Thank you to all those who have read and reviewed my previous attempts, been so caught up with watching the show that I haven't had time to write! At the moment my Bones and Booth are hovering on the edge of Pelant, I've just begun season 8...
This story however is set around the end of season six, which I am sure is beloved for many. Me included.
Slight spoiler for 9x06 The Woman In White in Piece Twelve.
Her Patchwork Heart
By Rianne
Piece One.
She only recognised the sheer magnitude of the moment much later.
Two wounded souls meeting gaze across a busy lecture theatre.
He talked of fate, and she her dismissal of such notions.
Already clashing, already sparring.
Already something was aware.
Both dismissed it as the first sparkle of lust.
Interest, attraction.
They had felt that before.
There was work to be done.
Piece Two.
Came a little later. But only a matter of days.
Floating on a sea of tequila and flirtatious smiles.
A glimmering light in the eyes.
An admission of ancestry and a curious notion warming inside as the distance between them evaporated.
Then, a kiss no longer resisted.
Tumbled into, sweet and sensual.
Time slowing down.
Her heart had trembled.
The flood of responses new.
His pre-kiss words, that this felt like something was starting, setting faint alarm bells jangling.
But he had accepted her sudden change of mind with easy grace, and a longing look.
It had been easier to dash away.
The following confusion had been harder to dismiss.
Piece Three.
A discovery of an interest shared.
One beyond the work that they did.
Music.
His interest in her CD collection had left her uncomfortably vulnerable and exposed.
A secret vice. Hundreds of CD's, one item she did not usually restrain herself in purchasing.
The music brought her joy.
But dancing with Booth, in her own living room...
Blood hot and pounding through her veins.
Letting free the delight, the guilty pleasure found in air guitar.
More joy than she had felt in a long time.
In that moment he became friend.
Nearly died as a consequence.
Piece Four.
Had fallen when she had seen his x-rays.
Already feeling uncomfortably raw after the shock of the explosion.
Anxiously waiting for him to awaken. Twitching fingers unable to rest until they assessed the effects of the blast.
She had been stunned.
The extent of the marks visible on the bone.
Her fingers tracing the remodelled damage.
Clearly reading each break and fracture, flinching at the knowledge of the force with which each blow would have been dealt.
A legacy of war.
But the older breaks hurt more.
Twists to little arms, blows of adult force.
She had been aware of intruding, apologetic once he awoke, and she saw the fear in his eyes at her discoveries.
It was the first moment she not only felt, but understood his hurt.
Piece Five.
Arriving later in the same case, in the form of a rescue.
From a fear so raw it was nothing but terror.
Strung up, bound, ready to be slashed and eaten by dogs.
Her brain had told her that he could not possibly be coming for her.
He was injured, in the hospital, recovering from the blast meant for her.
Yet something new inside her had hoped.
Had hoped as she had only for her parent's reappearance before.
A need for this not to be the end. A desire for more.
His appearance had nearly stopped her heart.
He had shot another person.
A colleague of his.
She had only thought of that later.
In the moment there was only him.
Falling to his knees before her.
Eyes huge and dark.
His every movement heavy with pain.
It was the first time he had struggled, but not the first time he had been strong for her.
Falling into the warmth of his arms had been blissful relief.
To feel his heartbeat, his struggled breath, the heat of a single tear escape before he smothered it into her hair.
Her weight carried, in more ways than one.
Until an awareness of his injuries had leapt to her conscious, and she pulled away, but the mirroring need in his eyes had returned her to his embrace.
But with gentler grip.
She had forgotten what it was to be safe.
Piece Six.
Had been in reaching out to him.
Like he so often did to her.
An offer of understanding. The promise to listen to words that unburdened.
Forgiveness in the gentle hand placed on his arm.
Good advice, gladly received from Angela.
To a moment changed at the firm, warm feel of his palm clasping back.
To the pleasant and slightly confused realisation that somehow her simple gesture had in fact helped.
Piece Seven.
Was the moment he became her anchor.
Her mother's face in the Angelator.
A truth finally revealed.
He was the constant by her side.
At the very moment the earth beneath her shifted and all she knew was pulled into question.
His simple words, "I know who you are," as the floodgates opened.
Solid, strong, yet murmured so gently into her hair.
Joy?
Temperance?
She was still Bones.
Piece Eight.
Was a gesture she made in secret.
She dedicated her book to him.
To my friend and partner.
Piece Nine.
Was the first time she killed another human being.
A moment of frozen terror. Racing adrenaline.
A need to protect Booth uppermost.
Then after the night had stilled and she had hovered alone in the safe haven of the Lab, he had come.
To give her the chance to talk out the fear, with someone who knew.
Someone who shared the burden.
Who observed her tears with understanding silence.
Who brought a lingering moment of sweetness.
A gift in the form of a miniature plastic pig. Jasper.
He had listened to her, remembered her passing comment about her long forgotten desire for a pet.
In one gesture reminding her that he knew her caring nature.
How much compassion she felt, whether she showed it the world or not.
He saw.
Piece Ten.
Bestowed in the form of a stray compliment.
One not intentionally bestowed at first.
The end of a case. A selection of leftover, mostly stale doughnuts, a poor feast for champions.
A murmured disbelief from her, just spoken in passing conversation, about the way women sometimes did things so drastic to alter their appearance.
From him, a scoff, and the notion that of course she did not understand.
She had known instantly what he was implying, but it was a surprise.
The new knowledge causing blushing heat in her cheeks, making her uncharacteristically coy.
But she could not resist prompting him for clarification.
She did not doubt that others found her attractive, but he had never openly acknowledged that he thought that way about her.
"Well structured."
Charming man, a very Booth way to say he thought she was, as Angela termed it, "hot."
That he appreciated her body and her mind.
But she felt pretty under his warm gaze, as he moved closer, tempting her with the spicy delights of Thai food.
Suddenly a long night of paperwork hadn't sounded so bad.
Piece Eleven.
Had been a confirmation of sorts.
A step outside herself.
A sweet reminder of the old films she used to watch with her father.
Stepping from the hotel bathroom a whole new woman.
Roxy.
In a dress he had chosen for her.
One that had fitted like a glove.
One that had provoked him to slack jawed silence.
She felt sexy.
Aware of every curve and sleek line she possessed.
Red fingernails, red lipstick, smoky eyes.
She allowed him to slide her zipper into place.
The pads of his fingertips grazing her skin.
Shimmering with all kinds of heat.
Pretending to concentrate on the call to Cam and to ignore the breathy word which escaped him, and stirred more than her fussed hair.
'Hot.'
One syllable so full of admiration, so full of confirmation.
No one believed her hot in Vegas explanation.
Until she started moaning into his ear about sweat, squeezing his chest and arms more than she should.
Calling him 'Her Man.'
Loosely committed indeed.
Maybe they had enjoyed this little debacle more than they really should.
His hand on her ass, stuttering her brilliant mind.
And beginners luck had saved him.
From being beaten to a complete pulp.
It was ridiculous, and she still would not swear that she believed in it, but it had been worth a try.
Piece Twelve.
A fragment unseen. But carefully saved.
A prompt from Hodgins, her friend.
That there must be someone she needed to leave a message for.
Her friend had not provided the name, but he knew as well as she.
Words scribbled in the light of her emergency flash.
Written in what was thought the very last moments.
Dear Agent Booth...
You are a confusing man. You are irrational and impulsive, superstitious and exasperating.
You believe in ghosts, angels, and maybe even Santa Claus.
How is it possible that simply looking into your fine face gives me so much joy?
Why does it make me so happy that every time I try to sneak a peek at you, you're already looking at me?
Like you, it makes no sense, and like you it feels right.
If I ever get out of here, I will find a time and a place to tell you that you make my life messy, and confusing, and unfocussed, and irrational, and wonderful.
The only words she knew how to say.
A pale insignificance.
The desperate desire of a woman trapped beneath the earth as time ran out.
A woman who did have faith, if only in one man.
The man who saved her.
To Be Continued...