AN: The reviews have been so encouraging! Thank you all for your theories, your questions and your admissions to obsession with The Grace (great song... *sigh*) For some of you, this chapter will be your answer to questions you have for Booth. I'd also like to thank FaithinBones, who gave me the greatest cherry on top of a scene already planned.
This song... a random find for this story, but my God, how perfect of a song for this couple. I highly recommend that when Booth decides to take a drive, you queue it up on YouTube.
I don't own Bones or Shuffle. Consider me disclaimed. Dialogue borrowed from episodes is strictly for context and continuity; no infringement intended.
"We walked down to the water, arm in arm as friends
But when we crossed over we were lovers, swimming in the bitter end
And the valley stretched before us, but the grass was laden with mines
And with every explosion came a swing of the wrecking ball of time
It was all a bad, bad dream
It was all a bad, bad, bad dream
It was all a bad, bad, bad, bad dream
We never saw anything, it was only lights reflecting
So put on a smile when the tears start to fall
'Cause all this, 'cause all this is better than nothing..."
Bad Dream - Wildlife
St. Patrick's isn't his usual church, but desperate times call for the nearest holy ground and it happens to be blocks from the Mall. Settling into the middle pew, Booth watches as an elderly woman lights several candles in solemn fashion.
What am I supposed to do?
He'd thought he'd done it. Extreme solution? Certainly, but wasn't she worth going to extremes for? Wouldn't he move the earth itself for her? But Gemma...The case has been stalled forever. He knows that Hasty's in on it, but there's not a shred of evidence to tie his smug face to the crime. He remembers now that his brain has caught up to him that she can solve the case.
I have to stay away from her. Judge Hasty has to pay for what he's done. These statements are incompatible.
He bows his head in prayer, seeking guidance from a higher power because at this point, he's acknowledging how insignificant and helpless he truly is in the universe. Or maybe I'm crazy, he wonders. Maybe I'm strapped up in a nice, white jacket somewhere, drooling all over myself.
He is startled by the collision of metal on wood and glances up to find a young guy - college kid, maybe - slumped in the pew beside him. His knapsack is a mess of buckles and duct tape patch jobs and his cologne is a blend of pot and patchouli.
"Sorry," he apologizes sheepishly.
"It's fine," Booth replies quietly.
"I love this place," the kid continues, glancing around him. "Even if the church was built for the Stonemasons. Wait: which Masons are the evil ones?"
"I believe you mean the Freemasons," Booth suggests.
"Yeah! They suck."
Silence. Booth bows his head once more, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. The kid, it seems, has other plans.
"You like The Beatles?"
Booth rolls his eyes. "I'm more of a Stones guy myself. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm trying to pray, pal."
The kid runs a nervous hand through his unkempt hair. "Alright dude, chill out. I was just making conversation with a member of the brotherhood of man."
"I - "
"Nah, no way. I get it. I look like I haven't bathed in two days, and maybe I haven't, but I just wanted to chat."
The kid rises to his feet angrily, snatching at his backpack. Feeling chastised, Booth rushes to stop him, extending a hand.
"I'm sorry, you're right. I'm just... I have a really important decision to make. Life-altering. I'm... I think 'screwed' about covers it."
The kid eyes Booth up and down, shrugging. "Judging from that suit, you're not doing too badly for yourself. I mean, you showered today. That's a start."
Booth smiles in spite of himself. "Yeah, I guess it is."
"And hey, you're in shape, bro. You gotta be pressing serious bars at the gym. Health is good. My Mom, she's gone. Lung cancer, forty-two. Lung cancer is probably the cruelest way to go."
Booth nods in sympathy, shuffling his feet. "You have your health."
The kid grins, puffing out his chest. "Damn right I do! And you know, life can be awful, but it can also be beautiful. I like to think the G-Man upstairs only dishes out the horrible things to help me handle the next horrible thing to come. Like a Boy Scout: be prepared."
It's a perspective Booth hasn't considered before: What if I am seeing exactly what I need to see to save her at the right time? Sure, if he's not her partner, they will never live together or share a child. She will never retreat to work to escape him. But if he's not there at all...
"It was nice meeting you," the kid says enthusiastically. "But I gotta jet. Baby bro gets out of school soon."
Booth takes his hand, shaking it firmly. "Very good to meet you too."
"And just remember the wise words of Lennon: 'There's nowhere you can be that you aren't meant to be'."
Booth stares after the man as he nearly skips down the aisle of the church, fist-bumping a small boy with his mother and clapping the back of an older man making his way to the confessional. If he'd wanted a sign, this surely was one, wasn't it? Maybe it's not the easy road out of this mess. Maybe he'll suffer along the way. The greater good is calling him, and in his heart, he knows what he must do.
An hour later, he is standing mesmerized in a lecture hall at American University.
"Any questions?" Brennan asks her class.
"Yeah, I have a question," Booth calls out. "Seems to me, if you uh, remove the flesh, aren't you, uh, destroying the evidence?"
"On the contrary," she replies. "I am revealing evidence."
Booth makes his way up the centre aisle of the lecture hall, studying her for signs of recognition. There are none he can see; he is merely one more person who cannot match wits with her.
"Just one more thing," he calls out as she prepares to leave. "I mean, isn't all the good evidence in the flesh? You know, like the poison and the stab wounds and the bullets?"
Her expression is one of near-pity. "All of the important indicators are written in the bone, if you look carefully."
"So that's your thing?"
"Yes," she answers calmly, continuing to gather her things. "I'm the best in the world."
Her honesty has always been one of her greatest attributes and her most irritating trait. He's been aching for it.
"Oh. Okay, you're serious."
She's finally caught on to the fact that maybe, just maybe, he's not an incredibly sharp-dressed student. "Are you a student here?"
"Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI."
"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," she says, shaking his hand.
Electricity. A charge flows between them and all of the memories surge through in a flash of light and beauty. This is the right thing to do, he understands. For Gemma. For all of the victims. He'll have to find another way.
"Do you believe in fate?" he asks aloud, although the query is for himself.
"Absolutely not. Ludicrous."
Yes, I believe. I believe that fate won't let us remain apart.
2013
"What do you mean, they're already transporting the remains?"
Booth sighs, holding his hands up as a plea for mercy. "Look Bones, I know how much you hate it when they mess with your stuff, but the local guys in West Virginia weren't familiar with the Jeffersonian protocols. There was also uncertainty as to whether it fell under FBI jurisdiction. I mean, it's a suicide."
"Well, of course it belongs to the FBI. New River is on the American Heritage Rivers list. That and the fact it cuts a swath through multiple states would make it much more prudent for the case to fall under Federal control," his partner replied, tapping her hand against the car door lightly. "Besides, there's no conclusive evidence of suicide at this point."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger, alright? We know better. I made sure that they shipped all of the rocks in contact with the remains back to the lab for Hodgins."
She smiles at him, the faintest upward curl of her lips, and his heart skips a beat. "Thank you, Booth."
"For what?"
"For understanding my work, and what I need to have to be accurate in my assessment." She glances back at Christine, encouraging her quiet babble. "I appreciate it."
Booth's hand reaches out for hers, squeezing it lightly. "Anything for you, Bones. I'm just sorry you have to head back to the lab."
She shrugs. "It's fine. I'm certain that you and Christine will benefit from a period of mutual bonding."
"Also known as cooking dinner!" he coos at Christine, watching her clap happily in the rear view mirror. "What shall we make tonight?"
"Booth, she is far too young to attempt culinary preparations -" She glances sideways, nodding at his smirk. "Too literal. But please be careful. She's grown fond of spatulas."
Booth chuckles, pulling up next to the main entrance of the Jeffersonian. "No pancake flipping for Christine, I promise."
She leans over the gear shift and pulls him towards her, their mouths meeting in an intense, slow kiss. A shiver rolls down his spine and his hand wanders of its own accord to cup her breast. She gasps quietly, playfully slapping it away.
"Professionalism," she teases.
"Fine," he murmurs. "But when you get home, all bets are off."
"I'm counting on it," she purrs. Leaning into the backseat, she gives Christine a kiss. "Be good, sweetheart. I'll try and determine cause of death as quickly as possible."
He watches until she's safely inside, studying every shadow beneath every carefully manicured tree on the property. It's daylight, normal business hours. She'll be fine. At least they don't have a murder today. For once, he can just enjoy time with his family.
"Da da da!" Christine shouts.
"Daddy's daydreaming," he tells her, shifting out of park. "Let's go home, baby girl."
Pops calls just as he's tossing a chicken breast into the pan with a sizzle. "Hey, Pops! How have you been?"
"Been doin' fine, Shrimp! This place ain't as wild and crazy as it ought to be, but I'm working on a few changes."
Booth rolls his eyes. "Please tell me you're not going to get kicked out of there. You know how much talking Bones had to do to get that S'mores incident under control?"
The incident, as the nurses referred to it, consisted of a hot plate, warped coat hangers and a few older ladies fawning over his father until their blood sugar soared. It was one of the funnier moments in a difficult year and he secretly admired Pops for his prowess.
"Yeah, yeah. What else is a man to do in here? How is my beautiful daughter-in-law?"
The spatula... Yep, Christine's grabbed it from the island. He takes it back quickly, flipping the chicken over.
"Don't let her hear you say that. We're not married, Pops. Never will be."
And here it comes: "Why not? You love each other, don't ya?"
"Of course we do. She's my world, you know that."
Pops hums knowingly. "You live together and you're as committed as any couple that gone and tied a knot. Why not make it official for the sake of an old romantic?"
Booth sighs. "She doesn't believe in God, let alone marriage. Pops, we've talked about this. Everything can't be my way. Love is compromise, right?"
His grandfather hesitates, then exhales loudly. "That's true. I just know it would make you happy. You've been talking marriage since our first fishing trip after you boys came to stay with me. Remember that?"
Booth flushes with embarrassment as he lifts the chicken onto his plate. "I think I recall something about that. Man, that was a sweet cabin we stayed in, wasn't it?"
"You boys needed to get away from everything," Pops muses sadly. "It was the best I could do."
"You always did the best things for us, Pops." And he means it.
"Well, come visit me soon, won't you? I'd like to see the little one again."
Booth smiles, blowing a babbling Christine a silent kiss. "Absolutely, Pops. I'll talk to Bones when she gets home from work."
Goodbyes exchanged, Booth sets the phone down with a smile. Vacation. It's exactly what we need. After the previous summer's separation and Pelant's twisted games, the two of them need to unwind properly. He's still thinking of the possibilities as he welcomes his love home with a kiss and a plate of vegetarian pasta with a side of the bean salad she loves from the organic market.
"You're back sooner than I thought," he notes happily.
"Well, Cam said I should go home, as she would need several hours for processing the tissue and organs. I thought I'd take advantage of the time and be home to put Christine to bed."
"Cam is a good person," he muses. "Wine?"
"Please. I need to unwind a bit today," she replies with a small yawn.
Dinner is perfect: the chicken is excellent, the pasta just as he knows she likes it, and he's even thought ahead and grabbed pecan pie for dessert - a kind the two of them can agree on. Clearing the dishes away, he admires his family (well, all but one; Parker is in London still, although Rebecca is mulling a transfer back to the States) and is overcome with joy. This is all I ever wanted, he thinks. Pops is right. About multiple things. Fetching the pie from the side counter, he shares the idea he's been mulling for the last hour.
"So you know, I'm thinking maybe next month, me, you and Christine, we can rent a cabin near Palmer River and we can go fishing! Huh?"
"She's fourteen months old, Booth. She enjoys the comforts of home far more than she would a cabin in the woods."
"Come on, you don't know that!" he scoffs.
But she does know, because she knows everything, it seems. "There have been copious amounts of research done by pediatricians and cognitive specialists that - "
"Bones, it's a family thing, alright?" he interrupts, puzzled by her reaction. "We'll all be together."
"It's impractical, Booth," she dismisses him, looking away.
He doesn't know what happens inside of him: one minute, he's hopeful and relaxed; the next, a darkness overtakes him. Why doesn't she understand? Why is everything about logic with her?
"Sometimes, it's good not to be practical," he retorts, the condescension slipping into his tone of its own accord. "Sometimes, it's good just to have fun, right? Great memories?"
But even this, this isn't enough to reach her, and Booth seethes as she immediately responds, "Christine wouldn't retain conscious access to a memory created at 14 months. The neural network - "
Setting the dishes down forcefully, he loses control. "What is it with you, huh?"
"Why are you angry?"
"Why? Because sometimes, I would like us to just do something without you having to ask, you know, some scientist if it's okay!"
"I don't want to fight in front of Christine."
"Why?" he snaps. "She won't be able to access her memory! Why are you so afraid to be spontaneous? You want Christine to grow up like that?"
As soon as the words have left his lips, he regrets them. The storm clouds are rolling in over the oceans in her eyes, threatening destruction in their wake. But there's no undoing it, no appeasing her.
"Oh, so now I'm a bad mother?"
"No! I'm not saying that at all!"
But he did, indirectly - or at least, she's heard it between the lines. It's her greatest fear and he's pulled her trigger. She's on her feet now, angrily storming away from him.
"Why don't you put her to bed and I will go back to the lab and finish my work!"
"Whoa, wait a second. You're really misunderstanding me here," he backtracks.
"You have been quite clear, Booth. Being rational makes me no fun and a bad mother!"
She's leaving. She's leaving and he is paralyzed in place, torn between his frustration with her and anger with himself. All he can do is call out to her, struggle to make her hear what he truly meant to say.
"I didn't say that! I said that you're not spontaneous. There's a difference there. There's a - "
"Is this spontaneous enough for you?" she snaps, throwing open the door. "'Goodbye."
The door slams behind her, a resounding thud that he's certain must carry through the entire house. "Great!" he mutters, glancing down at Christine.
Her sad eyes say it all: I blew that way out of proportion.
"C'mon, sweetie; let's get you tucked into bed."
They read a story together - something about mice and cookies that Angela bought for her - but Christine refuses to settle. She whines softly, tossing stuffed animals out of her crib and reaching her hand for the door.
"MA!" she yells, chucking an elephant at him in emphasis.
"She'll be home soon," he promises, freezing as he hears a key in the lock downstairs. "Bones?"
"No, it's me!" Sweets calls out from below. "Is Dr. Brennan not home?"
Booth kisses Christine gently and heads downstairs, greeting the kid in the kitchen. "Nah, she's working late tonight. Some guy fell off the New River Gorge Bridge."
"Yikes! It's not the day for BASE jumps. What was he thinking?" Sweets muses, leaning against the counter. "Oh look, pie!"
"Save a piece for Bones," Booth cautions him.
"No problem," Sweets answers, reaching for a knife. "You wanna watch something? Guys night?"
How to politely tell the guy I'd rather yank my own teeth out with pliers right now? There's probably no tactful way to tell Sweets to piss off so he can sulk. Instead, he pours himself a double of scotch and holds his head.
"I'm actually gonna go lie down in bed, hopefully pass out soon. My head's killing me."
Sweets glances at the scotch and back at his face, mulling this image over. "Alcohol can cause dehydration."
"I don't care, Sweets. You're our boarder, not our shrink, got it?"
The message is received. "Well, I hope you feel better," Sweets concedes, heading into the living room with a large wedge of pie.
Me too, Booth muses sadly as he heads upstairs. Taking that first welcome sip, he sighs. Should he call her? Beg her to come home and talk it out? The more he replays the things he's said, the more he wants to drink himself into a stupor. She had to be hurting deeply to storm out, never mind working late. It was something she simply didn't do now, not since her return from her summer on the run.
Let her cool off, he tells himself, taking another drink. Work always steadies her. Maybe he'll give her a call in half an hour or so, try apologizing for how he sounded.
"I just want to take her away from all of this," he mumbles to himself. "Away from Pelant and fear and murder..."
There is no one in this world he loves more than Temperance. No one. There isn't another woman alive who can entrance him and infuriate him at the same time - and have him craving more of both in equal portions. But sometimes, this fundamental disconnect of theirs is such a goddamn hurdle to leap over.
Draining the scotch, he opens the bedroom door with a grunt. Should've brought the damn bottle, he muses, setting the glass on the bedside table. At this, he freezes: I've been here before. His eyes glance around wildly as he struggles to reconcile the sense of déjà vu.
The answer lies in a small black box on top of her dresser.
"Oh, no, no, no..."
He rushes over, flipping over the gift tag attached. On the reverse, in her neat cursive, reads: To Booth, Everything happens eventually. Love, Bones. His fingers fumble with the ribbon, tugging frantically at it in a desperate need to confirm what he already knows. He remembers this date now, its significance: The blizzard. And as he stares down at the beautiful watch in the box, he chokes on bile.
Bones is in trouble.
The watch is tossed onto the bed as he storms downstairs, dialing her cell phone. It bounces almost immediately to voice mail. At least she's alive to be pissed at me, he reasons as he taps Sweets on the shoulder. The kid startles awake on the couch. His pie is half-eaten on the table.
"Sweets, I need a favour."
"Booth? What is it?"
"I just... I can't reach Bones. Something's wrong. Can you watch Christine for me?"
Sweets nods. "Of course. Booth, you know she hates being interrupted at work..."
Shrugging on his jacket, Booth snaps, "Look, my gut is never wrong. I know, Sweets. Like I knew about Kenton, Taffet, all of them. I know."
Swallowing hard, Sweets replies, "Then you better hurry. Maybe call the Jeffersonian's security team on the way."
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks."
He calls again as he's pulling out of the driveway. No answer. He tries her office phone, just in case her cell has died. Voice mail. He slams the steering wheel in fury.
"Damn it, Bones! Answer!"
He tries the security desk. No dice. Bastard's probably asleep on the job. Figures that the one damn time he'd need the guys to be there, to be her protection, there's no reaching them. I'm supposed to be there, he thinks, beginning to panic. I'm her gun. I'm her shield. I'm supposed to be there for her!
He is so consumed with the thought of failure, with the rush of guilt in his veins, that he doesn't see the Pontiac Sunfire blowing the red light until it's too late. Tires screech against the slick asphalt as Booth takes evasive action, yanking the wheel hard but it's not enough. The world begins to spin, a dizzying blur of neon and fluorescent lights and then, a vicious blow to his head as he meets the dashboard while his vehicle meets a tree.
The next chapter is going to be a doozy. I've been looking forward to writing it since I dreamed this story up. Everything you know, or think you know, will be confirmed or denied. Oh, and I suppose we'll figure out if Booth's going to be okay after this car wreck...
If you've ever wondered what I listen to while writing this story, I recently tweeted out the complete playlist. Find me on twitter (emptysthemepark) and I'll hook you up.
Please review, if you like. I've been dropping some subtle hints along the way. Why is Booth jumping at all? You're about to find out why he's being shuffled...
