Going and Gone, a bones fanfic

Disclaimer: Don't own Bones.

A/N: I've never written Bones fan fiction, but after an episode like Double Death of the Dearly Departed, how could I resist? Future!Fic, established Booth/Brennan relationship, character death. Enjoy!

A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own.

Thomas Mann

Every culture has its own rites and customs for death. Throughout the span of human history they have been observed, infallibly. They have provided comfort for those who remain; safe guards meant to grant the departed passage into the afterlife. To show respect to a life well lived.

She calls Father Anthony, makes the arrangements for internment, and contacts everyone who might want to pay their respects.

Within a day, every surface in the house is covered with vases. She has to open the windows to air out the warring aromas of so many flowers. Angela stops by the house everyday of the week with food—lasagnas and casseroles and stews, none of which Angela actually makes but Brennan understands it's the thought that counts—and offers to help. "Anything you need sweetie, I'm here."

She knows the standard procedures of grief, understands that she is not expected to function like she normally might. But the truth is she is still completely in control of her senses—not for lack of grief, no not that—so she thanks Angela and finds her a task. "Will you find a place for these flowers, I don't know what to do with them."

The FBI thanks her for his service, tells her he was an asset to their country. The Jeffersonian extends their condolences for her loss. Cam cries in front of her, "I never thought he would—"

Brennan nods, careful and calm, refrains from mentioning that they should have always known. It had never been negotiable.

He's really dead. It was one of those things he always insisted he saw to herself. So when all the other doctors have seen to it, she examines him herself. "He asked me to." She tells everyone who asks—and so many of them do, even those who knew them the best, feel the need to ask. The Jeffersonian offers grief counseling. Sweets tries to talk to her over coffee. "We all manifest grief in different ways Temperance. Your thoroughness, your professionalism, are you sure—?"

"I'm fine." Death is natural. Poets have called it the Great Equalizer. They aren't wrong. "If you'll excuse me, there are things I need to do."

Parker helps her pick the suit they'll bury him in. They go through his things with careful deliberation, decide on one of the many black suits and white shirts, decide to stay faithful to what he wore most. Parker touches her shoulder carefully, and she looks at him, sees his father more clearly now in his face, in his zygomatic bones and in his eyes. Booth was a good father, she thinks, he raised a good son. (We, he said sometimes, you were there for it too.)

"This too, Doc." Parker says, palming his father's belt buckle, thumb tracing the outline of the rooster. "Yes," she agrees with a small smile—her eyes sting but she blinks away the irritation—"yes, that too."

Hodgins calls her, "I've contracted the cater for after the service."

She feels like he's half way through a conversation she doesn't remember beginning. "Come again?"

"The service is at noon, then it's the church rectory until four, I've hired a catering service. Nothing extreme, just y'know food, and drinks, just to make sure you don't have anything to worry about."

Mentally she reviews all the things she's done. She hadn't considered catering the service. "I hadn't occurred to me to worry about it."

"Well that's what I'm here for."

"Thank you." She's been saying that a lot in the past week—Booth was always persistent about the formalities of loss—but she doesn't mean the words any less.

"Temperance," Jack starts, before he pauses, electricity whirs in her ear while she waits for him to talk. It always odd, hearing her first name. "I'm sorry he's gone."

It's only been a week and there is still so much to do. She needs to talk to Father Anthony about his sermon, deal with Booths things—she still has to decide what she'll do with them, knows charity is the most reasonable option (she'll call Parker, offer him whatever he might want). She nods, rubs her hand across her face before she remembers Hodgins can't see her.

"Me too."

Father Anthony reads Psalm 23:4. It's appropriate.

Booth knew a lot of people. A lot of people knew of him. They all rush at her, give hugs and handshakes, tell her with watery smiles what a wonderful man he was. A good man. A brave man. She knows all this.

Afterwards, there are toasts and stories. The more alcohol flows the less people cry, the more laughter spreads throughout the room as the stories becomes less reverent of him and take on a more comical tone, even when its at his expense.

In her eulogy speech, she keeps her composure and tells the truth. "Booth could be irrational sometimes. He was always too quick to jump at conclusions even when the evidence was insufficient. But he had good instincts and an understanding about how people function, about the things they want and aspire for. He was a good man and a good father and a good partner," she looks down into her glass, watches the vibrations of the amber surface as her hands shake, "To say that we'll miss him, wouldn't be enough."

They bury him on Sunday. It is the culmination of all the work she has done, the final act in the series of rituals that must be observed when someone dies.

The sky is bright blue and the sun is warm. It prickles the back of her neck. She watches the officers carefully fold the flag atop his coffin, flinches at the first shot of the six gun salute even though she knows its coming. Father Anthony blesses the ground and tells them to go in the name of God. She's glad then, that Booth had his faith, this series of dogmatic ritual that allows them to believe he's in a better place. She even if she does not believe it like he did, she wants that for him.

They all offer to stay with her afterwards. She declines. They leave and she goes upstairs, begins the task of clearing his things. It takes longer than she thought it would, deciding whether she would touch more than his clothes. In the end she leaves his books on the bookshelves, his cologne on the dresser.

It doesn't take long to pack away his clothes (his leather jacket, Parker took despite the fact that it is too big in the shoulders. Parker lacks his father's width). She eyes his ties, hanging along the mirror of her vanity, takes in the bright colors and irregular patterns, gives them all the attention she never wanted to grant them when he wore them. Those stay too.

She leaves the boxes in the hallway, knows that tomorrow morning Salvation Army will come by and that will be that. She gets ready for bed, follows the same routine they developed in their time together but its quiet without him to fill up the silence.

She lies awake in their bed (the sheets are clean and smell of their laundry detergent, Booth was always partial to the kind with the bear). It feels colder, bigger—his side of the bed looks endless, stretching out into the dark edges of the room—she feels like she could get lost. She knows none of that is true, knows that the bed's measurements have not changed, that Booth's absence has not drastically altered the temperature of the room. But the facts don't make it feel any less true. She wonders when she became so illogical.

She keeps her word.

She goes to his grave like she said she would and talks. She feels awkward and foolish, because he's not really here. "You asked me to do this, so I here I am. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. To think that you can hear me now, would imply that you can hear anywhere, since you're no longer attached to any physical form…but you asked me to come here. So." Her heels dig into the grass as she shifts, her hands curl inside her coat pockets. "I don't know…Parker's okay. He's been very…helpful. He's, you did a very good job Booth. You were a very good father."

There's no response.

"I always believed that bones could reveal everything that mattered—I still do—but now, now, I can't help but think about all the things I'll never know about those people, the ones I've excavated—"the grass is springy under foot. "There are things no one could learn from your bones, Booth. They wouldn't know that you—they wouldn't know you." Her throat closes, her nose floods, her chest aches.

"I hope you are in Heaven, even if it means I'm wrong about this whole God thing. Though I still think popular media's interpretation of a heavenly dimension leaves a lot to be desired, I hope its what you expected." She doesn't say anything after that, just stands there, with him. She always loved this, how comfortable their silences could be. It's comforting somehow, how that hasn't changed.

She goes back to their house and the boxes are gone. She's done everything required of her. There are three blinking new messages on her phone but she doesn't return any of them. Instead she turns it off.

She goes to the bed that doesn't smell like him and lies down, stares at her vanity and the wide tongues of fabric that lay across the glass. His favorite went with him but now she wishes she'd have kept it, held on to it just so she could say she had (she can remember how slippery it was in her fingers, can remember tugging on it to get his attention, straightening it in the morning or when she was nervous). It's unproductive, but there's nothing else for her to do.

She hugs his pillow to her chest and stays very still, lets herself pretend, for a moment, that she's just waiting, that he'll come back.

End