It isn't love

Summary: Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. BB

Disclaimer: Bones and the Counting Crows do not belong to me, but that would be a really cool name for a band.

A/N: I've only seen an episode and a half of this show, but I'm already in love. Most of the details I've gleaned about the characters have been from other fics, especially those by the ultra-fabulous Caroline! This was inspired by Anna Begins, an old Counting Crows song. I've never written from this particular point of view, and it was harder than I expected, but hopefully it came out all right.

She walks into the lab, seeing Angela's eyes light up at the sight of her. Six months ago, Angela would have been excited to see her because she wanted to regale her with tales of her dating exploits. As vaguely uncomfortable as she used to find those stories, she greatly prefers them to her friend's new obsession.

"Hey, Bren, how's Booth?"

Angela's voice is filled with gleeful innuendo. It makes her cringe inside, but she resists the urge to snap at the other woman. Arguing with Angela will put her in a bad mood, and no matter what she says she'll never change the artist's mind about her relationship with Booth.

"Fine," she says instead, acting as though she doesn't notice the tone of Angela's voice. She's found that, since she understands so few of Angela's jokes anyway, she can get away with pretending not to understand the ones she doesn't want to respond to.

She escapes to her office with a minimum of chit-chat, stopping only to say hello to Zack. Unlike Angela, he doesn't seem to know or care that her relationship with Booth is rumored to be more than platonic. It's one of the many things she likes about him.

Once she's situated behind her desk, with a stack of files to work on, she feels better. She can work for hours before a stray thought about him slips into her mind. When they do slip in, she pushes them away, unwilling to acknowledge what they might mean.

She's immersed in a report on new carbon-dating techniques when she hears the knock on her door. It's Angela, and she lets herself wish for a moment that she could just lock the door and pretend her friend doesn't exist. Then she feels guilty, because she knows Angela only wants to help.

She tells the artist to come in, and she does, perching on the edge of Brennan's desk and giving her another one of those knowing looks that make her wish she were anywhere but where she is.

"Is Booth coming by today?"

Reminding herself to double-check the statute on justifiable homicide, which may be the only way to get Angela off her case, she shrugs.

"Sweetie, when are you going to admit there is more going on between you two than just a working relationship?"

"Never," she responds, with a little more heat in her voice than is actually necessary, "because there isn't anything going on."

"Mm-hmm." Angela is clearly unconvinced. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you're not in love with him."

Sighing out of pure exasperation, she straightens in her chair.

"What would that prove?"

"What do you mean, 'what would it prove'?"

"If I don't say it, you'll think I'm in love with him. If I do say it, you'll think I'm lying and I'm really in love with him. What's the point of administering a test that only gives positives, regardless of the actual answer?"

Angela shakes her head, knowing she won't win this one. Brennan is as stubborn as a mule when she wants to be, and she absolutely refuses to admit that she's in love with her partner. Angela has noticed changes over the last few weeks between the two of them, though. They seem to stand a little closer to each other and linger a little longer over their case files. Their fights now contain so much sexual tension that, after working a case with the two of them, the entire Squint Squad needs a cold shower. The only people who haven't seemed to notice the changes in Booth and Brennan are Booth and Brennan.

"Fine," Angela says finally, resigned, as she heads for the door. "But mark my words, sweetie. Things are changing between you two…and when you decide you want to talk about it, you know where to find me."

It does not bother me to say this isn't love
because if you don't want to talk about it, then it isn't love.
And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that.
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Or something in between…

She's not in love with him. Not that she hasn't considered him that way; she may not be good with people, but she's not blind, either. He's charming, yes, and handsome, and funny, and strong when he needs to be but gentle when she needs him to be. He's also bossy, domineering, and casually dismissive of science in general and her specialty in particular. He gets a perverse pleasure from pulling her away from her work to help in his investigations, and then refuses to let her do any of the actual investigating. He's the most infuriating man she's ever met. He knows exactly how to push her buttons, and she's convinced that most of the time he does it just for fun.

But there are times when it's hard to remember all of that. When he's vulnerable and in pain, she's hard-pressed to keep her distance from him. When she sees him hurting, a part of her aches in sympathy. She tells herself it's normal, that friends care about each other that way, but deep down she knows her feelings for him are far different than her feelings for her other friends.

She recalls the conversation she had with him last week that shook her to the core. They were discussing a case, and she cracked a joke – an actual, honest-to-goodness joke, not one of the witty scientific quips she sometimes trades with the Squints. He threw his head back and laughed, and when she saw his smile, she felt her chest swell with pride. The sense of pride faded and was replaced by shock when she realized why she was so proud of herself. She'd made him laugh. Not Angela or one of his FBI buddies, but her, Temperance Brennan.

Having the ability to make him smile, to make him happy, makes her proud. She refuses to think about why his happiness is so important to her, and why being the one who makes him happy is even more important. It shouldn't be. She's not in love with him.

If it's love, then I'm gonna have to think about the consequences.
But he can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching him
and then I begin to change my mind.
These seconds when he's shaking leave me shuddering for days,
and I'm not ready for this sort of thing.

It's late when he knocks on her door. If it were anyone else, she'd be annoyed by the intrusion, but it's him, so she isn't.

"Booth?" she says, concerned when she sees that the light from the streetlamps is gleaming off of tear tracks on his cheeks. "What's wrong?"

She can tell he's tempted to say it's nothing. His presence here so late at night has already given lie to that, though, so there's no use in his trying to pretend.

"Can I come in?" he says instead. She's puzzled by his tone; to her, it sounds as though he expects her to deny him entry. She thinks wryly that he should know by now how hard it is for her to deny him anything.

She brings him inside, and for lack of anything better to say, she offers to make them some coffee. He accepts and she goes into the kitchen to set up the coffeemaker, relieved that she's found something constructive to do and hoping the rote activity will help her forget the lost look on his face. The distraction only lasts a few seconds, though, and then she hears his footsteps in the hall.

Her back is toward the doorway, so she doesn't see the look he gives her, a look that contains gratitude and affection and something deeper. She is the only person he knows who would let him into her home at one in the morning and offer him coffee without asking any questions. He feels a stab of guilt then, remembering how often he's accused her of not being a 'people person'. There is truth in those words, he knows, but tonight he wishes he could take them back. He wants to fall on his knees and beg for her forgiveness, and he wants to pull her to him and kiss her senseless and never let her go.

He decides that discretion is indeed the better part of valor, and chooses a course of action somewhere in the middle.

His arms wrap around her from behind, pressing his body flush against hers as he buries his face in her hair, and she feels him tremble against her. She's torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to push him away, to hold back the feelings she isn't ready to deal with. Usually, the need to protect herself would win out, but he's never come to her like this before. This time, he needs her.

She covers his hands with hers, squeezing them gently as she leans back against him. Slowly, she feels him stop shaking as he continues to hold her, but now she's the one shaking, overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through her. She ignores them as best she can, taking a deep breath to try to regain her equilibrium. When she inhales, the air is thick with the familiar scent of him, and she realizes that even if she manages to still her body, her insides will be trembling for days.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?" he murmurs, and she bites her bottom lip uncertainly. If only Angela were here, she'd know what to say to make him feel better. Angela isn't here, though. He didn't go to Angela. He came to her.

"I –" She hesitates. She knows there's a risk that he might misconstrue the offer, but it's what she would want him to do for her, so she does it anyway. "Stay here tonight."

He's quiet for a long moment. She resists the urge to keep talking to fill the silence. Just when she's about to decide she can't take it anymore, his grip on her waist loosens and he turns her around to face him.

"Thank you," he whispers, cupping her cheek in his hand. "For everything. You're…"

He trails off, the question of what exactly she is to him hanging in the air between them. She is the first to look away, blushing, and it's his turn to bite his lip. He wants to say it, wants to tell her, but he knows she isn't ready. He's not even sure if he's ready.

"I'll take the couch," he says, effectively changing the subject, and he thinks he sees a little of the tension leave her shoulders.

"It folds out," she offers in response, knowing they've just tacitly agreed to let sleeping dogs lie. For tonight, at least, they won't broach the subject of their relationship again. "I'll get the spare linens from the closet."

"Thanks, Bones."

She notes absently that his nickname for her sounds even more affectionate than it usually does. It takes her a few minutes to gather up spare sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, which she has to pull out from beneath a thoroughly annoyed cat. By the time she returns, Booth is sprawled lengthwise across her couch, fast asleep and snoring softly. She lets herself smile fondly at the sight because he's not awake to see her do it, and drapes the blanket over his still form.

She doesn't want to wake him, but she can't resist reaching down to brush an errant lock of hair off his forehead. He shifts in his sleep, smiling as he mutters something unintelligible, and somehow she knows he's dreaming about her. She backs away slowly, keeping her eyes on him until she steps around the corner to her bedroom and he disappears from view. She doesn't know why she bothers going to bed at all, since she'll never be able to sleep knowing he's so close.

Instead, she lies awake, staring at the ceiling and waiting…for what, she isn't sure. She isn't surprised, though, that as the first hints of sunlight begin to peek through the blinds, he appears in her doorway. He is just as unsurprised to find her awake, giving her a weak smile as he leans against the door frame.

"I made coffee," he offers, and she nods. She never actually finished making the coffee last night, so all of the supplies would have still been out on the counter when he woke up this morning. Still, he didn't have to make it, and she appreciates the gesture.

"I'll be right there."

He returns to the hallway without further comment, taking one last discreet peek at her as he leaves. She sees him look but pretends she doesn't, too afraid of what sorts of things a conversation like that might lead to. She's fairly sure she isn't in love with him, but it's not as if she's never been wrong before, and she knows she's not ready to be wrong about this.

He's talking in his sleep;
it's keeping me awake.
And then he begins to toss and turn,
and every word is nonsense but I understand it all,
and oh, lord,
I'm not ready for this sort of thing.