Thanks for all the reviews for the first chapter. I think I forgot to mention that each chapter is supposed to be set to a song, and was meant to be read with those lyrics interspersed. The first chapter was set to Welcome to My Life by Simple Plan and this chapter should be set to Scars by Papa Roach. On my website, the chapters have the lyrics in the body of the story as well as the music video playing at the top.

Chapter 2 – Scars

After the day's events, Booth wanted nothing more than to make it into his apartment in one piece. There was a twelve-pack of beer in his fridge and a marathon of mindless television ahead of him. The letter that he had received earlier that morning was still clenched in his fist, Zach's words from Angela and Jack's first wedding attempt echoing in his ears.

"You know more about duty and honor than anyone else I know."

He didn't know why, but those words now wouldn't leave him alone. What about honor and duty to what I have here? Booth thought as he sped around another corner, earning himself a few glares as his tires squealed. His thoughts wandered to his son; Parker meant more to him than anything else, and now he would have to leave him behind as if the boy meant nothing. Booth knew he would be doing it to keep his boy safe, his boy and the rest of the country, but the words rang just a little bit hollower than when he enlisted all those years ago. My son is growing up so fast as it is. What else am I going to miss now? It was no secret that the FBI agent rarely got to see Parker, and would have seen even less of him if Rebecca had her way, it seemed. But, they lived within easy driving distance of each other. He could only wonder how far removed he would be from his son's life if he ever made it back to the capital city. When…not if, when.

Booth's past history was screaming in his ear, just waiting to take hold of his thoughts and emotions. He could already feel his feet beginning to ache, his ribs and the muscles surrounding them feeling tight and sore. He thought he had put this part of him behind him already; kept it under lock and key in the backmost corner of his heart. He had had a few too many close calls the last time around – and he didn't even have as many people at home worrying whether or not today was going to be the day the Marshals showed up at their door. Booth stopped the car outside his apartment complex and absently rubbed the scar on his left arm left by the graze of an enemy sniper's bullet before reaching for his keys. That beer was still calling his name.

By the time he was through half of the beer in his fridge, Booth's tie and dress shirt were long gone, and his normally well-groomed hair was mussed from running his hands through it. Just hidden above the hairline, he could feel the jagged line where the butt-end of an AK-47 had met his skull. He could hide the scars from most, could pretend that they didn't exist and didn't affect him, but they were always still there. Still painful reminders of what happened when you were less than perfect.

The beer cans that littered the floor around the coffee table had long been forgotten. The smell of whiskey now surrounded Booth as he tried to drown out the cries of his friends, the crackle of electricity through steel wool from batteries, and the crack of pipes on bruised flesh. One hand was fisted in his hair, pulling so hard that he could still feel the twinge through the alcohol haze. The other hand gripped the tumbler half-full with amber liquid as it tracked to his mouth once more. He had three days to get everything in order, and he planned on spending at least tonight in various stages of oblivion.

He barely heard the frantic knocking at the door, but as he concentrated on it harder, he realized that the sound had been there for some time. Booth was normally a happy-go-lucky drunk, content to spout out random thoughts as they came to him. But when he drank with a purpose, like tonight, he was much more like burning embers – smoldering and calm until someone came around and stirred him back up. Then he ignited fast and furious.

Booth looked longingly into his glass, swirling around the alcohol before pushing himself to his feet. He had a good idea who was at the door, and knew that it was only a matter of time before she got out her spare key anyway. He didn't need to add any more fuel to the fire that had been started this afternoon in the lab. To his credit, Booth only stumbled once before getting his feet under him and opened the door. Sure enough, there in all her spitfire glory, was one Temperance Brennan.

"Booth…" Her gaze drifted subconsciously to the muscles on his chest before taking in the glass of whiskey and his overall disheveled appearance.

"What are you doing here? I thought you made it pretty clear earlier that you wanted nothing more to do with me."

"I was angry."

"Yeah, so I noticed. Look, I'm really not in the mood tonight, I…" he was cut off as she pushed her way into the apartment.

Booth was left staring at the door as Brennan walked to the kitchen. Sighing loudly as he shut the door and locked it, he turned to deal with round two. The whiskey in his glass looked all the more inviting, but he put it down on the counter before leaning against it and scrubbing his face with his hands. She looks nervous; her eyes are darting around and her breathing is quicker than normal. The sniper in him took in these details almost unconsciously, and he waited for her to start.

"Look, Booth. I don't know what your problem was today, but you were acting completely irrationally. I was very busy trying to get my reports in to Cam and you came in all flustered and agitated."

Booth opened his mouth to reply that maybe there was a reason for that when she cut him off and continued.

"You know that the work I do outside of helping you with your cases is just as important to me, and I can't be expected to stop everything I'm doing at the fall of a hat to have a conversation with you whenever you feel like it."

"Drop of a hat," he muttered, but she ignored him.

"You know that I don't understand when you get so worked up about things like you do, so you're just going to have to learn to act more rationally. Anthropologically, you…"

This time Booth did cut in. "Anthro…" he stuttered through the word before standing up quickly from the counter. You don't get it, I understand that, Bones. I have to do that. I have to."

He ran his fingers through his hair almost frantically. "They teach you how to shut it all off. They teach you how to suppress everything, how to bury it so deep down that after awhile, everything's sewn up so tight, you forget how to feel. You forget how to be…human. You take one life, then another, and after awhile, you start just taking shots and that's all they are – shots. There's no life. Then, when you get all good and cold and numb, they let you loose back in the world and they never teach you how to see people as people anymore. You're so closed off in the world that you don't know what to do. Some of us drink, some of us smoke, some of us gamble like I did," he paused, "and when that doesn't bring enough feeling back, some eat a bullet. I told myself that I'd never do that – I can't. I can't do that and I can't ever be that closed off again. But I can't seem to find the balance either, I guess. I have to feel. I have to…to be human. Otherwise, I'm back in the desert, back in the jungle, firing off just another shot."

Brennan was floored. "Where did all of this come from?"

Booth just shrugged and refilled his glass. How could he tell her? The letter crinkled in his pants pocket as he remembered earlier in the day.

"Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason that I was all 'worked up' today? That maybe I had something important that I needed to tell you, and that maybe being irrational was the only way I could get your attention away from those damned bones, Bones?" The volume of his voice was rising with each comment, and he found himself wondering, and not for the first time, when she had gotten so far under his skin.

"Did you ever think that maybe I had something bigger than I could deal with, and maybe I needed to share it with you so that it wouldn't seem so…so…big? That maybe I needed a friend today and not just a co-worker?"

"What?" Brennan looked up from where she was studying the tiles.

"Maybe I needed some perspective on me. Maybe I needed to see that what we have is more important than someone who died in Timbuktu seventy million years ago. Maybe I just needed to know that I meant something to you."

"I don't think that the remains come from Timbuktu, or are seventy million years old, Booth. There is no evidence of West African descent or…"

"It's an expression, Bones. Just an expression."

"Then why say it?"

Booth sighed and rubbed his face again. "I don't know, okay. It's not the point here. The point is that…"

"That you're trying to rationalize being irrational, I get that."

This time, the FBI agent grabbed his glass and downed the alcohol before walking to his couch and falling into it. "Why did you come here, Bones?"

"I wanted…I wanted to see…"

"I'm not some National Geographic study, Bones."

"I never said that you were, Booth. What's your problem today?"

"My problem? My problem. I don't know Bones, maybe I just thought that I was rubbing off on you a little bit. You know, after all this time that maybe I was more than just another tool, another means to an end. That maybe after all this time you would notice human emotion as more than just some…biological…thing."

"A reaction to increased levels of hormones, but I still don't see where you're going? I don't understand."

Booth let out an exasperated sigh. "I can't keep doing this, Bones. I can't. I've spent the last how many years trying to get through to you, trying to get you to see that logic can only get you so far. Your science can't…it can't explain everything, you know. There are more things on…"

"Heaven and Earth than can be explained by my science, yeah I've heard you say it before. But surely even you can see that faith in some…" she attempted to tread lightly since it was clear that Booth was already agitated…"invisible deity that controls everything is skewed."

Clearly, treading lightly did not work.

"You know, once upon a time I might have gotten into that with you. I've gotten drawn into these debates before, Bones. And I might even want to hash this out with you tomorrow when I'm sober. But, God damn it, Bones. I have spent our entire relationship trying to figure out what makes you tick, and I still don't know where I stand with you. You light this…this fire in me that makes me realize that maybe I am a good person, that maybe those 49 people I killed aren't waiting to drag me down to Hell with them." Booth trailed off, caught in his own memories before looking up once more. The look on his partner's face would have caused stronger men than he to take back every word they'd ever said; to beg for forgiveness.

"Booth, you are a good person. I just don't understand why we have to keep going through this. It's your past, and we all have…ghosts in the closet…"

"Skeletons."

"Fine. I don't understand why we keep dredging this up."

"Because it's not my past anymore." Booth startled her by standing abruptly and throwing the empty glass into the wall.

"W-what?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you this afternoon. That's what was so important that I needed you to take a few minutes away from your precious skeletons. Clearly, you didn't care enough then, so just forget it. Just go home and write some more of your book or listen to your Tibetan…throat singers or whatever. Obviously, I was wrong when I thought that being partners could mean more to you than some historical find. It's my fault." Booth was yelling now, but he didn't care. It'll be easier to leave her if she's mad at me. Somehow his faulted logic was fueling his tirade.

"I got too close, that's all. I left myself open to you and I saw today just how little that mattered. I know better now, Brennan. Just…just leave me alone."

"Booth, I'm sorry for this afternoon, I really am. Just, please, talk to me now. What do you mean, it's not your past anymore?" The use of her last name stirred up feelings she didn't know how to describe. Brennan didn't know how to tell him that he meant more to her than anyone else. It just wasn't her way. She couldn't get hurt again.

"I thought it was all over. I thought…I thought I could get into the FBI and make my amends. I didn't think that…" Brennan was surprised to see tears checked at the corners of his eyes. The only time he ever got like this was…

"No, Booth. No…" She was starting to see.

"I have a son now. I have…" you. I have you to worry about, Bones. "Parker needs me, and something like this is all Rebecca needs to take him even further away from me."

Booth pulled the letter from his back pocket. He handed it silently to her, running his hands through his hair yet again.

The apartment was silent as Brennan read through the letter, her hands shaking as one gripped the paper with increasing intensity, and the other hiding her lips from view. Booth watched with detached concentration. The alcohol that had once given him the strength to push her away was now fading.

"Three days?"

"That's all you've got?"

"Booth, it's 1 am. I've been up since five. And this…I didn't expect this. Not at all."

"You think I did? You think I wanted to get this? That I wanted my life to be ripped to shreds when I was just starting to get it back on track? Do you think I want to go back there? To have to do all of that again? To wonder if I'm going to be coming back in one piece? How many more scars am I going to have if I do make it back?" Will you still be here for me?

"Of course not. I don't want this to happen any more than you do. Believe me, if I could make it not happen, I would. I just…" she ran her fingers through her long tresses. "I want you here, Booth. Working with me. And I don't know how to make that happen. I don't want to work with anyone else, we work well together. You…you're my gun. You're my safety net." Booth could tell there was more she wanted to say, but couldn't bring herself to voice them, and he cut her off harshly before she could. I can't get my own act together if I need to protect her.

"You know, why does it seem like the only reason you're acting this way is because I already have one foot out the door?"

"I don't know what that means."

"That's my point, Bones. Why don't you just…just go home. Please."

"Booth, no. I…I…"

"You, you what? I can't do this right now, Bones. I can't make you understand and make myself understand all at the same time, and if I don't get my own head around this, I'm not gonna be any good to anyone, here or there. I've gotta do this by myself or it's going to be too hard." He stood up so quickly that Brennan couldn't help but stand by default. He was so close to her, invading her personal space and still yelling.

"I don't have a choice in the matter, and neither do you. I don't have a choice like Zach did, and even if I did…how could I not go?" He took another step towards her, effectively moving her towards the door.

"I…"

"With Rebecca letting me see less and less of Parker, and you getting more and more wrapped up in your book and limbo, there's…" Say it, damn it. You have to say it. Even if you don't believe it, Seeley. It's for the best. "There's just nothing for me here, anymore. So maybe this comes at a perfect time. Just…I have to get on with this." Booth could taste blood in his mouth from the strength he was putting in to biting his tongue to keep the tears at bay. Detach, Seeley. It's just like they taught you about escaping the pain if you're captured. And damn, if you weren't good with that.

The hurt written across Brennan's face was plain as day, the fears she had long harbored that he would leave again were threatening to overtake her, "You…you don't mean that. You all think I'm cold and can't see past your lies. But I have news for you, Seeley Booth. I did learn a few things from working with you. One of which was how to recognize minute changes in body language. And you, Seeley Booth, are lying through your teeth. And I hate you for it." Without uttering another word, or letting him stop her, Brennan stormed for the door and struggled to pull it open. She fumbled with the lock and slammed the door closed behind her, turning to place one hand on the cool wood.

The sound of the slamming door rocked Booth to his core, and all the emotion that had been coursing through him as anger turned radically to fear and regret. His broad shoulders started to shake as they held him up against the door, and before he knew what was happening, he could feel skin sliding on wood as his knees buckled. It's better this way. It'll be easier to leave if I know that she's going to move on. But God do I need to know that she's going to be here to pick up the pieces when I come back. Am I coming back?

"Booth," she looked at the closed door and a single tear tracked down her cheek. "Please, don't go."

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