Be amazed; an immediate update. FEEL BAD FOR BOOTH. He did a terrible thing...but he did it out of love?

"Bones!" he yelped again, ripping the paper off his leg. He tried, at least. The ink had stained into his skin, immutable admission of what he had done. The remaining paper had disintegrated into a stringy, pulpy mess that ripped into great, gaping holes as he shoved it to the bottom of the tub. His left hand fumbled for the faucet as his right tried to support his weight enough to get off of the shower curtain.

"Booth! I…I…" she seemed unable to speak, which to him was a blessing in and of itself. He managed to stop the cascade and heave himself up to his feet, very aware that he was barely clad, and what he was wearing was plastered to his thighs. He stood in front of her, dripping into the silence that echoed with her enraged snorts as she groped both literally with her fingers and for words to express her fury. But her face told him what she was really trying to say: how to vocalize her betrayal. His heart hit the floor.

"I…" he stuttered and for a moment it seemed as if they would both smile and break the smoldering tension, realizing they were both stammering the same words. He tried again.

"It was…an accident?" It came out in the questioning tone Parker always employed when he was in trouble. His first line seemed to sink into the lake now between them, swimming with secrets and tears shed on both sides but separating them in swirling solidarity. She latched onto it like a fish rising hungrily to bait, but she went farther, her devastated features sucking him in more than the indrawn breath she sucked from the air.

"You didn't…" she choked. He heard the question anyway.

"The night we left for Kentucky; I…I dropped my keycard in the box…it broke when I tried to shake it out…it was...an accident?" He was literally whimpering.

"You didn't read…" she gagged. It was only then he saw what she held in one of her hands. The letter to Sully that had been so carefully yet carelessly tucked between the pages of his son's bedtime story. She wanted the denial; she wanted to be able to refute him, to rage at him, to catch him lying. He very carefully nodded his head.

"But you knew," she heaved, barely able to form words, shaking so hard he thought she was going to slip on the slick floors from the spilled water. He reached for her.

"Don't touch me!" she spat and there was venom now, gaining speed and hurt, making the words come easier.

"I…" he managed. He reflected how much easier it seemed in the movies, where everyone knew exactly what they wanted to say and how so perfectly to execute their eloquence. In reality, he was full to the brim with explanations but he only had one tiny hole for a mouth for them to funnel through. Currently they were bottlenecked. His words, his apologies, his brilliant ability to smooth things over was warring inside of him, trying to come out all at once. He cleared his throat.

"I…I'm so sorry... it just…happened." And it was the worst thing he could have said.

"It just happened?" she stormed. He realized the same thing was happening to her. Unable to comprehend, unable to process, unable to speak. She was latching onto the lines he was throwing weakly out and attacking him for that. "It just happened? You just happened to read every single letter for three weeks? You just happened to read what is for all intents and purposes…my DIARY? You just happenend to be reading one last night, texting me goodnight out of guilt as I searched frantically for the box?" Her face spasmed and her attack changed like lightning, too fast to express her real frustration. "Where is the box?"

"Angela has it," he said weakly. Also dead wrong thing to say. If there was a chart ranking all the worst things he could have said, he was working his way down the winners.

"You gave it to Angela! She KNOWS?"

"No!" he hurried into her monologued diatribe. "She didn't know what was in it; I smashed it, that's all she knows."

"You SMASHED IT?" she bellowed.

"You were showering! I was scared; I didn't know what it was!"

"So you just took them?" The letters. The pages of her life.

"I was going to put them back!" he screeched and realized he was yelling too in both panic and defensiveness, knowing that he was completely in the wrong but his past as an abused kid rearing its ugly head. He hated being screamed at.

"BUT YOU DIDN'T," she roared. "That's what's so…so…awful…so wrong…so…" she let out a strangled scream that ended in half vocalized curses.

And right then the worst possible thing that could happen, happened.

The doorbell rang.

"Dad?" came a tiny, terrified, shrunken voice that matched a huddled shaking figure that was slunk up against the doorframe. "Dad, that's Mom."

"Oh shit," cursed Booth, brushing rudely past Brennan, realizing he had gotten her wet by her half articulated shriek.

"Rebecca," Booth said by way of snarled salutation. She took in his sopping half nude appearance with her immediate fiery temper.

"Seeley, what on earth," she began and then caught sight of a shuddering, furious and dripping Brennan, so different than their last shower together. "Oh. My. GOD," she snapped. "This is unacceptable. Seeley Joseph Booth what on earth." She snapped at Parker like a recalcitrant dog. "Parker get your stuff. Let's go." She rounded on Booth with a glare and a snarl.

"You can kiss your rights to Parker goodbye. If I had known what on…what you…oh my God Seeley."

"Before you get into a full blown scream fight," said Brennan suddenly, her voice as clear as glass and cold as ice as she rudely brushed past him and shoved Rebecca cruelly out of her way. Rebecca's mouth opened and her own hands came up defensively; Booth actually thought they would fight before Brennan continued.

"Let me get away from him. I never ever want to see him again. And think what you will Rebecca," spat Brennan. "But this man is an excellent father." Booth lifted his chin in disbelief, tears pricking suddenly. "But that's all he is; he isn't good at anything else. If you take Parker away…well then I guess then he'd be alone because I am never coming back."

"Bones!" Booth called desperately, hand slapping the edge of the doorframe. Parker stood sandwiched between him and Rebecca- who wasn't backing down. Parker whimpered, caught literally between his parents as he always was. Booth noted absently that clutched in one of his small hands was Dracula. He hadn't expected her to turn around but she u-turned with such a fury that it scared him. Her eyes flashed and he almost saw her hands lash out over Rebecca.

"Don't call me Bones," she hissed; her rage again was choking everything she wanted to say. He could tell.

"What about your letters?" he gestured weakly, their secrets out at last.

"What about them?" she said coldly, her eyes dead. "You've opened them all. Now they're yours. I don't care."

"But," he almost whispered but she was already gone.

"Seeley-" began Rebecca at a full throated roar. Booth felt his temper snap. He roughly hustled his ex out of the threshold.

"I don't care," he yelled right back and slammed the door in her face. Through the wood he heard Parker burst into tears. He punched the door, just once, but then yanked it back open, three feet down the hall chasing his son. Rebecca had slung him up on her hip even though he was too old for the pose. His glaring red eyes peeped over her shoulder as he sobbed.

"Parker!" Booth called desperately, fingers outstretched in a parody of any romantic comedy.

"I don't care!" Parker echoed, his voice ripping through the air, which seemed much too thin in the hallway. He was sobbing and his tone was rife with hate. Booth swallowed, wilting as Rebecca started down the stairs.

He hadn't known what to do afterwards. It was Sunday. He had no beer except the one that was still sitting on the counter from last night. The Lab no doubt already knew of his treachery. Booth didn't know how he had come to be on the hunting range, but he had brought his own sniper rifle, paid the man and hiked to the top of a small bluff, obviously man-made in the rough country of flatland Virginia, not too far from DC. He jumped when a tree branch cracked, splintered and fell as he watched through his eyepiece. He had been shooting bullets in the same place at the same tree for an hour, trying to bore through the wood.

Booth didn't believe in shooting animals; silly since he had no problems shooting people. He sat stupefied in the middle of the country, just now aware of the dozen bug bites all down his neck, his sweat soaked shirt and his scratched up arms from brushing through the nettled woods.

Now that he had accomplished the asinine task of slowly splintering a branch from a tree with long range bullets from 150 feet away, he felt completely empty. He felt the same lethargy that he prompted him to drive out here. He wasn't even sure what he was wearing. He checked; at least he had pants on.

He was hungry, he decided.

His car took him to the diner before he had become aware enough to pack up his sniper scope. The waitress he always tipped extra flinched when he came in. Booth realized he was still holding his sniper rifle case in one hand and stank like the putrefaction of decaying flowers. He had knelt in a clump of dying wildflowers in the late June heat as he had bored his guilt into an innocent tree.

He threw his gun case down under a barstool at the end of the bar and headed to the bathroom. His reflection was horrifying. He would have been more shocked or upset if he was capable of feeling anything at all. He knew psychologically speaking he was going through the shock and numbness part of the grieving process. He didn't want to think about what Brennan said. That she was never coming back. She was never speaking to him again. His career at the Jeffersonian was over. He no longer had friends.

He deserved it.

He quickly, with the long practice of Iraq, wiped down his face, neck and arms in some semblance of cleanliness, though his body odor would give him away in a five foot radius.

He had already bulldozed through a burger, two hot dogs, a plate of French fries, a grilled cheese and was sucking down a chocolate malt next to a half crumbled piece of pie before he realized that the guy next to him on the barstool was actually talking to him. He kept slurping down the chocolate; ironically enough he stress ate more than Rebecca. He wondered how long the man had been talking, or what he was talking about or if his own voracious eating had been taken for conversation or agreement. He turned his stiff neck – when had he knotted it? – hunting, his mind answered – just the slightest to the left in order to see who the crap was bothering him.

"Jared," he said in dulled surprise.

"Yeah man, come on, let's go."

"What?" Booth screwed a little finger into his ear in confusion. He knew it was rude but he didn't give a damn. His tongue felt thick, numbed from the ice cream. He felt like he had been dropped into the middle of a conversation. "Where are we going?"

"Let's go home."

"I don't wanna," Booth muttered childishly.

"Look man, Padme's out in the car. Like I said, I only stopped in because she was sure she saw you. When I saw how much you were eating, I knew we had to take you home. Come on."

"What?"

"Come on, it's ok. You always ate that much when we were kids."

"I…" Booth couldn't think of an appropriate response. "I…haven't paid," he said stupidly.

"I got this one, it's ok," Jared said, helping him to his feet, hand on his back. By Jared's wince it was still soaked in sweat.

"My gun," Booth grunted and hauled up the case. Jared's eyes got wider and his grip on his arm got tighter as he propelled him towards the door.

"Sure man."

Jared's flashy silver Audi was a trade in for his bike and a huge dent in his money from his job at the State Department. Booth tried to rack his brain for where Jared worked now but couldn't remember. He did remember Padme.

"Hey Seeley," she chorused. He slouched in the back like a suspect being shoved in a cop car, clutching his rifle case like a briefcase or a small lapdog.

"Padme," he grunted.

"Jared says you're upset."

"Whatever," he grunted and thunked his head against the glass. Jared slung into the low seat cheerfully and kissed his fiancée quickly before pulling into traffic.

"See? Dead giveaway. Seeley always became more monosyllabic when he was mad or sad; he also tended to act more like a caveman in his habits. Eating more. Speaking less. Stinking." He laughed and waved a hand in front of his nose. Booth ignored him. They passed his building. It then dawned on him that Jared was taking him to his own apartment, to watch out for him. His throat tightened in gratitude and pity. He glared up balefully at his bedroom window as they passed.

"Can we stop?" he asked suddenly. Jared pulled up without a word. Booth was gone for exactly four minutes and twenty eight seconds. He came out without any clothes, without any toiletries, and one giant handle of scotch.

"It's been three days," whispered Padme. Booth wanted to groan. Just because he didn't speak didn't mean he didn't hear. He wondered if this was what Brennan felt like in high school: ignored. Invisible. Except he knew he was visible. Too visible.

Three days? It couldn't have been three days. He belched coarsely and rattled the almost empty bottle of scotch on his chest. He fixed his stinging eyes on the television. He was almost done with season three of a new tv show damn it, couldn't they talk away from the set?

"I don't even think he's slept," Padme continued in a low voice.

"That's impossible," Jared argued and then with a shrug in his voice Booth couldn't care enough to see if he matched in gesture, "I've seen him sleeping. Plus, Seeley can sleep with his eyes open."

"Jared I'm really worried. He hasn't gotten up off the couch since the first day. Plus, he's really starting to stink."

"He has," Jared argued. "It's not like he just sat there and peed himself."

"But he doesn't do anything," Padme insisted, panic lacing her voice. "He hardly sleeps. He just eats everything and sits there…it's a miracle he's not three hundred pounds."

"Just let him be a guy," Jared said dismissively. "He'll get over it. It's his way."

"No," Padme emphasized and then dropped her voice softer. "No. He's catatonic. Jared I think we should call someone."

"Like who?"

"What about his partner? Temperance?"

"NO!" Booth was halfway across the room before he realized he had just eaten an entire family sized bag of cheeto puffs and felt sick. "Don't call her. Don't call anyone."

"You haven't been to work in two days," Padme protested. Or showered hung in the air.

"I'll leave," Booth said suddenly, realizing that was probably bothering her.

"NO, Seeley, we're family. We're really worried about you. What happened?" She almost grabbed his arms but seemed to think better of it.

"Seeley, just go sit back down," Jared punched him on the shoulder like a good brother. He was just tipsy enough that he staggered. He knew, way back in his mind, that he was a mess. He had just enough sense to call in and feign sick to Sweets and his director. He wondered if Bones had gone in but the thought was too painful to continue past her name. It left a mental lump in his throat. She undoubtedly had. His treachery of her trust was routine enough in her life.

He took another swig of scotch to drown out that thought. He sat bolt upright, a thought sneaking suspiciously, cruelly through his mind. He was his father. He had turned, in three short days, into a man who watched television incessantly, nursing a drink and short tempered enough to consider thrashing his sons. Booth lurched off the couch and strode across the room and threw the almost empty bottle in the trash.

"Thanks," he grunted. In his present state the one word meant thanks for everything, you've been great at putting up with me. Sorry I stink and got crumbs between the sticky keys of your remote control.

Walking down the stairs, almost jogging to avoid Jared and Padme, he realized he had no way to get home or go anywhere.

He heard Jared call something after him. Something about a ride.

He hadn't realized it was storming inside with the volume turned up. Walking fast into the drenching rain wasn't so much a wakeup call as a forcible reminder of being stuck in that shower, Bones' scared, wounded and betrayed face screwing up the courage to finally get rid of the one person who she had ever trusted more than anyone else. His numbness had started and ended in a shower.

He began to cry. Like a baby.

He wasn't sober enough to be ashamed, but he was sober enough to not wander into traffic. He jogged instead, liking the burning feeling in his lungs, as if he was slowly roasting from the inside out. He stopped on a street corner. He had no idea where he was. He stunk. He was wearing the same clothes as three days ago. He had forgotten his rifle at Jared's. He was lost. And a little drunk.

He sat down on the curb next to a stop sign and cried, folding his face into his hands. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but it was long enough to realize that there wasn't a single dry spot on his jeans or his shirt. He looked up at the impatient honk. A car sat idling. It was black. One of the doors was open. All of a sudden he felt an impatient tugging under on of his arms.

"Get in," Cam snarled. "Jesus you're a mess."