AN: Phew! Thank you for reassuring me for the last chapter. It wasn't the most romantic smut in the world, but the end conclusion - the motive behind the need to claim her in his mind - was rather sweet and Boothy. Save Brennan. Protect his partner. I forgive him. Your reviews have all been so supportive and kind.
And now, the flip side of last week's coin... Time to explore one of my favourite B&B scenes, a perfect example of how much David and Emily can say with a glance. I debated posting, in light of recent events, and debated changing chapter order (this was written two weeks ago and I have others ready), but in the end, distraction always helps me... and the message seemed sadly fitting.
My heart goes out to Newtown...
Tag To: The Pain In The Heart
Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or Better Than Ezra's bittersweet beauty of a tune, "Porcelain". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement is intended.
Porcelain (Better Than Ezra)
His jaw aches as he turns on the faucet with a rough twist. It is a welcome pain, a not entirely undeserved sort of ache. He shifts back and forth as he drops the needle on one of his favourite records and knows it's going to take more than a little ice and Tylenol to recover.
Why is he surprised? He's known she's packed a punch from the start.
He turns the music up louder and checks the temperature of the water before stripping out of his clothing. He's missed his apartment, missed the creature comforts of his domain. He paced the cushioned cage of the safehouse for several long and hellish days, watching TV with the other agents and cracking jokes, all of which they understood.
He missed not being understood.
There's nothing he can do: the damage is done. He was just following orders. Couldn't she understand that?
Forget about it. He needs to forget the way her body shifted and shook, the way she angrily spat at Angela that the bullet was hers, that she would have happily taken it. Forget the moment he realized her acting hadn't improved: she had truly believed he'd died. Another sip of beer from the novelty helmet Jared bought him last Christmas and he sinks into the hot water and loses himself in a comic. He even lights a cigar because fuck it, he took a bullet and lived to tell the tale.
He knows how often it goes the other way.
He gets no further than track two on his worn copy of Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell when his bathroom door flies open and the needle scratches as his partner yanks it off the vinyl. He has no time to cringe at this abuse of sacred property because she is furious and not leaving without a fight. But not a fist fight; no, she's had her fix of that today. This is a stealthy, psychological battle and she's going to duel to the death.
For a minute, he is just as furious. This is a complete invasion of his privacy, no matter how upset she is over the faked death thing. It's also a wake-up call for him that the fake rock is an open invitation for people to break in with his own key. In the next minute, he realizes he's in a vulnerable position, one she seems oblivious to as she criticizes his choice of beverage and celebratory Cuban delight.
"Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to show your face around here
Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears
Well, I wish I could shake some sense into you and walk out the door
But your skin is like porcelain
Yeah, your skin is like porcelain..."
"Okay, what the hell do you want now, Bones? Okay? Because I'm not really feeling too relaxed."
"You should have told me you weren't dead!"
It's been a constant refrain today, and he doesn't know how many other ways he can explain it. But he tries again, because maybe it'll sink into her brilliant but bullheaded skull.
"Protocol?" she echoes.
"Yes!"
"We've been partners for three years Booth, and you've broken protocol before – sometimes putting my life in danger. Which makes sense, since you clearly don't have any concern for me!"
The still-present ache beneath his bandage begs to differ. The memory of dragging himself from a hospital bed to rescue her from a rogue agent planning to feed her to dogs rebuffs her. His callused hands still remember digging her out of the earth, and they push him to standing in the tub, because he's forgotten where he is. He needs to assert himself and he's going to use his height and stature to do it.
"I took a bullet for you!" he snaps.
"Once! That only goes so far."
Her voice almost breaks and it's enough to jar him from the misty red-eyed rage brewing within. Her eyes are pained and he understands with sickening clarity that he's the one who's hurt her. In his mind, he can hear her words, ringing in his ears: I knew you'd come.
She trusted him to come for her, to save her, but also to not abandon her. And then he left her. For two weeks, he left her. The impatient bouncing at the cemetery takes on a new hue, one of desperate anxiety and sadness. He knows how she feels about cemeteries, about visiting loved ones. He's put her through hell.
A chill hits his body as she shifts her vision down, ever so slightly, then up again.
"Just the other day I felt I had you by a string
Just the other day I felt we could be everything
But now when I see you, you're somebody else
In somebody's eyes
And your skin is like porcelain
Yeah, your skin is like porcelain..."
"Would you like a towel?" she asks, her voice still hoarse with emotion.
He's naked. Naked in front of his beautiful partner, the woman he once wanted to take home and bed. And his awareness of her, of her noticing his nude form, has created a new problem, one that's growing fast.
There's also a complication: he's forgotten to actually bring a bath towel into the room with him.
Reluctantly, he sinks back into the water, although it affords little in the way of modesty. It suggests a comfort he most certainly does not feel with her, a silent refusal to end his bath simply because she's marched into his bathroom and broken his heart. No matter how embarrassed he feels, he has one priority right now: making it right with her.
"Fine. What is it that I should have done, Bones?" She licks her lips unconsciously and he squeezes his thighs in a desperate bid to calm down. "What did you want me to do?"
"Well, you could have called me! Did you really think I needed to be vetted by your boss? I mean, don't you trust me?"
She is vulnerable too: her posture is ever so slightly diminished, her voice lacking the confident bravado of her intelligence. He wonders if this is a conversation she had with her father and his stomach lurches. He should have called her. Too many people have walked out of her life without answers.
"I don't know what I'm saying
Well, I don't know if you're there
In the words you are feigning
Do you even care?"
"Of course I do."
"Then why wasn't I told? It must have been something you said," she presses, edging closer until she is towering over him, rendering him as insignificant as she clearly felt.
"No, I don't know why you weren't told!" And he doesn't know why, nor does he understand why this hasn't bothered him before this very moment.
"But you-you said I should be. I mean, aren't you curious why I wasn't?"
"Yes! Do you want me to find out why you weren't told?"
As soon as he's said it, he knows the correct response: yes, yes she does want me to find out. But Bones, in her ever stubborn way, cannot give him a straight answer, nor fully accept that he wasn't maliciously trying to hurt her.
"If it's important to you," she replies quietly, with the hint of a pout crossing her soft lips.
"Fine. I will." His ego bruised, he can't resist a counter-jab. "Next time I die, I will tell you."
He flips open his comic, scarcely hearing her soft response.
"I'll look forward to that." Moments later, she's back to her old self, or so it seems, investigating a grand scientific mystery. "What are you reading?"
"A novel." He catches her dubious expression and adds, "A graphic novel."
"Just so you know, I find your lack of puritan modesty very refreshing."
She had to remind him of his predicament, didn't she? He tilts the comic for cover, but it's unnecessary. She pivots on her heel and heads out, pausing to drop the needle on his record before sliding the door shut behind her.
The sanctity of his watery refuge restored, the fine details of their encounter sift into consciousness. Her clothes hung just a little looser than he remembered, particularly her pants. Her eyes, they were more grey than blue – stormy and troubled, not the serene ocean he often lost himself within.
She grieved him. For two weeks, his partner grieved his loss. Her quiet response moments ago – "I'll look forward to that." – takes on a deeper meaning. If he can tell her he's dead, he's not gone.
He suddenly recalls her touch on that night at the Checkerbox, her hand stroking his face in the ambulance. Her words are garbled, lost in a haze of sirens and the pounding of his heart in his ears, but her frantic looks as he slipped in and out of consciousness linger. Her bloodstained palm cradled his cheek, smooth and cool like porcelain.
He'll remember next time that the finest dolls can break oh so easily.
"Well I wish I could kill you, savor the sight
Get into my car, drive into the night
Then lie as I scream to the heavens above
That I was the last one you ever loved
Yes, your skin is like porcelain
But your skin is like porcelain
Yeah, your skin is like porcelain..."
The first of the tangled threads between scenes... and there are more lines crossing back and forth along the way.
Take care of yourselves, everyone... I'll see The Bard readers on Wednesday. Due to the holiday, I'll post the next chapter of this story a little early.