A/N: Well, sorry it's been a while! I had this chapter half finished, and then decided to scrap what I had and start again. Plus, there's college. College is - it's college! Loving it so far, thanks for the well wishes! Anyway, I'm excited to finally get this out to you and finish this story! A few notes first, and I'll try to keep it quick:
Dignan - Thank you so much, as always! And not to worry - still more stories on the horizon! There are actually two stories open right now, What You Own and Believers. I'm going to make it my goal to finish those before I start my new ones, but they're definitely happening! :)
LMC - Thank you thank you thank you thank you! I'm really glad it's coming off as somewhat realistic - because as much as I try to write dark things, I am still super privileged and will probably never have to go through such things. It's all imagined, and sometimes I feel like I'm overstepping some boundary or writing something completely wrong, or something. So your review is super lovely and helpful - thank you! :)
Alright! Onto the epilogue, I guess. Enjoy! Let me know what you think! :)
"They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity,
the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity."
― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried
July 6, 2018
The morning starts off with a child wildly crying; that much is not shocking in itself. It's become a fairly regular thing for both the camp counselors around the room and for the father trying his best to calm his son down, but it rarely lasts. Five minutes tops, most days.
But as it stands, today is not most days.
"Hey, Peter, Peter," the father says, kneeling down again so he's eye-level. "It's okay, Petie! Camp is fun, you said so yourself."
And with heaving, uneven breaths, the little boy shakes his head. "N-no, camp is not fun!" And he goes on crying, with his tiny hands covering his eyes. His father sighs.
"You know, I hear you might get to play soccer today! How does that sound?"
Not motivating at all, if the jerky motion of the child's shaking head, shoulders, and body is enough to get the point across. There's another sob, and by the time the father gently removes the kid's hands from his face, his cheeks are covered in tears.
"I want Aunt Rosie!" he whines as his father's thumbs softly start to scrub his face, wiping away the tear drops.
"I know, buddy," the father says. "I miss Aunt Rosie too, but she had to go home. Do you want to call her later?"
He probably does, but he doesn't say so.
And the father stands up and takes a step towards the table, with the little boy gripping the cuff of his left sleeve for dear life. When the man squats down again, he has a piece of construction paper and a few sparkly crayons in his free hand.
"Here, why don't we make a card for Aunt Rosie, okay? You can draw her a picture, and we can mail it when we get home. Alright?"
Not quite. He shakes his head again and keeps on bawling.
Another sigh. The paper and crayons are placed gently on the floor, and the father stands up again, this time scooping his child up and holding him with one arm against his hip.
"Alright, come on. We'll go take a walk, okay?" he says, nodding to the counselor by the table, and he carries him into the hallway. As he walks, the little boy still cries – just marginally quieter, into the man's neck.
"Petie, buddy," he murmurs as he walks. "You like camp! Remember how you won that award last week? What was it? You were the Soccer Star?"
"Y-yeah."
"Yeah! You had so much fun last week. Remember? Camp is so much fun. I wish I could go to camp."
The little boy lifts his head from his father's collarbone and looks at him, saying with a big smile in spite of the tears, "You can come to camp, Daddy! You can play soccer too!"
"I can, can I?" the man says. "That sounds like fun, but I have to go to work this morning. Plus, camp is for kids, not grown-ups, you silly goose!"
And with that, and with a kiss to the little boy's cheek, he earns a quiet little giggle.
"Alright, so what do you say we go back to the room? So you can draw Aunt Rosie a picture?"
"No-o!" The boy's arms find their way around the man's neck yet again, and the father sighs.
"Fine, fine. We'll wait a few minutes."
And in those few minutes, they walk around the facility. They walk by the basketball courts and the door leading to the pool; they walk past the soccer field and the baseball field, and finally, they find themselves standing by the door to another program's drop off.
"This is the big kid room!" Peter says, using one arm to point it out, in miniature tour-guide fashion.
"I can see that, buddy," the father says with a laugh, but when he follows his son's arm and looks in – he sees something of interest. Or, rather, someone.
"Hey, Peter," the man says, putting his son down and squatting low just as he'd done before. "Do you see that man over there?"
He points over to a tall man in a suit, talking to another parent as the blonde little girl beside him bounces a basketball against the wooden floor.
The girl is seven years old; her father probably doesn't want his age to be considered. Still.
Peter's father knows them both. And he supposes, if he's honest with himself, that this is not some wild coincidence. The little girl was, after all, enrolled in Peter's program, too. (Once upon a time.)
"What man?" Peter asks, eyeing the room full of big kids and grown-ups. They're all the same to the three-and-a-half year old, but once his father clarifies – "The man with the red tie! And you can see his purple socks if you look close." – he spots him. "Oh! Yeah!"
"Did you know that that man has the same first name as you?" the father says, and Peter's eyes go wide with excitement and practical wonder, as if the very prospect of sharing a name just hadn't existed before. Well. Perhaps with a name like his, that conclusion makes perfect sense.
"Who is that?" the question comes, and the father smiles.
"That's Daddy's best friend," so the explanation goes. "Hey, Petie, do you think you could go give him a great big hug?"
The child considers this. "But I don't know him. Mommy said I'm not allowed to hug strangers."
And the father says, "I know, buddy, and you shouldn't hug strangers. But he's not a stranger, and I'm right here, so you don't need to worry. If you don't want to, though, you don't have to."
Suddenly, the little boy looks serious, thoughtful.
"Is he nice?" Peter finally asks, and his father smiles wide and laughs.
"Yeah, buddy," he says. "He's very, very nice."
And after a moment, the decision is made.
"Okay!"
"Yeah, so if you could take her tomorrow, my wife could pick her up at six-thirty, and –"
Seeley Booth does not quite make it to the end of his sentence before a very small someone attaches himself to his lower half with a soft jolt. He looks down suddenly – and sees a tiny face looking up at him with a wide grin and a vibrating giggle. He's this little mess of dimples and cropped curls of dark hair.
"Hi!" the little boy giggles, and Booth can only stare for a moment; it's not every morning that a young mystery child runs up and hugs him.
"Hi," the agent finally says, unable to keep from smiling. The kid currently hugging his legs has a grin that's practically contagious. "What's up, buddy?"
"My daddy says you have the same name as me!" the boy says, and as Booth kneels down to meet him, he nods up at the other parent in a silent thanks, and then to Christine to send her over to her camp group.
"Yeah?" Booth says, now glancing over at the doorway to find no one standing in it. He looks back at the little boy, who's bouncing with excitement. "That's cool. What's your name?"
Jabbing a tiny thumb at his own chest, he answers, "My name's Seeley Peter Wick-Sweets!"
And Booth can only blink at him at first as he processes this, and once his brain catches up, he finds the voice to say, "Wow! Well you know what my name is? I'm Seeley Joseph Booth. Nice to meet you!"
He shakes the child's hand with renewed enthusiasm, and is about to say more when the little boy nods his head.
"My daddy said you're his best friend!"
There's another pause – and then a smile.
"He did, huh? Speaking of Daddy, where is he? Could you find him for me?"
Seeley Peter Wick-Sweets looks over to the door and, just like the man who shares his name, sees no one. But he knows full well who's standing against the wall, just around the doorframe.
"Yup! Daddy!" he calls, and he toddles over to the door, where his father appears and scoops him right up. He lifts him up as high as his arms can reach, and sets him down so the boy is sitting on his shoulders.
And by the time Lance Sweets makes his way to the other side of the room, Peter's giggling wildly once again, thrilled with the view from his six-foot boost.
"Using your kid to tell me you're back, huh, Sweets?" Booth says with a smile, reaching out to shake his hand. At the same time, though, the agent's not quite sure what he expected; he tried to keep in touch with the kid, he really did. But after a few weeks, he supposes it just fell through. And with three years without more than a few texts between them – well. It makes enough sense.
"Hey, why else do we have kids? Right, Petie?" Sweets replies quickly, and from up above, the little boy presses his cheek against his father's head, not quite a hug, but a sure sign of affection nonetheless. "Here…"
Peter's feet find the floor once again.
"Do you see that girl over there, in the polka-dot dress?" Sweets asks, and Peter does. "Well her name's Christine. She's another one of Daddy's friends. Why don't you go play with her and her friend? I'll be right here."
"Okay!" the little boy says, and off he goes.
And then there were two.
They stand in silence for a long, stretching moment as they watch the kids. They've got a basketball between them, and since the three year old's coordination is far from refined, they opt to roll it back and forth. It's a sight to see, really.
After a while, it's Booth who speaks first.
"So," he says, hands in his pockets. "You're back in town. You staying?"
And it takes an even longer pause and a deep, stalling breath for the younger man to answer.
"Looks like it." He offers a soft, contented smile and no further explanation. For a moment, he looks about to say something more – but his son catches his eye as he tries to pick up the basketball Christine sent his way. Both of the Peter's tiny arms are wrapped around the thing, and the sight of such a small child trying his hardest brings a wide grin to the psychologist's face.
"How's Daisy?" Booth asks after the longest time, trying his best. Because, while he's slowly come to care for the young woman in the past few years, that's not really the question on his mind. Hell if he'll ask it outright, though. Still, Sweets looks at him and nods.
"She's good," he answers. "Excited. She's applying back at the Jeffersonian, so…. I think she's really happy to be back. I think she missed it a lot."
They fall back into silence again – but instead of an awkward sort of quiet just begging to be filled, it feels far more natural than it has in years.
There's still a big, looming question in the forefront of Booth's mind. Thankfully, though, he doesn't need to ask it. Sweets finds his own voice and offers the answer of his own accord.
"And the FBI… is reinstating me as a therapist. You'll, uh – you're gonna find an application on your desk this morning, too."
And just like that – there it is.
"I passed the psych exam," the profiler adds, smiling humbly down at the floor, and Booth is speechless for a moment. Happy speechless, to be far more specific, but the way his face lights up at the news – it's rather obvious.
"No kidding!" the older man says, bringing a proud hand to Sweets' shoulder, half expecting the man to jump, tense up at the touch. The response is nothing of the sort, and instead, Sweets just brings his head back up to look at the agent.
"Yup, I, uh…" his face starts to fall as he explains, not into sadness – but into a sober expression as he remembers. He looks away from his best friend and stares distantly towards his son. "I was a good little ex-hostage. Talked to someone, the whole deal. You know…."
Booth allows him the breath it takes to finish.
"We figured we were – figured I was ready to come back. If you'll take me."
"If I'll take you," the older man says with a smile and a near-mocking tone, as though the answer was obvious. But really – it is. "I'd always take you back. There's nothing that would ever make me hesitate."
A beat.
"It's good to see you, Sweets," he adds, glancing back to the other side of the room where his daughter is trying her best to teach Peter how to bounce a basketball with a debatable level of success.
"You too," the shrink replies, looking down once more. And he pauses; he shifts his weight from side to side, as if about to say more, but unable to find the words. Booth gives him time.
He finds them eventually.
"You know, I, uh… I think I'm ready for a lot of things now."
He doesn't elaborate at first, but once the agent looks over – he sees Lance Sweets fish a black box out of his pocket, small enough to fit in his palm.
Booth never needed one for Brennan, but hell if he doesn't know what it is.
"No…" he starts, his tone bordering on disbelief. And he's struck speechless once the psychologist opens it and reveals the diamond ring sitting inside.
"Figured it's about time," Sweets says, giving his best friend one more meaningful nod before folding the box back up and placing it gently back into his pocket. He says nothing more about it; he just smiles down to the floor until he sees Booth extending his hand once again.
"Congratulations, man," Booth says, gripping his friend's hand tight and grinning ear to ear. Sweets' thank you isn't spoken aloud – but it's there, unmistakable, and after a brief pause, Booth sighs, content. Happy. Thrilled. "You're gonna be fine."
And at that, Sweets goes silent. He brings his eyes up to look over at his son, still playing happily with Christine and two other children who decided to join them. He watches Peter as he bounces the ball to another little boy with relative success, and in the meantime, Lance Sweets just stands there, wondering if what Booth said is really true.
Because here he is – three years removed from being held hostage, tortured as human bait in a government conspiracy that is still alive and raging. Here he is, alive, with a son and soon-to-be fiancée, slowly moving back to the life he once ran from. Standing side by side with his best friend.
God, three years ago, he couldn't stand to be touched. He was far too skinny and far too scared and angry at the whole world, and now – well.
He kisses Daisy every morning, every afternoon and night, and hugs Peter like there's no tomorrow. He eats. He sleeps.
But those four months still happened. He needs no reminder of them, because no matter how well he sleeps at night, he still manages to wake from some hellish nightmare every so often. And no matter how much he loves Daisy, no matter how much he loves Peter from the very bottom of his heart, there come moments every once in a while when he forgets. When he's drained of everything, and all he can imagine in his mind's eye are the dark, colorless walls of that lonely old room they kept him in.
There are moments when he sits at the kitchen table between them, but he's not really there at all. Instead he's back on a familiar cold floor, unable to move while someone carves into his back.
These moments, though, are far less memories than they are things to carry with him, things that weigh on him only in the idle moments of each day, when he forgets to hold them high enough. But when he remembers – he carries them well.
It is for this reason that he thinks that Booth might just be right.
Because he carries the damp smell of four months of darkness. He carries the remodeling in his bones, the healed fractures and breaks. He carries the new scars on his back, a permanent written reminder of loss. Of failure.
There are the masked faces that linger behind his eyes when he loses focus, and there is the distant sound of Naomi Waller's voice echoing in the open space. There are these; and then there are friends.
There are the very first faces he saw on waking, and there is the knowledge that they are safe. He carries these, too.
There is love. He carries this every single moment of every day, every time he looks at Daisy or kisses Peter on the cheek or glances around at the life around him and smiles. And all at once, he is absolutely certain that Booth is right; he catches Peter's eyes from across the room, and as the little boy drops the basketball and waves, he is filled with even more of the things he carries. Because there is happiness. There is pride; there is freedom and purpose and family.
And there is joy.
A/N: And this is where we leave them. I hope I've managed to draw things to a close without making it cheesy or unrealistic; some feedback on the last few paragraphs in particular would be great! Thank you so much for reading!