Note: This is what I woke up to this morning.
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
You woke up, terrified, having watched Booth drown, unable to save him yet again.
You've had nightmares before, but the trial made them worse.
Somehow, you got through it. You found the boy's body and gave up your chance to prosecute the woman who buried you alive so that you could find out what he has to tell you.
Booth gave up his chance for justice so that he could stand with you. You knew that was wrong – that this was a forensic puzzle and that another FBI agent could do what needed to be done – but you were secretly glad he was there.
While most of your brain was occupied with trying to find the key evidence that would convict her, there was a small part that was trying to figure out the puzzle of Booth. He said he was going to move on, but he was always around, making sure you ate and keeping an eye on your dad.
The night before the trial ended, you woke up from another nightmare and you realized – you weren't the one saving him. You were the one killing him.
As long as you were around, he'd never move on.
You were selfish enough to wish that you could keep him to yourself, but you knew that he wanted more – the home, the family, someone to love, someone to love him back.
You want that for him.
So, if leaving was the best thing you could do for the man who you love more than you thought you were capable of loving anyone, you could do it. You'd find a dig or a war or a research project for a few months or years and you'd go. You'd tell him it's temporary, but you'd stay gone long enough that he can move on. You'd hope that in the process, you could move on enough that coming back to find him in love with someone else wouldn't kill you.
After all, people move on all the time.
You learned a long time ago that everybody leaves.
Even you.