Story title: Respite
Part 1/1
Disclaimer: Not mine. I own nothing. No infringement is intended, and I'm not making any money out of this.
He didn't ask if she wanted a ride, and she didn't question him or complain as she took her usual spot in the passenger seat. There were a million things to say, a thousand questions to ask, so predictably, they rode in silence all the way to her apartment. She'd been a little jumpy before, at the hospital, and he consoled himself with thinking that she seemed better now, even as she stared outside the window, her head resting against the seat. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence.
For a second he considered opening the door for her, maybe even offering to stay the night, but she looked at him with a wistful smile that left him to contemplate what could be going through her head in a time like this. Surely she needed someone, needed something, and if she did, it was his job to figure it out.
"Thank you, Booth." A brief touch of her hand interrupted his thoughts, and she seemed all right, quiet and composed, as she opened the door and waved goodbye to him, not at all like Hodgins. He couldn't help but think that maybe Hodgins was handling it better, for there had to be some kind of release in just letting go.
It crossed his mind to camp outside her house, just for a while, to make sure she was really all right, but she was standing there, waving him off, and she'd indulged him with doctors and tests she didn't really need, so he figured he'd give her a little privacy, if she wanted.
She knew where to find him if she needed him.
He didn't think she would. If he were a psychologist, and he wasn't, but he would admit to playing one every once in a while, especially with her, he'd say she was in denial. She'd been willing to share all the details from her experience, but she seemed entirely detached from the emotions she'd gone through. She'd told him what happened almost like a tale she'd heard somewhere, and then repeated to him.
In short, she was blocking her feelings, hoping that somehow, if she did, she wouldn't have to deal with the fact that she'd almost died. And he couldn't blame her for that; God only knew he wasn't ready to process the entire experience just yet.
But he knew better than that. As much as you'd like to, it's impossible to keep your emotions at bay for very long. He would know. And, as much as he'd like to keep her from that knowledge, he was sure she would find out, soon.
He drove home, mostly because he respected her enough to give her the space she thought she needed, but he changed clothes and nursed a beer as he flipped channels, the need for sleep nonexistent.
He wouldn't be able to sleep, he knew that. He could bet she wouldn't be able to, either. So he flipped from channel to channel and entertained himself with mindless drama as he waited to see if she would provide a respite, for both of them.
She didn't disappoint. It didn't take as long as he would have expected, but it took longer than any other person he knew. At eleven twenty-one, exactly three hours after he had dropped her off, the phone rang.
Even before picking up, he knew it was her.
"Bones?" he asked into the receiver, and there was silence on the other end of the line, but he wouldn't be fooled by it this time. "I'll be right there," he promised as he put the phone down and reached for his cell.
Before getting to the car, he was dialing. She picked up, and there were again, no words. They didn't need words, not this time. So he just held the phone to his ear as he drove, complaining every so often about the traffic, the drivers, the lights.
She never answered, but he knew she was listening.
The phone stayed where it was until he was standing at her door. He didn't need to knock, and if he didn't know better he'd think she'd been leaning against the door, waiting for him. She was clad in the kind of pajamas he always imagined fifteen year olds wearing, not renowned forensic anthropologists: a purple concoction covered with hearts, made into pants and a matching tank-top.
She didn't seem at all surprised that he was in her apartment at midnight, and her appearance gave no indication that something was wrong. There were no tear tracks on her cheeks, and she wasn't trembling as he had somehow imagined she would be. But she looked infinitely young and vulnerable, huge eyes staring into his as if asking for the answer to questions he'd been avoiding himself.
He didn't have an answer for her, so he said the first thing that came into his mind, "I'm here now."
It was the perfect opening, an excuse to break down and let it all out, a perfect moment gift-wrapped with comfort and companionship. But this was Brennan, and she didn't jump at it. Instead she motioned him inside, picked up the remains of her dinner from the table and headed for the kitchen.
She stared at the fridge, and there was pain etched in her face as she turned away quickly, resting the plate against the counter. He was behind her in three quick steps, and she was in his arms, not crying, not talking, not even moving, but holding on so tight he thought there might be bruises in the morning.
He didn't care.
"I – I tried. I –" she started, but he placed a soft finger over her lips. She didn't have to say anything, for he understood the pain, the fear and the confusion. She didn't have to say anything, not yet, not until she was ready. All she had to do was this, let him offer whatever comfort he could.
It was a long time before either of them moved.
The End