Alright, some of you are no doubt wondering what this is, and why it is NOT an update of some other stories that I've been... well, neglecting, to be quite honest.
This, right here, is a oneshot following a possibility for what I would love to see in the season premiere.
Yes, I said it is a oneshot. (Knowing me, at some point it might become more. As if I don't have enough to do already.)
Why haven't I updated my other stories? Well, that's pretty simple. It's called writer's block, and I officially HATE it. So, take this as a sign that I'm atleast capable of still writing, after I totally lost inspiration to do anything Bones related for a very long time. I'm coming back, really, I promise.
Anyways, to all of you that really don't care what this crazy author is babbling about, I hope you enjoy this story.
I don't own Bones. If I did, there would have been a very long and tearful hug in that airport. No, not a kiss. That would have left them wondering for a year, on their own, what it meant. Hodgins got a hug. Booth should have got one too. A better one.
Rant over. Please, do read on. *bows*
Before Booth, life was different.
Before Booth, I was alone.
Before Booth, I felt lost in the world.
Before Booth, I didn't know what it was like to be happy.
After Booth... I am broken.
A slight shadow crosses my face as I sit eating my solitary breakfast in the middle of my silent kitchen. A bird lets out a faint chirp in a sad little tree behind my apartment building, but I barely notice it. My fork drifts up to my mouth, laden with soggy scrambled eggs, and I blink away the moisture that the sunlight had built up in my eyes.
Today promises to be cloudy, or at least the weather man claims so. The shadow over my face, though, passes rather quickly, and it isn't a solid mass, either, but a mere wisp. According to how hot it is already, at seventy degrees when it's only eight o'clock, I'm betting it will be a perfectly humid summer day with the sun beating down on everything in sight.
I ditch the eggs before they make me sick. I had managed to add far too much milk to the mixture before frying it, and they turned out terribly. The orange juice tastes funny as well, and I toss it down the drain. It really shouldn't surprise me, that nothing tastes appetizing. What would, anymore, when it's tinged the way it is with memories that I'm still trying to stave off? And every time they roll around, I'm distracted and I can't focus. Last night, I nearly burned down my building trying to make myself a bagel.
I should be concerned by this, but I can't seem to muster up enough effort to care.
Indonesia was not nearly as exciting as I had expected. I had found myself counting the days down until my return, feeling that nervous anticipation that things might go wrong, but yet not able to fight off the heady feeling of hope that perhaps they would go right for once.
I was at the coffee cart, at noon on the dot, one year from the day that we had said goodbye in that airport. I was waiting, staring across the small ripples in the water. It had been a slightly windy day... a few clouds drifting lazily over the sky and decorating the tourists' photographs of the Washington Monument. I had drank down my third cup of coffee before reality began to set in. Maybe he wasn't going to come. I began to look around more fearfully, my eyes flickering between faces, pleading internally for his to appear magically in the crowd and come confidently towards me with that boyish grin lighting up and showing me he was just as excited to see me as I was to see him.
Only, that didn't happen.
My phone, however, did ring.
I nearly answered it with 'Bones' in my eagerness for it to be him, with some silly explanation of a flight delay and a promise that he'd be there in an hour... but instead it was Angela.
"Sweetie, it's so good to hear your voice! Jack and I just got in at the airport, and we were wondering if you wanted to come get some dinner with us... we haven't talked in ages, and letters really don't cover all the stories that we've got to tell you. I'm sure you've got some pretty wild ones from that jungle, too."
"I can't," I had managed to get out after a breathless moment. "I'm... waiting for Booth. He was... he was supposed to meet me at the Reflecting Pool."
"Oh." Her murmur was soft, and heavy with a burden of knowledge that she clearly didn't want to share. At once, I was blinded with fear. "Bren, Booth told me... he said you knew... he's staying for another month. Listen, I don't know why you didn't already know, but I'm really sorry. I'm sure he'll call."
And he did call, a few hours later. By then, I was home and showered, unable to bring myself to unpack. My mind was far too busy racing through scenarios and explanations, all of them pushing me further towards a breaking point that I knew I couldn't handle. There was a reason why I had left, and that was because I had needed the time to think about what direction my life was heading in. The murder investigations weren't making me happy anymore. They weren't... enough. More and more, I began to crave human contact over the mysteries of the dead. I had begun to enjoy spending time after work with Booth than I had at my actual job. It had scared me far more than I would have liked to admit, mostly because my work would never disappear, and any day something could happen to take Booth away forever. I was safer if my greatest love was a secure position at the museum.
The only thing I had been able to think of that would solve the problem would be if I were to go back to what I had loved originally, and take part in the dig going on in the Maluku Islands. It would remind me of who I was and what was important to me, and then I could go back to doing my job the way I had always done it. Both of us would benefit from the time apart.
Only, I had come to realize within a few short months that it didn't matter where I was. The work was fascinating. It was enjoyable. But it didn't make me nearly as happy as it used to. I felt lost, like I was alone at sea with no navigation equipment. This wasn't something I was used to... emotions weren't supposed to rule my decisions. And yet, I wanted to be happy... and I already knew what it was that made me the happiest. Before Booth, I wasn't the same. I was sad... I was isolated. When he was around, I felt lighter. When I woke up in the morning, I wanted to go to work mostly to see him. When I was alone, my thoughts strayed to him. When I heard a joke, I wondered automatically if he knew it. When I discovered something about pop culture that I hadn't known before, I wanted to tell it to him and see the laughter shine in his eyes.
On the phone, though, he sounded tired. He sounded... different. He sounded like he'd put a lot of thought into his life and his future... and he'd come out on a side that I wasn't on anymore.
He told me that he was coming back in a month, but that he wasn't resuming work with the FBI. He was retiring. He was moving on.
And in that moment, I understood exactly what it was to have a metaphorical broken heart. I'd been hurt before... by my parents leaving, by my brother taking off, by the isolation I had faced through school, by the constant reminders that I was simply incapable of the normality of understanding emotions which everyone else seemed to catch on to so easily... by his faked death two years ago.
This wasn't quite the same, though. This was a choice he was making. This was Booth making up his mind not to come back and try again. This was him giving up on me, for good.
And I realized that I really didn't deserve any better.
I was the one that had put in place this year away from each other concept. I was the one that had decided I needed the time to figure my life out. It wasn't his fault that the year had taught him I wasn't worth it... it was mine. I had come to the decision that I couldn't live without him... he'd come to the decision that he couldn't live with me. If I hadn't hesitated, if I had been able to make up my mind over a year ago when he'd just asked me to try... none of this would have happened.
He had every right to just forget me and go on with his life.
And if this was what he truly wanted? Well, I wasn't going to stop him. Even if it tore my heart in two.
He came back last week. I called Cam and asked her if she would mind picking him up at the airport... I didn't think I'd be able to face him. She had been surprised by my call, but she didn't seem to mind much.
I've been to the Jeffersonian only twice since I returned from my trip. The first time was to attempt working. The second was to turn in my letter of resignation and collect my belongings from my office.
I can't work there anymore. Nothing holds the same passion anymore, and even when I was back there, in the familiar setting, it didn't ring true. It felt fake... forced, almost.
It felt the way it had in those days following his death, when I had buried myself in my work as a method of fighting back my emotions. This time, though, I'm not going to let it be the same. He is gone from my life; it's a fact I'm going to have to quickly learn to accept, or I'm never going to be able to survive.
Only, I can't handle it as easily as I had foolishly been hoping. Booth has been such a large figure in my life for the past six years that it's impossible to forget him. A small part of me likes to prod my brain every now and then with the horribly painful reminder that if I can't forget him, how little would I have to mean to him for him to be able to just move on and forget me?
At the same time, I feel betrayed. I feel like I gave everything I had to our partnership, our friendship, and when I got scared he simply gave up entirely. I feel like I've lost the greatest thing I ever had, all when I was just getting ready to try for something I never could have imagined I'd be agreeing to.
I never got the chance, though.
Some part of me wonders what happened over there. He went to train soldiers to fight, but what happened specifically? Did he get involved? Did he have to kill more people? Did he so foolishly decide to be the hero when I had practically begged him not to?
I take some solace from the fact that he is very much alive and well. It's just about the only comfort I can offer myself nowadays.
And maybe someday he'll be happy. He'll find that someone that can love him back in the way he wanted me to. He can get married, and have children... and he'll be glad of the choice he made, because he'll know it wouldn't have turned out that way if he'd tried to stay with me. I might know that I need him, but I can tell, just the same, that I'm not good enough for him. Doesn't he deserve a woman that won't argue with him over every little thing, who wants a traditional relationship that turns into a traditional marriage and then a traditional family? That wouldn't be how we would have turned out, I know that for certain.
I do wonder, though, some of these days, if I would have been happy. Would a life with Booth have made me a different person? Would it have brought me the kind of joy that I used to see between my parents? Would my views have changed? Would we have had children, at some point, and would that have made me proud?
It's foolish to think about what might have changed if the path we'd taken had only been slightly different, but I do it anyways. My imagination runs wild with images of things that I will never have, and I'm helpless to stop it from happening because it's just about the only hold on some semblance of happiness that I have left to myself.
As I'm tucking the dirty plate into my dishwasher, I hear a hesitant knock on my door.
Angela's been by several times to check up on me, and for the most part she seems to think I'm doing okay. Mostly, I think she's just relieved that I'm not emotionlessly plowing through Limbo to solve my problems. I think she's under some sort of illusion that I'm taking this time to figure out how to solve the situation with Booth, and then everything will go back to normal. So far, I've been unable to work up the courage to tell her it isn't going to happen.
I'm expecting it to be her, and so I'm shocked when I peer through my peephole and find that it's Booth standing out in my hall, looking incredibly nervous and playing with the wrapping around what appears to be a bouquet of daffodils.
I'm feeling just as nervous as I open the door and stand there staring at him.
He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and then he offers me the flowers and simply says, "Hey, Bones."
I fight back the tears that spring up so ridiculously in my eyes, and I accept the flowers. What can I say to him? And why is he even here, in the first place?
The smile fades as I search for a response better than 'Hi, Booth,' and I immediately realize that he's taking my silence in a very negative way. I try to offer him a smile of reassurance, but I'm sure that it doesn't look very reassuring at all. I step out of the way as an invitation for him to come in, and for some crazy reason I'm relieved when he does so.
I still have absolutely no idea what to do, or what to say. I've done so much thinking about my standing with him over the past year that to have him right in front of me seems remarkably surreal. I have to remind myself quite a few times, while I'm putting the flowers in a vase and setting it on my table, that this is him being nice. This is not him deciding to fight for something between us. He's just being the man that he's always been, and tying up the loose ends. Here, he will explain why he's decided to move on, and then most likely proceed to give me advice and such and tell me that he knows I'll find somebody perfect for me... etcetera, etcetera. I know him well enough to understand all of that.
I just don't want to hear it.
"Sorry I wasn't at the Reflecting Pool," he says, breaking the fresh silence that has settled over us. I realize suddenly that I haven't even spoken a single word to him yet.
I shake my head. "No, it's okay. You were... busy. It was important. You don't have to worry about me. I was... I was fine."
It sounds like a terrible lie, and by the way his eyes soften, I can tell right away that he's seen through it.
More silence.
"You quit the Jeffersonian." It isn't a question, and I bite my lip and look away. "Why?"
"You quit the FBI," I say in response. It's a double meaning. A retort to his almost accusation as well as an answer to his question.
He seems to consider for a second, and then he sighs and looks away.
"This last year..." he starts, "I thought a lot about... us." I'm immediately grateful that he isn't looking at me, because if he was, he would see the intense sorrow that I know just crossed my face. It is one thing to know that the person you love doesn't love you back. It's entirely another for them to tell you it, and I know that it's coming any moment now. "I didn't want to come back to the FBI, because it meant going back to normal. And... I don't want things to go back to normal."
"Neither do I," I find myself saying, and I hardly believe the words have escaped. He doesn't seem to believe it either, by the way his eyes are suddenly locked with mine and his eyebrows are raised.
"What do you..?" he starts to say, but trails off, frowning in confusion.
"Nothing," I say at once, self-preservation instincts taking over and scolding that stupid brainless part of me that made me spill those words out only a moment before.
He doesn't seem to believe me, but he slowly goes back to what he was saying, the frown not entirely disappearing from his face. His eyes stay on mine now, and I feel trapped.
"Bones, I didn't leave the FBI because I wanted to get away from you." Now my eyes widen, even though I try to hide my surprise. He stops immediately, his gaze filling with sadness. "That's what you thought, didn't you?" he asks at last.
I give a broken little nod, breaking my gaze away from him and staring at my carpet a few feet to his right.
He sighs softly, and then I see him shift towards me out of the corner of my eye. Before I can react, he's pulled me into his arms and wrapped them securely around me, burying me against his chest. Instinct tells me to push him away and flee at once, but too much of me is enjoying this, despite the fact that I know it won't last. That pesky hopeful feeling has come rushing back, and I'm not ready to let it go again just yet.
His face is bent next to my ear as he says the next words, "Bones, I need you. I just didn't know if I could bare working with you every day, and knowing that you didn't feel the same way."
At once, I stiffen, but before I can even begin to explain the truth, he's talking again and not letting me get a word in edgewise.
"Only, I still know you better than anyone else, Bones. I gave you time, and space... and then I gave you more time and space that you weren't expecting, and you were upset with that."
I nod, finding that I can't seem to form words at the moment.
"Clearly, you don't want me to stop working with you... but is that because you want the partnership, or because of something else?" I know that he really means this question, and that he's been struggling with it. I can tell just from the way he asks it, and at once I'm filled with the need to answer it for him.
"Something else," I whisper so softly that I'm afraid he won't have heard, but a moment later he gently kisses the top of my head, and I know that he understands.
"So what is it, Bones?" he asks gently. "Where do we go from here?"
He has so much more faith in me than I have had in him for the past month, and I'm overwhelmed with guilt, but I know I can't miss this moment. There will be plenty of time for apologies later, even if I don't think he'll find it that important in the long run. That's just one of the many things about him that I've come to learn over the years. He understands me, and I understand him. We bounce back and forth, and I love that more than I could probably ever express.
"First we get our jobs back," I whisper, pulling my head away from him so I can meet his eyes. "And then... I stop being the scientist, you stop being the gambler... and together we'll be something in between."
"We'll be the center," he says softly in response, and his eyes sparkle before his lips descend to mine. "...And we'll always hold."
Feedback? Pretty please, with a cherry on top? I'm very eager to hear what you all thought of this one, especially because I'm not normally a first-person sort of writer, especially when it comes to characters like Brennan. I'm just hoping I did her justice. :)