Chapter 23: Of Love and Death

As usual, this was half done for days but I couldn't seem to motivate myself to finish it until Booth's speech came to haunt me. However, I was very very irked at the Season 5 finale so I couldn't even look at this story for a while.

Brennan usually thought of everything, but this was ridiculous. She had asked where Booth's mother was buried, but she hadn't asked where as in lot, space or headstone. At first the both of them had been slightly awkward, Booth's breath bated in anticipation, glued to the words that passed beneath their feet. Brennan understood; it was how she had felt the first time Angela had taken her to see her own mother. She had covered that unpleasant gut wrenching feeling better with her best friend than when Booth had taken her to ask her mother about what kind of man her father was. With Angela she had managed to play coldly indifferent, but with Booth, the emotion had spilled over. She knew what it was like for him; to be quivering on the inside, so thrumming with energy she almost worried he would collapse.

Yet as the minutes crept on, and they began wandering with less of a purpose and more just among the flat titled stones, Brennan's arms ached from holding the heavy bag of groceries and she could tell Booth was having trouble walking. She felt like an idiot for not thinking it through.

"We could sit," she offered. Booth shrugged and she could tell that the strain of the drugs wearing off was also reducing the high strung expectation.

"In a minute," he answered. She nodded in understanding. They walked quietly and Booth wondered at the peacefulness of the cemetery. His partner was so completely at ease with the dead he never worried whether she felt as if she were disturbing someone or not. But he had expected walking through a cemetery would be…creepy. So many people he knew were dead. So many people he had killed lay peacefully next to people he had lost. The equality scored at his heart, causing it to ache in realization that in death, all slumbered together, and if this were so, in life, all lived apart.

Yet the more time he spent among gravestones, the more tranquil he became, grinning and watching in amusement as Brennan eventually popped off her uncomfortable shoes to carry them. The pain ate at him in a dull ache, but the rolling motion of walking was soothing. Graveyards are peaceful, he mused, idly reading the names scrolling by, no longer anxious. They had been walking for close to an hour. Hundreds of graves lay in the green area; maybe thousands. Yet he didn't feel troubled or rushed; his mother had been dead for a while, his mouth twisted into Brennan's favorite crooked grin, she could wait an hour or so more.

Brennan was watching him covertly; he could feel it. She worried constantly about him; he could feel that too. His mind drifted to darting among the gravestones with his partner. About declaring his love for her in a graveyard. He chuckled softly and she joined in.

"What?" she asked and when his burning eyes turned to her, her face melted in a helpless smile. "Oh."

"That was a perfect day," twinkled Booth solemnly.

"Ice cream and alcohol," she laughed back. Her face darkened a fraction when she saw him stumble and over his complaints she finally and forcefully caught the upper part of his arm. "We're going to sit down now. Stay." She commanded and found a nice area that was mostly un-plotted. Spreading the blanket and checking that she wasn't about to sit on anyone (which hardly bothered her, but she knew how superstitious Booth could be), Brennan laid out the picnic and discreetly took out Booth's painkillers. Pouring him a Diet Coke and herself a water, she mocked toasted him as an invitation for him to stagger over and practically collapse. She slapped the pills into his hand. It wasn't a request. Without words, he acknowledged that and downed them dutifully.

She could tell when they began to take effect; the first ten minutes were mostly quiet, both of them mulling and Brennan serving some of the food. Booth lay flat on his back. Brennan fought the urge to feed him. He was not an infant.

Booth, in turn, was horrified to feel himself getting obsequiously drowsy, regardless that Brennan refused to pour the wine until they both found his mother's grave and his painkillers and somewhat dimmed their overpowering effect. Booth was grouchy; he knew what a stick in the mud Bones could be. She would hardly pour him a thimble full.

"Bones," he said quietly, and he dropped a strawberry into his own mouth. She looked over.

"Why do you like strawberries so much?" She didn't have to be a mind reader to know he had changed his query at the last second. She chewed thoughtfully; doing the thing she always did with sticky foods that drove Booth mad with desire, though he felt perverted and always declined to mention it. Twisting her middle finger to her lips, she nibbled on the sensitive skin there, thinking.

"My mother loved strawberries," she said at last.

"Like mother like daughter," Booth nodded, fighting to listen to her voice, to stay awake. They were in a graveyard for God's sake.

"I was more like my dad," she confessed, drawing her knees to her chest. Booth knew that was her signal for she didn't want to talk about it. Booth was of a different opinion. Want to or not, Brennan needed to talk about it.

"You are like your dad because you're reasonable." He didn't state it as a question. She shrugged and began to pick at a hangnail on her middle finger.

"I guess." Booth frowned, groggy still but struggled to sit up. She immediately protested. "You should lay down Booth." He waved her off but felt his muscles being uncooperative as the Vicadin took effect. She pulled him towards her and he compromised, leaning heavily into her shoulder.

"Why do you think you're like him?" he queried, squinting up at her. She made a face and began to viciously peel at the skin in her cuticle.

"You're doing that thing Sweets does." Booth played innocent.

"What thing?" he asked with wide eyes.

"Where you make me answer a question I asked you by asking a question." Her brow puckered. "Did that make sense?"

"Hey – I'm not a genius but I followed it." She laughed self consciously as he waited in expectation. She didn't look at him but in sudden fascination as she watched her skin suddenly bloom with a tiny bead of blood.

"Booth," she protested, unwilling to talk about it. He frowned darkly. She rolled her eyes and picked up a strawberry. She sucked on the sweet flesh, leeching the juice from around the leaves before finally twisting off the stem as she thought. He noticed the blood and took her hand. Twisting her third finger into his warm mouth, he cleaned her up. She blushed and protested it was unsanitary but he simply waited as she rinsed her finger with a capful of water.

"When I was little," she began, and a big smile spread Booth's face in anticipation. She couldn't help but smile in the face of that. "I asked him why he married mom. He made up this elaborate fairy tale," her eyes squinted even though it wasn't sunny. "He made up a romance, a whirlwind adventure, a true love saga." Her face was far away, lost in wistfulness and a land Booth couldn't follow to, one where it was…bitterness…perhaps, something he almost couldn't name settling around her beautiful mouth.

"I now, of course, realize it was all a lie. Dad never met mom at college. They were criminals. They probably met at a bar or on a job. He didn't take her out dancing, he didn't fall madly in love with her, they didn't run away because their love was forbidden. That was all a scheme to explain why Russ and I never had grandparents." Booth squeezed her hand.

"Dad…" her voice constricted on the word. "Well, he made love out to be some enchanted evening. Some fairytale. But that's not what it is. That's not real life."

"Bones…" he began, a bit alarmed at both her bitterness and the dawning realization creeping into her tone.

"He lied to me Booth," she snapped, her eyes bright. "He lied to me. He looked me in the eyes and told me that he married her because he loved her. Was that true? Was any of it?"

"Bones-" but she rambled on, her voice gaining in octaves.

"Then he just left and he told you those were the comic book days. He told you that he loved my mother but I'm not sure if he's even capable of it. Does that mean if I'm like him that I –"

"Bones!"

"He has affection for me, certainly, but you don't leave someone because you love them."

"He did leave because he love-"

"Would you leave me?" she demanded, and Booth stopped, breathless. "If I was in a bad situation, if I was in danger, if you could stop it, would you leave to try to draw it away?" Booth's eyes burned into hers. She had trapped him. She knew his answer as well as he did. He could never leave her; but he would always save her. But if he admitted it, her argument was won. Sometimes she was too smart. Too smart to just feel.

"Tell me Booth," she begged, but her begging was in the voice of an imperial mandate. Slowly, he shook his head once, brown eyes boring into her soul until he took some of the fire from them.

"I would never leave you." Her shoulders slumped in both victory and grief. "But the situation you described was just not ...right, Bones. It just was...well it was wrong."

"In what manner was I erroneous?"

"First off, you weren't being held at gunpoint, but gunpoint was coming your way. If someone was stalking Parker and I had to leave him, leave him and never see him again to save his life – to save my son – I would. In a heartbeat. But he's my son. Bones we're partners. Whatever else happens in our relationship – that's what relationships are about. Partners. Like Angela and Hodgins. He's her grounding force without bringing her down and she's his inspiration to keep him from burrowing into his own frustration. Like you and me. We complete each other. Partners run away together. I'd never leave you behind because I know you. You're not some kid. You're half of me, you're my fighting arm. I need you." She was very still underneath his side and he could feel her beginning to shake.

"Anything else?" she asked defiantly.

"Yeah," butted Booth belligerently. "And I think you're right about love." She stopped, sidelined, completely thrown.

"What? Booth you are all about love. I envy you for believing that you can lose yourself in another person. You believe love is transcendent. All encompassing."

"But it's not a fairytale," Booth interrupted. "It's not a twilight or a moonlit walk. It's not people skipping into the sunset, or floating on some cloud. Love is hard. Tough. Love is working at it. Love is looking at someone for everything and taking all of it anyway. Love is a trek up a mountain. It sucks sometimes – it's hard, there are landslides and tough days and tough years. But sometimes it's breathtaking. It's beautiful. It's worth it. Love is setting up camp when you just want to lay right down and not go on." Brennan swallowed hard. How could he see into her eyes like open doors and bring out her deepest most shameful desire – to stop. To give up.

"Then what is it? If it's not a fairytale?"

"It's graveyards," he gestured, and she laughed. "It's pancakes and agonizing car rides. It's making love and kisses on the cheek. It's giving in and buying a pig. It's having nightmares because you're so terrified for someone else. It's walking away, or taking the fall for your kid brother. It's bad jokes and lukewarm coffee and endless hours in therapy just to see you." He stopped. The last bit had just slipped out. He shrugged helplessly as she smiled a watery smile at him; as wavering as the smile was, her eyes were dry and clear. They pierced into him, healing him and he finally nodded. "Bones – love isn't what your dad told you, or what Disney did…"

"I don't know what that me-"

"Love is just love, Brennan. Love is just…love." He shrugged.

She looked shyly at him before quoting, "Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails-"

"First Corinthians 13: versus 7 and 8 - Bones what...how do you know that?"

"You always quote Bible verses Booth," she shrugged, self conscious, "I pretend like I know what you're talking about but instead I write down the numbers so I can better understand-"

"Understand me?" His eyes were very soft, very gentle. She nodded, feeling naked.

"Yes."

"You read the Bible for me?" She swatted at him.

"You read the case files for me. I know you have to use an encyclopedia to understand some of the descriptions...you could just ask me, but you don't."

"Yeah well..." he trailed off. "The crazy things people do for love I guess." Then he winked. "Also – love is that golf cart coming towards us and cookie cake when we can finally snag a ride instead of your genius idea of trekking across half the state in this graveyard."

"Hey!" she sniped, but the fire was gone and a smile broke over her face that she was powerless to stop. "Hey, at least I got us here."

"And I'll get us a ride to information to where the plot is. If you bat your lashes right, maybe we can get someone to drive us out there too."

Thinking of nothing better, Brennan stuck out her tongue and began to gather the blanket.

The epitaph was plain. Beloved wife and mother. It had been hard to find as she had remarried. Brennan stared at the carved words as if she could glean something to learn about Booth that he didn't teach her himself. Sarah Ione Booth Mackey.

"Ione?" she murmured under her breath. Not quietly enough for Booth, who had crossed himself upon entering the plot after charming a gruff old man into a cart ride out to a part of the cemetery they hadn't even known existed. He looked up and chuckled under his breath, interrupting his silent prayer.

"She always hated it too. It ran in the family and it was a tradition for any girl in the family to be called Ione somewhere in her name. Mom was thrilled to have two boys – she always said," his voice sounded a little strange both to his own and to Brennan's ears – "that the best gift was not to have to pass on that ugly name."

"Her name was Sarah?" She inflected it as a question but didn't need to as it was sitting in front of both their faces. Booth smiled more at her attempt at consolation than at the question.

"Yeah." He nodded slowly to himself. Brennan shrugged, awkward.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I am, Booth, I'm sorry. And I know what it's like."

"You're the only one Bones," he joked with a grimace and her face changed into a mirror of his pain.

"That is statistically improbable," she informed him. Statistics always made her feel better with their irrevocable logic. He nodded again.

"Right."

"Do you want a minute?" she asked quietly. He started to nod but then changed his mind.

"No, nah – I don't mind."

"Do you want me to say something?" Brennan asked hesitantly and he looked up at her in surprise. His face broke out into a little boy's smile – tired but true. Her heart swelled to see it back on his face; she felt like she had cured him, single handedly and completely unscientifically. There was something to be said for being a 'heart person.'

"Yeah I wantchu to say someffin." A new voice leered behind them; Brennan sprang around in surprise, ripping her hand from Booth's both guiltily and to better ascertain the situation. Booth was more sluggish in his response, his head whirling.

An old man, near his mid sixties, portly with a white beard and dark brown eyes, glared at them. A bottle of whisky hung in one hand, a single white carnation in the other. In comparison to the newly fresh bouquet of flowers from the grocery store, his flower looked like a meager proffering. Booth was not standing steadily, and tottering in pain from over exertion and the stress that came with the day.

"And you are?" asked Brennan, not haughtily, but with the tone she adopted when she found something distasteful and unpleasant simultaneously.

"I'm Sarah's 'usband you crack whore," slurred the man, flinging the whisky suddenly at Brennan's face. Booth immediately patted himself down for a gun only to realize he was unarmed in face of his injuries.

"Sir," he started, trying to keep the peace. "I'm her son – my name is Special Agent Seeley Booth, this here is my partner Dr. Temperance-" He never finished the introductions as the man growled as soon as he heard Booth's name.

"Stupid scumbag," he screamed, "she hated you! She didn't want you she wanted me," and his hammy fist swinging, he caught Booth square under the chin, partially to the jaw and partially to the throat. Booth dropped like a stone in water.

Furious, Brennan tapped the drunkard on the shoulder. Turning, he looked instantly confused before Brennan smashed his face in with a round house elbow.

"That's for Booth," she grunted as he dropped to one knee before the heat in his veins drove him to dive for her stomach, tackling her to the ground. Brennan felt something graze along her rib in a line of fire before she expertly rolled, kicked his knee in and had knocked the man cleanly out without him being able to cry out once.

She rolled him to his back to check if he was still breathing. His nose, at least, had stopped gushing the initial fountain of blood. He would live.

Abandoning him to wake up next to his miraculously unharmed but now empty whisky as Brennan had upended the amber liquid all over his chest, she scurried to check on a groaning Booth. Turning his face this way and that and finding him basically unmarked, she moved to his stitches. They were strained but intact. Hearing the hum of tires she flagged down a gator car and helped Booth stagger to his feet.

"Open," she commanded him and he, wincing, obliged. He immediately made a gagging sound when she unceremoniously thrust her fingers into his mouth, checking for cuts or loose teeth. "You're lucky," she informed him. "It probably won't even bruise."

"And you?" he asked, rubbing his jaw and feeling a headache begin to pound between his eyes. He knew she wouldn't give him more Vicadin before his prescribed dose was up. "You okay Bones?" She shrugged smugly.

"He was down before he knew what hit him. He'll be fine." The groundskeeper looked skeptically at the unconscious man.

"I'll check on him later," he promised the partners grouchily as they loaded into the car. With a smile that hurt Booth's already aching head, Brennan pulled out a bag.

"Wine?"

"God please," moaned Booth. Laughing, she handed the whole bottle to him before she drove them back to the diner in a triumphant return.

Love never fails, she thought.

Booth looked over the thousands of graves. Here was peace.