A/N: Hello again, everybody! Long time no see. =)
After leaving this little fic to sit untouched on my computer for over a year, I was struck by the urge to attempt it one final time. I've taken the first chapter and given it (hopefully) new life, making it relevant to the current season.
However, as I know a lot of other writers are, I'm struggling with where exactly this story fits onto the Bones timeline. Basically, I've just gone and ignored WITW and PITH in reference to what happened to Booth. While I am acknowledging what happened to Zack, the whole "Booth getting shot and faking his own death" ridiculousness never happened. *Laughs at the irony of her own joke*. Oh, and Angela and Hodgins never broke up.
I'm leaving it to you guys to decide if I should keep on with this! I'm not really sure if it's worth the effort to actually continue it. Let me know what you think!
--
3:13 AM
The bright red numbers of his alarm clock glared at him from the surrounding darkness of his bedroom, and in his haze from not yet reaching full consciousness he wondered why, in God's name, he'd woken up at such an obscene hour.
His answer came to him as a resounding knock from the front door brought him fully awake. Jumping out of bed and pulling a pair of sweats on over his boxers, he grabbed his gun from the top of his dresser on the way into the hall.
When someone knocked at your door in the dead of night, it was never a good sign.
He wasn't exactly sure who he expected it to be. Mostly, he'd guessed it was Bones. He couldn't fathom why anyone else would be here at such an ungodly hour in the morning.
What greeted him when he looked through the spy-hole on the door was about the last thing he'd expected. Taking a moment to collect himself, he opened the door to his unexpected guest with an accusatory stare.
"What the hell is going on?"
His visitor did not hesitate before pushing his way into the apartment and closing the door hurriedly behind himself.
"Agent Booth, I'm Chase Taylor: US Marshals." He held out his badge for Booth to see before clipping it back onto his worn, leather belt.
"Yeah, I can see that. I'm more concerned with who sent you and why you're invading my home at three in the morning."
"Agent Booth, eight years ago you were sent to Kosovo on a special ops mission with your Rangers unit. You were given orders to kill a man by the name of Ivo Nemanja; I assume you remember the rest."
He did, of course, remember. He'd carried the guilt over taking that man's life with him for over eight years. Only once, and to only one person, had he ever confessed the truth of what had happened that day:
"I've done some things."
"I know."
"There was this little boy..."
"We all die a little bit, Bones."
Lost in reminiscence, he was brought back to reality with the realization that Taylor was speaking to him.
"Nemanja had a son, Miloš."
Booth's stomach churned at the mention of the very boy who haunted his dreams.
"Well, little Miloš is all grown up now and he's followed right along in daddy's tainted footsteps. He's personally running a human trafficking ring throughout Kosovo, accompanied by the third largest drug cartel in the Northern Hemisphere. He's garnered an incredible amount of clout not only in Kosovo, but through most of Europe and Central Asia. Incredibly, he's still found time to make it his life's obsession to find you."
Inundated by the sudden onslaught of information, it took Booth several moments to garner a semi-coherent response.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Agent Booth, since Miloš Nemanja watched his father be gunned down at his birthday party eight years ago, he's been obsessed with finding his killer. For years he's been searching, exhausting every possible resource available to him."
The haze in his mind suddenly beginning to clear, the direness of the situation began to overtake him.
"I assume the reason you're here isn't to tell me his attempts have been futile?"
Taylor exhaled slowly, the lines of his forehead crinkling together in a grimace. "As of three hours ago, Miloš Nemanja has been informed of your identity. Needless to say, a very generous price has been placed on your head."
Booth scrubbed a hand over his face, "Jesus Christ."
"You have ten minutes to get together your most valuable possessions, not one second more. You may call or talk to no one. There is to be absolutely no contact of any kind with anyone outside this room. Do you understand?"
Before Booth could answer, Taylor spoke again.
"As of right now, Special Agent Seely Booth is dead.
Welcome to the Witness Protection Program."
--
The late summer humidity was thick that day, blanketing Arlington Cemetery in a heavy, stifling mist.
The dampened air caused her dress to adhere to her thin frame and beads of sweat to form along the back of her neck. There was a slight drizzle of rain, but rather than alleviating the afternoon heat, it simply added to the thickness of the air.
Beside her, Angela stood; her body shaking softly with quiet sobs. Hodgins stood closely next to her, a comforting arm around her shoulder and a solemn expression covering his face.
Sweets stood to her opposite side, his expression a combination of remorse and scrutiny. She could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face and concern emanating from his very pores. For once, it appeared the young psychiatrist was unsure how to handle her emotions.
She did not cry.
She refused to cry. Simply because she refused to accept that it had even happened. Her logical mind argued that it had happened, that proof enough was the scene playing out before her.
He was dead, and he wasn't coming back.
Yet still, she refused to acknowledge the reality of the situation. For what was perhaps the first time in her life, Temperance Brennan's heart overruled her brain.
She watched as they took the flag from its place on the coffin and carefully began to fold it, each crease completed with meticulous precision.
They handed it gravely to his weeping mother as if it were supposed to ease her pain. Maggie Booth, her grief-stricken face stained with tears, squared her shoulders and accepted the flag in the way she knew would make her eldest son proud.
The next hour was a blur of words she did not recognize. Speeches were made by many she knew and several she did not. Cam, Cullen, Caroline; each spoke of the great man he'd been, the incredible things he'd achieved, and the lasting influence he'd had on the world.
Unfamiliar prayers were recited and her gut twisted with the realization that she was an outsider. For the last four years, he had been her link to the living world. Now she was left untethered, drifting alone.
Through the thick haze of disorientation that clouded her mind, one thing remained startlingly clear: the blond-haired, brown-eyed little boy who stood bravely beside his despairing mother as he watched his father be buried in the ground, along with his childhood innocence.
There was another blur of movement, and she lost sight of the little boy as several stepped forward to place roses on top of the casket. The deep crimson flowers contrasted with the stark-white wood in the way she imagined his blood had contrasted with the snow when he'd wrapped his SUV around a telephone pole on his way out to a case in Colorado.
The ceremonial shots were fired. She flinched.
With a final blessing from the priest, the crowd finally began to disperse. The string of limousines which lined the drive slowly began their exodus, one after another, until only one remained.
It was then that she felt Angela presence at her side once more.
"Oh Sweetie, how are you holding up?"
"Fine." Her answer was curt and cold; reminiscent of the woman she had once been.
"Bren, we should go. We should make an appearance at the..." Angela couldn't quite bring herself to finish the thought.
"Go ahead. I'm going home."
"But Sweetie, —"
"Angela, just go!" She turned away from her abruptly, her eyes flashing with a multitude of repressed emotions. Angela sighed and stood uneasily for a few more moments, her protective nature screaming at her to stay close.
It was only when Sweets quietly assured her that Brennan would be all right, that she digressed. With one final look of apprehension toward her best friend, she turned back toward the awaiting car.
Certain that she was finally alone, Temperance Brennan turned to face the slab of stone that embodied her agonizing pain.
Crouching carefully so that she was at eye level with it, she ran a finger along each newly carved letter and fought desperately to keep the tears at bay.
She would not cry.
Seely Booth-
Father, Son, Soldier.
Who's passion for life and unwavering belief in justice and humanity,
Blessed us all in immeasurable ways.
The words created a finality to his life that she couldn't bear, and it suddenly seemed as though a switch inside of her had been irrevocably flicked.
She could sense the emotions she had tried so greatly to suppress for the past week rise in her chest. It felt like acidic bile, working its way up her throat.
She wasn't sure how, she suddenly she was screaming. Angst-ridden, heart breaking screams which entwined together into coherent words. She was screaming at him.
"Damn you, Seely Booth!" Her voice cracked with emotion, but she did not falter. "How could you? How could you do this to me?!"
She felt as if she were being crushed by the weight of her emotions; her legs, already unsteady, gave out from under her. She collapsed to the wet earth, tears blurring her vision as she pulled her knees to her chest.
"You promised me!"
Her only response was the sudden downpour of rain.
She reached for the delicate chain around her neck, hidden carefully beneath one of her usual bohemian necklaces, and ripped it off. The metal chain tore at her skin and she thought for a moment she felt a trickle of blood, but it could have just been rain. She clasped it tightly in her hand before sliding the chains only occupant off into her open palm.
She stared at it for seemingly an eternity before she spoke again. This time her voice was a soft whisper; barely heard over the falling rain.
"They never even knew."
She felt the tears work their way out once again and this time she did nothing to stop them.
"We never even had the chance to tell them, to tell anyone. Not Angela or my dad, not Parker or even Sweets. Now it's too late, because you left, damn it. Why? Wasn't I a good enough reason to stay? Wasn't Parker?"
The stunning object in her palm caught her eye once more, and the sight of it simply spurred on her gut-wrenching sobs. It was beautiful.
She'd most certainly never considered herself one for the traditional design, and Booth had stayed true to her nature. The emerald cut diamond was set on crisscrossing bands inlayed with emeralds and sapphires: their birthstones.
It was the most beautiful engagement ring she'd ever seen.
She was not a woman who believed in marriage, but she believed in him, and for her that had been enough.
Ever so carefully she slipped the ring on to its rightful place on her left hand, just as he'd reverently put it there three weeks before. She would not hide from the truth any longer.
The realization that the truth no longer mattered made the bile rise in her throat once again.
It seemed so trivial now, in the light of things.
Why hadn't they told anyone? Why had they kept their relationship furtive for so long?
What had they been afraid of?
They'd gotten engaged for Christ's sake, and no one even knew. Not even her best friend.
Now he was gone, and they'd never even had the chance to tell.
In her peripheral vision, she abruptly detected movement, and if her body had not been so emotionally and physically exhausted she would have startled.
Lance Sweets, his face impassive, slowly lowered himself on to the sodden grass beside her. He did not inundate her with words of condolence nor did he offer any physical comfort. He simply sat quietly by her side, offering her comfort in the only way he knew how.
She realized then that he'd been watching over her since the departure of the funeral procession. For a fleeting second, she felt as if perhaps she wasn't truly alone in the world.
The feeling passed as quickly as it had come.
Instead, she was left with nothing but the weight of the ring on her finger and the sopping wetness of the earth and her tears.
--
She wasn't sure how, but somewhere in the course of leaving Arlington and going home, she'd wound up at Angela's front door.
She was soaking wet, her clothes saturated with rain water and her face swollen from crying. Her body was shaking violently, but she wasn't convinced it was from the cold.
When the door swung open to reveal a rather dishelved looking Angela, it took the artist a few moments of taking in the disastrous appearance of her best friend before she finally spoke.
"Oh Bren, Honey. Are you ok?" She stepped to the side to allow her a way into the house. "Stupid question, of course you're not ok. Come in here."
She stepped in tentatively, but didn't say a word. She felt as if her ability to speak had abandoned her as well.
Instead, she turned to Angela and carefully held out her hand, the diamonds of her ring sparkling ever so slightly in the dim light.
Angela stared at it for a long moment before certainty slowly dawned on her. An ecstatic expression crossed her features, followed directly by one of horror.
"Oh my God. Oh no, Sweetie. Oh God."
And then suddenly they were both crying, holding onto each other for dear life.
Once again, no words were needed.
For any good artist knows, a picture is worth a thousand words.
--
Honesty time! Do you guys think I should continue with this or not?
I'm really unsure about this fic so let me know what you think!
Feedback good and bad is appreciated!