Disclaimer in ch. 1.

How many echoes for things in S3 in the previous seasons? I tried making a list once: irradiated bones, evolution/becoming, cannibalism, Angela's husband, sternal foramen (sp?), Limbo/bone storage... There are more. But since I was lucky enough to get S3 on DVD for Christmas (thanks, Dad!), I'm seeing some from within, as well. Like this one…


Booth handed back her letter to Zack after reading it aloud. She looked at it helplessly, then leaned her head against his shoulder. Cautiously, he let his head rest against hers, but she was feeling too beaten down to protest this unprecedented action on his part.

Jumbled images flickered through her mind, mostly images of Zack. When had he lost that slightly quirky sense of--well, maybe not humor, but he used to have a unique if innocent view of the world. When had that disappeared entirely? The jokes and experiments with Hodgins; she thought she might actually miss those. "King of the lab!" And despite being scared of the intimidating FBI agent, there had been a few times he had actually given Booth tongue--no, that was wrong, she knew it, maybe it was lip or chin. She could ask, but she didn't want to break the silence because then the questions would come. Well-meant, but she wasn't ready for them.

Zack with a camera at uncountable crime scenes. That one moment where the three men had been in perfect sync--"Pirates!" Absorbing her lectures and speeches and lessons, trying so hard to be like her, follow in her footsteps. She had chosen to ignore his plaintive statements that if she had slept with her mentor, surely he could. She still felt that was a kindness, to pretend she hadn't heard him. She had loved him, supposed she still did, he was like a little brother to her, but there was no physical appeal. And by that point, she really didn't want to imitate Michael Stires. Her pride in him when he got his doctorate. When she had explained that pain was a part of the job, and it had to be set aside so long as work needed to be done, since their job demanded clear sight and the bodies on the table deserved that courtesy and he had managed, even to the point of passing it along. "The thing to do is concentrate on the details." She remembered saying something like that to him and then him telling Booth when the latter had looked uncomfortable with the child's remains on the table.

And the more recent, sadder memories--Zack leaving for Iraq, his odd demeanor when he came back. In a hospital bed, hands and wrists bandaged. His charred hands in the lab. The frightened look in his eyes when she leaned in and demolished his logic. That bizarre reversal of that first Christmas, with all of them clustered on the outside of the glass, looking at him inside, unable to go in.

And suddenly, dizzyingly clear, the remembered taste of Jack Daniels and a snippet of conversation:

"Look, all the scientists and the squints and the eggheads, they wanted it to be a serial killer so it wouldn't be one of them," Booth said earnestly.
"'Them'?"
"You."
"Me?"
"One of you. You were all offended that it was one of you."
"You know what? I am offended."
"I just said that."
"I'm offended! Because…because…"
"Because you were betrayed by one of your own."
"Yes…"

"And who was more my own than Zack," she muttered, fist clenching about the envelope. Booth shifted slightly.

"Did you say something, Bones?"

"No," she said louder and deliberately smoothed the paper flat against her knee. She refused to look up. One glance at Booth's sympathetic eyes would end her, she knew it. And she should still be mad at him, too, but it was getting all mixed together, more than she could process right now.

"He first approached me three months ago…"

"What if we hadn't let him go to that symposium," Brennan said in a shaky voice, deciding all at once that since she had broken the silence after all, she might as well keep talking. "What if Cam and I had said, 'no, you're needed here.' What if there had been a case to hold him here?"

"What if the sky had fallen first?" Booth said softly, the apparent causticity making her stiffen. "What if he--or Gormogon--had been hit by a car the week before?" His voice was sympathetic and compassionate as he kept talking. "Gormogon was looking for a specific type of person. Zack fit his bill. He'd have found a way to get at Zack no matter what." He took a deep breath. "People always ask themselves these things after disasters and deaths and betrayals. But it never changes a damn thing. I mean, maybe I could have stopped him from going to Iraq. I could have approached him when he came back--I've seen that look on other vets' faces and know what it might mean. But I thought being back here, with the Squint Squad and you and familiar surroundings, would be of more help. He's the one who should have been sent to Sweets," he said, slightly bitter. "But my point is that all of us could ask ourselves these sort of questions, Bones, and they'd have just as much validity as yours. It's…a way of assuming guilt."

His arm slid about her shoulders and squeezed gently. "It's not your fault, Temperance," he murmured, and the use of her name had her looking up in surprise. His expression was sober, mourning in his own way, but he was focused on her with one of those intense looks that sometimes made her weak in the knees, but now only made her want to let loose the flood of tears waiting behind her eyes. And in his uncanny way, he added, "You can cry, Bones. It's all right to mourn."

She dropped her head again, staring at the white rectangle she held with brimming eyes. Quick, sideways glances assured her they were alone even as he gave her another squeeze. She drew a ragged breath, hesitating; then simply let go. Wept out the agony of the past two weeks, the fright as the case began to circle too close to home, the pain when they realized who it was. Maybe after this, she might be able to sleep.