Disclaimer: I am yelling this particularly loudly this time because I have a lot of actual dialogue from the episode Secret in the Soil woven throughout. I do not own Bones.
A/N: Wendish, excellent ff writer that she is, just posted a story called Detente in which she referred to the trust exercises Sweets had B&B doing in the first episode with them in therapy, Secret in the Soil. I was inspired to write my story because of her story. Thanks, Wendish. Thanks also to Bones Twitter friends Geraghtyvl, Frankie707, SarahInPrint, and Riona Gallagher for knowing which episode was the first one with Sweets when I was too lazy to look. (I like to think I was too busy thinking up the story to look, but who am I kidding?) Also, many thanks to dharmamonkey for her quick and effective beta work on the last chapter. I forgot to thank her there in the rush to post before the work week began and rather than correct it and have no one see, I thought I would thank her there. Without her, you would have experienced VTV: Verb Tense Vertigo. Also thank you for her story Man to Man which posted this week. Mmmm.
Good luck with the work/school week, everyone. If you have a minute, remember the teachers in your lives. By the beginning of October, the ones you feel are really getting your kids could use a note. Like a review here, just the smallest note or email, with an example of something that is working for your son or daughter, can inspire and lead to more of the good stuff. Oh, and they all feed kids who don't have lunch. A box of granola bars, pretzels, a bag of apples, not to mention tissue boxes, white board markers, and pencils are always welcome.
Okay, onto the story. This was one of those where I had so many ideas as I wrote, I basically felt bad the whole time for all the things I was leaving out. Ouch. I finally decided that all the scenes should take place in or around Sweet's office. I don't know from trust exercises, as my mother in law would say. They are totally made up.
3sq October 6th 2013
"Okay, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth. Together. A little closer. Okay, yeah, that's perfect. Beautiful. Now keeping your back straight, I want you each to lean forward." I was ready to do it. I had already given up my Saturday night to do this-better that than interrupt the work week-and was enjoying the proximity of my partner, his warm hands pressed against mine.
"No."
"Excuse me?" Sweets looks surprised by Booth's sudden objection, but I am not. This boy doctor has a lot to learn about my partner.
"Come on, Booth. I'm sure this is just one of those meaningless exercises meant to illustrate the importance of supporting each other."
"We agreed to see another therapist, not be action figures for a 12-year-old." I'm not sure what this means, but it seems to anger Dr. Sweets.
"I'm 22, Agent Booth. I have a doctorate in psychology from the University of Pennsylvania, where my dissertation on the effects of job stress was published."
"That's great. I'm sure your mother is really proud of you, Sweets."
"Dr. Sweets, or Lance, you know, if you're more comfortable with informality, but I'd prefer, out of respect for each other and the process of psychotherapy, that we at least try to, uh…"
"Sign the forms so I can get out of this suit and I can have a Saturday night."
I interject again. "I don't care how young you are. I've never believed in psychotherapy."
Dr. Sweets starts to speak again, and I don't hear any change in tone, but Booth stiffens next to me. From his body language I know something is changing. I have learned to take Booth's reactions to things seriously. "Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, this isn't a game. The FBI is considering severing your partnership."
Despite the forewarning, I blurt out, "What?", at the same time that Booth asks, "Why?"
The answer comes quickly but is confusing. "Why? Dude, you arrested her father." My father is a criminal. Booth is an F.B.I. agent. What does this "doctor" think he should have done?
"He was just doing his job."
"Yeah, but come on, he, like, he arrested your father. He's going to have to be a witness against him. Circumstances such as these tend to stir up a lot of scary feelings." Is he saying I am scared? Of...Booth? That can't be right. I'm not stupid, obviously, or unfeeling. I feel lots of things, just not what or when other people do. When Booth betrayed my confidence to the prosecutor in one of our first trials together, revealed that I had been in the foster system in order to help secure a conviction against two people who had killed a girl and dumped her in a refrigerator...then I was uncertain whether the trust between us could be repaired, or continue to build. But we had gotten past that. This thing with my father was the opposite of that. Booth continues to help me figure out my relationship with my father. But Booth is still talking, still trying to intimidate our therapist.
"I don't have scary feelings. Maybe you need a little night-light at night to sleep."
"Agent Booth, you've been trying to intimidate me since the moment you stepped in here. And you've succeeded."
"Don't...scare the boy, Booth." I know that a grown man will not take to being called "boy" and hope to distract him.
Perhaps it works because instead of continuing to escalate the exchange, Dr. Sweets changes topics. "Now, I need you both to, uh, fill out these questionnaires and get 'em back to me. Don't share your answers. It'll help me evaluate whether Dr. Brennan's services should be signed to a new agent."
"That's not going to happen." His voice is cold and again, I am aware of how I am coming to know my partner's moods. This voice indicates the beginnings of real anger, not just irritation. I don't know whether this Dr. Sweets actually has the power he claims, to break up our partnership, but I am aware that issues of conflict of interest are important to prosecutors and law enforcement agencies. He could definitely make trouble. I would like to keep this man pacified.
"Like it or not, Agent Booth, I'm the therapist in charge of this case, so I suggest that we work in cooperation rather than conflict."
"I can cooperate. In fact…" I check my watch, wondering what evidence I can provide before we leave this office that my trust in Booth is still reliable and resilient. I do trust Booth. Every day I trust him with my physical well being. "...Even taking into account the closing remarks I anticipate you both making in an effort to have the last word in order to establish your dominance, we still have approximately two minutes left. I would like to resume the trust exercises."
Both men were looking at me in surprise. I don't know this Dr. Sweets at all really, but his eyes are wide, almost comically so. Booth is more subtle. He knows me and his look says, "What are you up to?" I don't change my expression at all—trust me—and, after an extra second or two, Booth plays along. He clasps his hands together and stands. "Okay, Bones, what do you have in mind? Let's make it quick."
Dr. Sweets rises and starts to say something but I override him. "I believe we should move right to the culmination of this activity. As I understand these exercises, the "trust fall" is the most meaningful evidence of trust. Booth, please stand approximately 1.25 meters away from me."
In the interest of time, probably, Booth doesn't even object to my use of the metric system, but moves accurately into position. I know it is a little bit of showmanship, but rather than ask Booth if he is ready, I just turn and fall backwards, careful to keep my body straight and stiff. Booth catches me easily. I don't even feel my stomach drop until he pulls me up against him afterwards. Strange. I disentangle myself quickly and move away from him, glancing at Sweets.
He has obviously decided not to object and while he is standing, he is just watching, arms crossed.
"Back into position, Booth." Now he looks like he will object, but when his eyes slide to Sweets and back to me, I know he won't disagree with me publicly.
"Face the window." Again, a split second's hesitation and then he turns away from me. "Fall." And, of course, I catch him. He is heavy, and I have to back up quickly and he ends up hovering only inches over the floor, but he is safe. Despite the disparities in our sizes and body masses, I know that I am more than strong enough to catch him if I need to.
I have to admit, it was exhilarating, catching Booth. Interesting. Maybe I wondered if I was strong enough to support him physically, as a partner. The chances were good that if not for me, he would have been assigned a male partner at some point, someone who would have matched him better, physically? I can feel heat in my cheeks, from success. Before I can stop myself, I am crossing the room to the window. One last demonstration…
"Bones, wha—"
"Dr. Brennan, can I—"
The two men speak simultaneously but only one follows me. I climb up onto a chair, then onto the sill of the window.
Booth stands where he stopped a few meters away looking up at me quizzically. Before he can speak, I say, "Catch me, Booth." And I jump.
While I'm in the air, I hear a squeak from the young doctor but nothing from Booth. And sure enough, in seconds, he has caught me mid-air, and I am draped across his strong arms. Close up for only a few instants before he lets me down, I smell his aftershave, see that his lips are lightly chapped, and notice that his arms and chest are rock solid. He is not breathing heavily or showing any strain at supporting my weight. My stomach flips again. Another delayed reaction. I set this aside for further analysis. Booth grins and shouts as he lets me down with flair.
"Hah HAH! Good one, Bones. Take THAT, Sweets. Unrehearsed. Total trust." He turns to me and holds his hand up. I high five him. "Over-achievers, as usual." Booth's voice is more cheerful than anytime before, this night.
Dr. Sweets nods his head, conceding perhaps? I'm not sure. I cannot read this person at all. "Very good." The whole exercise has taken almost exactly one minute, I think smugly. The man continues. "Agent Booth? Dr. Brennan. You have your assignment. I will see you at our regular time, on Thursday."
"What? I told you, Dr. Sweets, I do not want valuable work time interrupted by a pseudoscientific attempt to—"
Sweets—yes, I am going to call him Sweets too— repeats himself forcefully and I remember the threat to our partnership and close my mouth.
Booth echoes my sentiments exactly. "I'm still going to call you Sweets."
Sweets nods a little and his eyes shift to the side before he says, "Yep."
I wonder who won this exchange, Booth or Sweets. Sweets' body language and tone could indicate resignation and weary acceptance of our recalcitrance which would mean that Booth had the last word, at least from a dominance standpoint, if not literally. On the other hand, Sweets did have the final utterance, meaning that he won the dominance contest as well. At the memory of flying through the air and being caught by Booth, however, I feel...something...pride maybe, elation certainly, and follow Booth out.
In the car on the way home, we decide to get something to eat together for dinner, but Booth is adamant that he wants to change out of his suit. So 30 minutes later, we are back in the car, Booth more comfortable in jeans, t-shirt, and one of his army jackets. This is good because he spends the whole night and most of the next day in those clothes, as we begin an investigation into the death of a local organic produce magnate.
The test we have been given by Dr. Sweets is some kind of personality test and Booth doesn't seem to be taking it seriously. Not that I blame him; I do not accept the evidence that supports this kind of test as valid. Nevertheless, it is an our assignment, he could at least try to do the work himself. Over the next several days, he refers to the test often but only to try to get me to reveal my answers. I have no real confidence that he has completed the assignment.
I'm surprised then, on Thursday morning when Booth pulls out his booklet and writes his name on the top right corner, as if it is a test in high school. We're in the waiting area outside of Sweet's office. Booth picked me up a little early and now he leans forward where he sits next to me on the couch, half turning to look at me and speaking softly and intently.
"So, Bones, I was thinking. I think that Sweets is going to try to push us to do more trust exercises."
"What? Why? We passed his trust exercises!" I can't believe it. I thought we were done with that.
Booth nods in agreement. "I thought so too. Your little stunt in there certainly silenced him," I smirk a little, "but—" and now Booth's lips twist as they do when he is about to utter what he considers an unpalatable truth, "I don't think Sweets will leave it at that." Booth rubs his jaw, still very clean shaven this early in the morning. "I think he's going to say that physical risk, trusting our physical well-being to each other, is the easiest kind of trust. I think he is going to push us to show our trust in each other in other ways."
I think about this. It does sound plausible. "You mean...like...something emotional?" It's what I think psychologists want to talk about all the time.
Booth nods grimly in agreement, but doesn't seem cowed. "So. I was thinking that we should scoop him, keep him from pushing us into something only he wants."
If Booth has a plan that will keep us from talking about our emotions, I am all for it. "What did you have in mind, Booth?" Just then, though, the door opens and Sweets steps out to gesture us in. Booth rises and turns toward me, ostensibly to help me up off the couch but he hisses quietly, "Just follow my lead this time, Bones." I nod and try to let go of his hand, but it isn't until Booth ushers me in ahead of him that he seems to realize that he needs to let go too.
Thirty-four minutes later, I have begun to hope, actually, that Booth is wrong, that trust exercises won't come up again, when Sweets says, "Two independent people often find themselves...Agent Booth, are you listening?"
Booth has his knee up against the table flipping his phone for messages. We are waiting for a call from the judge.
"What?"
I am a little worried that Booth's disrespect will hurt our case. "The judge will call when the warrant is issued, Booth, pay attention."
"What, I'm in the middle of an investigation. I get distracted."
"So it's not my investigation, too?"
"It's too early in the morning for this."
"No, no, no, this is good, let's talk about conflict. When you guys argue, how do you come to a resolution?"
"We don't argue."
"Come on, remember, zone of truth, right here."
"Fine. We might bicker a little bit, but that's not arguing."
"Bicker? I don't bicker."
"No? What about the whole environmentalism thing?"
"That was a discussion."
"You pretty much told me my penis was going to shrink if I didn't eat organic food."
"That's not bickering, that's being a good friend." We could do this all day. The minutes are flying by and we may just get through this without more trust exercises.
"My penis is just fine, thank you."
"Now we're getting somewhere. All right, I think we're in that truth zone. I would like you to use that space to try another exercise with me. Given how well you did with physical trust exercises—"
Booth interrupts him and I can't help being impressed. It seems entirely natural. "Stop with the whole truth zone thing, alright? Bones and I are trying to catch a guy who cooked a tree hugger. So just score the personality test so we can get back to crime fighting."
"Yeah, that's good, Agent Booth. Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest, unless you get in touch with that fear you feel. Now Dr. Brennan and I are going to close our eyes—"
"Sweets, why should we do this? Like last week, can't we just skip to the end? We can probably pass the test and be done with this sooner."
"Agent Booth, the exercise you skipped last time did not have the same goal as the one you completed and by skipping it, you showed me something but not what I actually wanted to see."
Booth seems genuinely nonplussed and I wondered if he has lost control of the conversation.
"Well, okay then, Sweets. We'll do that one instead. I mean, we probably shouldn't jump ahead to the next one." Sweets must look suspicious at Booth's easy capitulation, although I can't tell, because Booth grumbles convincingly, "Although one stupid exercise is the same as the other to me." And Booth looks, for a minute, like he is going to get up and leave.
Sweets speaks quickly, "Fine, Agent Booth. Fine. Please stand in front of Dr. Brennan, palms together." Booth sighs and slowly rises, but as he turns toward me he winks. Reassured, I stand too and take my place from Saturday, my warm palms against his even warmer ones. I shift my hands against his slowly, up and down just enough to feel the callouses against my skin. I realize that both men are now are looking at me, waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.
"Excuse me?" I decide not to explain.
Sweets starts to say something but Booth says, "I think Bones is tired from that stakeout the other day."
I wonder at the non sequitur but do not want to challenge Booth in front of Sweets.
Sweets tries again, "Dr. Brennan, are you comfortable? Not too cold, too warm? Do you need a drink of water?"
I decline and take a deep breath, tipping my head back slightly to meet Booth's eyes head on. Sweets voice comes from the side, between us. "Please move a little closer together. A little closer. Okay, yeah, that's perfect. Beautiful. Now keeping your back straight, I want you each to lean forward. Let the air you breathe reach as deep inside you as possible. Breath out when you want to. Do not break eye contact until you cannot look at the other without your eyes crossing. Then you may close your eyes. I am going to ask you to continue leaning on each other and in a minute, talk to each other, even though you will be in each other's personal space. Keep leaning closer until you feel the need to close your eyes. Slowly, slowly."
I try to keep my eyes focused. It is suddenly very important to be the last one to close my eyes. I desperately want to see Booth's eyelids close. Even as we move very slowly toward each other, I count the gold flecks in his deep brown irises. It isn't often you get a chance to stare at someone's eyes. And Booth has extraordinarily beautiful eyes. I have always wanted to look closely at their shape but was held back by the knowledge that most people are disconcerted to the point of irritation by such scrutiny. Perhaps Booth feels the same because his eyes flicker as he looks into my own—what does he see? I blink several times trying, trying to maintain clear vision. In the end, I am as certain as I can be that we close our eyes at the same time; I watch the little muscles to the side of his eyes twitching in release just as my eyes close.
Because I have been so determined to keep my eyes focused, we have gotten very very close without my worrying about the unusual proximity to my partner. Now, with my eyes closed, I am hyper aware of it. One of us must sway a little because, close as we are, I feel my nose brush his, smell his breath. I am so glad, suddenly, that we agreed to have breakfast on the way back, so that my breath could only smell like toothpaste or coffee, as his does.
I almost jump at Sweet's voice, soft though it is. "Agent Booth, if you would, please tell Dr. Brennan what you had for dinner last night."
Booth's hands tense against mine and I suspect that he wants to object but doesn't because he doesn't want to talk in my face. Instead, he reports what he ate for dinner, and it is good that I can multitask because while I am not paying attention to what he is saying, I know with the certainty of a long-time student, that I could recite it verbatim later if I needed to. His voice is low and I am pleasantly surprised to feel similarly to when I was looking at his eyes. My curiosity is being satisfied and I am enjoying the feeling of getting information I have always wanted. Without my sight, minute changes in tone, the way Booth says his vowels, his faint Philadelphia accent, the rasp on lower notes that indicates, perhaps, a long-time node on one of his vocal cords, are all evident. I repress a shiver when he concludes with "apple pie".
"Very good. And now you, Dr. Brennan." I comply and wonder what Booth hears in my voice that makes his hands tense again.
When I finish, Sweets doesn't say anything and Booth and I stay close. Suddenly, I feel awful, awash, overwhelmed by a rush of violation that comes whenever someone has crossed one of my personal boundaries. Before I break, I hear Booth murmur, so low that Sweets couldn't possibly make out the word even if he heard the whisper, "stakeout". And the meaning of Booth's earlier hint becomes clear.
Last week on stakeout, one of my first really long ones, Booth and I talked about what it takes to stay alert for so long, in such close quarters. Keeping one's mind active turns out to be an essential part of this and I am good at this. Instead of fighting the...I balk at the idea that I am afraid...feeling of violation, I let it wash through me even as I start counting prime numbers up from 2. I only make it to 103 before the exercise is done. Probably the whole thing only took a minute or so. And yet, I feel like I have been breathing Booth's air for hours, my hands pressed against his, now slick with sweat thanks to my little panic attack.
"You may open your eyes now and step slowly away from one another. Be careful. Sometimes it is hard to reorient and regain individual balance, having sustained shared balance as well as you both did." Sweet's approval is clear, even to me, and the burst of relief is enough to allow me to regain equanimity rather than run screaming from the room. Because that is what I want. I want to run from the room and I want to keep on running. Not now, though. I repeat it. Not now. Now I am okay.
"That's enough, Sweets. That was stupid. We ate together last night. I already knew what she had." Booth grabs his phone from the table and starts to leave.
Sweets waves his hands wildly. "Wait. Wait, let's just take a minute to process what you accomplished. Please...please sit down." The man is almost pleading. I glance at Booth and he rolls his eyes at me but I can feel the intensity in his gaze. He is asking if I am okay. I press my lips together in a little nod to let him know I am even as I sit, masking our non-verbal interaction from Sweets. Booth breathes out angrily and sits next to me.
"Okay. I can tell you are frustrated. Angry. Follow the anger, all right? Feel it? Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest, unless you get in touch with that fear you feel. Now Dr. Brennan and I are going to close our eyes—Feel it softening. You feel that?"
Sweets closes his eyes but we don't close ours. I smile happily at Booth with my eyes—Sweets couldn't have given us a bigger gift—and he rolls his theatrically, making me laugh a little. The sound of a text coming to Booth's phone comes just as Sweets realizes we are laughing at him.
"Very mature, guys."
Booth helps me up and turns to Sweets with mock disappointment. "Got to run, Sweets. Got the call. Let's boogie, Bones. And, um, look, next time, you really should tell me if there's going to be an essay on the test." He tosses his completed booklet across the table to Sweets. I place mine carefully on top of Booth's and follow Booth out, still speechless since I last spoke into the tiny space between Booth and me.
Our next appointment is Saturday, in the morning so that Booth won't miss his afternoon game at the sports facility that houses his favorite team. I'm not sure why we have another appointment so soon but when I object Booth explains that he pressured Andrew to discover that Sweets has a maximum of five sessions to make a determination about splitting us up or not. Any meetings after that time will not be evaluative in the same way and should focus on work, rather than personal, issues.
We talk about the likelihood that he will try out more trust exercises on us and agree that it is probable.
"Well, you know, Bones, we are dominating his stupid exercises. It's two-zero right now." His arrogance seems well earned to me and I smirk at him.
"We do make an extraordinary team. I found it quite interesting that I could tell when you were uncomfortable in our last meeting."
He smirks back, "I could tell when you were uncomfortable too. We back each other up. That's what partner's do. Sweets should know that already." He holds the door to the Hoover open for me.
"Well, what about now? Anything you can think of that will help us prevail today?" I am half turned back to ask this and we enter the elevator with several other people I recognize.
"Nah, Bones," he grins, cocky and self-assured. "We can handle it. I trust you. You trust me." Something about his syntax or inflection makes this sound like a pact, so I hold out my hand to shake. He shakes it firmly and meets my eyes. I realize that his eyes are not as cocky as the rest of him. They are soft on mine, and...concerned maybe? He is asking me, like he did before, if I am okay. "Right?"
I nod, forcing a conviction I suddenly don't feel. "Right." And hold his gaze as well as I can. When the doors ding their way open, I drop his hand and exit with the others getting off at Sweets' floor.
The first half of the session is reassuringly devoid of useful content or conclusions. Sweets initiates a discussion of the different individual, social, and work styles that characterize us based on our questionnaire responses. He hasn't let us see our tests, nor has he summarized the results. Shoddy presentation, but what can you expect from a pseudo-science like psychology? I'm relieved at the lack of trust exercises, but am not totally surprised when, at the 40 minute mark, Sweets asserts that he would like to end our time together with another one. Booth breathes in deeply and then out again, turning to look at me as if to say, "Shall we let him?" As if we have a choice. I feel manipulated and frustrated, on the other hand, the last two have been illuminating..not in the way Sweet's intended, but by giving me the opportunity to observe my partner in ways I have not previously.
"So to begin, if you would both take your shoes off."
Booth's response is immediate. "What? No. No way." Definite. And...something else. I suspect that what I am hearing is fear, but I know too that Sweets—even if he is perceptive enough to pick up the tone in Booth's voice—will not be able to identify it. Booth is better than I am at hiding his feelings; it is one of the great secrets and myths of our relationship, that I am harder to read than Booth. At the touch of my fingers on his wrist, he turns to me, but I am looking at Sweets, drawing his attention away from Booth.
"Sweets," I begin, deliberately irritating him by using Booth's belittling name for him, one that I have refrained from using so far this session, "what could you possibly want us to do with our shoes off?"
He tries to impose his authority as he begins to answer with a voice made extra firm and enhanced with a higher amplitude, but his authority is bestowed, given to him, as yet unearned. My authority, however rarely I use it—despite what people choose to think and read into my manner—is earned. By years of training, classes, digs, at this point hundreds of publications, speaking engagements, guest lecture appointments, keynote speaker presentations, awards and honorary titles. Who does this neophyte think he is? With the certain knowledge of my professional superiority, knowing that any student of any discipline, however ill-conceived, could not fail to be inculcated in the norms of the academic hierarchy, I speak. Unambiguously, and without big words, for Booth.
"Doctor. Sweets." He falls quiet immediately. "Unless you can elucidate your practice well enough that both Booth and I understand completely, even if we do not agree, we will not be going any farther today." I would like to get through this session, not make an enemy, but Booth's feet…
Sweet's jaw has shifted forward and his lips are slightly pursed. I can see the moment he gives in though, and I am grateful, if not suprised.
"Very well. It is my belief that all tasks related to evaluation can and should be therapeutic as well. As you say, my practice is just that, practice. So the trust exercises I choose for my patients not only provide the participants, and me, with information on how much and the kind of trust that has formed, but they also serve to generate more trust when entered into willingly."
He clears his throat and his voices changes although I don't know what the change means. "I can see now that I have not paid enough attention to making sure you are informed and willing, to helping you see why you should participate and for that I am sorry. This particular trust exercise is predicated—based—on the idea that the feet are one of the most protected and personal of spaces, for many people a foot massage is more intimate than sex. I do not ask all my patients to try this one, but because you and Agent Booth have already blended the personal with the professional—" He must see the objection—we are just partners—on my lips because he rushes ahead, "—because he has helped you find your father, your brother, and now has had cause to arrest your father, I wanted to see," and now he leans forward, earnest. "I wanted you to see just how far that trust extends, on a personal level. There is really nothing professional about holding each other's feet," he admits ruefully and then adds, "and that is all I am asking you to do. Hold each other's feet. No massage, no tickling, no tricks."
"And assuming that we understand and will allow you to proceed, how will this part of the evaluation impact your final consideration? In other words, if this is a test of sorts, is it one of the final ones?"
Sweets nodded. "I am planning on making a final decision next session, our fourth one. This would be one of the final exercises that contribute to my evaluation."
Hooey, of course. Balderdash. Bunkum. But a relatively straightforward way to get through to the end of this ridiculous evaluation, if Booth can stand it. Sweets has no way of knowing about the torture Booth endured as a P.O.W. and how his feet were injured. I have succeeded in one thing, though, in the last few minutes; I have bought Booth some time. I turn to my partner. He is ostensibly relaxed, but even Sweets can't fail to perceive the tension coiled in his body. Booth's eyes are on mine and I am not sure I have ever seen this look, this expression. Intense, and something else. I...don't know, but I feel protective suddenly, even more than I already did, so I might be seeing fear. I can feel that Booth doesn't look away from me even when I turn back to Sweets.
"Alright, Sweets. I'll go first." Sweets nods and says, "Thank you." He sits back in his chair, hands entwined in front of his chin, obviously thinking that the hard part is over. Well, it probably is, for him.
I lean over and strip off my socks and shoes, glad it is a Saturday and I don't have to leave the room to take off hose. I turn to Booth. "Ready? To...hold my feet?" I let all the disdain I feel, show when I say this, inviting Booth to share the joke, the ridicule. I learned this from him and hope he takes me up on it.
His voice is strained, a little higher-pitched than usual but he manages a chuckle. "Sure, Bones. I hope I can handle it." He shifts toward me a little, and gestures in invitation. I stretch across the couch and lay my legs on his lap. His hands come to rest involuntarily, it seems, on my lower calves. And so, he strokes down my legs—unfortunately bristly since I didn't have warning that I needed to shave-before the heat of his hands wrap around my feet.
And now, of all times, I wish the line between us doesn't exist.
He holds my feet and probably isn't even thinking about how he is holding my feet, so worried is he about his own trial coming up, but for me, the way he holds them, firmly, his fingers stroking a little bit on the tops, his thumb shifting to press gently into the arches, is enough to bring a lump to my throat. It feels so good. Something of this must show on my face, because...well, Booth hasn't stopped looking at my face since this all started and for the first time in as many minutes, his expression changes, shifts from a focus on himself to a focus on me. I swallow hard and compose myself, slipping my feet off of Booth's lap and glancing at Sweets, careful to reveal as little as possible about how I am feeling.
I turn back to Booth and say calmly, as if this isn't a big deal, "Your turn, Booth. Then we'll go get lunch." Booth leans over and unties his shoes, stuffing his socks into them, hiding the special orthotics, hiding his dread. He sits up and shoots an angry glare at Sweets, unable to pretend that he doesn't hate this. He swings his legs up onto my lap and I feel cherish the heavy weight of them on my thighs. Like Booth, I let my hands rest on his calves and smooth them down lightly, but not so lightly as to tickle, to rest on his feet.
Something happens in Booth's body, a shudder, a viseral reaction of some sort and my eyes leap to his and I am afraid that Booth is going to...what? Cry? Pass out? Panicked, I blurt out, "Calcaneus." I squeeze a little to show where I mean. "The heel bone. There are two." Squeeze left, squeeze right. "Talus. Two. Navicular. Two. Medial cuneiform. Two. Intermediate cuneiform. Two. Lateral cuneiform. Two. Cuboid. Two. Metatarsals. Ten. Proximal phalanges. Ten. Intermediate phalanges. Eight. Distal phalanges. Ten." Hoping that I have drawn this out enough, I squeeze one last time and Booth's eyes close in pain. There is no other interpretation for what passes over his face. Panicked, I release his feet quickly and push his legs off me. I grab for the glass of water on the table, knocking it over in my my clumsiness, and before I know it, Booth is at my elbow helping me up. His feet are still bare, but they are supporting his weight, and we are done and I am wet, but Sweets is looking at me, not Booth, and that's all that matters.
I know Sweets must wrap things up with us. I see later on my calendar that our next, final appointment is on Monday so soon? but I only really start recording new input when Booth and I are departing the Hoover, having put our shoes back on, walked down hallways and ridden on elevators. Outside, on the stairs down, I reach out blindly, without looking at him, and take his hand. He slips his fingers in between mine and squeezes. I squeeze back, hard, but he doesn't complain. We are still walking like someone is chasing us, driving forward, long strides, eyes forward. We reach the park. We have only to cross it and we'll be at the diner. Instead he draws me toward a wooded part of the park and when we reach a relatively secluded spot, I turn and throw myself at him. His arms come up around me, fast—one big, warm hand comes to rest on the back of my head and the other pulls me into him at the waist. For my part, I just sink into him, face pressed into his neck, cheek against warm cotton, my arms snaking around his waist. I can't stay silent any longer though.
"Booth, did I hurt you?"
"What? No." He has bent his head to press into the join of my neck and is breathing hard. I can feel his lips move when he denies that I hurt him. It feels almost like a kiss and my whole body shudders against him. He makes a sound, again, like hurt, but is not, I suppose, and holds me tighter. We stay like that a long time.
Our final appointment on Monday is rescheduled to the afternoon since we are busy arresting Kat Curtis in the morning. This case rests heavy on me, with its story of mothers and daughters and fathers. I am not one to draw parallels between myself and others, but...well, this case has been difficult, and I am tired. Booth and I sit on opposite ends of Sweet's couch. He seems as tired and grim as I feel.
Sweets starts. "So, case finished?"
At my affirmative, Sweets says, "Congratulations."
Booth nods. "Yeah."
"You don't seem too happy."
"Well, because sometimes, if you win, you end up with somebody else's pain and screwed-up life. You work for the FBI, you should know that."
"Must be a challenge for you to access those feelings."
Suddenly, I have had enough. "Okay, stop. You don't know Booth. You don't know me, you have a limited view of us based on superficial data you've accumulated on a standardized questionnaire, and a subjective analysis from talking to us that is not at all scientific, so just...back off."
Sweets mumbles, "Just trying to help."
"By questioning his humanity?" I am angry, so angry, but Booth's voice is calm, almost good-natured.
"Okay, Bones, now you're going a little bit overboard. He's just a kid. Right? I mean, the worst thing that's probably ever happened to him was he lost at Mortal Kombat."
"Are you normally this protective of him, Dr. Brennan?"
"We are partners. Our lives depend on being protective of each other."
"And you feel the same way, Agent Booth?"
"Sweets, I can only hope that one day you know what a real partnership is."
"You two are very close, that was evident in your superficial, standardized questionnaire and my unscientific observations."
"Yeah?"
"You complement each other."
"No, she never compliments me. Did you compliment me in the questionnaire?"
I clarify. "'Complement,' not 'compliment'. 'Ple'...'ple'. He means that we complete each other, as a team.
"Oh. Yeah, right."
"Now, we've got a lot to work on over the next few months."
I can't believe that I am hearing what I think I am hearing. "Meaning we get to stay together?"
"Yes."
"I'm sensing a 'but'."
"However—"
"It's the same as 'but,'" I say.
"I have observed some underlying issues that need to be addressed."
"Issues?"
"Yes. There's clearly a very deep emotional attachment between you two."
"We're just partners."
"And why do you think I would have thought otherwise?"
" 'Cause you're 12."
Later, on the way out, our next appointment weeks away, I smile up at Booth and say, "You are a very good partner, Booth."
He smiles back, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yes. Now I complimented you."
He ignores my mini-lecture and puts his hand at my back. I lean back into its warmth, and, when we are several blocks away from the Hoover, I let my arm loop around his waist too, lean into and against him.
A/N (2): A short list about me. (1.) I like long things better than short things. On twitter, I get past the 140 character rule by writing as much as I like in a series of tweets. I like novels, the bigger the better. Here, I am struggling to post one-shots. I already have a follow up to Chapter 2 half-written and I suspect I will be writing a follow up to this chapter as well. (2.) I am all about B&B getting together. If it seems like they might have, they did. :) (3.) My RL is pretty wild right now. I hope my rushed editing suffices, but I'm sure it is not perfect. I'll try to correct things that people point out. Thanks for letting me know what you think.