AN: Happy birthday, Booth? Well... um... shall we find out?

I don't own Bones or Shuffle. Consider me disclaimed.


"You won't get much closer
Until you sacrifice it all
You won't get to taste it
With your face against the wall...

Ooh, 1, 2, 3, 4, fire's in your eyes
And this chaos, it defies imagination
Ooh, 5, 6, 7, 8, minus 9 lives
You've arrived at panic station..."

Panic Station - Muse


He swallows back a rush of bile as he approaches the box on the dresser. I have to be sure, he thinks. I have to be sure it's today, so I can be ready. Normally, the blanks rush in to fill themselves, but this time, he knows only that he is 42 - as of today. Before his hand can tug at the ornate bow, Bones slaps his hand and laughs.

"Oh no, not yet! Angela will kill you. Remember, you promised!"

He turns on the charm, grinning in his best panty-dropper fashion. "C'mon Bones..."

"No, you will wait for the dinner party that Angela and I have planned, end of discussion!"

She takes the box and disappears from the room, chuckling to herself. Booth's fists ball tightly at his sides. Doesn't she understand that he needs to know what's inside?

Of course not. She doesn't know she's going to die tonight. But I do... And I can't let it happen. His expression is steely as he glares into the mirror. I will not let her die.

It makes sense now that Lily would call this a gift. After all, it's his birthday: what greater gift could he receive than a chance to spend another year with the woman he loves?

Alright, wake up. Shower. If he's going to cheat death, he needs full control of his faculties. Into a cold shower he steps, wincing as sheets of icy water cascade down his back. Mental journal number three: she dies on my birthday. I'm certain there's a comment to be made connecting the answer to life being 42 and my answer to what's living for dying as I turn 42, but I've got no time for pop culture or witty remarks. Bones is supposed to die tonight, and I'm supposed to save her.

He edges the warm water on, just enough to avoid catching pneumonia. What do I know? She gives me the watch at some point - a very thoughtful gift, if overly generous. She dies in the lab, working late on a case. Angela finds her. She's been shot, but Hodgins has a theory? He lathers up, shaking his head in frustration. He knows nothing of use, aside from trying to keep her from the lab.

"What is the point of this?" he grumbles.

"Booth? You okay?"

"Yeah, Bones! Just... not happy about getting older," he lies.

The bathroom door creaks and he can hear her feet padding across the tile. "I think you only improve as you age, but I admit I may be somewhat biased."

Rinsing off the soap, he chuckles. "A little biased?"

"Are you implying I cannot be rational and objective in my analysis of your physique and attractiveness? Because I am a scientist, Booth! I have spent years maintaining a neutral position and allowing the facts to speak."

Scrunching his face, he peers around the curtain. She sounds so damn serious and almost hurt - until he catches her gaze and she snorts, trying not to laugh.

"Y'know, I love your version of sarcasm."

She kisses his cheek lightly, batting her eyes dramatically. "Who's being sarcastic?"

Somehow, she ends up in the shower, fully clothed and clawing his back in her indignant fury. Somehow, he convinces her to shower again. And unsurprisingly, they are both an hour late for work.


The first bad sign is the new case they're called out on. The quality control unit of a candy factory discovers that their trademark jelly beans are a little more gelatinous than they should be.

"A customer complained about one of our Halloween treat bags of 'grit' in the jelly," explains Frank Addison, the manager of the facility. "When we pulled bags from inventory, our lab determined that the composition of the jelly was not up to our usual standards. It was Sarah who found the fingernail."

Sarah is lying down in an office with a cold compress on her forehead, ashen in appearance. Booth decides that Sweets should take the lead with the distraught witness and watches instead as his partner examines the jelly vat.

"I think I see cerebral tissue stuck in this gear," she calls out to Cam from her perch on a ladder.

"Couple years ago, it was human chocolate; now, it's jelly beans? This job is out to destroy my sweet tooth," Booth mutters.

"Eating an overabundance of sweets isn't healthy, Booth. Your consumption of red meat alone is problematic, particularly at your age - "

"Way to make a guy feel loved, Bones," he grumbles. "We eat plenty of your rabbit food at home. What about Parker and Christine? How am I supposed to feel safe letting them eat candy now?"

"Childhood obesity is on the rise - "

He rolls his eyes. "Alright, I got it. Daisy, you understand me on this, don't you?"

"From an anthropological standpoint, rituals like trick-or-treating are an important exercise in social skills development and a rite of passage, Dr. Brennan," Daisy tentatively offers up as she collects a sample from the goo in the vat.

"Trick-or-treating originates from the tradition of 'guising', wherein youths knocked on their neighbours' doors and threatened harm if they were not given food or coins," Brennan counters, tilting her head. "Stapes!"

Booth knows when he's defeated and concedes, ordering the entire vat shipped to the Jeffersonian in anticipation of his partner's needs. Yum yum, he thinks bitterly.


Angela hurls and threatens to quit her job at the sight of the vat, while Booth pleads for mercy on his birthday, which takes the form of Agent Sparling and is anything but merciful. Sweets is moping, Sparling is mooning, Daisy is wilting and no one feels like a party by the time six arrives.

The show must go on, Angela insists. Booth is pretty sure she really just wants the excuse to get wasted. Surprisingly, his partner insists they all depart and celebrate his birthday, although she does note that she expects Daisy back in the lab after dinner to sort through the goo-covered bones currently being revealed by Hodgins' latest invention.

The gifts are wonderful and thoughtful, from the nerdy (a rare Captain America comic from Fisher and Wendell) to the kind (primo Flyers tickets from Hodgins and Angela for Parker's next visit) and the booze is flowing so heavily, Booth forgets all about the watch.

Maybe that's why he's not more careful about starting a fight.

It's innocent: someone makes a remark about this year being particularly long to coincide with Booth being "long in the tooth", to which he jousts back, "You don't need to tell me. You're not the one who was left behind this summer." It's only the truth, but his partner's back is immediately up. Her silence eats away at him until finally, he pulls her aside at the bar and asks what her problem is.

"My problem? You're the one who appears to have a problem," she hisses.

"What the hell?"

She's shuddering with anger and he's frightened now, because it takes a hell of a lot to enrage her. The problem is, he can't put the scotch-soaked pieces together until she throws them at him.

"Is this how it's going to be? Throw my choices in my face to ensure I suffer thoroughly, as if it didn't devastate me to leave you?"

"What? No - "

"Because I can do that too. I have an exceptional memory, Booth. I can mention the time you told me you loved me and took it back in sixty seconds because I was too scared of relationships to take a recovering gambler up on a gamble," she snapped. "Or perhaps I can comment on the time you slept with my boss and then told me that people who work together can't be together."

He's flailing as he replies, "Bones, that's not fair. Cam and I have a history."

"So do we. I've known you for nearly two decades. Doesn't it count for anything?"

It's the booze. It's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the way she can push his buttons like no one else. Whatever the origin, the result is the same: Booth shoves his foot down his throat and kicks himself in the ass with it.

"It must count, or else I'd start taking offense at how many times you've run away from me in those two decades!" She recoils as if struck and he immediately softens, reaching for her. "Bones, I didn't mean it like that."

"No, you did," she whispers. "And I don't blame you."

She pulls away and rushes off to the bathroom and he is stuck with the choice of rejoining their group after an argument or cowering at the bar. Bar it is.

"Scotch. Double," he requests, settling onto a stool and drawing a deep breath to steady himself.

He drums his fingers against the wood lightly as he waits for his shot, willing himself to calm down. We're not perfect yet, he reminds himself. We've made a lot of progress, but we're still patching things up. Relationships aren't ever easy; relationships with brilliant women who struggle with emotions are like skiing a double-diamond slope. It's worth it to him, because there's no other woman who will ever know him to his core and love him as she does, but it's hard work at times. He drains half of the drink on its arrival with a sigh. I'll let her calm down for a few minutes, then apologize again, he decides.

"Hey birthday boy! Yer missing yer party, methinks."

Booth glances at the older man beside him with an amused smirk. "Guess I'm not a partying guy anymore," he replies.

"I hear ya. All the fuss people make and sometimes, the best birthdays are the quietest," the man agrees, taking a swig of his pint.

"I'll drink to that," Booth agrees and they clink glasses.

"Well, if yer friends come complainin', you can tell 'em ol Jimmy kept yappin' atcha, and blame me for your time out."

Booth chuckles. "Thanks, man. I'm running out of my own excuses tonight."

Jimmy nods knowingly, a look of sympathy on his face. "I ran out years ago. Now, I drink a few here, let the missus calm down, then go home with the tail between the legs. I like this place. Founding Fathers." He smiles, patting the bar. "Did ya know this place was founded by a trio of young dads? The name's a bit o' wordplay. One of them was even named Abraham."

Booth shakes his head. "No, I didn't know. That's pretty damn cool."

He drains his drink as Jimmy continues, "Yep, and one of them married a lady named Washington. This is a good American business. S'why I support it." He finishes his beer and hails the bartender before leaning closer. "Look, I don't mean to be a nosy guy, but as a man married forty-two years, can I be giving ye advice?"

Booth shrugs. "Can't hurt at this point."

"Women are judged every day. Society judges 'em, men judge 'em, their friends and families judge 'em. It's a bunch of social psychology stuff that I won't pretend to be an expert of. Judge, judge, judge. It's why they're so critical of their fat asses in their jeans that aren't even fat at all - and really, I prefer me a round bottom." The old man winks and grins. "Us men that love 'em, we need to be careful where we're treading. We say truth, but if it's judging truth, or truth she hears as judging, it hurts the heart. Just understanding that right there helps diffuse 75% of arguments."

"And the other 25%?"

"Buy her something pretty!" Jimmy accepts a new beer from the bartender with a nod. "No more for my buddy here. He's got somewhere to be."

"I do?"

"Yup. That pretty missus of yours left a good five or ten minutes ago in a whirlwind."

Booth jumps up from the stool as Jimmy taps his watch in emphasis. The watch! "Thanks, man. Thank you so much."

He debates running out the door without so much as a goodbye to their friends, then thinks better of it. Maybe her gift is at the table still; maybe he can be certain. He rushes over to find Angela drunk, Hodgins holding her up and Sweets looking depressed.

"Did everyone bail?"

"Yeah, they saw your battle. Better go make nice with Bren, Studly!" Angela slurs.

"I will. Did she leave her gift here for me?"

"Nope! Insisted it was a private gift for later," Angela replies. "More wine!"

"Nuh-uh babe, you're done," Hodgins chides her.

"Sweets, can you do me a solid and bring the gifts home?"

Their boarder - Booth only learned this at the crime scene today - nods quickly. "Sure thing. I hope you patch things up with Dr. Brennan."

"Me too, Sweets. Me too."

He runs into the street and hails a cab, grateful for the yellow car that pulls up beside him almost immediately. "The Jeffersonian," he tells him, flashing his badge. "And hurry."

It's a fifteen-minute drive at normal speed; the cabbie makes it in ten, weaving in and out of traffic with abandon. Booth pays him double the fare out of gratitude and a refusal to wait for change, breaking into a full-out run for the secure entrance. His card grants him access to the corridor and he again runs, not giving a shit what it looks like on camera. Hell, let a guard come. He might just need one if Bones.. if she...

No. She only had a few minutes' head start. She's fine, damn it!

He flashes his card at the lab entrance and growls. Access denied; security override required. He swipes again - no dice. What the hell has she done? He's dialing the security office as he swipes again and again, hoping to trigger some sort of response from someone, anyone. After five minutes, he's debating smashing through the glass again when a guard saunters up in cavalier fashion.

"I need to get in there," Booth demands, flashing his badge. "My partner may be in danger."

"Agent Booth? Don't you have a card?"

"Yes and it's not fucking working!" he snaps.

The guard reaches his hand out and examines the card. "Aww crap, Sam must have disabled your after hours access instead of Shelley Booth's. I'll swipe you in and go fix it right now."

"Thank you," Booth blurts out as the guard swipes the reader.

He heads for the Bone Room immediately, her home territory, and is stunned to find the space vacant. Very few bones are on the table, positioned precisely where even he knows they ought to be. Daisy has likely come and gone already. But if she's not here, where is she?

"Bones!" he cries out frantically. "Bones, where are you?"

The platform is vacant. Limbo - her other home at work - is locked up tight. He's running now from room to office to room, screaming her name, because she's not anywhere and she's not answering and all of this terrifies him. He calls her cell at last, wondering if he's wrong, wondering if today she went home to their house.

A familiar ringtone trills from upstairs.

"BONES!"

No answer - not from above, nor on the phone. Her voicemail kicks in, her voice crisp and professional: "You've reached Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian. I am presently unable to answer your call. Please leave a brief message with your name and contact information clearly enunciated and I will get back to you."

He takes the stairs two at a time, his heart careening against his ribs. She is pissed - rightfully so - but she knows his worried voice and she's simply not malicious. She's not answering him because she can't answer.

He sees her shoes first as he rushes around the corner into the lounge area: the left beside her foot; the right half-off. He traces the leather pumps to the bare legs beneath that stunning blue dress she'd changed into for his party, the hem rumpled against her prone thighs.

"Bones?" he whispers as he creeps around the couch.

As the shattered glass of the table beneath her sprawled, motionless body comes into view, he understands with sickening clarity that he is too late. He falls to the floor and seizes her wrist as the tears begin to fall.

"Temperance... no..."

Beside her right hand taunts the wrapped box, a streak of blood marring the once perfect bow.


*dons body armor and runs away for safety* There are more chapters, I swear! Don't kill me. But do let me know what you think please; I really love hearing from each of you, especially your theories.

Either way, thank you for reading!