28.
You surprised the hell out of me as we were seeing Jack and Angela out for the night. Jack and I had done the family thing when he turned to you and pulled what looked like a ticket envelope out of his pocket, presenting it with a flourish. "Milady," he said, "I have succeeded in my quest and now present you with the fruit of my labors." You laughed and took the envelope, and gave him a hug and your thanks before shoving them out the door. Locking it behind you (good girl, Temperance, safety first), you turned and smiled.
"What was that?" I asked.
"A little something for you. Here," you said, handing me the envelope. Opening it, my mouth fell open.
"Fifty-yard line tickets for the Ravens game tomorrow! Bones! This is their first real match-up of the season!"
"I know," you said, smiling. "I took the liberty of emailing Steven to see if he wanted to go with you, since you had to cancel your dinner with him when he was here in town. I'll drive up with you and drop you two off at the stadium before I check out the National Aquarium, and you can call me when the game's over and pick you up for dinner. Does that sound okay?"
Oh, Bones. It sounds more than just okay. I'd really wanted to see Steven in particular before you'd gotten sick again, but it was out of the question with what had happened, and he'd been more than understanding when I'd called him to cancel. I'd been meaning to call him since we got home, but I kept pushing it off for no good reason. Of all of those guys, we'd been the closest, before, and it was the hardest, after, as we both tried to deal with what happened. You were so good, pushing me, gently, to reconnect with those friends who had meant a lot to me, meant a lot to me still, despite the distance I'd let spring up, because I wasn't yet ready to deal with all the things that happened.
"It's more than okay," I said, and pulled you in for a kiss before I showed you just how "more than okay" it really was.
- - -
We left not too long after nine that morning, since the game started at one, and it was an hour drive plus time to pick up Steven and get our seats at the stadium. We picked up breakfast on the way, though you complained about the fat and sodium content in your ham, egg and cheese sandwich as you ate. Whatever, Bones. As long as you eat, I don't care how much you complain.
We'd fallen into one of our comfortable silences again. I like that you don't need to talk all the time to fill the quiet—I mean, I always enjoying talking with you, or arguing, as the case may be, but you didn't feel the need to talk every minute, and you'd become a master at just giving me one of our mind-reader looks sometimes, when neither one of us wanted to say anything to spoil the moment, but wanted the other to know it was alright. I know it annoys people when we do that, but like Sweets said, we complement each other. Well enough that our minds usually run on parallel tracks, these days.
Sully was actually ragging me in the car the last time we'd gone out about how it was impossible for the rest of them to follow our conversations anymore, and it sank in that we really were talking to each other a lot more in our heads and our eyes than with our mouths anymore. I wasn't quite sure how to respond, but Clark spoke up from the back seat and said, "Ah, Moron, you're just jealous you and Cam aren't quite to the level of Dropout and T." Bones, I love that kid, and not just because he effectively deflected the conversation as Sully began to protest (methinks a little too much) that he and Cam were "just colleagues."
I saw my opening. "Just colleagues, huh? Think I've heard that before." Sully laughed and gave up.
But anyway—we were driving, and your hand was resting on my arm on the armrest, and I was thinking about how much I love you and how glad I was to be going to see Steven and all the knot of stuff that surrounds my thinking about him came untied, slowly, the way you carefully untie the ribbons on any presents you're given. You did that, Bones. So I started to tell you, and as you replied with "what then's" and "oh, Booth's" and a hand squeeze or two, it got easier and easier to get the whole story out. I'd never told the whole story to anyone. We'd all had to be debriefed, after, but military debriefings are just a factual recounting—not a discussion of how terrifying or painful it was—and the military shrinks aren't interested in hearing about your feelings. Their only real job is to decide if you can tamp it down enough not to crack if they send you back out there. And then I finished, and you pulled my hand over and kissed it, and said "It really wasn't your fault, any of you, and what happened after? Neither was that. Thank you for telling me."
Okay, see, Bones, that's where you go ripping my heart out and putting it back in so it feels a thousand times better again. "Thank you?" I'm the one who should be grateful, is grateful. You gave me my friend back.
You gave me my friend back. You called when we hit the city limits to confirm the directions to his house, and we found it without too much trouble. He was sitting outside on his stoop, like he couldn't even wait inside for us to ring the doorbell, and suddenly I couldn't wait either, and I threw the car into park and flew out of the car. He met me almost halfway (only you always meet me all of the way) and he was bawling and I was bawling and we were pounding each other's backs and you were smiling like an angel.
After probably ten minutes of that, you interrupted us, softly, and said "You two are going to miss the game if we don't get going." Which was true, although at that point I could have cared less about the game. So I introduced you to Steven, and felt a little bit of alpha-male pride as his jaw dropped, taking in how gorgeous you are. But he's a gentleman (some of the other guys are a little rough around the edges, I hope they're not too fresh when they meet you), and it was nice to meet you, and thanks so much for organizing this, and we were in the car and I let you drive (see, how much I love you?) as he and I immediately started catching up on our jobs and our lives and we were at the stadium before I knew it. You shut the car off and got out as we did, coming around to hug us both goodbye and wish us fun "watching your testosterone-laden war games."
Bones, you're so cute when you're squinty, and I was so happy that I pulled you into my arms for one of those perfect kisses, until I realized we were probably making Steven uncomfortable, so I broke it off. But you looked up at me and patted my cheek, saying "I love you too," and got back in the car, waving and calling "have fun storming the castle!" as you drove off.
When I turned back to Steven, his mouth was agape, and he just shook his head and said, "Wow."
"You don't even know the half of it."
- - -
The game was great, really, but we missed a couple of plays because we were talking, trading more stories and me talking a lot about you. We'd gone to get beers and hot dogs right before halftime, and made it back to our seats as the halftime show was beginning.
Ignoring the cheerleaders who can't hold a candle to you anyway, he turned to me, and asked, "Did you tell her?"
"I did."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"And what did she say?"
"She said it wasn't our fault, any of it. And . . . I believe her." And then I explained why I believed you, and by the time halftime was over, I think he believed you, too.
- - -
The rest of the game was great, the score totally even and the outcome uncertain down to the last few minutes. I won't bore you with the details, because I know you could really care less. But the best part of it all was how by the end of the game, it was like all those years hadn't passed, and we were friends in the way we'd been before everything had gone straight to Hell. I called you with ten minutes left on the clock, and you said you were on the way to the stadium and would wait down the street at the pizza place.
You were there when we got out, just as you said (of course, you always do what you say, just ask Parker), and got out to hand me the keys. Steven suggested we head to the seaport to some crab shack for dinner, and you didn't even make a face or make some crack about dismembering crustaceans in some primeval eating ritual. You went to sit in the back seat, motioning him to sit up front with me, but he knows what the deal is, and said, "No way. Temperance, you'll never take a backseat to any of us."
Dinner was great; you told us about the things you'd seen at the aquarium, and he'd asked about new exhibits because he was in charge of planning some field trips for his school this fall. We talked about his students, and some of our cases, and you methodically ate your cheeseburger and fries as we ripped apart two buckets of crabs and some of the best onion rings I've had in a long time. You were giving me your "I'm too full to eat anything more but I'll have a milkshake on the way home" look, so I didn't push you while the two of us had dessert and coffee, you sipping your decaf with a light in your eyes, even as you made a face when you ordered it. Yeah, decaf sucks, but I'm glad you're doing what Delia says.
It was still pretty early when we dropped Steven off. He invited us to stay overnight, and you said, "We really would love to, but we've got Mass and Parker's soccer game first thing tomorrow. Tell you what, though—we've been thinking about having a barbecue next Saturday at our place, and we'd love if you came down and stayed with us Friday night and helped us set up." Now, I knew we hadn't planned any such thing, but Jared was going to be in town again and Russ and Amy were also going to be up with Hallie, so it was as good an excuse as any, and my heart swelled with even more love for you than I'd had ten minutes before-- which was a lot to begin with. So Steven gladly accepted, and we planned to pick him up at the train station at the end of the day on Friday. I hugged my buddy goodbye, and he hugged you goodbye, and said "Thank you."
I'll say it again. Thank you.
- - -
I'd been thinking about what I'd read in your State file as I was mulling over my own stuff before we'd seen my friend that day, but I hadn't asked you about it yet, mostly because I was still surprised and shocked by so much of what I'd read. It was so strange to me—you're a horrible liar, most of the time, but you'd kept those secrets all this time. Of course, you'd kept my secrets all this time, too, so I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was, but you know I go more than a little nuts if you're in any kind of danger, so your throwing yourself into the midst of all of that was still hard for me to think about on a couple of levels.
"Did he give you a hard time when you resigned?" I asked, deciding to tackle the subject head on, though old habits die hard about naming them, and I just called him 'he,' knowing you'd know who I meant.
You shot me a glance, then responded. "No, he didn't. He said he was sad to lose me, but he wouldn't try to persuade me to stay."
"Why did you resign?"
"I didn't have anything to lose, before, so there was no reason not to continue. You resigned after Parker was born, and I have you and Parker now. Same reason."
"Bones, why did you . . . help in the first place?"
"For the same reasons you continued even after you were done with the Rangers. It was necessary."
"But you didn't . . ."
"No. I don't have that training, you know that. I did actually identify remains, but I also used my anthropological and cultural training to get to know the local populations, gain their trust, and . . . get information."
"Bones. That was some scary shit, those places."
You sighed, and your eyes were sad as you thought back. "Yes, it was some scary shit, as you say. But there wasn't really anyone else in those places who could go in like I could with a decent excuse for being there, and find out what was needed for them to . . . select targets. It's entirely likely that you… although I never read your . . ."
"There were three, overlapping, before I resigned."
"I'm sorry, Seeley. What I did wasn't the hard part, compared… " Your sad gaze shifted far off again, and I took your hand.
"Bones, I beg to differ. I never paid attention to where the . . . information came from, I just took my dossier and set up my stakeout. I never walked around, talked to the people, had to deal with what they'd been through face to face. That takes heart, and way more than a steady trigger finger." You were quiet, so I decided to press, a little. "Do you think about it?"
You turned to me, saying "Of course. I feel . . . sad for the . . . targets' . . . families, after, but it doesn't hurt me the same way it hurts you. I'd learned expedience early on, you know, and I really believe the balance sometimes lies on the needs of the many against the harm to the one or the few. And after meeting the many, hearing what happened to them? It bothers me even less. Sometimes you can't get justice—it's impossible to find, or no one will help you, or there just isn't time. You can only eliminate the threat. And . . . I was more comfortable with helping to eliminate the threat than not doing anything at all. It's less important to me that I be comfortable with the decisions I've made, than to know that the outcome of those decisions was the right one, in the larger scope of things. I don't believe in sin, the way you do, though if I did I'd agree it's a sin to kill anyone. But even your God has warriors, and He expects them to kill to protect the larger community. It's a necessary thing, and He doesn't begrudge them their deeds in His service. I think the larger sin is to not do anything at all, to waste the talents we're given. Eliminating the threat is better than doing nothing." Then you added, quietly, "I still have my own list, though."
I remembered what you said, after we buried Cleo Eller. "I'd like to help you with that." I paused and thought some more, then said, "But you know, work shared is work halved, so let's count all the ones so far against both our lists, alright? Because neither of us could have done it without each other."
Temperance. Of course, you were right, and for the second time that day you'd ripped my heart out and healed it a little more. I'd taken my saint's name to heart through my work, our work, but I'd never thought about it in terms of divine sanction before. You'd accused me of taking it too seriously, before, and of not allowing myself human failings, but you were right—even God needed help eliminating the threat.
You smiled as I said that, and squeezed the hand I'd been holding. "Work shared. That's right."
You'd fallen asleep by the time we got home, a peaceful smile on your face. I always debate whether to wake you up or carry you in. Of course, before we'd gotten together, I always erred on the side of waking you up, because I knew you'd kick my ass unless you were really hurting. Since then, you'd been remarkably patient of my need to carry you around and hold you in my arms all the time. So I indulged myself, and lifted you out of the car, carrying you up the walk to our home. You shifted a bit as I mounted the stairs, murmuring "home?"
"Mmm-hmm. Hold on while I get the door?" You twined your arms around my neck and snugged your head against my chest so sweetly, as I juggled you a bit to get the door open and turned the light to stick my head in on before going inside. You've noticed how I always check out the room before fully entering, and maybe you think it's a little ridiculous, but I've known other agents who've been attacked in their homes, and I've been attacked in too many supposedly secure encampments not to be more than just cautious.
Everything was fine, though, so I closed and locked the door behind us before settling you on the bed. You sighed and curled on your side, as I undressed and stored my weapons. I shrugged and worked out the few knots in my neck from the long drive, then bent to touch my toes and shake the kink out of my back where my holster sits.
I hate carrying my guns, and you know it too, though we both joke and make light of it. But as much as I hate carrying it, as much as I hate using it, what you said about not wasting the talents we've been given is right. Though I mourn every instance when I hit what I aim at, I always hit what I aim at, once I've sighted the target. If I wasn't ready to use that talent, if it could even be called that, if the situation required it? You're right, it would be the biggest sin of all. So I holster my talent and burden, every day, each time we go out in the world, even to Mass, praying each time as I lock the door to the house that I'll get through another day without needing to use it. Maybe by the time we're done with our list, someone else with a sure heart, a keen eye and steady trigger finger will come along, and I can put my guns away.
I shook off those heavy thoughts then, as I looked down at you, sleeping, and pulled the clothes off your unresisting, beautiful body. Pulling you against me, your breathing soft over my heart, I thanked God again for the blessing you are. As I fell asleep, though, a thought came to me that I knew I should remember in the morning. You always write about my shorts and socks, but I'd gotten dressed before you were out of the shower, and now you're asleep, so I'll complete the day's account with the following: smiley-face boxer shorts and yellow and red polka-dot socks.
- - -
The next day I woke early, and headed to the kitchen to bake the rest of that corn muffin batter. While I was waiting and the coffee was brewing, I checked my email and sent Daniel Goodman my thoughts on his revised lesson plans. I hoped I'd be able to do some team teaching, soon. Then, I checked to see if you'd updated what was now our project.
You had. You know, you always act like you're just the brawn or the guts, but it's simply not true. You write beautifully—really. And, you're welcome, but it was only what you would have done for me. Partners, right?
The timer went off on the oven, and as I pulled the muffins out and set them to cool, you wandered in, rubbing your head and mumbling "bacon muffins."
"Yes, bacon muffins. Eat up, we need to get going if we're going to shower, get ready, and pick up Parker for Mass."
You wrapped your arms around my waist. "Bacon muffins, Parker, and Mass. You're too good to me, Bones."
"I am," I teased, then poured us some coffee. You dumped the muffins onto a plate and brought them over to the island, sitting next to me. I hooked my ankle around yours as you split two muffins and put on more butter than I'd eat in a whole day, then shoved the plate in front of me, a look of challenge in your eye. Fine. But I gave you my "when all this is over you are eating nothing but raw vegetables and soy milk for weeks" look, and you laughed.
"All the rabbit food you want, Bones."
I slogged my way through the entire District's R.D.A. of cholesterol as we drank our coffee, and unthinkingly got up to refill my mug for a second cup.
"Have some milk, instead."
"I hate milk."
"You're whining like Parker. I bought some coffee syrup, no caffeine, all delicious corn syrup and artificial flavors. Put some of that in it."
"Where is it?" I started opening cabinets. You got up and reached up to the top shelf to pull it down.
"I'll make it. You finish another muffin."
I did manage to choke down another half of a muffin by the time you came back and handed me a tall glass. Taking a cautious sip, I let it sit in my mouth. Hmm. Not bad. I took another sip. Actually, it was really not bad. A third sip decided me—it was almost as good as ice cream.
"Fine, you win this round, Booth, just don't get used to it."
I finished my glass, then stared at the remaining half muffin forlornly. I really was full.
You took pity on me then, and pulled me up for a hug. "Poor Bones. Come on, let's go shower."
- - -
I have to say, if this crime-fighting thing ever gets boring for you, you could make millions just offering to wash women's hair for them—those hands... But on second thought—that's an awful lot of women I'd have to shoot. I guess your alpha-maleness is starting to rub off on me. Maybe I should just pee on your leg and get it over with.
- - -
I find it interesting that our first real fight and the whole next sequence of events occurred over religion, but not because I didn't believe—rather, it all started because I'd actually admitted to Parker that I do sometimes throw thoughts out to the universe, even if I wouldn't call it praying. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
We settled into the pew at Mass, Parker sitting between us, and he was in very high spirits. He kept leaning over to me to stage whisper about the different parts of the service, but he is five-- his stage whisper was louder than some of the congregants' regular speaking voices. I tried just telling him "Later," but he persisted, and you shushed him several times with an increasingly frustrated look on your face. Finally, I leant in and said, "Parker, let's come back later and you can show me everything then." He nodded solemnly, then, and subsided for the rest of the service. You, however, remained stiff, and kept shooting him looks.
On the way out, the priest squatted to speak to Parker, and asked "What had you so excited to show Temperance today?"
Parker, a grave look on his face, answered. "I asked God to make Bones better, and He did, so I wanted to show her His house, because she said when she talks to God she does it outside."
The priest shot me a smile before directing his attention back to Parker. "Well, there are lots of places where people can talk to God, it can be outside, too."
I interjected. "I told Parker we'd come back later, when he can show me everything without interrupting the service."
Parker looked up then, and realizing, said "Oh! I'm sorry!" so I leant down and responded.
"It's always nice when someone wants to share something they love. Sometimes, you just have to do it a little more quietly, okay?" He nodded, and smiled, and we shook the priest's hand and left.
You were quiet as we stopped at home to wrestle Parker into his uniform, and again on the way to the field. It wasn't until he'd run across the field, full of grazing Canada Geese, and met up with his team, to start what passed for drills before the game started, that you spoke directly to me, as we stood on the sidelines, waiting for the game to begin.
"Why did you tell him you talk to God when you're an atheist?"
Oh, no you don't. Okay, I know what's going on here. You think I lied, or I'm humoring him, or mocking your religion or something. You judgmental bastard. However, I didn't say any of this, and instead offered you the actual explanation.
"He asked me when we were at the hospital what I prayed about when we're in church, so I told him I didn't, not really—but that when I want to think about big things like missing my mother, or why some people are good and others are bad, I like to do it when I'm by myself, sitting under a tree or watching the stars. He wanted to know why, and I told him I was more comfortable thinking big thoughts in a really big place, like under the sky. He asked me if I didn't think it would be easier to be heard inside a church, and I told him that I'd rather blow my wishes out into the sky, like blowing on a dandelion and not knowing where all the seeds go. That just because I didn't know where the wish might end up didn't mean I didn't make wishes at all."
You didn't say anything, and didn't meet my eyes, either.
"You think I lied to him."
You hesitated, and looked askance at me before looking away. Oh, that's it.
"Answer me."
This time, my tone caught your attention. Leaning in, my hand on your arm, I took what I hoped would look like a friendly posture to anyone else, and dug my fingers into your arm until you flinched, then lowered my voice. "How dare you think I would ever lie to, or humor, or God forbid, mock something as important as this is to you and your child. To any child, but especially yours. You automatically assumed that I was lying to him, rather than give me the benefit of the doubt in trying to keep my word to let him grow up to make his own choices, and yet still tell the truth. I don't lie, Booth. Not to you, not to your child, not to anyone. If I can't tell the truth, I keep my mouth shut. And I don't ever judge someone because they believe differently then I do."
The muscle on your jaw was clenching, and you spit back, fortunately in a low tone that others would hopefully think was normal conversation, "Bones, you argue with me about religion all the time. What am I supposed to think?"
Oooh. If we weren't at a children's soccer game, I would punch you even harder than at your stupid fake funeral. "I would expect you to think, if that's what you call the way you're behaving right now, that I can tell the difference between a real discussion with an adult capable of thinking for themselves, and protecting the innocence of a child who happens to believe something my own experience has led me to believe probably isn't real. I would also expect you to at least put off your self-righteous judgment until you actually asked Parker about my conversation with him."
"He's a child, Bones."
"He's also apparently a hell of a lot more mature and intelligent than you, right now. As you would know if you'd just talk to him."
You still clearly didn't believe me. This was not going well. You have such a knee-jerk reaction when it comes to some things, and Parker and religion are two of them.
"Let's back off for a second. Have I ever, ever, contradicted anything you've said to Parker? Have I ever told him anything but the truth? Have I ever done anything but keep my mouth shut while you lecture him about a supposedly omniscient and omnipotent God who nonetheless can't be bothered to care directly for the innocents in the world, who lets His children kill one another for no reason, who lets His flock be eaten by wolves? Because I'll tell you something. Booth. Your God is a criminally negligent parent, if He even exists. Simply because I reject that God, Booth, and choose instead to believe that each of us is capable of finding our own truth and achieving our own goodness, doesn't mean I can't accept your choice to educate Parker about those ethics in the context of Church dogma. But you're a hypocritical prick if you condemn me for not believing exactly the way you do. Your Christ didn't distinguish among any of His children. Who the hell do you think you are, that you have the right to judge me?"
Parker's running footsteps came over at that lovely juncture, me glaring at you and confusion shifting across your face. "Bones! Daddy! I get to kick the ball first!"
I squatted down, and pasted on a smile. "Parker, that's great, how come?"
"Because I scored three goals the last time!"
I replied, "I know you did, do you think you can do it again?" and he nodded, his head practically bobbing off his head, he was nodding so hard. You were still standing there, your jaw still ticking, when you picked up Parker and said, "Hey buddy, that's great! You're going to do a great job today."
When you put him back down, Parker looked back at me, still squatting at his level, and bent to pick something. It was a dandelion, gone to seed. "Dr. Bones, will you make a wish with me?"
I felt you start next to me, and I ignored you as I said, "Sure. One, two, three, blow!" Parker scrunched his eyes up and blew like a cartoon character, spraying spit all over the dandelion, and I added my own breath, to make the seeds scatter, and wished, all's well that ends well, whatever the end might be. He opened his eyes, and smiled at me, saying "Who knows where it might end up, right?"
"Right. Now, looks like they're getting ready to start—you go back now, and good luck!"
He scampered off, and I stood, and turned to face you. "I am going to get something to eat. Do not follow me. And when I come back, do not speak to me until you are spoken to."
I turned my back on you then, and did my best to walk slowly and steadily away, rather than either turn and punch you, or run back to the car to cry because I couldn't believe you doubted my truthfulness to your child. I could forgive your sanctimonious attitude about my lack of belief, but you know better, you've said it yourself, you conveniently forgetful son of a bitch, when it comes to how I deal with children, and why I always tell them the truth, why I never promise anything I'm not going to do my utmost to deliver. When I reached the ice cream truck at the edge of the field, I'd cooled down a little, but not enough—my blood was pounding in my ears.
"Diet ginger ale and a slice of pepperoni pizza, please."
I took my order aside, and looked back for the first time since I'd walked away from you. You kept looking back at me, then over at the huddle Parker's team was making as the game was about to begin, and then back at me. Even twenty five yards away, I could feel the confusion radiating from you, but I was still furious that it was taking you this long to admit you were wrong. Sighing, I leaned against the tree under which the ice cream truck was parked, and stuck the soda in my purse as I started to nibble my pizza. Stupid calorie intake. Stupid man. Stupid bullshit sanctimonious prig. Stupid pepperoni. I really hate pepperoni, do you know that, you stupid judgmental aggravating man who I love anyway, even though one of these days I'm going to clock you again, and you'll be damned lucky if it's not on our wedding day, in your stupid church that I'm getting married in just to make you happy? Rrrrgh.
Wow, that pizza was really disgusting. I took out the ginger ale and took a swig. Uck. That didn't taste so good, either. Oh. Shit. Please don't let that be what I think that was that just dripped, salty, down my throat. I raised my hand to my nose, and shitfuckshitfuckshitshit it came away bloody, and damnit, I really don't want this to happen at Parker's soccer game. Really, really didn't want this to happen here. Please, whoever, I thought, as my legs went out under me and I sat with a hard thump at the base of the tree, I really, really, don't want to hemorrhage out in front of a soccer field full of five year olds, including a boy and his father I'd promised I'd stay put for, so please, can this at least wait until after I go to sleep tonight and don't have to see their faces when I can't keep my promise? Please? Could I maybe get through, say, three whole weeks without some major medical event? Please?
Feet pounded over. "Bones!" Your hand grabbed my chin, forced my face up. "No, not again, Bones, don't do this." Napkins pressing on my nose, my head tipped back until I coughed and spat out the blood running down the back of my throat into the napkins wadded in your hand, and I was pulled forward, head between my knees, as I coughed some more. Definitely, too much blood, and my vision was graying. Okay, look, I am really, really asking here, whatever you are, can this please not happen right now? "Come on, Bones, come on!" Please, come on, I do not want to die from a hemorrhaging nosebleed after a stupid fight with Booth, because he will literally kill himself with guilt thinking it's all his fault, even though at least I got to tell him I loved him this time, and I especially do not want to die in front of his son, who will not only then have to deal with my breaking my promise to him, but will then probably watch his Dad go completely I don't know what, but it's not going to be good, so can we please, please, agree that if my time is up, it's just not going to be right now, and will happen later, after I've had a chance to make up with Booth so he sticks around for Parker? "Bones, damnit, Temperance, come on!" Please, just not right now?
And then, in the midst of it all, I saw a dandelion seed float by, under the wad of napkins you were holding at the end of my nose, and I closed my eyes, and blew. Please?
- - -
I was considering myself lucky that you hadn't laid me flat on the ground in front of a field full of five year olds as you stalked away from me, rage in your voice and ice in your eyes as you skewered my hypocrisy. You're right, you're always right, and if I wasn't such a horse's ass and had just asked Parker what he'd meant when we were first in the car after church, then I wouldn't be standing there, trying to decide whether to do what you told me and stay put, and cheer on Parker, whose game was starting any minute, or go after you and apologize and let you punch me or kick me in the nuts if it was going to make you feel better and forgive me.
But at least you went over to the ice cream truck, and I turned my head back to watch the milling kids starting to line up for the kickoff, and then I saw you'd moved under a tree and were watching the start of the game as you drank something, so I turned my head back to watch Parker, except he was looking up to see if we were watching. But he looked past me, then, and said "Dad! Dr. Bones!" with a look of fear I'd never seen on his face before, and when I turned around, your legs were sliding out from under you as you sank to the ground.
I've never run so fast in my life, except when I saw that plume of dust in that quarry, and your head was drooping forward and when I pulled your chin up, "Bones!" your nose was bleeding again, and your face was gray and your eyes glazed, and someone was stuffing napkins in my hand. "No, not again, Bones, don't do this." I tipped your head back, and even more color was draining from your face into all the napkins in my hand, and goddamnit this is not happening, please, you coughed and made this burbling, spitting sound that meant you were choking on blood, because I've heard that noise before, and so I pulled your head forward, and please God no that light's dimming in her eyes and so I pushed your head down, and you hacked so much blood into the napkins that my own knees hit the ground where I'd been squatting, as someone behind us stuffed more napkins in front of me and I said "Come on, Bones, come on!", and you coughed and spat again, and I was starting to shake because I needed another fresh wad of napkins, please God, you are not supposed to go like this, you are supposed to be in bed with me when I'm 90 and you're 85 and we have dozens of grandchildren, and together we just don't wake up one morning, not you bleeding out on me because I made you angry about something I shouldn't have been so stupid about in the first place, and I haven't told you I love you a thousand million more times so you can't go yet, so Please? "Bones, damnit, Temperance, come on!" Please!
And then, in the midst of it all, I saw a dandelion seed float by under the blood-soaked wad of napkins I was holding at the end of your nose, and I closed my eyes, and blew. Please?
- - -
And then, my nose stopped bleeding.
- - -
And then, your nose stopped bleeding.
- - -
Closing my eyes, for a moment, I whispered "Thanks."
- - -
Closing my eyes, for a moment, I whispered "Thank You."
- - -
And then I looked right at you, and you looked right back at me, and it was okay.
- - -
I don't know why, but it was. It was really okay.
