Chapter 5

"Sometimes, the ocean floor is only a stop on the journey. And it is when you are at this lowest point, that you are faced with a choice. You can stay there at the bottom, until you drown. Or you can gather pearls and rise back up — stronger from the swim and richer from the jewels."

Yasmin Mogahed, Reclaim Your Heart: Personal Insights on Breaking Free from Life's Shackles

Partners from the Latin word partitio, a sharing; the Middle English word parcener, meaning joint heir. In more modern terms, a colleague, associate, or co-worker, someone with whom one joins, sharing risks and profits. That seemed to fit.

"Me and you are partners. That's what we do." Booth said that to her at the Founding Fathers last night and more than anything in the world she wanted to hold him to it.

Ironically, the word partner also means, a lover, someone a person has sex with, a member of a married couple or an established unmarried couple. That didn't fit them, though thinking about it filled her with a sense of loss and caused a deep ache in the center of her chest.

She needed something firm to hold onto, boundaries, structure, clear instructions. But, considering the etymology and meaning of the word partner wasn't helping her figure out how she should interact with Booth now that he set new parameters for her, for their relationship as partners and friends. Her mind turned in circles following the same course again and again. Did he even consider her a friend after last night? She didn't know. He was so angry, angrier than she could remember seeing him in all the years of their partnership, certainly angrier than he'd ever been at her.

Tensing at the thought, she forced herself to breathe and relax. Her shoulders fell, her body went limp, exhausted from holding itself tight for so long. She spent the morning trying to distract herself from her worries over Booth with no measurable success. She ran errands, stopped by the lab, engaged in some rather vigorous deep cleaning, went to the gym, none of it helped. Her mind kept returning to him, to the awful way they left things, to those definitions to find some sort of comfort.

In all her mental meandering she found one useful denotation for the word partner that struck her, although her interpretation was admittedly metaphorical, not literal. A nautical definition, partner(s) heavy timbers that strengthen a ship's deck to support the mast. Booth needed support. That's the kind of partner she wanted to be for him, the kind that would strengthen and support him.

By lunchtime she found herself openly fretful and searched for a reason to contact him. If she could check on him, she reasoned, she could make sure he was okay and alleviate some of her stress.

At 12:57pm his phone buzzed.

When he saw the message was from Bones he hesitated. He didn't want to talk about last night. Letting his eyes fall momentarily shut, he held his breath, his finger hovering over her name as he tried to decide whether to open her message or not. His queasy stomach churned as he stared down at his phone. Head pounding, the constant pressure behind his eyes made them feel like they were swollen and bulging, his thoughts still jumbled and thick, he felt like crap. But it was Bones. He couldn't ignore her.

I can't find the paperwork for the Dustin Rottenberg case. I was going to get started on my part of it this afternoon. Do you know where it is?

Booth let out a loud sigh of relief. Work. He could do work.

I have it.

He brought it home with him, thinking he would catch up with Bones on the weekend to hammer it out.

Can I get it from you?

Staring at the message, his jaw ticked, and he shook his head back and forth. He didn't really want to see her, not yet. It was all too fresh, the pain, the anger, and now that he was sober, regret was settling in. There was no question he needed to deal with it, all of it, but he wanted some space first. He needed a little time. Pinching his nose, he sucked in a heavy breath. Why was it so goddamn hard to breath. It was supposed to be automatic, you weren't supposed to have to think about it, it was something your body just did, not forced, but it felt forced, like it wouldn't happen if he didn't remind himself to do it.

He answered her last text so quickly, but this one seemed like it was taking forever. With every passing second her heart pounded harder and faster. Fear consumed her. She hated that, she wanted to be unaffected by such things, but learned a long time ago she couldn't compartmentalize Booth, no matter how hard she tried.

Finally her phone dinged, she jumped to see his response.

I'm home, stop by anytime.

For the first time all day she took a deep breath, nodding at her phone as she rushed off to change clothes.

Her knock was distinctive. Trying to act casual, he opened the door wide ushering her in. Closing the door behind her, she turned, making no effort to move past the doorway. That familiarity and comfort that allowed her to walk freely into his apartment making herself at home was gone, suspended in the remnants of their drunken exchange. Pulling her lip between her teeth she stopped, then let it go almost immediately, it was raw and sore where she nibbled it raw over the last twenty-four hours.

Booth left her standing there, mumbling something about getting the file from his bedroom. He looked terrible, like he just rolled out of bed. Deep circles under his eyes, mussed hair, heavy stubble. She watched as he sniffled, swallowing hard before he walked away. Still in his bedclothes, old sweats hung low on his hip, a faded FBI shirt, he was barefoot. With few exceptions, he never looked like this. This did nothing but confirm her concern for him.

She barely moved, a step forward to peer into his living room, to the side, to look into his kitchen. Shards of glass and the crumpled up picture visible in his kitchen trash can, the broom and dustpan still leaning against it. Flashes of the whole horrible scene played out in her memory. Distracted, she didn't see him until he was right in front of her, handing her the file.

She jumped a little, startled, he hated that. He did that to her, he knew it.

"Thank you." She forced a smile, pretending like everything was normal. "I wanted to get a head start on it, next week's busy."

Playing along, he answered.

"No problem." But, he held the folder, not letting go immediately, like he wanted to say something. When she looked up she saw it in his eyes, the hint of an apology. She tried to let him see that it was okay, that they were okay, because she wanted, more than anything, for that to be the truth. "You going back to the lab?" Clearing her throat, she inhaled sharply.

"No...no, I think I'm going to go back to my place. I have access to all the files, my laptop's there."

"Right." He finally let go. "Good." His eyes dropped, she turned, motioning with the file as she reached for the door.

She made it all the way down the hall and around the corner before she leaned up against the wall and tried to catch her breath, fighting off a wave of emotion. That's when she finally heard his door close. If she could just know what he was thinking, what he needed. Objectively, she recognized that she wasn't very objective when it came to Booth. It would take great effort to pull back from this situation enough to be reasonable about it. Mentally counting, she compiled a short list about the way Booth handled problems as she rode the old open cage elevator down to street level.

First, as much as Booth hated silence he didn't like to talk about personal things, especially not his feelings. He was a very private person. If she was expecting for him to open up about his proposal to Hannah, well, it wasn't going to happen, not anytime soon anyway. And she was too close to that situation, too entangled in the roots of it, he wouldn't necessarily talk to her about it because he wouldn't want to hurt her feelings or cause her pain.

Second, Booth liked to pretend like everything was okay when clearly it wasn't. It helped him cope, so he would say he was over Hannah even when it was highly unlikely he was. As if saying it was all good, made it all good. It was interesting to her, and she noted, that Booth made a point of telling her that people in relationships left marks on one another and it took time for those marks to heal and fade away. Whether he was over Hannah or not, she knew he would need time to heal from the marks Hannah left.

Third, for those reasons, work was safe. He could avoid all things personal. He liked to throw himself into his work, much like herself, especially when he was trying to avoid dealing with the harder parts of life. The fact that he saw her, gave her the file, and talked to her, even though their interaction was brief, those were good signs. He wasn't going to completely block her out of his life. That was a relief. She could be patient. She could be a support to him, in the ways he would let her, in ways she knew would help. This would work.

Flopping the Rottenberg file in the passenger seat, she drove home.

She also found solace in work, it was something they shared. With papers spread out across her kitchen table, her laptop open, and jazz softly playing in the background, she plodded away at the case work. It was easier after she saw him, the awful dread that she would lose him from her life completely eased.

The bright light of day passed, the warm peachy glow of evening came and went, and night settled in.

Startled, she jumped when she heard his knock. She wasn't expecting company, certainly not Booth, figuring it would take days before he voluntarily contacted her. But there he was, standing at her door, a stack of case files and a shallow box filled with Chinese take-out.

"Hey." He looked nervous. "I figured, you know, if you were still working on the Rottenberg paperwork…" Letting his voice trail off, his thought hung in the air incomplete, then picked it back up again as he searched for some kind of acceptance from her. "I brought food." He smiled and lifted the box a little, a peace offering.

Truth was he couldn't bare being in his apartment any longer. He left in the early evening, went for a long run, stopped by the FBI gym, did a weight training circuit, hit the shooting range, showered, went grocery shopping. The more he was out, the more he didn't want to go home. There was nothing there for him, nothing but pain.

She smiled and opened the door up wide.

He watched as she headed for the kitchen. In the past, before Maluku and Afghanistan and Hannah, this was routine for them. Spreading the case work out on the coffee table, they'd start out sitting on the couches and by the time they were done they'd both be on the floor. A couple beers for him, some wine for her, their friendship was built on a foundation of hours spent laughing and talking as they worked late into the night.

He missed that, the way they used to be together. When he was first in Afghanistan it was those memories that kept him alive. Hannah changed everything between them, especially after she followed him back from Afghanistan, more than he realized or wanted to admit.

For a brief moment he panicked. What the hell was he thinking? Coming over, like this, like none of it ever happened. He didn't even know if this was okay with her after whatever that was between them last night or if she was just being polite. It wasn't really a fight, they didn't fight, he lost his shit and blamed her and she, she, God that confession, that admission. He wanted to talk to her about it, he wanted to tell her he was sorry, but honest to God didn't know how to do that. He needed some more time to figure that out.

Setting the food and files down on the coffee table he stretched, leaning his head side to side until his neck popped in each direction.

"I can help...you…with...," distracted, he paused in the middle of his thought, an open photo album captivating his attention, "with the…drinks." It didn't look like anything that would belong to her but she was in almost every picture he could see. It was fluffy and pink with sparkles and crap, lying there on the table with a partially drunk glass of wine. She must've been looking at it when he knocked on the door.

"It's okay, Booth, I've got it." Stopping short, she found him sitting on the couch, leaning over the open pages of the album. "Ms. Wick made it for me." She walked around, setting plates, silverware, and a bottle of beer down before reaching for the album. "I found it when I was cleaning today." His eyes followed her as she pulled the scrapbook away until they caught her eyes. She was anxious, he could see it in the way she closed the book and folded it in close to her chest. "They're pictures from our dig in Maluku."

A folded piece of paper fell out of the album and floated down to the ground. It was a letter written on thin paper, the kind meant for international mail that folds and seals to become its own envelope. Dirty and crumpled, it looked like someone took great care in pressing it flat and refolding it for safekeeping. They both bent down to pick it up at the same time. Booth reached it first, picking it up.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw his own name scrawled out in her careful handwriting, Sergeant Major Seeley Booth. All those months, in all that time, there was nothing from her, no letters, no calls or emails. Some of that he understood, rationalizing it away for her, she was in a jungle for godsake. But this, what he held in his hand, even without knowing what it said, told a different story. His stomach twisted into a hard knot. Raw emotion coursed through him as he considered the harsh words and accusations he hurled at her in his drunken rant. God. All that time he thought she didn't care, thought he meant nothing to her. He should've known that wasn't true.

Looking up, he watched as her eyes fell shut. She knew he saw his name on it, he could tell. Giving her a moment, he waited until she opened those stormy blue eyes of hers then handed it back without saying a word. Someday he'd ask about it, but not today. Swallowing hard, she thanked him quietly, tucked it carefully back in the book, and stepped away.

By the time she got back he was dishing up the food. It seemed like such a simple act, serving up food, but she found the normalcy comforting. Relief in her eyes, she smiled, soft and weak, but still a smile. It was reassuring and Booth took it as a good sign. This was going to be hard and it would take time but he refused to lose her.

"I got you something different." Lifting up the take out box and waggling it a little, he smiled back at her. "Kung Pao tofu with broccoli and brown rice, hope you like it."

"Looks good. I love broccoli." Stopping at the edge of the coffee table she sighed, letting her shoulders fall. "I think I'm going to have some scotch." It was just that kind of night. Reaching over she grabbed her wine glass and headed for the kitchen, calling out to him over her shoulder. "Do you want some too?"

"Yeah, sure, maybe just a little."

They ate and worked, most of the time in silence, but it got easier as the night rolled on.

After a few hours, she yawned, he didn't notice how exhausted she looked until that moment. The edges of her eyelids were pink, irritated from crying he figured. Her lips looked raw, he remembered watching her pull them between her teeth, worrying them nervously. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail with wisps falling down, framing her face and neck. It looked like she hadn't given it any attention all day, which wasn't like her. But it was more than that, her whole body looked tired and every action looked like it took great effort. He understood, he felt it too, completely drained.

It was time to call it a night.

They made plans for a repeat the next day, late in the afternoon. After Booth took Parker to mass and spent some time with him they would meet at his place. She would bring dinner this time and they'd finish up what was left of the paperwork.

He left shortly after that and when she closed the door behind him she let her forehead fall against it. Partner, someone with whom one joins, sharing risks and profits. Maybe those definitions were more accurate than she originally thought.

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A/N: I don't know how to properly convey my thanks to all of you lovely readers. All the wonderful reviews and well wishes have made this week so wonderful. I feel so much support and love and I am very grateful for it. As of right now, my plan is to go back to Thursdays for posting the next chapter.

I've loved reading your thoughts and reactions to this story so far, please keep 'em coming, it adds to the sense that we're in this journey together.

Much Love

~DG