A/N: ohmygod it's SO CLICHÉ I can barely even stand to read it. I cannot believe I've written something so epically… suck. I just feel like this relationship is much harder to write than others I've written, and it frustrates me to NO END. The point of view awkwardly shifts and it's so damn predictable and GAH I hate it and yet I'm still posting it. What is wrong with me?
She's lost it.
One second she's perfectly composed as she sits in front of her computer tapping out the next chapter of the sequel she's obligated herself to write, and the next her head is in her hands and she's staring at the top of her desk through mascara-stained tears.
The last case had been a particularly difficult one—another child, another sad story that hit a little too close to home. The last few cases have been piling up on her chest; the dog case, especially, affected her profoundly, and now this. Even though she can "put her heart in a box" and force herself to look objectively at a case, it still gets to her.
Her shoulders shake and she can't hear the rapping on her door over her sobbing. A hand softly touches her shoulder—a big, warm one, one it wouldn't take a forensic anthropologist to identify. The hand doesn't try to pull her up out of her huddle; it simply rubs her shoulder before she hears something being placed on her desk. She turns her head up to face whatever was placed on her desk and sees a steaming cup of chamomile tea. Reaching her hand out for it, she pulls it toward her and sips as the hand turns her chair around slowly.
"Bones," is the only word he utters in his deep, soothing, honey-voice as he squats down to her level. She peers at him over the rim of her cardboard cup and says nothing in response, and he sighs and looks at the floor.
"You didn't knock," she finally responds after drinking more tea.
"I most certainly did," he says quietly. "I don't think you could hear me."
"What, because I was crying?" She puts the tea down and crosses her arms, her eyebrows furrowing together. "I'm not allowed to cry because I'm a scientist? Is that it? I am not allowed to be emotional?"
He draws in a breath through his teeth and holds it a moment before releasing it. "That's not what I meant. I meant exactly what I said—I knocked on the door, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
She closes her eyes and squeezes out a tear that rolls unbridled down her cheek, picking up stray bits of makeup as it goes. As she sighs, she licks her lips and collects the salty tear, and her eyes open again. "I'm sorry that I overreacted. I don't know what's gotten into me lately."
"It's called your job. We investigate dead people for a living, Bones. It was bound to hit you sometime. Even you aren't a robot. You know that." He picks up her tea from the desk and hands it back to her, his eyes lingering on hers. "I know that. You have just as much of a right to be sad as anybody else."
"I remember when Angela threatened to leave," she says after taking a large gulp of tea, her eyes roaming the room. "She felt like it was too much, what we were doing. I think how I feel now is exactly how she felt then."
"And yet, she still works here," he reminds her as he places a hand on her knee to draw her attention to him. "You are the strongest woman—no, person I know. If anybody has a gift of… guts and, and ability to bring closure and comfort to so many people, it's you, Bones. I know how you feel. I've shot a lot of people—I was a sniper, remember? Now I'm just doing my best to make up for it. Some people, that would be us, just have certain abilities to make the world a better place. Don't squander those abilities, Bones. Don't you dare quit on me. I… I need you."
"You, the big-shot FBI guy, need me?" Yeah, she knows exactly what he means when he says that, but she sees no harm in poking and prodding his ego a little bit. Goodness knows it could use some downsizing.
"Of course I need you. I couldn't do any of this by myself. We both know that." A final gray tear runs down her face and he lifts a hand to gently wipe away the tear with his thumb, his fingertips lingering on her jawline, his dark eyes twinkling furiously with untold secrets as he smiles softly. "We're a team."
She raises her left hand from her coffee cup and wraps it around his, both warm against her face, and suddenly feels even more vulnerable. "I hate depending on other people." She sighs and takes another sip of her tea, licking residual honey from her lips.
"I know. Just…" he looks up at the ceiling and then back into her eyes. "Don't depend on me. I'll depend on you. I already do, more than I'm comfortable with. We're both prideful."
"But yes, we do both need each other," she admits as she looks down at her tea. "I cannot believe I just admitted that."
A few awkward moments pass before she clears her throat, stands up, and starts for the door. Gulping down the last of her tea, she tosses the cup in the trash and feels that hand grasp her wrist. "It's okay to need people, Bones," he reminds her. "Don't pretend you can't go through this alone if you can't."
When she finally thought she'd returned to her usual composure, she instead finds herself unpredictably collapsing into his arms. "I can't," she sobs, muffled by his jacket, and then looks up into his eyes, her fingers tangled in his collar. "I need you."
He looks down at her and their eyes hold for long seconds before he finally closes the gap between them. He feels a bit guilty—like he's taking advantage of her in a weak, vulnerable situation, but once he's smelled the chamomile on her breath and tasted the honey on her lips he's done for. She pulls on his collar and they move even closer together, and he can feel her smiling.