More Than One Kind

By: dharmamonkey
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones. I am, however, interested in renting Booth. A five-hour minimum would apply.

A/N: This story is an AU futurefic set many years after the events of my 2012 story, "Killing Two Birds" but, as you'll see, the events of K2B are central to understanding this piece. Though it may be obvious already or will as soon as you start reading, please note that for the purpose of this story, most of the salient events of Bones Seasons 6, 7, 8 and 9 did not occur. Instead...well, read on and find out.

Chapter 1

My mom has a photograph of my father she keeps at work, tucked in a desk drawer in her office at the Jeffersonian.

When I was a girl, Dad insisted that she keep me away from all the "dead bodies." So on those occasions when Mom needed to be at the lab for some reason and I couldn't go to school or daycare because I was sick or it was a holiday and Grandpa Max wasn't available to look after me, I'd sit in Mom's or Aunt Angela's office. When Mom left me in her office while she was examining remains, I would wait until I saw her step onto the forensics platform and then I'd open her right-hand desk drawer. The photo was always on top, tucked into a protective plastic sleeve, and I would pull it out of the drawer with a quiet, careful reverence.

I remember looking at it when I was little, maybe five or six years old, and thinking that Dad looked like a prince in that photo.

It was actually more than just a photograph. It was a newspaper clipping from the front page of the New York Times, dated about a year before I was born, showing my father in a dark blue Army dress uniform, his coat sleeves covered with row after row of rank chevrons and service stripes. In the photo, Dad's shown from the waist up with his hand resting palm down on the flag's red stripes and his green beret-clad head is lowered so that his forehead nearly touches the flag on top of the brushed aluminum coffin.

In big bold letters over Dad's picture, there's a headline that says, Brooklyn Hero Comes Home, and underneath reads another line in somewhat smaller typeface that says, Special Forces Soldier Was One of 21 Killed in Helmand Crash. Beneath the picture of my father is a caption that says, A comrade of U.S. Army First Sergeant Louis A. Bastone, himself the sole survivor of the tragic crash, says an emotional goodbye at Bagram Air Base before accompanying the fallen hero on his final journey home.

Even now, the photo still moves me, and I still love it every bit as much as I did when I was a little girl, even though my understanding of that photo and what it represents evolved and grew as I did.

I love that photo because, in a way, it shows so much of who my father is through the glimpse of a single moment: a brave man with an unwavering sense of solemn duty and a big heart who is at once strong and deeply vulnerable. The pockmarked edge of his clean-shaven jaw is rigid with bottled-up grief as the tips of his fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the flag, and I swear I can see him fighting the tide of emotion inside of himself, trying not to rend those fingers against the top of his friend's temporary aluminum coffin as his strong, muscular shoulders hunch and shake with anguish.

Of course, I never actually knew Lou Bastone. He died in Afghanistan more than a year before I was born. In fact, my mother never knew him either. Things had gotten strained between her and Dad, which led to her going off to Indonesia for a year and him to Afghanistan. It was only when Dad's unit was involved in the helicopter crash that killed Lou Bastone and twenty of my father's other comrades that Mom left Indonesia to go to Afghanistan to help identify their remains. That was when my parents finally confronted their love for one another.

Even though I never knew Lou Bastone, Uncle Louie (as I came to think of him) was always a silent but very real presence in my life as I was growing up. I was named after him. Thinking about what it would've been like to hear my parents bicker about how to name me after Dad's friend Lou still makes me smile. (What I would give to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation!) Though I imagine she teased him a little about naming his kids after deceased Army comrades (my brother Parker and I are both named for people my dad served with who didn't make it home from war), I know she never resisted him on it because, in the end, I don't think there's anything Mom wouldn't do for Dad and she knew how important it was to him to honor Lou's memory. So that's how I came to be named Lucia Christine Booth—for my father's fallen Army buddy and for my maternal grandmother, neither of whom I ever met but both of whom I grew up hearing stories about.

Mom said Dad didn't used to talk about his experiences in the Army, and to a large extent, he still doesn't. I know he was a sniper in the Gulf War and after that, he was a Ranger (where he served in all sorts of places, including Somalia, Guatemala, several countries in Africa including Rwanda, Zaire and the Congo, and in Kosovo, which was his last mission as a Ranger) and lastly, when he went back into the Army in 2010, he served with the Special Forces in Afghanistan's Helmand Province.

Dad doesn't talk about what he did in those places, or the people he killed. What he does talk about, and according to Mom this is something he didn't used to do before, are his friends—the men he served with, some of whom he still keeps in contact with, some of whom he lost track of over the years after they came home from their deployments, and others who never came home. Sometimes it seems like I know these men, guys like Swann, Parker, Matthews, Kennedy, Parnell, and Lou, of course, because of all the stories Dad would tell about them.

Mom says that, as part of the therapy Dad did when he came back from Afghanistan, he learned to open up and talk about his buddies so that, even if he didn't talk about the things he did in combat or the people he killed or the men he saw die, he would feel less burdened overall because he could relieve some of the pressure of holding those experiences inside by talking about the men themselves as guys, as human beings, as the men they were. He'd tell stories about jokes they played on each other in the barracks, the way they'd bust each others' balls, all the times they got drunk together, and the endless back-and-forth about each others' sports teams or hometowns or music.

Of all of the men he served with over the years, Teddy Parker, Hank Luttrell, Mike Swann and Lou Bastone left the deepest mark on my father as a man, and these are the men he speaks of more than any of the others. Mom says it made a big difference for Dad to be finally be able to open up about those experiences. I know she's right, and also that him talking about those men, especially the men he served with in Afghanistan and above all, Lou Bastone, made a difference for Lou's family. In a way, Dad was the only link that Lou's family had to him after he died, and I think that Dad being there for them, having known Lou and being able to tell them about the conversations the two of them had while they served together, meant that they could still have that connection with him by connecting with the man who carried with him the memory of Lou's last months on this earth.

His widow, Darleen, and his children, Michael (seven years older than me) and Celia (a year older than me) have always been a part of our family, and we see them a several times a year. My parents always made it a point to get together with them during the week between Christmas and New Year's and for a couple of weeks every summer when Dad would pile us all in the big black SUV and we'd drive up to the Jersey Shore where he and Mom would rent a beach house big enough for the three of them, the four of us (Mom, Dad, me and my brother Parker) and Mom's brother Russ, his wife and their daughters, my step-cousins Hayley and Emma. Add all of them together with my Aunt Angela, Uncle Hodgins and their son, Michael Vincent (Angela and Hodgins, of course, aren't actually my biological aunt and uncle, but Dad always said "there's more than one kind of family," and to me, they were always part of our family), it's no wonder my parents never felt the need to have another child after me. Our house seemed like it was always full of people.

Celia and I were closer in age to one another than either of us was to any of the other kids in the Booth/Brennan/Bastone clan, and so even though they lived in Brooklyn and we always lived in the D.C. area, we were almost like sisters. We spent our summers together, with her coming down from New York to spend half of July and most of the month of August with us before heading back up north to start school after Labor Day. After high school (she graduated a year before I did), Celia and I both ended up at Cornell, where she studied Biomedical Engineering and I got a degree in Biology with a concentration in Systematics and Biotic Diversity. After finishing her degree, Celia moved out to Boulder, Colorado to take a job with a company that designs and manufactures custom prosthetic devices for limb amputees, while I moved back to the D.C. area to work at the National Zoo.

The summer after Celia moved out to Boulder, she came back east to visit and brought her fiancé, Caleb, with her. We all converged on the beach house in New Jersey, the same way we always did when we were all kids, except we were all older now—Parker came with his wife and twin six year-old sons, and so did Michael, whose wife had just had their second child eight weeks earlier—and Dad whipped up one of his amazing batches of spaghetti and meatballs to feed the entire crew (well, the twelve of us who weren't living off breast milk, that is). After dinner, Mom came out with two homemade apple pies and a gallon of vanilla bean ice cream, and whatever infinitesimally small corner of our stomachs that wasn't stuffed with Dad's spaghetti and seasoned meatballs was quickly filled with gooey a la mode goodness.

We were all sitting on the U-shaped sectional in the family room watching the Braves/Phillies game when Celia came in from the kitchen holding two bottles of beer in each hand. She handed Michael and Caleb each a Brooklyn Beer Summer Ale then gave Parker a Yuengling before she sat down next to Dad on the sofa. Dad's dark brows furrowed over his eyes as the Phillies bungled what should have been an easy double play and, after growling something under his breath about the stupid Phillies snatching defeat from the jaws of victory again, he turned to her with an expectant waggle of his fingers and a twinkle in his eye.

Celia chuckled and rolled her pale blue eyes at my father, then handed him the sweating bottle of cold Yuengling. She watched him bring the bottle to his lips and tip it back as he took a long swig, then set the bottle down on the glass-topped coffee table with a satisfied ahh.

"Hey, Booth?" she said, shooting Caleb a quick look before taking a deep breath and turning back to Dad.

Dad's warm, chocolate brown eyes narrowed when he heard the odd, reedy lilt in Celia's voice, then his dark eyebrows flew up and deep creases dug into his forehead the way they always did when he copped his trademark look of uncertainty. (I call it his "Whut?" look.)

"What is it, Cel?" he asked her. Sometimes I think Dad is physically incapable of calling someone by their normal, given, Christian name. Though he and Mom discussed at great length how to name me and finally, after what I imagine was weeks if not months of back and forth, finally settled on Lucia, according to Angela, I wasn't out of my mother's womb ten minutes before he was holding me against his chest and cooing, "Hey Lulu-Bee, it's your dad." I can't remember a time when Dad didn't call Celia "Cel" (pronounced just like the fish-eating sea mammal with flippers).

Celia closed her eyes and took a deep breath then, turning to look at me for a fleeting second as I gave her a silent nod of encouragement, leaned gently into my dad's shoulder for a second and said, "I want to ask a favor of you."

There was a gravity in her voice—not a sadness, really, but a hesitation born of the knowledge that there were times that it was easy enough to not think about the painful loss that her mother and my father had experienced just ten days after she was born, and times when the loss and the absence were inescapably real. Two decades had come and gone since her father's death, but the Lou-sized hole in their lives never completely closed up.

"Oh, okay." Dad blinked, his eyes swiveling left to meet my mom's gaze for a moment before he turned and pressed a kiss against the top of her head, then smiled and tousled her hair. "Shoot," he said, leaning forward to mute the TV and grab his beer off the table. "What's up?"

The corner of Celia's mouth curved into an awkward smile under my father's grinning gaze. He did this to all of us at one time or the other. My mother complains about how many times that smile of his has defused her anger before she could even think about ranting after he had done something stupid or thoughtless or hard-headed. Parker has the same smile and heaven help us if the two of them unleash those toothy smiles and twinkly eyes on us at the same time—Mom and I would be utterly helpless to resist their charms.

Dad tipped his Yuengling back for another sip and that brief break in eye contact was enough to enable Celia to gather up a bit of courage and tighten her resolve before letting go of the question she'd been holding onto for weeks. I heard her take a deep breath as my dad set his beer down and looked at her, his eyes slightly widened in expectation as she looked down at her hand and wiggled the diamond engagement ring on her finger.

"Well, see...I, umm...I was wondering if…" She closed her eyes and took a breath to settle herself and relax away her stammer. I was sitting on the other end of the sectional but when she opened her eyes after taking that deep breath, she turned and for the briefest second, our eyes met and I gave her a solemn nod.

The crooked grin on my dad's face faded as he saw the nervousness in the shifting of her jaw and the quiver of her dark, finely-shaped eyebrows, and his own eyes widened a little with a swirl of confusion, curiosity and concern that was uniquely his own. Celia swallowed thickly and tried again, rolling her lips together before parting them again in a smile.

"I want you to walk me down the aisle," she said as she brought her eyes up to meet his.

"Wait, what?" My father blinked a couple of times and his brow crinkled over his eyes. "Umm, no, I mean...well, what about your uncle Jimmy?" Dad's voice was a little ragged at the edges with the emotion I saw shimmering in his warm brown eyes. Jimmy was Lou Bastone's younger brother who lived in White Plains, New York, about an hour north of Brooklyn, where Darleen lived. Jimmy and Lou weren't close when Lou was alive and, while Jimmy tried to keep in better touch with his brother's widow and kids after his brother died in Afghanistan, there was always a distance between Darleen and Jimmy that neither closed nor widened over the years, but which seemed to persist in its own awkward way.

"Booth," Celia whispered, reaching over and grasping my father's big, veiny, thick-fingered hand and curling her own slender fingers around his palm which was—after decades spent holding a rifle and, later, a pistol—rough with calluses that we each had grown up knowing as the texture of protection and safety. "I want you to give me away, Booth."

Dad's mouth fell open and his jaw shifted from one side to the other as he struggled for words. "I-I...well...I just…"

Celia looked over at my mother, who was sitting on my dad's left. Mom's eyes, which were lighter and grayer than Celia's, were bright and moist but not watery the way they had been when Celia stood in the kitchen the night before and told us what she planned to ask Dad the next day. Mom gave Celia a solemn, encouraging nod.

My best friend smiled, then rolled her lips together in a firm line as her blue eyes shone with emotion. "A bride should walk down the aisle with her father," she declared. "It's tradition, right? And, well…"

She drew another breath and squeezed my dad's big hand.

"You're the only father I've ever known."

A heavy silence hung in the air as all of our hearts clenched a little at those words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom touch Darleen's arm as my dad looked over and watched them both for a second. Lou's widow, who for all of my life I'd known as Aunt Darleen, placed her hand on top of my mom's as her eyes met Dad's. She held his gaze for a moment as everyone in the room watched them, then tilted her head to the side and raised her brows as a faint smile curved her lips.

The silence in that room held for another few moments before Michael's eight week-old daughter suddenly began to cry. Glancing down at the tiny child in his arms whose pink-cheeked face was screwed into an angry grimace, Michael stood up and rocked little Patricia back and forth as he waited for his wife to retrieve her for a feeding. The baby's crying drew my father's attention and he watched Michael hand the child off to his wife. As mother and child disappeared up the stairs, Dad sighed and raked his hand through his thick hair (which had years ago lost its dark brown color in favor of a salt and pepper hue that gave him an air of gentlemanly distinctiveness). He turned to Celia and looked at her for a second, then snaked his arm around her shoulder and reeled her into a hug, gently cupping the back of her head in his big bear-mitt of a hand before pulling away a little to place a kiss on her forehead.

"I'd be honored," he told her, his voice breaking a little as he smiled and rubbed his hand over her back. Celia smiled, kissing my dad on the side of his gray-stubbled cheek as she wiped the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"Me, too," she whispered.

A/N: This not going to be a long story. Maybe three or four chapters. But it's been sitting in my head for well over a year and the time has come to let it out.

This is very unlike other things I've written, and I admit to being a little nervous about it. It's a little sentimental, told from an OC point of view, and is very much a future fic.

Was it worth the read? Should I keep going? Let me know.