AN: I'm so glad you enjoyed a little digging deeper into the bathroom scene... It came up in a few convos with you lovelies about how Brennan's "I'll look forward to that" is seeming sarcasm but could very well be interpreted differently. I later remembered this quote from early on:
BRENNAN: At first, I thought the worst thing was that they were missing.
ANGELA: Except "dead" means no more hope.
Booth being dead... no more hope. Him being able to tell her he "died" means a hope of seeing him again. LeSwoon.
Due to the impending holidays, I've decided to update a little early. Next up, the coma dream... that Guatemala dig Brennan escaped to... "What took you so long to recover?" How did he evolve from "Who are you?" to "Which life is real?" to "You're in love with Dr. Brennan"? Let's take a glimpse...
There's a taste of M-ish content in this one. You have been duly warned, workplace readers.
Tag To: The End In The Beginning; Harbingers In A Fountain
Disclaimer: I own neither Bones nor the groove-rock of "Living In A Dream" by Finger Eleven. Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.
Living In A Dream (Finger Eleven)
"Who are you?"
It's the question he asks, but it's not what he means. He knows the woman in front of him: her smile, her eyes, her lips. He knows where to touch her to make her giggle and where his touches elicit soft moans of pleasure. He knows the taste of her on his tongue, knows the pressure that will send her over the edge. He knows that she loves being on top, but loves when he fights her to be on top all the more.
But she's speaking strangely, and her clothing is more demure than usual, and another vision of her comes to mind. He knows her kindness. He knows that she has saved him in more ways than he can ever explain, even to himself. Between the ethers, he understands this is a paradox. There are two of her. But she is one woman.
Which one is she?
As the ethers fade, his heart becomes clearer and he no longer is uncertain. She is Bren. She is the woman he loves more than his own life. He feels it in the warm haze that floods his body in her presence, in the electricity of her touch on his arm. He sees that love reflected in her worried eyes and that, too, assures him of the truth.
"Is the baby okay?"
She startles, edging backwards. "Booth, there is no baby."
He begins to weep, imagining scenarios where they have crashed in their car, leaving him unconscious after surgery. He feels guilt, certain that it is he who has killed their unborn child. There is talk of a procedure, but he can't understand. They're married. They've been trying, but not for long. Insemination makes no sense.
The doctors slip him back into the murky waters, drowning out his protests. She weeps at the doorway, hugging herself tightly.
When he awakens, she is gone. A neurologist is there, asking questions. He doesn't understand why the doctors are concerned. He knows who he is. He's her husband. Until he isn't. Until his brother's partner appears, only she isn't his partner; she's his friend and former lover, and a colleague. His brother is off somewhere... she isn't sure where. But he isn't a cop. That she knows. He's the cop. Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. The badge says so, before they confiscate it.
She does not return on that day, or the next.
On day five, after being bombarded by newspaper clippings of cases solved and photos from Angela (who is not a hostess, but a forensic artist), he begins to accept that the other life is a dream, an illusion. But where did it come from, if he and Bren – no, Brennan, or "Bones", as Angela informs him he likes to call her – are not in love?
She returns that day and she is ashen. She sits down beside him, begging for forgiveness. He doesn't understand.
"The book," she manages as the tears begin to fall. "I read it to you."
It slowly comes back that she is a writer, and this piece of the puzzle falls into place and is logical. Logic is her thing; he remembers that now. It is all a product of a novel she read aloud and she cites statistics on coma patients hearing things said to them while asleep and it all makes sense. Almost. Because after she informs him that she's been called to Guatemala on a dig and that the doctors assure her he will recover fully, she slips away and leaves him alone, and he has an epiphany.
If the novel was her mind, her imagination, and he interpreted the characters as being them, what does that say about her feelings?
"I was never the kind
To be taking my time
Any place that's worth a damn
And today's another day
That I've gone and thrown away
And I don't care where it lands
'Cause I'm just thinking about us..."
He begins therapy, slowly working to recover full speech capabilities, but at night, he allows himself to wander back into the dream. He is in no hurry to work again, not without her. The so-called real world returns to him as truth, but his eyes are open now to new interpretations. For so long, he's dismissed the concept of them as an us as impossible: he's not enough for her, not the right guy. She doesn't see him that way. These are facts he's held to be true. But the novel... it suggests he's been wrong for a very long time.
By day, he is Seeley Booth: recovering from brain surgery. By night, he wanders through five years of memories, reanalyzing the conclusions he's made along the way. He replays conversations between them, counts up the late nights spent with take-out and laughter over paperwork that could have clearly waited until morning. They scan his brain and tell him he is just fine, that there is no damage, and he agrees. Nothing is wrong. It's just more right.
"I've been living in a dream about you
And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind
And if I never see
My own reality
Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind..."
At night, he slips back into the dream. The details shift: the nightclub is gone; Hodgins is a bug guy; they solve crimes. But at night, they return to a shared home, where they slip between the sheets of a shared bed and make love for hours. And it is even better than he once imagined, because now he has her insights, drawn from her prose.
He understands what she finds sensual and his imagination unfurls a world where she calls his name breathlessly as his lips move across her soft skin. The sex is intense but not rough, shades of tenderness between the hard thrusts and her legs over his shoulders. He can feel her heels dig into his shoulder blades as she tightens around him, drawing him deeper into a secret she's been keeping from him for far too long.
He slips and mentions that he can't wait to get home to their place and Sweets hears this. Identity confusion, he calls it, right before informing the Bureau that although he is leaving the hospital, he is not fit for duty. He is furious with the kid, but even more furious with himself for persisting in these dreams.
The night he is released, he sleeps at her apartment. Her pillow smells like her: a clean scent, soft flowers and a hint of citrus from her shampoo. He wraps his frame about them and closes his eyes, imagining she is there. He wants to protect her from the nightmares he knows she still has. He wants her to wake up knowing she is loved. Because she is: good God, he loves her so damn much.
"I'll be gone for a time
Tuning out for a while
It's gonna look like I'm not all there
I've decided that today
Seems alright to piss away
Ignore my empty stare
'Cause I'm just thinking about us..."
He sleeps at her place for five days before Angela catches him. He's making breakfast in her kitchen when she unlocks the door with her key, on a mission to collect mail and check the solitary plant on the sill.
"Booth! What are you doing here?"
"I'm, uh... I came to check on Bones' place. I was hungry."
Her eyes narrow as she studies his handiwork. "I emptied her fridge weeks ago. Where did the eggs come from?"
"The bodega. I grabbed them on the way in."
He's lying. They both know it. Angela eyes his sweatpants and t-shirt and shakes her head.
"Honey, are you confused again? Should I call the doctor?"
"No! I'm fine," he insists. "The mail's over there," he adds, pointing at a side table.
Angela moves to examine it and he piles the scrambled eggs onto a plate before they burn. He should have anticipated this. His partner is a practical woman who's gone away many times. But he couldn't sleep at his place: the bed felt cold and uninviting and she's not there. Artifacts of her linger in her home and it's the next best thing.
He misses her fiercely. So much so that he misses Angela's calls to him until she snaps her fingers in front of his face.
"Huh?"
"Booth, I asked you when your next appointment is," she says.
"This afternoon."
"You should mention this," she tells him.
"There's nothing to mention, Angela. I'm fine. I'm just bored not working."
He flashes the grin, the one that usually charms women senseless. It works just enough to send the artist on her way, although she wears a sad smile as he bids her farewell.
Fuck. She's going to call Sweets. He needs a new plan. Devouring his eggs, he thinks of one and grins.
Two hours later, he is switching her pillowcases for an identical, brand new set. He takes the ones that smell like her with him, tucked carefully in his gym bag.
"I've been living in a dream about you
And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind
And if I never see
My own reality
Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind..."
He can't shut it off anymore. These feelings, the ones he's felt over the years – they now have a name. Love. And he can't make it go away, no matter how hard he tries. But Bones... she doesn't believe in love. She doesn't do relationships, not really. She was only half-in when it came to Sully; she admitted as much one drunken night months after he sailed into the sunset.
Like his dream self told her, she's Iceland: cool on the surface, volcano beneath. But she shrouds herself in winter winds, blowing away those who dare venture too close to her red-hot truths.
"Let it go," he tells himself. "It was just a dream about her book."
She's due back in two weeks, Angela says. He has two weeks to get it together. Two weeks to convince Sweets that he's fine, that he knows who he is – and who he isn't. He's not her husband. He's not her lover. He's her partner, her close friend.
But at night, his subconscious steers him back into a world where her smiles are for him alone and he wakes up depressed. The dream can't come true.
"When I come down
And look around
I can't believe
The fantasy is gone like a memory
Out of my reach
Fading out from me
You're fading out from me..."
He stumbles out of the kid's office with his badge in hand, grinning. He's back. He's got his job and his gun and goddamn, it feels good! He hasn't had the dream in a week now, and he feels relieved. No dream, no heartache. No heartache, no love for Bones. Not the romantic kind, anyway,
It really was just a residual effect of identity confusion.
With a spring in his step, he signs out his Bureau vehicle and drives over to the Jeffersonian. It's early, but his partner is always in first and out last when it comes to the lab. She should be back by now, although she hasn't called him yet. He parks with a yawn and examines himself in the rear view mirror. Why Sweets simply had to book him for an 8am appointment, Booth doesn't know. Probably to be an asshole, he reasons, and maybe he deserves it for the Parker-style tantrums he threw during the first week of their therapy.
Security nods to him as he passes and Booth steps inside, scanning the platform first. No Bones. Some random lab rat is scurrying by, but there's no sign of his usual team. He heads for her office and is disappointed to find it vacant. There's not a trace of her here: the desk is empty of files and her omnipresent pens are nowhere to be found.
He'll wait, he decides. Eying her couch, he decides a nap is in order. Hell, he didn't even have the energy to shave this morning, it was so damn early. He's dreading a return to the usual work hours.
Stretching out on the couch, it isn't long before sleep claims him. And when it does, Booth soon realizes it's taking no prisoners. No, his subconscious wants to annihilate his grasp on reality, one sensual kiss at a time.
She is there, but this isn't the dream world: this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist, and they're at her place with take-out. Only this time, when he suggests he get going, she crosses the room towards him and with a soft, hesitant voice, she asks him to stay.
Confused, he begins to ask why but finds himself interrupted by her soft lips ghosting over his own. She is pressed onto her tiptoes and her hands wrap lightly around his neck, keeping him near. No talk, she says softly. Just stay. He swallows hard and realizes there's no way in hell he can refuse her.
His hands fall to her hips as they kiss again, her tongue running along his lips until he parts them and she is inside, luring his out to play with a beckoning sweep. He complies, the kiss deepening as she presses her body against him and he feels himself harden on contact. She is so warm, so forceful and yet so soft to the touch as his fingers slip up beneath her blouse, savouring the feel of her skin.
They break apart gasping and she fumbles with his shirt buttons, releasing them from the bottom up. She licks her lips as his chest is revealed and he groans, because he is acutely aware of what that tongue can do. She's no sooner pushed his shirt from his shoulders before he seizes the hem of her own and tugs it roughly over her head. She laughs as he tosses it across the room, the silk crumpling in a heap on the floor.
Something funny? he asks her lightly.
No, just wonderful, she replies shyly.
Their mouths collide as they make quick work of their other garments: her hands fumble in front to open his Cocky belt buckle and fly, while his hands seek her back and unzip her skirt. Synchronized, they fall to the floor in a heap of polyester and they stumble their way out of them, moving slowly down the hall towards her bedroom. She pushes him against the wall just outside of her room and grinds herself against his erection. It is all he can do to not rip her panties free and sheath himself inside her.
Jesus, Bones! he mutters.
His hands grip her ass tightly as his mouth sinks to her collarbone and sucks hard. She moans loudly and he continues to apply pressure, the tip of his tongue drifting along her flesh. She tastes subtly sweet, but delicate. Her hand slips inside his boxers and she runs a single finger along his length, teasing him.
Do you love me? she whispers in his ear.
Yeah. Do you want me to prove it to you?
Mmm, if you're not too sleepy…
He grins as he lifts her into the air. Understanding him, her silky legs wrap around his waist. He hisses as her ass brushes the head of his cock with every one of the fifteen steps from the hall to the bed, where he lays her down gently. His hands seize her panties and she lifts her hips to assist him in their removal. The sight of her is breathtaking and for a moment he stares in wonder.
She beckons him forward with a single finger and a smirk. He sheds his boxers and slides his body over hers. More kisses, frantic and demanding as his hardness presses into her thigh, but he's not giving in just yet. He wants her to squirm and she does, her breath in soft pants.
Boooooooooth...
I love you, he murmurs, trailing kisses along her neck.
Show me, she pleads.
With several teasing passes between her folds, he finally thrusts inside of her, They gasp in unison at the feel of it, the perfection that is the two of them together. His hand tangles in her auburn locks as he begins to move, a painfully slow withdrawal followed by a forceful slam to the hilt. She bites her lip and moans loudly and Booth knows it has never felt like this with any other woman.
She is his and he is hers.
He's lost in her eyes, those brilliant blues in that surreal shade, and she knows it – and take advantage. Suddenly, she is on top, straddling him with a smile.
Let me love you too, she whispers as she sinks herself onto his length...
"I've been living in a dream about you
And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind
And if I never see
My own reality
Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind."
It's a metaphorical bucket of ice water to the face as the pressure on his chest startles him from his slumber and fast turns to one with great potential for embarrassment as he hears his partner cry out in equal surprise.
"Oh!" he gasps, staring up at her baffled face.
He scrambles to his feet, acutely aware of the hard-on he's packing from his dream. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit –
"Booth!" she exclaims happily.
"Bones!"
And then she embraces him tightly and he draws his pelvis back as far as he can, praying she doesn't notice the bulge in his jeans. But he can't not hold her because it has been six impossibly long weeks without her. His dick can't seem to make up its mind: the terror is killing his boner, but her scent is spiking his arousal anew.
"Hey," she murmurs.
"Hi."
She laughs quietly, and although he knows it's one of joy, he tells his dick it's a comment on his size. Problem solved.
"Look at that," he says, taking note of her luggage. "I'm reinstated on the day that you come home. That's the biggest coinky-dink ever."
"No, that's not even the weirdest coinky-dink today." Always contradictory, he thinks as she gestures to him. "If you were reinstated, why are you dressed like a furniture mover?"
And blunt. But he doesn't mind. Much.
"Sweets, he just, um, cleared me so I came straight over to tell you."
Concerned Brennan emerges. "What took you so long to recover?"
Oh, you know, I took to sleeping at your apartment and kinda persisted in believing in a relationship between us in my dreams. Dreams I thought were over with until your couch here...
"Oh, um... don't worry. Nothing's wrong with me. I'm 110%."
He sees a flash of what seems like panic in her eyes."Well, y-you know there's nothing more than 100%, right?"
Before he can reassure her, Angela strolls into the office and Booth immediately begins praying that she'll say nothing of their crossed paths in Bones' kitchen.
"Hey, Brennan. Hey, Booth."
"Hey," he greets her casually.
Thankfully, Angela is on a mission that's wiped her memory clear of the incident he doesn't want to explain. "Listen guys, there are a bunch of bodies buried under the Teversham Fountain."
Booth's brow furrows. "How do you know that?"
"Avalon told me."
"Who's Avalon?"
His partner jumps in. "Avalon is Angela's psychic."
She says this with a subtle glee, likely because she's anticipating his reaction. Desperate to erase all lingering worry from her mind, he blows raspberries at Angela like a ten year-old.
"See? Even superstitious Booth doesn't believe in psychics," Bones crows triumphantly.
Angela's eyes narrow. "That's interesting, because she says you two were linked in a very profound and spiritual manner."
This is unnerving. Angela surely knows the basic gist of his confusion, but her words are loaded. He glances at Bones, studying her reaction. She hesitates only briefly before blowing raspberries of her own. He joins her, grateful for the cover. Besides, Angela could have inferred that or heard as much – they are best friends, after all.
Angela, however, isn't deterred. "Oh, really? Well, she also says that in your weirdo, alternate shared life experience thing that Brennan was pregnant."
Booth's very anxious now, because that's not a detail Angela knows, as far as he's aware. Again, he looks to his partner and is alarmed at her discomfort.
"It's odd that neither of you mentioned that," Angela muses aloud.
Silence. The uncomfortable kind that turns stomachs and feels like a swelling chasm between two people. He seeks comfort in her eyes but finds she is just as desperately seeking her own. Angela leaves them, satisfied with the pot she's stirred, and Booth understands that this is reality and he has to be himself.
He has to protect her.
"Let's go check it out," he suggests, breaking the stalemate.
"What? Why?"
Aside from the creepy accuracy of the psychic, his motivation is simple: he's tired of doing nothing. Especially when said nothing does not involve his partner.
"Six weeks, Bones. I'm going stir-crazy here, okay? Let me suit up."
She sighs, a full-body affair. "Can I at least take a shower?"
Can I join you? He berates himself quietly, his hand flying to his face. "Yeah, I need to shave."
They part ways and its is familiar and friendly, but also strange. There is a distance lingering between them and it pains Booth to think that they are right back where they were four years ago, when she held her cards tight against her chest and let no one into her heart.
He wants to be in her heart, feel its beat. She will tell him that this is impossible, that no one can fit within a human heart. She will tell him that it is all chemical, this ache he feels as he drives away from her. Fine, then: they are chemistry. They are molecules destined to collide, to fuse into a new, miraculous substance.
He suddenly recalls a conversation last year between her and Parker. She had come to help his son with science homework and they'd gone off on a tangent somehow that brought them to diamonds. There's a term she used that floats into mind: covalent bond. A sharing of negative charges, a powerful bond.
Covalent bond. It suits them. Maybe love is chemistry, after all...
A loving nudge to Covalent Bond, who writes amazing stories. A-maz-ing. Go read A Face In Every Skull right freaking now.
Booth's in love, alright, but can he trust himself? Can he have faith in himself like Brennan has in him? We'll have to keep digging...
Please let me know what you think of this story. It's also time to make another choice, dear readers: season one or season two? Your choice spins next Sunday!