[A/N: I am honored that you've stopped to read, and I am very grateful for your comments—especially on that quiet first chapter. I was already in debt to both of them, but I want to publicly thank GreysIsTheCatsPajamas and ibelieveinthegood for their incredible moral support! You ladies are truly amazing!]
Chapter Two: The Heart of the Heart of the Matter
For the life of him, Booth couldn't remember when things had changed. Ever since he'd remembered the Reilly case, he'd come to realize that he now recalled every single case he had worked with Bones based on seemingly arbitrary things--things such as what he and Bones eaten from Wong Fu's when they figured out who had committed the murder and how it had happened; the raucous arguments they'd had in the field or at the lab; the memory or painful connection one or both of them made to the victim or the crime; or even their quiet conversations at the diner during or after each case. He truly treasured those quiet moments sitting across the table from her, drinking her in as she shared with him her revelations and questions about life or friendship or love. Those completely raw, brutally honest moments were so pure and so intimate and so much a factor in making him fall in love with her. Cop to the core, Booth was now shocked by the mental steps he had to take in order to come up with a decent police-style description of any past case. Booth couldn't pinpoint the moment at which he'd stopped thinking of the name of the "perp" or the type of the crime or even the face of the victim after Angela recreated it when remembering a case. Somehow, he'd begun relating everything about his work—even his description of it--to the woman he loved. Booth realized that now he had to work on translating his Bones-y memories of cases into traditional jargon when talking to anyone else about a case or he'd sound like a lunatic or a complete sap. He sighed as he realized that it was highly likely that he really might be a lunatic or a complete sap or both. His memories of cases were like everything else in his life. Bones had permeated his work and thoughts and feelings and private time. But most of all, she had laid claim—whether she wanted it or not—to his heart.
And so it was that the normally hopeful if not quite happy-go-lucky FBI agent spent the next few weeks walking around doing all of the things he normally did while being plagued with reminders of his partner and missing her more than he had thought possible. For instance, several nights this week, Booth had met up with the guys from the hockey team for practice. He had always been such a good player that they normally let him play even though he rarely made an appearance at practice. Eager for an outlet for his mounting frustration, Booth threw himself into the practice and enjoyed every bit of it immensely--the male bonding, the comfort of gliding along the ice the way he had since he'd been a kid and had used hockey as an escape from the dangers awaiting him at home, and the challenge of crashing his way mercilessly through teammates to recover the puck. He'd shrugged off his teammates' surprise when he'd said that he'd join them for a beer or two after practice was over. He couldn't remember when he'd stopped hanging out with the guys. He hadn't meant to do so—it had just happened. Bones had just happened.
As he had packed his jersey and skates away after practice, he had sighed internally. He was like those other guys who showed back up again after they got divorced or broke up with their girlfriends. He was now that guy--the guy who'd gone missing only to return feeling a bit awkward once his other life hadn't worked out. Only in his case, nobody else knew how very badly his other life had worked out. In some ways, Booth realized that he should be grateful that his grief wasn't out on display. He had glanced away quickly after Wendell had made eye contact with him. Even though he hadn't been sure of the details, Wendell had been the only one on the team who had any clue that something had happened to give Booth more free time to spend with his pals instead of spending that time with his partner. Booth had been grateful that Wendell hadn't said anything or asked him any questions. The sympathy in his expression had been hard enough to bear. Since they'd never actually dated, Booth's other teammates were clueless and had no reason to question his sudden reappearance. They were too busy celebrating the fact that more of Booth meant a great chance at more wins for them this season. Booth wished the thought of a victorious season could be enough to boost his own spirits.
Over time, Booth had gotten used to explaining that he was alone when asked by staff at restaurants they frequented, "Where is your partner?" or "Don't you need takeout for the doctor?" At least it reassured him to know that it hadn't all been his imagination—everyone else had become accustomed to thinking of them as a pair. Still, the constant barrage of questions about Bones was just another reminder of how much he missed her. He had been long past the point of needing any such reminder for a very long time.
Parker's questions about Bones had been the most difficult to answer. He'd always promised himself—and Parker—that he wouldn't lie to him. And Parker, being an insightful and curious child, had been overflowing with questions about where Bones was and when they'd see her next, and he had also been more than dissatisfied with his father's evasive answers. Last Sunday afternoon, Parker simply hadn't given the subject of Bones a rest. He had been playing with a magnifying glass that she'd given him from her personal collection at the lab and singing her praises—pointing out things he was observing that he couldn't wait to talk to her about. At one point, he had even demanded that they call her—insisting that his questions could not be put off. He had begun whining about making the phone call, and Booth had snapped at him to "drop it." When Parker protested, Booth had raised his voice and yelled that they were not calling Bones and that Parker had to learn to respect his decisions. Parker ran to his room in tears after the outburst. While it couldn't be considered even a minor parenting offense, it was more harsh than his typical reprimands, and Booth felt terrible about yelling at his son. He'd sounded domineering and intolerant like his father often had, and Booth had sworn not to be that type of father. After taking a few moments to calm down, Booth had made his way to Parker's room and apologized. Emboldened by his father's gentle tone and encouraging words, Parker had bravely asked his father why he had gotten so upset—they saw or called Bones all the time and he had thought that seeing her made his father happy. Big tears still threatening to fall, Parker admitted that he missed seeing her. Eyeing his father carefully, Parker watched his expression change. Sighing, Booth looked down at him and whispered, "I miss her, too." Parker leapt into his father's arms and hugged him tightly. Booth drew comfort from the hug and the sympathy of his son. As if sensing that something beyond his understanding must be going on, Parker didn't press his father for more information. Even as young as he was, he could see that his father had too much on his mind.
Over time, what bothered Booth even more than the direct questions about his partner were the little subtle things—the way the waitress shouted, "Tell Dr. Brennan that I said hi" as he left the diner, the funny thoughts he felt like sharing with her, seeing packages of her health food store products in his pantry, hearing her voice in his head sharing her opinions about his food choices and the fact that he watched too much television, noticing phrases or expressions people used that he knew would require translation for her to understand them, encountering scientific concepts he'd normally ask her to explain whether he really needed the explanation or not. No, he'd never admit that at his lowest moments he'd tried pushing his remote control into unchartered territory to find science channels because he needed something to distract him; things that reminded him of Bones were the only things that could hold his attention for long. After years of complaining about the science, he'd been horrified to realize that he actually missed not understanding what someone was talking about. Truthfully, he just missed not understanding what Bones was talking about and needing her to explain it to him. Needing her… for so much more.
Booth even missed the squints. Seeing Wendell had been hard enough. There was no way he was setting foot in that lab. Hodgins had developed an uncanny ability to sense his discomfort, and he knew that Angela and Cam would be able to read his misery in about half a second. He wasn't ready to deal with that—not yet. As he kept to the safety of his own office, Booth was struck by how similar and "boring" all of his coworkers now seemed. They all spoke "cop" and lived and breathed being agents. He didn't have to explain things to them—they were accustomed to using their guts and brawn and taking risks to solve cases. They were in it for the thrill or the justice. But they weren't all hell-bent on understanding the truth or on understanding microscopic evidence that most people didn't even know existed. Booth cringed as he realized that somewhere along the way, he'd embraced the part of himself that could have been a squint. Facing torture again would not have coerced him to admit that fact out loud—not even to Bones. But it stung more than a bit to realize that Bones was responsible for that change in him, too.
It wasn't as if they'd lost contact completely. He'd sent her occasional texts to check in, and they'd exchanged e-mails and a few voicemails. But he missed seeing her and talking to her and riling her up about things. Booth could tell that Bones was giving him space. Jeez, he thought, if Bones instinctively knew well enough to give him space, no wonder this was so hard for him to handle.
He tried to put things into perspective. He'd had breakups before—even with co-workers. He knew that, in time, the little things mattered less and became easier to bear and eventually simple to ignore or forget. However, even though this wasn't an official breakup, he suspected that this time things would be more difficult. Suspected? Hell, he knew they would be.
Much as he had before he'd met her, Booth spent his days being a good cop and his evenings working out, playing hockey, and watching too much TV. He fell easily back into his old routine and began to adapt to the constant barrage of thoughts of Temperance Brennan that invaded his waking and sleeping mind. This proved to be even more difficult than pining for and lusting for her secretly for all these years. But while Booth was far from happy, he was coping. And he figured that he deserved points for coping, for walking upright and appearing to be completely normal while knowing that he'd lost his chance with "the one."
At work, the seasoned agent begrudgingly took on a few assignments he'd normally have passed on and made the additional effort to teach junior agents a trick or two while working cases that didn't challenge him or tax him in any significant way. After spending more time bonding with his coworkers, he became embedded in his own environment in a more positive way. More people stuck their heads into his office to tell jokes or chat about life in general, new staff started coming to him for advice, and seasoned agents consulted with him about their tough cases. He hadn't taken more than minimal time for those things in years. Finding a better purpose at the office helped ground him a bit. He'd found an outlet for a portion of the energy he'd devoted to working cases with and translating things for Bones these last few years.
After jumping headfirst back into the mainstream of life at the office, Booth had even accepted a task he'd have run from even a month before. His boss asked him to spend some time with Rod Jacobs, a young new hothead who had definite anger management issues. Chuckling internally that he might be considered patient by comparison to anyone, Booth struck up a conversation with Rod in the hallway and managed to "bump into" him casually a few times to get to know him better. Ever the careful observer, Booth got a read on the man instantly. Sadly, he knew all too well what a dangerous path the man was on.
A week or so later, he invited him to the gym for sparring practice after work. That night, the men met in the gym and suited up for an evening of boxing. The practice had begun simply enough, but Booth had quickly assessed his opponents strengths and weaknesses and—after allowing the man to grow comfortable with the false assumption that he had greater skills—begun the task of stripping the man of his advantage, his concentration, and his pride. With every jab and hook and with the eventual punch that—without headgear-- would have been a knockout, Booth purposefully annoyed his opponent, trying to spark the temper that was quickly becoming legendary. He turned the man's own fury around on him and made it completely evident that Jacobs had been the source of his own demise. After his rousing victory, Booth added just enough swagger to his step and more than enough taunting to his smirk to set the man on edge all over again. As they were leaving the gym, he made a snide remark that he fully expected to cause Jacobs to throw a punch. Sure enough, the man pushed Booth's shoulder to turn him around to face him and swung at him with all of his might.
Within seconds, Jacobs found himself face down on the concrete with his arm yanked up tightly behind his back. He could feel the pressure of Booth's knee holding him down. As he lay there immobilized, he heard the more seasoned agent lean over and whisper into his ear. "What was his scent of choice, Jacobs--bourbon, vodka, or scotch? Was it just you or were there younger, more defenseless kids you weren't big enough to protect? Did you have to watch him knock your mom around or was he a decent enough scumbag to do that behind the locked door so that you couldn't help her at all?"
Surprising Jacobs, Booth stood and released him. Reeling from how closely Booth had come to describing his childhood, a now somber Jacobs rolled over slowly and sat up, slowly looking up at the man who stood towering above him.
"I'll buy the beer. You can talk about it or not," Booth said calmly, extending his hand to help the defeated man to his feet.
"How could you tell?" Jacobs asked as the men climbed into Booth's truck.
"Lucky guess," Booth lied as he pulled out into traffic. He could sniff out a fellow child of an alcoholic from miles away. He had been that guy… He sighed internally at his mental choice of words that brought back painful memories but then focused on helping the broken man beside him since nobody was around to help rescue him from his own pain.
"Look, Jacobs, I know this is none of my business and I know that you don't know me that well. But I also know that you've got to stop putting his face on every jerk who ticks you off and every perp who's asking for a beating. You'll hurt an innocent civilian, or you'll let your guard down and end up dead. Trust me on this… it's OK to channel the anger to make you a better cop, but you have to stop short of channeling him," Booth said before growing quiet and giving the man some time to consider his words.
**************
After more events like getting through to Jacobs and watching him turn things around, Seeley started feeling more comfortable in his own skin again. Thoughts and feelings about Temperance were with him constantly, but he was managing his pain. After a few more weeks, nobody at the bureau would have suspected that Booth was anything but happy and thriving and enjoying his job. Nobody would have dreamed that he was still heartbroken and beyond consolation despite the fact that he was doing stellar work and that he appeared to have it all together. Nobody, that is, except the infuriating psychologist he'd been avoiding at all costs. If only he'd been able to keep him at bay.
