The Candle in His Hand
Title: The Candle in His Hand
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: A mild R, give or take.
Characters/Pairings: B/B
Word Count: 912
Spoilers: This baby is set post-"The Bikini in the Soup." Anything prior to that is fair game.
Disclaimer: Bla bla I don't own this show bla bla I don't own these characters bla bla I FIND IT HILARIOUS THAT WE'RE STILL WRITING THESE DISCLAIMERS AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. Hee.[/X-Phile from ye olde '90s fandom days of yore]
Summary: This one's for fourth_rose, who somehow managed to convince me that writing a PWP fic based on my porny sleep-deprived comments to her episode review the other day would be a ~great idea~. Somewhere along the line, it decided against being just a PWP fic--damn my pensive ways--but let's face it, this is still a dorky fangirl writing about Booth gettin' down to business. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Writer's Note: You may have already noticed that the title of this fic comes from the poem "Like This" by Rumi. Y'all know I'm a lean, mean, reference-makin' machine, so, yes, there'll be three (obvious) quotes from the poem woven into the story as well<--Hence the oh-so-convenient linkage & proper citation. Heh.
And since I have a reputation to uphold here (What? Rachael posting something without a vid? THAT'S POPPYCOCK!), here's a song to get everyone in the right frame of mind for some hurtin', lovin', needin', wantin', scared, & achin' Booth & Brennan.
Now, on with the show!
---
"Who will I be playing?"
Sultry & flickering, the words creep low to the ground, bending with the wind.
They follow him home,
write messages on the bathroom mirror,
roll around in his bed.
He doesn't have time for this.
Calendars hung,
hopeful years
hanged,
one
after another;
the aging clock hides its face. A blinking red light--wake up, wake up.
Practicing performers are best left in private.
She has made a teenager out of him.
Pressed under the sheets,
lids closed
tight, wanting,
holy
to
the touch.
His pictured hand on her skin;
five digits
counting
stretch marks up her thigh,
a kiss in worship for each one.
That's what she would be.
Soft & trembling;
distant words,
nails tracing
patterns.
A shadowy grin.
His.
Just his.
And he would be hers,
like roots first meeting the soil.
(It's true. He knows it would be true.)
Lines in the sand, they mean nothing.
The ocean wants the shore;
it always has.
The wave has its own reason for being.
Shells don't stand a chance.
Dark & sleek,
her wet voice
washing over him.
Again. Please.
(This is what I need)
One hand descends as the other slides in. A white flag waves above his head.
Their writing is on the wall.
Like this. Like this.
(Don't try to explain the miracle)
He remembers her sleeping breath against his neck;
the circus, a trailer, one bed.
His world suspended within two lips,
freckles he'd never seen before.
He couldn't stop staring.
She was still wearing her costume,
chest rising and
falling
beneath his darting
gaze.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us
They nearly made a child together once.
He remembers that, too.
Her body
extended.
Her eyes full of
promise.
All because of him.
He sat in that clinic, cup in hand,
wild with delusion,
nerves screaming,
face flaming,
and thought only of one thing.
Forever.
DNA means forever.
One name.
One life.
One request.
A man on a mission.
(Nothing happens unless first a dream)
He would do anything for her,
to protect her,
to please her,
to stay close
to her.
She is his north star,
and he has been lost his whole life.
They are so far apart now.
It is his choice. He knows that.
When a wound is infected, one cleans it.
A cut needs time to heal.
These are lessons learned in the trenches.
Booth feels diseased & dangerous.
He's set up a quarantine
with crossed fingers behind
his back.
Please don't go.
Bones could tell him all about pathogens.
She understands and waits;
he will need a friend to guard the perimeter.
This is the way things are.
She requires no payment in return.
Streets & sidewalks, strangers in the moonlight;
the night is judgmental.
It reminds him his bed is made for two.
Tossing & turning,
there is too much room
in this
room.
Too much space
between
there and here.
Her bed & his. Today & tomorrow. What comes next.
He doesn't have any more answers.
Her face raises a question
with each and every look.
The stars form ampersands across his ceiling.
This is the proper punctuation, they say,
for
1 & 2,
and
left & right,
and
east & west,
and
you & me.
Brain & heart, Bones
(walk back into my house)
Like this. Like this.
He still wants to learn,
always the eager student;
shoes shined,
books in one hand,
mischief in the other;
a green apple tossed to the teacher.
Booth can see her before him now
in a cardigan sweater;
strict ruler in hand,
black-framed glasses,
trim & tidy skirt;
lectures rolling off her tongue
like freshly squeezed grapes.
Pay attention.
We have a lot to cover.
Be a good boy.
Who will I be playing?
There's no stopping now.
The shadows have grown long
and his pulse
is pounding.
Roxie.
Wanda.
Bren.
Who will I be?
Just you, Bones. Just you.
It's all he really wants.
It's all he'll ever want.
Her thoughts.
Her fears.
Her touch.
Her glance.
Her words.
Her smile.
Her walk.
Her tears.
Her laughter.
Her desire.
Her love.
She is imperfectly perfect.
Her head would fit just right on his chest,
hair tickling in the morning;
her hips would
tuck back
into him, just
so,
and sway.
Slowly, surely.
A frenzy in the making,
no longer contained.
His lips would mouth her ear,
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
One palm mapping her hip,
two rogue fingers raiding her bellybutton,
he would discover her whole.
There are no ghosts here. They've been swept away by the tide.
They are the walking dead, come back to life. Spirits are not welcome.
He is still so afraid. It is not yet their time.
It is never his time. He is tired of waiting.
He waited as a child.
He waited as a young man.
He is old now
and in need
of rest.
There must be a place for him somewhere,
some part of him that's right.
His heart is a traitor. It tells him to keep going; it tells him
she'll be there
searching,
calling
his name.
It's her name he's calling now.
Hoarse,
familiar,
sacred;
her face & the rain;
his legs are shaking;
this ache is primal.
Time reveals its face & gives a standing ovation.
The clock's red light blinks on
and on.
Don't forget.
He won't.
It'll be his choice.
His & hers,
together.
Like this.
---
Fin
As always (heh, "always"--this is only, like, my third fic. Whatever), thanks for reading & I hope you all enjoyed! Much love. ♥
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: A mild R, give or take.
Characters/Pairings: B/B
Word Count: 912
Spoilers: This baby is set post-"The Bikini in the Soup." Anything prior to that is fair game.
Disclaimer: Bla bla I don't own this show bla bla I don't own these characters bla bla I FIND IT HILARIOUS THAT WE'RE STILL WRITING THESE DISCLAIMERS AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. Hee.[/X-Phile from ye olde '90s fandom days of yore]
Summary: This one's for fourth_rose, who somehow managed to convince me that writing a PWP fic based on my porny sleep-deprived comments to her episode review the other day would be a ~great idea~. Somewhere along the line, it decided against being just a PWP fic--damn my pensive ways--but let's face it, this is still a dorky fangirl writing about Booth gettin' down to business. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Writer's Note: You may have already noticed that the title of this fic comes from the poem "Like This" by Rumi. Y'all know I'm a lean, mean, reference-makin' machine, so, yes, there'll be three (obvious) quotes from the poem woven into the story as well<--Hence the oh-so-convenient linkage & proper citation. Heh.
And since I have a reputation to uphold here (What? Rachael posting something without a vid? THAT'S POPPYCOCK!), here's a song to get everyone in the right frame of mind for some hurtin', lovin', needin', wantin', scared, & achin' Booth & Brennan.
Click to viewNow, on with the show!
---
"Who will I be playing?"
Sultry & flickering, the words creep low to the ground, bending with the wind.
They follow him home,
write messages on the bathroom mirror,
roll around in his bed.
He doesn't have time for this.
Calendars hung,
hopeful years
hanged,
one
after another;
the aging clock hides its face. A blinking red light--wake up, wake up.
Practicing performers are best left in private.
She has made a teenager out of him.
Pressed under the sheets,
lids closed
tight, wanting,
holy
to
the touch.
His pictured hand on her skin;
five digits
counting
stretch marks up her thigh,
a kiss in worship for each one.
That's what she would be.
Soft & trembling;
distant words,
nails tracing
patterns.
A shadowy grin.
His.
Just his.
And he would be hers,
like roots first meeting the soil.
(It's true. He knows it would be true.)
Lines in the sand, they mean nothing.
The ocean wants the shore;
it always has.
The wave has its own reason for being.
Shells don't stand a chance.
Dark & sleek,
her wet voice
washing over him.
Again. Please.
(This is what I need)
One hand descends as the other slides in. A white flag waves above his head.
Their writing is on the wall.
Like this. Like this.
(Don't try to explain the miracle)
He remembers her sleeping breath against his neck;
the circus, a trailer, one bed.
His world suspended within two lips,
freckles he'd never seen before.
He couldn't stop staring.
She was still wearing her costume,
chest rising and
falling
beneath his darting
gaze.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us
They nearly made a child together once.
He remembers that, too.
Her body
extended.
Her eyes full of
promise.
All because of him.
He sat in that clinic, cup in hand,
wild with delusion,
nerves screaming,
face flaming,
and thought only of one thing.
Forever.
DNA means forever.
One name.
One life.
One request.
A man on a mission.
(Nothing happens unless first a dream)
He would do anything for her,
to protect her,
to please her,
to stay close
to her.
She is his north star,
and he has been lost his whole life.
They are so far apart now.
It is his choice. He knows that.
When a wound is infected, one cleans it.
A cut needs time to heal.
These are lessons learned in the trenches.
Booth feels diseased & dangerous.
He's set up a quarantine
with crossed fingers behind
his back.
Please don't go.
Bones could tell him all about pathogens.
She understands and waits;
he will need a friend to guard the perimeter.
This is the way things are.
She requires no payment in return.
Streets & sidewalks, strangers in the moonlight;
the night is judgmental.
It reminds him his bed is made for two.
Tossing & turning,
there is too much room
in this
room.
Too much space
between
there and here.
Her bed & his. Today & tomorrow. What comes next.
He doesn't have any more answers.
Her face raises a question
with each and every look.
The stars form ampersands across his ceiling.
This is the proper punctuation, they say,
for
1 & 2,
and
left & right,
and
east & west,
and
you & me.
Brain & heart, Bones
(walk back into my house)
Like this. Like this.
He still wants to learn,
always the eager student;
shoes shined,
books in one hand,
mischief in the other;
a green apple tossed to the teacher.
Booth can see her before him now
in a cardigan sweater;
strict ruler in hand,
black-framed glasses,
trim & tidy skirt;
lectures rolling off her tongue
like freshly squeezed grapes.
Pay attention.
We have a lot to cover.
Be a good boy.
Who will I be playing?
There's no stopping now.
The shadows have grown long
and his pulse
is pounding.
Roxie.
Wanda.
Bren.
Who will I be?
Just you, Bones. Just you.
It's all he really wants.
It's all he'll ever want.
Her thoughts.
Her fears.
Her touch.
Her glance.
Her words.
Her smile.
Her walk.
Her tears.
Her laughter.
Her desire.
Her love.
She is imperfectly perfect.
Her head would fit just right on his chest,
hair tickling in the morning;
her hips would
tuck back
into him, just
so,
and sway.
Slowly, surely.
A frenzy in the making,
no longer contained.
His lips would mouth her ear,
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
One palm mapping her hip,
two rogue fingers raiding her bellybutton,
he would discover her whole.
There are no ghosts here. They've been swept away by the tide.
They are the walking dead, come back to life. Spirits are not welcome.
He is still so afraid. It is not yet their time.
It is never his time. He is tired of waiting.
He waited as a child.
He waited as a young man.
He is old now
and in need
of rest.
There must be a place for him somewhere,
some part of him that's right.
His heart is a traitor. It tells him to keep going; it tells him
she'll be there
searching,
calling
his name.
It's her name he's calling now.
Hoarse,
familiar,
sacred;
her face & the rain;
his legs are shaking;
this ache is primal.
Time reveals its face & gives a standing ovation.
The clock's red light blinks on
and on.
Don't forget.
He won't.
It'll be his choice.
His & hers,
together.
Like this.
---
Fin
As always (heh, "always"--this is only, like, my third fic. Whatever), thanks for reading & I hope you all enjoyed! Much love. ♥