Booth strode across base towards a small tent, eyes alert as he watched soldiers practice their early morning rituals. Life on base was harder than he remembered, but he had adjusted, in no small part due to the anticipations of Wednesday mornings. Mail day.
Booth strode towards the desk, where a mail clerk stood waiting. "Booth, Seeley. Anything new for me?"
"Something arrived with the shipment for you. From Maluku." The clerk stated, running to grab the unusually marked letter and examining the postage stamp once more. "Don't see that stamp every day. "
"I'm sure you don't." Booth muttered, leaning against the makeshift post office's desk. "Any more for me?"
"I'll just check." The clerk replied, placing the envelope in his hands on the desk and walking back into storage. "It might take a while, we've had a big shipment today."
Leaning across the desk to grab the letter from Maluku, Booth called his thanks to the clerk, telling him not to bother with the other letters. Angela's not so innocent asides and Cam's complaints about miscarriages of justice could wait another few hours. A letter from Bones could not.
Her letters were few and far between. They had agreed to keep contact to a minimum, but for Booth, that meant at least one letter a month. Striding to his quarters, Booth sat, tearing the envelope's seal rapidly.
Pulling the letter from the envelope, he was surprised when more than one piece of paper fell out. Reaching for the letter first, Booth put the secondary piece of paper, more worn and aged than the first, onto the bed. Unfolding the letter, Booth sat back, lips curved upwards as he began to read.
Booth,
I'm sorry I haven't written sooner; the dig is enthralling, Daisy and I have been working non-stop to ensure that everything is completed when we leave in two week's time. The anthropological discoveries we have made are beyond what I could have imagined. I hope you are still safe, every day I dread the thought of someone coming with news that you are injured or worse.
Although this dig has been fascinating, I am looking forward to returning to Washington. I have missed my home, my friends and my job. I have missed you, Booth.
Over the last few months, I have kept something upon my person that does not belong to me. I wrote it, admittedly, but I was never meant to keep it, never meant to read it again. Yet in my last few months at the Jeffersonian, it has become very important to me, and I daresay I have found it difficult to hand under.
I said I would give it to you once the trial was over. It is only now, eleven months later, that I am giving you what is rightfully yours. I know you will be upset and angry at first, and I know you will be confused.
Remember – it is more frightening to admit to the truth when you know you will have to live with the consequences Booth. Feel free to read what you like into this, because there is nothing but truth to be found here.
Before you left, you said that everything would change. I haven't changed, Booth.
Brennan.
11 November 2010
Scanning the letter once more, Booth frowned, pondering the importance of the tiny folded paper on his blanket.
Booth reached for the small scrap of paper, worn and torn from use. Unfolding it carefully, he read the typed preface slowly, a small smile coming to his lips as he read it. 'This book is dedicated to my partner and friend, Agent Seeley Booth'. He examined the paper carefully, before flipping it over, eyes widening at the pure quantity of words written on it's back. The tiny handwritten words had been squeezed onto the page, occupying every space imaginable. Squinting at the paper, he began to read, smile slipping slowly off his face.
When the human body is not provided with enough oxygen, the body will move towards an asphyxiated state. Asphyxia can cause Generalised Hypoxia, which can cause a sense of extreme euphoria along with delirium and memory loss. When you receive this letter, you will likely believe I wrote it in such a state. However, I feel the need to assure you of the opposite. Though Hodgins and myself have been trapped for the twelve-hour limit set by the Gravedigger, we have increased our oxygen supply for long enough to write these letters, and attempt escape one final time. Our attempt will either scramble our brains until the oxygen runs out, or lead us to freedom, but neither Hodgins nor myself are particularly optimistic.
Hodgins has written a letter to Angela, and suggested I write one of my own to someone that I would like to say goodbye to. I have chosen you, because I feel there are some things you deserve to know.
I am not a psychic; I have no idea when you will read this, if you will ever read this. But I know, Booth, I know that you will not stop searching for us. Whether you are finding this letter in four week's time or four years, I am glad you have found us.
Please, as a final favour to me, do not let Angela nor Zack work this case. I do not want you to work it either. Chasing after 'the grave digger' with an emotional mind will help nobody. There are other FBI agents and other forensic anthropologists. You have found us, Booth. Now take some time to mourn or pray or talk to us. I am afraid I won't be able to hear you, but if it comforts you, then you are welcome to talk to my bones.
Jasper is with me. Do you remember Jasper, Booth? I remember the rush of heat that filled me when you gave him to me. You were the one who told me there is 'a gift in the giving', and I have never believed it more than in that moment. You looked as happy as I felt, and my serotonin levels felt as if they were sky high, my heart beating frantically to keep up with my whirling thoughts. The moment slipped away fast enough, just another in the long line of happy moments in my life that involve you.
It would never have been just about satisfying biological urges with you, Booth. I have never before resisted sex, I didn't see the point; we are all humans, we all have the same urges to fulfill. But you, Booth, you changed that. You are a very attractive man, I am willing to bet on my bones that you are still very attractive, irrespective of age, yet I would not have sex with you, that first night nor any other night. Within moments of meeting you, I knew it could never be 'just sex'. There was some sort of fission between us, which left us in our own limbo, stuck between falling out and never speaking again, or falling together, towards one another.
If you had asked me to describe my feelings for you in 'layman's' terms, the word most applicable would be love. What I feel may or may not be love, but regardless, you have become very dear to me, Booth, and I am so, so sorry that I never took the opportunity to tell you this before my death.
In a few moment's time, I will climb into the backseat with Hodgins, and we will cling onto one another for our final moments. We'll both be here, in this car, but in our minds, through the imaginative stems in our brains, we'll be far, far away. Hodgins will be with Angela, on a gondola in Venice, wrapped in her arms as the sun sets above them. And I will be with you, tucked away in my office at the Jeffersonian, buried in one of your 'guy hugs' until the air runs out and my lungs cease to breathe. And I will be happy. Even before the depleted oxygen to my brain causes euphoria, I will be happy, Booth, because I will be with you.
Myself, Hodgins, the two boys in the 'spaceship'; we're all Bones now.
With all my brain,
Temperance 'Bones' Brennan
14 November 2006
He knew before the letter ended what date it had been written. The numbers were burnt onto his skull, burning him whenever he assumed Brennan would be safe and not in danger. 111406.111406.111406. The day he had almost lost hope, had almost questioned the God that was so dear to him. All because of that one, beautiful woman, trapped underground, dying what would have been a slow, merciless death.
Nothing had made him question his faith before. Not the death of Parker in Iraq, nor his father's abandonment, nor Rebecca's decision not to marry him. As a soldier and FBI agent, he had witnessed some horrific acts, yet none tore him apart quite as much as her scrape with death had. Reading her letter, the words she had written in the moments before death, it brought everything back, tore everything to the surface.
And she was right. At first, he did feel confusion, over why she had not told him, anger over why she'd denied everything that night at the Hoover building, and sadness at the time they could have spent together. The anger bubbled over once more when he realized the tiny smudge in the corner was most likely caused by a teardrop, and in that one second he was almost ready to grab his gun, trek across Europe, swim the Atlantic ocean and walk to DC, just to have the honor of shooting Heather Taffett right between the eyeballs for hurting his Bones so much.
Taking a deep breath, Booth calmed himself, closing his eyes and remembering that joyous moment on the 14th November 2006 when he'd reached into the sand and pulled out her hand, Bones' hand, still (thankfully) connected to her conscious, breathing body. Opening his eyes once more, he reread the letter, eyes widening as he read.
He continued to stare in wonder at this worn slip of paper, grin threatening to split his cheeks as he realized that this note, this profession of 'something that may or may not be love' was written almost four years ago to the day. Four years ago, Bones – his Bones – had been on the verge of death, dreaming of him. Four years went by and she said nothing of it. And for a moment, one, terrifying moment, he had wondered if she still felt the same, still held him in such high regard.
Then he remembered those four glorious words that closed her first letter, and swore, swore on his gun, on his son, on his badge and on his heart, that when he saw her, he would hold her close, maybe too close, but this time he would not let go.
I haven't changed, Booth.
Fin. I hope you liked it! First attempt at Bones, people, sorry if the characterisations were a bit off, practice makes perfect!