Summary: Booth's going a little crazy - and it's all his own making.

AN: Just a little bunny who appeared. My other bunnies seem to be MIA these days, so I really apologize.

Disclaimer: So not mine. But, a girl can dream, can't she?

That Damn Line

He was going crazy. Absolutely crazy. Nothing had changed… Nothing! Except his perception. When he'd first mentioned the "line," he had been referring to it figuratively; this imaginary wall built by him, and specifically for him, to be able to keep a professional distance from his partner. But now… now he was seeing lines everywhere. It was almost as if he'd spoken the lines into existence. And they were taunting him.

Okay, I'm sure Sweets would have a field day with that one.

It had been over a year since that awkward discussion on crossing lines. Or, more accurately, a discussion on NOT crossing lines. But, who's worried about being accurate, here. He couldn't explain why, all of a sudden, his world had shifted, and the lines were becoming glaringly obvious.

He first noticed a line between them when, ironically, standing in line for coffee. The grout between the squares of concrete on the floor created the line, and they were standing on either side of the split. He visibly straightened when he associated the grout on the floor with his imaginary line, glancing up at his partner and then back down at the line, laughing at himself. Yet, for some reason, he avoided stepping over that line when moving forward to pay for both coffees.

The second time he noticed a line between them was the day she came with him to pick up his son at the park. They'd been standing near the side of the playground. She was grinning as the wind whipped through her hair and she watched the boy slide down the red plastic tube. He'd stood next to her, and watched as his son's feet hit the gravel at the bottom of the slide. His son paused, gazing at them standing side by side, his brow furrowed. Seemingly making up his mind, his son grabbed her hand and pulled her three steps to the right, nodding as she stood where he'd placed her.

Then, his son scraped his right foot along the gravel between them, physically drawing the line, declaring that girls have cooties, and she should stay away from his father. He'd laughed at his son's antics, calmly explaining that girls did not, in fact, have cooties. But, he couldn't help notice that she looked at the line on the ground for a little longer than was necessary and didn't come back across that line after he'd shooed his son over to the swings. He got that sinking feeling in his stomach. Damn line.

The third time he noticed a line was the morning his Jeffersonian badge didn't work, and he wasn't allowed on the platform with the rest of the team. It didn't take long to sort through the administrative red-tape (the system had been reset, and his badge had not been marked as 'current'), but he still had to wait at the bottom of the stairs for a couple of hours. He had tried to shout questions to his partner, but her arched eyebrow and slight frown told him that was a bad idea. So, there he stood, at the bottom of the stairs, the handrail to the platform creating a tangible line between him and not only his partner, but his team. That imaginary, figurative line was slowly becoming real. He frowned.

The next time he noticed a line was when they were on the basketball court. He was casually twisting the ball in his hands, occasionally flipping the ball into the basket, and listening to her insult basketball players, calling them boys who never grew up. His lips twitched; her tirade was amusing. Until he noticed the line around him… he'd stayed in the paint, and she was standing outside the line at the top of the key. He was trapped by that line again, punctuated by the fact that they had differing opinions on the topic. He realized, not for the first time, that they were on opposite sides of an argument. But this time, they were also on opposite sides of that damn line. He found his temper rising, and he threw a few curt words in her direction as he dropped the basketball and stalked to the door. He didn't see her beautiful 3-pointer. He didn't turn around.

The line got longer, or wider, (or something) the two weeks she thought he was dead. She had not cried at his funeral, and he hadn't asked why. The imaginary line hung thickly between them when they were in the room together. Then the lab had blown up, and for a moment, they'd forgotten about that line. They bickered and smiled; they touched and they comforted. They'd come full circle, and were practically toe-to-toe, standing on the line. And then, it seemed, she remembered. And she stepped back from the precipice. They were on shaky ground, at best, but maintained some semblance of the partnership; that line snaking its way back between them, as definitive as before.

Last week, he realized he no longer thought the line funny; he no longer got angry at the line. The line was no longer taunting him; the line was now a constant reminder of his own inability to face his partner, and whatever it was that was between them – besides that damn line.

The car accident crime scene seemed fresh, but upon closer inspection, the victim was several months gone and there was a brick on the accelerator. He watched his partner work from across the blocked-off, two-lane road, crossing his arms and leaning against his SUV.

He pushed off of the truck slowly, his stroll from the car toward the scene reflecting his pensive state. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets, and came to an abrupt halt halfway across the road, staring at the pavement in disbelief. Another line? Seriously? He stood there, frowning at the pair of solid yellow lines in the middle of the street. Then he was glaring. He may have even told the yellow lines to "shut up."

Which may have caused a raised eyebrow from his approaching partner. "Booth, are you talking to the asphalt?"

Startled, he jumped slightly and raised his eyes to hers. "No! I…" he trailed off when he noticed that, once again, she stood opposite him – on the other side of that damn line. His eyes flickered to the lines on the road and back to hers again. This did not go unnoticed by her, and the corners of her mouth twitched slightly before reminding him that there was work to be done. Frowning at the yellow lines again, he shuffled sideways toward the scene, as if reluctant to actually cross those lines.

She had been keenly aware of the line between them since the day he'd drawn it. She'd never pushed the issue, but felt, at times, that he was slowly inching his way across the line, toward her. Then he had to go and get himself killed. Or, as it turned out, not killed, but if he wasn't worried about being accurate…

Then he scowled at lines painted on the road, and at once she realized the cause of his recent skittish behaviour. That damned line.

She grinned as she laid the envelope on his desk, hoping he understood her meaning.

Loosening his tie with his right hand, he pulled it off, balled it into his fist and threw it into the corner of his empty office. If he saw one more line… then he noticed the envelope. It was clear it was for him, though his name was not printed on the front. On the front of the envelope was a single, thick black line.

This. Is. Torture.

He sat carefully in his chair, staring at the offending envelope, hesitant to open it. Gingerly, he lifted the flap, as if he expected the contents to explode upon opening.

Inside the envelope was a page ripped from a book, folded in half. On the front of the fold, printed in clean handwriting…

Alternative definitions for "line"

(1) A defining contour

(2) The course or direction of something in motion

(3) A horizontal row of printed characters

Inside the folded page, the third definition was illustrated clearly:

For my partner and friend, Special Agent Seeley Booth.

He sighed as he leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes. He understood. That damn line was finally fading. And very soon, he wouldn't be able to see anything but her.

Please review, lovelies.