Title: This is Life
Disclaimer: I do not have any rights to these characters. Boo-hoo!
Rating: Just a K, probably. But please read anyway you perverts!
A/N: Another chapter for This is Life – inspired by a moment of nothing else to do, today. The first time in what feels like forever. I thought it was necessary to update… it's been awhile.
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"Bones coming though!" Zach called from the far end of the steel gurney, his whole weight thrusting the tray forward as scientists parted like the Red Sea, their eyes curiously fixated to the yellowed, still dirty bones.
From the corner, against the cabinet that was filled with reference fragments and artefacts, Booth clicked his tongue, his arms folded across his chest in a show of masculine superiority. "It's a skeleton," he murmured to Angela with a slight hiss. "These guys act as though someone's just wheeled in the Holy Grail…"
Brennan glanced over her shoulder her eyes narrowed in a glare. "If someone handed you a top secret dossier what would you do?" she asked, a narrow cinnamon eyebrow arched skyward while her lips remained impassively thin yet a perfect display of her lack of amusement.
"I'd probably be more concerned about where it came from than staring at it all day," he replied, clapping his hands together. "Okay folks," he turned to his own personal Squint Squad, excluding non-anthropological scientists from the conversation and effectively turning the room back into a laboratory and not a viewing gallery, "we have a stiff and I need an ID, what about it?" Zach narrowed his eyes, a perfect mirror image of his boss.
"He's not a stiff," he said, tilting his chin in that 'know all' manner that sometimes irritated the hell out of Booth. "A stiff should have skin and muscle and be in the fairly early stages of decomposition." Brennan was nodding in agreement as Booth rolled his eyes, smoothing down his tie.
"Well that's me told. So, how's about identifying him then, Einstein?" He clapped Zach's shoulder and the assistant let out a small yelp of disapproval that was a perfect accompaniment to Brennan's glare. "Alright, what's wrong?" he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders which stiffened beneath his touch, and leading her towards the relative privacy of the quarantined area. Once his card beeped access, she shrugged him off.
He held his hands up in mock surrender his brow furrowed into a deep set frown. "Down girl…" he chuckled. "What's going on?" Brennan glared at him with the kind of annoyance he hadn't seen in a fairly long time. There was a smidgen of hurt, maybe a little contempt but mostly she looked pissed off.
"Don't be so mean to Zach," she bit, crossing her arms beneath her breasts in a way that made her cleavage rest tightly beneath the v-necked olive green sweater she wore. "In fact, don't be so degrading towards all of us! Bones might not be your Holy Grail but they are what we do…" Booth smirked, his hands slipping over her hips, his fingers trailing across the subtle indent of her spine, his eyes hooded and sensually dark.
"Bones is my Holy Grail," he said, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breast and she shoved his hands away, torn between her irritation and the distinct flare of arousal.
"People can see us," she hissed running a furtive glance over the lab. People could see them but no one was looking. "Be serious!" she snapped crossing her arms again. Booth smiled, nodding slowly. "Zach doesn't like being patronised…" Brennan was saying and he blinked, wide eyed and in a moderate shock of disbelief.
"He doesn't like it? 'Oh a stiff should have skin and muscle and be in a fairly early stage of decomposition' C'mon, Bones, you assistant is the biggest squint around and he's sanctimonious about his intelligence, too. But hell, I like the kid. Just don't give me a hard time when I have to defend my own intelligence sometimes…" Brennan felt the edges of her mouth quirk.
"What intelligence?" she joked, shaking off her own annoyance. "I've been in a really bad mood all week," she admitted, wondering at how much she'd missed him when he'd been away. It bothered her when he was sent undercover where she couldn't be sure he was ever safe. All week her muscles had coiled tighter and tighter until she felt like the spring in a jack-in-the-box, moments away from releasing all her pent-up energies. "What happened?" Booth passed his palm over her bicep, a soft gesture that explained to her how much he understood the underlying concerns of her week. She'd been unable to concentrate on her work and he knew that. Each time they'd talked on the phone she'd sounded vague – a sure sign that she was repressing her anxieties. It was inevitable that she'd lose it eventually.
"Aside from a bump to my skull, I'm back unscathed," he said, toying with the loosened strands of cinnamon hair. She smelt like cinnamon today, too. Spicy and heady, almost like Christmas.
Her fingers danced over his scalp, encountering the wound. Booth rewarded her with a wince, his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Does it still hurt?" she asked, her eyes rounded in concern. He repressed the quirk about her intelligence and shrugged.
"It was a fairly heavy wrench," he explained. "But hey, occupational hazard I guess. How are you for lunch today?" It frightened her how easy it was for Booth to shake off the dangers of his job. Wielding a gun and shooting down the bad guy was an average day for a federal agent and while it excited her to be in the midst of it, she was slightly afraid that one day the inevitable 'I'm so sorry ma'am' call would come.
Except it probably wouldn't because who was she? She was the woman he slept with. His lover. They didn't live together and they were not married. They didn't use terms of endearment and they never announced the change in their relationship. Mostly, they were clandestine and fucking under a veil of secrecy.
"Lunch?" she murmured, shaking her head, quite confused at her own train of thought. "Sure… I'll get a start on the remains. How's one?" Booth watched her with unmasked concern, his dark eyes narrowed as he raked his gaze over her body in a sweep that was not sexual just apprehensive.
"One is fine. Are you alright?" She pulled her face into a smile.
"Sure. We'll talk later, okay?" Brennan descended the stairs, pinching the top of her nose. "Oh," she added as a last minute thought, "sorry for snapping." Booth dipped his head in ascent, watching her as she crossed the lab, her spine set in a rigid line, the smooth column of her neck, tense. Sometimes she was the hardest person to work out – one moment she was a feisty live-wire and the next it was as though someone had sapped all the life from her.
Today was one of those filled with vast contrasts in her emotions. He cleared his throat, shaking his head as his cell phone rang and he took the call, his shoulders sagging as Special Agent in Charge Michael Romany barked his unfortunate news down the line.
"We've got another one."
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"You look stressed," Brennan said, massaging her own temples, small strands of hair whispering against her cheeks, blown from their bindings by the howling wind beyond the restaurant window. A flurry of snow was carried with it and she felt as though Washington, D.C. were a giant snow globe, turned upside down.
"I'm fine," Booth replied with a strained smile, dropping his eyes to the menu. She smoothed the linen tablecloth, her head aching.
"Your victim had a degenerative bone disease," she disclosed. "Hodgins is running tests to determine where he was buried… or at least in what kind of soil…" Booth nodded, his eyes drawn to the picturesque beauty beyond the window. Brennan reached out, dropping her hand to his. "The other body… it's a child, isn't it?" She saw his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed, the single jolt of his head signalling his affirmation of her suspicions.
The waiter stepped next to their table, his pencil hovering over his notepad and a smile pulling at his lips. He seemed somewhat intimidated by the darkened gloom that surrounded their table – a sad reality of working with death and murder every day. Brennan's chest clenched, and she cleared her throat.
"I'd like some green tea and the special," she said and the waiter scribbled before turning his eyes to Booth.
"Smoked salmon and a beer, please." When they were alone, Brennan frowned in disapproval and he sighed, shaking his head in a soft warning. "Don't hassle me, Bones, I'm tired." Her mouth closed but her fingers clenched around the table cloth and the disapproval didn't ebb away but rather intensified as he continued to stare at the thickening snow.
"Can we talk?" she asked, tentative and softly pressing. He blinked, the conflicting emotions brought forth as a result of his job disappearing in an instant. He pulled a mouthful of air into his lungs, his fingertips running along the edge of the flower centrepiece without meeting her gaze. He didn't say no, so she assumed it was enough of a response for her to continue. "I've been thinking about our status recently… well… today… and while I am not the type of woman to leap into something quite illogical I think we should rethink our relationship plans and put some kind of… label… on what we are to each other…"
Booth swiped his tongue over his lips.
"You're everything to me. What more do you need? Do you want to get married?"
It was perhaps the most unromantic attempt at a proposal Brennan had ever heard, and the lack of emotion spoken stung. She gasped. "No! God no…" she replied, not certain that she didn't want to marry him but definitely certain that she was not going to accept a less than perfect proposal – and sitting in a cheap and cheerful restaurant in D.C. did not constitute as romantic.
"Well, okay then," Booth said, sounding neither elated or disappointed. "So what label do you want?" It was as though she were picking out a pair of shoes and couldn't decide what ones she wanted. There was no heartfelt emotion, no sweeping, dramatic glances filled with love. He instead focused his attention on the beer that was set before him while she stared into the coloured depths of her green tea.
It had taken most of November for them to get their relationship back on track and as the month ate into December, it felt almost as though they were back into a relatively good place. The sex was amazing, the conversation was rarely dull and if only she'd picked a less emotionally strained time to broach the subject, she might have been feeling numbly happy at Booth's 'marriage' request or rather, suggestion.
No. She wouldn't. She wasn't a traditionalist or a romantic but she did want the grand gesture romance and the 'I can't live with you' proposal. Why did she have to mention it right in the middle of a draining case. Right after the call from his SAC – when he felt so emotionally torn from hearing that a six year old girl was dead.
"Booth?" she said, her mouth drawn into a wince. He turned his flicking gaze on her now, his fingers tight around his beer as though it were his saviour. "This might be a really, really inappropriate time and I know my timing as always been a little bad… but… fuck…" she never swore, "I think I'm pregnant."
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