44.

"Ready to go downstairs?"

"I guess."

"I'm sorry, Bones."

"There's nothing to be done about it. It is what it is."

And then I let you pick me up and carry me downstairs. I wondered if it was going to be a regular ocurrence from now on, and how soon it would be before even flat surfaces would be beyond me. Somehow, I thought that it might. I'd just have to work on my tongue-lashing technique, since physically kicking someone's ass was no longer an option. You set me down at the foot of the stairs, everyone else pretending not to have seen, and left your hand at my back as we made my way back to my office.

"I'll pack up. Will you let Cam know I'll be out tomorrow, then we'll both go see Angela?"

"Will do."

As I packed up my laptop and some limbo files I'd been working on in between the Fratelli bodies that were piling up, I reflected. I wanted to come in tomorrow, really, I did, but that burst of fury at court had left me feeling weaker than I had yet, combined. I needed to sit, and sleep, and do what I could to eat, even though apples, peanut butter, rice cakes, deli ham, and cheddar cheese, my new caramel pot de cremes, pasta and butter, and Sid's fruit/protein milkshakes, were really the only things that didn't make me a bit queasy right now. That steak sandwich at lunch was the exception, but Sid couldn't very well become our personal chef. And no more than a cup at a time, before I got the lurches. The weight fell off twice as fast as I'd put it on, and I knew even before the blood cultures were back, that I was going to have to do another round. I'd already called the Dean of the Faculty, and asked him to replace me with someone else for next semester's seminar. It was a more basic recovery techniques class, something one of the archaelogy faculty could handle. I didn't want this. As much as I hate feeling helpless myself, I hate seeing even more how it affects you, and our friends. There are so many things you can do, so many talents you can bring to bear to solve so many different problems, but this was beyond either of us.

"Ready?" You came in and picked up my bag, slinging it over your shoulder, your hand at my back and my elbow as we crossed the lab to Angela's office.

"Ange?" She looked up from her computer. "I'm not coming in tomorrow, and Booth's going with me to tomorrow afternoon's session. I'll be available by phone, but not in the afternoon until, well, you know the drill."

She nodded and got up, came over to hug me. "You're the bravest people I know," she whispered. I nodded. There wasn't anything to say beyond the fact that when you have no choice, it's not really bravery, and I didn't want to burden her with that now.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Angela. Promise." She gulped, and waved, and we walked out.

- - -

We got home by six, and the answering machine was blinking like a strobe light. I slung your bag over by your chair, and sighed as I considered all the calls that were likely on there. How many were friends? How many were press, vultures, looking for comment? You braced your hand on the wall, then walked back to the bedroom. A few minutes later, I heard, "Seeley?"

I walked in, and you were sitting on the edge of the bed, already undressed, your usual pair of flannel pants and camisole for kicking around the house on the floor, the earlier look of resignation on your face. "Would you look through the red storage tub downstairs? There are some pairs of silk pyjamas and robes down there. The cotton's too scratchy." Shit. Delia said that might happen, with muscle aches and skin sensitivity setting in. I don't suppose we need to wait for the biopsies she's taking tomorrow to come back.

I changed into some sweats, and said "I'll be right back." I pressed a kiss on your forehead, for whatever good it might do.

I found them easily, several pair, and brought them back upstairs to you, along with the satin robes and nightgowns you'd stored. You'd never worn them, never even unpacked them, since we always slept nude, and now you needed them for the worst possible reason, when they should be worn just for taking off right away. "Red? Blue? Green?"

"Doesn't matter, whatever, the pants will probably fall off anyway." Oh, Bones, sweetheart.

"Here," you said, holding out your hand. I handed you the green ones, and put the others in the drawer. You leant back to slide the pants on, then pulled them up, then slowly, so slowly, my poor Bones, pulled the top on over your head. I pulled you up as you held on to your pants, and made sure you were steady, then pulled the drawstring closed for you. It wasn't as bad as it could be. They hung low, but you wouldn't trip on them.

"Come on, baby, let's have some supper." You walked out the door and down the hall again, trailing your hand on the wall as I followed. You'd tripped on the threshold last week and earned a bruise to match the one from the shootout with Santana on your other hip.

You walked over to the couch, pulled your legs up under the new cashmere throw I'd gotten you when the other new one I'd bought wasn't warm enough and was too scratchy. You turned so you could look over the back of the couch as I put something together, and asked, "Give me the phone and a notepad, I'll check the messages."

I started the water for pasta, then grated some cheddar and chopped up some ham while I waited for it to boil-- you'd tried your own mac and cheese, but the cream sauce was too rich for you. I was trying to eat what you ate, so you wouldn't feel lonely. At least you could eat things that were comparatively balanced, still, but there were only so many ways you could combine nine ingredients. Maybe I could try something asian-y with spaghetti and peanut butter and apples. Sid might have an idea or two-- he'd always managed to come up with the most wild and yet tasty combinations when we were crossing the Junik Mountains on the way to Albania, scavenging what passed for greenery and wildlife in the middle of December. Only guy I know who can make vulture and lichen taste decent, and he always managed to come up with something hot, so important when it's sleeting for four days straight. We were both lucky we didn't come down with pneumonia, though Alfie did after we made it over the border. Your pen was scratching away still, and I wondered how many messages there were.

Your pen stopped, then, and you looked up. "Not as bad as it could be-- mostly friends-- Billy, Sam, Mel, Jeanne and Sid. One call from People, one from US Weekly, one call from Henry. I should call my Dad and Karen, though, in case it's on the news tonight, if it hasn't been already on the five o'clock news. I know there was a reporter in that courtroom."

I listened as you called Karen, sketched out the news, and gave her the name of the reporters who'd called, and confirmed that you were signing your new contract. And then you talked to your Dad, who'd already heard, and you reassured him that despite all, you weren't feeling that bad, and would plan on seeing him Wednesday. "He wants to talk to you," you said, handing over the phone.

I walked over, took it, cradled it against my shoulder as I poured in the pasta and stirred.

"Max."

"Son. He's going to Oakdale?"

"Max, it won't be necessary. It's enough. But I appreciate it."

"Mmm-hmm. How about the lawyer?" That was a non-committal response if ever I heard one. Max knows about plausible deniability.

"Caroline's filing a complaint with the bar overseers. She thinks she can get the judge to sign on."

"That's not enough."

"I know. But, just, leave it, Max."

"Mmm-hmm. Who the hell was he getting his information from?" Well, he'd find out and do what he wanted, no matter what we asked at this point. He was on the warpath.

"I don't know, Max. If it's someone at the lab or the Hoover, I won't be happy."

"Neither will I." Max Keenan, master of understatement.

"Never again, son."

"Never have, never will."

I hung up the phone, and dialed Sam at his direct line. I figured he still would be there-- this Fratelli thing was a total clusterfuck.

"Booth."

"I won't be in tomorrow, I'll be back in Wednesday."

"I'll call if anything happens. Oakdale, hunh?" Jesus, Bones, even the deputy director wants a hit out on this guy and his lawyer.

"Sam, that won't be necessary."

"Why, Max taken care of it already?" Good lord. Did Sam just outright ask me if my father-in-law, the one who killed Sam's own boss, had put a hit out as a favor to me?

"Sam."

"Sorry. Forget that I asked. Look, Caroline said you two have one more trial up, in January. Want me to have someone squeeze him on a plea?"

"Nothing out of what you would ordinarily do."

"Understood. Tell her I said to take care."

"Thanks."

I drained the pasta, stirred in the rest of the ingredients, after adding the butter, and measured out your one cup of food. It looked so little, in the bowl, but you'd tried pushing it, and one cup every two hours was it before you turned green. I plated my own and headed over to the couch, setting them down as I went back for a beer for me, and a leftover mango shake you hadn't finished at breakfast.

"Scoot over there, Bones." We ate in silence, your feet in my lap, and then when we were done, I got up to clear the dishes. "You want an apple?"

"Half of one. There should be one in there all ready."

"Got it. Here, catch." At least your reflexes were still good.

I came back, and sat down again, settling your feet back in my lap and under the blanket again, as you rested your head back against the sofa arm and closed your eyes to listen better. I reached for one of my all-nighter-books we'd been reading-- one of the ones I'd pored through in high school, until even now I practically knew them by heart, though it had been years since I'd touched them. We'd finished the first volume, and were starting the second. You'd never read them before, but seemed to be enjoying them now-- or at least you were fascinated by the intricate linguistic and folkloric background the author had built before even writing the story, even if maybe you thought all the adventure stuff was boring. But if you did, you were doing a good job of hiding it.

"Book Three, Chapter 1: The Departure of Boromir. Aragorn sped up the hill. Every now and again he bent to the ground. Hobbits go light, and their footprints are not easy even for a Ranger to read, but not far from the top a spring crossed the path, and in the wet earth, he saw what he was seeking."

- - -

The weight shifted on the bed, a hand brushing hair from my forehead. "Hey, sleepy, good morning." I cracked an eye.

"Hi, husband." Oh, Booth. You're too stressed out to give me that goofy smile, now it's all just variants on sad smiles. My poor Seeley. "What time is it?" You were already dressed, though not for work, which meant you'd been up for a while.

"Nine." So late, for me. We'd made it through chapters one and two of the book last night, but it had still been early when you'd finished, and you'd groaned your way through the last two servings of the pot de creme. I was planning on getting up early this morning and making some more to drop off to Sid on the way to the doctor's, to see what he thought about it. There wouldn't be time for the custard to set, now, and I'd be too sore and tired after the treatment and biopsies today to make it tonight. What was wrong with me? I was worrying about making pudding, for God's sake, instead of using the little energy I had in the mornings to work on the Kenton case. Compartmentalizing was not working, clearly. Now I was sublimating. Not good.

"Hey, Bones? You there? Woo-hoo, Bones."

I shook my head. "Sorry. I'll be up in a minute. Any calls?"

"Nothing relevant, just placeholding."

"Give me a minute." Time for the morning mental catalog-- no dizziness on waking. Let's see how rolling to the side does. Good. Okay, legs over the side of the bed, and sit up. Good, no dizziness. You're crouching there, waiting to see if I'm going to need a boost up, and trying to keep your poor forehead unfurrowed. Okay-- big action here, the hand brace and push. Alright. Excellent. Standing is good. This was the hardest part, except for the tub-- the tub that I loved so much, and now it was too high to climb into without bending too far over to avoid a head rush. My place wouldn't be any better though, I had a tub you had to step into, as well, and at least there were only four stairs into the house-- the elevator in my building often went out. So far, Parker's stool had been enough, but the tub was too far from the wall to use it to hold onto. Okay, standing, not wobbling. It's a good morning.

"Hey, good morning." You'd stood up as I did, waiting, but you knew to let me do it myself. Kenton notwithstanding, you're going to get called away in the middle of the night, and between your leaving and someone coming over to keep me company, I simply wasn't going to languish in bed. What's the line between languishing and bedridden? I'm not very good with lines.

"Morning, wife," you said, pulling me to you so you could wrap your arms around my waist, running your hands on my bare skin. You were worried I was going to get too cold without pyjamas on, but I wanted your warmth around me without interference, which meant you'd heaped too many covers onto the bed, which you'd inevitably kick off in the night. "Want a shower?"

"Yes, please." I headed off, you trailing, then pulled out Parker's stool with my foot. You stood to the side, as I stepped up, grabbed your shoulder, and stepped in, then pulled the curtain. "Thanks. I'll call you."

You'd been just picking me up to get me in and out of the tub so I could shower, until I reminded you neither Angela nor my father would be doing the same thing, and that I needed to mostly do it by myself. You hated it. I hate it. But like you'd said, you knew I wouldn't give up, and I know you wouldn't either.

I hate that you're getting up in the middle of the night, to work, and to pace, and to reread those files that we both know by heart. I especially hate that you feel like you had something to hide from me. You don't. I want him dead, too. And it's justice, sure and swift, if it happens, if you get a clear shot. That's all, pure and simple. But I'll kill him if I get the chance, have no doubt about it. (Also? Give me some credit. Temperance spelled backwards? Not the best password, either.)

I love you, you know. All of you. The soft parts, the hard parts, the sharp and prickly edges and the surrounding warmth. They're all you, and without all of them, you wouldn't be the Seeley Booth who I love.

- - -

"Where did the daisies come from?"

"The corner store."

"That's a good corner store. Paneer, prunes, armagnac, 70 percent cacao liquor chocolate, daisies?"

"It is called Kismet. Why are you surprised?"

- - -

"Let's go out on the back porch." You pulled the blanket from the sofa up, a daisy in hand, and followed me as I headed out. You got the door, and settled me into a chair as I watched you take the one next to me, rosary in hand. I plucked my petals, and held them between my closed hands. I know you want me to wish that I'll get better, that everything will be fine, but I just find . . . I can't. It's not fatalism, so much as a recognition of the random nature of the universe, and a belief that asking for a smaller favor might be more helpful, less hubristic, than a large one. I don't want to die. I don't want to leave. But I just have to do the best that I can, and that will have to be enough. Asking not too die is too much. Asking to die well, with enough time to say goodbye, if it's going to happen at all? That level of susperstition I can live with. So you straightened, and looked at me, as I closed my eyes, made my wish, my plea, my silent yell of unfairness to the universe, and thought, 'all's well that ends well.' I really hoped so. I blew, and then opened my eyes, as the come-from-nowhere breeze again carried the petals away, and we watched them as they floated past the tree, and then saw something glinting.

- - -

There was a glint of metal in the tree. Where no metal should be. I pushed you out of your chair, pulling my weapon and firing three shots even as I came down in front of you to shield you. We were sitting ducks out here. But there weren't any shots returned, and with a thump, he fell out of the tree, bounced off the hammock, and hit the ground with a neck breaking thud. Good.

"Stay down, please," I begged. You just nodded, as Mel hopped the fence and Evan burst through the back door, nearly slamming it into us from where we still were, lying just to the side. Mel ran over to check the body, kicked the weapon away. "You got him," he said. I sat up, then turned to you to see how you were doing. "Fine," you mumbled, rolling from your stomach to you side, and half sitting. "Go put another one in him, just to make sure." Okay, Evan's looking kind of hard of hearing on that last bit, thank goodness. We've got to work on your public plausible deniability skills, Bones.

"Stay put."

You laughed, shakily, and said "Shaky calls me Grace for a reason." Oh, Bones.

I rolled up, and ran down the stairs, then kicked the body face up from where it had landed. It was him- and I'd gotten all three of my shots in, trying hard as I pushed you over to remember exactly how tall he was, so I could aim better, though he wasn't clearly in sight. But I'd done it, by Grace, or Providence, or whatever, one each in the heart, to stop, the neck, to kill, and the head, just to make sure. He was dead before he hit the ground. Too bad. It would have been good if he saw the ground coming, felt the fear before impact. Evan was already on the radio, and Mel'd secured the gun with a plastic bag in his pocket, and handed it toward me, clip released.

I brought it over to you, crouched down, and offered you the gun as I pulled you up to sitting, then crouched so I could make sure you weren't shaking your head to clear the white-out dizziness off. You turned it, so the muzzle faced you.

"Evan? Have you got a flashlight, please?" He handed it down to you, and you shone the light down the barrel, squinting.

"That's it," you said. "I can see the most prominent seam. Nice shot, sweetheart," you said, then, smiling up at me with pride, and vengeance, and satisfaction in your voice. A heavy car pulled out front, footsteps coming up the side of the house, Sam and Sully both hopping the fence. Sam stopped long enough to take in the lack of wounds, then went over to the body, a grim smile on his face.

The guys from evidence arrived right on his heels, though Mel had moved over to the fence to open the gate from inside. As they arrived, Sam said, "Clean this trash up, please, boys."

You let me boost you back up to standing on the porch, but then made your own way back into the house. "I'll start coffee," you said, that naughty June Cleaver look in your eye. "Evan," I muttered, and he followed you in as I went over to look once again, to make sure, once again.

"I'll never understand how you get that three-shot combination off, Seeley, I've never seen anything like it." Sam shook his head.

"Well, you get shot at enough, you learn to make sure."

- - -

You were setting out cups and saucers and cream in the kitchen, in the pyjamas and robe from last night that you'd put back on after your shower. As we traipsed in, you pulled some muffins out of the microwave, the smell of bacon, and cheese, and scallions perfuming the air. I didn't know you had more bacon muffins in the freezer. (You could actually check, you know, it's not like I'm hiding them. Typical male. Rather ask the female where things are than look for it yourself.)

Sully groaned, and said, "Oh, Tempe! Bacon muffins!" before hustling over to the counter and shoving one whole muffin right into his mouth. Sam perked up then. He does love him some bacon. You smiled, and turned to the fridge, coming back with the butter. "Help yourselves, boys," you murmured, pouring yourself a cup of water and sitting at the island.

"Mmm. Temperance. These are incredible," mumbled Sam, as Evan and Mel just kept snarfing muffins and pouring more coffee.

"Bones, you saved some for me, right? 'Cuz I'm the one who actually got him, I think that deserves a bacon muffin or three."

You smiled, and pulled another half dozen muffins out of the microwave. "Of course I did. I'm June Fucking Cleaver, remember?"

Sam was not happy to spray near-scalding-hot coffee out of his nose.