Christ, was he really pointing a gun at his partner? Was he really this close to pulling the trigger? Even after she reassured him that there was nothing wrong, his mind and his body were geared for combat and the cocked gun remained perfectly steady in his outstretched hand. Still in a daze, he mechanically asked her if she wanted him to put it down-of course she did-he had terrified her. He forced himself to calm down and tried clearing his head; nothing was wrong. Nothing-and everything. Vincent's death came back to him in a shower of broken glass and he remembered exactly why he had asked his partner to stay. In horrific slow motion, he saw the dark red liquid flowing inexorably between his fingers as the glazed eyes began to go further and further away.
He knew how she was, how sometimes the effects of something traumatic were long in surfacing with her. He had wanted Bones with him in case she needed him. He was also way past the point of denying that he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to keep her safe always, but especially tonight. Hell, if he'd been able to have her with him in his bedroom he would have done it. Maybe somewhere in the past, before Hannah, before Bones had said no, it would have been possible. But now? They were in some kind of no-man's land where every step was fraught with danger. Too much, too little. Impossible to know which was which, so he opted to keep her as close as possible without insisting on anything more.
Her eyes looked haunted as she came closer to his bed; even by the dim light of his bedside lamp he could see she'd been crying, maybe for most of the night. About Vincent, it had to be. Such an awful image to carry and one he wished he could make disappear for both of them.
"Vincent was talking to me Booth."
The broken voice was holding words full of recrimination and he tried making sense of what she was saying. She was tired, on edge; maybe she'd had a nightmare before coming to look for him. There was more than enough material for those tonight. But as she continued talking, the meaning of her words became clear-it was a confession. He knew, being intimately acquainted with those himself from moments spent in the silence of a darkened church, waiting for a sympathetic ear to grant some semblance of absolution. A search for outside forgiveness because you couldn't possibly hope to find any inside yourself. He'd made one for every life he took, and for some other lesser sins as well. Sometimes, when you couldn't take your actions back, it was the only thing left. The moment when you're being eaten from your insides out and only telling another can relieve the pressure. She thought Vincent was talking about her; that she was somehow responsible for the suffering in the very last minutes of his life.
Bones, it's not about you; it was never about you.
He took a deep breath as he held her hand and found himself offering the only explanation that made any sense. She couldn't know, not like he did. Yes, his partner was used to dealing with death, but he dealt with killing and its immediate aftermath. Seeing it as many times as he had, having witnessed it so closely, he knew that when it came it made all external factors very small. When people were dying, going someplace where the living couldn't follow, their eyes turned to distant, secret things that those left behind couldn't see. A transcendental moment when the material world ceased having any meaning, and the same look he had seen on Vincent's eyes just before his heart had beat out for the last time.
In attempting to calm her, though, he immediately felt the sting of mild hypocrisy inherent in his own reassuring words. He was telling her there was no reason to feel guilty, but of course there was. There always would be whenever circumstances gave you cause to second-guess your role in a tragedy. Guilt-it was part and parcel of being the one left alive. Just as he was feeling his own strident pang of remorse about Vincent: the phone. The damn phone; a phone he should have answered because that call had been meant for him and not for some innocent intern who had his entire life ahead of him. And Broadsky-if he'd only taken him down in that field…how many lives had that decision cost?
No. He wouldn't go there, not right now, not while she was the one needing comfort. Bones had come to him tonight, and he would keep himself together and do whatever he had to do to help her get by even with the meager means at his disposal. It was already a given that he couldn't ever come up with the answers she wanted to hear because there just weren't any to give. Instead, he tried quietly explaining that this had nothing to do with anything she'd done; that it was all between Vincent and something else, something larger that they couldn't possibly understand. Vincent wasn't ready and life wasn't fair, at least not in a way that made any sense to the survivors.
She stared back at him in disbelief, clearly unwilling to accept his accounting of things. Blinded by grief and despair she was caught in a loop, unable to find her way out of uncertainty and back into the world of logic where she felt safe. And how could she? Nothing could ever make sense after yesterday's utterly pointless events.
Bones, Bones, I wish I could make you could understand.
It ripped him apart to see his partner like this. So what was left when it was obvious that words were simply not enough, when under the circumstances nothing could possibly sound reasonable? Would offering anything else be misconstrued? Lately he had found that every action, every gesture involving her came under intense scrutiny in his mind because things were so vastly different between them now. It was a strange situation, and one which he still hadn't gotten used to. He would have known what to do before; but now, paralyzed by indecision, he was left to wonder just exactly when it was that he'd lost his way with her.
He was still holding her hand but her eyes, full of sorrow and regret, were pleading for more even as he understood that she couldn't bring herself to ask. And in the end, regardless of the tenuous nature of their relationship, he let instinct take over. Except for something in their recent past which had filled him with endless regret, he'd never once in his life been able to deny his partner anything-even with the possibility of deep hurt for him or both of them as the logical outcome. He gave in and pulled her close, sinking back on the pillow as she wept into his shirt.
Holding her like this, her heart vibrating softly against his ribcage, brought everything back in a rush of feeling. All those emotions he'd carefully muted in himself a long time ago out of deference to their partnership; his affection, his respect for her, how in awe he was of her and had been since their very first meeting. And without regard for how reckless it was, he let himself acknowledge what he'd carefully trained his heart to ignore: you love her. You've always loved her. No matter what fate had done to them, what they had done to each other, she was still his in a way that went beyond mere entitlement. She would always be his-it just wasn't possible for him to let go, and for once he was okay with that admission. He would always be there for her, in one way or another, even if it had to be from a distance. Even if he couldn't be a part of her life the way he wanted to be.
He let his hand caress her arm in a calming motion. "That's why I'm here Bones. I'm right here."
The words were soft, repetitive as they were whispered into her hair and he wasn't sure he was making sense anymore. He knew that ultimately what you heard didn't matter, as long as you didn't feel alone. It was something he'd learned from years of watching his own hurts gently swept away by his mother, and when she was no longer there, by Pops. They had given him this legacy. It was a gift he had used often with his own son, and now, with his heartbroken partner.
In soothing her, he was surprised to find his own measure of quiet. And as they lay on his bed, bound together by grief, the most unexpected of things happened. He was suddenly overcome with an almost unnatural sense of calm; a sense of tranquility so encompassing that it made years of pent-up rage, even the violent hatred he felt towards Broadsky, dissipate in an instant. Because regardless of so many insistent denials, Sweets was right about him. He was the owner of a deep well filled with anger; a black abyss which he had forced himself not to look into, just in case. Control and discipline; these were things that he'd become good at out of necessity, but sometimes…
He felt his lifetime of scars every day, most invisible to those who didn't know him well. He made damn well sure they stayed that way. They were a constant source of shame, glaring marks of weakness and an inability to put up a good fight. The source of so many shocking emotions barely held in check. All that anger. At his dad, at Rebecca, at Jared, at Hannah-even at Bones. But mostly, he admitted, anger at himself for all of the times he'd failed the people in his life, for the times he hadn't measured up, for the fact that something was wrong and he just never seemed to be enough for those he loved.
Such an unlikely miracle then, to be given the gift of peace and perfect clarity in the middle of this storm. But it had happened, as he lay quietly on his bed with his partner curled up against him. The miracle of contentment, of a simple acceptance of the way things had gone before and were meant to unfold in the future. In the mundane setting of his room, of all places, and after the horror that had been the day before he had finally found a way out of the dark. He felt touched by unasked for grace, boundless, pure, and for that he found himself silently thanking God.
Her breathing slowed and evened-she was asleep now. He was sure and he tightened his hold on her, already mourning the fact that he and Bones might never be this close again. So much and so little space between them; it was always like that, since the beginning. It didn't matter anymore.
He turned and tenderly kissed the top of her head, letting his lips linger on her hair, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo, feeling every beat of her heart. He found he could be satisfied with only this, that the simple act of loving her would finally be enough without the expectation of anything in return. On some level he also knew that he was finally agreeing to let her go; he wouldn't try to stop her if after yesterday's events she felt the need to leave him and their work behind. It was a distinct possibility-just as he found unaccountable safety in staying put and taking any abuse that came his way, she found her solace in flight. It was the way they were and he wasn't sure they could ever change that about themselves. So maybe all he had left with her was now, and all their history came down to this one single moment.
His lips still buried in her hair, he felt his partner sigh deeply. She tipped her head up to look at him with serene blue eyes, her whole being seemingly touched now by the same preternatural calm that he was experiencing. It was all so quiet; even the sound of traffic had died down in the early morning hour. Her hand began tracing a lazy pattern across his chest, with a touch so light that the feel of her palm barely registered through his shirt. Still gazing at him with the same inscrutable intensity, she allowed her hand to slide softly up to his face, not once letting her fingers lose contact with his skin. He became utterly still, sure that any minute she'd pull her hand back, that she'd realize what she was doing.
But there wasn't any trace of uncertainty in her unequivocal smile and he was completely rapt, mesmerized. Her fingers were stroking his cheek, the shell of his ear, the hair at his temple. with a touch was gentle but firm as her thumb struck a path across his lower lip. She brought her face nearer to his and he finally met his lips to hers in a whisper of a kiss that was soon followed by others; tentative, soft-and then deeper, more intense. Slow kisses which began merging into one another to become the real thing. More and more pressure, and an all-consuming need. Holding, caressing, teeth nipping at lips until their tongues met in an urgent, open-mouthed kiss.
The hand at the back of his head was pulling him closer, drawing him further into her mouth and he responded in kind. It wasn't enough; nothing was enough as he shifted his position, their mouths still attached. She was tugging on his neck, urging him on top until finally his body had imprisoned her underneath his. He was going crazy; they were both losing their minds. He didn't care anymore as he sought out the delicate, warm skin of her neck, spurred on by her quiet whimpers of pleasure.
Catching fire and burning; they were burning and every fiber of his being was alight and alive, his ability to think drifting away like windswept ash. His body was taking over. Her hands were on his skin, leaving a trail of heat along his spine when he felt his shirt being pulled up past his rib cage. The shirt came off, and in that second that they were apart and before she was able to remove her own, he suddenly regained some part of his senses.
Locking his elbows, he pushed himself up and away from her in an effort to keep some distance. "Stop Bones wait, wait." He couldn't even recognize his own voice as he struggled to regain his breath. "I think this is… maybe we should…"
She stopped him. "Are you worried about me?" she asked softly.
"Yeah." What on earth was the right thing to say? He didn't want it to sound like rejection, but it was becoming increasingly clear to him that, in spite all the times he'd wanted just this, maybe it wasn't a good idea-not tonight. "What happened yesterday…I don't want you to…" She put a finger to his lips and touched his cheek.
"I'm okay, Booth." She was looking straight into his eyes. "I want this; I want you."
She ran her fingers through his hair, a hint of a smile on her lips. "I'm sure."
God, he wanted to believe her. How much was he going to let his conscience press the issue? Was this moment destined to become yet another missed opportunity between them? She was giving him the final choice. Ultimately, he decided she was telling the truth because that's what he desperately wanted it to be. So he let thought and apprehension go and smiled back, helping her to remove the sweatshirt. She was beautiful in the shadows; more perfect than he had thought was even possible. Whether is was delusion or not, he'd give her everything she thought she wanted tonight without a thought to tomorrow because maybe this would be all that fate would allow them to have. And as their bodies came together for a time, he let himself find fulfillment and bliss in loving her.