A/N: Props to Jen for the beta.
He makes a comment about the cold and she knows that this is his in. She looks him in the eye, challenges him with her posture, her actions. More than she'll ever challenge him with words or violence. He's a body language person himself anyway. Prides himself on reading people. She realizes that he's the alpha male in this situation and he won't concede defeat, won't apologize. But she can tell that the coat is a peace offering, a metaphor. She's just not going to let him take the easy route.
Noticing her distraction, he takes her hand. He wills her to look at him. Classic alpha male behavior. She suppresses a soft chuckle and looks up at him. The look in his eyes startles her and she doesn't realize she gasps softly until she hears his soft chuckle. "What?"
He brushes his thumb against her wrist and she can feel her pulse quicken, swears that he has to be able to hear the loud thumping of her heart. She knows that if she abandoned the facts right now, she could confuse this for some kind of emotional realization. She could assume that maybe this was some kind of passionate feeling: infatuation, love, eros. But that's not who she is.
When she thinks about it, maybe her increased pulse and heart rate can be attributed to an adrenaline rush. Maybe she's afraid. Not afraid of him, not at all, but afraid of what he represents. Security. Safety. Innate trust. He's an anchor. And ironically, as transient as she is, as her life's been, she's afraid of it. She doesn't want to get attached. To anybody. That's why she doesn't want to get married. Or to have kids. Not the anthropological explanation she spouts, but for the sheer simple reason that if you find somebody to love, you'll get hurt. Badly. The only anchor she can accept right now is work.
She thinks of colloids, of particles swirling in solutions of various colors. Behaviorally, she's a colloid. Always transient, stuck in the circles of her behavior forever. She can't break her own cycle.
He twines his fingers with hers and turns it over, brushing over the lines of her palm with his other hand. All while staring intently at her face. Some lingering rational part of her tells her that he's observing her reactions, analyzing them. He seems curious, almost dumbstruck. But objectively speaking, she's the one who has yet to say anything. "Bones, I'm sorry." The words average less than 1.5 syllables, but she still feels the breath rush out of her.
Her brain is clicking, trying to process the situation, but nothing's coming to her. It's almost as if it's incomprehensible. She can't even think of anything to say. He's practically delivering a monologue. Her thoughts are rushing by at high speed, but they all seem so intangible. She can't keep her hands on any of them. In the back of her mind, it vaguely registers that he hasn't let go of her hands yet.
She looks at him, her mouth twitching, seemingly spouting words of its own accord. She's only half-aware of what she's saying after she's saying it; apparently, her brain and her mouth aren't on speaking terms at the moment. "I would have done the same," she hears herself saying. She feels disoriented, loose. Like when they danced together at that bar.
He's just too much for her. His scent, his touch, the way he smiles--she's constantly being bombarded by sensory traps, all of them tied to Booth. He pulls her from her thoughts when he graces her with a half-embrace, and she closes her eyes. He's almost like her first autopsy in that he offers her a full sensory overload. There's just so much to him, so much about him that intrigues her, fascinates her--there's so much to learn, to discover. She wants to explore him, and the thought leaves her shaking. "Bones," he murmurs gruffly. She shivers at the sound. "You all right?"
She shakes off the prickly sensations that seem to linger on every hair follicle on her skin and turns to face him. "Let's get back to work."