The walk to his car was not memorable, and the drive toward his apartment was done in a virtual trance. When he arrived at his apartment he simply sat in his seat, grasping the leather bound book in his hands tightly. It had never left his grasp since Brennan had handed it over to him, and he had a feeling of protection over the inanimate object, the soft leather beneath his fingertips as he sat staring at the door of his apartment.
He knew that he couldn't enter his shared apartment with that book, not merely because he wasn't one to keep secrets to those he loved, but because deep within his heart, he knew that he could trust no one with the words in the book that he had been handed, not even the woman he was sleeping with. He paused for a moment. Most definitely not the woman he was sleeping with.
With a flick of his wrist, the car was in drive once again, and he was pulling from the curb in pursuit of a more appropriate place to read through his partner's words, a more fitting place, a private place.
He considered his office, the lab, but none of those places seemed to fit in with the knowledge of what he was about to read. He drove through the city, slowly weaving through any residual traffic, though the streets were relatively empty, until he came to rest at a familiar place. By now it was nearing dawn, and it surprised him when he realized how long he had been driving around the streets of the city. He pulled into a parking space and sat for a moment, his fingers still gently kneading the leather of the book in his hands.
He exited the car and closed the door behind him, looking up at the large church before him. He knew that the words in the journal were a form of confession from his partner; they were her way of communicating when she had no longer had him to confide in. He felt a great weight of guilt in his heart as he stood staring up at the steeple of the church, listening as the morning traffic behind him began to increase slightly in volume. He walked toward the large oak doors of the church and reached out for the cold handle that needed a bit of tug before opening, the carvings in the door catching his attention as he stared at the design for a moment. There were never ending circles, weaving their way in a pattern on the door, symbolizing the unity of the church and the sanctity of its peace within. He stepped into the church and breathed in that scent of candles and incense that always seemed to make him want to sneeze for a moment, before he became used to it.
He stepped into the vestibule and walked down the aisle toward a pew that was located just three or four rows in, the silence of the church echoed a soft creak of the wooden floor, and his eyes remained on the majesty of the church, the massive ceilings, the stained glass windows, and the carefully painted mural above him. He knew that this was the perfect place to take his partner's thoughts, not because she believed in God, and not because he believed in God. It was simply because he believed that the only person that deserved to be able to look over his shoulder while he read the words in this journal, was God himself.
He situated himself in the seat, his eyes closing for a moment as he spoke a silent prayer in his mind. He took a slow, deep breath and opened his eyes, as his fingers gently pulled open the leather cover of the journal.
Written in fine print across the first page was her scrolling handwriting, perhaps the most artistic handwriting he had ever seen from his partner, and the words echoed in his mind.
All is Fair in Love and War
He wondered for a moment if she understood the meaning of those words, and reading them only made him more eager to learn of the feelings expressed within the journal.
He very slowly turned the page, his finger slipping silently beneath that first page as the sound of the paper turning echoed through the cavernous room. The first thing that he noticed on the first page was the clear, crisp writing of his partner. She wasn't one of those people who wasted any time on anything. There were no colors or drawings, only words, written in black ink in a clear and concise manner, as he could only expect from Temperance Brennan.
The journal, he quickly learned was not simply a telling of what had occurred during her days away from Washington D.C., but a journal of her dreams, random thoughts, hopes, feelings, nightmares and fears. Hidden within the pages of this bound pile of intricately written notes, was the soul of his partner, and she had entrusted it to him.
Within moments, he found himself absolutely enthralled with the storytelling before him. It wasn't written in her overly thought out doctor speak, but written by the woman herself. She wrote of her constant worry for herself, her constant worry for him, and the confusion that it caused. She wrote of her happy memories, the things that she thought about that made her smile during the long, boring days digging up nothing but dirt and rocks in this strange place. She wrote with pride of herself of how she was able to handle herself in difficult situations, and how she felt that he was to credit for giving her the confidence that she had acquired, the means to communicate better with others, and the pause that she needed to not simply see things as black and white.
She wrote of how she looked forward to seeing him again, working with him again, how she longed to hug him, to tell him that she was wrong.
She was wrong?
He continued reading, his eyes scanning each and every word as if it were the key to some larger puzzle that he was trying to solve. Each page he turned, each word he read seemed to make his heart beat at a faster pace, causing his mouth to become dry, his fingers to tremble with anticipation of the next piece of the puzzle. The next thing he noted as he read on, was that the words on the page seemed to become slightly more frantic with each passing entry. Her writing had become slanted, shaky as she described nightmares and fears, and the happy memories seemed to be fewer and farther apart, the desperation of her words appeared to increase. He noted her sadness, the concern and fear, and his heart nearly stopped when he read the last paragraph of one page.
I was wrong in not giving you a chance. I was wrong when I said that I couldn't give you what you wanted, what you needed. I was not wrong when I said that I could not change. I have not changed. I am the same woman that I have always been, the same person that you stood beside, protected, and loved. The only difference is that I found that hiding behind all of my fears, all of my worries, and all of my science, I may have very well lost the most precious thing that I had ever possessed. Your metaphorical heart. I haven't changed, Booth. I have simply grown, and done something that I have always done, learned from that experience. You have taught me so much about feeling and loving, so much about how I have always held everything at arms length. I am ready. I have always loved you, and I am willing to give you anything that you want in order to make you happy. I hope that when we meet again, I will find that you are still the man that I knew.
His breathing was erratic, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest as his fingers flipped through three more months worth of thoughts and nightmares, fears, feelings and heartfelt notes. He closed the book quickly, the resulting thwap of the pages slamming together echoed through the empty church and made him jump, as he gripped the journal tightly in his hands and closed his eyes. He was at a loss for words, at a loss of thinking for the time being, and in one moment, he was sliding from his seat and to his knees, pressing them into the soft cushion of the kneeler as he gripped the journal to his heart with both hands. He bow his head and tried to calm himself, as he closed his eyes and prayed that he would soon find a solution, and that he would have the strength to do the right thing and fix the things he had unknowingly broken and had no idea how to repair.
