I have no idea what everyone else is doing in this post-Boy-with-the-Answer period while we wait for the finale, but this is what came out of my head, to explain why she would suddenly want to leave behind murders. I hope you enjoy.
She'd had nightmares her entire life.
When she was a child, they were about what every child was afraid of. Small, five year old Temperance Brennan was far from immune to the terrors of monsters and shadows. Her big brother checked under the bed and in the closet for her until she had the courage to check for herself.
As she grew, they began to go away. She was focused on school work, and at school she didn't face anything more terrifying than the average horrible kids that didn't understand her and didn't want to. They taunted her ceaselessly for anything, from what she ate for lunch to her intelligence, and she took it all in silence. Words hurt, though, and she had a good memory. She didn't forget what was said about her, and as time passed... she began to not doubt that what they said was true. If she wasn't such an outsider, they wouldn't bother to attack her in such a way. They were proving they were right simply by singling her out.
But still, she ignored them. She could take what they said, what they did... she could handle the whispers and the teasing and the stolen school supplies and the legs that stuck out to trip her wherever she went.
And then, her family disappeared. Her world, fragile as it had been, fell apart at last... and she was alone completely, at last. Her parents... something might have happened to them. She could convince herself that they hadn't intended to abandon her, that they still loved her. But she could not convince herself the same of her brother, as she watched him climb into that car and pull away for the last time, not coming back. Still, so many years later, she could feel the weight of the social worker's hand on her shoulder as she told her with overly sweet sympathy that it would all be okay.
The nightmares returned in full force... and they hadn't gone away since then.
As a teenager, she found herself watching as her parents vanished into smoke over and over again, until eventually she just began to see them turn and walk away, their eyes cold and uncaring... the very image of every face she saw in her waking hours. People didn't care about her; they never had. In general, people were uncaring. And if they acted like they cared... they would turn away, eventually. It all mattered on what would take them away. Sometimes those that she met who were friendly were moved to new families, or she was, or they just stopped talking to her altogether.
There was no upside. There was nothing to look forward to, no hope on the horizon. What started as a nightmare ended as a nightmare, and the cycle was never-ending. There wasn't anything for her in the world but pain.
And the world was content to give her as much as it could.
Her delicate, pale flesh was covered in bruises by the time she was sixteen, and they never fully healed before new ones formed over the old. She wore long sleeves, and she didn't talk. She hid from the world, doing her schoolwork because it was the only constant. She understood it, and it gave her an opportunity, her only one, for some form of escape.
When she finally was released from the system she had no where to go. College was beyond her reaches; she had no possessions, no money, no job, no future. She spent several weeks on the streets, sheltering where she could and avoiding anyone she saw, because there was a good chance they would take advantage of her. She knew only too well how things worked in the world. Every night she woke, though, from the same dreams. Images too far away to reach, a dark and confining trunk where she choked on the air itself, her limbs too weak to move, fists flying at her from every direction, taunts wavering in and out of her hearing...
There was no escape.
Until the day that she found herself back at her social worker's office... and found that she had been replaced by an older man with kind blue eyes. So desperate for anything at all, she'd spoken with him, and he'd taken her out to lunch. It was the first nice thing anyone had done for her since before her parents had disappeared.
He had her file, and he went through it and listened to her while she answered all of his questions about her life. It was easier than she'd expected to tell him all of it, and he smiled like a real grandfather and patted her hand with his wrinkled and tanned one when the conversation became more challenging.
And then he'd gone about arranging for her to meet with colleges, all outside of his own work hours. At first, she was suspicious, but gradually she came to understand that he actually cared. That he actually wanted to do this for her, with no gain for himself. The concept was almost impossible for her mind to grasp. Three years of hatred or indifference, and she had lost the ability to believe in the simplest things like love. Everyone either had their own agenda, or simply didn't like her... there had never been another alternative.
Her grades in high school, and the high praise of her teachers, added with her intelligence, gained her a great deal of interest from several schools, and she was eventually accepted into the University of Northwestern Ohio as a science major... a full-ride scholarship paying her way through.
Mr. Kimble, her beloved grandfather figure, had offered her a place to stay while she had sorted things out.
Still, she hadn't held much hope that there was good in the world. She had seen some, but not nearly enough to counteract what she had lived through.
And the nightmares persisted.
College was her savior. The work was fascinating and engaging, and the other students were eager to learn. She didn't earn many friends, but she did make several kind students that wanted to study with her. Her roommates were her age, but they were more interested in partying than studying. She spent most nights alone, studying late and then waking up screaming from yet another bout of terrifying dreams. Both of the other girls were usually passed out from whatever party it was they had attended. No one ever heard her, or asked what was wrong. She was glad to not have to explain... but at the same time the lack of interest hit her with a pang of sorrow. Even in this different world, where there wasn't daily threats or beatings, people didn't care about her as a person. People didn't want to know her problems.
She wrote Mr. Kimble often, until he stopped responding.
Later, she learned that he had died of a heart attack. She had never gotten to say goodbye, or give him enough thanks for all that he had done for her. She worked twice as hard, and when she earned her Bachelor's degree she went back and continued to work towards becoming a forensic anthropologist. Success was all that mattered, at this point.
When she was twenty-two, she met Michael Styers as a new professor at the school. For the first time, someone actually looked at her like... she was someone they wanted to be looking at. Like she was attractive, and she interested him. They talked about her thesis, and her other classes, and about other things. He didn't ask much about her past after she told him that her parents had abandoned her, but she found that she was okay with that. She didn't want him to know the details of her life. She didn't want him to see who she had been, because more than anything she wanted that to never have been her life. This was her life now, and that simply wasn't. She was someone else... and she wanted it to stay that way.
The nightmares still followed her.
She slept with Michael during Spring Break. He was considerate and sweet, and he helped her learn. She felt... loved. It was a feeling she had never felt on that level before, and she never wanted it to go away.
They went on digs together, and she learned even more about the real world. She faced terrors and survived. She discovered what it meant to trust someone else.
But she couldn't tell him about her past, because he wouldn't want her. No one would want her... not once they knew the truth.
For a long time, she stayed with him. For a while, she was convinced she actually understood what it meant to love someone back. She felt happy with him. She liked seeing him smile, and hearing him laugh.
She began an internship with a nearby lab that had a collection of unidentified skeletons, and worked alongside the other interns to give them back their names.
More and more often, she began to see her parents in her dreams. She wondered what had really happened, and for the first time considered the possibility that they might have been murdered. And what had happened to her brother? Where was he? Did he even care about her?
Michael picked up on the change as she neared her final dissertation, and asked her what was wrong.
Then, she made her first mistake. She told him more about her parents, and her brother, and her concerns. He comforted her, and assured her that she'd find the truth someday, and that he was sure her brother was worried about her. It sounded so much like what her first social worker had told her, though, and the sympathy hit a chord with her.
She didn't want to tell him any more, but he seemed interested in her past suddenly, and she filled in bits and pieces, waiting for a reaction to every word that she managed to get out.
When she told him about the nightmares, it was the end of it all.
He told her she should get help. Suggested a psychologist that he was friends with from when he had been in college.
She had seen so many therapists and shrinks during her time in the system, that she knew how pointless that would be. She didn't believe in anything they said, because they didn't understand her. They generalized her problems, explained that she had abandonment issues, and a few even suggested drugs that would help her focus and relax.
She was not seeing a psychologist.
His concerns put her on the defensive. What did he know about who she was? What had he ever known about her? She convinced herself that she had been wrong the entire time, about everything. People didn't care. Michael wanted her to change; he wanted to fix her. Find a nice and easy solution to make her all better. No one, not a single person, wanted her the way she was. She had grown into a beautiful woman, something she wasn't unaware of. Men were interested in that, but not in what she thought, or wanted, or worried about.
Therapy was out of the question. When she received her doctorate, she spent some of the money that she'd earned from interning to move out of the state that she'd grown up in. She wanted to get away, once and for all.
Washington D.C. had always captivated her. The city and the buildings... the history behind it... and she had heard all about the prestigious Jeffersonian Institute from fellow interns. Dr. Goodman was the first person she met, and she found herself oddly disarmed by him. His deep voice and his warm eyes spoke only of a fatherly kindness. It all reminded her so much of Mr. Kimble and the simple warmth he seemed to emit.
Her interview went well, because he asked only questions about what she wanted from the job, and about her education. She could easily discuss those subjects, and with a good deal of passion. She loved what she did, and the rewards it offered. The dead didn't care about her, but that was because they couldn't, not because they had a vendetta against her personally. She wanted her own closure... for now, she would do all she could for someone else, because they deserved to have what she hadn't.
By now, she knew that people weren't all cold and uncaring. Some were just busy with their own matters, but they didn't want to hurt her. Others were kind and interested in her work and her future. She could accept this. She could live in a world with these people, as long as she wasn't expected to form close relationships. And the Jeffersonian gave her exactly what she wanted.
There was no one to get close to, because her colleagues were focused on their own work and their own relationships. She was valued for her ability as a scientist.
She worked towards another doctorate, expanding her knowledge.
The next years passed in relative ease. She dated a few times, but she never sought out a meaningful relationship. Her needs were satisfied, though, and she was happy with the arrangement. Her objectivity and her ability to work productively were never compromised.
Work became her life, and her purpose.
But gradually, the skeletons began to creep into her dreams. They chased her, the faces that they had once had dancing before her eyes as they reached their spindly and bare fingers towards her, their empty sockets and gaping mouths begging for help that she couldn't give them.
Death chased her at night, and her sole solace was that she woke up running... she was trying to escape from an end that she did not want. The years of hoping it would all just end and the pain would stop were over. Life had gotten its hold on her... and she didn't want to let go.
That was a small level of hope.
Dr. Jack Hodgins came to work as an entomologist; his station was on her own section of the lab platform, and Goodman suggested that they work the same cases cooperatively, using their separate skills to figure out the identities and the causes of death. She didn't like him at all, but his level of cynicism interested her. He seemed to hate the world, but he wasn't afraid of voicing his every opinion out loud. He was angry and irritable, but she didn't mind working with him, after a while. She told him to stop being so unpleasant, but the conspiracies didn't bother her. She wasn't a big fan of the government herself, just from her own experience in the foster system. They had done nothing for her during those years, and she wasn't going to forgive that.
He was brilliant, and that she liked as well. He was useful, and he provided what she needed to figure out the details on each victim that came across the tables.
She took on an intern after earning her third doctorate, and discovered that she liked teaching. It gave her the opportunity to show what she knew and to help someone else towards their own future at the same time.
Her nightmares reached an alarming peak after a case involving a fifteen year old girl who had lived on the streets and who had apparently been attacked and murdered. She stopped sleeping, and began eating less and less, until it apparently became noticeable to the people she worked with.
Goodman commented when she passed by him on a Thursday morning, heading to her office, with clear concern in his voice. She was more careful after that, blocking herself off and making sure that everyone was objective and focused solely on the case. On the platform, she was in charge, and everyone knew it. They followed her instructions almost entirely without argument.
She began to seek out short-term relationships to occupy herself. It wasn't hard to find willing and attractive young men that wanted to sleep with her.
In the years she'd spent in DC, she had taken self defense courses and learned martial arts. She was able to defend herself, and everything she did was her own decision. She loved the control, and the ability to make her own choices. One man tried to get a little rough with her, and she broke his nose, pinned him to a wall, and warned him that if she ever saw him again, he'd get a lot worse. She never came into contact with him again. She didn't even remember his name... but then again, she didn't remember many of their names. They served a purpose, and they were useless to her beyond that.
It was when she was twenty-eight that she went to an art gallery on a whim, for no real reason other than to keep herself busy and focused on something. She had fallen asleep in her office that afternoon after coming in early, and had woken up from one of her more horrifying nightmares. Shaking, and panicked with fear that she might have cried out and alerted someone, she had left as fast as she could... and the art gallery was where she had ended up.
"Are you okay?" A woman who was at least half Chinese asked her with concern. She jumped slightly, and turned away from the piece she had been studying to see that the woman was watching her with her head tilted slightly to the side in concern.
"Yes, fine, thanks," she said with a curt nod. "Is... this your artwork, here?"
"Yeah, that's mine," the woman said, grinning as she stepped out. "Do you like it? I haven't had anyone cry over my work before, you know."
She hastily swiped away the tear in question and turned her head away.
"Alright, you are not okay. Do you want to talk?"
She stared back, somewhere between shocked and confused, and completely unsure of what to say to that.
"Come on, some sit over here," she said, gently taking her by the elbow and leading her over to a bench, where she promptly took a seat right beside her. "Now, what's wrong?"
"I don't... who are you?" she managed to ask, shaking her head slightly to clear it.
"Angela Montenegro," the woman answered easily. "What about you?"
"Dr. Temperance Brennan," she answered automatically, before she realized that she probably shouldn't have told her. It would have been much easier to remain anonymous.
"Alright, Bren, what's the trouble? Some guy bothering you? Because I have a can of pepper spray that I'm not afraid to use, and I'd be glad to let you borrow it."
She managed a smile at the woman's easy-going manner, but it quickly faded away. "Just a bad day," she said with a shrug. "You're artwork is very good," she added, looking for a distraction. "You have an excellent ability with underlying facial structure; have you had much study with the human body?"
"I... no. I just sort of... go with the flow. This is what comes to me, as crazy as it sounds." She gestured to a painting of a human figure shrouded in purple mist, reaching to the skies. "Most of my friends think I'm crazy."
"I think it's brilliant," she said simply.
Angela scoffed. "You're just saying that."
"No, actually, I'm not. I don't... I don't do stuff like that. If I thought it was terrible, I would have told you so."
Angela seemed to study her for a moment, as if trying to figure out if she was serious, but then she seemed to accept it, and offered a smile. "I like you," she said suddenly. "So, what do you think; can this stuff get me to Paris? I've been doing odd jobs mostly, but I keep spending everything on more supplies..."
"Paris?"
"Yeah," she answered easily, warming up to the subject, "I've always wanted to study art there, and I just love the buildings, and the atmosphere... I had a girlfriend of mine go a while back, and she said that there are cute guys practically growing on trees."
"I don't think that's humanly possible," she said with a frown, suddenly not following the conversation at all. At least her thoughts were here, though, and not on the reason she had fled to this place to begin with.
Angela's smile faded. "It's a... phrase. Anyways, what do you think?"
"I'm not an art critic; I'm a forensic anthropologist... so I don't think I'd be able to give you an objective response. I would buy it, though, if that helps at all. I just don't have much myself, or a place to put it... but I would buy it."
"Good enough," Angela said with a wave of her hand. "What brings a... forensic anthropologist to an art gallery, though?"
"I was just... looking for somewhere to go."
"Sure this isn't about a guy? Because I give great relationship advice, or so I've been told."
"I don't really date seriously," she said with a shake of her head.
"Really?" she had been expecting a surprised reaction, and had regretted saying it at all, but the next thing the woman said was something she was completely unprepared for. "I'm amazed I'm not the only one. I saw this guy last summer; he lives out in the desert, though, and I'm not sure about long term relationships. I'm on the move a lot, you know? And I've never been the type to settle down and go for something long term. Just... doesn't work out, right?"
"I... yeah."
"So if it isn't a guy, then what's got you so down in the dumps?"
"It's... nothing. Nothing that would interest you. Listen, I really should get going. Here," she fumbled in her purse and found a piece of scrap paper and a pen. "If you give me your number, I might contact you. I work at the Jeffersonian Institute, and your ability with facial structure seems very well developed. I might be able to find some use for your skills."
"That would be... amazing," Angela said after a moment of shock. She stood as well, and scribbled down the number. "And, hey, if you just want to... talk or something... coffee? I'm always available. I don't really... y'know, have a job..."
"Maybe I will. It was... nice talking with you."
She never would quite understand why she had been so willing to trust the artist. There was just something about her that had hit a nerve, but a good one, for once. She had felt like Angela was someone that she could talk to... someone that wasn't judgmental, someone that didn't really care what her issues were, but was only interested in who she was at the moment. That was a first for her, and she realized not long after that she wanted to talk to her again... which was also a strange feeling. Isolation did not invite friendship, and yet there she was, a week later, asking if Angela would like to grab a coffee with her when she went on her lunch break.
Psychology, as much as she despised it, would probably tell her that she had actually wanted to talk with someone, and Angela had provided the opportunity to let it out. She hadn't told anyone the full truth, and been accepted for it, since Mr. Kimble. After Michael, she'd lost all faith in doing so ever again.
But she didn't tell Angela about her past when they got coffee. She talked about her job, and listened to stories about art school and crazy boyfriends, and she laughed. She was late coming back to work, and her step was a bit lighter, her face giving away just a hint of a smile as she pulled her lab coat back on.
Only three weeks after that, she called her again, and asked if they could meet to talk about a possible job opportunity. An FBI Agent had come to her, and asked for help on a case. She wanted to test a theory... see if the artist could create a face around a skull using her obvious talent. Facial reconstruction was a branch of identification that still had a great deal of speculation surrounding it. Success wasn't guaranteed, and it wasn't the most commonly used method, but it had some merit.
The agent in question, Seeley Booth, was highly attractive. He seemed decent enough in character, as well, and she regretted that they were working together because she would have greatly liked to spend a night, or several, in his company. But relationships and work didn't mix in her world, and she wasn't about to change that just because a man with very nice and remarkably symmetrically features seemed to always be leaning over her shoulder while she worked. And he seemed to be just as interested in her as she was in him.
But then, she had her opportunity and she realized that it wasn't what she wanted. Yes, she wanted him physically... but she was drunk, and so was he, and for once in her life she didn't want to just use someone for her own satisfaction. Usually, they were just as happy with the situation as she was... but the usually clueless Brennan could even see that he wasn't the one night stand sort of guy. And his statement, as they stood in the rain just outside the bar... he had told her something personal about himself. Right then, he had taken away every chance of a night together. Because she couldn't involve herself personally. That ended badly, because personal connections never succeeded. People might not all be cruel and out to get her, as she had once managed to believe, but they did mostly have their own needs and desires at the top of their list of priorities. Everyone was out for themselves first; that was natural. And ultimately she was a negative factor in a relationship, rather than an asset. If you didn't want to be left behind... you didn't give the chance. You left first.
It was what worked best for her; it always had.
After he told her to get a soul, told her he wasn't her father... well, she never wanted to see him again. He had grabbed her arm, talked to her like a child... treated her like she was inferior because of her intelligence. She had left such things behind back in that torturous world of high school. She wasn't going back to that drama-fest any time soon.
Somehow, Angela managed to keep herself around. Brennan wanted to give her a job, because she could see that she truly wanted to get to Paris and live out whatever dream it was she'd held her whole life about the city... she just hadn't expected to become so invested herself in the process.
And when Angela had enough money... she didn't leave. She waved it off, saying how she could go whenever she liked, and how she was enjoying DC... how she just wanted to stay for the winter... and then the spring... and suddenly it was almost autumn again and she was still there, greeting her everyday when she came to work and eagerly showing her the latest progress on a machine she called the "Angelator."
Brennan didn't want her to leave, and that scared her.
"Hey, that's what best friends do," Angela commented one day after she had given her a ride back to her apartment when her car broke down, and the words caught her off guard, knocking the breath from her.
At night she dreamt of El Salvador, her latest terrifying experience that she decided not to tell anyone about, and it combined slowly, as the weeks passed, with her other dreams. They had never been gone, but they had started to come back to a more dangerous level after her return from the "vacation."
Her latest 'boyfriend,' Peter was his name, kept pushing for a more personal relationship. He wanted to be more involved in her life, and take her out to dinner, pick her up at work... she just couldn't understand why he wasn't happy enough with just the sex. She had clearly misjudged when she had chosen to take him home with her, and subsequently when she'd called him up again, and that worried her, too, because it meant she wasn't managing nearly as well as she had before.
Booth appeared at the lab one day in early August, holding up a file. She hadn't wanted to see him, or speak to him, but he seemed civil enough... and all he wanted was a quick analysis from a set of x-rays. He didn't need anything else from her, and he promised to be out of her hair quick. So she gave him what he wanted, told him the cause of death and everything else she could discern from just the black and white images... and he had the audacity to not believe her.
Between that and Peter's persistence, she needed to get away. Guatemala was where she disappeared to, and she enjoyed her time in isolation, even wondering briefly what it would be like to simply stay there and not go back at all to the life she'd created at the Jeffersonian. She was becoming invested in the place and the people she worked with, and she wasn't really sure how comfortable she was with that idea.
She had started having dreams with Angela in them, where she learned some horrible truth about how she had been used, how her friend didn't actually care about her... and her family would stand in the shadows and then vanish.
Russ had started calling on her birthday every year shortly after she'd gotten the job at the lab, and after she had picked up the first time, she had started ignoring every phone call on that day each year. She didn't want to talk to him; he was a part of the world she'd left behind. He had abandoned her, on purpose, and he didn't deserve to have any contact with her when he would, in all likelihood, find some other way to break her heart once she took the risk and decided to trust him again.
Booth was waiting for her at the airport; he tried to trick her into thinking he was some sort of idiotic hero swooping into rescue her, and she hated him all the more for being so condescending and controlling. She was in charge of her life; she didn't want him there, so therefore he had absolutely no right to bother her.
He was persistent, though, and she found herself working the case with him without really knowing why she was doing so. She convinced herself it was to get justice for the poor girl that had been murdered. And it was, actually, because she succeeded and she felt the satisfaction of a mystery solved and one right done in a world of so many wrongs.
But somewhere in the middle, Booth had decided to become some sort of partner to her. She had wanted equal participation in the case because she refused to be some sort of tool that he used to get information and then tossed aside at his convenience. She wanted the equal playing field, and then she wanted the ability to do as she pleased when it was over. Only, that was gone, because he was pulling her out to the scene of a car bombing only a week later, Angela in tow, and she found herself not bothered, again, by this factor.
The cases occupied her, and they were far more interesting than the several hundred year old murders that she usually dealt with. She got to see the results of her work... she got to see the truth delivered and justice found for one lost soul.
And one by one, as the cases went past, faces joined the ranks of the skeletons in her dreams. Cleo Eller and all the others... one after the other.
As she helped Booth clear his dreams through his 'cosmic balance sheet,' she tortured herself by adding to her own. And he never knew what each case did to her, as death after death passed before her eyes while the years went by, each one reminding her of just what the world was all about. What had very nearly become of her so many times.
A mechanical voice spoke in her ear, telling her that Booth had been buried alive... she watched as Hodgins was pulled away... she stared up as dirt fell down upon her and she banged helplessly, unable to escape from her own grave. Laughter. Her family stood on the edges of the earth and stared down at her as she begged for help... she might know what had happened to them now, but that didn't change the dream that had so long manifested itself into her darkest fears. Darkness closed in, dogs howled for blood, chains rattled, a cold voice chuckled as icy hands held a crowbar and taunted her with clues to the whereabouts of her friends...
She awoke gasping, sitting bolt upright in bed, and stared blankly at the opposite wall, her breath coming in rapid gasps until she calmed enough to feel the tears that were rapidly sliding down her face.
It would never end.
She couldn't do this anymore. She just couldn't.
"Bones?"
She looked up from her food, eyes staring expectantly at him across her kitchen counter.
"You're leaving."
It wasn't a question, and she sighed and let her fork fall weakly back onto the dish, dropping her hands into her lap and letting her eyes stray out the window.
"Yeah," she managed to say at long last.
He was silent for a long moment, and she finally chanced a glance at him to see the conflict in his eyes as he stared back at her almost helplessly.
"Why?" he finally asked, his voice soft and... sad.
She closed her eyes. She didn't want to hurt him. Didn't he see that all she ever did was hurt people? She couldn't save them, couldn't save herself... just couldn't do it. And yet he still, somehow, cared about her.
"Everything changes, Booth. It was irrational to think that things would stay the same forever with the two of us. Inevitably one of us would move on at some point. You could get a transfer or a promotion, and I could be asked to teach somewhere else, or be offered a new position... any number of things. The odds were against us even working on murders for five years straight."
"Where are you going to go?"
She wondered fleetingly if he had heard any of what she had just said, or if he had skipped it entirely and formulated his next question while she was talking.
"I haven't decided yet. Maybe up north... I was offered a position once in Quebec. Several colleges in England have been trying to get me as well. I just... I feel like it's time for a change, Booth."
"So why not make one that didn't take you... away?"
She could see the risk he was taking by saying that, just by reading the reflection in his eyes and the way they flashed with fear as he awaited an answer.
"I can't work murders anymore, Booth," she said softly.
He had been the one to show up here, at noon, when she didn't come into work. She'd started taking more days off while she attempted to sort out what was important in her apartment and what was not. She was still debating over whether or not she should just keep paying rent and leave everything the way it was. She could certainly afford it, and it would save her time.
"You keep saying that, and I still don't know why, Bones. Is it... I mean, you enjoyed working with me, didn't you?"
"Of course. I... these past few years have been... probably the best of my life."
He stared at her, his mouth slightly open, before he managed to close it and form a coherent sentence. "You're running."
"What?" she choked slightly, "No! I'm making a decision, Booth. I'm not... what would I be running from, to begin with?"
He scoffed, as if it was obvious. "Bones," he said, leaning closer. "I opened a door. You shut it... and now you're leaving."
She processed the metaphor quickly. "I already explained it to you that night. I told you why... why it wouldn't work out. And you... you agreed."
"Doesn't mean I wanted to."
He looked tired. She wondered suddenly if he'd been getting much sleep... she hadn't been, with the Gravedigger trial and her latest revelations about where her life was going. The nightmares had become unbearable. She couldn't get a good night's rest... at some point she had just stopped trying altogether.
"Bones, why are you suddenly so against solving murders, if it isn't about me?"
She could tell him, she realized. She was choosing to leave... she'd made the first move. If she told him now, and he reacted badly, it wouldn't matter. She was leaving either way. There was nothing to lose here.
Not anymore.
"I have nightmares, Booth."
He stared at her blankly, "You... already told me that. But, Bones... we got Taffet. She's locked up... she's never coming after us again."
She shook her head. "They aren't about Taffet... well, sometimes they are. But that's not relevant."
He was clearly waiting for a further explanation, and she sighed.
"After my parents and Russ left me... I used to have nightmares about them. I would... be somewhere, or I'd be in trouble... and they just... they would turn away. And..." she released a heavy sigh... might as well go all in, now that she'd started this. She rushed to get the next words out. "In foster care, I was abused. I would... have nightmares about that, too. They just... never went away, and sometimes they'd be worse than others, and when I got out of the system I was on the streets, and I didn't know what to do, and I just..." she was talking faster and faster, and she knew she was losing it. Her eyes were blurred with tears, and she was staring down at her hands, when she felt his arms wrap around her. She let out a shaky gasp.
"Oh, Bones..." he whispered in her ear as he held her close to him.
She carefully pulled back from him and brushed the moisture in her eyes away enough so that she could at least see him. He was watching her with sorrow in his eyes, and she couldn't find a trace of anything dishonest. His hand still rested gently on her arm, and the warmth that was emanating from that single spot was like a comforting and slow burn... a reassurance that she wasn't alone.
"You never told me you were on the streets," he murmured.
She sniffed, and then hated the pitiful sound and swiped at her eyes again, keeping them averted from his. "I... I don't... when I tell people, they... I didn't want you to think less of me," she whispered back at last, her voice choked.
"I could never think less of you," he answered softly, pulling her into his arms again and just holding her there. This time, she stayed in his arms for longer, letting him rock her back and forth comfortingly. She knew she should be pulling back; telling him that it didn't matter, that it didn't change the situation in the slightest... that knowing the truth wasn't going to keep her from leaving... but she couldn't do it.
"Every case..." she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. "Every case follows me, Booth..."
He slid his arms out from around her, but kept them close. He made eye contact with her, and she took in anther shaky breath before she went on.
"I see their faces... all of them. Every case we've ever worked on. I can't... I'm not indifferent. I can't pretend that what happened to all of those people didn't... doesn't still affect me. And everyone... everyone always thinks that I'm... cold and... and that I don't feel what everyone else does... but I feel it all. I feel more than they do, because... I see every detail of what those people went through. I know them... I know what they wanted, what they were like... I can understand them, and I never even knew them. And then... they follow me no matter where I go, and I can't help them.
"And if... if anything were to happen to you, or Ange, or Hodgins, or Cam... I wouldn't be able to do anything either. I wouldn't be able to save any of you, or even myself, because I can only help people once they're dead... I can only get them closure when it's too late to make things be the way they could have been. The way they... should have been."
"You have saved me, Bones," he murmured when she had finished. "You got me back from Gallagher, and you got me off that boat. But... more than that, you saved who I am. Bones, you make me see things... differently. You... you make me happy," he added softly, looking away. "And I don't want to lose that... lose you."
He was actually saying that. She had told him how she felt, what she thought about, how her brain worked... and he was saying that he didn't want to lose her. He was saying that she made him happy.
"I don't understand," she said at last.
He frowned. "I... what's there not to understand?"
She sighed and looked away. "Booth, I'm plagued with nightmares, I can't have solid relationships, I can't keep doing my job, I'm making the decision to leave... and you're just... I don't understand."
"You don't understand why... I would want you to stay?"
She bit her lip and nodded.
He closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating. "You aren't incapable of change, Bones," he whispered at last, eyes flicking open to glance at her. "You've already changed... you've already grown as a person, and you've helped me grow and change, too."
"I can't do this anymore," she said helplessly. "Booth, I can't stay here. And I can't... I can't let myself feel the same way about you that you... that you say you feel about me."
"You've been hurt," he said, the hand on her arm lifting and moving up to turn her face back towards him gently. "But you have to trust me, Bones... Things can work out the way we want them to... we just have to fight for it. And we don't have to keep solving murders... you can quit your job and do whatever you like... all I'm asking is that you don't leave me behind."
She let out a shaky breath. "I don't... I'm not sure I can do that."
"Bones, you said you had nightmares about not being able to save anyone." She stiffened, but he was hurrying onwards before she could react fully, "Is that why you want to leave, because you feel like you'll lose us if you stay?"
"Everything changes," she whispered, her eyes once again filled with moisture. She tried to blink it away, but the tears persisted.
"But you don't have to go," he insisted. "You don't have to run away; sometimes change is a good thing! Sometimes you get... you get opportunities that you never expected. Please... please, Bones... don't make a choice you'll regret. Take a risk, right here, right now."
"I don't know how," she managed to choke out.
"Just say you'll try."
Slowly, she shook her head, fighting back a sob. "Booth..."
"C'mere..." he said, holding his arms open for her. She didn't fight the impulse to dive straight into the embrace, and then she let herself go limp against him, her arms clinging desperately around his shoulders.
How could she leave this? How would she ever survive in a world without him, without Angela, without Hodgins, without her family? They were all a part of who she was... if she tried to take that away, what would she become? How would she live? The past five years flashed in segments through her brain, rushing past as she tried to recall every moment and find one that was so terrible that it was reasonable to try and escape... but all the horrible moments were overshadowed by the happiest memories of her life... Booth's death was shrouded by the laughter around her table last Christmas, his kidnap by the Gravedigger was taken over by the roar of success in that courtroom only last week, her mother's death was filled only with images of the comfort of her closest friends as they worked ceaselessly to help her, without regard for any personal gain.
Angela's voice echoed in the recesses of her memory... We love you.
Her friend didn't even know she was considering leaving at all. How was she going to tell her, or any of the others?
"Bones," Booth murmured softly, his breath tickling across her hair.
He was waiting for a response, she knew... but she still didn't quite know what to say.
"What's the difference?" he said suddenly, pulling away so he could look her in the eye as he continued, "Bones... if you leave now, and you don't give us a chance... what's the difference? If you left and decided not to come back... It's over either way; if you stayed and things didn't work out, or if you gave up now before we even tried. What do you have to lose?"
Everything, she wanted to say, but she realized that didn't truly make sense anymore. She didn't want to hurt him, but just from the way he was talking right now, she knew that she'd be doing that anyways if she vanished forever from his life.
What if things did work out? Where would that put her?
She pictured Angela and Hodgins, the perfect image of happiness. All they had was each other, and they'd been through so much... but yet they'd found a way to work it out. They were together, and both of them never seemed more thrilled.
Brennan didn't want marriage. She didn't want any of that... but success was possible, wasn't it? They didn't need to be married... maybe they could just be happy. Maybe she didn't have to keep fighting to isolate herself, when clearly she'd started failing at that five years ago.
If anyone could make the nightmares go away, could help her escape from them forever... it would be him.
Hesitantly, she leaned back into him, and he easily wrapped his arms firmly around her once more.
And then she nodded into his shoulder, and whispered, "I'll try."
This was written to be a oneshot, and it will stay that way. If I were to expand, it would end up being a very long process that I just can't do right now. I have to work on What Brings Them Together, and I have several other stories in the planning stages that I'm eager to finish and get posted. Plus, I rather like the way this ended... promise for the future and such.
I truly hope you enjoyed my insight into Brennan's world, even if it might have been a bit OOC.
Tell me what you thought, please?