Title: See How Deep the Bullet Lies
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: Brennan, sometime after the events of The Wannabe In the Weeds. He'd taught you to do this and you wish you'd listened harder.
Spoilers: The Titan on the Tracks, The Wannabe In the Weeds
Notes: My first Bones fic. Ficlet, really. Couldn't get this out of my head after the most recent episode. Title is from Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill."
You bring him daffodils.
You stand a little to the left, not directly on top of him (show a little respect), but when you open your mouth to speak no sound comes out.
He'd taught you to do this. You'd stood at your mother's grave and he'd coached you, held your hand without touching you. What had he said? Do what people do.
You clear your throat, shift on your feet. The crinkling cellophane around the flowers sounds out of place here among the quiet breeze, the occasional birdsong, the faint city noises beyond the rolling hills.
"I'm angry at you," you blurt when your voice works again. And you rush to explain, as if he's there, wearing the half-bemused smirk, the crinkle in his forehead that seems to be reserved for you and your all too frequent, awkwardly inappropriate comments. "I mean, you – why would you do that? I don't understand. It was a completely...completely irrational response to the situation. Humans instinctively act to protect themselves first. You yourself told me once. Closing your eyes and ducking is a natural reaction to...to being..."
You cut yourself off and look down into the yellow flowers. "I'm angry at you and that is a very rational response to the situation." It sounds like convincing, even to you. You stand, you wait, even though experience and your own logic tells you there will be no answer. He is not here. He can't hear you. You ignore the fact that, had it been you, you'd have done the same, rationality be damned.
"That bullet was meant for me, Booth."
Your voice breaks, finally.
He'd taught you to do this and you wish you'd listened harder. You'd slunk down beside him in the front seat of a beat-up car, waiting for a heroin dealer, and you'd been genuinely curious when you'd asked what he said when he talked to headstones.
You kneel, you prop the bouquet against the newly-cut stone. This is what people do, or so you've been told. Your voice no longer works and you trace the letters of his name. You whisper.
"I remember you."