
There's a pause on the other end of the line and Brennan finds herself in a strange moment of panic. They've never done this before, taking responsibility of the other in this new rather domestic way.
It seems unexpectedly satisfying.
The HR woman doesn't seem to ask too many more questions and once she's hung up the phone, Brennan returns to their room to find Booth in fitful sleep, tossing around uncomfortably. Making her decision, she makes a list with one hand (pain killers, soup, tissues, juice...) and dials Cam with the other; for now at least, the Jeffersonian can wait.
.
Booth isn't right for the rest of the week. He initially protests when he realizes her plans to stay home and mind him; after all, she's four months pregnant and he worries what might happen if she too falls ill, but Brennan reassures him that as recommended by her doctor earlier in her pregnancy, she'd had herself vaccinated at the beginning of flu season and the odds of her subsequently becoming sick are very low.
(Neither of them mention the distinct change in her story from the night in her office the week before, even if she does allow herself a quiet smile.)
Once this concern passes, however, he begins to appreciate her attention.
For starters, there's always soup – not just the kind from Mama's though – in a hundred different varieties comes the promise of a small amount of liquid relief. He knows better some days than to ask what's in the more interestingly-colored choices he's presented with in his more cognizant, upright moments, but as a general rule they taste good and he doesn't complain.
She's also remarkably attentive. Her attention to detail, which had always been so valuable in their work, also ensures that he takes the right pills at the right time and he spends the week in that almost pleasant haze that you can never quite manage when left to your own devices. Though he's sure he's terrible company, drowsy and as high as a kite, she never wavers from her routine and never seems to tire of her role as his care-giver.
It makes him confident (or at least, even more confident than before) that she'll be a great mom.
The thing that really gets him though is the companionship. For as long as he can remember, being sick meant toughing it out alone, blinds closed and phone switched off. Not since his mom can he remember feeling the cool press of a hand across his forehead, a muted voice in his doorway offering whatever he needs or someone to sympathize when it all just kind of hurts.
Never before would he have allowed anyone to get quite that close.
It's in one of these moments – when she's leaning over him in his bed and adjusting the sheets around him to something a little less twisted – that it happens. Reaching across his body for the other side of the sheet he feels the press of her abdomen into his side, a little firmer and a little rounder that before.
A little hazy, his hand darts out and he pulls her in closer, catching her by surprise.
"Booth! What are you doing?"
His reply is groggy, "Just c'mere."
She seems a little suspicious as she shuffles onto the bed and allows herself to be tucked into his side. For the last few days she's slept in her guest room, partly as an extra precaution but mostly to give him some space as he's tossed and turned and he's missed this feel of her curled into him.
His hand skirts across her stomach, settling there and his thumbs trace patterns over the loose material of her top. Hesitantly, her fingers join his.
"Feel that?" His fingers make their pass again as his eyes go heavy, voice thick with sleep, "It's different."
Quietly, "I'm going to start to show soon."
"Mmm, good."
She laughs lightly.
"I just really love you."
He doesn't remember much of what comes next, drifting in and out of a sleepy haze, but he knows that she stays there in bed with him for hours to come.
And for a while at least, nothing more really needs to be said.
.
.
.
The second time he says it (fully alert, sober and of his own free will), Booth makes it count.
From the beginning of their more intimate relationship, he is not shy about sharing his time with Parker. The weekends when his son stays are not treated any differently to any other time he might have free and as a general rule, Brennan is happily included in their plans.
It's not long before Brennan finds herself looking forward to these weekends. Booth is different in his capacity as a father – fun and free and oftentimes a little silly, and days they spend together often reminds her of a time with dolphins, with cake on a beach and with Keep on Tryin'. Booth has always had an amazing capacity to relate to children and though Brennan has always known it, getting to be a part of that is an opportunity that she treasures.
("So I just... hit it?"
"Yes Bones, use your physics." Booth points to each in turn, "Golf ball. Hole."
Parker laughs the way he does sometimes when they argue about stupid things and she doesn't miss the smile that Booth shoots in his direction.
"The golf ball is atypically large."
"That would be why it's called crazy golf."
She watches as Parker goes first and notes the way that Booth whoops encouragingly even though he clearly uses too much force to hit the ball, overshooting on the far side. The little details of being a parent.
The pair whoop again as the ball finally makes it into the hole and Parker runs back for an enthusiastic high five from his dad. With newly-gained expertise, Brennan extends her hand in time to join in their fun and as she pulls back, Booth casually tosses an arm across her shoulders.
She wonders if this is what a family looks like.
As Booth goes to take his turn, she notices he too uses too much force in his swing, but his careful aim and his steady hand betray a suspicious amount of expertise. By the time he's finished, he's taken one more shot than Parker and he can only shrug when Brennan shoots him a questioning look.
When she steps up to take her turn, she overacts her swing.
"So I just...?"
Her cartoonish attempt earns her another laugh from Parker before he bounces off to the other end of the green. The increasingly-familiar fizz of satisfaction rises within her; sometimes, this kid thing isn't so hard.
"No, Bones, you need to, y'know..." His arms wrap around her from behind, hands settling over hers on the club. With a glance to where Parker stands, back turned, she can't help but smile.
As he guides her swing in the right general direction, she angles her hips just enough to encourage an delicious sort of friction. Though Booth's stance does not betray any kind of reaction, he hovers a little as their arms swing back and his impromptu lesson comes to an end.
And as he steps away, she takes a perfect shot.
"Hey! But you-! You can't-" His arms wave as he expresses his objection to her obvious competence.
A smile. "Like you said Booth, it's simple physics."
"So you just...?" His leering expression says what he doesn't quite want to put out there on a family course, his hips mimicking the swing of her own with a lot less finesse.
"I've studied these things extensively. I do know how to hit a golf ball."
And then she laughs, because sometimes this relationship thing isn't too hard either.)
The difficult part, she finds, is not in having Parker around or integrating him into their lives, it's those times after he leaves.
It's the Sunday evenings Booth comes back to one of their apartments with a frown hovering over his features, less willing to offer up conversation, less willing to laugh.
She'd seen it before – kind of – back in that time when they were the type of partners who didn't share a bed at night. But on those occasions she didn't quite get to see the same spectrum of emotion; she didn't often get to be a part of their family or their fun in the same way and rarely would Booth offer so much of his sadness so plainly for her to see. Though in the nights when he would knock on her door a little later or they'd meet in a near-empty bar for drinks she could always tell he was a little unhappy, he worked hard then to maintain his facade.
She tries not to be frightened at the way that's slipped away now.
After the first few times it happens, she tries to cheer him. Drinking is out of the question so she cooks and bakes and rents copies of the DVDs he quotes all day long. He usually tries at least, following along with her hesitant lead, but for every weekend that his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes she feels a bubbling unease.
She ought to know how to fix this.
Still, in those evenings and occasionally in the days after, his dark mood hovers.
It's not really until she's well into her second trimester that it gets to be a little too much. In the weeks before she has tired easily and as much as she's loathe to admit it, an assortment of hormones have meant that her emotions have been somewhat... uneven.
When he arrives back that night, his jaw is tight and apprehension wears at her.
His eyes soon dart over the clean kitchen as he grumbles, "You should've waited to clear up when I got back. I said I'd help."
"It's fine."
They say nothing more.
Part of her knows she shouldn't be stubborn; all she really wants to be able to do is to make things right, to be enough, but week upon week of concern and frustration now seems a little hard to overcome.
On this night, she doesn't offer him much in the way of a distraction and their exchange about his kitchen seems to set the tone. Though it was never a fight, an awkward tension grows between them; she reads quietly, he watches TV, they don't really talk.
She's not exactly sure when she starts feeling sorry for herself, but she's getting so much bigger now and she's sore and mostly she's unnerved by the brittle air between them, the rich discomfort that has made its way into her home. In a way she would almost never allow, the sadness rises within her and it's not long before she withdraws to the darkness of their room.
Alone.
.
He checks on her an hour later but she doesn't look up from her book.
He pauses in the doorway, longer than would seem necessary and she feels his eyes heavy on her, watching.
After a long moment, he asks, "Are you okay? You went to bed earlier than usual."
Her focus remains on her book. It's just easier that way. "I'm fine."
"You sure?"
She takes a deep breath – she doesn't do this. But still, she can't help the quiet little words that escape, "Not really."
There's a rich pause, their eyes meeting for a significant look.
"Can we talk about it?"
She doesn't really say much in response.
He nods, and with half a smile goes off to brush his teeth. By the time he returns, she feels a little more composed.
A little more prepared.
Without much preamble she explains, "I'm sad... because you're sad."
"I'm sad?"
"About Parker. When he leaves."
This takes him a minute to digest.
"No, that's not..." He breaks off and tries again, "I'm not sad."
Brennan shrugs, "It's understandable. Now that he's gone you won't get to see him for almost two weeks, and for someone who is a very dedicated father your situation is far from ideal."
He doesn't seem to know how to respond as his eyes search her face for some kind of tell. "Yeah, sometimes it kinda sucks. But you don't have to worry about me, Bones."
As he finishes, he smiles that same smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I just want to be able to make you feel better." Her hands settle on her pronounced bump, "We're also your family now. That's what we're supposed to do."
His half-hearted smile gets a little bigger.
"You already do."
"But is it... the same?" Her voice is small.
"What- What do you mean?"
It's not easy. She has never freely shared her emotions or her fears but this is Booth and this is important.
"I feel like I should be better at this. At making you feel better. Being enough to be... a family."
"Hey, whoah, whoah." He steps over to the bed and wastes no time in pulling her into him. "That's crazy! Of course you're enough.
"The situation with Parker sucks sometimes, but this Bones, this is the dream, okay? No matter what, you – this – is the family I always wanted the most."
She nods into his shoulder.
"Yeah, sometimes I miss my kid and it's hard because when he's here, the three of us together – we're pretty amazing. But I love you; like I love Parker, more than I've ever been in love with anybody..."
Yes, the second time Booth says it, he makes it count.
"Booth?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you too."
And the second time he says it, Brennan says it back.
.
.
.
She recognizes their significance, these three little words; she knows that Booth honestly believes what he says in the moments that he says them. Sometimes she even says them back.
I love you.
But it takes a throwaway comment, an otherwise innocuous moment for her to really understand what it all means.
By the time her third trimester rolls around, she's aware that their living arrangements aren't exactly ideal but in the back of her mind she can't help but believe there's no other alternative. She doesn't feel she can offer him marriage, he's always seemed so unwilling to compromise – and for a long time, these are just the facts.
She finds it easier to box them away as such, rather than try to run at the issue head on.
It's in his apartment over breakfast that all that begins to change. His kitchen is too small and the only compromise that they've ever been able to reach is to split time, and so their argument begins again.
Except this time, it all seems to go a little further.
"Oh come on, Bones, you know what? It's been five months and we spend almost all of our time together. What we need is one bed. One place. Our place."
She has to say it.
"I thought you said you'd never move in with someone again unless you're married."
She has to say it because they've had this fight so often and because it's going nowhere and because it's always kind of nagged at her...
"Are you asking me to marry you?"
The response takes her by surprise.
"What? Me? No, no! You're the one who believes in marriage. I'm not going to bring it up."
"Well, you just did."
His refusal to directly respond makes her worry in an unfamiliar way.
And it makes her wonder.
"Are you saying that you aren't going to ask me to marry you?"
Something about putting that thought out there makes her nervous.
"No, you are going to ask me to marry you."
And though in the next moment his phone is ringing, though they have a case and their disagreement over where to live is far from over, it's right here that it all starts to make a little more sense.
It's just a silly comment, another one of his overly romantic ideas on the back of a little too much confidence, but she also knows that the truth behind his words is there.
She knows that before now, Booth has seen marriage as non-negotiable. She knows that it has brought about the end of more than one previous relationship.
And now she knows for her that the same rules don't seem to apply.
That he might just be willing to wait.
She'll struggle with this idea that they might live together; she'll struggle with her independence and with change.
But when he says it the next time – that he loves her for reasons that are about more than rationality – she'll finally understand it as something a little more.
Bigger, more permanent.
Different.
It's a thought that will stay with her for a long time to come.
Maybe, one day, she'll ask.
.