As promised, here are the final chaps from Letters From Home - see, I really can make deadlines! Well, sometimes... Thanks for the kind words, and if you haven't checked out my website or aren't following my blog, I hope you'll take the time to wander my way. www dot doggedwriter dot com... The more followers I have, the more likely that I'll get a publishing contract; and if I have a publishing contract, I can quit some of those pesky day jobs and just focus on the writing. And, um, the fanfic. See? We all win! Anyway, I'm totally done pimping myself - that's my pitch. Hope you enjoy the story, it truly was great fun to write.
When Booth was out of sight, Brennan returned to her tent. She was at a loss as to what to do next. There was work, of course – most of the team was out on the north shore, and she should by all rights be with them. She sat on the edge of her cot. Absently fingered the pendants around her neck – both of them, though Booth made fun of her again this morning.
You're gonna start a new fashion trend, Bones. I'll have to tell Parks to start making them for everybody.
She smiled.
I love you, Bones.
"I love you, too," she whispered again, as though she were telling a secret. She'd said it twice now. Never to him, of course, but it still counted, didn't it? She didn't know if she could say it to him yet, not to his face, but… She'd said it.
When she unpacked her things, she realized that they must have inadvertently put Booth's jacket in his rucksack instead of hers. She knew they hadn't left it at the house, because they had both searched the place thoroughly to make sure they left nothing behind. Changed the sheets. Washed the counters. Removed all traces of their night together.
As though it had never happened.
Her body bore the evidence, however. He'd marked her neck, her breasts, her thighs. She was sore – Booth was not a small man in any way, as it happened.
She had an idle thought that perhaps she might write. Not much, but she hadn't worked on her latest novel since reaching the islands. Brennan got out her laptop. Turned it on. Stared at it for several moments, thinking of her last scene with Andy and Kathy.
She shut the laptop and left it abandoned on her cot. After a moment's thought, she began searching through her things – in her clothes, under her cot, behind the boxes that housed her possessions on the island – for her notebook. By the time she'd found it, the tent looked as though someone had ransacked it. She didn't stop to put things away, however.
Instead, she sat down on the floor of the tent, sand shifting beneath the thin plastic floor, and began to write.
She forced herself back to Kathy and Andy. They felt like strangers; their story had ceased to be interesting to her sometime last year. She wrote a sentence, then a paragraph.
Her publisher had asked when she expected to have another manuscript.
She had yet to answer that e-mail.
She crossed out what she had written.
Flipped the page.
Closed her eyes.
Booth and Bren appeared, with the nightclub and the friends and the alternate universe that had been Brennan's world while Booth was in his coma. She began the story tentatively, but it felt good. She was tired, she reasoned – she'd had almost no sleep, and she'd spent the past seven months working very hard. Just one day, writing whatever she wanted. She would throw it away when she was through. Burn it.
The words she'd written while Booth was in the hospital came back to her. Occasionally, she wished she had not deleted them. It didn't matter that she had, however… She remembered every line.
She wrote on.
Daisy came in late that afternoon; Brennan was still seated on the floor. Still writing. She'd filled a significant portion of the notebook.
"Did Booth leave?" Daisy asked. Her head was tilted, her forehead furrowed in an exaggerated expression of concern.
Brennan realized she must look slightly undone – sitting amidst piles of clothing and crumpled papers, still unbathed. She nodded. Closed her notebook too quickly.
"Yes. He left this morning."
Daisy nodded. Her forehead was still furrowed.
"I'm so sorry. If there's anything you need – "
"Why would I need anything?" she asked. "There's nothing to be sorry about – I knew he was leaving."
Daisy considered this. "See, that is exactly why I love you, Dr. Brennan. You are so wise. But, while I can appreciate the logic of that statement, I have to say… I wouldn't take it this well. I mean, this is me you're talking to – Daisy Wick. I know a little bit about passion, Dr. Brennan. And true love. And now that this long-smoldering romance between the two of you has finally been consummated – it was consummated, right?" barely a beat had passed before she continued, not bothering to wait for Brennan's response. "What am I saying, of course it was consummated. Was it amazing? I bet it was amazing, wasn't it? Oh my gosh, you poor thing. And now Agent Sergeant Booth has gone off to war, and who knows if you'll ever set eyes on him again – "
"I'm writing," Brennan said suddenly.
Daisy stopped. "Excuse me?"
"I'm writing," Brennan repeated. "Working on something – I don't know what, precisely, but I would rather not be taken out of it at the moment."
"Oh," Daisy said. "Well… Dr. Landry was asking whether you would be joining us on the north shore later?"
She considered for only a moment before she shook her head. "I got very little sleep last night." Daisy gave her a look, which she chose to ignore. "I'll rejoin everyone tomorrow."
"Oh. Well… Okay, then. I'm sure Dr. Landry will understand. But if you need to talk…"
"I don't," Brennan said shortly.
Daisy left.
She didn't stop until everyone had returned for dinner. She still smelled like Booth, and sex, and yet she had no desire to bathe. Nonetheless, one did not simply forego basic hygiene because of fatigue. She took a bar of biodegradable soap to a spring toward the center of the island where she often went when she wanted some peace away from the others. She packed her notebook and pen with her, and a change of clothes.
She wished that Booth had not taken his jacket.
The spring water was cool, but far from cold. She found herself thinking of the hot tub the night before. She closed her eyes. Booth had washed her hair.
I love your hair, Bones. Always have.
His fingers massaged her scalp. He sat behind her, her back pressed to his chest, his legs parted so she could sit between. She could tell when he was becoming aroused, and the feeling was exquisite.
In her story, Bren was now expecting a child. Fictional Booth said things like, "When the baby comes, we're gonna have to find a place to put him." Instead of solving crime, they decorated a nursery.
Brennan suspected she might be losing her mind.
She bathed away the scent of Booth. Repeated the words again, so softly they could barely be heard.
"I love you, too."
It was a very strange day.
The next morning was better. Her initial thought was that she would like to take more time to write, but she resisted that impulse. Instead, she got out of her cot and got dressed. She thought of the morning before; it seemed odd to think that just yesterday, Booth was with her. He woke her like this:
Hey, gorgeous. His mouth had been at her ear, his hand at the small of her back. She was naked, sleeping on her stomach. Booth was kneeling beside the bed. He was already dressed, but when she rolled over and asked him to join her, he didn't have to be asked twice.
Brennan went to the dig on the north shore, wondering if she should e-mail Booth. He had not e-mailed her. She had already checked. Several times, actually.
It felt good to be at the site, and even better to be working. She crouched in the small square area that had been cordoned off, methodically sifting through shallow layers of sediment. The Booth/Bren story continued writing itself.
A plot had materialized while she was writing the day before: an old Army buddy of Story Booth's was accused of murder. Brennan the author was not certain whether or not the man had done it. Bren, the wife and mother-to-be, believed that he had. Story Booth was, of course, convinced of the man's innocence.
"Dr. Brennan?"
She looked up. Dr. Landry was standing over her. The sun was directly overhead; several of the graduate students had left for their midday break.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I asked if you would care to join me for lunch?"
"Oh – of course," she said. She stood and stretched her back. The sun had gotten hotter; her shirt was damp. Her hand fell to the pendants around her neck, a gesture that had become habit in less than two days.
She hesitated. "Actually, if you don't mind… I think I'll take lunch in my tent. I'd like to do some writing."
Landry nodded. "Of course. I will walk you back."
"That would be fine," she said.
Landry informed her of a new find discovered beneath a thin layer of volcanic rock on a smaller island west of their research station. He was very excited – rightfully so, as the discovery could well justify all the expense undertaken to make this expedition possible. They discussed the best way to organize the students. It was decided that they would leave the north shore to Jensen and Melville, and she and Landry would head for the other island in the morning.
"I know that it must be very difficult, having your partner involved in the Afghani conflict." Landry spoke with an Afrikaan accent that she found pleasing – his voice was deep, his words more musical than plain English. "If you would ever like to talk about this – or anything… I am here."
"Thank you," she said. "Perhaps another time."
"Of course. I will see you back at the site, then."
He walked away. Booth had said he was attractive, and he was – it was odd, she thought, that she hadn't noticed it before. The entire time that she'd been here, she hadn't thought twice about another man. She had refrained from telling Booth that Mombatu was the reason she was alive. When she foolishly dove after Trista, Dr. Landry was the one who jumped in and hauled her to safety. He had stitched her cheek, dressed her wounds, his dark eyes watching with concern as she sat trembling on the ledges, still shaking long after she should have recovered from the effects of the cold water.
Her story returned before she could pursue the line of thought any further: Booth and Bren. A murder requiring a solution, an Army Ranger seeking justice. She prepared a plate of fruit and some bread and cheese from the goats the natives kept on the island, and returned to her tent.
After a fight, Story Booth said: "C'mon, Bren, just let go of the logic for a while, huh? I didn't ask what you think about this whole thing – forget what makes the most sense. You talked to the guy. Did he do it or didn't he? Go with your gut for once – what do you feel?"
She tried to recall whether Booth had ever said those words to her in reality. He'd certainly shared similar sentiments. He'd been silent in the cabin, while her legs were wrapped around him and he was buried deep enough that the pleasure was tinged with pain. It was what separated them on the most fundamental level: Booth didn't need to speak to process what he was feeling… He simply felt. She found herself doing the same in his arms. With other lovers she was commanding, explicit in her needs and desires, but Booth seemed to require no direction.
Just feel, baby. Let go. Words whispered in her ear, his teeth scraping across her lobe, hand pulling her thigh up higher to change his angle of penetration.
Booth knew what he was doing in bed; there was really no question of that. She found herself wondering where he'd learned the things that he did. Rebecca? Cam? Did he read about them? Or had there been dozens of women he claimed to love, perhaps even believed he loved, before she ever entered his life? She had slept with what she believed was a respectable number of men in the past ten years, and she had studied sexual technique both with these men and by reading extensively on the subject.
Booth made her feel something beyond mere arousal, however. When he touched her, it seemed like more than a physical reaction. When he touched her, it felt as though she were going to come out of her skin, as though her heart might explode. All of the hyperbole Booth had been spouting to her all these years suddenly made sense to her, when his lips were at her neck and he was moving inside her.
She wanted to know how he did that.
She wanted to know if he felt the same, when they were together.
There were a thousand things she wanted to learn about him, about them, now that this change had taken place.
That evening, just as the expedition crew was preparing for dinner, Brennan heard a shout across the camp. One of the students pointed skyward.
A helicopter was flying toward them.
For a moment she just stood there, frozen, as she ran through the possible scenarios for why he would return. Until finally she realized: he wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't.
Which meant someone else…
She ordered her legs to move. Ran across the sand, each step feeling as though she were running toward something she would be so much smarter to escape.
He would not come back.
The soldier who had come for him the day before got out of the helicopter. He carried something in his hands. When he was safely clear of the helicopter blades, Brennan went to him.
"I'm Corporal Hicks, ma'am," he said. He saluted her.
She stood rooted to the spot, blinking the sun from her eyes. "Is there something wrong, Corporal?"
There was a moment's pause, before he seemed to realize what she was asking. He shook his head furiously.
"Gosh, no, ma'am. I was supposed to tell you that first off – I'm awful sorry, I just forgot how pretty you were. Kinda forgot myself, I guess you could say. He's just fine, ma'am. He's headed out tonight, though, and he told me it was a matter of national security that you get this."
"A matter of…?" Brennan stared at the item he held in his hands – Booth's jacket. He pushed it toward her.
"We were headed this way anyway, ma'am," he said in a loud whisper, closer so she could hear him over the helicopter's engine.
She took the jacket from him.
"I think there might be something in the pocket," he said.
"Oh." She couldn't think of what else to say. "Thank you. Will you see him again – later, I mean?"
"No, ma'am – they'll ship out before I get back."
"Ship out?"
He looked alarmed for a moment. She suspected he'd said more than he was supposed to.
"You know where he'll be." It was not a question.
"It's classified, ma'am."
"But it's dangerous," she said. More to herself, really, than him.
"I really can't say, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Of course." She held Booth's jacket clenched in his hands. It took a significant amount of effort not to ransack the pockets immediately in order to find what he'd left.
It seemed that this would be the logical time for Corporal Hicks to go, but the young soldier made no move. She looked at him expectantly. He looked around for a moment, as though uncertain whether or not someone might be listening, and took a step closer to her.
"Ma'am, Sergeant Booth told me I wasn't to say anything to you. And I know that by going against his direct order, I could…"
"Corporal," she stopped him. "Is there something wrong?"
The man shook his head. "No, ma'am – not what you think. But he put something in that pocket, Dr. Brennan, and I believe there's a reason the Sergeant didn't want this letter going through proper channels. And I also believe that if somehow or other the information in that letter got into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of the Sergeant's military career. If it got into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of the Sergeant's life.
"So," he was talking very fast now, his eyes on the sand at Brennan's feet, hands behind his back. "I'm not saying you don't read it, you understand – not at all. But if something maybe happened to it after… if it were to catch fire, say…"
"That wouldn't be a bad thing?"
He met her eye. "No, ma'am. It would not."
"Thank you, Corporal. I appreciate you bringing this, and for the – "
"Just following orders, ma'am," he cut her off. "Now, I best be going."
She didn't wait until the helicopter was in the air before Brennan had turned and was headed back to her tent, already searching the pockets for Booth's letter.
It was written on torn, lined paper, his handwriting less precise than was typical of him. Brennan sat on her cot and smoothed the letter carefully before she began reading.
Listen, Bones, I don't actually have much time to get this out – Hicks is breathing down my neck and I've got a dozen guys waiting on my orders. But I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I can't tell you more about what's going on here right now. It feels like I'm trying to hide something from you, and God knows that's the last thing in the world I want.
So… I can't tell you anything big, and this is the last time I'll talk about it, but the next couple months are gonna be rocky. We're planning some stuff that's not going to be popular here. I don't know when and I sure as hell can't say where, but I know it'll happen before my year's up. I know I'll be in on it. Once it does happen, though, you might not hear from me for a while. Apparently, I'm not such an old guy they don't want me running ops anymore, and… well, I wish I could say more.
I know you, and I know that for you it's sometimes scarier not to know than to just hear it and deal with it the way I know you can. I love you, baby. Please don't doubt for a second that the few hours I had with you the other night was one of the best nights of my life, and I'm looking forward to a hell of a lot more of them. You're everything to me, Bones. Write when you can, and I'll do the same. And whatever you hear about what's happening over here, you keep the faith, okay? I'll make it back to you.
Love,
Booth
She put the letter down. With trembling hands, she went through her rucksack until she found her waterproof matches. The flame caught after a moment; Brennan set the burning letter in a plate she'd used for her breakfast that morning. The sides burned, then blackened. The flame intensified and then died out, until nothing was left but a pile of ash.