"Morning, Bones." He greets her with a smile, but she can't help but notice that it doesn't reach all the way to his eyes. He looks rumpled, and there are dark circles under his eyes, and although she remembers a time when she would have had something to say about both, she realizes sadly that the time has passed. He's on the mend, it seems, but she still finds herself guarding her words, careful of the fresh line that he has drawn between them. Partners, she remembers. That's all they will ever be.
"Hello, Booth. I trust that your day is going well?"
"As well as can be expected." She wants to ask more. His wry smile disturbs her; it seems out of place on his usually jovial face. She bites her tongue. That level of intimacy is forbidden to her now.
"I'll grab my kit and we can go inspect the body." Her professionalism turns on, like a switch. He notices the second it happens – there's something she's not saying, something she desperately wants to. A part of him is pleased. He's petty and vindictive, but he's not proud of it.
"Bones," he calls out automatically, wanting to take back some of the harshness of his own words. She turns, waiting. "I brought you coffee." He's not ready to apologize yet. The rational part of him hopes that she will give him a little more time to be sorry, and that she will forgive him. The petty and vindictive part doesn't care. He holds out the cup like an olive branch.
"Thank you, Booth." Raising the cup to her lips, she nods slightly in his direction. It doesn't hold a candle to what their partnership used to be, Brennan decides, but it's a start.
xxxxxx
"What have we got?" Brennan shouts to the police officer overseeing the evidence as they arrive at the crime scene. Booth barely has time to put the car into park before she is out of it, starting towards the remains at a near jog. He smiles, in spite of himself. Some things, he decides, never change. He strolls at a more leisurely pace towards the body, lingering to chat with the police officer who responded to the call and to inquire about the body's discovery. As he reaches his partner's side, she narrates her findings.
"The iliac crest suggests male. Judging by insect activity, I'd suggest he's probably been here for several months, but we will have to wait for Hodgins to give us a more accurate estimation. I'd estimate his age at 35-40 years." Her speech lets him know that she means business.
"I'll call the lab and let them know we're on the way," he replies, turning to leave.
"Oh, and Booth," she catches him mid-turn, "I believe that the victim was Catholic," she holds something out to him in her gloved hand. It is a Saint Christopher medal, the twin of the one around his neck. It unsettles him, briefly.
"Thirty-something Catholic male. I'll let Cam know." No room here for anything but business, he tells himself.
xxxxx
"Hello, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth." Wendell Bray greeted the partners as they re-entered the Jeffersonian. They'd had the body sent back for an initial assessment by the intern while they stopped for lunch at the diner. A very quick lunch, Brennan noted. She supposed that she would have to get used to the idea of a short, working lunch with Booth, rather than the drawn-out conversations, arguments, and discussions of life and philosophy that she'd grown used to sharing with him. The dull ache that had persisted in her stomach since she'd come back from Maluku made its disapproval known. She'd never admit it to anyone, much less to Booth, but she finally understood the reasoning behind his "gut feeling". Her own was screaming at her that something was wrong.
"I was able to confirm the victim's identity in your absence. There is a remodeled gunshot wound to his left clavicle, as well as a few scars from a minor maxillofacial surgery on his maxilla. I was able to confirm his identity by cross-referencing medical records and the missing persons database." Wendell handed a file to Brennan.
"James Kingsley," she read. "He was an air force pilot?"
"Retired." Wendell nodded, "But the military still used him as a consultant for training purposes."
"Good work, Mr. Bray." Brennan affirmed, "I'd like to conduct my own initial examination now." She headed for the platform. The intern turned to follow.
"Oh, Agent Booth, I almost forgot – a package arrived for you this morning. Cam has it in her office."
xxxxx
"Seeley," he was greeted with a professional smile as he entered Camille Saroyan's office. He noted the pictures on the wall; Michelle looked older than he remembered. Guiltily, he realized he'd been too busy with personal problems to notice what had been going on in his friend's life.
"Cam, hi." He turned up the charm, "How've you been."
"From what I hear, a lot better than you." She had a point. He pointedly ignored it.
"Wendell said you had something for me?"
"Yes – it was dropped off earlier this morning." She handed him a small package, wrapped in what appeared to be brown grocery paper. He carefully opened one end to reveal the corner of a small jewelry box. Numbly, he unwrapped the small package the rest of the way. He'd thought he would never have to see this particular box again. He looked angrily at Cam. She'd handed him this box, he decided, so she got to be the one to answer for it.
"I'm sorry, Seeley." She did look it. "Apparently, grounds staff fished it out of a fountain. They told me they found a jewelry store label inside and called; the proprieter was able to look up the sale and told them that it belonged to you."
"I threw it in the fountain because I never wanted to see it again." Booth was livid.
"I know, Seeley, but someday, 30 years from now when you're looking back, you may wish you'd held on to it." His expression softened. She simply didn't realize the magnitude of the failure that this ring represented. It wasn't just about Hannah. In fact, he realized, belatedly, it had never had much to do with Hannah in the first place.
"I'm sorry, Cam. I know you're just trying to help." He slipped the box into his pocket and turned to leave.
"Seeley," she hesitated, "I'm sorry too."
xxxxx
It was nearly two A.M, yet sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind wandered to the small box Cam had given him. It was still in the pocket of his suit jacket, draped over the chair where he'd left it when he got home. Sighing, he slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen to retrieve it. Snapping open the lid, he took the ring out, sitting down on the couch to inspect it. He'd known it was the wrong decision, even when he picked it out in the store. He'd chosen it for its size and its convenience, because it was beautiful, and because it was exactly what a woman was supposed to want. He'd chosen it like he'd chosen its recipient – because it was what he was supposed to do. He hadn't asked Hannah to marry him out of love, he realized, but out of anger and a twisted knowledge that it would hurt Bones. A part of him, he was ashamed to admit, had wanted to see her hurt the way that he had.
The ring represented a failure, not in his relationship with Hannah, but in his relationship with Bones. It was a betrayal, he realized, of the deepest kind. He'd told her that he would love her for 30, 40, or 50 years – forever. He'd promised her that there was more than one kind of family, and that opening herself up and allowing herself to love would not be a mistake. He had broken those vows. He shook his head at the irony. Engagement rings were supposed to be about keeping promises.
Remembering back to that fateful night by the Lincoln Memorial, he realized that when he'd decided to take a gamble, that it hadn't only been his feelings on the line. He'd gambled with her heart too. Blinded by his own insecurity, he'd been too hurt to see the fear in Brennan's eyes. Fear that everything would change, that a relationship with her wouldn't be enough for him, and that he, like everyone in her past, would leave her too. He'd bet her heart, and she'd tried to stop him, but it hadn't mattered. He'd hurt her anyway.
"Too much heart, Bones," he whispered. "Why do you have to have such a damn big heart?"
xxxxx
It took burying the ring in the back of his hall closet for Booth to finally fall asleep, and when he did, he dreamed of another ring, on another finger; of an alternate reality where he was Mr. B who owned the night club. He dreamed of Bren and their new baby, of happiness and love.
It was the same dream he'd had in his coma, but his unconscious mind noted one small difference: Bren had worn his Saint Christopher medal, and within his dream-mind, he'd called her 'Bones'.