Another internal monologue for the end of The Bone that Blew.

A favor

"I know you, Booth. You're trying to do me a favor, by telling me it's a favor for you," I say, lying with everything in me, and hoping he'll call me on it.

He thinks I'm completely clueless about the way people talk about us. Maybe he even thinks I don't know how I feel about him—or that I truly only think of him as a friend. For all his gut instinct, for all his good aim, his instinct and aim are off the mark.

"Sometimes it's hard to appreciate what you've got." I'm a better liar than he thinks I am. Of course I appreciate what I've got. The best friend anyone could ever have—but not more.

Of course I love him or whatever you call whatever it means when you can't stand the idea of not having someone in your life, every day. I missed him more than I missed my parents when I thought he was dead. And his overblown alpha-male tendencies—of course I can appreciate the fact that he wants to protect me. It just takes getting used to—nobody did for a long time that it was hard to accept that he was serious, and meant to be consistent.

He's always been there for me, and I've let him. But if he wants more, and I think he probably does—you don't look at your partner and friend the way he looks at me, smiles at me with that quick grin or that slow smile and have it be "just" friendship—well, he's not ready yet, so how can I possibly be?

He's not ready, because he knows far more about me than I do about him. He's always held something back, even as I've let him know I trust him with everything. He doesn't yet trust me, not fully, even if it's because he's afraid of what I'll think, or isn't willing to burden me with something. It feels like he wants me to unload everything, unpack, air out all my dirty laundry—while his remains bundled tight in an oversized duffel he can grab and throw over his shoulder at the first hint that I might no longer welcome him. Does he really think I'm that fickle? That shy of commitment?

My work-invading father aside, I've known Booth for four years. If he'd just relax a bit, show me the same level of trust I've shown him… I'm bad at relationships, but even I know you've need equal levels of trust in a relationship. As long as he thinks there's something about him that he needs to protect me from—well, I can only do for him what he's done for me, and be there just in case. When I put my foot in it with him, it's invariably because I've misjudged something because I just don't have enough information about him to go on.

But it's been changing. How can he think I don't notice how he acts when I see other men, that's not the way a concerned friend or brother acts, not by a long shot—if he thinks I can't tell what that pained grimace meant after I sent Ian Wexler on his way, or couldn't tell what he mean when he interrupted my date with Jason (and admittedly, I shouldn't have seen him or Mark, but a woman gets lonely and Booth's never volunteered what he does on his off time)—well, he's just wrong. And yet—he's talked more about Parker, been more open about how he feels in these last few months, even that one choked-out three word admission that only starts to hint at his childhood, than the past three years. He's starting to actually trust me, whether he knows it or not. But I'm not going to press him to tell me things, and I refuse to invade his privacy—he's different than me. He has to volunteer it—someone who's been tortured like he has won't ever offer information to targeted questioning.

"Don't fire Max, let him keep his job, " he assks. It's the first time he's ever asked me for anything—and he's doing it as he watches his boy, the most important thing in his life, rather than looking at me. It's alright—children should always come first.

I'm angry, still, at the way my father just waltzed in here and almost compromised all the things that I've worked for, without affording our victims the forensic integrity that they deserve. If he's going to stay, he's going to learn to do things on my terms—so I say so, in a roundabout way.

"Maybe you can overlook it for me." He's serious. Finally. And it looks like it hurts him physically to ask—like the question's been exacted under torture. Poor Booth. It's so hard for him to let go, but he has to, for the same reasons he tries to make me let go. It goes both ways, even if he doesn't think it possibly can.

"For you?" I have to be sure. He has this look he always gets when he's trying to get me to do something he thinks is going to be good for me—like he knows something and feels sorry for me that I don't know it yet. Of course I know it—I just don't want to admit it. I have to be sure that this isn't that.

"Yeah," he says, not looking at me as he thinks it over. "Personal favor."

It's true, he actually means it—though of course I heard my father talking to him about losing his job and Booth promising to talk to me about it. I was torn between my heart in my throat at his "Bones is beautiful," and my nausea at my father's incredible gall to interfere in my partnership with Booth. How dare he even think that he has any right to approve anything that I do, and then to tell Booth, not even obliquely, that he should make a move on me? How dare he assume Booth needs anyone's approval but mine? I don't need him pushing Booth when he's still figuring out how far to go.

"What, like a partner thing?"

I try to keep my face innocent. You get used to keeping your real thoughts and feelings to yourself in three short years of foster care. If you let people know what you really think, they'll take advantage of it. Not that Booth would, precisely, but if he's not going to trust me, then I can't let him all the way in.

"Partner thing." He hesitated, there, just that split second. He isn't asking because we're partners.

I can't help it—I find myself smiling in disbelief that he's finally asking me to do something for him. I don't want him to change his mind, or take it back—I need him to commit to this.

"I know you Booth." That much is true.

"You're trying to do me a favor, by telling me it's a favor for you." That's been true—just not right now.

And then he confirms my suspicion, a real honest answer, not hiding what he's actually feeling. "No. Nnn-nnh. No, I can't afford that school. I can't enrich Parker. Not with the science thing, but…"

I can tell he means it, because he keeps looking away from me. He never can look at me for long when he's admitting something he thinks I'm going to think badly of him for. How wrong he is. How could I think he's weak for wanting the best for his little boy? Or that he's somehow deficient just because his intelligence is the instinctive rather than the intellectual type? Intellectual intelligence can only be gained if there's a firm foundation to build upon, and Booth has passed that on to his son. That boy isn't afraid to ask any questions about anything. Booth did that. How could he possibly think he's not a good parent?

He inhales, flicking me a glance before he looks away again—he's inhaling like he's diving into deep, cold, unknown waters.

"… but you can, Max can." And now he's waiting, like I'm going to say no. How could I? The man just asked me to help him with the thing that's most important to him—he's finally showed me that he trusts me enough to ask and to let me help.

And then the bottle explodes, and his "who-ah!" is as open and excited as Parker's before his expression shifts and Parker proudly exclaims that "I blew it up!" Parker's proud of himself, but Booth's prouder still of his boy. He can't hide anything in that stone face of his when it comes to his son.

Two tousled blonde heads of hair, old and young, grin up at us, having fun while we watch over them both. I'm not as proud of my Dad as I could be. But he's trying.

"Look at my dad." My dad that Booth got back for me.

"Look at my little boy there with your dad." He trusts my dad with his son. He trusts me with his son.

"Okay." It's still hard to believe he actually asked me something.

"Alright." It just may be, finally, alright and maybe something more, soon.

"Yes." Yes, maybe it's possible now.

"Thanks, Bones."

I shake my head at him even as I smile back at his genuine, open, appreciative smile—he just unpacked his bags a little, or at least set them down on the floor, if he's asking me to do him the favor of being there to help him with his son. Perhaps he's starting to appreciate what he's got—someone he can trust, if he'll just let me. He shouldn't be thanking me. He's the one who's just done me a favor, by letting me in.