How many rules must I break?

How many lies can I make?

How many roads must I turn

to find me a place where the bridge hasn't burned.

What Can I Say, Brandi Carlile

It takes more than three months. Booth is separated from the woman he loves, from his child, for over three months before they find the evidence they need to clear her name. Good ultimately triumphs over evil, and that is the end. Brennan and Booth are reunited (and reinstated) and that is the end. Because haven't they done this a thousand times before? Except it isn't.

He watches her bitterness grow and he can't blame her for resenting the time that was stolen from them. Resenting the fact that they could have caught Pelant sooner if she hadn't been forced to put all her efforts into getting out of the city and proving she hadn't committed senseless, coldblooded murder.

One day he finds her in the baby's room, viciously attacking the walls. Curls of paint and drywall lie at her feet.

"We can paint over it, Bones," he says softly.

She doesn't even look at him. She grits her teeth and continues stripping the wall bare. "I don't want to 'paint over it,' Booth. We are starting over."

The inclusive pronoun choice would have comforted him once. Today he feels just as lost as he had when he walked in. But he leaves the room to retrieve another scraper and then he comes back to help her without another word.

"I was having second thoughts about our colour choice anyway," she says, in what he assumes she probably believes to be a casual tone.

It's a lie. The paint colour had been chosen with as much care as everything else in the room. Perfect. That had been the word she had used when they had finally placed the last piece of furniture in its exact right spot. It's perfect, Booth. She uses the word sparingly and the fact that he had heard it from her in regards to their house not once but twice in just a matter of weeks, it had floored him in the best way.

But he notes the stubborn clench of her jaw as she keeps her eyes on the wall and silently dares him to question her words, and he lets it go.

"Sure, Bones."

It doesn't get better.

The distance between them grows, the bitterness grows, and there is quiet – so much quiet – as they tiptoe around one another. But everything must change and nothing is static and when Booth comes home one day and finds Brennan waiting for him at the island, a glass of wine in front of her and a tumbler full of scotch already poured for him, the air rushes out of his lungs. He's seen the look on her face more times than he can count (outside a pool hall, outside the bar), and he hasn't always recognised it in time in the past, but the last time (outside of a church, not-quite-four-months-ago) is so deeply imprinted, he's sure he will never miss it again.

"I have something I would like to discuss with you."

"Discuss?" he's undeniably wary as he edges into the room. And though he sits on the barstool across from her, he doesn't even move to take off his suit jacket. "As in, you have a proposal, and we're going to talk about it, or more as in you've decided to do something, and you're going to tell me about it?"

It stings. She pulls her sweater tighter around her as she shivers and wonders why she can't remember their house always being so very cold. "That's not fair."

Booth plays with the glass, but he doesn't drink from it. "What is it?"

Her mouth is strangely dry, but she swallows and rips off the Band-Aid. Because she is not strong enough to handle a more delicate approach. He's sitting in front of her and he's waiting for an answer, and she just wants the words out.

"There's a dig... it's in Italy. I want to go."

She watches his face change and immediately concludes that she should have tried for delicate. Or at least, detailed. Because he doesn't understand. He's beginning to panic and he doesn't understand what she's asking.

"Bones, this is crazy."

"It's not crazy."

"You can't seriously be considering..." he runs a hand through his hair and stands, abandoning his untouched drink in favour of pacing the length of the island. "If you need time, you can take some time. Time here. You don't have to go to Europe for time, Bones."

They have a track record; these things almost always end badly and Brennan can't fault his increasing agitation. She steps forward and cups his face in her hands.

"Come with me." She leans in and whispers the words so close he can feel the vibrations against his lips. When she feels a protest building, she closes the quarter inch gap between their mouths and delivers a lingering feather-light kiss. "Don't think about it. Just say yes."

Don't think. Brain in neutral. Heart in overdrive.

To both of them, his typical urgings seem strange coming out of her mouth.

"How long?" he asks.

She closes her eyes in relief and tucks her head into his shoulder. "Five months," she promises, stroking the ends of his hair as she feels him stiffen. "Five months and then we'll come back to D.C."

She is careful not to say 'home'. At the moment, this city doesn't feel any more like home than all the cities she had lived in before it following the disintegration of her biological family.

"I don't know."

'I don't know' generally preceded 'yes,' and though she tries to quell the instant swell of hope in her chest, she can't stop her stomach from fluttering with nervous anticipation. Either way, Brennan knows that in about twenty seconds Booth will make up his mind for good, and she will have little chance swaying him again after that point. She pushes on.

"The scenery is beautiful; Christine will love it. And you will too, Booth."

"That's a long time to walk away from our lives."

"We can fly Parker out to see us every other weekend."

"He has school, Bones, we can't just-

"Once a month, then. Until his summer break begins."

"This is crazy," he repeats.

For a moment, Brennan's anger bubbles to the surface and overrides the emotions so desperately pushing her to get them to leave together. "The FBI betrayed you. And me. The entire justice system failed us just like it did when we were children and I want no part in it. It's your job, Booth. It was never mine. I love you but I won't work with them or provide assistance in any way, ever again."

He kisses her and when his hands begin to tangle in her hair, for a split second, her heart soars. But it takes him far too long to open his eyes, and she knows what his answer will be before he gives it.

"No."

"Why?" she argues. Her voice rises a little bit. Because she's hoping that his voice will rise as well, and she will have something to focus on beyond this terrible weight that is crushing her. "I want you to come with me. Come with me."

"I don't want to go to Italy. I want this life back, Bones. Here."

"Please?"

It's barely a whisper, and though she hears the desperation, she's far gone enough not to care.

"Crossing an ocean isn't going to fix this."

He doesn't specify what 'this' is, and it feels like some sort of figurative miracle that the house has yet to collapse in on itself under the weight of everything they haven't said since she came back.

Brennan's gaze is very fixedly focused on the floor when she gives a curt nod and returns to her side of the island.

She won't go without him (she's certain of this, and it's a new feeling, to know she has no desire to leave even though she is miserable every day she stays), but judging from the glances he continues to send her way as they sit in silence, he doesn't know this the way that she does. The way that he should.

It's not a baseless reaction for him to have. But again, it stings.

Less than a week passes before they get their first case and Booth – Brennan's declarations of never still fresh in his mind – is prepared to wage war with her once he hangs up the phone. But she surprises him again and gets in the car without a word. He can tell by the resolute squaring of her jaw that she's less than happy, but she gets in the car.

He's relieved. It had taken her over a year to – unwillingly – work with him again after declaring that she never would. He hadn't wanted to think about how long it could have potentially taken her to give in on this.

But the victory is short lived.

She's cool and professional and it ends up being a fairly open-and-shut case, and after it, they change.

It starts with him; they've been operating in silence for so long and he's desperate to find some small piece of what they had before, and he starts being nice. Unnaturally nice. Forcefully nice. Even when (especially when) he thinks he might like to throttle her instead. And it doesn't take too long before she's being nice, too.

It's her that figures out the sex part of the equation. That their bodies know what to do, how to respond to one another, when they do not. That fucking takes nothing out of them at all, mentally, compared to trying to have a conversation about something outside of work or Christine. So they have sex. A lot of sex. And when even that starts to become a little awkward, they get a little bit rougher, a little bit more persistent, and they push through it just like they've been pushing through everything else. By the time they reach the brink of orgasm, they're always on the same page; their pleas and their names and their declarations of love fall forth in a rush that's honest in a way nothing else is, now, and as they come down from their highs, chests heaving, there's the absent thought that maybe, this time, something will just change back. Like flipping a switch.

But it doesn't.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow."

"I was going to try to get some stuff done early too; want me to drive you?"

"That would be acceptable. Yes. Thank you."

"5:30 alarm?"

"That should be sufficient."

They don't bother saying goodnight anymore. The lights are already turned off (it's him that figures out easy sex is even easier when they can't see each other), and they find the blankets, turn their backs, face their walls, and prepare to begin again in less than six hours.

And it works, for a while. But by the time the next case comes, the smooth casings of polite and nice are beginning to crack.


Brennan woke first. It usually took her a day or two to adjust back to sleeping more than a handful of hours at a time, after spending days working around the clock. But one of the benefits of this - a benefit she had come to enjoy very much - was the chance it gave her to watch Booth being... still.

Some days.

On this morning in particular, she was feeling well rested and content and subject to a little frivolity.

"Booth."

Her voice was low and patient. The first time. The second time went differently.

"Booth!"

"What?" Booth snapped, pulling his pillow over his face. "God, you can be so annoying."

"The current temperature is quite cold. The reading on my phone says 15 degrees."

"Fascinating."

"Let's go outside."

"What? Are you crazy... what time is it?" He finally yanked the pillow away and flipped over in less than his usual coordinated fashion to squint at the alarm clock. "Bones, it is four o'clock in the morning."

His tone had become quite calm, but she knew better than to take that as an indication he was feeling anything of the sort. "I would like to go outside. Please."

"Then go outside," he grumbled petulantly, placing the pillow back beneath his head and closing his eyes. "Seriously. Go."

Instead, she burrowed closer into his side and pulled the comforter over their heads. "Booth."

He opened his eyes and released an exasperated laugh. "What are you doing?"

"You become uncomfortably warm rather quickly like this. I'm hoping it makes you more amenable to a change in location."

By now, Booth was considerably more alert as well as considerably more resigned to the fact that he wasn't going back to bed. "What's outside, Bones?"

She shrugged. "Last year you said you wanted to make a skating rink for Christine. It's finally cold enough. I would like to watch."

He groaned and tried to ignore her earnest expression. "It's mid-November. The weather is all over the place right now... It could be forty degrees next week."

"I know," she shrugged again. "I just thought it would be nice to at least start. The supplies have been stored in the garage since last winter."

"Christine will freak out if she wakes up and we're both gone."

She gave him the mostly blank, slightly incredulous stare she reserved for particularly obtuse lapses in intellect. "I'm going to leave the door open enough to hear her when she inevitably begins to yell for us. Her voice carries, Booth."

"I wonder where she gets that."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Alright, Bones, you win; let's go build a rink. It's a damn good thing you're good looking."

"I'm quite beautiful by societal standards."

"By every standard, Bones. You're beautiful by every standard."


It didn't take long to lay out the plastic sheeting, and he made short work of assembling the curb-heighted border as well, but the temperature continued to drop and by the time Brennan was helping him untangle the garden hose, Booth was fucking freezing.

"Maybe we could save the flooding for tomorrow?"

"What? Why?" Brennan looked up from the knot in her hands and pushed her hat off her eyes. "We're almost done."

It was the hats. It was always the hats. They made her look… soft. And they stayed on her head even when by all appearances it seemed to him that they should fall right off. But Booth still made the half-hearted effort to sway her.

"It's going to take a while."

"I was going to stay home with Christine today; I can keep an eye on it if that's what concerns you."

"Speaking of Christine, I told her we'd go out for breakfast."

"That sounds appealing."

"Assuming we don't freeze to death before she wakes up."

Before Brennan could respond, the back door slid in its track and they both turned toward the noise.

"What are you doing?" Christine asked sleepily. She managed to take one half step outside before both parents reprimanded her simultaneously.

"Shoes!"

Christine took a hurried step back and shut the door. Though she looked less than pleased about it.

Booth rolled his eyes and tossed the untangled hose onto the plastic sheeting. "I don't understand how she can be so loud one moment and a damn ninja the next."

Brennan shook her head and then waved to the little girl tapping impatiently on the glass. "She's going to love this."

"Uh huh. And she's going to expect you to come out with her every day."

By the way she paused, Booth could see that this particular probability hadn't crossed her mind.

"What about you?"

"I already know how to skate. She can smell your fear."

"I can skate."

"Meh." His right hand tilted in a gesture that indicated so-so at best.

"I can skate, Booth."

"Uh huh."

Brennan slid the door open and caught Christine with practiced ease as she stepped over the threshold. "Good morning."

Christine laid her head flat on Brennan's shoulder. "Hi."

"Did you sleep well?"

She nodded. "Breakfast?"

"You sure you don't want to go back to bed?" Booth teased. Christine's grip tightened on Brennan's jacket and she eyed him mutinously. "Relax, kiddo. It was a joke. Yes; breakfast."

"Good. I'm not tired."

"Maybe not, but up this early? You're gonna be out by 3:00."

"No."

"We'll see," he winked at Brennan. "I'm going to call later."

Christine frowned as she processed this, and then her eyes lit up. She raised her head from Brennan's shoulder so that she could look her mother in the eye. "We're staying home today?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes, we are." Brennan laughed. While her work was rewarding, the coming home part – this coming home part – was nice too. "I missed you very much."

It was easier to leave her child now than it had been that first year, but it still wasn't easy. And sometimes she didn't even realise the truth of this until she was already back.

"I'm sorry for the closet."

It was Brennan's turn to frown. "Closet? What closet?"

"Oops," Christine whispered.

She turned to Booth for an explanation and noted his discomfort. "What is it?"

"We can talk about it at breakfast," Booth intervened, giving Christine a pointed look and lifting her out of Brennan's arms. "Thanks a lot, kid."

"Sorry."

"Brush your teeth and get dressed."

He set her on the ground and she sprinted eagerly toward the stairs, turning back on the second step and grinning in Brennan's direction. "I missed you too."

Once she disappeared from sight, Brennan turned to Booth, eyebrows raised. "Are you going to tell me, or should I wait for you to go to work and then ask Christine?"

He sighed and walked toward the closet without a word, leaving Brennan to follow. Then he pulled the door open and, with her leaning over his shoulder, pushed aside the coats strung along the rod.

And Brennan began to laugh. "She is... very strong."

"You're telling me."

"I believe that this puts me two points ahead of you."

"Wait a minute, Bones, that's not fair; you go away more often than I do."

"So?"

"So that's probability; plain and simple. Not to mention the fact that I can fix this in a half hour... it took months for her hair to grow back after Michael-Vincent cut it."

"Angela was watching them when that happened! Not me!"

"Well, I was out of town and it counts. You don't get points for this."

"There's a sizeable hole in the wall, Booth. I get a point." She paused for a moment and then one half of her mouth quirked upward.

"What?"

"I am wondering what the volume of points in general says about us as parents."

Christine's footsteps approached the stairs and Booth shrugged before handing Brennan the child-sized winter coat and the purple hat that went with it. "She's perfectly well behaved in the public eye; that's about all we can ask for."


The diner was all but empty – not surprising, considering it wasn't yet seven – and Brennan was content to drink her coffee and absorb her daughter's nonstop chatter as she acclimated herself to being back home. Christine closed her mouth just long enough to chew her food and swallow before picking up her story exactly where she had left off; Brennan caught Booth's eye across the table and they shared a smile.

And she tried to relax. It was decidedly unpleasant, the sensation that she had missed something back in Washington. But it was still there in the back of her mind, making it even more difficult for her to adjust to the everyday pace of her life in D.C.

Booth sipped his coffee and then pushed his plate a few inches in Brennan's direction. "Eggs?"

Brennan grimaced and shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"You can share my oatmeal," Christine offered.

"That's very kind of you, but I'm fine. Enjoy your food."

Booth's phone rang and both females watched him expectantly. Brennan reached for Christine's coat and began wrestling her into it out of habit, before Christine's protests reminded her that she wasn't expected back for another two days, and it was possible that the call didn't concern her.

Caroline's voice, displeased, by the sound of it – though with Caroline it was often difficult to tell one way or the other – was audible to Brennan, but she couldn't make out the specific words until Booth managed to push the prosecutor beyond her (limited) tolerance for questions.

"What part of 'as soon as possible' do you not understand, Agent Booth?"

"Okay!" Booth stood up and threw on his coat. Turning his attention to his breakfast companions, he muffled the phone into his shoulder. "I'll see you two later, alright? Have fun."

"Bye, Booth."

"Bye daddy."

He winked, and they watched him head toward the door. Christine kneeled on her chair to better look out the window, and sure enough, Booth turned just before stepping off the curb to wave at her one last time. Satisfied, she sat back on her bottom and guided her spoon through her oatmeal.

"Would you like to go to the library?" Brennan suggested.

Christine nodded enthusiastically. "Can we get hot chocolate?"

Brennan hesitated as she mentally weighed the odds of her daughter spilling her drink all over a book. Or an entire shelf of books.

"Afterward," she eventually answered. Because Christine had a knack for creating her own trouble even without the added arsenal of a hot beverage.

Christine contently leaned into her mother's side and then held a spoonful of oatmeal awkwardly above her head. And this time, Brennan opened her mouth and leaned down to accept the offering.


"You're gonna wanna sit down for this, chère."

Booth didn't sit, and Caroline didn't ask again.

"What happened?"

The prosecutor pursed her lips while she measured her words. "Christopher Pelant was flagged not too long ago by an ATM camera about a mile from here. Knowing what we do about him, I'm going to go ahead and assume it was an intentional slip up on his part."

For several seconds there was silence. And when Booth found his voice, the response stemmed more from a need to say something while he weighed this new knowledge than anything else.

"What?"

"Our prodigal narcissistic sociopath has returned, and I wanted to look you in the eye when I told you the news so I could be certain your pretty face isn't lying to me when I ask you not to go doing anything rash."

His hand was already unconsciously drifting toward his service weapon. "Why? Why now?"

Caroline glanced at the hand currently hovering still and uncertain above his gun, and then she looked pointedly back at his face, eyebrows raised. "You have yet to tell me you're not going to run off and do something rash."

It was hot in his office. Too hot. Stifling. There was rage slow-burning inside him, hijacking his ability to think, to speak... driving the temperature through the roof. And under the rage something... else. Fear. Fear as his brain instinctively concluded that he had had so much to lose the last time and all the more to lose this time, and he was going to kill that fucker.

"Nothing rash," he muttered absently.

"Mm hmm. I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you that you damn near threw your career out the window the last time you had this particular wild look in your eye concerning Pelant."

Booth's hand found his poker chip and moved it furiously through his fingers. "Nothing rash. I said nothing rash, Caroline."

"I know you didn't just lie to my face, Seeley Booth."

Booth couldn't even hear her anymore. The buzzing in his ears seemed to be increasing alongside the temperature.

Caroline's face softened. "Look, chère, your crack team of scientists may be batty, but they're also brilliant. Pelant has made mistakes before and you can bet he'll make them again."

"Before or after he goes after my partner and forces her to take off with our kid again?" Booth snapped. "You remember what he did to Hodgins and Angela. I shot him, Caroline. He isn't likely to let that go."

"That part of the equation is between you and Dr. Brennan," Caroline stated definitively. "But I'd like to believe the two of you learned from that experience. Specifically, learned that running from the law is a terrible idea that causes all sorts of headaches for everyone involved. Especially federal prosecutors."

Booth walked around his desk and sat heavily in his chair.

"Thanks for letting me know," he said absently.

She nodded. "They're still pulling footage from the camera. When they've got a tape ready, you'll be the first to hear about it."

Booth nodded automatically and barely registered the sound of his door closing behind her. And then, lacking other immediate tasks and quite certain he wasn't in the mindset to even pretend to go through paperwork, he did a quick database search and made the promised call to the fire chief on Brennan's behalf.

He told himself his reasons for not calling his partner were valid.

Phones were never a good idea when Pelant was involved.

He didn't have the tape yet.

She was bonding with their daughter after being gone for nearly a week.

But a few hours later, he found himself putting on his coat and leaving the office.


The front door opened and closed so softly she almost didn't hear it at all. Before she could get out of her office chair, however, Booth appeared in her doorway.

She startled, but any irritation she would have ordinarily experienced was extinguished by his solemn expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Christine asleep?"

"Yes. Just as you predicted she would be. Probably for no longer than another twenty minutes, I would estimate... half an hour at most. But why-

The kiss was hard. Aggressive. She made a brief protest against his mouth and then she was backed up against the bookshelf and her bra was somewhere on the floor across the room. They hadn't had a chance to have sex since she had come back; last night she had been far too tired for the thought to even cross her mind, and then this morning they had gone straight from building the rink to visiting the diner. And though there were parts of Brennan still questioning the cause of this sudden urgency, her body recognised Booth. Recognised how long it had been since it had found completion with Booth. And a far more primal instinct took control, banishing all thoughts of what and why to a distant second.

Fuelled by the knowledge that their daughter could awaken at any moment, Brennan pushed off the bookshelf and marched him backward toward the couch in the corner. They fell heavily onto the cushions and Booth grunted as Brennan's elbow caught him in the stomach. He tugged on her leggings and nipped at her collar in satisfaction when the material gave easily.

"You should wear these all the time," he muttered before reattaching his lips to hers.

She laughed against his mouth. "We've discussed this before, Booth. They're hardly professional work attire."

"Like anyone would stop you."

"You are very adept at removing my clothes. The seconds saved by a lack of buttons and zippers are hardly enough to significantly impact the process."

They were comfortable. Just as they had been so many times before. Just as they had been the last time. His thoughts fell to Hodgins and Angela, drugged, while Michael-Vincent was left at the mercy of Pelant. To Caroline's musings that Pelant always managed to outdo his previous attacks. And he shuddered at the thought of what he might have in store for their family considering that Booth had shot him.

With new determination, Booth pushed her long shirt up toward her shoulders, exposing her bare chest.

"Off."

"Booth. What's wrong."

She was more insistent this time, and there was a pause.

Years one and two had been about building trust. About letting someone else in despite being so accustomed to doing things alone. Years three to five had been about family. About accepting that you do things for the people you love the most, even when it's painful. Year six had been a lesson in patience. Gratitude. Regret. In not taking the constants for granted because one never knew when they wouldn't be constant any longer. Year seven; adaptation. Acknowledging the permanence of change. Year eight enforced the importance of forgiveness. Nine, compromise. And in ten and eleven, the slow realisation that equality sometimes meant putting the difficult things on the table in a timely fashion. Because an attempt at sparing feelings or protecting the other person could too often – after the fact – be read as a betrayal.

"Pelant's back," Booth said lowly, eyes still closed, fingers still tucked beneath the edge of her underwear.

Her eyes focused on his, bright and sharp and lacking all trace of the disoriented lust from seconds earlier.

She stiffened. It had been so long since she had heard that name, and yet, a handful of syllables from Booth and she was right back where she had been when she had left him outside the church. When everything between them had been wrong for months. When Agent Flynn had taken so many bullets and it could have so easily been Booth.

Whatever's next, we'll handle it. We always do.

She tried to find that sense of calm, but the thought of over three years of not knowing, the thought of what a mind like Pelant's could create in that time, left her feeling cold.

"I stand by what I said the last time," she said carefully. She shifted her weight to her knees and rested her hands comfortably atop the hard plane of his stomach. "It's your decision, Booth. What do we do?"

Booth's gaze hardened. "We do what we do best."

His index finger slowly sank into her, and she gasped.

"Find him?" she breathed.

"Find him," Booth agreed. "The Brain Trust can find him. And then I kill him."

The words were casual. Matter of fact. But the implication in finding him and killing him and what we do best didn't sit right with her. Because while she knew the kind of person he was, there were times when he didn't. And the most casual phrases were often more than they were.

"Killing is not what you do best," she said, fighting to still the movement of her hips.

A second finger joined the first and she instinctively rolled into him.

"This ends here. I'm not doing his little dance and then giving him another three years to recalculate."

"It's your decision," Brennan repeated, leaning down to ghost her lips over his. "But do not give him the power to influence who you are. You still believe in the system, Booth."

"No more talking," he mumbled, closing his eyes as her sure hands worked the clasp of his belt buckle.

"No more talking," Brennan agreed.


Parker liked science. He liked how very easy science could be when your dad's girlfriend was a genius who could talk about anything and everything concerning science for as long as you let her. And as he doodled in the margins of his notebook, pausing every so often to jot down actual information, his mind drifted between the lesson and the snow coming down outside the large side window.

Until the gentle lilt of his teacher's voice was interrupted by the shrill ring of a cell phone.

Parker sat up straight along with the rest of his classmates, smirking as he turned in his seat to catch sight of the student inevitably scrambling for their phone.

Except, the classmate seated behind him was giving him the same look.

To his right, Julia Gray giggled and at the front of the class, his science teacher cleared his throat. Parker felt his face flush as he fumbled through the top pocket of his backpack for what was apparently his disruptive phone.

"Seriously, Parker?"

His face grew more heated. "I swear I had it on silent. That's not even my ringtone..."

"You know the rules. On my desk; you can come back for it at the end of the day."

Parker sighed. When he unlocked the phone to silence it, a picture of a locker filled his screen and his irritation tripled. He was certain that he had never, at any point, ever, programmed his phone to shriek obnoxiously over an incoming photo. Which led him to believe that his sister had probably fiddled with the settings while he had been at his dad's house over the weekend.

"Today, Booth."

With another sigh, Parker trudged up the aisle and placed his phone at the centre of the desk.

The lesson resumed once he returned to his seat, and the redness was just beginning to fade from his cheeks when the phone went off for the second time. Parker resisted the urge to put his head on his desk and wait for the ground to swallow him.

By the fourth time it went off, he had sailed beyond embarrassment and was fantasising about locking his sister in a closet the next time he saw her.

Thankfully, the bell rang soon after that.

He took his time gathering his things, enduring the teasing of a few friends with good natured eye rolling, and made his way to the front of the room once it had emptied.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Hamilton."

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Lady Gaga fan," the teacher responded dryly.

Parker shoved back unruly locks of blond hair. "I'm not. It's my sister. She's only four... I thought I turned it off after the first time..."

As if on cue, the phone began to ring once again and they both turned to it.

The man deliberated for a moment, then tossed the phone in Parker's direction. "Don't let it happen again."

"No, sir." Parker beamed his father's smile as he caught the cell with ease. "Thank you."

He hurried out of the room before a change of mind could occur, and found one of his friends waiting for him in the hall.

"He gave it back?" Kyle questioned incredulously.

Parker paused just before making his reply as he browsed through the messages. Six photos. Six photos of the same locker, all coming from a number he didn't recognise.

"I don't get it," he mused aloud.

Kyle peeked at the screen. "That's pretty random," he agreed.

"These numbers... they're the lockers by the gym, right?"

"Closer to shop class, I think, but yeah."

Parker turned into the nearest stairwell and jogged down to the first floor, and together, the boys travelled the short distance to the small group of lockers located just around the corner from the change rooms. He checked the photo once again and when he located the appropriate locker – combination lock free – he gave a curious tug.

Then he took a horrified step back.

"Holy shit." Kyle took a step closer. "What do you think it's made out of?"

Parker swallowed. "It's not made out of anything. That," he pointed to the headless, decomposing body, "is real."

"What?" Kyle laughed. "Of course it's not real."

He reached to touch it and Parker grabbed his arm. "My stepmom literally works with dead bodies for a living. I'm telling you, it's real."

His friend eyed him dubiously, waiting for a punch line that wasn't coming. When the truth sunk in, he backed away and repeated his first phrase... terror replacing his previous admiration.

"Holy shit."

Parker slammed the door shut and forced a few deep breaths while his heart pounded in his chest. "I think," he began in a – relatively – calm tone of voice that shook only slightly, "I think I need to call my dad."


Booth lay on the floor beside the couch, pants pulled up (but undone), and shirt missing in action. He looked up at the sound of Brennan's laugh and twisted his neck to get as good a look at her as he could manage without actually getting up.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, especially. I find that, despite having adequate time to recover, I am reluctant to move from this spot."

"You're telling me."

He had – very chivalrously – rolled off the couch to retrieve her clothes, and somehow never made it back. The bra and shirt he had picked up off the floor dangled over the edge of the couch, and she lounged on her back in a position similar to his.

She turned her head and peeked down at him. "When do you think you will receive the video footage? Angela should examine it."

Booth shrugged. "Soon, I would think." He glanced at his watch. "We should get up. Christine could walk in here any minute."

Brennan hummed affirmatively, but made no move to follow through.

"Seriously, Bones."

"I heard you, Booth."

His phone chirped, and Brennan was finally forced to move so that she could dig it out from between the cushions.

He thanked her automatically before answering. "Booth."

"Hey, Booth." Cam's voice floated into his ear. "I'm going to need you to come over to the lab."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Well..."

He waited.

"...there's a human head sitting in about a thousand pieces on my table, and I sure as hell am not the person who left it here."

He sat up. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Seeley." She sounded annoyed now more than anything else. "I've asked every employee and every intern that's been in here since I left last night. No one knows anything about it."

"Alright. Got it. We'll be right there."

He hung up the phone and noted Brennan, fully dressed, standing by the door.

"You heard?"

"Enough," she nodded. "I'll call my dad to stay with Christine."

The phone chirped again and Booth sighed as he answered. "Hey, Parker. Can I call you back in a little while? I'm..." he frowned, "... shouldn't you be in school right now?"

"I'm at school, dad."

Booth tugged his shirt over his head. "What's wrong?"

There was dead air between them for a moment, and then Parker spoke.

"I think you should come here. And maybe bring... whoever's pretending to do Bones' job while she's gone, with you."


Booth pushed through the crowd that had formed near the lockers and exhaled in relief when he spotted the tall figure of his son.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded.

"No." Parker ducked away from his touch and glanced around to see if any of his peers had witnessed the near-contact.

Booth felt another stab of relief. If his son was feeling normal enough to want distance between them while in public view of others his age, he probably wasn't in need of a therapist. Yet.

"What happened."

"My phone rang in class..." his voice trailed off as he remembered exactly whose fault that had been. "... Christine changed all the settings. My teacher took it from me."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Focus, Parker."

"Right." He slid a thumb across his phone and flashed the screen at his father. "It was a picture of this locker. Over and over. I came to see what the deal was with it and..."

He gestured to the open door and Booth took his first good look at the body. The headless body. And his stomach sank.

"Give me your phone, Parks."

"But-

"Seriously? I am not having this discussion with you. It's evidence; hand it over."

Appropriately chagrined, Parker did as instructed.

Booth dropped it in a small plastic bag and handed it off to a tech before withdrawing his index cards and calling for his partner's attention.

"Bones?"

"The victim is female. Late twenties." A worried crease appeared in Brennan's brow. "The head is missing."

They exchanged a look confirming that they were on the same page.

True coincidences were rarities.

Brennan cleared her throat and broke eye contact first, choosing to stare at Parker instead and force a smile.

"Hello, Parker."

"Hey, Bones. Welcome home."


A/N: In today's episode of Sunsetdreamer Is Doing Whatever She Wants This Fic, Parker is a) not in England, because I can't even get into my sentiments on that, and b) calling Brennan 'Bones,' like he had been doing since he was four years old until it was decided that after seven-ish years, Temperance was going to be a thing. I am going rogue all up in here.