Title: This is Life

Disclaimer: These characters, or at least the two main ones, are not mine.

Rating: T.

A/N: Angst-galore ahead. If you're opposed to sadness, please, please don't read. I don't want anyone on anti-depressants at the end. Actually, do read, because I want reviews! Review everyone!

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Irish Star was a quartet, comprising of a long raven haired woman who wore a fluttery skirt and a sweater and played the violin, a red-bearded man in a waistcoat and corduroy pants who looked like a farmer and banged an excellent beat on a bodhran drum, an even older man who looked about seventy five, with white whiskers who clacked spoons like an expert on his old knees, and a woman with short, tousled blonde hair who wore a heavy Celtic cross made of silver, who brought sweet, haunting melodies from within her flute.

They were quite a peculiar mix, and, sitting on a rickety mahogany stool, with a half pint of thick Guinness, Brennan was shocked that somehow, they actually worked. Their music was in perfect sync, and the sound wreaked of one hundred percent Ireland.

Occasionally someone would stand, dance a little jig and inevitably give up and return to their stout. Or their Bushmills whiskey. Either way, the attempt was comical, and Brennan found herself grinning more often than not. Next to her, Booth lifted his eyes from the bottomless depths of his black Guinness rarely. His mood was heavy and could not be lifted by the light-hearted dances, and genuine happiness of the villagers.

"Finished with your pint, mate?" The barman asked as Booth drained his glass. "Another?" He nodded, pushing his glass towards the grey haired man, who chuckled. "What's your worries? Maybe somethin' a little stronger? What about a short?" Booth seemed disorientated by the man's bombardment of rapid-fire questions, coupled with his thick accent.

"Umm… just a refill, thanks." The music changed, and the band began a slow, haunting ballad that brought the chatter within the room to a lull. Brennan turned in her chair, watching as the woman with the black hair pulled the bow across the strings of the violin with a practiced elegance. The sound was both lingering and heartbreaking.

She had tried to remain happy, for the sake of herself. She knew within her own heart that she was being abrupt and quite selfish. She'd found it difficult to open up, and when Booth mentioned babies, her heart had taken a dive into the pit of her stomach. She grieved for the child she'd lost almost every minute, and despite maintaining, quite convincingly, she thought, a façade of normality within herself, she was far from healed. The grief… it was far from gone.

The barman replaced her own drink and Booth passed twenty euros across the scored mahogany bar. When she glanced sideways, his eyes were firmly cast into the stout again. "Booth…?" She dropped her hand to his arm, and the tight muscles of his forearm flexed beneath her touch. She was momentarily caught unaware at how she missed his skin against hers. Her mind flashed, dangerously erotic, to images of their naked bodies, writhing in ecstasy. How she missed it.

"It's fine, Bones. Please," he paused, "please just leave it." There was an edginess to his voice that she remembered from times when, during work, their opinions clashed and she hurt his feelings. Brennan knew immediately that she'd hurt his feelings now, too.

"Booth…"

"Bones!" He jerked away, recoiling and almost tipping off his chair. The melody was not enough to quieten his distain. "I said leave it." She blinked, almost frightened by the fierceness in his tone. She swallowed, her fingers inches from his arm again. He slid off his stool, and pushed his drink away. "Will you be alright to get back? I'm going for a walk." Her eyes registered shock, then, he supposed, she felt a little bit like he'd felt when she'd walked out of DC. But, instead of her features displaying hurt, she nodded once.

"Sure. I'll be fine." Her lips were slightly tight when she spoke, but there was no evidence of extreme pain. At last not like that which he felt.

Outside, the rain Booth had predicted earlier had began, a light, aromatic drizzle that smelt like the countryside and made everything feel fresh and renewed. As he descended the four steps to the road, and began the long walk back to the cottage, his mind replayed the events of their relationship. He couldn't have imagined, when they were stuck in her elevator, that in a few short months, they'd be in a dark place like this.

God, the worst part of the dire situation was that he needed to touch her. He needed to run his fingers through her silken hair, even once, just to remind himself of what it did to him. He wanted to nuzzle her breasts, and maybe even taste her little nipples on his tongue.

He hardened, and he cursed himself, kicking a loose stone on the winding road. Was it just that he was, underneath all the dark brooding and troubled persona, a typical male with the inability not to harden at the image of a naked woman?

Not naked woman, he reminded himself. Brennan is… fuck… everything.

The wind blew violently, almost tipping unto the other side of the road. He stumbled, reaching to the old wooden fence for balance. His legs shook, his adrenaline high.

"Whoa… careful there," he felt a hand grip his arm, and he blinked, dazed, the slanting, misty rain obstructing his view. "Are you a little drunk there?" The woman's voice was thickly accented – a similar brogue to the barman.

"Maybe a little," he admitted, pressing his hand to his forehead, turning to the woman. He'd long red hair that blew around her shoulders, and bewitching green eyes. "The Guinness," he explained. "Stronger than you'd think." The woman smiled, stepping next to him. She wore a long green skirt and a jacket held together with an ancient bronze Celtic designed clip.

"You men," she joked. "Don't know when to stop. Where are you going, stranger? You're not from around here." He shook his head in the negative. "You're American, aye?" Their footfalls on the pebbly dirt-track were the only sounds, mixed with the recognisable sound of splashing water as the rain got heavier.

"Yes," he said. "I'm staying at the cottage just…" he pointed in the general direction of the ocean. Next to him, the woman laughed. She seemed unbothered by the rain. He suspected people around her developed an immunity to the weather.

"I'm Sorcha," she said at last. When he didn't speak, she laughed. "Y'know in Ireland, this is where you tell me your name." He glanced at her through the darkness, quite unsure if he was going the right direction.

"Seeley," he said. "Um… Sorcha did you saw it was?" She nodded, her head bobbing, her hair matted around her cheeks, now a deep burnt orange. "Where are you going?" His investigative instinct kicked in.

"I live just over the hill," Sorcha said. "Beyond the little chapel." When it was bright, Booth remembered seeing a grey chapel, with ancient stonework, probably done by expert stone masons. He remembered admiring the bell at the top of the tower, and the crucifix mounted at the top. On Sunday, he'd make a point of going to church. He hadn't been in awhile.

"With all due respect, though, I'm not the one who seems lost," Sorcha commented, and his laughter was lost into the night.

"I seem lost?" Booth asked, almost falling into a pot-hole in the road. His foot tipped to the side, and his ankle gave a painful twinge. The woman reached for his sleeve and rescued him from his second near fall of the evening.

"You'll think twice about drinking so much," she said. "Aye. Lost." The words seemed layered with double meaning, and Booth wondered at just how accurate the girl's statement was. He couldn't remember being quite so lost in his life. "Can't find your way?" Her voice had a sort of melodic soothing to it. He shrugged.

"Everyone gets lost sometimes," he said.

"Aye," Sorcha conceded as they rounded a bend in the road and began a steep incline. "Me ma always said that feelings are like a maze and your soul can try to find its way as much as it likes. But at the end of the day, trail and error is what makes us find our way again. I reckon we'll all stumble upon the right track at some point. Am I making sense to you?" Booth shrugged.

"Not really. But your mom sounded wise." Sorcha laughed.

"T'was, aye. Wise as an owl, was me ma. So, why so glum? Drinking blues?" Booth shook his head.

"I'm not that drunk."

"All evidence to the contrary. Are you sure you know where you're going?" Sorcha asked, brushing her titan hair from her eyes.

"Literally or figuratively?" Booth wondered aloud. The woman laughed and he realised even her laughter had an accent. There was hardly any light now, but his own eyes had adjusted to notice again how bright green hers were.

"Whatever," she shrugged. "Literally or figuratively." She stopped, and it took a moment for him to realise she had. When he did, he paused too. "Can you find your way back to your cottage, Seeley?" She asked, five feet away from him now. He nodded. "Good. This is where I cut off," Sorcha said, gesturing into the darkness. There was no road, no gap in the fence. "Take care, won't you." It wasn't a question. He turned in a circle, wondering where she would go. The path to the right led to the ocean, and a steep cliff at that, and to the left, the mountains rose, quite uninhabitable and there was no way anyone was climbing it tonight. In fact, the only way to go was the way they had been heading.

"Hey…" he turned, but she was gone. In fact, it was almost as though she'd never been there at all. There was no sounds of her retreating steps, no noise except for the wind as it whispered against his ears, the rain as it fell on the road and the formidable whoosh of the ocean in the distance. "Damn weird," he said, retracing his steps down the hill to where she stood. He kicked the dirt and heard the clink of metal.

Crouching, Booth took the intricately twined bronze clip into his hand. "Hey!" He called into the darkness. "Sorcha! Hey! You dropped your clip! Sorcha!" The wild answered his calls, and nothing more.

Frowning, he ran his fingers over the clip. It felt old beneath his touch. Weathered. "Booth…?" He started, spinning. Brennan stood behind him, her hair soaked, rain slipping off her milky white skin as she pursed her lips, her body trembling a little. He noted that she was crying.

"Bones…" he said, a little distracted. "Did you see the woman?" His partner frowned, brushing her tiny hand over her forehead, swiping fruitlessly at the rain there.

"What woman?" She asked, and this time, he noticed the husky tone in her voice, and watched as tears spilled over her eyes, unto her cheeks. "Booth… it hurts." She said, reaching out, taking his arms in her hands. He froze, his heart squeezing painfully. "It hurts so much. I feel…" she sighed. "I feel like someone's ripped my soul out and I want it back." She sobbed, bunching her fingers into fists and pounding at his chest, wrenching sobs cutting through her throat. "I want it back, Booth…" He pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"You'll get your soul back. I promise." He didn't know what he was promising. But he hoped the mysterious Sorcha woman was right. He hoped everyone did, inevitably, find their way back unto the right path.

"Not my soul," she choked, her breath painfully sharp. "My baby. I want my baby back. Our baby…" she repeated the words over and over until eventually her voice was so soft, it disappeared with each breezy gust.

Stepping back, Booth dropped the bronze medallion into his pocket and took her hand. "We'll find our way, Temperance," he said. "Because our feelings are just a maze. And our souls will always find their way to freedom."

"And our baby?" She asked. He paused to contemplate this for a moment.

"Our baby will find it's way to Heaven," he said. And around them, the rain stopped.

Literally. And liked to believe, figuratively, too.

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I don't believe in Heaven. I am an Atheist, much like Brennan. Well, perhaps Atheist is a little strong. I am, perhaps, an Agnostic. But, when I was young, my little brother died when he was just a baby and I like to believe his soul went to Heaven.

I have to admit, I almost made myself cry with this one. While my intentions are not to make you cry, I hope you felt it, too.

And wolfy, since you mentioned in your review that you lost your baby, I figured you didn't mind people knowing. This is for your baby – I hope you little one's soul found its way to Heaven, too.

Oh and, is Sorcha a ghost? That's for you to decide.