Found this on my computer…decided to post it. I think I'll make a series of Brennan's thoughts in third person, starting with Beginning in the End. We'll see how it goes. Hope you like!
Your hand is interlocked tightly with his, the contrast of his darker skin tone against your ivory one stark. You like the word stark- it's black and white, the way you saw the world for years upon years. Until one day, during one lecture about maceration when your world was shattered. Dressed in black and white (ironically enough), that was the first time you saw the sparkle of his eyes, the cockiness of his pose, the brilliance of his smile. And one of the most important lessons he's taught you besides that one about love is that there's shades of gray. You can love someone without being in love with them. Like the way you love puppies or rainbows or the way you used to love yourself. You think you did at least. You are aware that you are far too partial to the feeling of his larger, warmer hand enveloping yours. You don't need to be protected- you're a strong, independent woman who can take care of yourself. You did for years until you met him, and he took you under his wing and did his best to protect you. You never asked for it- in fact, you protested at every turn, but the absence of his presence hurts more than you would've thought. You mean, he's there in the physical sense. He's touching you, your hand is in his but the lightning, the spark, the warmth, all the things you love about him are gone. There. You said it. You love him. You want to skip and dance in the rain and proclaim this realization to the world, but the pain on his face is too evident, and he wants to move on, remember? Maybe you love him now, maybe you love him tomorrow, but will you love him next week, next month, next month? Yes. That's the automatic answer you give yourself. Hindsight's always twenty twenty.
But he's not yours anymore, he belongs to the universe at large, anyone who's smart enough to scoop him up and hold him tight. And you're trying to stand up on your own two feet and you feel raw, like the light's too bright and the noise is too loud and you want to be sheltered again but you're forced to fly free. And being let go has never ached so much, made your very being hurt. Your heart's crushed and it's not the first time. That night, that night at the Hoover that you regret every second of every day, you crushed two hearts- his and yours. You saw him break, the strongest man you've ever met crumble to bits, and it wasn't from a bullet or a knife, but from your own words. It felt like you'd need something like a gun or a knife to fell Booth, but in fact all it took was rejection. But, oh it was more than that. It was the breaking of a bond, the severing of a partnership (even though you didn't know that ramification yet). The dance had finally ended, the music stopped, the spell over you lifted. The fairytale with your own knight in FBI standard-issue body armor has ended, but there's one thing missing- it's not a happy ending. And is it ever, really? Someone always gets gypped. It's just not usually the princess.
And so you're sent careening back to reality, where you're alone and hurt and broken and none of those three things are going to change any time in the near future. Yeah, maybe you'll meet a guy and you'll fornicate with him and pretend for a second it's Booth holding you again, and you can have a second of peace, of a sense that the world's finally back on its axis. Because it certainly feels like it's fallen off, like it's spinning uncontrollably and not going anywhere. Oh, wait. That's you, and none of the directions seem like the right one. The only one would be the one he's going, and that's not possible. He's leaving you and he's given no indication that he wants you to follow him, traipse through the desert with him. But if he asked you, you would, without a doubt. And suddenly it really dawns on you- you may never see him again. His lips may never curve upward in that little smile he saves just for you, his hand may never again caress the small of your back. What will you do if that happens? And it's as if his thoughts are attune to yours.
"Listen Bones ... you got to be really careful in that Indonesian jungle, okay?" It's some comfort, at least, that he calls you Bones, that he hasn't resorted to calling you Brennan or Temperance or Bren, which would all be so wrong coming from his lips. To him, you're Bones, and him just saying that is so intimate and familiar, and it makes you feel safe in this sterile place with its incandescent lights and white floors and white walls. You've never liked white. But all ten digits of both of your hands are blanched with the pressure suddenly exerted by both of you, the intensity you need to convey in this simple gesture obvious. Your eyes are focused tightly on his brown ones, and the intensity behind his gaze is unsettling. You feel like you're being examined, scrutinized, analyzed and it's a discomfiting sensation.
"Booth, in a week, you're going to a war zone. Please don't be a hero. Please, just…don't be you." You find yourself saying, while at the tip of your tongue is "I love you. Don't leave me. Please stay." But that's too hard, and you find yourself realizing why he's never actually said the words I love you. They carry too much weight and they can't be rescinded. The best you can do is add a qualifier, like he did. Atta-girl. You think those may be the three syllables you hate most in the English language right now. No, you can never hate him nor anything he says. But you can hate yourself, and you do. For making the biggest mistake of yourself. For letting him go. And the best you can do is to hope. Hope that he'll come home, because anywhere he and you are together is home, whether it's a trailer on circus ground or your apartment at two in the morning. Hope that he doesn't meet anyone in Afghanistan, because you couldn't handle it. You couldn't tolerate him hugging someone else, kissing someone else, loving someone else. You would break. But wait- you're already broken.
And as your mind whirls, he lets go of your hand, leaving a sheen of sweat glistening on your palm. That's all you have left of him, perspiration, as he walks away from you. Out of your life, maybe for forever.
There. That's it. I have no idea what that is, but hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review or comment. Thanks!