Title: If the Silence Takes You
Characters: Temperance Brennan
Rating: K+ or PG
Spoilers: Through The Double Death of the Dearly Departed
Disclaimer: Bones and its characters belong to FOX, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Brennan-centric musings.
A/N: To lurkers and commenters alike, thank you.
Feel free to friend for updates. If you'd like me to add you back, please say something; I don't bite. :)
Click to read other ficlets in this series
If the Silence Takes You
A leaf, brown-grey and dull, clenched in a pose of permanent agony, skitters across the marble. The kneeling woman brushes it off, eyes drier than the leaf. The stone's chill travels up through her arm and she shivers, shoulders hunched against November's cold breath.
She asks herself, again, why she comes. Rising to her feet, she slides her hands into her coat pockets. One hand curls around a blue plastic figurine. As her fingers tighten, the edges bite into her palm, returning her to herself.
She comes because he asked her to, a long, long time ago.
When I inevitably drop dead before you, I'd like you to come out and, you know, spend some time and talk to me every once in a while.
A promise made should be kept, even if the person it was made to no longer exists. It is the only thing she can do for him now. But the words don't come easily. They never do, no matter how often she visits. Because trying to conjure his face in her mind isn't nearly the same as seeing it next to her in the driver's seat or across the table at the diner.
It's as if he took the words with him. Then again, he often complained about her use of "big words," she thinks, lips curved in something that might have passed for a smile if it weren't so bitter. "I...miss you," she finally says, speaking so quietly she can barely hear herself.
Pewter strands of hair push against her cheeks, catch in her mouth, as if moved there by invisible hands; if she were of a more romantic bent, she might think he was reaching out to her, sending her a message. But rationality does not allow for such flights of fantasy, and whatever romance had bloomed inside her, tended by his reverent hands, crumbled into the dirt with him.
If God exists, she should be able to hear his voice.
Bones, she wants to hear.
With her eyes closed, the only thing she can make out is the merciless wind. As with all the times before, disappointment swells and breaks inside her.
She turns to go, heels sinking into the wet earth. There is nothing of him here except for his bones. That could never be enough; not even for her.