A/N: Initially I thought that this concept was completely OOC, until I considered The End in the Beginning and the wonderful homage to love that Bones pens and then deletes. So I believe some form of poetry does reside in her, even if it's deeply hidden. The question becomes, does poetry reside in Booth? He's a really smart guy, but he does like to play dumb occasionally, as Gordon-Gordon has mentioned. This is set post-100th episode, I think, but the timeline may be off just a tad. Either way, Booth is somewhat gun-shy at assuming things about a relationship with Bones at this stage, hence his self-doubt about the meaning of the letter.

The John Wayne reference is from an episode early in the series when the partners have an amusing discussion about their mutual admiration of The Duke.

I wrote this really quickly, as finals start for my students tomorrow and I have a lot of work to get done. I just needed to get the story out of my system. Due to the lack of time for editing, the writing is decidedly rough and, likely, so are the voice and characterization. Nevertheless, please R&R! :)

Feb. 3rd

Booth was tired. For weeks, Brennan had watched fatigue creep upon him, shroud-like, as he warred with concern for his brother overseas, his son at summer camp, and his grandfather's health among so many other self-imposed responsibilities. So it hadn't been completely surprising when she entered her office after another late night in the lab and discovered him passed out on her couch.

Taking her cue from the many nights he'd discovered her asleep in a similar position, she draped her coat over him before logging online and beginning to skim through a backlog of emails accumulated in the last few days. Booth's snores distracted her almost immediately, causing her both amusement and irritation. Unable to concentrate, she found herself swiveling in her chair to contemplate her partner.

Feb. 12th

The letter was mailed. Brennan knew, logically speaking, that there was no way she could retrieve it. And yet, fear set in as she realized the probable impact of the action she had just completed. She speed-dialed Camille in a panic, requesting the rest of the week off for personal reasons.

Feb. 14th A.M

The moment he slit open the envelope and saw the handwriting, Booth knew it was important. After he read the poem, he was even more certain something big was in the works here, even though the thing might as well have been written in Chinese for all the sense it made. He had an inkling of what she might have meant in writing and mailing such a letter on Valentine's Day, and yet, he also knew who he was dealing with, and how her brain tended to skew confusingly from conventional patterns of behavior. Jumping to conclusions had gotten him badly burned in the past. Both cautiously elated and bewildered, Booth called the only person he knew who could help him decipher Brennan's cryptic missive.

"It's a poem."

"Yeah, I got that much," Booth retorted irritably. "Only problem is, I don't speak poetry. Helixes, elliptical trainers, Parker, John Wayne— there's even a corkscrew thrown in for good measure." He snapped the paper in frustration. "What the hell does it all mean?"

It was as if Angela hadn't even heard him. "You're telling me Brennan actually wrote this and sent it?"

"That's her handwriting. Her return address. Her squinty way of phrasing things so I have no clue what she's saying. Bones is definitely the author, Angela. We don't need an ID. What does it mean?"

Angela finally looked away from the letter and at the FBI Agent. Her dark eyes were damp with tears but she was smiling broadly.

"You may not speak poetry, Booth, but you do speak fluent Brennan. So, much as I would like to, I'm not going to help you with this. You need to figure it out on your own."

"Angela—"

"On your own, Booth," she repeated gently. "Just like she did."

"Come on, Hodgins. Translate this baby for me and you can be this week's King of the Lab."

"Dude," the entomologist chuckled, "No way. You're too late. Angela already called me threatening another 6 months of abstinence if I help you with this. Sorry."

"Dig out those old English textbooks, Seeley," Cam suggested. "I've got a really hot dinner date and I'm not going to keep him waiting just because you and Dr. Brennan are being you and Dr. Brennan."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Booth demanded as she squeezed past him onto the platform. "Cam. Cam! Dammit! At least tell me where I can get a squint dictionary so I can look up elliptical helixes!"

He didn't bother trying Sweets. The psychologist would certainly derive twisted pleasure in dissecting Booth's refusal to trust his gut feeling in this particular instance.

Feeling let down by the world at large, Booth wandered into the diner and drowned his sorrows over a large piece of cherry pie a la mode. Only after the third refill on his coffee did he pick up the poem and start to read it again.

Feb. 14th P.M

It took her ten years to answer the damn door and, when she finally did, the nervous look on her face almost made Booth drop his flowers and forgo the speech. She'd definitely been expecting his visit.

"Okay, Bones," he announced, trying to sound at least halfway confident, "I'm not sure what corkscrews and helixes have to do with anything, but I have a gut feeling and I'm just going to have to go with it even if I wind up with egg on my face again."

Her expression shifted to confusion. "I don't know what that means."

He shifted the large bouquet of daisies and daffodils into the crook of one arm, hooked her with his free arm and pulled her against his chest, praying she couldn't hear the pounding of his heart when she didn't pull away. He'd wanted her in his arms for so long, exactly this way—firm, supple curves molded against him, the wash of her subtle perfume filling his five sense, hands resting on his chest, the hint of a shy smile on her full lips as she looked up at him quizzically—that it was all he could do to finish what he needed to say.

"It means I'm gonna kiss you right now, Beloved," he said huskily, "Unless you tell me I did a lousy job translating. Because the way I see it, helixes and ellipticals and John Wayne are squint words for 'I finally want to gamble on a relationship.' "

"It was my first foray into poetry," she admitted wryly. "Perhaps the wording was somewhat obtuse."

"No kidding," Booth muttered, dropping his head until his lips hovered just above hers. "Put me out of my misery here, Bones. Did I get it right?"

Her lips met his, the flowers went flying, and there was no longer any question. In spite of all the helixes, ellipticals, John Waynes and other baffling obstacles life had thrown at them for the past 5 years: They were, and had always been, exactly right for each other, all the way down to their very DNA.

Beloved.

We sat alone together today,

the world at large adrift before our seats.

Work is primordial, yes, and so, we debated.

Forensic findings, pie of the day.

Fingerprints, John Wayne.

Bullet holes, new Thai place.

Particulates, hockey; blood spatter, religion; entry wounds, politics; facial reconstruction, Angela;

possible suspects, Sweets; motive, Parker; victim ID, Russ, Dad, Rebecca and back to pie all over again before solving the crime.

The elliptic verbal patterns you and I find comfort in

are foreign tongues to passersby.

Others might not ever comprehend

the conversation

the connection

between us such as it is

corkscrewed

gleaming

a silvered helix emblematic of our DNA.

We fold into each other

and out again:

Onlookers are excluded inadvertently.

An awareness of your presence runs below skin deep, Beloved.

Not just watching you sleep this night;

I have been watching you breathe.