BONES
We're all gathered on the mezzanine – Angela, Hodgins, Cam, Sweets and myself - waiting for the call we know will eventually come… good or bad. While everyone else is sitting on the sofas carrying on quiet, meaningless conversation between themselves, I'm leaning on my forearms against the half-wall, cell phone clutched in my hands, looking down at the platform.
Rationally, I know I should be sitting with them as we share a common concern: Broadsky being subdued and Booth's safe return.
"Are you in danger?"
I could see the answer on Hodgins' face. A single click: Yes.
Logically, I know what Booth would want me to do: To have faith. Faith in him. Faith he'll be safe. Faith right will win out over wrong. He'd want me to 'hold the center' – to project confidence and strength – for the rest of the team. I want to do all of that for him but it's not as easy as he seems to think it should be.
I have absolute faith in Booth, but other than that the 'faith' he speaks of is a reference to his mythical God in whom, of course, I do not believe. The fact is, Booth and Broadsky share the same training and are of equal skill. That Booth knows Broadsky's right hand is broken skews the odds in his favor, but there's a reason I don't gamble: Chaos Theory, which asserts that the smallest of changes within a closed system leads to dramatic changes downstream from that event. In this case, I've been witness to the precision of Booth's former work and steps taken to maximize a favorable outcome, having acted as his spotter the last time we'd come up against Broadsky. A decrease in wind speed, a sudden gust or even the slightest shift in the direction can mean the difference between hitting your mark or missing it entirely – and revealing where you are. There are too many variables for my comfort, and I won't be put at ease until I get the call saying Broadsky is dead and Booth is safe.
Unplanned, my eyes fall on the spot where Mr. Nigel-Murray died. There's not a single hint of what happened here yesterday, of course, any signs of his death disinfected away. My memory, however, cannot so easily be erased. I can still feel the warm stickiness of his blood on my hands, feel his stilled chest beneath them. I can see the look on Booth's face and tell he takes at least part of the blame for Vincent's death upon his own shoulders, although he later tries to deny it when we are with everyone in the conference room at the FBI. It wasn't his fault, but just as he's carried the death of his spotter, Corporal Parker, with him all these years, he'll carry Mr. Nigel-Murray's from here forward.
Death changes everyone it touches in one way or another and Mr. Nigel-Murray's death has changed how I will perceive the Jeffersonian in the future. Broadsky has proven that just like all fortresses, the lab can be breached… in ways we never imagined. The thought is discomfiting. The Jeffersonian was the first real home I've known since my family vanished. It still is my home. Now, however, it's not only the place where Zack devolved into a killer but the place where Mr. Nigel-Murray had died...
With regrets.
"We all have regrets..."
Booth's words whisper through my mind. I'd certainly collected my share of regrets from the last days I had with my family, my largest, by far being my last moments with my mother.
When I was fifteen-years-old, my mother and I had argued about a boy. She'd accused me of being 'dreamy' and 'emotional,' of making decisions with my heart instead of my head. When she'd reached out to touch me, I slapped her hand away and stormed from the room. The next morning, she and Dad were gone, leaving me and Russ on our own. Confused by the sudden change, heartbroken that our parents had chosen to abandon us and terrified of what might happen to me, I'd blamed Russ.
"You needed someone to blame, you chose me."
"I was fifteen-years-old!"
"I was nineteen! My parents were gone. My sister hated my guts. Everyone's telling me that she'd be better off in foster care."
"You didn't even ask me."
"I tried, Temperance! You wouldn't talk to me.'
I'd pushed him away. Then he left, just like our parents.
Foster care is difficult for even the toughest of kids and is definitely not made for kids like me: A terrified, withdrawn, socially awkward prodigy. I was moved from home-to-home, foster parents describing me as 'a weird one,' 'just creepy,' 'thinks she's too good for us,' and, in one case, 'that girl's got a screw loose.' It was considered 'a good run' for me to last more than a six-week turn in a foster home. From Freshman through Junior years, I'd been moved nineteen times and had attended twelve different schools. In every school it was the same: I was the weird girl, the creepy girl, the freak. As I'd once told Angela in nearly this very spot some years ago…
"Suddenly, no one cared where I was. I miss that. Someone caring where I am all the time."
Then, shortly after Booth and I became partners, the unexpected happened: For the first time in a decade and a half there is someone who cares where I am… All the time.
Booth with his way of making my life messy. Wonderful. But very, very messy.
Booth who slowly broadened my world, by helping me navigate the nuances of personal and social relationships which still so often confound me, while encouraging me to share more of myself with the people around me… to let them in.
I turn around and lean my back against the wall, my eyes wandering over the people waiting on word, vaguely noting Angela's absence.
Now, I'm surrounded by people and not by just colleagues but friends. Or, as Booth once said…
"…there's more than one kind of family."
He was right. We – Angela, Hodgins, Sweets, Cam, Caroline and, yes, Zack- are a family. A different kind of family, but family nonetheless – and one in which Booth and I are at the center. As long as we hold together, so does this family of ours. If, however, we disconnect, everyone scatters to the four winds as we discovered last year. The lab had fallen apart, Cam was no longer working out of the Jeffersonian and she was in trouble. No matter our reasons for leaving we all answered Caroline's call for help.
Turning my back to the group again, I check my watch then my phone, feeling more than a little ridiculous as I do so. The minute hand on my watch continues to tick forward and my phone remains fully charged. I am trying not to let my writer's imagination get the better of me, but it feels like time is standing still and I'm growing increasingly anxious.
Because of Booth, I suddenly found myself questioning some of my long-held beliefs and my view of the world around me began to take on new perspective. I envied his easy interaction with people - his ability to read people as foreign to me as reading Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde is to him. I have watched his interrogations, I have worked with Sweets, convinced I'd be able to replicate Booth's abilities with training. Much to my consternation I was unsuccessful and failure is neither a feeling to which I am accustomed or care for. When I'd shared my frustration with Ange, her response had done little to assuage me, but much to perplex me.
"Because… what Booth has, you can't learn from baby-boy shrink. Booth's brilliant at pretending to be stupider than he actually is, most of time."
"Brilliant at stupidity?"
"Mm-hmm. Especially around you."
"Why would Booth do that?"
"Well, he knows that you like to be the smart one, so he let's you have that."
He let's me have that? The very thought was ludicrous. My IQ is quantifiably higher than Booth's, I have three doctorates and speak six languages. Yet, after giving the suggestion much consideration, I found I had no choice but to concede Angela was correct: In this area, Booth's abilities - and, yes, his intelligence - surpass my own… considerably. When I shared my conclusion with him, the warmth in his eyes made the price of the little bit of ego I'd sacrificed well worth it.
My opinion of his character means a great deal to Booth. It's not rational, I know, but it's as though he can only believe the good in himself when he sees himself through my eyes. Although he sparingly – and then with great reticence – speaks of his past, the parts he has shared are overwhelmingly painful memories.
"If it wasn't for my grandfather, I probably would've killed myself when I was a kid."
The thought that he might have done so, that I might never have known him, steals my breath away as much today as the night he'd first said them. Perhaps because I understand that same fear and hopelessness things will never get better. I'd known Booth's childhood had been colored by his father's alcohol fueled abuse, but it was his grandfather that really brought it home for me.
"Well, if I was a better man, maybe I… I could have figured something else out. But when I saw my son hitting Seeley, beating that little kid, that was it. I said 'Get out! You don't deserve to be a father. Get out!' He never came back. So I… I was left with… with the two boys."
"You're a good man, Hank."
"I didn't know what else to do. He was beating my grandson."
If I believed in a god I would thank him for Hank. He'd not only saved Booth and Jared at the cost of a relationship with his own son, but had provided them with a loving home and a man to emulate. While Jared, from what I have seen, did not take advantage of those opportunities, Booth did, becoming a good man, an honorable man, and a man who would protect those around him no matter the cost to himself – like Hank.
Like now. Broadsky needs to be stopped and Booth won't rest until he is.
No matter the cost.
"I thought you could use this," Angela announces as she slides in next to me and mimics my position against the wall while handing me a cup of coffee. My eyes drift to the cup in her other hand. She doesn't miss the look. "It's decaf. I'm hoping the smell of yours will give me a caffeine buzz." She sighs heavily. "Not that I'm counting on it." She rubs her protruding stomach. "I keep telling myself it's only another month and then I'm going to order a large mocha latte with two extra shots of expresso." It's often hard for me to disconnect from my thoughts and today is no exception. Because she is my friend and I care about her, I force myself to focus.
"Studies have shown that although it is safe to consume small quantities of caffeine while breastfeeding, trace amounts of that caffeine can be passed along to the infant through breastmilk causing increased fussiness, irritability, restlessness and increase the number of awakenings during the night."
"You know, Brennan, sometimes it's really hard having you as a best friend. I have been literally dreaming about endless cups of coffee for weeks." She nudges me in my arm and leans her head closer. "In case you haven't noticed, Sweets has been watching you the last half hour."
"What?! Why?" I ask. A quick look confirms he's watching. The question of why was rhetorical as I've seen that look so many times on Sweets' face that it is one of the few expressions I can easily interpret. It's what Booth calls his sensitive, shrinky face and I've caught him countless times, these last months, regarding me with it. I'm not fragile, I'm not going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Last December was an anomaly brought on by a combination of acute sleep deprivation and a number of other factors, beginning and ending with Booth.
"My guess? This whole Greta Garbo thing you've got going right now is making him nervous."
"I don't understand what that means."
"You know. The famous line? 'I want to be alone.'?" I have no idea what she's talking about and it must show on my face since Angela rolls her eyes and blows out a breath. "Never mind. Let's just say people are starting to talk."
I look over at everyone then shrug a shoulder, as the desire to be near to people who share a like concern is quite common.
"Throughout time people have gathered with other members of their tribe during times of strife or grief. At times of death, it is Muslim tradition for friends, family and neighbors to gather together to bring food and to join in prayer. In Costa Rica and Nicaragua, the family holds a vela – or a celebration – for—"
"No, honey, no. No tribes, no traditions." She moves a little closer until we're shoulder-to-shoulder. "Brennan, it's okay to be afraid. We all are." I know why everyone is there, as we've been down this road on multiple occasions in the past and, yes, I'm afraid. But there is something else on my mind that I can't talk about with anyone but Angela.
"Booth refused to let me go with him." I don't understand why she briefly laughs. "Why are you laughing?"
"I think it's adorable that you're actually surprised by that."
"What do you mean? I'm his partner. It's my job to watch his back," I rebuke, surprised I have to keep reminding people of this fact.
"Brennan, you and Booth have never been just partners." I start to deny the charge, but before I can Angela continues. "Don't even bother pretending you didn't know. The man would literally die to keep you safe. You didn't see Booth when the Gravedigger had you and Hodgins. I did. If he could have traded places with you he would have done it in a second. You know he threatened to kill that kidnapping specialist... what was his name?... Vega… if you were harmed in any way." I frown.
"He never said anything to me."
"He wouldn't though, would he? It would go against that whole thing he has about no deed is good if you're looking for praise or credit." She is, of course, quite accurate in her assessment. "Him and Cam never stood a chance after that."
"Booth and Cam broke up because he blamed himself for her getting sick," I correct.
"No, Sweetie, no," Angela immediately disagrees. "Booth broke up with Cam because he blamed himself for the Gravedigger taking you. In his eyes, if he hadn't been with Cam he could have kept you safe."
"I don't need Booth to protect me. I have a black belt in karate, I'm an excellent shot," not that Booth would agree, "I know where the simple press of a finger can render a suspect helpless…"
"Daisy and I were attacked by some armed guerillas, but I beat them up and we got away."
"You beat up armed guerillas?"
"I had to. You weren't there to save me."
"Aw Bones…"
"…and when Daisy and I were attacked by guerillas while in the Maluku Islands I beat them up." I'm not only quite proud of this feat but it is more proof that I can stand on my own.
"Gorillas?! You and Daisy were attacked by gorillas. How am I just now hearing about this and I thought gorillas only lived in like the Amazon."
"Gorillas are indigenous to Africa, actually. Mountain gorillas live on green, volcanic mountains while the lowland gorilla inhabits the forests of central and western Africa. I meant, guerillas," I correct.
"Okay now I know guerillas are in Central and South America."
"That's not true," I again correct. "The term guerilla refers to any small faction that engages in actions, often armed, typically—"
"Brennan, forget the guerillas. "
"He said I'd be a distraction," I share resignedly. Angela's brows draw together then she lifts and drops her shoulders.
"Yeah, I can see that." I don't know what I was expecting but it certainly wasn't that.
"I thought you'd be on my side!"
"I am, sweetie, but that doesn't mean Booth's wrong. From what Booth's said, Broadsky is really sharp. One look at Booth when you're around and he'll know."
"I don't understand."
"You're Booth's Achilles Heel." My shoulders sag in defeat.
"But I don't want to be!" I protest far more loudly than planned. A glance over my shoulder confirms I've drawn everyone's attention." Thankfully, Angela is quick on her toes and turns to face them.
"Brennan and I were just discussing a memorial tribute for Vincent, but she doesn't want to be in charge, although I think she should be."
"Given this is Dr. Saroyan's lab," I add, hoping my answer passes muster since I've never been very good at lying, "It's my belief the decision should be left to her."
"Actually, I took care of that this morning… after informing Mr. Nigel-Murray's mother that… After speaking to his mother," Cam informs us. I should have known. While I am oblivious to such traditions, niceties, Cam never misses a beat. It's another reason she was brought in to run the lab.
"I'm sure whatever you've decided on will be the perfect choice." She seems embarrassed by my comment, if the way she turns her head away means anything.
"Thank you, Dr. Brennan. That was remarkably… thoughtful," she tells me when she returns her gaze to me, her eyes wet with tears.
"I know." With the conversation concluded, I turn back around while Angela does likewise, then continue our conversation as though we never paused. "Our partnership means everything to me. If Booth doesn't trust me to—"
"It's not about trust, Brennan. It's about love. It always has been." She sounds so sure… as sure as Booth sounded and appeared this morning when he'd expressed exactly that to me.
"I just feel so helpless," I lament.
"We all do. It's why we're all gathered here. Remember, 'Lighter is the burden shouldered by many.'" Then Angela says likely the only thing that could move me away from my solitary vigil. "I could use my best friend, right now. I'm really scared. Come be afraid with me." I stare at her for several seconds. Like I said, the only thing.
"Okay. Yes, of course," I agree. If it weren't for the fact I care very much for Angela, I'd have just asked for the time and space I need. Instead, I walk back with her to join the group where we sit across from each other…
And wait.
The problem is, I don't care about the conversations going on around me and wouldn't on an ordinary day.
Cam and Angela talking about shoes…
"Do you remember those Louboutin's I saw last week?"
"The Declic?"
"Those are the ones."
"The black?"
"The fuchsia, actually…"
Or Hodgins' excitement over the recent discovery of the Louisiana pancake batfish…
"…the Halieutichthys Intermedius, or more simply Louisiana Pancake Batfish. Man, I promise you, you've never seen anything like these little guys before. Their fins are more like feet because they use them to walk on…
In under twenty-four hours, so much has changed: Mr. Nigel-Murray, gone. The sanctity of the Jeffersonian, shattered.
I've wasted so much time being afraid, being stubborn, admissions regarding myself that I have found quite difficult yet necessary to make.
Before Booth came into my life, I didn't believe in love, at least not the way most people view it.
"I'm just saying, you believe in love, don't you?"
"I believe that dopamine and norepinephrine simulate euphoria because of certain biological triggers like scent, symmetrical features…"
"Love is a chemical process which causes delusions."
Delusion might have been a bit harsh, but what I'd said, I'd believed. It was scientific fact, after all. The feeling of falling in love – racing hearts, sweaty palms, flushed cheeks, feelings of passion and even anxiety – are caused by the release of dopamine and norepinephrine, neurotransmitters responsible for stimulating the ventral tegmental area – or the brain's reward circuit – which makes 'love' a pleasurable experience similar to the euphoria associated with the use of alcohol or cocaine.
As for sex? Oxytocin – the 'love' hormone is released during sex and heightened by skin-to-skin contact. Responsible for simulating feelings of contentment, calmness and security, deepening the feeling attachment and making couples feel closer to one another after sex when combined with Vasopressin, which is linked to long-term monogamous relationships. Those who don't understand the science, those who are less rational and more romantically inclined, perceive this as love. The simple fact is this: Reproduction is a biological imperative. To make mating something the species wishes to do, chemical messengers are released into your blood to provide pleasure, thus increasing the likelihood of the species' continuation.
Love is an illusion. I knew it with absolute certainty…
But as has been the way with so many of my other tightly held beliefs, because of Booth my thoughts on this had changed as well.
"When Booth and I first met, I didn't believe that such a thing as love existed. I maintained that it was simply brain chemistry. But, perhaps Booth is correct. Perhaps love comes first and then creates the reaction. I have no tangible proof, but I'm willing to accept Booth's premise."
When I toasted Jared and Padme's future, I'd meant every word. My feelings for Booth, alone, were a testament to that truth.
Despite my best efforts not to let him get too close—
I jump when my phone trills then lunge for it, hoping no one sees how my hands are shaking.
"Brennan." I hold my breath and wait, a chill rippling up my spine.
"Dr. Brennan? This is Agent Shaw with the F.B.I. SSA Booth asked that I call and inform you Broadsky's been apprehended and he'll be back in time for your intern's… uh… send off."
"Yes, I – I understand."
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." I disconnect the line and turn to find everyone staring at me. "Booth got Broadsky." Relief floods me and I am smiling widely when my eyes slide to Angela as the others exchange happy embraces. I finally let the breath out that I've been holding. Booth is safe and for now, that's all that matters. When the celebration ends – and it does quite quickly given the loss of Mr. Nigel-Murray's life – Cam calls for our attention.
"I doubt any of us got much sleep last night. I know I didn't. So I'd like to suggest we all go home for a few hours: Take a nap, grab a shower, get a good meal. Tonight we'll all meet back here at 7:00 for- for-"
Cam so rarely sheds a tear that no one dares to volunteer we'll be gathering to share our last respects. We scatter, going to our various offices to gather our belongings before we leave. Not me. Normally my intern is responsible for preparing the remains of Kessinger so they can be turned over to his family for burial. Today, that responsibility falls to me.
As I stand at the table, reverently placing his bones in a container, I quietly thank him for his sacrifice. It's not rational or logical, but I'm having one of Booth's gut feelings and it's telling me it's what the bones have told us that helped keep him safe.