Author's Note: Last chapter!!!! Not including the epilogue and such, of course...
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE STRUGGLE THOUGHT IN VAIN
*
This is my life, it's not what it was before
All these feelings I've shared
These are my dreams that I'd never lived before
Now that we're here, it's so far away
These are my words that I've never said before
And this is the smile that I've never shown before
All the struggle we thought was in vain
All the mistakes one life contained
They finally start to go away
I feel like I can face the day
I can forgive and I'm not ashamed
To be the person I am today
-Staind-
August 29th, 2010
Foliage shows fragile evidence of approaching autumn, crisp and golden . Leaves quiver in the breeze and the everything seems so much clearer. Only the sounds of the Tahoe fill the void.
The air between them cradles an easy quiet. His hand feels vacant without hers and so he seeks out her skin over the console. She's gently asleep against the window, but her fingers subconsciously link around his. Her turn has come and gone to drive, but he doesn't dream of waking her. She looks peaceful, perfect. Lips quirking a little into a fleeting smile, he raises their joined hands and presses a kiss onto her knuckles. She sighs in her sleep.
He's tired, too. But he can hold out a little longer. The black ribbon of road stretches hypnotically ahead, beckoning. Conveying mysterious promise.
August 27th, 2010
Discomfort is flagrant. Too real to be a dream. Blessed oblivion still tempts her, but she battles quietly against its pull. Dragging her eyes open, all she sees is darkness. Testing her motor function proves futile. A shift of the arm there, a roll of the neck here, is all she can really accomplish. It's soft, though, wherever she is.
Briefly, she loses the fight against a rapid succession of yawns. Blinking drowsily into the hooded space, she finally feels the weight settled over her waist. "Booth?" she ventures quietly, voice too weak to achieve anything greater. She hears his mumbled response beside her, feels him shift. His loose hold around her tightens almost imperceptibly, and he buries his nose further into her hair atop the pillow.
She feels utterly inept, and wagers he feels the same. Her memory sparks to life, however weakly, recalling the night previous and the battle with the Infected. Without any doubt, the adrenaline highs have worn off. Now arrives the repercussions of their abused bodies, blissfully forgotten prior to this morning. She'd noticed last night that he'd seemed to be favoring his upper body movements, and quickly recognized the burgeoning signs of injured ribs. Worrying at first that some of the cartilage could be damaged near his sternum, he'd assured her nothing felt too horrible just yet. He'd have probably started to feel that before any other injuries, so she'd deemed it safe to say it was nothing so serious. She'd thought she might be suffering too, though, from bruised damage beneath her flesh. Still, it had been too late and she'd been too fatigued to decide anything definitive. So before they'd crashed last night, she'd wrapped his ribcage and loaded them each with enough morphine to knock out a race horse.
He hasn't even risen to open the steel shutters, the barricades, and she doesn't blame him. She can feel the slow expanding of his torso, and the pattern becomes her private lullaby.
Her eyelids droop again without warning, and she doesn't fight the process. Lazily, she snuggles back against him, his warm chest cushioning her shoulders through the thin fabric of their clothing. Always so warm. "Oven man…"
She feels the chuckle rumble through him, deep in his throat, at her sluggish conclusion. She can never say 'teddy bear' like a normal person. She's only half-aware, drifting fast. "It's morning," he replies tiredly to her somewhat rhetorical assertion, voice thick with sleep. He feels a twinge in his ribs, but nothing manifest enough to disturb his rapidly vanishing consciousness.
"Mmm… no. G'back t'sleep." Her sigh is made of angels' music and mountain springs.
Morphine really is a pleasant thing. "…kay." Sighing contentedly, her shampoo becomes his aroma therapy. He's lost before he can identify the smell.
It takes another day before they're able to resemble anything similar to functioning human masses. Or to move at any respectable pace.
She winces against the ambush of pestering sunlight, burrowing further into the blankets with an audible whine. She doesn't bother to recall that Temperance Brennan does not whine. She hears his laughter and feels the mattress sink under his weight when he begins to crawl up to her, though she suspects it's due to his limited motor functions and not that he's being playful. She should have suspected his restlessness would emerge first.
"Bones," he intones softly, poking at her through the duvet. This earns him a disgruntled huff. Always happy to antagonize, a grin splits his face. "Rise and shine, beautiful lady."
Her tolerant laughter bubbles from under the herd of blankets, voice muffled. "Should I be expecting an onslaught of new and irritable monikers from now on?" Did that horrid voice really come out of her? A glass of water will certainly do her good.
His lips find her temple beneath the mass of cotton and down. He doesn't seem to mind her morning voice at all, rather he appears encouraged by it. "Mm, maybe."
Eyes closed, a smile still blossoms across her face. "Funny man. Just don't be acquainting me with Attila or an infant, and we'll be fine."
He chuckles, hovering over her attentively. To her petulant surprise, he laughs and kisses her with summoned delight, rubbing his nose against hers. She isn't irked anymore. "Sugar Pie, Muffin Cake, Pumpkin, Schmoopie Bear..."
Bursting into spirited laughter, she navigates from the confines of cozy blankets, peering up at him. She notices the way his eyes soften unhappily at the faint evidence of bruising from the other night blooming over her pale features. He might notice the way her lips dip into a frown at the damage he's sustained, too.
He traces his thumb gently over the purpling flesh, face falling dejectedly. Her fingers find the foremost abrasion over his brow, smoothing the worry lines away. "It must look worse than it is, because it doesn't hurt."
Her assurance pacifies him a little, and he nods. "Feel like getting up today?"
"I'm up for it, yes. Being ambulatory can only accelerate the healing process."
"How's your leg?"
"Much better, thank you."
His lips find hers again, slow and chaste. It kills him to see her so vulnerable. Her fingers delve up into his hair, and she's reminded of its length. He chuckles against her lips, pulling away to look at her. "Think I could use a haircut again. What do you think?" Looking optimistic, a half-smile on his lips, his dark eyes fix on her hopefully.
Grabbing a fistful and tugging playfully, she grins. He ruffles her own head of curls in response, and when her sudden giggles finally dissolve back into her husky laughter, she nods accordingly. "Scissors are in the third drawer in the kitchen from the refrigerator. If you want to get them I'll indulge your dapper sensibilities."
"Yes, my beloved." A quick peck to her nose and he's bounding from the bed, groaning as the ramifications of such nimble movement contradict with the soreness of his still tender physique.
She hums her chastising amusement of his costly neglect and, after making a face at her, he disappears from the doorway. Investigating fully later, they discover rather benign but notable injuries. Two of his ribs seem to be cracked, though not too seriously. Several small bones in his hands are broken, same as her. Their bruising and injuries become like puzzle pieces that only they know the sequence of.
Her fingers smooth through the dark confines above his scalp, careful and meticulous. Perusing the result, manually checking for consistency from each angle. Fingernails trace the sides, measuring.
"How's it look, Doc?"
Chewing on her bottom lip, she tilts her head. Blue eyes focused with precise scrutiny. "Tip your head forward," she requests softly, consumed by the task. Always the perfectionist, he never has to worry about crooked angles anymore.
He obeys, shifting a bit in the kitchen chair he resides in. She hovers behind him, running the pads of her fingers along the nape of his neck. An inch or so of rebellious locks dust the floor, and she purses her lips in approval at her handiwork. The comfortable quiet drags on until it isn't noticed anymore.
"Cortman knew my name," he says quietly, eventually. He sits a little stiffer in his seat, she notices.
Her brow furrows delicately together, fingers stilling in his hair. "What?"
He doesn't say anything for a long time, and for a moment, she thinks he won't go on. He doesn't disappoint, though. Never does. He clears his throat, one broad shoulder lifting in a tired shrug. "He couldn't talk very well. Barely at all. But I'm positive he said it."
She hesitates to reply, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She knows he walks a line—somewhere between regret and ready acceptance of assuming the duty of ensuring Cortman's necessary demise. He hasn't had to kill anyone in so long. "I… I have a theory," she begins tentatively. He waits patiently, devotedly. "I can't be certain of course," she almost immediately debunks.
The room falls quieter still, but it's Booth who breaks the silence first. "Tell me," he murmurs, gaze set calmly against the floor.
She takes a breath, sacrificing—if only for a moment—her own past convictions. "Ten percent of the human genome is still unmapped," she explains, tracing her fingers along the seams of his t-shirt over his shoulders. "Some… some have said that it's the genetic design for…"
"…The soul," he finishes softly, and it isn't quite a question. He'd been tentative at first to raise the supposition with her, but when he feels her smooth the wrinkles out of his t-shirt with gentle hands, he eases a little.
"Instinct." She nods. It's not a correction, but an agreement. This is easy, she can do this now. She should have known such conversation could always be shared with him—on how she's doubted herself. Doubted everything she once believed in. "I was never… I was only able to study the outer effects of KV on the human body, on the subjects. I could never analyze their thoughts, or what they were ultimately motivated toward." She sighs. "I knew part of it was hunger, the need to feed. But I never knew all of it."
There's a beat of silence again, but he doesn't break it this time. He gives her what she needs—whatever time she requires. This will be one of the biggest events of her life, perhaps even more so than the trial of last night. This will define who she is, who she's becoming.
"I believe that the Infection retained instinct in every specimen, whatever that instinct might have been. The soul…" she chooses his word with hesitance, but unshakable faith, "the person they were before… it always remained, on some level, I think. It had to, from what I can see now. Whoever the person the subject had been before… it would become almost decupled. Be forced to the surface to stunning degree. The greedy wouldn't be allowed to hunt; they'd steal food for themselves. The timid would watch over the hive when the need arose. The daring and more intelligent became the hunters. Do you see?"
"I'm following you."
"Cortman was…" she shakes her head, unwilling to deface a name she has no right to. "He was…"
Booth releases a lax and humorless laugh, leaning back further in his seat. "His instinct was to be a jackass?"
"Yes, I'm afraid," she concurs with a slight grimace. "In the vernacular, I suppose. More specifically, there are certain genetic markers for possible psychotic and violent behavior in all of us, some more pronounced than others. It's just that in most human beings, they're dormant. In others... well, you knew him better than I did."
"But what about the others? Not all of them could have been monsters, right?" His voice is uncharacteristically timid, small. She can tell he's averse to accept such a judgment on them all. This man who believes every person retains a morsel of good. A sense of right and wrong, no matter how fleeting.
She's relieved she can pacify him, but not for the reasons she might have hoped. Nothing really ever is a fairy tale. "Do you… do you remember when we would find the corpses? Remains of the Infected that had been torn into?" She allows the question to hang, to linger on the air, before continuing. "What if… what if they weren't the weak ones being singled out when food got scarce?"
She can sense the comprehension in his frame before he even speaks. "They were rebels." There's an almost indiscernible fracture to his voice.
"I believe so," she speculates sadly.
"So… you're saying that all the good people got singled out and massacred? Because they wouldn't follow the others? The leader?"
She can hear the note of pain in his voice, and feels a twinge in her chest in response. "Not all of them. But the better ones, I think. Others… Cortman may have been a tyrant, but he was the Alpha," she supplies logically, no matter how unhappy with the conclusion. "He provided them with food, shelter. Helped them survive. He controlled the pack, as well. They could have been afraid. Not to mention… technically, to them—even though impossible for them to rationalize—we're still enemies of the state. The country. That had been wired into their minds long before falling victim to the disease. Long before their brains essentially collapsed."
"So… instinct again," Booth nods.
"Yes."
"But why Cortman?"
"He was strong," she shrugs. "Had knowledge, at least more so than most. He knew how to survive; how to keep people alive, if he cared to. I'm not saying he wasn't challenged at times—he must have been. Either he won every pitted match, or loyal pack members dealt with the oppressors he faced."
"Hmm." He makes that quiet, distracted noise again in the back of his throat, and she knows he's deep in thought.
"I always had only assumed humanity and integrity were lost post-infection. And to a degree, they were, of course. I mean, you saw how they moved, how they behaved. Races do evolve, I should never have jumped to such conclusions…"
She's disappointed in herself, has been for so long. Especially ever since learning of this anomalous shift. The need to assure her is strident, pulsing in his ears and already alive on his tongue, but there's something else. Something he can't be rid of just yet. "So… whatever the personality… the foremost belief? That person's intentions and instincts were strengthened the most?"
She knows what he's talking about, even if by some chance he doesn't yet. A warmth blossoms in her chest in place of the ache, and she smoothes a hand over his hair. "You're a protector, Booth. I believe if allowed to develop, you would have been…" she can't complete the thought, too consumed by awe.
"I was a challenge to Cortman? On the bridge?" he asks. It's not exactly a question, be she catalogs it as one.
"Yes. And I don't think the pack had ever seen anything quite like you before. At least not so recently. What you represented, what you faced them with. Not to mention…"
"What?" he prods eventually when she doesn't elaborate.
"Seeley," she begins, and he knows the power, the significant importance behind her words now at the mention of his first name. He can count on one hand the times she's ever called him by it. "You tossed their pack leader—their alpha—through a billboard. Across the street. You were…" she simply can't stay the reverent admiration from her voice, "incredibly powerful. I think because of the drive behind your intent."
He knows now where this conversation has been leading. And he nods with acceptance, with relief. "Protecting you."
"Paladin," she smiles eventually. Fondly, proudly.
He nods again, lips parting to speak, but it's almost a full minute before anything braves to follow. "So I…" his throat catches, closes over the words. It's a struggle to force them out. "I never would have hurt you?"
He fears her reply. Doesn't dare hope.
The smile on her face fades, but doesn't disappear. "I imagine if you got hungry enough… your control may have slipped. Especially so soon into the Infection. As it did for others, I assume. But…" she shakes her head, tentative, but confident, "no. I don't… I don't think so."
There's a brand new silence as this sinks in. So very different from any moment of stillness that might have come before. He's immobile under her touch, and she's afraid she's said the wrong thing.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter now," she brushes off. "You're fine again. You're Booth again." Her hold unconsciously tightens over his shoulders, blue eyes flitting self-consciously about. "You're not my guard dog," she murmurs quietly at long last. "I never wanted you to be." Her fingers wander upward, trailing through his dark hair uncertainly. She feels his head bow under her hands, and with a slight start, she welcomes the sudden realization. "It makes a difference though, doesn't it?" she questions softly. "To you?"
He inhales deeply, catching her hand at his temple and drawing it down to press a kiss into her palm. A watery smile forming against her skin.
It does. It makes all the difference.
She gazes down at him, even though he isn't looking at her. She remembers finally why they've assumed this position and almost laughs at how they've become so distracted. Unprompted, she drops a kiss to the top of his head. Pleased with herself again. "Nice as new."
Smiling wider, he doesn't correct her. Angling his head back, he peers up at her happily. Expression soft, contemplative. She drapes her arms over his shoulders, hands dangling in front of his chest, and they share a look.
"I heard you praying before," he says quietly, at last. This is the other fraction of meaning he's hoped to address with her. Has hoped she'd indulge with him over it, over whatever effect it's had on her.
Her eyes take on a curious sort of beauty, and he's enchanted. "I think…" she trails off uncertainly, after giving her words careful thought, gaze falling away from his as a pink hue dusts her cheeks. "I believe… that maybe we aren't alone. That maybe all along, we've had someone looking out for us." Finally, her eyes find his again, and he's shocked to see the tears brimming at their corners. "Thank you for showing me that faith. Thank you for not giving up on me." Her voice cracks under the weight of her sincerity, and the emotion she conveys to him is startling. He almost has to break the eye contact that's become so intense he feels like he's drowning.
"You're welcome," he says softly, the gravity packed into those two words like something alive.
Their connection holds, each unwilling to look away.
"What are we going to do?" she asks finally, always and ever seeking him for answers.
He hesitates after rising from his seat, knowing exactly what she means. They can always return here, but the tangible, almost physical blow it would deal to fail, to be met with miles of nothing, would be unbearable. But the cost of denying the will to act? To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
So he tells her.
"We listen."
And there it is. Four hundred miles will decide their fate.
"We listen," she echoes. A pact, a promise. A hope.
This is faith. This is what she's been craving. To share this with him, and it's real and it's beautiful. God, is it perfect.
She momentarily forgets how to breathe when her partner gently claims her lips with his, conveying comfort and reassurance. The heat of his mouth sends a fluttering of warmth spiraling through her body, and she's near to tears. Scared–terrified–of taking this chance. Of daring to leave their haven. Chance moving forward.
But he's here, showing her and promising her that everything will happen the way it's meant to. She melts into his embrace when his arms circle her and she's suddenly acutely and painfully aware of troubles they'll surely face down the line.
"Couples… they fight," she says thoughtfully when his lips stray and seek her face, the column of her throat. The stubble on his jaw tickles her sensitive skin. "Correct?"
"Mmhmm."
When her investigative hands run up his sides, he murmurs a quiet protest at the negative effects her movements hold on his ribs. "Sorry," she whispers, but can't stay her magnetized equilibrium as she drifts a step nearer, the need to be as close to him as possible flagrant. "Do you think we will?" Her brow is creased in concentration. A worried frown to her lips. She's never been good at these things. She simply can't ruin this connection with him, this bond. It's unacceptable, and so she'll endeavor like never before.
He smiles though against her neck, voice soft. "We always fight."
"No, I don't mean like that. I mean…" she certainly isn't trying to dissuade him from his ministrations, but she needs to be informed. "When we say hurtful things to each other." Her throat closes up at the words, fresh tears welling at the very idea.
He's stilled completely at the fracture in her voice. Slowly, he draws away to look at her, brown eyes warm, expression gentle with understanding. "Oh."
She ducks her head slightly, peeks at him from under thick lashes–almost as if she's too shy to look at him directly. Embarrassed by her inquiry. "Do you think we will?"
His expression alleviates further, softening the blow. He knows she wants the truth, and he's never given her anything else. "I think it's inevitable. I think, eventually, we will." He brings one hand up to her chin and she smiles sadly in response.
"Alright. Well… the things I might say? When we do?" His own two personal stars shine up at him, honest, repentant of the unavoidable future. Her voice lowers to a whisper, small, barely enough to break the silence. "I don't mean them."
Without apt warning, he feels his own eyes start to burn. He chokes a little on the words, but ultimately gets them through. "Me either."
Unable to remain separate a moment longer, they meet again. She whimpers softly when he tangles his fingers through her hair, strengthening the connection between them. Her stomach coils, and she's truly thankful. Happy.
The buildup of emotional trauma and chosen promise of the past week compels her to part her lips and demand a far more intimate union.
August 29th, 2010
Bethel, Vermont
She stirs quietly in her sleep, and he's smiling again. If she ever found out about his staring problem when she's asleep, he'd probably get punched in the stomach. He chuckles at the idea, unafraid.
It's a good thing there's no traffic, because he can't see a damn thing behind them. The Tahoe is stocked to the roof, gasoline tubs strapped atop. Sadly, there had been no room for Fred, much to his partner's ill-contained relief. They'd bid their final farewell to all their plastic acquaintances, trying to lighten the atmosphere for when the need to leave their home became unavoidable.
She'd cried, and so had he.
It's better now, though. Easier to breathe. A quiet sort of optimism blankets the air around them, cocooning. Bob the Caveman and Jasper the Pig watch over them devotedly from the dashboard, and Brainy Smurf resides in the cup holder, unable to stand properly on his own in the moving vehicle. He doesn't know what they'll find, but as long as she's with him, everything's easier. He can handle any disappointment that…
He blinks.
His focus drags from her sleeping form to fasten stanchly onto the sight ahead. Brow creases, lips slowly parting. Muscles become reinforced, back rigid. The leather wheel casing whines under the force of his grip.
The Tahoe slows to a stop.
"Temperance, wake up."
She mumbles incoherently, loathe to welcome the sun with her eyes, but eventually does. Stretching as well as she can in her seat, she sits up a little straighter. Looks to him. "What is it?"
His voice catches, so he surrenders to the sight ahead. Staring, perplexedly agape. She follows his path of attention and it isn't long before her expression is mirroring his. They each count to ten, waiting for the construct of their imaginations to disappear.
Slowly, carefully, they each climb out of the inactive vehicle. Her breath snares in her throat, and they're side by side, moving together. Cautious, dazed at what their eyes perceive. Instinctively, she seeks his hand. She can feel his pulse thudding beneath her palm. He feels hers.
They approach, as one.
His eyes travel up, taking in the entirety of the divider. The large steel doors, and the concrete walls stretching on for what seems like forever on either side.
Seconds turn into decades. Skepticism slowly evolves into hesitant expectation.
When they're within range, tiny light indicators begin to flash at eye level, a soft hum trilling in time with the blinks. Impulsively, he's shying a step ahead of her, guarding, on the alert. Her stomach flips, and she's become suddenly lightheaded. The blinking stops. Metal alloy groans, locking mechanisms disengaging. At once, the two heaving doors begin to tilt inward, slowly parting. Opening, revealing.
Soldiers on either side. Two soldiers. Not one person, but also a second. Pathways, buildings. Homes. People.
People, people, people... there are people.
Brennan feels herself gasp. His hand reflexively squeezes her own at the sight. They're frozen to the spot. Others have become curious far ahead, within the sanctuary. They drift onto the paths, investigating the newcomers. The two soldiers, sensing their mistrust of what their eyes are showing them, motion them forward. "It's all right," one says. "You're welcome here," the other.
And it's like a huge weight is lifted. They're free. Spellbound, they step forward, accepted into the second world. The survivor's colony.
Salvation.
Her eyes water and his chest constricts. It's almost like heaven, when all your relatives are there to welcome you.
"Seeley? Tempe?"
His head snaps to the side at the voice, heart slamming into his throat. Brennan holds back a cry of amazement. Another soldier, decked in fatigues. But it's so much more than a soldier.
"Jared," Booth chokes.
And at once, his brother is abandoning his post, pounding over to them with incredulous enthusiasm. Seizing them each in a crushing hug that has Booth wincing a little in pain, but dammit, he doesn't care! Each of them moan and cry in relief as emotions take over the moment. "Jesus, you're alive!" Jared gasps. "You're… oh God, you're okay…"
More voices add to the din. Onlookers tear up at the reunion which has only just begun. "Oh my God! Jack, look!" Shrieks of excitement claim the air.
"They made it!"
"Dr. Brennan!"
"It's Booth!"
"Sweetheart!"
Smiles of blessed euphoria split the faces of all around. She's finally able to release his hand, and together, they're charged at. Embraced. Welcomed home. Everyone's laughing and crying and yelling with delight. Brennan waits for herself to wake up, but that part never comes.
Angela and Hodgins are colliding with them first. Cam and Sweets–and Zack?–follow. There are hugs all around, crying as family members are reunited. Dr. Goodman and his family are a step or two back, beaming widely at the exchange. Those around them, strangers and bystanders, smile at the scene. Appreciating the overflowing emotion.
"Get over here, Sweets!" Booth demands of their former therapist, who seems a little excluded from the scene. The bigger man seizes him in a friendly embrace, and the young man is laughing.
When Max is done pampering his daughter–kissing her cheeks, forehead, hair–he turns his attentions to her partner, engulfing him in a bigger bear hug than his brother had. "I knew it, kid! I just knew it! Jesus, what the hell happened to you two? Look like you got into a fight with a bus!" When Booth laughs but finally balks against the constrictive hug, Max steps back and gives him a manly slap in the ribs. "Easy there, Booth. Sorry about that." Booth bites his tongue against the gasp that attempts to escape, and only laughs harder.
Angela is bawling, and so is her current squeeze toy. Hodgins presses his hand comfortingly to her back, tears swimming behind his own large blue eyes. Brennan, after the best friend embrace, throws herself first at the Bug Man and then at her student. Zack seems pleasantly befuddled at first toward the intimate exchange, but smiles happily.
"You're here," she breathes, drawing him closer yet.
"Couldn't leave this guy behind," Hodgins surmises, clapping his friend on the back with a beaming grin.
Cam laughs, tucking Michelle into her side. "We certainly couldn't."
"It seems they needed my vast intelligence on backing their infrastructures and medicinal outposts," he explains. His hair is floppy and hiding his eyes and it's Zack. "A misdeed here or there apparently becomes overlooked in the rush to evacuate and resettle. Survival was the primary function. Hodgins and Dr. Sweets got me out. I'm so glad to see you, Dr. Brennan."
She's missed this interaction with him. Missed him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her brother fast approaching, the children with him. "Marco!" he hollers, grin as big as the ocean. She laughs, screaming, and runs after him, almost tackling him to the ground.
"Auntie Tempe!" the girls squeal, rocketing toward her. Amy is with them. With the small human bodies colliding against her legs, she barely has time to register the third body, rushing forward in desperation. Barely has time to alert her partner, or force her heart back into her chest where it belongs.
He's embracing Cam, who's trying to stem the flowing emotion from her eyes with little success, and his brother is rattling off stories beside them and saying that some of the family is in Colorado. There's a colony there and in Vancouver, he thinks. Suddenly though, Booth doesn't care about any of that.
"Dad!"
His heart shatters, and that one fracture that had remained in spite of every achievement and victory finally seals. He turns and he's weightless and he's sobbing and…
His son–his son–a year older, a foot and a half taller, is running to him with open arms. It's a rare sight, it's beautiful. His child, crying, alive. Parker's alive and he's fine, fine, fine.
Booth drops to his knees and braces for the impact. Skinny arms lock around his neck and he's burying his face in blond curls. Weeping, howling. His son snivels against him, hugging him tighter still. Begging him to be real and not like every dream he's had for longer than he dares remember. Brennan joins them a second later, falling to the ground and embracing the boy with his father. Torn with unbridled relief. Everyone gathers around them, sharing, nourished by the corporeal manifestation of love and affection.
Exhaling a cry, he hoists his boy into the air as he rises. He's so big, God has he grown! Rebecca and Brent hurry over, the former embracing the father of their son. Booth's peripheral catches another approach and he cranes his neck to see the weathered, balding man standing with his wife, looking on in awe.
"Well done, Agent Booth," Cullen breathes. He gives his best agent an approving nod, barely perceptible. "Well done." Booth returns the gesture, smile fading a little at the gravity. He feels the older man's hand clap onto his shoulder, conveying the deep praise.
Friends, family–everyone–form a circle of reunion. One and all talk at once, glowing. Alive with animation. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Booth place an enthusiastic kiss on his partner's cheek atop the tears. Their hands intertwine amongst the pleasant commotion.
Angela beams.
"How long, do you think?" Max posits at her side, eyes crinkled and twinkling.
"Not long," she replies, smile never fading an inch. "She's still blushing when he touches her."
"Irrelevant," Max argues. "I blushed all the time when Chrissie would kiss me."
Angela laughs, and the bell-like sound is lost in the din. Everything is new, refreshed. Everything can begin again, because in the end, you always think about the beginning. Dark deeds are erased. Pasts forgotten in this new world. Time to start over fresh.
Tabula rasa. A blank slate.