Both are careful to stick to the topic of dinner for as long as it is reasonable to do so. They bicker in a familiar way about ordering a double serving of fried wantons, Bones accused of polishing off at least eighty percent of them the last time.
There's nothing forced about their conversation, but a heaviness hangs in the air around them, foreboding and looming just out of sight.
In his apartment, there's a familiar pattern to things… coats hung on pegs in the entranceway, next to a rucksack of Parker's. Shoes removed and lined neatly beneath. Bones finds the utensils in the same place as always: a fork for Booth, chopsticks for her.
He goes quickly to change whilst she unpacks the food, prior experience telling him that expensive suit pants and silk ties don't fare well when introduced to dropped noodles or Szechuan sauce, and returns holding the sweatshirt she always ends up borrowing.
Couch cushions arranged on his rug in a tried and tested formation. Cartons laid out between them like a small village to traverse.
His tread is quiet on the wooden floor, not intentionally so, but a facet of his training that he's not sure he'll ever shake off. Brightly striped socks leading him past the food, towards the kitchen where he can see the fridge door stood ajar.
His immediate presence isn't a surprise to her.
"Beer?" She asks him from behind the door, offering him the contents of his own fridge.
He makes a sound to the affirmative, brow furrowed.
"How do you do that?"
"Quite easily, Booth. I opened the door, located the beverages…"
She emerges from the fridge, two of the aforementioned beers in hand, and pushes it closed, facing him.
There's a twinkle in her eyes, the slight upturn to the corner of her mouth, and he realizes she's not pretending to miss-understand. She's avoiding, yes, but she's teasing him.
He quirks an eyebrow in response, amused, and turns his attention to prizing the bottle-opener magnet off the door, running his thumb over the raised Flyers logo.
She watches him steadily.
"I heard you open your bedroom door. It typically takes you eight strides from there to the kitchen… six if there's food waiting."
He pauses, stares back at her, a regular presence in this space. Feels the bottle opener being delicately plucked from his hand, glancing down as she brushes his skin.
Doesn't look back up until she presses one chilled beer into his palm, lid removed, and closes his fingers around it.
She moves past him, collecting the forgotten sweatshirt from his other hand as she goes.
"I'm very observant, Booth. You know that."
He takes a long swig from the bottle and stares after her. That's not regular observation. She's studied him.
Following slowly, he sees her sit awkwardly on one of the re-purposed cushions, restricted by the unusually formal dress she happens to have worn today. Bites back a smile as she tries draping his sweatshirt across her legs, sat up straight, looking oddly prim and proper.
"Want to borrow some sweatpants?" Eyebrow raised, knowingly.
She wrinkles her nose, looking down at herself, then back up at him.
"Can I?"
Dropping to the cushion opposite her, he shrugs.
"Help yourself. You know where they are."
Reaching for the nearest takeout box, he shakes it, in search of the egg rolls.
She eyes him as she stands. Offers a warning.
"You'd better not eat everything whilst I'm out of the room."
He grins. The first complete smile she's seen all evening. The warmth of it radiates through her, curls her toes into the plushness of the rug.
"You'd better change fast then."
She's back in less than 2 minutes, finding that despite his warning, Booth has done no more than open some lids, positioned the tofu-heavy dishes closer to her cushion, and made a single egg roll vanish.
She sits cross-legged this time, easily tucking each bare foot beneath a knee, and takes a swig of her beer.
"I borrowed a t-shirt as well."
He passes her one of the boxes of wantons.
Wonders briefly if she's even aware of the significance of her consistently being in his apartment wearing his clothes.
"I can see that."
He watches her a moment as she unfolds the takeout lid. She's swamped in his clothing, but looks comfortable, content. Like she belongs here. Whatever her conclusion about them… whatever the outcome… he won't let this be the last time. Can't let this be the last time that they sit here on the floor surrounded by a mountain of food.
He diverts his attention to the Singapore noodles before she can catch him staring.
Doesn't notice her curious glance at his lack of further comment.
They eat mostly in comfortable silence, breaking it only to discuss the food. Not avoiding, just… postponing.
Dishes are passed back and forth between them in a well-rehearsed dance. At one point, Bones predictably comments that Booth's portion of moo shu pork would taste equally good if he'd opted for the tofu variant.
His response is to lean forward and attempt to spear her final wanton with his fork. She whips the box away deftly, glaring at him.
"Don't you dare."
His lips quirked up at the side, stifling a laugh.
"Last warning, Bones." He says, waving his fork at her, a melodic inflection creeping into his words. "You know the penalty for insulting my carnivorous choices."
She shakes her head, a small laugh escaping.
"Fine, I'll concede for now. But I am going to keep encouraging you to reduce your meat intake."
He sits back, trying not to grin at her words of continued intent. Measured or not, she isn't running.
Once they've both slowed to a natural halt with the food, Booth surveys the array of cartons, folding up the tops of the ones to save for later.
The usual suspects.
The more take-outs they've shared over the years, the more dishes they seem to have accumulated on their regular order.
Both are well aware that by grossly over ordering, a valid excuse has been created to ensure they spend the next evening together sharing the leftovers.
An unspoken agreement.
"Another beer?" he asks, glancing across at her, gathering the little tower he's just made.
"Hmm hmm, please."
She nods distractedly, clearly considering something.
As he's placing the cartons in the fridge, he's aware of her following him into the kitchen. Looks over to see her neatly flat-packing the empty food containers one by one.
She's careful and considered in everything. He knows that. Finds it an endearing quality.
Knows it's something to be challenged in the right moments.
Watches her place the stack of flattened boxes in the recycling bin.
He knows that he panicked earlier.
Mentally kicks himself for pushing.
Thanks the heavens that she interrupted him back there, before his wounded ego could claim confidently that he'd just move on.
As if it were that simple.
Telling her that would have been tantamount to backtracking.
You can't announce you want to spend the next fifty years of your life with someone, only to take it back mere minutes later.
She'd never trust him again.
This isn't something he can persuade her of… it needs evidencing, cataloguing and proving.
Thanks for sticking around! Slightly less intense this chapter, but I needed them to take a step back and be them for a minute. To remind. To ground. To breathe.
More to follow...
Reviews are always appreciated.