A/N:- So it's been a while, and I never actually intended for this to evolve further than one chapter, but here we all are…
The scene where Bones bursts, unannounced, into Booth's bathroom precedes this chapter, which means that we jump forward a full fortnight. Some reviews for chapter one suggested I write what happened during those two weeks (both in a different manner to the show, and following cannon) however, from a personal point of view I feel that (in cannon – which is the way I prefer to write) those weeks would've merely been a case of Booth laying very low, and Brennan hiding herself away in Limbo avoiding any, and all, human interaction. I hope this makes even a teeny bit of sense :)
Disclaimer:- Not, not, not mine! Damnit!
"Bones?"
You call her name tentatively as you exit your bathroom, wrapped only in a towel.
There's no reply.
In your living room, you expect to find her perched at the far end of the sofa, ready to bring up the same argument all over again. Well either that, or inform you in serious tones that you really should fold the pile of laundry, which you threw on one of the armchairs just before you took your bath. She'll fix you with those piercing eyes, and you'll curse yourself for the fact that you're still not wearing any clothes.
The pile of laundry is where you left it.
She's gone.
Later, as you settle in front of the tv and tuck – not so delicately – into the pasta dish you just whipped up, you toy with the idea of calling her.
To say what?
"Hi, Bones. Just wanted to say again that you'll be the first person I call, the next time I die."
Or…
"So, Bones. See anything you liked earlier?"
No.
Definitely not the right time to call her.
Briefly, as you flick through the channels you wonder why the first thing your Sky box has picked up, from the last time it was switched on, is MTV. The last time you had time to watch anything, Parker was round for the night.
Your seven year old only has two modes when it comes to the tv: Nickelodeon, or the Disney Channel. MTV's presence strikes you as odd.
Taking another bite, you settle on ESPN to watch the highlights from the Flyer's game, and toss the doofer on the coffee table.
It doesn't take too long for your mind to swing round to Bones again.
Is it wrong that you aren't actually that bothered by the fact that she saw you naked this evening?
Completely starkers, save for your trusty beer hat: Taking a soak in a bubble bath, complete with Parker's duck, Green Lantern issue number thirty-three, and Social Distortion playing full volume.
Honestly?
It wasn't exactly ideal, as evenings go, but it was her fault for bursting into your bathroom with no warning.
Who even does that?
The fact that you proceeded to stand up naked in your bathtub only further proves that it was Bones' own fault for marching in there, claiming that you didn't give a shit about her, and expecting you to just sit there and take it.
If she didn't want to see anything, she could've turned around or closed her eyes or something.
Admittedly, it wasn't the most well thought out move you've made this week.
Now you're frustrated as well as being annoyed.
She definitely looked.
You decide not to dwell on the topic. There's never anything to gain by imagining your partner stripping off and joining you in the bathtub. As great as the mental image is, it only ever serves to make things awkward the following day. You'll feel guilty for jacking off to thoughts of Bones, and try to avoid her physically at all costs; and then she'll think she's said or done something wrong, because you're not hanging around her office, come lunchtime, pestering her to go to the diner with you.
Or bringing her coffee, at six am.
Or letting the two of you be alone in a room together.
Or even smiling at her.
It's not as if this exact pattern hasn't happened time and time again.
You gave up thinking you could be forgiven of all your sins, many moons ago.
The empty pasta bowl joins the doofer on the table, and you let out a decidedly heavy sigh, running your right hand through your hair.
It's still kind of damp from your bath.
You start thinking, all over again, about Bones bursting into your bathroom.
Well that doesn't help!
"No, no, no. Not going there! That's enough of that, Seel."
Geez, now you're talking to yourself.
Great.
You conclude that an early night is on the cards, especially seeing as you haven't slept in your own bed in over two weeks.
The Bureau are terrible at choosing a comfortable place to stay, and your back has started playing up again.
This evening's soak in a hot bath was meant to help it ease up a little, and it did… just not anywhere near as much as you'd have liked.
You don't like the niggling thought that maybe you're starting to get old.
It's no wonder you struggled to apprehend that guy this morning.
Of course, you are also sporting a relatively fresh gunshot wound to the chest.
If anyone asked or anything though, you were of course merely testing out a new arresting technique.
Ahem…
You tread the distance to your bedroom by the light of the waning moon, and silently close the door behind you.
Everything looks exactly like it did two weeks ago:
Bed made;
Dressing gown draped haphazardly as ever over the chair in the far corner.
At the windowsill, you run an absent hand over the framed photo of yourself and Parker.
You sigh.
Maybe none of this is fair on him.
Maybe next time…
No.
The point is, you won't let there be a next time.
As far as you are concerned, this time was damn well close enough.
You don't intend to fuck up again.
There's too much at risk, and the odds are rarely stacked in your favour.
A fresh pair of pyjama bottoms are easily located at the bottom of your chest of drawers.
You swap your jeans for them, feeling a sharp twinge of pain in your wound, as you bend forward to remove your socks.
Teeth gritted.
Yeah, you hate how this happened, but you wouldn't change the outcome of it for the world.
She's still alive, unscathed, and typically mad at you.
So what if you have a bullet-shaped hole in your chest, three shattered ribs, and are living on a cocktail of carefully selected, non-hallucinogenic painkillers?
She's still alive, and that makes it worth it.
In bed, you sigh in response to the comfort your brilliant mattress provides and tuck an arm up under the pillow that your head rests on, expecting to find the last pair of bottoms you wore to bed, so you can hurl them in the direction of your laundry hamper.
Your hand passes, uninterrupted, against cool sheets and equally cool pillowcases.
That's strange.
Perhaps you already moved them.
Before you got bundled off to take part in the grown-up version of playing dead.
Probably.
Course you did.
It's not like anyone else has been here.
A/N:- Also, I upped the rating a notch for language and sexual reference. If anybody feels it should be upped one further to M, then please let me know, as I often find the line to be a little wavy around these things! I don't think there's anything too 'off' for a T rating though…?
Reviews would be most lovely, in any way, shape, or form, and feel free to suggest a direction that I could take this in as I am toying with the idea of making it into a longer fic :)
Many thanks for taking the time to read :)
