Title: This is Life
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: T.
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
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He slept in the bed next to her, but they didn't touch. She turned her back, flicking the lamp off and plunging them into darkness. There was no streetlamps here, and the road beyond the cottage was strangely quiet. He strained to hear anything except the constant whoosh of the waves against the surf.
Earlier, when she'd been pouring over a journal, he'd peaked out the kitchen window, into the fading light, and saw the strip of the golden beach, long and deserted, and the steel-grey ocean, slated like blades against the darkening sky. He'd listened to the sound of the sea then, and decided Brennan was right to love the place so much.
An afternoon was quiet solace was enough to welcome retirement. But as he lay on his back, staring at the shadow-etched ceiling, struggling to hear something, anything, he thought it was a lonely existence. He wished there was a rogue siren, or someone shouting drunkenly.
If there were signs of life, perhaps he wouldn't have felt as though he'd lapsed into a world where only he and Brennan existed. At that moment, he'd have given anything to be sitting in Wong Fu's, beer in hand, pouring his problems out to Sid.
But there was no one. And somehow, he thought that was Brennan's plan when she'd agreed to do the work. The peace gave her time to think, to contemplate her future. Personally, Booth didn't deal with silence well. In fact, it was too damn quiet to sleep.
"Bones?" He nudged her, and she jerked.
"Hmm?"
"Do you mind if I turn the TV on?" She sighed, burrowing her face into the pillow. When she surfaced for breath, she spoke.
"Keep it low, Booth," she said before tugging the blanket over her shoulder and lapsing into the same painstaking silence as before. He reached for the remote and flicked the television on, bathing the room in an iridescent, yet welcome, bluish glow.
The channel showed a middle-aged woman speaking rapid Gaelic, and, Booth watched her seemingly meaningless ramblings for a long moment, before channel to a different news broadcast. This one was English, featuring a harsher brogue of English.
"…and the conference at the Waterfront Hall in Belfast will continue on until next Thursday, being the second biggest tourist input into the city this year, next to the World Irish Dancing Competition…"
The news changed to an English sitcom, the humour of which Booth did not really understand, but the canned laughter told him it was, in it's region, hilarious. Despite not understanding the 'in jokes', the sound of the actor's voice eased the tension of being alone, until he felt sleepy enough to close his eyes.
When he woke, the television was off, and the luminous sunlight beamed through the window, into his eyes. He winced, throwing his arm across his face. By the doorway, he heard the familiar chuckle that reminded him of mornings spent at Brennan's home. He smelt coffee, too.
"Time to get up. I'll be leaving soon." He turned his head, catching sight of her in a different pair of jeans and an olive coloured shirt. Her hair was damp, hanging in neatly combed strands along her cheeks.
"Leaving?" He asked, groggily.
"Work. Seamus O'Rourke is picking me up in fifteen minutes." Booth frowned, pushing himself into a seated position, his eyes hurting at the intense bright light.
"Who is Seamus O'Rourke?" Brennan stepped into the bedroom now, fixing a heavy, red beaded necklace with a large bronze medallion around her neck before pulling a jacket over her arms.
"He's a doctor here. The only one for miles, actually. He's the closest thing in the way of an assistant." Booth swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching, easing all the kinks in his muscles away.
"I bet you miss Zach, huh?" He peered out the window, catching sight of the first car he'd seen since yesterday, as it rounded the bend as out of sight. "When will you be back?" Brennan shrugged, pulling her damp hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.
"After dinner, probably. Oh, there's this great little restaurant, but you'll have to drive into town. It's called Neil's and its… it's more a pub, really. Soaked in ancient Irish history, you'd like it." Booth half shrugged, brushing past her into the hallway that led to the kitchen.
"Is it walking distance?" He called over his shoulder.
"Depends on how far you want to walk," Brennan reasoned, and outside a horn honked. "Damn, he's early. Look, I'll see you later. Maybe we can have a drink later, yeah?" She surprised him, reaching up and dropping a quick, yet searing kiss to his unshaven cheek. Swinging the door open she paused at the threshold, tossing a glance over her shoulder. "Booth?" He found a mug in the cupboard and poured himself a coffee.
"Yeah?" He called back, opening the refrigerator in search of milk.
"I love you, okay?" His spine froze, his mind quite unprepared for the second show of affection in thirty seconds. When he opened his mouth to reply, the door had eased shut and her footsteps on the gravel path outside were audible. It was a small, yet somehow paramount leap.
Drinking his coffee, Booth showered and got dressed, pulling a jacket over his sweater and wrapping a navy wool scarf around his neck. The beach, chilly as it was, had been beckoning him since he'd arrived. With nothing to do until Brennan returned, he figured the easiest way to kill time, was to walk.
The rear of the cottage led to a narrow, sloping pathway with rickety wooden steps that his feet fell upon with trepidation. When he felt the fairly stable sand beneath his shoes, he paused to inhale the vibrant salty air, the Atlantic wind whipping at his cheeks, pulling his scarf in an upward bid for freedom.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he scanned the horizon, watching a blue and white fishing boat brave the tempest, thrashed wildly atop the thunderous white waves. Blinking, he wondered how those fishermen battled the elements every day, and still managed to return home with a healthy amount of salmon.
He walked slowly to the edge of the shore, bending to touch the frigidly cold waters of the ocean. Releasing a husky 'brrr' into the wind, he straightened, turning to examine the lighthouse that stood like a pinnacle, stretched high into the sky, at the end of a rocky peninsula.
Atop the green hills, a few other houses sat, secluded and pretty. In the light of day, the seclusion didn't seem so bad. It was at night, when the howling ocean was the only thing that made a sound. That was when he found the rural life a difficult choice.
The ocean spray against his face brought him to reality, and his mind flittered to Brennan's unexpected declaration of love, so soon after her frosty bedtime dismissal of him.
When the chill became too much, Booth ascended the slope to the cottage again, lighting the peat within the old stone fireplace before making himself his second cup of coffee. As soon as his skin felt warm again, he made a call to DC, waiting patiently until Angela Montenegro answered.
"Hey, how's the Emerald Isle, then?" Was her immediate greeting. He smiled. Angela might have officially been Brennan's friend, but she'd been invaluable recently.
"It's… green. And cold," he replied, casting his eyes to the rolling clouds as they tumbled over the hills.
"Not impressed, then?" Angela asked, sounding almost disappointed.
"It's surprisingly lovely, actually. In a very desolate, ancient kind of way. I feel like I'm in another century. But, I'm phoning to talk about Brennan. She's feeling a little better. We're in a different place." The flames crackled, and a surge of welcome heat blasted around the small, cosy room.
"Well that's wonderful, sweetie. Has she mentioned, you know, the baby?" Booth thought about 'the baby', the reason for their dilemma. He's child had been growing within Temperance, and it seemed like the most divine thing he could ever have imagined. Life, he realised, could be so coldly cruel.
"She mentioned it, but we haven't talked much. We're trying to… find a happy medium for our emotions, I think." Angela's smile was almost audible.
"Happy medium, huh? Where is she now?" Booth could see her, sifting through bones and matching them into neat, immaculate skeletons. Doing her job. Focusing on anything besides their problems.
"She's working," he said.
"Oh. Well, you need to sort things out soon. They can't linger on for too long, Booth." He nodded, not speaking. Of course it made sense. If they didn't work through the creases in their life, their relationship would wrinkle further until it was unrecognisable as the happiness they'd once shared. "How long do you give it, Booth?" Angela asked. He turned his eyes back to the fire again, watching the brilliant flames, violent and orange, as they licked the chimney.
"I have three weeks, maximum. Then I have to get home." Cullen had been pissed enough at him taking time during such a major case. Personal time, it seemed, was for times convenient to everyone. It had been after relating their recent troubles to his boss that he'd finally relented.
'Three weeks, Booth. I don't care if you have accrued seven weeks off. If it were anyone else, I'd stamp a big 'disapproved' on this request.' He'd been so grateful for Cullen for his momentary lapse of kindness. He needed to get his ass in gear, and ensure things were fine before he left.
"I'll sort it out, Angela," he promised, more to himself than to the woman on the other side of the world.
As they said their goodbyes, he prayed for the millionth time that somehow, by the grace of God, they'd find their way back into each others arms. And hearts.
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The coast of Donegal is fucking freezing. In summer is brilliant, and it's so warm. It's picturesque all the time. It's also extremely rural. Hope you liked this chapter.
Review!
P.S.: I apologise for mistakes. Once again, it's late and I need sleepies!
