This is my very first stab at writing a fanfic, so it's sort of an experiment on my part. Hope you guys like it! I'm excited to see where this takes us!
After watching season 6, I've been itching to "fill in the blanks" a bit with my version of what happened after Booth and Brennan left the bar. It's been rattling around in my head for a few weeks, so I finally decided to get it down on paper. I may or may not follow the episodes that follow "Daredevil"…. Just depends on where the story takes me.
And, of course, we all know that I own none of the characters of Bones. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.
He was drunk. She couldn't blame him, actually, given the events of the evening. She had found him, knowing he'd be there at the Founding Fathers, knowing she needed to be there, but not quite knowing what was going to happen next…and where she fit into what came next. So she asked him, heart pounding in her chest, afraid of his response. She knew it was a risk. She was trying to take more risks… especially with him.
"What happens next?"
His response was what she feared – a drunken rant, laced with anger and pain, directed at her, at the others, at women in general. She had walked into the bar with a tiny sliver of hope that now that Hannah was gone, he'd just fall into her arms, but knowing rationally that this wasn't possible. Not yet. Maybe not ever. As she listened to him rail on about love and women and what was wrong with him, the pit in her stomach grew with each angry word he uttered, and the awful, nagging words reverberated through her, more loudly than ever:
"I missed my chance."
When he threatened to "find a new FBI guy" for her, she wanted to die right there. He gave her a choice: she could be his partner, nothing more, or she could leave. He was drawing that damn "line" of his again; only this time, he was using it as a wall. He was shutting her out.
But she stayed with him there because she couldn't imagine the alternative. She drank with him, listening to his negativity and vitriol, until he got it all out. And then they just sat there in silence: he, drinking an occasional shot, staring at the bar; she, alternately sneaking sideways glances at his profile and staring into her lap, trying to figure him out, trying to figure out what was next for her. Their silence eventually shifted from tense to almost companionable. She knew him best, knew that, this time, he needed time and space, and she gave it to him.
The bartender gave last call, and she paid their tab. His sullenness had eased a bit, but his head hung low to the bar as the alcohol-induced stupor overcame him. She knew it was on her to make sure he got home. She gathered her bag and jacket, and then stood, afraid to touch him.
"Come on, Booth. We have to get you home."
He sat for a few more seconds, not responding, and she began to wonder if he had even heard her. She stood there and waited, until he finally glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression irritated but resigned. She dropped her eyes. She could feel his rejection, and part of her was ashamed that she was standing here putting up with it like a forlorn, desperate teenager. This was uncharted territory for her, and she felt exposed before him, but her commitment to him as a friend trumped her need to run from him, and she resolved to silently support him, even if he was intent on hurting her right now. She cautiously reached for his elbow, urging him to stand, and he did so without resistance. He followed her out of the bar, swaying and bumping into her, making no apologies for his unsteadiness.
His black SUV was parked on the curb, but she'd have to come back and get it in the morning. Neither one of them was fit to drive, though she had had far fewer drinks than he. She hailed a cab and helped him in, and then slid in next to him, urging him over to make room for her, he grunted and leaned against the opposite door, and before she could give the driver his address, he was asleep.
When they reached his apartment, she jostled his shoulder a bit, rousing him from his slumber. He looked at her, confused, and blinked against the blinding dome light of the car as she opened her door.
"Come on, Booth," she said from the curb, holding out her hand.
He reluctantly slid across the seat and stood too quickly, smashing his head on the doorjamb of the car. She was at his side immediately, pulling him up, checking his head, forgetting her earlier reluctance to touch him. He grimaced in pain as she found the knot, her fingers gently checking for blood. Satisfied that he was all right, she turned her attention back to his face, and suddenly noticed him staring at her intently, eyes boring into hers, his expression softer than before. She blushed and dropped her hands, closed the taxi door, and headed toward his building. He stumbled behind her, until she remembered how unsteady he was, and slowed her pace so she could help him.
They walked to the lobby in silence at first, and she could feel his uneasiness, as if he was considering what to say. When they reached the elevator, she pushed his floor, and he fell against the wall and cleared his throat.
"Um, look, Bones, you don't have to… I'm fine…"
"Booth, you are not fine. You are intoxicated and you can barely walk."
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open, and she pulled him off of the wall and guided him into the elevator. They fell silent again and he leaned against the side wall of the car as the mirrored doors closed, and she caught him staring at her again.
"Bones…." he interrupted, and then lost his balance and stumbled as the elevator lurched upward. He grabbed at the rail to right himself. "Hey, Bones, I'm really sorry about earlier. I was a jerk."
"You were upset, Booth. You've had a hard night." She looked back to the floor. He was calling her "Bones." The familiarity of the name contrasted with the distance he had put between them earlier stabbed at her like a knife.
"I mean it, Bones. I'm sorry I… vomited all over you with all my crap. You're a good friend…" he stumbled again as the elevator stopped at his floor, falling onto her as she caught him and helped him regain his balance. She led him into the hallway towards his front door.
"You didn't regurgitate on me, Booth, but you probably will tomorrow morning once the alcohol poisoning sets in…."
"Whatever, Bones, you know what I mean. I didn't mean to say all that stuff I said."
She stopped at his door as he fumbled around in his pockets.
"Keys! Damn it! I left my keys…"
Brennan knelt and picked up the fake rock that contained his spare key and unlocked his door. He gave her a drunken smirk as she pushed the door open, and she smirked back, the unspoken joke regarding his ridiculous hiding place not lost on them.
"Good night, Booth," she said. Turning to go, she felt his hand grip her arm, spinning her back towards him. She suddenly found herself pressed against the door frame, his lips suddenly crashing into hers, his hands gripping her arms like a vice. Shocked, she put her hands on his chest, her body at war with her mind, everything in her wanting to pull him closer and lose herself in him…
"Booth!" she cried out against his lips. She pushed him off of her, gasping, tears in her eyes. He looked like she had stabbed him. He reached for her face. "Booth! No! This isn't right!"
He held her face in his hands, his eyes glassy, flashing desire, then hurt, then anger. He dropped his hands and stepped backward, glaring at her with glassy eyes, his face red, veins bulging in his neck. She had never seen him so angry, and the sheer power of his emotion shocked and almost frightened her. He stood over her for a few long seconds, then suddenly shoved past her into his apartment and slammed the door, leaving her alone in the hallway, shocked and weeping.