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He's staring again.
"Booth, you're going to spoil it."
I've caught him doing it more frequently lately. Not just after his surgery, but before it too. He doesn't think I'll notice, but I do all the time. And I always wonder just what he is thinking when he's observing me. For all my intelligence, my anthropological knowledge, I've never been able to ascertain just what exactly is going on inside his head when he throws me these looks.
"How are you feeling?
"Sore," he says, while shrugging. "You didn't have to do this, Bones."
"I want to, Booth. You should be resting. Your stitches--"
"Don't hurt."
Liar. Not that he's bad at it, just that I noticed I've become better at reading him.
"You're five days post-op, Booth; you should be resting. I'll bring you your dinner--home made pasta, and you will rest."
And suddenly he's in my personal space. When did this happen? I blink and stare up at him, catching the intense look in his eyes.
"What? Do I have flour--"
Before the question even rolls across my lips I feel his fingers touching me lightly, and my mouth goes dry. Not the flour; even though he brushes away some of it from a spot right above my breasts.
"Did you want to have sex?"
I know he does. All the signs hint to his desire to work off the tension that comes off him in waves. But I still can't help my voice cracking on the end of that sentence. I know we shouldn't. I know a part of him doesn't. There's this talk we had before his surgery, an agreement to stop it from happening again. Another line. It's foolish to think we could balance on it when we've already crossed it so many times.
It's different. It has been for a while now. It will be if he answers the question like I think he will. But I can't help crave the closeness. More so now than ever before. I wish to feel his skin under my hands, to feel the steady beat of his heart, the racing of his pulse. The knowledge that he is alive and breathing. Despite the fact the proof of his surgery being successful is standing right in front of me--it's just not enough.
It never is.
"Probably not, Bones--"
Liar again. The change in his demeanor is sudden and surprising. I know he wants to have sex, his body gives off all the signs, and yet he holds back. Why?
"Because we agreed to not do it again? Or perhaps you're too sore? I could be gentle if you like."
He's distancing. I instantly miss his body-heat as he moves across the counter from me, crossing his arms in indifference.
"I could be on top if it puts less pressure on your--"
"Thanks for being in the O.R. with me, Bones."
Oh.
I have to avert my eyes, shielding what I really feel that moment. It all comes back so suddenly. The fear of losing him had overcome any other sensation at that moment. The look on his face, shortly before he had went under. I wished at that instant I would've had the courage to--.
"That's what partners are for."
"No, Bones. It's not that..."
That look again. The intensity of it is almost too much. Searing heat in just that one look, in those expressive warm hazel eyes of his. I can't look away, caught in this maelstrom of feelings that I can feel bubbling up faster than I can suppress them, faster than I can compartmentalize them away.
When did he move?
Hot breath caressing the back of my neck. His body-heat like a cocoon that surrounds us both. A hand on my cheek, turning my head his way.
And I can't look away. The wooden rolling-pin falls out of my hand, but I barely even register this fact as his hands are already busy untying the apron. Touching me. Everywhere. All at once.
His lips caress my skin, wherever they come in contact with it. But they never touch what I know he wants to touch the most.
I don't allow him too. I can't. It's the only barrier I have left. Kissing him... I still remember so well that one kiss we did share; and even then, I lost myself in the feeling of him, the heat, the sensations. It was too much, and not enough all at once. I realize it's this little that's left, that I didn't yet give to him. That I won't melt into his touch. Too afraid of what it might mean if I didn't try to cheapen our actions. If I didn't pretend that all we were having was no-strings-attached-sex.
Foolish thoughts, but it was all that I could cling too. Something that I could still maintain a semblance of control over.
"Are you sure about this, Booth?"
Maybe that's why I always ask him these questions. It's never him. Always me. As if the fact that I asked the question would shift the focus over to him. As if asking for a way out would be his decision, not mine. I'd over analyze it, if it wasn't for the fact he had already maneuvered us to his bedroom. Perhaps I should be thankful for his brashness.
We drop unto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He leaves a trail of butterfly kisses around my breasts, my clavicles, kissing his way up my neck, nibbling on my earlobe. I dig my nails into his back, hard enough to leave a mark. But he doesn't complain, he never does.
I feel his gaze on me, his desire-drugged eyes, darkened with the passion with which he ravishes my body. I tilt my head slightly, enough to place a kiss just below his heart. The steady beat almost soothing underneath my lips. I'm close, but not close enough.
I can feel his thrusting increasing, the crescendo reaching it's height, and my eyes slip closed as the sensations overwhelm me. It's too much, and not enough all at once. He exhausts me, satiates me, and still makes me crave for more in the end. No one has ever made me feel like that before, and I fear at times, that no one else ever will.
My eyelids flutter, and I catch him looking at me. His lips curl in a half-snarl as he lets out a grunt. I can only gasp helplessly, my hands twisting the sheets into tight balls as I shatter. As my orgasm washes over me.
I'm breathless. Speechless. As always. And I keep my eyes closed with the fear of what I might reveal, with the fear of what I feel. With the thought that he could understand it better than I understand it myself.
But this time he's out of breath too. And it doesn't even take an expert's eye to notice he's favoring one side.
"You shouldn't have been so... vigorous, Booth. You could have strained yourself."
"I'm fine, Bones."
I ignore him and scoot out slightly from underneath him so I can sit up right. Reaching around I try to reach the bandage to inspect it. His answering wince and sucked-in breath are all the proof I need to dismiss his statement that he was fine.
"Bones--"
"Just let me see, Booth."
"You deal with corpses, Bones. I can't see how you could know anything about this."
I've tended to his injuries many times before in the past. Why is he making such a fuss out of it now?
"Just let me see it."
I sit up even more right, but I can't get close enough. I end up straddling one of his legs before I'm finally able to see the bandage that covers his still fresh wound.
"It looks terrible, Booth. I think you may have pulled a few stitches out. Does it hurt?"
"More than you know, Bones."
His expression is unreadable as he answers my question, and I can't help feel confused. More than I know? Why hadn't he said so before?
He's wiggling underneath me, and I have trouble focusing on the task at hand.
"Stop, Booth."
I look up at him, and there's a soft look in his eyes, unfocused, intense, and I suck in a breath without realizing that I had been with-holding myself much needed oxygen. His hands wander, across my calves, my hips, my still sensitive breasts, as his eyes rake across my body. I'm lost. And within seconds he has scooped me up and dropped me back unto the rumpled sheets.
"You're beautiful, Bones."
That look. And suddenly I realize what it means. What it all meant all along. In the kitchen, like an hour ago, but what seemed like days now. Had I made a mistake then? Had I been making mistakes all along? Had I been so foolish to believe that he could keep himself to a promise made. That giving him this would be enough for him. Had I been willingly allowed myself to be misled?
"You... You made love to me, didn't you?"
There's no answer. I didn't think there would be one. There's just the look in his eyes. A wounded look, a sad expression. I feel a wave of fear passing over me, and I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. I can't handle what this might mean, what any of this means. Not right now, not when I feel so vulnerable like this in front of him.
I slide into my slacks and top in record-speed, all the while feeling his burning gaze boring into my back. But he doesn't say a word, and he doesn't stop me. Unshed tears brim behind my eyes, but I won't allow them to fall. I swallow around the lump in my throat and blink back the offending liquid.
"Bones, what are you doin'?"
"I think it's time to go, Booth. Dinner's ready, help yourself."
"You haven't eaten."
I spin around on the balls of my feet. Finally daring to lift my head and look him in the eyes.
"I'm not hungry..." I utter weakly, as I leave his bedroom without looking back.
He's fast. But also predictable. Before I'm even able to lay my hand on the doorknob he's in front of me. Blocking the exit.
"I would like to leave, Booth. You're in my way."
"Why are you leaving, Bones?"
"Because I have the right to? Could you move, please?"
I keep my eyes level, not willing to engage into a staring-contest, not willing to be confronted with his puppy-dog eyes pleading me to stay.
"You're pissed."
"I'm not."
Yes, I am. The exit is so close, and he's blocking it, trying to impose me. He should know by now it doesn't work on me. The longer I stay, the more he suffocates me. I can't breathe.
"You are. And I think I know why."
How dare he?
"I'm not mad, Booth."
"But you're leaving."
"Because I have work to do. Please move."
He stares at me, and I stare right back. What did he want me to say? What could I say. I just can't give him what he wants, and I thought he knew this. It's why I have to keep this distance between us, it's why I was so desperately trying to maintain that distance. But he's been chipping away at it all along, and I've been too blind to see it.
Words tumble through my head. Jumbled thoughts. Emotions I can't name, can't analyze when he's standing so close to me. So close, but never close enough. I can't give him more, not right now. So I look at him, try to convey what I feel. More than I understand, less than can be said.
"Fine, Bones. Have it your way."
I knew he would cave, even though it saddens me to see him like this.
"Thank you," I whisper, though loud enough for him to hear.
I'm out in the hallway, but only for a second. I can hear the words, the shakiness on which he utters them, the sadness that seeps through; and the tears that threatened to fall before are back with a vengeance.
"Bones, what if I--?"
I freeze, squeezing my eyes shut in the process before I turn around to face him. My eyes silently plead him to stop before he rips apart whatever semblance of control I might have left over my emotions.
"What if I told you--"
I stare at him, unable to turn away. Too exhausted to try to stop whatever words might follow next. I feel my cheeks grow hot. But he doesn't continue. There's a dip of his head, before he looks at me again, his face set like stone, an unreadable mask.
"I'll--I'll see you Monday, Bones."
Monday...
I've spend so much time with him. Lately, even more so than before. And it's not enough. I want more. I want to spend every waking moment, and even those not awake. I want more, but I'm afraid of it at the same time. I'm afraid to surrender this last bit of control. To give myself up completely.
I'm afraid that one day, I wake up alone, a vacant spot next to me. Not knowing where he is, or worse, knowing exactly where he is, and never seeing him again.
I'm afraid.
And it's the fear that finally wins out. I give him one final look, a look of defiance, confidence, put every remaining bit of energy I have left into appearing indifferent.
"Good-night, Booth."
I turn around again, and exit the complex without looking back.
I need more time. As much time as he can give me. And as I reach my apartment and cry myself to sleep in my half-empty bed, I pray that he'll be there for me when I'm ready.