Disclaimer: All I want for Hanukkah is David Boreanaz
Spoilers: Pretty much the entire series. Direct references from 5x03-5x07.
When it happens (because lets face it, it was anthropologically, sociologically, biologically, and every other –ogically inevitable),she must concede that there is much she has yet to learn.
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As it turns out, Michael Stires is skillful at instructing more than forensic anthropology. Luckily, Temperance Brennan has always been an apt and eager pupil. She takes on all the education he offers with an enthusiasm that both surprises and delights him, and proves to be immeasurably gifted in all respects.
"Has there ever been anything you didn't excel at, Tempe?"
"No. But maybe if we try this…"
She treats their time together as one long study on sexual compatibility, a meeting of bodies and minds that refutes any necessity of the transient concept of love. Pheromones, hormones, and intellect; if one is very lucky, this would be their introduction to the sex act. There need be no pretense, no delusion, of anything more. When they part, amicably and with a farewell embrace, she feels nothing but gratitude for the knowledge amassed under his guidance.
He turns out to be a disappointment, in the end. Yet another alpha-male threatened by a woman's superior intelligence. What's worse, he acts in a manner that is not only personally grievous, but also a betrayal to the profession for which he has fostered such respect in her. She expected better of him. Nothing could ever reverse his fall from grace in her eyes— the teacher she held in such regard demoted to yet another person who could not be relied on. And still, in all the years that follow their affair, she never encounters another man who can challenge her on as many levels as Michael; who can force her to be better as a scientist, better as a woman.
Until a cocky FBI agent prods his way into her life, and she becomes a student of things she had never before thought worth learning.
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They've been doing this more and more lately. Conversing about issues like finances, past relationships, the habits of day-to-day living. These are things that work colleagues do not discuss, and friends have no reason to in such detail. She realizes, even with her limited grasp of social norms, that these are topics for individuals involved in a romantic relationship. She realizes too, that this is the rhythm she and Booth have fallen into.
She finds she does not mind.
She treats their time together as one long study on fostering intimacy, a culmination of trust and affection that makes the notion of losing oneself in another person less absurd with each passing moment. Opening up to possibility is not something she has had much practice with. Booth's quiet devotion makes it an important lesson to master.
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Brennan has always had an exceptional memory.
Her first trip to Guatemala is spent under the tutelage (and in the bed) of her professor. The other students observe her as if she has breached some sacred code of conduct. Such things are immaterial. She isn't there to make friends. She's there to take, to absorb, to devour every ounce of knowledge he can offer.
"You are the most tenacious person I've ever met. It's remarkable."
She smirks a little at his compliment. It is unclear whether he is referring to her earlier sanction by the local government for refusing to turn over an incriminating specimen, or their most recent bout of sexual gratification.
"Well, I am undeniably gifted."
"There's gifted, there's gifted, and then there's you."
It isn't so much the response that surprises her, as the emotion in the voice that carries it. Michael can be dry, sarcastic, even condescending. But here is a tenderness she has never experienced; not from him, not from anyone. This new infusion behind his words— it makes her feel wanted, needed, desired for all the unique facets that make her the person she is. It is but a brief instant in the stretch of their otherwise educational timeline, and she dismisses it almost as soon as it occurs to her. It is unnecessary for her satisfaction in the physical or the intellectual relationship, and therefore beyond the scope of their arrangement.
But she will always remember that feeling.
Years later, she will encounter it again in a hand resting lightly at the small of her back; in a charming smile on an otherwise gloomy day; in the last of the mee krob surrendered without protest. She will find it in a plastic pig, a toy smurf, a Christmas tree alight in the snow outside of a prison trailer. It is somethingBooth offers every day, every moment, without ever saying a word.
She remembers. It is only now that she is beginning to understand.
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She knows that he likes brown sugar on everything.
She knows about his mother's meatloaf.
She knows his father drank.
She knows that he's fractured his left clavicle at least twice; once playing football for his alma mater, and once in some far off desert where he officially never set foot.
She knows that he could have still had a career in basketball as he hoped, had he torn merely his anterior cruciate ligament, and not the medial meniscus as well. She knows that, had this happened, they never would have had reason to meet.
She knows that this possibility is unacceptable.
These, and a thousand others, are things she knows, and this pleases her in ways she cannot rationalize.
Lately, the more she knows, the more she thirsts for more.
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Michael once jokes that her unending quest for knowledge is rivaled only by her appetite for sex. Four years later, he is first to recognize that she has surpassed his tutelage for both.
Betrayal is the one last lesson he can offer her.
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It all comes down to this.
"I trust you."
They are not difficult words to say or believe. (She would be surprised if she were to evaluate the concept, but she won't, because psychology is a soft science.)
It's the truth, and she knows it's the truth, so she tells him.
Not "Are you going to betray me?" (She knows he won't, and will not insult either of them by reviving that long vanquished doubt.)
Not "I think you're made of very, very good stuff", even though he undisputedly is. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. In reality he's made of microscopic cells that produce energy in the form of ATP via oxidative phosphorylation which, amazing and efficient as it is, doesn't really qualify in this context.)
Not "I love you," because she doesn't believe yet that love is transcendent and eternal, even though she wants to. (Even if she said it, and believed it, which she will, someday, but not yet, it wouldn't mean as much without this:
"I trust you.")
It is the summation of every fact she knows about him, and has nothing whatsoever to do with putting your faith in another human being. Because faith is a completely irrational emotion, and everyone is bound to disappoint you eventually.
But not Booth. She trusts that he will never disappoint her, and this is a legitimate scientific conclusion based on years of extensively studying his behavior.
As it turns out, they both help the other evolve.
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He calls her once, long after the past is water through the dam. (She's not sure this is the correct colloquialism.)
"Peru," he says by way of greeting.
She knows where he is. After all, Michael would have been the next logical person to invite to the excavation after she refused the offer.
She only refused because the invitation came mere days after Booth died.
Well, pretended to have died, at any rate. She has still not entirely forgiven him for that.
"What about it?" she asks.
"Look, Tempe. I know we didn't leave things…. on the best of terms. I'm sorry. For everything. But what we've found here— it's astounding, and puzzling, and I could really use your input."
"Alright. Send me the images."
"No, no," he chuckles. "I mean, come out here. Grab the sleeping bag that's seen more action than most people's beds, hop on a first-class flight, and come."
She considers his words. It is a marvelous opportunity to return to her first passion. Working with Michael may prove to be challenging, yet he is the one calling her for assistance. He is undoubtedly conceding her superiority, which is greatly satisfying. There is no reason she shouldn't go. And yet…
"I'm afraid not, Michael."
"Is this about what I said on the stand? Because I'm sorry. And here I am, calling in the expert as an apology."
"That's not the reason."
"Then what? We're talking about prehistoric remains here. This is exactly why we chose this field in the first place. Why on earth wouldn't you jump at the chance?"
Why indeed? She's not really certain anymore.
"We've just returned from England, and there's simply too much work to catch up on."
There is a long pause on the other end of the line. She has never known her verbose mentor to be so silent.
"Michael?"
"Is this about that FBI agent?"
"We're just partners." It is the default response, automatic and technically true. Yet she can't help but shift in her chair uncomfortably, observing that she hadn't actually answered the question.
"Tempe, please. Just think about it, ok? I really need you."
She thinks about it. She doesn't hate him, even though she no longer idolizes him. It is a chance she shouldn't pass up and yet, she finds to her great surprise, that the desire to stay overrules the desire to go.
"I'm sorry, Michael. I can't help you."
She tries to ignore the fact that this is the second proposition, sexual or otherwise, that she refuses in as many weeks because of a man who is just her partner.
Still, when the invitation to China arrives, she feels she is proving something to herself by accepting.
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Once, she had nearly pummeled a bounty hunter to death with her bare hands. Would have, most likely, if her fugitive father hadn't been there to stop her. If she hadn't enlisted said fugitive father in her desperate quest, heedless of any repercussions save her partner's welfare.
Once, she had fired a single bullet with perfect precision into a woman's throat. She had killed another human being. It wasn't justice that had driven her, held the gun steady, ensured her aim flawless. It was retribution for his blood beneath her hand.
Once, she had withheld stolen evidence. No, not withheld it, turned it over, to the very person this evidence implicated. She had righteously demanded a body be stolen from federal custody. She had broken laws and sacrificed a man's career, all for the feel of her partner alive in her embrace.
She knows she's done these things, remembers doing them.
And yet, when she tells the British psychologist-cum-gourmet chef that she can't think of anything she wouldn't do to help Booth, she is still surprised by the realization that it was no less true three years ago than it is now.
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The first time she has sexual intercourse (she still doesn't understand why Booth repeated twenty-two! in that incredulous manner), Michael's voice is low and soothing in her ear. His explanations and pointers guide her through the entire process in a manner that is very satisfactory, and she knows that she was correct in selecting him for this process.
She will gather the knowledge and experience she needs, then move on.
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Even though she has occasionally been involved in monogamous relationships, she has never believed in the concept. One person cannot be all things to another, cannot fulfill all aspects necessary for an individual to be content for any extended period of time.
And yet, in every role in which she has needed him—counterpart, confidant, partner, friend—he has been steadfast. She cannot imagine any other man, any other person, being all these things for her. What's more, she doesn't want to.
They are not lovers, but her loyalty to Booth is absolute.
If not technically monogamy, isn't that a commitment nonetheless?
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She's shared her body with many men. She's shared herself with only one. It has been a very recent consideration that the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.
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Yet another near-death experience, followed by the frantic reaffirmation of life.
A heated argument resolved with torn clothes and groped flesh.
A moment of profound emotion in which they find comfort in each other.
None of these are the way that it happens.
She never would have imagined that. (If she would ever admit to imaging such a thing, which she won't. His ego is currently inflated enough as it is.)
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"I've been thinking."
He chuckles around a mouthful of chicken lo mein.
"Yeah, Bones. You tend to do that a lot."
"Booth." She tries for stern, but can't seem to help the amused upturn of her lips.
She smiles a lot more these days, she thinks, and there is no denying that it has something to do with him. With this, whatever it is that feels so novel between them.
She gets up, moving to her bookshelf as Booth watches quizzically. When she returns, there is a small clay pot in her hands, intricately designed with a human face. Her partner arches an eyebrow, pointing to the object in her hands.
"Been doing ceramics with Sweets again?"
Brennan rolls her eyes, and chooses to answer a question with a question.
"Do you remember Michael Stires?"
Booth frowns a little, forehead crinkling with tiny lines she wants to smooth away.
"The naughty professor? Sure. What does he have to do with anything?"
She turns the pot over in her hands.
"He sent me this. After the Anok exhibit. As a congratulatory gift, I suppose."
"He sent you a congratulatory pot?"
"It's Moche. A Peruvian artifact, from the pre-Columbian era."
"Oh."
There is a dark look on his face, almost like foreboding, and she wonders what he is expecting to hear.
"Ever since I received this, I've been thinking."
Booth gets up abruptly. Paces across the room, the broad scope of shoulders and back rigid with tension. She sets the pot down on the table and twists her hands to keep from reaching out to him. He stops, turns on his heel, and eyes her with a dark intensity. She waits.
"I get it, Bones."
"You do?"
This is not something she expected, although she probably should have. He has always been too good at understanding her, even when she didn't understand herself. Whereas before the realization brought a sense of discomfiture, now it inspires a warmth to blossom inside her chest.
"Yeah. You miss it. All this… the cases… it takes you away from what you really love. It's…. it's ok. It's ok."
This last part seems to be more for his own peace of mind that for hers. She is on her feet and in front of him, not a moment's hesitation in correcting his mistake. The distress contorting his handsome features causes a stab of pain somewhere beneath her ribcage.
"No, that's just it. I used to miss it. I used to, but now I… I like my life Booth. I feel very…. fulfilled. On both a professional and personal level, and that is greatly attributed to you."
This openness, this reassuring comfort— they are things he taught her.
His wide, startled eyes search her face.
"You don't ever want more?"
"More?"
"Yeah, Bones, more."
"I find our work very satisfying, Booth. What more could I possibly want?"
There is an expression on his face she has come to recognize, but has not yet translated into the meaning behind it. Her face flushes, and she suddenly feels as if she is the one under the microscope.
"More than…this," he says in a low rumble that brings goosebumps to her flesh. His hand is motioning between them, as if the action could describe what it is that they've become to each other.
She thinks she knows what that means.
Booth takes a step forward, invading her personal space. There has always been something predatory in that action. Now, the proximity seems almost a necessity.
"Bones," he says. A whisper on a breath caressing her face, and he's never said it that way before, as if it were an entreaty.
"Yes," she says. She doesn't know if it's answer or acknowledgement. It feels like both, and neither.
It feels like permission.
And suddenly, there is no more space between them.
His mouth is warm, and strong, and coaxing. Which is entirely consistent with everything else about him, and she is all too aware that this is Booth. This is Booth, who would kill for her, who would die for her. Who's already done both. Booth, who believes in breaking the laws of physics.
She would very much like to test the validity of his argument.
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He's everywhere.
Hands, mouth, tongue, skimming her flesh like he wants to devour it. Like he's been waiting for too long to cross an imaginary line of his own construction. She's beginning to think that maybe he has.
Each place he touches feels branded, and suddenly the notion of metaphorical marks takes on a whole new meaning.
But he's already marked her in so many ways she can't explain.
It feels like he's inside every inch of her, invading every pore, connected on some level that goes far beyond the place they're actually joined. Which is physiologically impossible.
Stop thinking, Bones. Stop thinking for once, and just feel.
Booth's voice is low and soothing in her ear, whispering words of pleasure and appreciation. His explanations are in the way his mouth moves across her skin, tasting and caressing. His pointers can be found in the undulations of his hips, the rhythm his body sets against her own, the groans that reverberate deep in his chest when she arches up against him. It's all evidence of a truth he is trying to tell her, and she can accept that.
She's not thinking about gathering knowledge, or biological urges, or moving on, or much of anything really, except one thing.
He was right. This is worth it.
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There's an unexpected mirth bubbling up in her chest, and she gives herself over to it. Her laugh is low, husky, and his eyes fix on her face in mild horror.
"Geez, Bones. That's not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Way to give a guy a complex."
"Are you referring to your sexual performance?"
"No, I'm referring to my ability in the sack, and you know what? Some sort of reassurance would be great right about now."
He's pouting, but she can see the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"Booth. You must be well aware by now that you are an extremely virile and enthusiastic lover. Many women over the years must have commented on your superior technique."
"Yeah, well, you're not 'many women'."
She eyes him warily, gauging if he's just looking for a compliment. But his face is open and earnest. Her gaze travels over his long torso, barely covered by a sheet. The well-shaped terrain that only minutes ago sustained exploration under her hands beckons once again. She can't help the swell of pride at the dental imprint bright red against his shoulder.
She's marked him, too.
"Fine. You sexual performance is well above average. I am quite satisfied."
He grins.
"You could have just said it was mind-blowing."
"That is highly impro—"
He kisses her soundly, effectively derailing her train of thought. The smirk is evident as he pulls away.
"I can't believe I've found a way to render you speechless, Bones."
She opens her mouth to protest, but he is already kissing his way down her clavicle, to her sternum.
"You are very skilled at that," she breathes.
"There you go making it sound like a class again."
"Well, you can't deny that this has been highly educational."
A jolt of heat moves through her at the responding chuckle.
"Booth."
His lips still against her abdomen.
"What you said before… about the first time. I know you were speaking of an individual's first sexual encounter, but I…"
"Bones, what are you talking about?"
"You told me that the first time you should be—"
"Totally cuckoo for the other person."
"Yes. And that when you were sixteen, a part of you was."
"What does that have to do with—"
"I just mean, this is our first sexual encounter. And I was wondering if your same rule applies. Regarding how you should feel about the other person."
The vulnerability she hears in her own voice is a bit disconcerting.
"I think it's different when you're a grown-up."
"Oh." She bites her lip, looking away.
"Hey."
A warm palm cups her cheek, turning her face towards him. His eyes are darker than she's ever seen them, and the depth of emotion there makes her breath hitch.
"For the record— with you? It's all of me, Bones. All the parts."
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When it happens (because lets face it, it was anthropologically, sociologically, biologically, and every other –ogically inevitable),she must concede that there is much she has yet to learn.
She thinks she'll never get tired of Booth's methods of teaching her.
Fin.