A/N: The title of this fic is inspired by the song 'Maybe - Kelly Clarkson', and the title of the chapter and the lyrics IN the chapter is inspired by 'Your Call - Secondhand Serenade', so go have a listen! They're both brilliant songs.
Also, this fic is an exploration of all the 'what if's' and possibilities that the gap between the end of S2 and the start of S3 left. It's very much AU, and branches off from what is 'canon' at the end of the S2 finale. So please, bear with me. (:
'Cause I was born to tell you I love you
And I am torn to do what I have to, to make you mine
Stay with me tonight.
"I don't see why you had to give me a ride home, Booth." She declared, irritated as she twisted her apartment key in the lock, hand pressed against the panelling for some purchase. Her partner leant against the same door frame, one half of his shirt un-tucked, his suit hanging gently on his frame, a content smile sitting on his lips.
"If anything, you are more inebriated than I am." The door gives way, and she withdraws the key with a metallic clank, pressing inwards as the door opens to reveal her living room. Her heels click on the floor as she travels over to the kitchen bench, dropping the keys in the middle of the granite tabletop and promptly sinking down into an armchair.
"I saw your tab, Bones, and tabs don't lie." He follows suit, collapsing on the chair next to hers, shaking his index finger in a particularly cheeky motion, a glint in his eye. The comfort of a nice, plump chair after a busy not-wedding reception is a nice touch, and Booth lets out a sigh, closing his eyes for a brief second.
Brennan's eyes thin out, suspicious of the words coming out of his mouth.
"It was a wedding, Booth. There's an open bar." She comments dryly.
"Oh." He grins sheepishly, adjusting his belt, and she laughs, those usually taut and disapproving lips spreading into an open position. He likes it when she smiles, even better when she laughs. It opens up a side of the Bones he rarely sees; the Temperance, the soft, feminine counterpart of Dr. Brennan.
"So, do you want anything? A beer?" Temperance starts playing the host, trying to lever herself out of the chair using the armrests.
"A beer, thanks. And it wasn't really a wedding, considering that Ange and Hodgins left before the vows were said. What was that about, anyway?" Booth questions as he watches Temperance's lithe figure in the tight deep purple dress he had commented on earlier in the day tread over to the kitchenette. Maybe this new feeling has something to do with the moment between them when they were left at the altar, with only empty space separating them and the priest.
Rubbing his finger along the coarse material of the chair, he pushes the thought to the back of his mind. He's had a long day, and he wants to relax. It doesn't seem in context, nor relevant. And even if it was, it would bring up some conversations and unanswered questions that were more comfortable being left unanswered.
"I'm not sure. She should explain on Monday." She opens the fridge, grabbing two green bottles, and feeling daring (and somewhat unlike her) throws one to him, who promptly catches it and cracks the beer open.
"She might be on her honeymoon on Monday, Bones." He reminds, taking a swig of the refreshing liquid that slides down his throat like an old friend. The bottle is cold and slippery, and his fingers are moist from the condensation that lies in waiting on the glass, waiting to be picked up by greedy fingers.
"She never got married. Why would she?"
"No point in wasting a honeymoon."
"Hodgins is rich. I'm sure it means nothing to him."
"That's not what I mean. Time spent on a holiday is time well spent."
"I've never really found that." She muses, fingers dancing along the bottle, creating staccato rhythms that ebb and flow in intensity as her lungs contract and she takes a breath in, lungs expanding as she exhales. It seems like eerie music, jarring beats that infiltrate their thought patterns. "My compulsory leaves always turned into digs of one kind or another. Holidays seem aimless. The prospect of sitting around all day, doing nothing does not appeal to me."
"That's ridiculous. The whole point of a holiday is to sit around and relax. Vegetate."
"That implies to be sluggish, and a slug is not a good thing to be. And I never said it wasn't the point; I just said that I disliked it." Brennan contradicts. Booth thinks he likes Temperance more than Dr. Brennan; things never turn into bickering over technicalities. But somehow, he likes this also. A comforting mould they can fall into, day after day.
"And I'm saying that it's foolish to dislike it. It's what people do after a long day, they relax. It's what we're doing right now!" Booth points out, suddenly becoming very expressive at the discovery of another point that he can argue.
"I'd have to agree." She dips her head down, as if admitting defeat. "And I'd also have to admit that I like this..."
"Yeah, Bones. Me too." The corner of his mouth tweaks upwards in a supporting smile, and his eyes look to her face, hoping for eye contact. It doesn't come, but he waits, sipping the beer as she looks at the floor.
He feels like something's changed between them, or at least something's changed within him. A large, resolute part of his mind has shifted altogether, leaving pathways open and ideas that had been previously unchallenged. He thinks he's falling for his partner.
The air suddenly becomes stagnant, breathing drawn and heavy, heard easily in the tense air. Both of them aren't moving, his eyes focussed on her and hers on the floor. He knows that she's thinking about her father, as much as the topic had been avoided.
"You alright, Bones? I'm sorry that it was your old man I had to put away." He puts his hand on hers, leaning over in his chair to make the gesture possible. Her eyes dart upwards, a meek, frightened expression plastered on her face, and he realizes that wasn't what she was going over in her mind, and that he might have over-stepped the boundary with that simple touch.
"You should go. It's getting late, and you have church tomorrow." The brisk, expected buffer rises, the extra blow about church an un-expected blow that hits him hard. Reeling, he sits in stunned silence as his partner collects the two beer bottles that had been placed on the coffee table minutes earlier, taking them to the kitchen to be disposed of at another time.
She almost expects him to be gone by the time that she returns from the kitchen, but he's still there. Not pressing the subject any further, she retreats to her bedroom, uttering a soft 'see you on Monday' as she closes the door shut.
As soon as the wooden barrier snaps closed, she leans back against it, wrapping her arms around her torso. She suddenly feels cold, like the harsh wind of reality has just blown past her. Her father had been arrested, and that moment with Booth at the altar had existed.
She feels very lost.
He feels very confused. No, that's the wrong word. Still sitting in her settee, he's anything but confused. His mind is made up, thoughts, deeds and actions set in stone, unchangeable. He feels courageous, as he pulls the handle, swinging open the door.
She sits alone, a small dent in the double bed, legs crossed and hunched over as if to retain warmth. A little, small entity in the big picture. A relatively unaccompanied entity, with her father now in jail, her mother dead, and her brother with a family of his own.
The figure says nothing as Booth carefully treads on the floor, sitting down on the bed beside her. No accusations, no angry words, no questions as to why he's still here.
"Temperance. I needed to put your father away. He killed the Deputy Director of the FBI." He runs his fingers through her hair, breathing the scent in, reassuring himself that this is still the woman he knows. The silent lady with her head facing down is not who he knows.
"I have nobody left. My father... he's a murderer." Her voice catches on the last word, and she noiselessly wipes a tear from her eye, then promptly assessing the finger and the round drop of salty water. "My mother died long ago, and Russ... he has his own family." In all senses of the word, she felt alone.
"Look..." He curls his index finger and nurses her chin, applying force (but not too much) to tilt her head to face his, like he's done before when she was involved in a voodoo crime back in New Orleans and when her father had killed Deputy Director Kirby. The familiar action sends these memories rushing back, but all thoughts are pressed from his mind when their eyes meet.
Her brilliant blue eyes are surrounded by little red veins, deep wells forming at where her bottom lid starts.
"You have me."
"Booth..." She hesitates, trying to pull out of the embrace, but he refuses. His fingers creep upwards, gently tracing the delicate contours of her chin, her skin soft against his rough fingertips. She exhales deeply, tears gently rolling down her cheek, but she's letting it happen.
He catches the tears, stopping them in their path as his finger moves up to her cheek, looping in circles then arching up to her brow-bone, and curving around to run down her nose. The air is silent, movements are slow. He stops tracing her face, and moves onto her arm.
"Booth..."
He passes her elbow, swirling as he travels through her lower arm, and coming to rest on her palm, which is laid out on her knee. Light as a feather, he traces each elegant finger, and upon finishing, rests his hand on hers, then looks back at her eyes, as if expecting something.
She takes a deep breath in, blinking several times as if to stop the tears slowly dripping onto the bed, and stretches her fingers inwards, filling the gap between his. They do the same with the other hands, then everything becomes a blur.
That double bed was used by two that night.
A/N: REVIEW! :D You know you want to!