AN: I'm not a fan of songfics in general, but for some reason, I heard this song and the Muse had an idea. It branched out from the middle verses and grew into this. Let me know what you think.
I obviously don't own Bones, nor do I own the lyrics to "Lights Of Endangered Species" by Matthew Good.
TITLE: Lights Of Endangered Species
TAG TO: Post 7X13; Post 8X1 (reunion).
PROMPT: Songfic; B&B and Hodgela pairings
RATING: T
"Saw a magician cut you in half - so bloodless
Daunted, I applauded
Looking around at all them eyeless faces
You crept into me and stood alone
Arms stretched out to nothing
Like the memory of something gone wrong..."
*
He remembers the day she brought the video to work: how vibrant she looked in her white dress; her sheepish grin as she loaded the CD-R into the Angelatron; her baited breath as she hit play. He also remembers thinking of Roxie, of how carefree Angela's seemed to him since reigniting their old flame.
She is young in the video and Mysterio is blatantly into her and it infuriates him. And yet, he is impressed by the trick, because it is Angela smiling on screen, and everything she does impresses him.
He wasn't looking for love the day she walked into the lab, arm looped through Dr. Brennan's. He was a man filled with rage at the world, at his family. Zack was the only person in the world he bothered to call friend anymore, having cut off everyone in his life. To care meant risk, meant exposure to potential heartache and cruelty.
But she walked in and he fell, and he understood, for the first time in his privileged life, powerlessness. When they fell apart in the diner, he understood it all the more. He couldn't restrain her, so he'd sat quietly by, content to at least call her colleague, or perhaps a friend. In the end, she came back, although she was never really gone. He'd gone to sleep with her name on his lips each and every night in her absence.
He sometimes sits quietly with Michael, contemplating their time in Paris and wondering if coming back to Washington has been a mistake. He worries that he's caged a beautiful bird meant to soar, fears that their love will be a Phoenix and disintegrate into ashes yet again. And, if that's what comes to pass, he wonders if they will continue to part and reunite, a relationship forever in rebirth?
He loves her enough that he could live with such a life, but it terrifies him. He's in so deep, he cannot breathe at the thought of her walking away again.
Jack sighs and turns over in bed, willing sleep to come. She would tell him if she was miserable, wouldn't she? In slumber, she smiles, her face relaxed. She is as young as she was in that video, as beautiful and unfettered. He wonders if it's because she dreams of freedom and adventure. He hopes she takes him with her on those adventures.
Maybe he'll take her to Paris next weekend.
"Slip the darkness down to the harbour
Peel your star dress, burn in the water
Forget your promise, turn out your light
Lay down and sleep tonight
Dream of your sons, dream of your daughters
Come back to you..."
*
She remembers the night she understood her heart at last. She can feel it as if it's happening all over again: the sticky heat of the island; the light breeze making it bearable, but only just; the stars overhead dotting the sky.
It is the third night of the dig, and she misses him.
She tosses and turns in her tent, but it's hopeless: she's wide awake and weary from a long day of hiking to the excavation site, listening to Daisy prattle on about Sweets, the economy, her thesis and someone named Lady Gaga. It's a peculiar name for a noblewoman, but perhaps it's a shortened version of something more befitting an aristocrat.
She is burning up, and for a moment, she fears she's contracted a tropical illness (already!). Desperate for relief, she slips back into a wrap dress and makes her way carefully towards the beach.
The stars are stunning tonight, their light reflected in the crystalline water. She kicks off her sandals and wades in, immediately soothed by the coolness. This is the right idea: she'll cool off and return to her tent, where she'll find sleep. She's simply adjusting to the weather.
And then, she thinks of Booth. She's immediately taken on a mental journey through countless sleepless nights filled with alcohol and Thai food. She remembers the times he's shown up at the lab at one in the morning to pull her from Limbo and drag her home.
"You need to sleep, Bones," he always says, and she swears she sleeps plenty. But she doesn't sleep well; she hasn't since the night her parents left her. She fears sleep because it takes people from her. She never tells him this, nor does she tell him that she only sleeps when he takes her home and promises to pick her up for breakfast. Because she believes Booth. He is a man of his word, proven time and again.
She thinks of all of this, staring at the water, and the question hits her again: Why don't I trust him about love, then?
She looks to Angela and Hodgins in her mind, because she knows they love each other. She is certain of it. She thinks of the looks they exchange. She considers how Hodgins brings her coffee at lunch when Angela refuses to take a break from her computer, how he kisses her forehead and says nothing else. Nothing else needs to be said: his actions speak.
Booth's actions speak, too. She finally hears them.
"He's loved me for years. Just like Angela says."
She feels her legs wobble and sinks into the sand. Why is she realizing this now? Was distance all she really needed? Why did she need distance?
It's a stupid question. She knows why. She doesn't trust herself in relationships. The evidence clearly demonstrates how hopeless she is at monogamous commitments. She didn't lie to Booth when she told him that she had to protect him from her, that she couldn't risk the partnership they had. But maybe, she realizes, she's wrong about not having his heart. Maybe she has one just as loving and big as his, only she's buried it beneath the wreckage of countless disappointments and cruel words.
Maybe it's always been his. Metaphorically, of course; if she actually gave him her heart, she would die.
She has evidence of his love for her, evidence of commitment. He's stayed by her side for five straight years. She's seen him protect her, shield her from harm. He doesn't inflict it. Why is she running from him?
She loves him, and she's allowing fear to destroy perhaps her only chance at true happiness.
In so many ways, she is uninhibited. She is fearless in field work, unafraid of the dangers of the world, with which she's come face to face on several occasions. She embraces her sexuality as a gift, pursuing her pleasure with gusto. But to allow someone to have her heart - to have the power to break it - seems impossible.
Every journey begins somewhere. Hers begins with a slow rise to her feet and the discarding of her dress in the sand as she wades into the water once more and plunges into its depths.
As she swims, she glances at the stars, wondering where he is and what he sees. Water and desert: they are opposites, perpetually. She wonders if distance will diminish his longing for her. She no longer wants him to move on, but she cannot ask him to wait until she's ready. What if she never is?
The dress clings to her skin as she makes her way back to the tent, where she strips down and curls into a ball. Beside her is a photo of the Jeffersonian team, Booth included, for he is an essential part of their team. She notices for the first time that his eyes aren't quite facing the camera, nor are hers. They're drawn to each other.
"Don't be a hero," she pleads with his smiling face. "Come back alive. Come back to me."
She remembers all of this now as she rolls over in their bed, studying his face. She's waiting for the nightmare to come, as it does each night. She's waiting to save him from it before she allows herself to rest.
She tries not to cry when thinking of the months she wasn't here to protect him.
"Got my guns in a row
I got my boys to the shore
Not all, but we'll stay here all day long
And get beat to shit for you
Get beat to shit for you
Spinning a right that was never far off of wrong
So, in pieces your sons and in pieces your daughters
Come back to you..."
*
He is back in Afghanistan.
The war zones in his dreams shift and change, but it's all hell to him. The sounds of explosions and gun shots; the bloody men and women brought back to base camp. The blood saturating his uniform as he carries Parker as far as he can and a few steps further, because the kid shouldn't be dead. He can't be dead.
No matter how old they are, they are always too young to die in his eyes.
This time, the nightmare takes him to his final week in Afghanistan, although he didn't know it at the time. To him, it's month seven of twelve and three more soliders are dead, people that he's been working with. He's supposed to be stopping this loss of life. He's assured that casualties are down, but it's not good enough. There shouldn't be any at all.
He wants to take a more active role, but he remembers the way she looked at him and asked him not to be the hero and he holds back. He knows that Hannah, too, wishes he'd be more careful, but she's not one to talk after years of being a war correspondent. She's also not her.
He looks at the young man in front of him, and it's Parker all over again. Another dead kid, another form letter from the military to a family back home. More blood on his hands.
The next body is a young woman, a rarity here in this scorching hell. She was feisty and strong, gifted with a gun. She had sniper potential and now she's one more lost soul in a box.
He closes his eyes and crosses himself, praying for the latest losses. When he opens his eyes, he sees Bones on the table, lifeless. He begins to scream...
He is jarred awake by a strong push against his shoulder, his eyes flying open to find her safe and warm beside him. His Bones. His beautiful woman. His arms reach out, pulling her tight against his chest as his heart hammers within.
"I'm here," she says quietly. "I love you and I'm here."
"Afghanistan," he manages to tell her, burying his face in her hair.
Her fingers drag lightly along his side, her lips pressing to his heart. She's here. Nights were so much longer during her absence. He knows she feels guilt for not being here to wake him, no matter how often he tells her that he can cope with his own nightmares. She tells him that coping together is the point of partnership, and he can't disagree with that logic. It's his own guilt that objects, that tells him he is undeserving.
"Close your eyes," she tells him. He obeys, knowing that he'll sleep dreamlessly now.
She has her own nightmares: infrequent, yet violent, thrashing affairs. It takes a lot to shake her free from their grip, but he always does. He always protects her.
He'll never not be the hero when it comes to her.
"I love you," he tells her.
The words are insufficient for the depth of emotion he feels, but they'll have to do.
"Good morning, beautiful
I've waited all my life
To watch you breathe in
Stand up and decide
To set something, anything, on fire..."
*
She's awake before him for a change, and as she stretches her arms overhead, she chooses to remain in bed. Why rush into the day? It's Sunday morning and there's no active case on the go. Yet, she quickly adds. Murder doesn't take a day off and attend church.
She twists her long hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and studies her husband's face. She can tell that he isn't sleeping well: his forehead is scrunched in deep concentration and his hands are fisted in the sheets. He doesn't seem to ever sleep well anymore, and she knows the reason why.
He's afraid she's going to leave him.
It's a recurring silent discussion between them, a heated exchange between their eyes. She catches him with a look of worry, of inadequacy, and she looks to him as the man she knows him to be and waits for him to exhale the breath he never notices he's holding.
It's a matter of passion, in her eyes: he believes he is lacking it, and she knows better. He's the most passionate man she's known - and she's definitely been drawn throughout her life to people of passion. Such is the life of an artist that truly surrenders to her heart. She knows his passion when he kisses her, feels it when their bodies are joined. She's witnessed it in Paris as he roamed the streets with her, no longer a scientist, no longer a wealthy heir, but simply Jack. She saw it in his eyes in that hell-hole jail cell and immediately knew what a mistake they'd made in parting. It was why she'd married him right there and then.
He sighs in his sleep and her fingers extend to toy with his curls. She cannot deny that the travel bug is biting her in the ass and demanding she rush off to sights unseen, but what he doesn't understand is that she will not go without him. She's waiting for her son to get just a little older before leaving him in the hands of trusted family or friends.
She wants him to trust in his ability to ignite.
She recalls hearing him talk in his sleep about cages and birds, shaking her head. She's not shackled to him. He isn't her prison. In fact, she's not the one in the cage at all. He is. He's caged by a life of expectations and fear, one he retreats inside whenever life overwhelms. She's picked the damn lock, but he continues to fly back inside. Better the devil you know, as the saying goes.
She wants to set him free, once and for all. He needs to be free.
"It's spilling over on your shoulders
The dawn..."
*
She watches him stir, leans in for a kiss before his eyes open. His lips are soft and warm, just like his heart. He is her home.
"Hey handsome," Angela whispers.
"It's spilling over on your shoulders
The dawn..."
*
"Hey yourself, beautiful," Jack replies.
She is stunning in the morning, captured in the gleam of sunlight peeking between the blinds. He pulls her closer, kisses her harder and she moans in that way that gives him chills.
"I was thinking last night," he begins.
"Dangerous activity," she teases.
"I know." He reaches for her face, cupping her cheek. "I have a proposal for you."
"Oh? What sort of proposal?"
With a grin, he replies, "Call your Dad and ask him to spend a weekend here."
She frowns. "Why? Are you looking for another tattoo?"
"Please, no! He'll be here. We won't be."
Her eyes light up. "Where will we be?"
"Paris."
He assumes from the frantic kissing that ensues as she straddles his hips that she approves of his plans.
"It's spilling over on your shoulders
The dawn..."
*
She's still asleep when his eyes open, her deep auburn locks cascading over her shoulder. Booth rolls his neck slowly, stretching out the tension within. He loves watching her sleep. It's a rarity, given her radar for Christine's cries, but mercifully, their daughter has chosen to sleep in.
He can't say there hasn't been pain along the way, but he knows it was all worth it every time he wakes up beside her. There's a peacefulness to the morning now, one he's never known - not with Rebecca, Cam, Hannah, Tessa... No one. She's the one person who can both drive him up a wall and ground him.
She stirs and he slides closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. She hums to herself, some unfamiliar tune as she nestles against him.
"Do you..." He pauses to kiss her cheek. "... know how beautiful you are?"
"I do," she teases, "Although I suspect that was rhetorical." She turns her head to him, seeking another kiss. "You're rather handsome. Perfectly so."
Their lips meet once more and he briefly longs to propose. Right now. Right here, where the world is safely outside their door and it is just them. He's learned his lesson, though, and besides, he finds the thought of her proposing to him exciting.
"It's spilling over on your shoulders
The dawn."
*
"What's that grin for?" she asks him.
"What grin?" he replies coyly.
She shakes her head, knowing that he'll never tell her where his mind drifted off to just now. She has her suspicions, and she'll keep them to herself. Instead, she admires the sunlight trickling in between the curtains, highlighting his sturdy chest and arms. She'll never tire of this, she realizes. She's glad she finally took a risk and entrusted her heart to Booth.
Who else could protect it so well?
There's one more risk - a gamble, perhaps, as Sweets would say. She's working her way up to it, one draft at a time. She's certain the custodians at the Jeffersonian are baffled by the plethora of pages awaiting recycling these days, but she's a perfectionist when it comes to her words.
He deserves a perfect proposal, and she's going to give it to him. Soon. The ring's already waiting, safely hidden with Angela.
"You have church soon," she reminds him.
He glances at the clock beside him. "I have some time."
One kiss turns to five turns to tangled limbs and clothing discarded on the floor, and Brennan knows this is what people mean when they speak of "heaven on earth". She doesn't believe in heaven, but she believes in Booth and he believes, and that's enough for her.
"I love you," they whisper simultaneously and burst into laughter at their synchronicity.
It's become a frequent occurrence. He calls it fate; she calls it love. They're both right.