This Is Life

The Greatest Cliché

Booth choose French.

He said his local would not afford them the privacy he felt the occasion required. Brennan felt her chest seize, following as the waiter lead them unto the veranda, gesturing to a wrought iron table, bathed in candle light that fluttered majestically in summer breeze and carried with it, the scent of jasmine.

The waiter asked if they would like some wine, and Booth automatically asked for Rose D'Anjou, rolling the words from his tongue as though it were second nature. Brennan studied the menu, wondering what would transpire tonight and if their relationship, if she could call it that, would have tilted towards something else, by the time they had finished their meal.

"This is nice," Booth said, casting his gaze around the small veranda. There was one other couple, at the far side, eating in companionable silence.

Brennan watched as the small white fairy lights, strung loosely around the bay trees twinkled in the dark. She felt as though she were part of a couple and not, as they were defined at present, an anthropologist and an FBI agent.

"Yes," she agreed, "it's lovely."

The waiter returned, carrying a bottle of pinkish wine and an ice bucket. He removed the cork deftly, tipping the wine, pouring Brennan's first. When he stopped, he waited for her to taste.

She knew nothing of wines. At least not expertly. But the aroma filled her nostrils and she breathed in appreciatively, swirling the liquid and taking a small sip. She'd always believed wine was nothing to rave about and if she was honest, they all tasted the same and had the desired effect of intoxication. She had no desire to learn about barrels or grapes. But Booth's choice lingered delicately on her tongue and she found herself murmuring her approval.

"Is good, yes?" The waiter asked, nodding enthusiastically.

"It tastes of strawberries," Brennan said, turning her eyes to Booth.

"Oui!" The waiter agreed, replenishing her glass and turning to Booth. "You make a good choice, monsieur," he added, slipping the bottle into the wine bucket. "May I take your order?"

Booth ordered a platter of cheese and asked Brennan if she wanted to share, because apparently French cheese was divine. She agreed, vaguely aware that too much dairy was bad. They both ordered canard a l'orange because the waiter recommended it, and French salad drenched in vinaigrette.

"And bread," Booth added.

When they were alone, he breathed in, lifting his glass. "To us, Bones," he said, as she knocked her glass against his. "Should we talk now? Or would that spoil an otherwise lovely evening?" Temperance drew in the sweet jasmine again, now mixed with rosé wine.

"It is a lovely evening," she agreed. "Why would a serious conversation necessarily spoil it?" She queried, and Booth smiled. She thought he might toast again, but he remained silent for a long time, the balmy air settling around them, the scent of French cuisine wafting through the air. The mixture assaulted her senses, and Temperance thought she'd never want to leave the table.

"I'm glad you said that, Bones, because you're not the only person who has been nervous about tonight." Brennan couldn't imagine Booth had ever been nervous in his life. He carried an air of confidence and assurance that was unrivalled by anyone Temperance had never known.

"Nervousness is a natural reaction to that which-"

"Don't analyse, Bones, be human." Brennan dropped her eyes to the linen table cloth and nodded mutely. Her analytical mind was part of her defence mechanism. She needed to protect herself with intelligence and science. Emotion, humanity and normality frightened her because she wasn't good with it.

"What's happening to us, Booth?" She asked at last. "Is it sex? Is that what we have going on here?" Booth tipped his glass, gazing into the liquid as though it contained the answers of the universe.

"I'm not that type of guy," he said, glancing at her through his eyelashes. "I think you're an amazing woman, Bones. You're intelligence and dignified and you drive me crazy. You question my methods and excite me every single day. And I don't mean sexually. Not just, anyway." He lifted his head completely, fixing the entirety of his gaze on her now, watching the maelstrom of emotions that played across her lovely features. "I've never been effected by a woman the way you effect me. I love working with you, Bones. You're incredible."

"I… thank you, Booth," Brennan replied. "But I don't imagine we're here to talk about my ability to do my job or questions yours. That wouldn't require a leap of faith, would it?" Booth shook his head. "So what?"

"We're here to define what 'we' are, Bones. We cannot continue to fumble blindly, ending up in bed together and waking up wondering what we've done and if it's right." Brennan drained her glass.

"I have never doubted it, Booth. While that which feels right and not always necessarily so, intuition tells me I am not being foolish to believe it is." He nodded, throwing his head back, swallowing hard.

"What are we doing, Bones? Are we dancing around something out of fear of rejection? Have we fallen into the age old trap?" Brennan drew invisible patterns on the tablecloth with her fingertip, shaking her head.

"Who's analysing now, Booth?" she asked. He chuckled, watching as the waiter approached with a tray of mixed cheese. They were silent until he had refilled their glasses and disappeared again. When he had, Brennan spoke. "You're different to other men, Booth. You're not afraid of me." She tried the camembert, deciding that she quite liked the taste. "I like that." Booth frowned.

"The cheese?"

"No. Well, yes. But that's not what I meant." Booth nodded, acknowledging that he understood. "You treat me with a bizarre sense of respect that isn't founded on your desire to impress me. You see me as a person and not a scientific, robotic drone." Booth smiled weakly.

"Ordinarily, you're not the type of woman I would envision myself with, Bones," he said. She nodded, dropping her eyes. "And it's strange. I cannot understand why. Suddenly I can't envision myself with anyone but you. I'm confused and I spend most of my day trying to decipher what it means." Brennan looked up, her eyes darkened to the colour of sapphires in the candle light.

"I got virtually nothing done in the lab today," she admitted. "You drive me crazy-"

"The feeling is mutual," Booth hurried to add.

"Yet I can't describe how I feel as anything less than…"

They spoke simultaneously.

"Love?"

"Love?"

Brennan smiled across the table, snatching the last cube of delicious cheese. "Isn't that a cliché, Booth?" She asked.

"Love, Bones, is officially the worst offender in The Great Book of Clichés, but an overused statement is not inevitably wrong." Brennan nodded her head in agreement, folding her hands atop the table. "Besides," Booth added, "we don't use clichés very often and I figure we deserve this one, huh?" Brennan lifted her glass, as if in a second toast.

"I agree, Booth," she said. "Here's to love and tacky clichés."

A/N: My husband is Mauritian. The cuisine there has a lot of French thrown in, plus he speaks the language fluently which helps. He helped me with the names of the dishes and D'Anjou is my favourite wine. It really tastes of strawberries! I hope you liked. Review, si vous plait.