Chapter Four: Timing

Sitting in the SUV, Booth took a deep breath, and let it out again. He wasn't looking forward to this.

Though he was looking forward to seeing Bones. Very much.

He hadn't seen her since that night at his apartment. He'd gone straight to the docks yesterday, after Hodgins called him; the whole time he was stalking Broadsky, creeping between the shipping containers, straining to hear any unusual sound or smell any trace of sulfur in the air...he was praying.

Please, God, let this go OK.

He had never prayed, before, when he was on the hunt—it seemed sacrilegious, somehow. He'd believed in what he was doing then...but it still felt wrong, asking God to steady his hand or to guide his aim.

This time, however, was different. In the first place, he wasn't going to kill Broadsky unless it was necessary in the line of defense. But more than that...this time, there was Bones.

We're just getting started...and I didn't get to say goodbye.

So all day yesterday, as he set his foot on the bullet hole in Broadsky's knee, and as he personally supervised his incarceration (not taking any chances there)...and all day today, as he gathered the evidence to give Caroline her best shot at getting this guy several life sentences (with parole when Hell freezes over, thank you very much), he felt grateful.

Actually, the day was a huge mixed bag of emotions: triumph, certainly; relief, too; sadness when he came across the files on Vincent and Tracy Lavek—not just "collateral damage"—supplanted by a burst of residual fury at the man's supreme arrogance. And a kind of awe, almost, that he, Master Sergeant Seeley Booth, had dodged a bullet in more ways than one. He could so easily have followed his mentor into the darkness...could have allowed his zeal for justice to make him a zealot, and let his rectitude become self-righteousness.

There but for the grace of God go I, he thought. And sent his thanks heavenward, once again.

Underneath the fact-gathering, the exhibit-making, and the emotional ups and downs, however, there ran a thin but steady current of excitement. One that Booth strenuously ignored. Because if he thought about Bones, and the promise he'd made the other night, his face would break into a wildly inappropriate grin, Agent Shaw would be shocked, and he'd never finish the goddamn report.

Finally, it was done and couriered over to Caroline, and he was free to go.

Free to go and see Vincent's body off on its journey back to England. Not exactly the circumstances under which he would have chosen to get his first sight of Bones since she'd been in his bed.

Still, as he walked through the Jeff from the parking garage, he rehearsed what he might say to her, how he might suggest they make good on his promise. He had gotten as far as, "So..." when he stepped out onto the delivery dock, joining the grim quartet already gathered by the hearse.

She wasn't there.

He could almost ascribe the plummeting of his heart to the appearance of Vincent's casket, wheeled through the doors a moment later. He was just thinking, It was too much—she couldn't do it, when Sweets opened his mouth and started spewing about retreats into hyperrationalism. He supposed it was illogical (as Bones might say) that he had to forcibly restrain himself from clocking the kid, when all he had done was voice, albeit in psychobabble, Booth's own thoughts.

But that would only complicate things. So he merely declared, "Bones said she'll come—she will definitely be here."

And, as though he had conjured her up...there she was. Complete with potted hydrangea.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her usual confident forthrightness nowhere in evidence. Blue eyes glimmered as she set the flowers down on the coffin, and he nearly swept her into his arms right there, discretion be damned. He settled for giving her a look in which, he hoped, she could read the message: You're fine. You did good.

Then there was some talking, and suddenly they were singing that inane song about the lime and the coconut—Booth was pretty sure that was Sweets' idea. Whatever, it didn't matter; his attention was focused solely on Bones, on getting her through this moment.

The doors closed, the hearse drove away, and Bones slipped her arm through his. They followed the group back through the building, and took the elevator down to the garage. All without speaking a word, though Bones' hand was still firmly tucked into the crook of his elbow.

"You OK?" he asked her, finally, as they stood by her car.

"Of course," she replied, giving him her I-can-handle-anything look. Then she sighed. "No."

"You will be, Bones." He clasped her hands, bringing them up to his chest. "Y'know, it takes a lot more strength to deal with what you're feeling than to walk away from it."

She smiled a little. "Now you sound like Dr. Sweets."

He dropped her hands as though he'd been burned. "Jeez, Bones! Way to kill the mood!"

"What mood? Do you mean the proper observance of the funeral ritual? Why would comparing you to Dr. Sweets—"

"Ack! Not that mood...the mood I was trying to—" He ran a hand through his hair. "You know what? Never mind. My timing sucks. Just...come here." Pulling her into a hug, he dropped a kiss on her hair.

"I still don't understand," she said, voice muffled by his coat. "But I have to say...I feel a little better."

"That's good, Bones...that's good."

They would have their moment. It might not be tonight, but they would have it.

TO BE CONTINUED