Told you I was back! Thanks to everyone who's still paying attention to this story; I really appreciate it. This one is short and (bitter)sweet, to counteract the last, insanely long chapter (19 pages vs. 3? Yes please). This is the crux of the story; while everything changes from here on out, as I said, this isn't the end. Please read and review! Let me know if I've done the story up to now justice.

As always, I don't own Bones, or the song "In the Sun," by Joseph Arthur.

Chapter Fifteen

Caught in Between All You Wish For and All You Seen

New Year's Day, for most people, was a day of hope and optimism, of planning for the year ahead. Shedding the past, setting new goals: Lose weight, leave the loser, fall in love, get the grades. For Rebecca Jean Stinson Knowles, it was the day she finally understood it. She was dying. She would be dead soon, probably within the month, probably even sooner. Her body was beginning to do what her Hospice counselor had called "actively dying." She realized, in her talks with Brent and Parker and her sisters and Seeley, that she was slowly going through the steps of dying: apologizing, offering forgiveness, giving thanks, expressing love, saying goodbye. She'd mostly taken care of Seeley and her sisters by Christmas, she was pretty sure; she'd started doing the same thing with Parker and Brent. On New Year's Day — she'd gone to sleep early, early the night before, having nothing really to look forward to — she realized, with sudden and striking clarity, that she had only days left.

It was tough, to say good-bye to Brent. He was the love of her life. He made this easier, he made her laugh, they'd planned a whole life together, and they were both losing that future. He was the person that she dreaded saying good-bye to the most; it was the task she'd been avoiding most. The other people in her life, they just didn't matter as much, and that made it easier.

But at the same time, her major preoccupation, the one thing she felt she had to hang on for, that she was thinking about and planning about and worrying about, was Parker's well-being. And that wasn't in Brent's hands, no. That was in Seeley's, a man she hadn't cared for, barely even liked, for the past decade.

That split — to have the only thing she truly cared about left in the arms of a man she didn't love — felt akin to having a heart outside a body. She wanted the heart nestled snug in its rib cage, but it wasn't, it was dangling and delicate and exposed and just out of her control. So of course she didn't talk about it with Brent.

She worried about Parker. Oh, God, did she worry about Parker. She worried about how this was eating him up. She worried about what kind of upheaval this would cause in his life. She worried about leaving him permanently with Seeley and Temperance, him slipping into this perfect Washington fairy-tale life they were rapidly carving out for themselves. Sidwell, Blue Ribbon Commissions, press conferences, book tours, New Year's Eve parties at the Attorney General's house. She was worried he would forget her. She was worried he wouldn't forget her.

Christmas had assuaged her fears, a little. She'd had Parker all morning, had watched home videos of Christmases past with him on Christmas Eve; had taken a photo with him and Seeley — Parker's family — after she'd given the rocking chair to Seeley. That had been an impulsive, unintentional gift — she'd intended only to give him the photo albums, which were really for Parker — but had pushed that gift on top, wanting something else, something physically and tangibly her, in that house, that family, that Parker would soon become a full member of. The two of them had finally had a talk, a good talk, and she felt like she'd finally gotten one aspect of the whole "parenting while dying" thing right.

"I just … I hate this. I hate to see you like this, and see Dad like this, and Brent and Bones, and to feel like this," Parker had said, his voice finally near the breaking point.

She enveloped him. "You've been so brave," she murmured. It was extraordinary; how the thing that he seemed to care about most was that all the adults in his life were upset and losing it. She'd raised a good son. "It'll be over soon. I promise."

"But then you'll be gone," he'd said matter-of-factly. His voice was back to resigned; the emotions that she'd seen cracking behind the surface were gone. Her too-grown-up, too-realistic son, the man she could no longer comfort, was back.

"Parker, come on," she said, pulling him up a little so his shoulder was against hers, trying to make him relax. "Yes, I won't be here, no, that's not fair. But I'll still be here, in here," she kissed his temple, "in here," she patted his heart. "As long as I'm there, you're never without me."

"It's not the same," he explained heavily, with the emotional burdens of someone twice his age. "I can't talk to you."

"You can always talk to me, Parks," she said firmly. "And hey — I won't have a job, I won't need to sleep, I won't need to eat — I'll be able to listen much better than I ever could here. Any time. Any place."

He squeezed her hand. It was cold and thin, but it was still solid. "But I'll miss you," he insisted, poking her palm heart rent.

"I will never leave you," she replied, squeezing his hand tightly.

Her pen's scratching woke Brent, as she was finishing the last of her letters to Parker. One of the Hospice counselors — she went there every day now, for homeopathic and therapeutic medicines, to check in, to get things in order — had suggested writing Parker a letter for every birthday. She'd done that, every birthday up until his thirtieth, and now letters for big days like graduations and weddings and firstborns. "Hey," he said roughly, "you need sleep, babe."

"I slept all day," she said. It was true; she was sleeping at least 16 hours a day at this point, and she felt like she needed to take advantage of this flickering energy surge. "There's still so much to do," she said, distracted, as she figured out the three or so most important parts of parental advice she had, to include in a letter marked When Parker Has His First Child. She turned to him. "You'll get these to him, right?"

He paused, and looked away. She hadn't finished everything she needed to, but she was ready to say good-bye; Brent wasn't ready at all. Part of her unfinished business was getting him ready. "Of course," he said, placing his hand on her forearm.

She put the letter aside; it could wait. Breathing heavily — it was tough to lie down — she sank to the pillow. Wordlessly, Brent went to the bathroom, got some water, and helped her drink. "Thank you," she whispered. She still had something to say, though, he could tell, so he waited. "You'll, you'll move on, right?" she finally blurted out. "You're going to be OK, right? I've spent so much time worrying about Parker, worrying about how tough his situation's going to be, but you're going to be OK, right?"

He looked away, pained. "Becca —" he started. "Please don't. Don't do this, OK?"

"I need to know," she said softly. "I want you to. I need you to, too."

His eyes cut her, just knowing her, right to the bone. "Don't hang on for me, alright? This is painful, what's happening to your body; I know it is. Don't … don't just keep hanging on, putting yourself through hell. Let go, please, when your body needs to."

"I want to make sure you're OK, that you're —" she began.

"Ready?" he laughed hollowly. "I'm not going to be, Bex, I'm sorry, I can't. I can't be that selfless. I've tried and I just … I can't. But you suffering is worse than any of that. I won't be ready, until it happens, then I will be, OK? But don't … don't keep pushing yourself through all of this. I can't see you suffer like this, OK? I love you. I love you way too much for that."

She leaned up slightly, kissed him. Her lips felt dry, but she felt a little better. "OK," she said, pushing herself back up. "OK."

"You need to sleep," he stated.

"I will," she said. "I just need to finish this letter first, then I will. I promise."

"Okay," he said, turning his body over. He always slept on his side.

She picked up the paper again. She'd forgotten the date, and wrote it on the top, just because. January 4th.

The next day, she went to the Hospice center, and didn't come home again.

So ... how did you like it? Let me know!