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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOR WE KEEP MEMOIRS OF HOPE

*

I am not a child now, I can take care of myself
I mustn't let them down now, mustn't let them see me cry
I try, but it's too hard to believe
I can't see what you see
My whole world is changing, I don't know where to turn
But I can't stay and watch the sitting burn

I try and try to understand the distance in between
The love I feel, the things I fear
Now I have to believe all the world is made of faith

-Jonatha Brooke-

Hunched over his work, he rakes his brown stare closely over the spread outlines strewn across the table's surface where he's seated. His left hand smoothes over the parchment, his right sketching over gridlines and markers with skilled ease. While he's no Angela Montenegro, his trained eye works wonders when constructing snares and tactical apprehension blue prints.

He hasn't seen or heard from her in quite some time. He's only assumed she'd disappeared into the basement to research the modifications tested on Compound Six while at the lab. Running a hand through his hair, he sets down the pencil. Knowing he can finish the project later, he rises in search of her.

If he's totally honest with himself, he has to admit he'd been scared out of his mind today. Despite her rash actions, despite what they'd been through, he wants her to know he's not angry. Frustrated, maybe, but she'd proceeded forward with all best intentions considered. The right reasons were evident. He knows she's not just thinking of him while formulating a cure for KV. It isn't really about either of them. It all rests on the fate of the world, and what remains of the human race.

Righting wrongs. This is what it comes down to. He's familiar with this, he knows her affliction. They have to press on. Retain hope, no matter how small a portion they possess.

The truth of the matter is that he needs to see her, especially now. Be in her presence. He needs to know she's not still trapped back in that warehouse–maybe forever. And possibly consigned to a fate far worse than being lost.

Approaching the basement door, he hesitates. Hopes she isn't rightfully still upset with him for following her into that hellhole. He'd do it again, though. He'll brave her fury before suffering her pain.

Summoning the courage, he knocks softly. "Bones?" It's a while without response and he checks his watch. With only an hour or so left of daylight, he rules out her going for fresh air. They always give themselves at least an hour for preparation. Never stray outside–only for absolute emergencies. "Bones?" he calls again. He wanders the house, checking the rooms.

He's not concerned. On occasions when she gets caught up in her work, she sometimes forgets to reply.

When her office turns up nothing though, he tries to ease away the frown attempting to mar his face. Passing the bedroom, he falters in his tracks. Feeling his breath catch in calm surprise, he waits beside the doorframe, looking in.

Her back is to him, pale and bare. Gently caressed by the ends of auburn curls. Yes, he convinces himself. Her hair is definitely curled. The familiar "Roxie" dress swathes her slender form in black satin. Soft feet are naked against the white carpet, absent of heels. She's looking in the full-length mirror in front of her, but he can't see her face.

"Hey," he says softly. She gives no real acknowledgement of him, shows no reaction. Either she's mentally unconscious for the time present, or she'd already known he was there.

He feels a sad pang flutter in his middle when she finally turns and reveals the unhindered sorrow in her eyes. She is a picture of vulnerability. He's not certain he's ever seen her so exposed.

She doesn't say anything, but her sad blue eyes speak alone. Pour everything into his, moist and all the prettier in their sweet melancholy. They always give her away, the source of her every emotion. The truth can't be hidden from her gaze.

The silence draws out, and he's worried now.

"Bones?"

Something flickers behind the blue. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, the usual smokiness of her voice gone. He waits quietly for her to continue, his compassion and concern for her well-being evident in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, she releases her question with all the muted strength of a sucker-punch to the gut. "Do you ever get lonely, Booth?"

The pang grows to a sympathetic ache at the devastation in her voice, merging almost immediately with his own. Parting his lips to speak, his voice catches in his throat. He does. All the time. She goes on as if from his own thoughts.

"There's no one."

He approaches her with a dismal nod. He understands. Feels her heartache, knows it well. "I know what you mean," he gently shares.

She looks down, considering this. The curls curtain her face, obscuring her from his view. Before he can stop himself, he brushes it back behind her ear. Clear eyes dart to his, slightly guarded, but she doesn't move away. Lashes brush the skin below her lids.

"I never thought I'd miss the noise. The day to day lives we all partake in. The people you pass on the street, or sit by on the shuttle." She shakes her head, looking away. "I never knew them. And now I'll never have the chance. Their lives were stolen. They're gone…" as she speaks, she tries to hide the break in her voice, but fails to contain her grief. "But I'm still here. Spending their lives."

"Bones…"

"They're lives were lost because of me, Booth." Her voice gains little strength, but just enough to counter him. "You can't repudiate fact."

He accepts this because it's what she wants. Anything for her. He'd given testimony that she could murder a man in cold blood–it had killed him to do so–he can allow her to accept blame if she must. "You're going to fix everything, Temperance." He means this, believes it. She will. She's strong, and he has faith in her.

Her voice is small. "I don't know if I can." The smallest he's ever heard it, and emotion contorts the words. "I'm not this sort of scientist. I–I'm not certain of the process or what I'm even doing. I need Hodgins… Cam… they could…"

"They're not here, Bones." The firmness of his voice is softened by regret and shared misery. He misses them, too. But they're not here. She is. She'd been right about that. The world needs her, no matter how empty it's become.

Wavering, the words sink slowly in before she gives a small, accepting nod.

"Is this about what happened today?" he asks carefully, after giving her a moment.

"No," she denies weakly, but closes her eyes in time with a helpless shrug. "Maybe. I don't know. I don't know anymore." Her voice is so faint, he questions whether she's really speaking. It disturbs him, this weak creature assuming the guise of his partner. It isn't her, what's happening here? Almost immediately, he's flooded with a fierce need to protect, comfort, shield her with his arms. Make the monsters go away.

Still, he nods calmly. Surveying her once more, he hesitates before voicing his original question. "How come you're wearing…" he trails off, not sure how to continue.

Under her lashes and the stray curls framing her fair appearance, he catches the sad smile that ghosts across her bare lips. "I miss what we were," she confesses. Her voice is thick with the reverie of recalling scattered memories. "I'd never thought my life was perfect until I look back on it now." He waits, hoping she'll go on. She doesn't disappoint. "When I do remember, I suppose that's what gives me hope. But even with that, I can't avoid the hurt that comes with it. I just want to go back–to when everything was simple. Us and the squints." A smile flickers, wider than before, and he finds himself smiling too despite the sting developing behind his eyes.

He feels this. Knows this. And, for a moment, he's back in time with her.

"You'd saunter into my office uninvited, tossing something around. And you'd smile," she whispers. There's sadness and there's contentment at the memory. "You were always smiling. We got a case, Bones."

He swallows past the lump that forms in his throat, waiting for her to go on. He laughs silently though, and remembers. Memories bring back the pain and tears, but sometimes it's well worth the agony. She's right. It can bring you hope.

"I miss being able to smile, without pretending that everything is okay," the last word is strained, and she sighs past the sob that tries to escape. She forces it back, a will of ice. He takes her hand in comfort and though his touch brings everlasting security, she can't help but yield to the emotion that's been building inside her. All for too long. She needs a respite. Her shoulders slide forward an inch, the weight of the world inching down. "Everything's different," she shakes her head, feeling a single rebellious tear fall. "Everyone is gone."

"Hey," he prods gently, discovering his voice at last. His fingertips find their way under her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. The clear radiance binds his heart, but also gives him insight to her suffering. She looks no more than a child when she lays bare her heart, letting the tears show and gazing up at him like he's simply everything. Being wanted was always nice, but being loved was something immeasurable. Though he's physically stagnant and grounded, internally he's soaring.

Believe, he tells her.

His eyes are so appropriately suited, she finds. She'd realized towards the beginning that when her world is breaking, she need only find those eyes and those arms. Her first instinct is always–had always been–to run to him. They are such like a fading dream, the perfect instant between sleep and awareness, lulled into lasting comfort. When all her faith is lost, his eyes alone restore every fragment. She wants to know what he knows, believe what he believes. She wants that faith. Needs it.

So she tries.

Under his gaze, she feels… important. She can sense his faith in her and it's uplifting.

Stable, reliable. It's him.

"I'm here," he says, and she can hear the underlying promise in his voice.

She feels the familiar warmth associated with all things Seeley Booth blossom in her chest. Through her tears, a smile is born. Her curls dance about her face as she gives him a small nod. "You're always here."

He opens his arms, inviting her into his embrace. Tired and weary, she accepts. Falls into him with a sigh. His sturdy arms wrap around her, stabilizing and comforting all at once. She breathes deeply, body relaxing. "Always," he echoes.

Her eyes slide shut, at peace. "I haven't cried in a while," she admits.

"You don't have to be tough for me, Bones," he encourages softly, the feel of her curls against his face bringing him a perfect calm. She needs this, so he holds her.

The tremors are so soft at first he's not sure if he's imagining them. She breathes a grateful exhale–somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hugging him tighter. Finally cleansed of her self-conscious disposition.

The collar of his shirt begins to dampen. "I haven't gotten all pretty for so long," she sniffs. She's spilling everything to him, now. "There just hasn't been a reason to. I didn't think I enjoyed it until I never had the opportunity."

He expels a tranquil sigh, hand massaging soothing circles over her back. "You don't have to have a reason," he proposes with gentle honesty. "Can't it just be because you want to?"

She considers this. "I suppose," she tentatively agrees. "I just… you start to miss the things you once took for granted. I mean, I haven't seen the stars for almost a year."

He's grateful they have one another. Here, now. Always. That they can stand here in the silence and grieve. Grieve with the knowledge that they aren't grieving alone. If he's expected her to break down, though, he's disappointed. She'd proven in the past to be a silent sufferer–emotionally torn, but never breaking. He doesn't know if he should be thankful for this or frustrated that she isn't doing herself the favor of letting go.

"Thinking about those things… I start to feel the quiet. When I can't think of anything to say, and when I can't think of anything to think about. I guess a person starts to really listen. You begin to notice just how empty the world truly is."

Her words ring true to his own state of mind. The vulnerability and the pain he's sought so desperately to keep from her. Staring out at no real point of focus, he hears everything she says. Experiences it as if it's his own despair. For truly, it is.

The silence sometimes deafens him. Occasionally, it grew to be so loud it threatened his own breaking point. But he holds on, remains steady. For her.

He can't fail her. It's unacceptable.

"You do start to notice," he says quietly, an underlying fracture to his usually strong voice. "It's a sad reality. But what's important is that you keep hope. And we try. We keep trying to change the world. Make it what it used to be. Or something new, better."

She closes her eyes, clinging tightly to his strong form. Joyful through her tears, she marvels at his grace. His utter desire to put others before himself. Even if he no longer believes–he'll always make sure that she does.

Paladin. Defender of the faith.

"You're my Peter Pan," she tells him quietly.

She can hear the surprised smile in his voice. "You know Peter Pan?"

"Second star to the right," she whispers, smile bending her lips in the tiniest of ways. "Straight on 'til morning." Despite the way it brightens their faces, she's sorry she'd said it. Peter and Wendy never got their happy ending. In the end, the boy always left. She hopes they can write their own story. Childish as it may seem.

She sniffs again, soothed by the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

"You're wonderful." And she means it. He is truly everything, truly magnificent.

His smile fades as something deeper, more powerful, weighs on his heart. He closes his eyes, concentrating on her closeness, reveling in it. It pacifies him, draws away the emotional poison he's plagued by.

"Why are you so nice to me?" She means it this time, truly. She needs to know.

She feels him chuckle, and he smoothes a hand over her curls. "I thought we solved this one already?"

"Back then you were only withholding evidence to spare me. Not killing your own men in side street standoffs and betraying the country you love."

Suspended silence stretches on before he clears his throat, hmphing a short laugh to disguise his avoidance. He gives her a gentle pat on the back, stalling if he can. "Felt like the thing to do. You feel better?" His interest in her answer is genuine. And he's convinced she knows why he does the things he does–sacrificed what he had to. Even if she doesn't know for certain, he's willing to bet she holds the correct suspicions.

He'd declare war against the planet if she were to ask him. He just isn't ready to say it aloud. Perhaps he is a coward.

"I do." Her reply is honest. "Thank you." She smiles against him, giving him a mirrored caress on his shoulder. "What about you?"

"I'm okay," he brushes off. He knows it's weak. He knows she doesn't believe him but maybe she'll move on.

But she's too devoted for his lame excuses. "No man is an island, Booth."

"…I know…" It's a mumble, a whisper. He thinks it's enough. "But I'm… I'm fine. Really."

She doesn't accept it. He's too good a man. His pain should not be forgotten. Neglected. And she hates that he makes her do this to him. Her lightness fades, and blue eyes adopt a sadness. Closing them, she allows herself to assume a more gentle hold around him, softening the blow.

"Parker."

The effect is immediate. He tenses in her arms, cotton shifting to stone. Silence, but when his weak voice, suddenly tainted by unshed tears, severs the newborn quiet, it wounds her. She can feel his armor starting to crack. "Please, don't."

She's sorry. Letting the moment linger as long as he'll allow, she finally nods against him. Accepting his unwillingness. He isn't going to divulge any more information, so she abandons the subject. Although his relief is immense, the sense of loss is overwhelming as well.

He's failed her and it sickens him. It's not fair and he knows it. But it hurts.

She understands, though. She's failed him, too. She hadn't let go when he gave her the opportunity. He'd offered her solace, but she'd remained where she was comfortable. Stayed with what she knows.

He'll open up to her when he's able. If doing so will only break him further, she's more than willing to wait until he's ready. "Okay," she says, pulling away and looking up at him in earnest. "When you feel up to it." She provides him the opportunity.

His expression is serious, but a grin slowly spreads across his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it's something. "You're not going to throw me down again if I don't, are you?" he mutters impishly.

A husky laugh, quiet and calm, abruptly escapes her. Her eyes twinkle and tease. "You're only offended because you were taken down by someone half your size."

"Try blindsided, Bones," he snorts, amused. He appreciates the insertion of humor. It eases the ache, and he's grateful. "I'll have you know, I'm a trained weapon."

The mirth still dances over her face, but a glimmer of solemnity crowds it momentarily. "I know," she nods. It's muted, but there. And she does know. His eyes watch her carefully, and words are passed between them. Language that only they know.

He can count on one hand, the people who have ever gotten the drop on him. Two of those spots belong to her, the second tallied at the warehouse. The first at his funeral.

I let my guard down because I trust you. This is what his eyes, his expression, tells her. To feel anything other than trust in association with her is absurd to him. Unimaginable.

I'll always be there to make sure you're glancing over your shoulder, she returns. Lashes flutter. Her head bows. No matter how objective I try to remain, you're always first.

Always her priority.

What embarrasses, what shames her is simply fact. The rest of the populace is gone, lost. He's not. She's not prepared to sacrifice him, or allow him to let himself to be sacrificed. For the greater cause, or any cause. She needs him here, too. Needs him.

I need you.

It's swimming in her luminous eyes before she can stop it. His breath catches, barely noticeable. Floored by the intensity behind her gaze. For a moment, it's too much for both of them.

Next time I'll be more careful, he silently promises.

And then it's gone–back to what they can handle. "What weapon are we discussing?" she gently goads. "A caveman club?" The somberness is gone, and timid mirth takes its place.

She squeals as his hands creep lower down her sides, ready to launch a devastating tickle attack should she push her luck. She resists and he laughs, though it doesn't hold the usual warmth. He's tired, too. He glances at the clock to their right. "You want something to eat?"

She shakes her head, thankful though for his offer. "I'm not hungry. But I should shower, though," she smiles sadly. "Wash out these curls."

"No," he disagrees before he can seal his lips around the protest. Nevertheless, a kindness fills his eyes. "Leave them." With a shrug, he clears his throat, the corners of his mouth bending slightly. "They're nice."

Her smile grows, if a little shy, and she nods. "Okay," she cedes quietly, ducking her head somewhat. "I should still bathe, though. We got in a lot of exercise in today."

"Yeah…" The word is not even a whisper. It's lost in the air. His thoughts draw the smile from his mouth. Summoning his composure, he nudges her chin with somber affection. "Can't go running into the dark, dummy."

It's quiet and heartfelt. He's afraid for her all over again. He wills the feeling to fade. Doesn't want to discomfort her with the blatant sentiment that fills his eyes.

But she understands. Giving a discreet nod, she steps away and moves to walk past him. He hesitates, but catches her hand, holding her back. At first, she gives him a questioning look, but relaxes instantly as he pulls her back into his arms. He needs to feel her again–if only one more time before the sun goes down. He speaks softly into the auburn cushion of her hair. "Things will get better, Bones. I promise you."

She blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering at the contact, the words in her ear. "I want to believe you." And she does. She wants to feel what he feels. That sureness. "I really do."

"In order to appreciate the high points in life, we have to live through the lows."

His words mean everything. She believes.

She feels safe. Loved.

And she's scared. Scared of what this means. Coming from him, coming from Booth. She remembers that this is Booth. Hesitating, she reconsiders, original fears evolving into something more–something less frightening.

It's Booth. This means everything.

She sighs against him, overcome with a bittersweet warmth. Even though they share each other's company, they are never really together. They're present in the other's lives, and offer comfort and companionship, but they can never be more. They can never be truly connected. Sometimes, that makes his presence all the more painful.

He's only a vision to her. She can never touch. Never experience. How could she explain to him that the line meant to keep them safe–him safe–is breaking her to pieces? The loneliness could be suffocating. Especially when the only person alive–your truest friend and something more–cannot be yours.

She hadn't realized just how much she truly longed for him until the moment she'd learned she could never know his love. Even the feather light touch of her lips on his is too much a risk. She could very well be giving him the kiss of death. Though unlikely, she knows what consequences will quickly follow.

Every day, she lives with the knowledge that he can never be hers. And she can never be truly his.

But she has hope.

In her lonesome, running thoughts, she wonders when it happened. That moment–shared between them in mutual understanding. When had she known? What had triggered this slowly building bond? What was the point of epiphany? The moment of clarity? One could assume during or immediately following a high risk experience. The combination of adrenaline and frantic emotions–life and death situations often brought out the truth in social creatures.

But no. This time, logic is mistaken. And in admitting that, she's able to accept her feelings at last–no matter the boundaries needing set.

The best loves are the ones you can't name the beginning of.