Chapter 8: Can't Con The Con Man

"Booth!" exclaimed Max Keenan, immediately noticing the unconscious Temperance Brennan in his arms. "What happened to her? Is she all right?"

"She's asleep," Booth stage whispered, so that Max would get the idea. Max, while not whispering, did modulate his voice to an appropriate level.

"Well, here set her down on the couch. That's it. I'll get a blank- holy shit! What happened to her face?" Brennan sleepily grumbled and the two men froze, silent. She simply turned her face towards the cushions of the couch and lay still again.

"I hit her with a bat," spat Booth through gritted teeth, ready to hear the accusatory tone again.

"Not on purpose," shrugged Max confidently. Booth looked up in shock.

"You're the first person to assume it was an accident."

"Oh, come on," said Max, his car salesman smile lighting his face, "You serious? I know you would never hurt Tempe on purpose."

"Thank you," said Booth, clinging to the little shred of dignity Max was offering him.

"You'd never hurt the woman you love," continued Max blithely. Booth froze, blanket clutched between suddenly rigid fingers.

"What?" he asked carefully. Ignoring him, Max took the blanket from his grasp and gently covered his sleeping daughter.

"Temperance," said Max impatiently, "I said you'd never hurt the woman you-"

"I heard what you said," responded Booth automatically. "But…I didn't…" he fumbled for the words.

"You didn't know that I knew?" Booth blinked, not even sure how to respond or defend himself. All of a sudden that scrap of dignity was the only thing covering his very bare soul; he was most sincerely naked, in a way he had never been in front of the others in Brennan's apartment.

"I asked you once if you were sleeping with my daughter," shrugged Max. "You said no."

"I wasn't," ground out Booth through clenched teeth, his arms folded across his chest, hugging himself together, unconsciously mirroring Brennan's favorite posture.

"But you are now?" Booth turned his glare at the floor and didn't respond. "Good man!" crowed Max. Booth blinked, disoriented.

"Good- wait, what? Why?"

"You're a good man," approved Max. "Good for her. Strong. Steady. Yes that's a good word, steady. You won't leave her. Not for anything." Booth's eyes flicked to the couch where she slept, unwilling to look at Max. Uncannily Max said the very thing he was thinking aloud. "Not like I did." His voice was heavy, unhappy, laced with ancient pain, and ancient heartbreak. Booth didn't say anything; he couldn't refute it.

"Why…" he cleared his throat, "Why me? I mean, Bones, she- she could have anyone. I mean anyone. She's…she's beautiful." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She's the most beautiful woman I know, and believe me," he scoffed a laugh, "there are some very beautiful women that I work with."

"Don't I know it," smiled Max. He gestured Booth to a chair at the bar as he grabbed two beers and leaned against the counter after Booth opened the both of them with a bottle opener he kept on his car keys. "Handy," grunted Max. Booth leaned forward, both hands clutched around his bottle.

"I'm serious," he said, his voice dropping. "What if…what if…"

"You screw up?" guessed Max shrewdly. Booth was floored – he knew Max was good with people and charming, if in a semi-smarmy manner, - but this was beyond his skill.

"I thought the same thing with Tempe's mother. Christine…Ruth…she is, she was, the most beautiful woman."

"She was," nodded Booth, quietly sipping his beer.

"But she was slippery too. Smart; too smart sometimes. She was a lot like Russ; quick to get into trouble, but like Tempe, much too honest to get out of it." Booth huffed a smile into the mouth of his bottle and shook his head.

"I always pegged Bones to take after you. I mean she does in the looks department."

"I always thought her jaw was a little...strong for a woman…" Booth leveled a glare at him and interrupted him with a slashing motion of his hand.

"Bones is beautiful because she looks like nobody else. She's not such a…cookie cutter."

"Cookie cutter," chortled Max, "I like that. Yes, Tempe was always different. We knew she was exceptional from the very start. Beautiful and brilliant, that's my daughter. Only…"

"Only what?" asked Booth, clenching his hands hard around the bottle between them.

"Only…she was always alone. She never…found anyone. No friends. Hardly spoke and never really learned how. When we left, she was just starting to open up."

"She has a family now," said Booth, his voice very low, dangerous. His eyes tightened and he gave Max such a fiercely protective glower that many hardened felons had wilted under in the interrogation room. Max hardly spared him a glance. He leaned over the counter and clapped Booth on the shoulder.

"You're good for her. Down to earth, salt of the sea kind of deal."

"What?"

"You…ground her."

"Bones is pretty grounded. I could say a lot of things, but she's never been the flighty type."

"Not like that," waved Max impatiently. "She's afraid."

"What?" Booth was floored. "Bones isn't afraid of anything."

"Look here kid, that's where you're wrong. I know my daughter. She's afraid of everything." Booth wiped a hand over his jaw, not sure if he wanted to disagree with a man like Max Keenan.

"No offense Max, but I know your daughter too. And Bones isn't afraid of anything. She's faced down genocide, murderers, serial killers, fanatics, gangsters, mobsters…anything you can think of, she just goes in guns blazing." Max laughed quietly but stopped abruptly, leaving an arctic chill hanging between them that sucked the breath right out of Booth's chest. He dangled, suspended in blue eyes that he was so used to in a different face, unwilling and unable to breathe.

"You don't understand Booth. It's not that she's not afraid of anything, but I'm afraid that she's afraid of the whole ball of wax." Booth opened his mouth to continue. "Not those things you just listed. Those are the easy things." Booth opened his mouth wider, outraged. "Yeah, yeah – I know you were a sniper. Horrors of war. Bet you had some Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?" His question was more of a statement answered by the pained, ashamed look that flashed across the upper half of Booth's face, dancing through his eyes and pricking across his brow. "Sure, Tempe can face down that opponent. It's logical; she can fight. She's a fighter my daughter."

"Me too," admitted Booth, but he leaned suddenly back at the finger thrust beneath his chin.

"No," said Max fiercely, "wrong again. You're the lover, not the fighter. You keep her grounded with your heart. You're a heart man Booth; a family man. Not like me. Temperance is so much like me; give her an enemy face to face, and she's as cool as glass. It's logical, reasonable, and it's a problem she can solve with control. But give her something she can't control, can't solve – say…love. Emotion. Family. Friendships. Things she cannot quantify, however much we both wanted to through our little science labs, well...they terrify her." Booth was quiet and Max leaned back, growing less tall and imposing in a matter of seconds. Booth felt like he had vaguely been both threatened and interrogated simultaneously. He was irked; Max was at least a good two inches shorter than Booth, yet he always still seemed the bigger man.

"So your saying…Bones is afraid of the world?" He was skeptical.

"Yes," exclaimed Max, "yes. The real world. The world," he gesticulated wildly in a circle about his head, "outside her lab. The world where people get hurt. Get rejected, even when they are perfect or damn near close. Where bad things happen to good people. She hates that. Her version of the world, the black and white version…my version, well, it's much simpler you see. Like the Holocaust. The Nazis were the bad guys right? But what if they killed a Jew that deserved it? Or if a gun was pointed at the Nazi's four year old daughter's head?" Booth rubbed his temples. The conversation was spinning wildly beyond his realm of depth and desired discussion.

"Max…" he began hesitantly. "Bones. I…we're just partners. Still partners."

"You mean," he read between the lines between what Booth was saying more quickly than Booth liked or was used to. He was accustomed to being on the advance, of being in control, of reading the situation. It was disconcerting to have the tables so turned, especially with, if he viewed the world for a moment through Bones' eyes, a felon questioning a cop. "You mean that you haven't told her how you feel. That she doesn't know."

"I don't know if she knows," admitted Booth shamefacedly. "I know she doesn't love me. I would know; I know her. I know that we're just friends."

"No offense kid, but you're a lot of things, and right now you're a lot of stupid."

"What!"

"My daughter…she has more than one layer. Who you know…who you think you know is but a layer." Booth started to grin, shaking his head.

"I don't think so…"

"Okay, so you know a lot of the layers. Crossed a lot of the boundaries."

"What is that supposed to mean?" snapped Booth, perturbed.

"She let's you touch her. Her back, her arms, her hands; she doesn't flinch. Watch her. She flinches when Angela does it, or when that bug guy with the weird hair-"

"Hodgins."

"When he even approaches." Booth's mouth twisted sourly. He had to concede the point.

"Or that she will willingly go out to dinner or drinks with you. She doesn't even do that with me. Or that she will sleep at your place without a second thought without any sexual overtures."

"How do you know that?" demanded Booth.

"You think I'm going to let my daughter go unprotected and unchaperoned?"

"You've been watching me?" Booth managed to strangle out. Brennan turned with a mumble on the couch; the two men winced and looked at each other.

"Relax Booth," dismissed Max, "I'm no peeping Tom." Booth glared daggers at him.

"There's nothing to see," he said while he gnashed his teeth.

"Not yet," smiled Max serenely, "but you're doin' great kid." Booth glowered into his beer and finished the last of it in a long draught.

There was a pause.

"Any advice?" Booth asked, almost wildly, running his fingers through his hair in sheer frustration at the situation.

"Be yourself; stick to the heart. You're almost there kid, you're almost there. Only a layer or so to go." Booth let out a long sigh he felt he had seemed to be holding since he woke from his coma.

"Congratulations on Russ' engagement," said Booth, searching for a tidbit out of the blue.

"Sure, sure," nodded Max, clapping his shoulder again. "You staying here?" Booth cleared his throat; he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"No sir, just came to drop her off."

"Good man." Booth nodded and grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. Max stopped him though, with a hand on his arm. He looked into his eyes and searched his face. Booth ceased any movement, holding perfectly still for Max's careful scrutiny. Whatever Max saw there, creased between the lines of Booth's serious dark eyes, he nodded once and said more sincerely, laying his hand on Booth's shoulder, above his heart. "Good man."

Booth nodded curtly once and turned the knob on the door, glancing one last time back at his partner on the couch.

"Don't forget, feed her plenty of Vitamin C. Her Vicadin is on the table. We've been icing her face and also soaking it with hot water and Epsom salt." Max nodded.

"Got it. I can ask Tempe when she wakes up. Oh wait," Booth turned quickly on his heel. "Can you move her to the bed?" Max glanced down but his face softened instantly. "On second thought, don't. She looks peaceful. I'll just turn down her bed for her."

"Where will you sleep?"

"She has a guest bed," Max assured him. "I'll watch her tonight. In the morning I'll let myself out and run and get her breakfast."

"She likes her eggs sunny side up, not scrambled. Also – I don't know if you knew, but she's a vegetarian now. No bacon."

"No bacon?" protested Max, "that's just inhumane."

"I believe," Booth said with a crooked smile, "that's what she'd say about bacon as well."

"Vegetarian. Got it."

"Also, the Vicadin makes her woozy."

"Her mother's side of the family," nodded Max sagely. Booth turned to go, but chuckling, couldn't resist turning around one more time. Max looked vaguely annoyed at his insistence, but patiently heard him out.

"Your wife…Christine…Ruth…did she have any phobias? Irrational fears, I mean?"

"Why do you ask?" frowned Max.

"It's just that…Bones…she's afraid of snakes. One crawled out of her tub's drain a couple days ago is all." Max's face grew both concerned and tender.

"The same thing happened when she was four," he confirmed, "bet she doesn't even remember. It terrified her; she refused to bathe for a week. She solved the problem by making Russell spray her down with the hose."

"So…no?" asked Booth. Max grinned.

"What? You're not afraid of anything?" Booth's eyes flashed briefly to the killer clown he had encountered in a fun house on a case. He swallowed and shrugged.

"A big tough guy like me? Nah."

"I hate clowns," confessed Max. Booth's jaw dropped. Max looked defensive, "What? They just creep me out."

"Yeah man, I feel you."

"Christine – she hated snakes too. Not spiders or anything, just snakes." Booth nodded once, his gut confirmed and feeling a little surer of himself and waved a hand.

"Take care of her," he instructed, needlessly, he reminded himself.

Max nodded. "Booth," he returned. And finally, finally, Booth was gone.

Max turned slowly in the living room to look at the stationary form of his daughter on the couch, sound asleep.

"Temperance. Wake up; I know you aren't asleep. Temperance. Drop this ridiculous charade; your mother and I didn't believe you when you were five, and I'm not going to start now. Tempe."

Slowly, the form on the couch rolled over and both eyes cracked open guiltily.

"Hi."