Disclaimer: As always, not mine.

The Beginning of the Break

"Bones, it's Booth. Pick up. Please. I…I need to talk to you. And I need to tell you I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry."

"Bones? It's Booth again. Where are you?"

"Bones? It's Booth. I, uh…listen, will you just call me back?"

"Bones?"

"Bones. I just wanted to check on you again. You haven't called me back. Are you okay? Where are you? About…about before, I'm sorry. It's just that I…I wanted to…I wasn't trying to…Damn it."

"Bones, it's Booth again. It's been a day and a half. I'm starting to get worried. Please, if you have any consideration for me at all, just call me back. Please."

"Bones? Seriously, I'm going crazy here. It's been two days. I'm coming over if you don't call me back."

"Bones…I'm trying. Can't you tell I'm trying? I'm trying to give you space, and you're making it hard. I heard from Cam that you came to work late today. You knew I was going to drop by in the morning, didn't you? You're avoiding me. Don't do that. Please. I…I can't fix it if you don't talk to me. Please."

"Bones, I haven't seen or heard from you in four days. Will you please, please just call me back?"

"Bones, goddamn it, call me back, or I swear to God I'll—"

"Hey, Bones. Listen, I'm sorry about the last message, I just…Yeah, call me back."

"Bones. Listen. I'm sorry. I was a huge idiot on Monday, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have known, but I was just stupid. If it means anything, I take back what I said. So please, let's just pretend it didn't happen, okay? Can't we just go back to normal? Can't we still be friends?"

"On your doorstep right now, Bones. I've been standing here for two and a half hours. It's almost midnight, and I'm almost a hundred percent sure you're not inside. Cam tells me you left the Jeffersonian at six. Where are you?"

"Bones, remember when I told you about when Parker was born and I was in panic mode? Yeah, well I'm in panic mode right now, and if you don't call me back, I swear I'm going to sit on your doorstep until you get home or until I turn to stone right here. Please, Bones."

"Bones. Please."

"Bones, this is my last message, I swear. I get that you probably don't want to talk to me right now. Call me back, that's all I'm asking. I won't pick up, I promise. Just call me to let me know you're okay."

Ring. Ring.

"Hello?" His voice, breathless, hopeful.

She feels her breath hitch in annoyance and surprise. "You said you wouldn't pick up," she accuses.

"Sorry. Sorry. Reflex."

"I'm fine, Booth," she says, as evenly as she can manage. "So stop calling me."

"Wait! Bones, wait! Please."

She hesitates at the clear plaintiveness in his voice. Somehow, no matter how angry or irritated she feels at him, he can always make her pause.

"I'm sorry," he says in a rush. "About kissing you. I'm sorry."

Clenching the phone, she swallows hard. How can he be so perceptive about some things and so oblivious to others? That isn't what I ran from, Booth, she thinks, half-coldly, half-angrily. Aloud, she answers, "Thank you. I have to go."

"Bones, wait—"

Click.

Brennan goes to work early in the morning and doesn't come home until past midnight. She works because it takes her mind off of what happened and because it's easier to keep her walls up when she doesn't think about Booth.

She lets Cam handle the casework with Booth. She lets Sweets or Hodgins be liaison if they need something from the FBI. She just can't bring herself to face him.

So she avoids him. She doesn't return his calls. She doesn't frequent their usual dining spots. She has them send the bodies to the lab instead of going to the scene to examine them herself. She's terrified of facing him. Luckily, thankfully, he seems to sense this. She has never been more grateful to him as she is now. He just knows what she needs—he's always seemed to know—and right now, what she needs is space and time to think. And he gives it to her as well as he knows how.

She's angry that he said those three little words. It's irrational, really, that such sparse verbal communication—just eight letters—can affect her like this. It's stupid and illogical, and she knows how badly she's overreacting. But she can't help it. Like Booth told her once, you feel what you feel, and there's nothing you can do to change that. She can't change how she feels, no matter how badly she wants to.

And she feels hurt. And angry. And betrayed. Because there is no such thing as love in this world—hasn't he proved that to her more than once?—and he had the gall to throw those words in her face like they'd fix everything. Like she'd leap into his arms and laugh away the past and everything that has happened with Hannah and even before Hannah. He says those words so lightly, and he expects her to take him seriously? He expects her to—to—

To what? What the hell does he expect from her? She's so tired of trying to follow his feelings and his tangled logic. He wants to have sex with her; that's obvious enough. But he wants to love her too, even when she doesn't believe in that. And she can't take that from him, can't take him saying I love you and knowing it's a lie every time. Because love is just a combination of chemical reactions within the body coupled with physical desire and lust, and love like Booth defines it doesn't exist. It doesn't exist.

But most of all, she avoids him because she's confused, and she hates being confused. She's confused that despite everything, she can't forget the feel of his lips. She's confused because that look in his eyes right before he kissed her still makes her shiver, even in recollection. She's confused because as confused and angry and hurt as she is, she still wants him. She still wants him.

Why?

The hospital room is exploding with balloons and cards and stuffed animals. Brennan laughs a little as she walks through the doors, batting away a wayward bear-shaped balloon.

"Hodgins?" she asks in amusement, eyeing the elaborately-decorated room. Flowers are everywhere, as are little gift bags and gift baskets.

Angela, sitting up in the bed, rolls her eyes and replies, "Who else? I'm telling him to get rid of all those flowers because I think Allison is allergic."

Drawing up close to the bed, Brennan leans over to peer into the baby's tiny, pink face. She smiles as Allison's clear blue eyes focus on her own with babyish curiosity. "She's beautiful."

Angela beams. "Isn't she? Aren't her eyes just the prettiest things?"

"They're Hodgins' eyes," Brennan comments, smiling. "They're very pretty."

"Allison Temperance Hodgins-Montenegro," Angela sighs after a moment. "It isn't very artistic, and it doesn't flow at all. Dang it."

"I'm sorry," Brennan says apologetically. "My name doesn't sound very good in there."

Angela waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, it's not your name that's the problem. I always wanted to name my kid Allison, and sticking in Temperance was kind of overloading it. But I love you, sweetie, and I wanted to show it. Besides, it's a hugely better middle name than mine is. Not nearly as embarrassing."

Yes, well, Brennan can't argue with that. So she just smiles again and sits down in the plastic hospital chair next to the bed, watching Angela interact with her baby. It's hard to believe that the child in Angela's arms is a mix of her best friend and her entomologist friend.

"So where's Booth?" Angela asks conversationally. But there's a furtive look in her eyes that gives Brennan the idea that the artist has brought up the topic on purpose. Damn it.

"He's fine," she answers carefully.

Angela's eyes narrow. "You're not still feeling weird about him breaking up with Hannah, are you?" At Brennan's silence, she sighs and her expression softens. "Listen, about the other day, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it. You're one of the most caring, deep person I know. You just don't show it that well."

Brennan smiles and says a bit awkwardly, "Thank you. And I'm sorry too, for getting angry. You were…you were right about some of it. Some things needed to be said." Needed to be heard.

Angela smiles a bit more readily this time. "So?"

She stares back in confusion. "So what?"

"So where is he?" Angela demands, clearly exasperated. "You said those things needed to be heard. Well? Did you confront him? Did something happen?"

Did something happen?

Yes. No. Nothing. Everything. Something.

"I think he's just feeling a bit worn-out from the last case," Brennan lies. "I'm sure he'll be in to visit you later."

Angela grins. "Good. I can't wait to show him Allison. She's so adorable!" She holds out her finger and tickles her daughter's nose, her face lighting up with delight when Allison gurgles. After a moment, Angela glances back up at her and adds, "So you're okay with him? I mean, you guys are friends again?" She smiles a bit wickedly and says, "I guess having you two hook up would be too much to hope for right now."

Brennan swallows, because that had almost, almost happened. She has no doubt that if she'd allowed Booth to say those words without running, if she had stayed, they'd have ended up in bed one way or another. The thought makes her shiver with unwelcome, unwelcome desire, followed by disgust at her thoughts, at her weakness. Somehow, no matter what she thinks and feels, she still wants him. She probably always will. But she should be stronger than this.

"We're friends," she answers vaguely. At least, they had been friends before. She isn't sure what they are now.

Angela grins. "Good. It's good to see my words had some effect."

Some effect. Maybe. If anything, it has startled Brennan into reality: that even her closest friends believe that she can't or has a hard time expressing feelings. She's always thought her emotions are transparent to those who know her best (after all, Booth always seems to know what she's thinking and feeling), but apparently not. And maybe it's better this way, so Booth won't press her when she's trying to sort out the chaos in herself. If he doesn't see all the hurt, all the anger, maybe he just won't press her, and it'll all go away on its own.

She knows it's irrational. Cause and effect. If the problem vanishes, there will be a cause. Otherwise, it will stagnate. Painfully.

She shakes her head and changes the subject. "So, Angela, did the doctors say when you could leave?"

Angela nods happily. "They're going to discharge me in another day. Apparently, the policy says I'm allowed to leave forty-eight hours after the birth."

"That's good. You're going back to Hodgins' house then?"

"Our house, sweetie." Angela leans back into the pillows and sighs, gazing down at her daughter. "This is so surreal. I'm not kidding. You just can't imagine it until you're sitting here in the bed, staring down at this—this—"

"Offspring?" Brennan supplies helpfully.

Angela snorts and rolls her eyes. "Baby. You just can't imagine it."

No, she can't imagine it. She doesn't even know how to begin to imagine it.

They sit there in comfortable silence for another long while, Angela admiring Allison and Brennan moving the flower baskets away every time the little girl sneezes. They coo over how cute Allison is, and for an hour, Brennan forgets Booth entirely.

Angela glances up at the clock suddenly and exclaims, "It's nearly one o'clock, sweetie! Aren't you supposed to be at the Jeffersonian?"

Brennan smiles and shakes her head. "I told Cam I'd be visiting you, and she told me to take as much time as I needed."

Angela grins. "Yeah, because friends having babies don't happen every day, you know."

Brennan stares at her quizzically. "Approximately three hundred eighty-four thousand people are born per day, Angela. So technically, someone's friend is having a baby every day."

"Oh, sometimes I love it when you totally miss the point," Angela laughs. "Your scientific spew isn't too great of a bedside manner, but I have to admit, it's sometimes funny."

Brennan manages a grin in return and asks, "Where's Hodgins? I thought he'd be here."

"Oh, Lord." Angela shakes her head and chuckles in half-exasperation, half-amusement. "Don't get me started on Jack. He's more of a mess than I was about giving birth. I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack and end up in the hospital bed next to me. He's been hovering every second of every minute, and frankly, it got a little too much. I told him I wanted some lunch that didn't come on a plastic tray, so he went out." She turns, glances at the clock, and frowns. "Actually, it's been a while. I wonder where he is."

At that moment, the door opens and Hodgins struggles through, his arms laden with a bag of takeout and other parcels. Brennan hurries to take some of the bags from him as Angela stares, her eyes wide.

"Jack!" she groans, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Don't tell me…"

Hodgins grins over the packages in his arms. "I just couldn't help myself. I went out and bought some stuff."

"Some?" Angela echoes in disbelief. "Don't you think there's a rule against having more presents than space in a hospital room?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Frankly, Angie, I don't think the hospital gives a damn. Not if they still want enough funding to renovate their ophthalmology wing for the third time." He holds up the bag of takeout and adds, "I brought lunch."

Brennan sets down the bags she took from Hodgins and smiles at the two of them. "I guess I should be going."

Angela sits forward abruptly, waving her free hand. "Don't leave yet. I'm sure Jack bought enough for us all." She eyes the bulging bag of food with a raised eyebrow.

Hodgins smiles sheepishly. "I thought you'd be hungry. At least there's enough for Dr. Brennan now too."

So, with a smile, Brennan pulls up another chair and settles on Angela's right side. They open the cartons of takeout and inhale loudly as the aroma rises with the steam.

"I'm starving," Angela groans. "Feed me, will you? I doubt Allison would like it if I put her down."

Hodgins leans over and smiles down at his daughter. "How's my little Allie? How's my little girl? That's right. Aren't you just the cutest—"

"Hungry here," Angela pouts. But she's smiling as she does, and after a moment, she stares down at her child too, the both of them immersed in a shared love for what they have created.

Sitting uncomfortably to the side, Brennan feels as if she's intruding on a private moment. She's trying to figure out a polite way to excuse herself when the door behind her opens. With a small grin of relief, she turns in her seat.

And stops, frozen, when she catches sight of who stands at the door.

In the doorway, Booth doesn't look shocked at all to see her. He looks relieved and pleased, and that's how she knows he's planned this.

Damn it. She'd thought she'd have more of her thoughts organized the next time she saw him. As she is now, she's no closer to composing herself than she was when he'd kissed her.

Angela and Hodgins look up, and Angela's face lights up. "Hey, Booth! Haven't seen you yet. Come over here and meet Allison."

Booth's eyes linger on Brennan's face for a moment before she looks away, cheeks heating. She hopes fervently that he can't see the pink across the room. Quietly, he crosses over to Angela and Hodgins without looking at her again.

"She's beautiful," Booth says, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Really. She's got your eyes, Hodgins."

"And Angela's chin," Hodgins enthuses. "And Angela's nose and forehead. Come to think of it, the only thing she has of mine is her eyes, isn't it?"

"I'm sure you'll find more things that you have in common with her later," Booth says. "Once she grows up a little. Parker looked nothing like me as a baby and now look at him."

She figures it's as good of a time as any to make her escape. "Well," she says hurriedly, rising and gathering her coat in her arms, "it's getting late. I really should be getting to the Jeffersonian."

She knows having Booth just stay there and leave her alone is too much to hope for, and she's right. He starts after her almost immediately, saying casually, "I'll go with you."

She stops and turns back in the doorway, her eyes focused vaguely over his shoulder but not on his face. "You don't have to, Booth. I'll be fine."

He smiles transparently and holds up a file in his hand. "I actually wanted to talk to you about some details on the case. You know, the one where the wife killed her husband's lover."

There's not a single thing he should need to speak to her about on the case. She knows that. She provided all the facts needed to close the case and more—the murder weapon, the suspects, the location, even the motive. He doesn't need to speak to her about anything, which means the case is just an excuse to find her and talk to her.

An excuse she can't call him on, because Angela and Hodgins are sitting curiously behind them, watching the scene unfold. She wants to tell Booth no, that she'll be fine (that she hasn't had enough time to calm herself, damn it), but she dreads another confrontation with Angela. So she pastes a smile on her face and says, "All right. Let's go."

She doesn't miss the relief that flashes across his face as he follows her out the door. Once they're a sufficient distance away from Angela's room, though, she stops and hears Booth stop uncertainly behind her.

"This is far enough," she says coolly. "I can go the rest of the way on my own."

"But I need to talk to you about the case," Booth protests, holding up the folder.

"Then that wasn't an excuse to talk to me?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

He opens his mouth and pauses. Then, sheepishly, he lowers the folder and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, so it was. But I need to talk to you, Bones. I haven't seen you all week."

"There's a reason for that," she says, starting to walk again. Booth hurries after her, but she stares resolutely straight ahead.

"Okay, I get you're avoiding me," he says. "But please, Bones, hear me out. Let's just talk a little, okay?"

"No," she answers without looking at him. They pass through the automatic doors of the hospital into the cold wintery air beyond. She pauses only to remember where she parked her car and then continues to the parking lot at a rapid pace, hoping he'll stop chasing her.

But when has Booth ever stopped chasing her when it's important?

When you told him not to, a snide voice reminds her. When you told him to let go, to move on, and he did. He did.

He did. And that's what hurts the most.

"Bones. Please." He's just a couple of steps behind her, his footsteps echoing on the asphalt. "I know what I did…well, I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry. But do you have to be so cold? Can't we talk?"

Cold. He doesn't understand, does he? He doesn't get that if she isn't cold, she'll break. Being cool and logical is the only way she can keep herself together long enough to build up those walls again. Build up those walls and shut away those emotions she hates feeling.

Ignoring his plea, she reaches her car and reaches for the door, but Booth grabs her arm. "Bones, seriously. I know what I said was stupid, and neither of us were ready for it, but you should at least hear me out. It's the least you could do, Bones. Haven't we been friends for long enough that we can talk it out when something goes wrong?"

No, they can't talk. Not yet, at least. She knows, she just knows, that if they talk now, she won't be able to hold all her feelings back. She'll end up furious and hurt and vulnerable. Open for him to hurt her again. And she can't let that happen.

"Please, Booth," she says quietly, the coldness gone. She stares at the window of her car, where she can just barely see his reflection in it. "Please. I just need time. Just some time."

They stand there, suspended, in the cold afternoon, their quiet breaths the only sounds breaking the silence. She senses with some dread that he's going to press her, that he's going to insist. But some part of her also knows that Booth is too much of a gentleman to force her when she's not ready. He, of all people, has always known where her limits are.

When she hears him sigh softly behind her, she knows she's won. Relief stronger than she'd anticipated rushes through her, and she realizes at that moment just how apprehensive she'd been of Booth confronting her. But it's okay now. He's holding off, giving her more time to think. Giving her time to build her walls up stronger and higher.

"Put on your coat, Bones," he says finally, sounding resigned. "You're going to freeze to death."

She realizes she's just holding her coat instead of wearing it, so she hurriedly slips into the sleeves but doesn't turn around. She can make out his expression in the reflection of the car window, his brow furrowed and his expression frustrated but accepting. He won't push her.

Gratitude swells suddenly in her, and she wonders how she can be so grateful and so hurt and angry with the same man at the same time. Booth has always confused her, and this time, it's no different.

Inexplicably, she feels guilty for putting that expression on his face. She feels guilty for hurting him at all, so she says in a weak attempt of her normal logical voice, "The human body freezes solid at below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, Booth. It's at least forty degrees right now."

Her voice isn't very close to the usual cool logic, but Booth smiles all the same. He smiles in a way that says he knows she's trying and he appreciates it. It warms her a bit to know that she can still make him smile that way even when they're standing uncomfortably in a silence stretched tight with tension.

"Okay, Bones," he says quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His eyes catch hers for a moment, warm and dark, and he nods to her with a small smile. "I'll see you later then."

She nods too and opens the car door. She starts to slide into the seat when Booth says behind her, "You'll call me, won't you? When you're ready, I mean."

He wants a promise from her, a promise not to keep running but to face this some time. To face him again some time.

Well, she can promise him that. She isn't skilled at reading emotions or even feeling them, but she knows that something like this can't be outrun through sheer will. One day, one time, she will have to look at Booth and explain it all.

But not today. Not today.

"I'll call you," she says, not missing the way his shoulders relax ever-so-slightly in response.

"Okay. I'll see you then." He raises a hand in goodbye as she backs out of the parking lot.

When she looks in her rearview mirror at the corner of the street, he's still standing there, watching her car. Then she turns the corner and he's gone.

He doesn't want to go back to his dark, empty apartment. He doesn't want to drop by the Jeffersonian either—well, he wants to (God knows he wants to), but Bones doesn't want him to. And that's reason enough for now to not get within a two-mile radius of the place. He definitely doesn't look forward to spending the night at the Hoover filling out mind-numbingly tedious forms, so he decides to go out for a drink. It's been a long enough time since he's done that alone, and his situation will probably improve after he's knocked back a few. So he turns his SUV into the nearest bar (one he knows Bones would never frequent) and enters the warm, dim-lit building.

It's a nice enough place that Booth's visited a couple of times before. He slides onto a barstool and catches the bartender's eye to ask for a beer. The man pops open a bottle for him and sets it on the bar. With a sigh, Booth takes a sip and sets the drink down again, lost in thought.

She'd looked gorgeous today. All jeans and informal clothing, right down to her fuzzy boots, the same ones she wore to the aquarium. She'd also looked utterly terrified of seeing him there in the hospital. He'd seen the shock and fear flash in her eyes as she'd spotted him, and it had hurt. Because he doesn't know what she's afraid of—him or what he did? What he's done or what he might do?

He'd been so sure he'd be able to force her to listen to him. He'd brought along the case files as a cover and stalked after her as confident as could be. And then she'd turned that quiet, edgily desperate voice of hers on him, and all his resolve had turned to mush. God knows he can never hold his own against her when she sounds so tired and worn, when her voice makes his heart tug.

But at least she's promised to call him. She isn't going to ignore him forever, and that's a start.

He mulls over the situation for a long while, thinking more than drinking, and by the time he's spent an hour there, he hasn't gotten very far with either his problem or his drink. So much for forgetting tonight. He probably won't get past this beer, let alone another one.

With a sigh, he slides off the barstool and shakes his head, trying to clear it of Bones. Not that it helps; Bones will never be far from his mind. So, with another sigh, he heads for the door.

He's stopped halfway there by a hand on his arm and someone exclaiming, "Wait!" Startled, he turns to find a young woman at his elbow, her eyes bright.

"Yes?" he asks warily. He really isn't in the mood for flirting tonight (or any night, now that he thinks about it, unless Bones is the one doing the flirting).

"Are you—are you an FBI agent?" the woman asks, her expression eager.

Booth nods slowly, wondering where this is going. "Special Agent Seeley Booth." He pushes aside his coat so she can catch sight of his badge.

"You handled a case in a bar not too far from here, didn't you?" she asks. "It was called Golden Palace. About a—"

"A brawl," he says. "I remember." Of course he remembers. He still has no idea what happened to Bones there, and until he does, how can he forget?

The woman smiles excitedly. "The man who was in the brawl? I was his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend now. What I wanted to know was if you remember the name of the woman in the fight? Any information on her would be helpful."

Remember her? I'm freaking in love with her.

Aloud he says warily, "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to thank her," the woman says simply. "She saved my life, I'm sure of it. Fred—my ex-boyfriend—wasn't a bad guy, but he has a temper. I don't know what would've happened if that woman hadn't jumped in."

Oh. Of course. Booth gives her a friendly smile and answers, "Sure, I can get you in touch with her. What was your name again?"

"April Collins," the woman replies. "If you could just give me her phone number or something…"

But Booth has a better idea. He's gone months without knowing what really went down in the bar, and here's the perfect chance of finding out what exactly hit Bones so hard. Here's a witness, probably absolutely willing to tell him everything he wants to know. Who can say no to a federal agent, after all?

So he nods to a nearby booth and says, "Do you want to talk a little? We can get some drinks."

After a moment of hesitation, April nods, and they settle in the booth. After ordering their drinks, April leans forward in her seat and says, "So could you pull up the case files on that woman or something? That way you can get me her phone number. Just a call to her would be fine, I think."

"The woman you met in the bar?" Booth answers. "She's actually my partner, so I know her pretty well. I'll let her know that you want to talk." He folds his arms, elbows on the table, and leans forward. "In return, I'd like to ask you some questions."

April looks vaguely unsettled. "What? Like an investigation?"

Booth shakes his head quickly to assuage her fears. "No, nothing like that. It's just that my partner hasn't been too big on telling me what happened, and I still don't really know any specifics. It'd help if you could just fill me in on the details."

When she doesn't answer immediately, Booth locks eyes with her and drops his voice a little, letting concern flash across his features. "Please. I'm worried about her. She's been acting weird, and I think it has something to do with what happened. Help me help my partner."

It's only a tiny manipulation on his part, because it's all true anyway. He holds her eyes until she sighs and looks away.

"Okay. What do you want to know?"

"All I know is that Fred got aggressive and Bones—my partner, Temperance Brennan—intervened. She says that's all that happened, but I don't believe her." He turns a questioning look on her and waits.

"Well, that's not all that happened," April acknowledges slowly. "Fred and…Bones?"

"Temperance," Booth supplies.

"Fred and Temperance had a conversation first. Well, actually, it was more of a shout-out than a conversation."

"A shout-out?" Booth repeats, interested. "About what?"

April sighs. "I was…well, Fred and I were fighting because he'd just broken up with me. Temperance was a little ways behind Fred, so I could see her over his shoulder. Anyway, I was really upset about it—the next week would have been our six-month anniversary—and Fred and I got worked up. I was in tears about it, and I shouted at him. Then Temperance came over and—"

"Do you remember what you said to him?" Booth interrupts. His investigator's instinct tells him that it's important.

April's brow furrows as she thinks. "Well, I don't remember exactly, but it was something along the lines of Fred betraying me. He'd told me earlier that he'd never leave me, and I felt so hurt by him up and leaving all of a sudden. He'd promised." She gives a little, bitter laugh. "But I guess it was all just a tactic to reel me in."

He'd told me earlier he'd never leave me. Booth wonders why that would strike Bones so hard. She can't have…she can't have thought Booth had left her, can she? Because he's made that same promise to her so many times, but he's never left her. Ever. And he never will.

"Keep going," he says. "What happened next?"

"Well, Fred told her to butt out of his business." A slight flush spreads across her cheeks, and she adds, "With more colorful words, but you get the gist of it."

"Yeah, I do. Keep going."

"Temperance told him really calmly to back away. She said something about men and hormones and evolution…?"

Booth has to hide his smile at that. Typical Bones. "Skip that part. What did she say next?"

"Fred told her not-so-nicely to get out of the way before she got hurt, and she went off on him, saying that when someone promises not to leave you, it's a promise that should be kept. I remember that part really well because I kind of got the feeling she wasn't talking about us, you know? Maybe she was hurt some time in the past like I was hurt then. It seemed personal to her."

Personal. A pang of unease shoots through Booth. Who does Bones think left her? It can't be him. Can't be, because he hasn't gone anywhere.

April clears her throat before continuing. "Then Fred started talking about how a promise like that isn't such a big deal. Well, it isn't a big deal to him, maybe, but it was a huge deal to me." Anger flashes across her face. "He was the only guy, you know? The only guy to tell me I was worth sticking around for. The only guy to promise to stay with me. He shouldn't—he shouldn't have broken it off like that. It was so abrupt. I hadn't seen it coming at all. One day we were a happy couple, and the next, he told me he didn't want to commit anymore. I was…"

"Understandably angry," Booth says sympathetically, reaching across the table to touch April's hand. She seems surprised, then grateful, for the contact. He methodically steers the conversation back to what he wants to know. "So what did Temperance say?"

April shrugs. "She said those promises were the most important of all. They're the ones that hurt the most when broken."

Booth swallows. "She—she said that?"

April nods. "Something like that. And I totally agree with her. I didn't really care that Fred was breaking up with me—well, I did care, but it was more of the fact that he was breaking his promise. That's what made me so mad. We could have stayed friends, you know? I think if he hadn't been such an ass about breaking up, we might've stayed friends, and I would've considered that keeping his promise. He'd be free to date other people, sure, but I'd want him to still be around some of the time. As friends."

"And then?"

"And then they fought." She shudders at the memory of it. "It was vicious. I didn't think Temperance would do so well against him—he's army, you know—but she did a lot better than I expected. She managed to give him almost as many bruises as he gave her."

That's my girl, he thinks. He forces a smile and pulls a legal pad out of his coat pocket. "Here, give me your phone number. I'll call you when Temperance wants to meet."

"Meet?" April repeats, sounding surprised and nervous. "I thought I'd just call…"

Booth shrugs. "That's fine too. Just write down some contact information, and I'll get back to you."

She scribbles down a number and email address obediently, and he tucks away the pen and paper. "Well, thanks," he says, standing. "You were a big help." He pulls out his wallet and pays for the drinks, despite her protests. With a last goodbye, he slips on his coat and leaves the bar.

He takes a slow walk down the block to sort out the tumble of thoughts in his head. Bones had mentioned the promise about never leaving her more than once. So it has to mean something. But what? He's made that same promise to her more times than he can remember, and he's meant it every time. He hasn't broken it either, but Bones clearly thinks he has.

She said those promises were the most important of all. They're the ones that hurt the most when broken.

He'd somehow given her the impression that he'd left her, even when he'd promised explicitly again and again that he never would. And he'd hurt her, damn it. But how? How the hell has he left her? They're still where they have been for the past seven years, still at the Jeffersonian, still partners. So what has changed?

It hits him suddenly, out of the blue. Hannah. That's what changed. He had Hannah, and everything had started to crumble.

He'd be free to date other people, sure, but I'd want him to still be around some of the time. As friends.

Had Bones been thinking the same thing as April had? Booth had wanted to still be friends too—how could he leave her behind?—but he remembers suddenly with shame the months following their return to Washington D.C. He remembers how he weaned himself off Bones' company, how his daily lunch invitations turned into weekly ones, which turned into occasional ones that never lasted longer than an hour. He remembers how he'd stopped dropping by the Jeffersonian in the middle of the night to make sure Bones went home on time, and he remembers how he'd forgotten more than once to make sure she ate. He remembers with a tingle of disgust at himself how it took a brawl in the middle of the night and Bones breaking her arm for him to realize he'd ignored her for the better part of the months.

The horrible realization hits him—he has left her. Not physically, but in every other way possible without actually moving away. He withdrew emotionally and personally from her to focus on Hannah, to convince himself he loved Hannah the way he had once loved Bones. And all the while, he'd broken the promise he'd made to Bones a hundred times before, the promise he'd sworn to himself he'd never break. Because she needed to know that someone cared, that for once in her life, someone would stay.

And goddamn it, he left her. Just like her parents, just like Russ, just like everyone important in her life. He left her without realizing to, and when he realized it, it was too late. Too late to fix.

He clenches his hands into fists in his coat pockets and stands stock-still on the street, just trying to breathe. He doesn't bother to fight the self-loathing because he deserves it—every bit of it. She needed him to prove that he'd stay for her, and he hadn't kept his promise to her. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

After a long moment of fighting back the urge to wheel right around and get roaring drunk, Booth exhales shakily. He knows right then that he can't let it sit anymore. Even if Bones isn't ready to talk to him, even if she won't let him into her apartment, she needs to know. She needs to know that he's so, so sorry about breaking his promise to her, to know that he's still there for her.

To know that he'll always, always be there for her.

It's late by the time she leaves the Jeffersonian that night. She's exhausted but satisfied. The anthropologists in Maluku had sent her a set of remains with a curious contusions on it, and she had been able to identify the cause and probable social status of the skeleton in question. Add that to the fact that she had been able to stave off Booth's attempts to speak with her, and it hasn't been a terrible day. But she's wholly prepared for a good, uninterrupted night's sleep.

She drives home with the radio crackling out familiar Christmas songs. With a pang of nostalgia and sadness, she remembers those long, long years ago when she spent Christmas with her entire family, her mother and father and brother. She remembers, too, the Christmas she spent with her brother and his family, and wonders if they'll do it again this year. She isn't adverse to the idea, and she already has a few Christmas gifts in mind for the girls. The next time she hears from Russ, she'll ask him about it.

She pulls up to her apartment parking lot and collects the stack of case files on her passenger seat. She plans to get a full night sleep, but in the case that she has extra time, she might look over some remains from Limbo. Slamming the car door shut, she locks the car and enters the warm building. She rides the elevator up to her floor and tries to juggle the files in one arm while reaching for her keys with the other. Stepping off the elevator, she manages to grab her keys from her coat pocket and looks up.

And for the second time that day, her breath snags in her throat, and she freezes in shock.

Booth stands on her doorstep, leaning against the wall next to her door with his head against the doorframe and his eyes closed. His hands are in his coat pockets, and he looks like he's been standing there for a while.

Her mind races. What on earth is he doing here? Hadn't they agreed she'd call him when she felt ready? She'd been so sure he wouldn't push her, but…Has he changed his mind? The thought sends a bolt of panic through her, and she stands frozen in front of the elevator, wondering wildly if it's too late to step back into the elevator and escape.

When he hears the elevator ding as the doors slide shut, his eyes open, and then it's definitely too late. He blinks sleepily and turns his head, his eyes widening slightly as he catches sight of her. She feels resignation and apprehension steal over her, and she stands uncertainly in the hallway, unsure of what to say.

"Hey, Bones," he says after a moment. "Sorry about not calling. I was sure you'd avoid me if I'd called."

Absolutely she would have avoided him. If she'd known he was coming, she'd have stayed at the Jeffersonian all night.

Aloud, she asks evenly, "What are you doing here, Booth?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I know we agreed on waiting until you were ready, but I want to talk, Bones."

She glares at him, clenching her files tightly. "Booth—"

"I heard," he says, not quite looking at her. "I heard what happened at the bar that night."

He doesn't say anything more, but he doesn't have to. Realization dawns on her, and she looks at him with new dread. He knows what happened that night between her and Fred Knowles? Exactly how much does he know? That she lost control? Well, that's obvious enough. But does he know why she lost control?

"Booth," she tries, keeping her voice neutral, "I'm very tired. I worked all day, and I would really like to get some rest. So perhaps we could continue this conversation some time later."

He snorts. '"Some time later'? That means never, doesn't it?"

She doesn't say anything, which confirms his suspicions for sure. Because she doesn't intend to tell him about it, not now, not ever. She just wants time to fix herself, to fix her emotions, and they can go back to being friends and partners. Like nothing happened.

But this time, Booth pushes back. "No, Bones," he says firmly. "We're going to talk. There're things I need to tell you, and things you need to hear. So we can either talk here in the hallway, or in your apartment. Your choice."

"I'm not going to talk," she says stubbornly, reaching for anger. Anger to keep the emotions at bay. "So get away from my apartment, Booth."

She pushes past him and opens her door. She tries to slam it behind her, but Booth catches it with his hand and wrenches it open.

"I can always lock myself in my bedroom," she says icily, glaring at him in her doorway. "Or jump down the fire escape. No amount of intimidation on your part is going to coerce me into answering your questions."

"That's fine," he says, surprisingly unruffled. "Then I guess we'll be locked in your bedroom or leaping down the fire escape together."

He reaches for something at his waist, and before she knows it, something cold has clicked into place around her wrist. She hears another click of locking mechanism and looks down incredulously to find that Booth has handcuffed her to his arm.

"Booth!" she snaps, angry and accusing. "You have no authority or reason whatsoever to restrain me like this. Get these handcuffs off of me."

"I have all the authority in the world," he shoots back, with an almost-smirk. "I'm the one with the gun." Before she can protest, he takes the files from her hands and half-drags her into the living room, where he sets the folders down on the coffee table. Then he flops down on the couch, obviously more at ease now that she has little realistic chance of escaping. When he yanks on his hand, she has no choice but to sit as well.

"Now, Bones," he says, serious again, "we're going to talk."

Reviews = love = quicker updates. It's that simple.