Title: This is Life

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I'm afraid.

Rating: This one is rated T. But for anyone who' interested, I promise I'll be going back to M, soon.

A/N: Well, I was totally unprepared for the response to my last chapter! It seems people like stories about Ireland, too! Yay for me! I hope everyone continues to enjoy the angst here, because as one of my reviews said, a miscarriage isn't something that people immediately get over. But, I am also a true-romantic, so, for those of you who have been begging me for a happy ending, beg no more, I promise you a fluffy conclusion!

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"Hello?" Her voice came through the haziness of his afternoon sleep, rousing him back to wakefulness. The fire by the sofa had burned to orange embers, casting a soft glow against the walls. He stretched, murmuring her name like a sweet prayer. His eyes fell shut. Was it evening already? "Booth?" He felt her fingers as they stroked through his hair, her thumb brushing over his tremble. His eyes fluttered open again.

"What time is it?" He asked, his voice husky with sleep. Above him, she smiled, looking like, in his clichéd opinion, an angel. Her cheeks were rosy again, whipped into a pinkish frenzy by the howling wind. A few strands of silken, cinnamon hair had escaped their bindings and hung, dishevelled, around her cheeks. And she was smiling. Oh Lord, Temperance was smiling.

"It's four thirty," she said, crouching now, her fingers still doing the torturous little dance over his scalp. "Seamus told me to come home. We made progress today." Booth turned his cheek into her hand, watching her as she stroked the lines of his face, now. "We found something quite peculiar. Actually, I'm so… excited?" Her eyes were giddy, now. He watched the upward curve of her lips, and wished it had been him that had brought such delight back into those desolate irises. He supposed her work would always be the one thing that would do it.

"What did you find?" He asked, trying to share her enthusiasm. Trying to ensure that sparkle stayed a little while longer.

"Remains of what… seem to be… goodness, I feel like a kid at Christmas… I think we've stumbled upon a genuine Celtic warrior!" For Booth her words were an anti-climax, because he didn't know anything about warriors, and he didn't have much interest in Celtic ones. But she was grinning. Grinning like the kid she thought she was, and, despite his lack of inner enthusiasm, he grinned back.

"Wow, that's amazing, Bones." She nodded, standing.

"I know! I'm shipping the remains to DC tomorrow… if I can find a damn courier in this… is this a town?" Her brow lowered to a frown as she unclipped her necklace, dropping it to the coffee table. "Oh… what a find. Hundreds of years old, Booth. With parts of his weaponry still in tact…" She shifted to the kitchen, where he heard the recognisable sound of the kettle as she flicked the switch.

"What an extraordinary find," he said, sounding half hearted, even to himself. Booth had trouble convincing himself that he was actually joyous about how, when Brennan finally looked something approaching happy again, it would be thanks to a Celtic warrior who'd been buried for hundreds of god damn years!

Brennan seemed lost in her own thoughts, resting against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest. Booth rubbed his eyes, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa before standing. "Are you okay?" Brennan asked, following him as he shifted across the room, taking the poker into his hand and tossing the glowing embers, his brows drawn in deep contemplation. After a long few moments, when the peat caught alight again, he turned.

"I'm fine," he said, trying to convince himself. "Are we going to have a drink at this pub of yours, then?" Brennan smiled, stepping forward, her arms snaking around his waist, her face tilted upwards. She looked lovely, so close to him, wrapped in his embrace. Yet, there was a chasm of emotion that stood between their bodies.

"Tonight is fiddle night," she said, her nose pressed to his sweater, inhaling him.

"Fiddle night? Dare I ask?" Her chuckle was muffled against his chest, and he relished their proximity for a long moment. He wanted, not to speak, but to remain silently cocooned in her delicious scent. Even the distinctly chemical whiff off her clothes didn't deter him. Not today.

"There is a band that plays fiddles and spoons or something." She leaned back, grinning. "Might be fun…?"

"Spoons?" Booth felt his eyebrows lift in amusement, as he tried to imagine, despite having seen it before, how anyone could make decent music with spoons. It never failed to amaze him. "Do they sell Guinness?" He asked, allowing himself to forget Brennan's inability to let him make her happy.

"Booth," she said, patiently. "We are in Ireland. They produce Guinness in Ireland." He chuckled. "I imagine you'd be able to buy some, yes." He snagged his jacket off the back of the sofa.

"We've run out of fuel. Where can I get some?" Brennan jerked her thumb towards the rear of the cottage, informing him that there was a pile of peat, covered with tarpaulin at the back. He eased the front door shut, and listened for a moment, to the sounds of her moving about inside. He'd have given his life to ensure the happiness she felt at that moment never disappeared again. Unfortunately the adrenaline of finding the warrior would only last until the case was over and the remains were confirmed. Then, it was inevitable, she'd think about the baby again.

Booth felt rain in the air, a damp sort of mist clung to the bracken, seeping through the valleys and over the mountains. He'd read somewhere that Ireland was allegedly one of the most haunted countries in the world. Looking out, at how everything looked so… ancient and preserved, he could easily have believed it.

Banshees and wandering ghosts seemed possible, here, in the middle of nowhere. He could picture lost souls, coming over the green hills, through the dried shrubbery, and he imagined himself as a lost soul, too. It was in moments of solidarity, like now, that he realised how much Brennan's miscarriage had effected him. He felt an emptiness, at the bottom of his stomach. And inside his heart. There was an aura of sobriety that followed him like a cloud, permeating his willpower and restraint and filling him with an anger that seemed to overwhelm his senses.

His fingers curled into fists and he kicked the decorative tree-stump at stood by the path. It tipped, sending a flower basket unto it's side, soil pouring unto the grass and autumn flowers fell out, broken. A sob caught in his throat, lost in the wind.

Booth inhaled sharply, willing himself to reign his emotions in. They surged forth, clouding his eyes and his judgement. How had God forsaken them, so? Hadn't they both suffered enough heartache? Didn't they deserve something in the way of happiness? Didn't he deserve to feel complete, too? With Parker's mother, life had been anything except happy, and his son was only allowed into a fractionally small part of his life. With Temperance… it could have been so different. They shared mutual love that was, thanks to the cruellest twist of fate, compromised.

Sinking to his knees, he tried to replant the flowers, willing the broken petals to be right again. Just as he willed his own life to be right. It didn't work. In either context. Despite patting the soil back into the basket and fixing the tree-stump, the red and yellow flowers still looked dead; a perfect reflection of his soul.

Swiping angrily at the tears which had fell unto his cheeks, he sucked another breath, filled with a salty aroma, into his lungs. Tonight, he'd allow Brennan her happiness. Tonight, he'd maintain the pretence that their spirit hadn't been crushed. If fiddles and spoons allowed her the privilege of forgetting their grief, he knew it could only be a good thing.

Ensuring that the basket was stable, he brushed the dirt off on his jeans and stood, running his tongue across his dried lips. It was cold. An autumn breeze blew over the rolling hills, down to the little garden, cutting him to his bones. The ocean sounded rougher, now, angry and unleashed.

He rounded the cottage to the back, where he saw the rickety path to the beach, again, and a peat blocks piled high against the white wall. Beyond the fence, he watched the waves for a long few moments. The fishing boat had long since gone, and the waters looked starkly barren. Even the bravest fisherman wouldn't have chanced a night on these waters.

Collecting two blocks into his arms, Booth thought about how Ireland had acquired the accompanying statement 'forty shades of green'. He thought it was inaccurate. There were probably hundreds more. From where he stood, overlooking the ocean, framed by hills and the valleys beyond, his eyes could easily have counted forty, all woven together like a patchwork blanket.

Inside, he heard the shower, and saw the billowing steam as it leaked out the half open bathroom door. Wondering if he should steal a glimpse of her naked body – the body that he missed so much, Booth smiled. The woman behind the door had the ability to turn him to steel. She had, probably since the moment they'd met.

Crouching, he dropped the peat into the fireplace, finding a box of matches and striking a flame to help coax the fire back to life. His hands, numbed from the weather outside, welcomed the deep heat. He shifted, sitting on the rug and letting the warmth wash over him.

"You're filthy," Brennan said from the doorway behind him. Booth glanced down at his dirty jeans, and clicked his tongue.

"Yeah…" he said. "I knocked over the plant basket. Sorry." She wore a robe, her hair twisted inside a cotton towel that had a shamrock emblem on the edge. "Bones… do you remember our trip to Vermont?" When he glanced at her eyes, he saw a twinkle of mischief there. He delighted him to know that, sexually, she wasn't dead, yet. "Do you think… what we had there..." she silenced him, her hand falling over his lips, the twinkle was gone.

"Yes," she said. "We will. Eventually."

Eventually, he knew, could mean a week or a decade. Eventually gave no specific time, and essentially, no reassurance. He opened his mouth to express his disapproval of such vague guarantee, when she shifted, turning her back on him.

"Get ready," she said. "Fiddle night starts at seven, and I'd like us to get some food, first."

Eventually. He repeated the word inwardly. He didn't have 'eventually' he had three weeks. It didn't afford him much time in the 'one day' spectrum, because, if he hadn't brought her back from the brink before he left, he wasn't sure her promise of eventually would ever come.

When he'd showered, Brennan had changed into a different pair of jeans and a black sweater that clung to her soft curves. When she stretched into the cupboard for a glass, he saw the smooth line of her torso, marred only by the almost healed bullet wound that would, beyond a doubt, leave a permanent reminder of the conflict. Her belly however, was not marred by pregnancy.

"Bones?" He buttoned down his shirt, watching her as she dispensed water from the refrigerator into her glass.

"Hmm?" She replied, turning to face him. He dropped his eyes to the slate tiles beneath his feet, awkwardly shifting. "What's wrong?" Brennan asked, draining her glass.

"Did the doctor… did he mention if you'd be alright to… try for another baby?" When he glanced up, she looked as though she'd been stricken. Her eyes were rounded, her lips parted and dry. He heard the sharp intake of breath and noted the small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "No?" He asked, his heart hammering within his chest. Brennan's brows drew together in a moment of great pain.

"I… Booth… I don't want to try for another baby." His emotions shifted at once, hurt, followed by a tremendous ache settling within his body. He felt as though she'd drew all the oxygen from his lungs and left him unable to unable to breathe. For the longest moment, he felt as though he had stopped breathing altogether.

"But Temper-"

"No, Booth," she said, her tone forceful and no nonsense. "No children. I never wanted any. And I don't relish the pain of losing another one. Don't mention it," she paused, her breath shaky, "ever again."

There was a point where he registered a numbness within his muscles, where he was frozen, and no matter how much he wanted to move, to protest, to make her see reason, he was unable to. His fingers twitched, and his eyes burned at her harsh dismissal of his concerns. She didn't want babies. Why did he assume anything would have changed? Why had he been unable to make the logical leap that, if anything, she'd be further dissuaded by her miscarriage. Oh, how foolish he'd been to suppose even for a fleeting moment, that Temperance would suddenly be warmed by motherhood.

"Okay…" he said, his voice a ragged whisper. "Well…" he didn't know what he was supposed to say or how he ought to have responded. So, instead of launching into a spiel designed to persuade her they'd make perfect parents, he sighed and instead, dropped the subject. "Spoons and fiddles it is, then. I'm almost ready to go." Brennan nodded sharply.

"Good. I'll wait in the car."

As she closed the door, Booth felt as though they'd taken a massive step backward. Suddenly, instead of edging closer to their lost happiness, the chasm had become bigger. And, without warning, she was further from reach than ever before.

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This, can I just tell you, is a longer chapter than I've written in ages! But I can imagine this becoming a very long story. Anyone for a long story?

Ha. Please review!