Title: "What the Morning Brings"
Author: ForensicMama ()
Pairing: Brennan, Booth
Spoilers: N/A (But you can take it that way if you want.)
Chapter Summary: Loved. Was it truly past tense? Or did he want to still tell the woman in his shower that he wanted to hold her when she cried?
Rating: T
Chapter: 1Shot

"Booth?" She listened for a moment. When she heard nothing, she decided to be quiet. Perhaps they were sleeping? She hung her bag and jacket on Booth's coat hooks, between a tiny green coat and a red bike helmet.

When her cell phone rang, she quickly answered it, hoping she didn't wake the sleeping Booth boys. They would, after all, be inevitably sleeping.

"Hi, Angela."

"Why are you whispering?" Angela sounded half-amused.

"I just walked through the door. Nobody's here--they're probably sleeping." Brennan walked into the kitchen and ran the tap until it ran cool, then took a drink of water.

"Did Booth take him to the hospital? Poor li'l guy."

"I said that it wasn't necessary, but he insisted."

"He's his father, Bren. That's what parents do. They worry."

Brennan wanted to sideline Angela with a precise answer, but somewhere she knew that Angela was absolutely correct.

"I should go."

"Booth have him tonight?"

"Yes."

"Well, I should let you go then. I just wanted to know how Junior was doing. Talk to you later, sweetie."

"Bye, Ange." She folded up her cell phone, sliding it into her pocket, but not before putting it on silent.

She crossed the living room and into Booth's bedroom. The door was closed. She knocked softly. Just enough for him to hear her, but not enough to be woken if he was sleeping.

No answer.

She opened the door a hair and peeped in. Booth was lying on his side, his arm wrapped around his sleeping son whose cheeks were flushed with fever. She laughed at first. God, they were cute. And she knew enough to only admit that to herself. Admitting that aloud could risk tearing down the walls that were so weakly mortared as it was.

But in moments like that. Standing in the doorway. Dim moonlight casting a shadow over the two of them. She wanted to scream that she wanted to be there, too. Laying on her side, her arm around the boy and his father. He would open his eyes and smile, hold her hand and tell her that he loved her. But that wouldn't be like her. She would be a hypocrite for wanting those things. Right?

He must have sensed her in the doorway. He whispered, "Bones?"

"Um," she walked the rest of the way into the bedroom and sat opposite of where the little boy slept. He was on his back, his elbows bent, chubby toddler fingers balled into fists, dark wisps of hair clinging to a sweaty fevered brow. "I just wanted to see if you needed anything. I picked up some Children's Motrin on the way... didn't know if you had any of that."

"I bought some."

"Oh. Is he... OK?"

"He's fine, Bones. Doctor said it's just a bug. You know. Water, Motrin--"

"I told you." A small smile of triumph.

"What's the point of having health insurance if you don't take him to the hospital, Bones?"

"For major illness or injury. I explained this last time he was sick."

"It's that damn Jeffersonian nursery. It says well-baby, but I've yet to see one sick baby be sent home."

"There isn't much of a choice, Booth. We work full time--"

"That's why I left early."

The child stirred, his face contorting in pain and childlike despair. Then he cried. He opened his eyes, his bottom lip jutting out. "Mama," he whined.

She sighed, leaning over and picking him up. His two-year old legs wrapped around her hips. He was tall for his age which allowed for his ankles to hook. She bounced him, somewhat agitated by his cries and the argument over insurance and nurseries, which was all undermined by the disquietude created by the half-time parenting situation.

The boy continued to cry.

"Just give him here, Bones."

She turned her body to the side. "No. He wants me."

"I'm just trying to help, Bones."

"I just want to hold him, Booth. You don't have to be so testy. You've had him all afternoon!"

The boy screamed louder. They shouted above his cries.

"Because you weren't willing to put off staring at skeletons to take care of our son!"

She glared at him. One of those death-glares that he had once been afraid to create, but now were all too common. Tension of this insane parenting situation coupled with the fact that he found her to be so callous and scientific when all he wanted to do was tell her that he loved her had turned their rage into a literal Montezuma. Maybe all of that love was imagined? Or driven by the sexual tension? Now that's all it was any more. TENSION.

"You're an asshole, Booth."

She walked past him and paused at the door when he said, "Fuck you, Bones." He had wanted to say it for so long. Fuck you. The harshest words in the English language. And as good as they felt being practiced in his head, and as good as they felt rolling off his tongue, he immediately wanted to reel them back in as soon as they were uttered.

That's when Samuel threw up all over his mother. Vomit slipped down her shirt, splashed all over her neck, in her hair, between her cleavage. Chunky, curdled milk, bits of graham cracker, all in a slimy conglomeration of greenish muck.

She froze.

"Oh, Bones." Booth jogged past her, getting a wash rag and moistening it under the sink in the adjoining bathroom. He came back.

"Just get Sam."

He did, taking him to the bed. He was practically untouched by vomit. A slime streak down his chest. A little on his arms and thighs. Nothing like the soaking that had been done to Brennan. After washing him down, it seemed that the release-of-pressure of his twisted stomach and the warm rub-down had soothed him into a light sleep. Booth let him lay there and came back to Brennan, still standing, arms away from her sides, vomit slowly making its way down to her navel and under her slacks.

After some sympathetic looks, Booth took her into the bathroom and closed the door so that the sound of water running wouldn't wake up their son. He rinsed the wash rag and turned to Brennan.

She looked really upset. Her eyes almost looked like they would spill over.

"Kids puke, Bones." Was that as sympathetic as he could get? He was an asshole. "Let me help you." He started with her arms, avoiding her eyes. Was she that upset about being barfed on? Or was it more? Was that just the straw that broke the camel's back? Their son throwing up all over her in mid-fight. The right arm was clean. He rinsed the rag, reached for the next arm. Washed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the clean hand lifted and wiped away what he imagined were tears. He was afraid to address them and risk embarrassing her. But then again, if he didn't address it, would he hurt her feelings? The same feelings that he didn't have too much regard for when he told her 'fuck you' five minutes before? More guilt.

He looked at her. In her eyes.

"Bones--" He washed her face. Even though there were only a few spatters on her cheeks and chin, he took his time. It felt good having her so close again. Even given the situation. "What's wrong, Bones?"

She didn't want to speak for fear that more tears would spill over. Finally, she whispered, "What have we become?"

"So we fight." He paused and led her to take a seat on the toilet. He began to take off her shoes. "We always fought."

"Bicker, Booth. We bickered. We fight now."

She was right. For once Brennan had corrected him on human matters.

"I don't know, Bones..." He got up, sighing and turned on the shower.

He took her hand, stood her up and began to unbutton her shirt, all the while not looking at her eyes and noting the irony of finally taking off her clothes (again) and not feeling at all like taking her to bed.

He took the shirt off, sliding it over her shoulders. And with that, there was that familiar feeling. Old, but familiar. Although vomit clung to her bra, she was the most beautiful person who had ever stepped into his life. How had he forgotten?

"Things change, I guess," he muttered, ignoring the feeling.

She stepped out of her slacks. And finally, she found her voice again to ask what had been on her mind for several months, "Do you hate me?"

He paused. "No, Bones. Things don't change that much."

But there she was. Sure she was covered in vomit, but she was in her underwear, crying, feeling terrible, and he had only looked in her eyes a handful of times. She nodded and stepped into the shower, leaving the bra and panties on.

"Just gonna leave those on?"

She nodded and closed the shower curtain.

Booth walked out of the bathroom, noting that he needed to snag a towel for her when he came back. On his way, he stopped and looked at their son. So perfect with his dark hair and green-blue eyes. Her chin, his nose. No matter what, they were in it together. No matter what, he would look at the boy he loved and have to tell himself how much he loved her. Loved. Was it truly past tense? Or did he want to still tell the woman in his shower that he wanted to hold her when she cried?

He walked to the laundry room and returned with a puffy Finding Nemo towel in hand. He knocked at the door softly. Not too loud. He didn't want to disturb Sam. When she didn't reply, he walked right in to find his partner looking in the mirror naked.

He closed the door and let himself in. "Brought you a towel." He had noticed her index finger tracing a tiny stretch mark that crept between her pubic bone and her navel. He didn't say anything.

"Thanks, Booth." She brightened artificially and wrapped the towel around her body.

"I think they're beautiful." He leaned against the counter.

"What? What's beautiful?"

He smiled and moved away from the sink, stepping toward her. There was more familiarity. Familiarity in how she received his presence with a sly half-smile. A knowing grin. What was he up to?

He didn't personally know what he was up to. Originally, he thought it was an opening to make up for those terrible words. For all of the terrible words he had said since Samuel was conceived. But as he moved closer and let his thumb touch the hem of the towel, their eyes locked. More familiarity. More of that old feeling. That first (and only) time that they had made love. He tugged at the towel. The tendons in her neck tightened, unsure of how she should react. She wanted that familiarity back, too. She wanted him to look at her the way he was. Teasing. Loving. Sexy. She let the towel fall free. Where a minute before her nudity in front of him was mundane, it was no longer every day. It was sexual. It was personal. It was intimate the way he touched her, letting his fingers tickle her body. He traced the little stretch mark.

"This," he whispered.

She gave him a look of disbelief.

"You said-- he rested his head-- right here. Our baby boy, Bones. A little of you. A little of me." His fingers began to explore again. And he realized this was the first time he had touched her body since having Samuel. And it was a different body altogether. Curvier. Sexier. Her breasts were fuller, her waist seemed small in comparison. And then there were all of these beautiful reminders of how two became one in this body. His hands against her stomach, firm, broad, warm, familiar. HIS hands took her breath away. Just like before. Just like the first time.

He touched her breasts. "And this is where you fed him."

Her eyebrows met in the middle momentarily. Where was he going with this?

"I love you for that, Bones... for everything... him... this. Sorry I've been such an asshole." It was sincere. She knew that.

He kissed her shoulder. She had to remember to breathe.

He touched her hips. Her breasts. Her stomach. Her butt. But in every touch, she knew it wasn't because she was an object but because he truly did love her. All of her.

She pulled his shirt over his head. Kissed his chest. Let her hands roam over his firm stomach.

Finally their lips met. Hungrily. Wildly. Desperately.

She yanked his pajama pants down around his knees, pushing him against the wall and wrapping a leg around his waist.

"Wait," he said between labored breaths. He looked into those eyes of hers. Clear-blue. The same as ever. "I don't hate you, Bones, I love you."

Being a mother had been a lesson in love. No chemical in the world could make her feel the way she felt for her son. And no bodily reaction could make her feel that way for Booth, either. Barely above a whisper. She could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth, but at the same time, she could. "Iloveyou."

They switched positions with Brennan against the wall. He laughed. "When were you going to bother to tell me?"

She looked at him, shook her head a bit, and smiled. "I figured I'd bother to tell you when you bothered to tell me."

He kissed her again.

And when the sun rose again the next morning, Booth smiled. That was the way it should have always been. He slipped his arm over their son and around Brennan's waist, his hand resting on her hip.

She smiled, opening her own eyes to what the morning had brought. She touched his arm. He moved his hand off her hip and held her hand over their son's heart.

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Thank you all for these wonderful reviews!!! Two episodes of Bones air this week, Wed & Thurs 8/7c! :D