A/N: okay, here's the second little installment. still not an "M" rated chapter, but it's coming, i swear. ;) hope you guys like it. this one's from Bren's POV. xoxo mia

Gently, Without Words.

Twigs crack and snap beneath our feet as we make our way along the trail. Booth is in front of me, the strong, broad muscles of his back moving beneath his t-shirt. It is a sunny day as we hike through the woods. It is the first of several outdoor weekend exercises suggested to us by our therapist as a way to "connect" as partners, to appreciate each other outside of the workplace.

It's somewhat ridiculous – I already appreciate Booth in ways that do not relate to our job, but when Lance Sweets had suggested this activity, I had kept my mouth closed. A hike had sounded...nice.

As I continue to watch him, his body nimble as he skirts large rocks and roots, I notice something else. He is favoring his left foot, just slightly. I study the way his hips rotate and shift, the way his upper body compensates for the uneven distribution of weight. He's in pain, I realize.

And for as much as people believe I'm oblivious, I am not.

I know him, know how he moves his body, how his mouth slips into a smile. I know how he takes his coffee, how he likes to dip his french fries in ketchup rather than pouring it on top. I know that he picks the raw onion off the side salad they bring him because he is afraid of having strong breath. The way he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans when he's unsure of himself or shy is something I now recognize in a heartbeat. I may not have always been as observant of the living as I am of the dead, but he's taught me to direct my skills in other directions, and so these are things I now see, that I know.

But I do not know his entire life. I do not know what he does when he leaves me, where he goes. I don't know if, on the nights we do not eat dinner with one another, if he goes home to eat alone, or if he calls friends. I do not know if he takes women to bed, or how often he calls his mother or what he wears when he sleeps. Maybe he wears nothing at all.

I direct my attention back to his body, now fully convinced that he's feeling pain – the way he's walking is more prominent the more difficult the trail becomes. My mouth is already open to ask him if he's hurting when I suddenly clamp it shut.

This is something I've learned from him – considering what I say before I say it.

Booth is proud – this is something I know as fact. He doesn't like to be seen as weak or in need of help, both physically and emotionally, and while I don't always agree with suffering through something to prove a point, I know he does. And so I consider my options, slowing slightly to have a better view of his steps.

He asks me a question, and I respond easily, my eyes still on him, my thoughts focused on something else entirely. I'm visualizing his x-rays, remembering the damage that had been evident in the bones of his feet. The left had been broken in more places than the right, the bones not always knitting back together perfectly.

The air is cool in the woods, and damp, the ground moist after a recent storm. Though I am unconvinced scientifically that barometric pressure effects previously broken bones or victims with arthritis, it seems to genuinely cause some discomfort for some people, and so I haven't ruled the possibility out entirely. It might be what's causing him to favor his foot this afternoon. I've certainly never noticed it bothering him before, regardless of the level of physical activity. Still, I know the skeleton and the muscles that move it – there is something wrong with his foot, and I'm betting that thing relates to the damage to his feet in the middle east.

I remember how I felt when I saw those x-rays. It had taken a moment to be able to connect that what I was looking at, while not unfamiliar, was the actually body of someone close to me, someone I cared for. I am accustomed, after all these years working with bones, to giving back voices and identities to those who have become nameless. What I'm not familiar with is examining people who have not lost those things, who still have a voice.

My throat had gone dry, and my chest had ached slightly, my muscles tensing. I'd stared at them for nearly an hour, studying each break in his body, each healed rib and metatarsal. It was like learning a secret, peeking inside somewhere I had not been allowed. But when I'd revealed to him what I now knew, I'd realized that I hadn't unearthed a secret. Instead, I'd learned only the first piece of information in a part of his life I'd hardly imagined. A life that, for the most part, is still a mystery to me.

I know he will not ask to slow down or stop, to turn around and head back early. And I also know if I mention his possible pain, he will fight me.

"Booth," I call suddenly, slowing down. "Can we stop for a minute?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say quietly. "I'm just… I'm a little tired."

The lie slips easily from my lips, and I plunk down on a nearby stump. His brow knits together, and he seems surprised. The trail is not difficult – despite his feet bothering him, he is not the slightest bit winded or run down.

"You sure you're okay, Bones?" he asks again.

"I just need to sit for a minute. I don't think I slept very well last night, is all."

He nods slowly, walking over to me, handing me the bottle of water he's been carrying. "Here."

I accept it gratefully; glad he's not asking any more questions. Truth is, I really hadn't slept that well. I'd been thinking about him, about our hike, about what it meant that we had to be instructed to do these kinds of things, that despite spending as much time together as we did, it was always under the heading of "work". Even now, out in the woods together, we are here because our therapist thinks we need to spend more time building our partnership and trust outside of work.

But I already trust him. I trust him with my life and wellbeing, with my family secrets and my personal moments. I don't need to build that on some psychology-ordered hike.

So what are we doing out here?

I scoot over a bit, allowing him to sit next to me on the stump, and hand him back the water. He takes a long drink, his head tipped back, and I sneak another look at him. He's an extremely attractive man, and while this is not news to him, I think he is unaware just how affecting it is. At the very least, I think he is unaware how much it stirs up feelings in me.

I dig in the small day pack I have with me, pulling out a sesame snack mix, offering some to him, and he smiles widely, popping some into his mouth.

"What are you doing tonight, Bones?"

"I might go into the lab," I say slowly, swallowing my own snack mix before speaking. "I have a skeleton I'm having trouble identifying."

"It's over a hundred years old," he groans, elbowing me. "Are you really in a hurry on that one?"

"It's my job," I say, somewhat miffed.

"Not on a Saturday night, it's not." He reaches for more snack mix, and I hand him the container. "C'mon, let's have dinner or something."

I consider this for several moments, tapping my fingers on my knee. I really had planned on going to lab, and then maybe working on my novel when I got home. I had several articles I'd planned on reading as well, and I had plans to have lunch with Angela on Sunday, so really….

"C'mon," he presses. "My treat. Anywhere you want to go." He winks at me. "Sweets would approve."

I try to bite back a smile. He has this way, this tone he uses when he's trying to bend me to get his way, and I pray he never knows how easy it is for him to sway me in one direction or another.

As a teenager in foster care, I did my best to avoid attention. I was teased for the mismatched and sometimes ill-fitting clothing I was left with, and the grades I received in school. At the very least, the unfashionable clothing I was left with hid my body and I was able to dodge most of the comments from boys concerning my figure. Some of them would try to pester me for help with their homework, to write papers for them. I refused. I was able to see through that façade even without well-developed social skills, and wasn't about to let them cut corners with a little bit of flattery.

But I trust Seeley Booth, and that, I believe is the difference. He could have easily, when partnered with me, chosen to keep our relationship one hundred percent professional, to do his job and to keep his distance. But Booth… he likes me. He enjoys my company, even when I don't understand his references or get his jokes. Even when it's inconvenient for him, he's stood up for me, has risked his job for me.

And so when he wheedles me about a dinner date, even when I know I should say no, I cannot help but cave under the slight pressure and the brightness of his smile.

"Okay, fine," I relent, making sure he knows that I'm giving in, not just agreeing. "But lets eat at my house instead of going out – we can order out."

He grins broadly, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans, but when he turns slightly, I see he is still favoring his foot.

"Ready to keep going?" he asks a little too brightly.

"Actually…." I say slowly, "Do you mind if we head back? I'm really just a little too tired for this today."

He shrugs, although I can see the relief in the way his shoulders relax, and the way he does not push. He would have hiked another ten miles without a word, but even if he does not realize exactly what I've done, his feet are grateful.

--

My feet fly over the pavement as I make my way around the corner back towards my building. Because I'd cut our hike short, my body had been aching for more exercise, and so I'd thrown on my running shoes after he'd pulled away, taking off through the city streets. I must have been carried away by my own thoughts, however, because when I glanced down at my watch, I realized it was dangerously close to when Booth was going to be at my apartment.

I give a quick wave to the doorman, skipping the elevator when I note what floor it's on, and race quickly up the stairs. They wind me a bit, and so it is because I'm doubled over, gasping for breath, that I miss that he is standing outside my door.

"Bones."

Shit.

"Hi," I gasp out, my hands on my hips. "Sorry. The time got away from me."

He looks at me strangely, walking towards me, a bag of takeout in his hand. "I thought you were tired… you went running?"

I blink for a moment, unsure what to do after being caught in a lie. "I got a second wind," I manage, walking towards my door, pulling my key from my shoelace.

"Uh huh."

He sounds unconvinced, but he doesn't say anything else, following me into my apartment. I push my hair off my forehead where it has stuck to the sweat, and roll my shoulders. "I'm going to take a really fast shower," I say quickly. "Can you get out plates and silverware?"

He nods, heading to the kitchen, and as I shower the sweat quickly from my body, I curse myself for getting caught. I hate being dishonest, and I hate even more that he thinks me dishonest.

I'm out in the kitchen in under ten minutes, wearing clean clothes, my hair sticking damply to my neck, and he's laid out steaming plates of delicious looking food. I notice he got a salad for me as well.

"That was fast," he murmurs, handing me a bottle of beer. "You weren't kidding."

"I'm hungry," I say with a smile. "It was good motivation."

"Must be from your run," he says, not meeting my eyes.

I follow him out into the living room, taking a seat on the couch next to him, and we eat silently for several moments before he finally looks up at me.

"Why did you lie to me?" he asks quietly. "Why did you tell me you were too tired and then an hour later you went on a run?"

I sigh, wondering what the best thing to do is. Resting my plate on my knees, I turn towards him slightly, studying his face. He looks hurt.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I wasn't trying to lie to you."

"But you did."

I figure, at this point, that if I'm not honest I'll just dig a deeper hole. "I knew your feet were hurting you," I admit.

"You what?"

I can't read the tone in his voice, and so I sit silently for a moment before answering. "I saw you were favoring your foot, and I knew you wouldn't say anything."

He seems to consider this for a moment, setting his fork down on his plate. "My feet were fine."

I shrug. "You were adjusting your weight to keep more off your left foot. I'm assuming the weather was stressing the points where it was broken in the past – it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I'm not," he says tensely.

Frustrated, I stand up in a huff. "Look, whether you want to admit it to me or not, I can read you, alright? And you were in pain hiking. And I also know you would have hiked thirty miles if I'd asked you to, and not said a word, all the while being uncomfortable. So I made a choice to turn around, and I knew if I told you I was tired you'd go. It isn't a big deal."

Now it is Booth who is studying me, his eyes shining as he meets my eyes. He sets down his plate as well, standing, and for a moment I think he's going to leave, that he's going to walk right out my door without even a backwards glance.

But he steps towards me, tipping my chin up to meet his eyes, and then leans down, hesitantly at first, brushing his lips over mine. He doesn't say thank you, and he certainly doesn't admit that he was relieved when I'd had us turn around. But his eyes reflect his gratitude, and he kisses me again, this time on the cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

We both sit again, picking up our plates, and in moments we are laughing, recalling something funny Hodgins had said in front of Cullen earlier in the week. We are at ease again, the trust restored, and as he pulls my own feet into his lap, I catch the sparkle in his eyes and know my message, gently, without words, was received.