The Life of Riley

Several weeks later

It's a familiar route, one he's taken a bit too frequently when times have been bad, but tonight he has a different purpose. He places the box on the polished top before taking his regular spot. The indoor neon makes it clear that this is a bar, but he's come to think of it as a confessional over the last couple of years.

But tonight it's different.

The bartender finishes drawing two beers when he sees him, and Booth casts a wave toward the ex-priest.

He's left holding his latest talisman, rolling it between his fingers, spinning it on the bar top, letting it crash to the wood with a metallic ring. Sixty days of sober living and he plays with the chip in the same way he played with coins when he was a teen. But now he knows it's one thing to play with a token, another thing to play with what it represents.

"What's this, Booth?" Aldo's sidled up to him on the other side of the bar and is looking at the box. "You've got this bar thing all wrong. You're not supposed to bring your own drinks." He cocks his head toward the bottles behind him. "You're supposed to buy your liquor here. It's how I stay in business."

Booth pushes the box toward him. "It's for you."

"If you haven't noticed, Booth, this is a bar. Lots of liquor."

He persists. "Not like this." He takes the box and opens it to reveal the prize inside. "Forty-year-old single malt scotch." The bottle has classic lines that suggest its pedigree. He nods toward the shelves behind Aldo. "Anything back there is going to taste like kerosene to this."

The label earns something of grudging respect from Aldo who grabs two glasses from the shelf below and sets them on the bar. Then he hesitates. "Maybe I should find out what you want before I drink this."

"Nothing," Booth says as he opens the bottle and pours two fingers of Scotch into the first glass. "I don't want anything. Unless you count inviting you over for dinner on your night off. Bones'll make you something healthy to eat and I'll grill something unhealthy for you." He sets down the bottle and picks up his drink. "You'll have some reason for your Catholic guilt."

"What's this for?" Aldo asks again.

He's used to the suspicious. "Just a thank you."

"Thank you?"

Booth suppresses a grin. "My sponsor calls it the 13th step. Show gratitude to the people who've been tough with you along the way."

That earns a look from Aldo, but little more and they both raise their glasses.

"To the 13th step," Aldo says, but Booth stops him.

"And to my new son," Booth counters.

"That really deserves a drink," Aldo says as he tips the glass toward him. "Congratulations."

They both drink. The whiskey goes down sweet and smooth and he watches for Aldo's reaction.

His ex-confessor seems impressed until he isn't. "I almost forgot that the good stuff warms your throat as it goes down," Aldo offers as he looks over the glass and its contents, "it doesn't leave scorched earth on the way."

"But you couldn't have allowed me to make a little money in toasting your kid?"

It's Aldo's way and he doesn't mind the jab—very little is dimming his mood today.

He's got a new kid, a new job and a new approach to his life that almost always starts and ends with something he's picked up from church or one of his meetings. Or something that his wife has said or he's learned from Pops.

His old confessor leans in. "I take it that Temperance got her way with a home birth."

It's not as dramatic as Christine's birth, but almost. Bones practically had the baby in Christine's tree house, but he got her down in time to make it to the house. Even so he thinks it'll be a story to tell their littlest one, oh, when he has hair under his armpits.

He's nodding, hoping that's enough of an answer, but the ex-priest is onto that trick and he finally relents.

"Guest room. Made Bones happy," he says as he pours himself another shot then fills Aldo's glass, "and made me happy." He's gone from a slow nod to a slower shake of the head. "Although I'm not sure any guest would want to sleep in that room after all that."

It's his standard answer, a chance to be gruff and growly while secretly loving just how great it was to be there to see his son born and hold him until both Bones and the baby were asleep before he walked a couple of feet to put him in his crib for the first time. As many photos as he took of his son and of Bones that night, nothing could really capture the memory.

"To living the life of Riley."

"What?"

"C'mon, Booth. Unless you haven't told me something, like a serial killer is threatening to kill a dozen innocent people unless he gets his favorite parking spot or you've bet a year's salary that we're not going to have a clown or crook in the White House next January, then you've got a good life right now."

"A beautiful wife, great looking kids—since they look like their mothers—a job where the worst thing they can do is shoot you dirty looks. Face it, Booth, you have a good life."

It doesn't take much for him to thank God for his blessings and punctuate the thought with a sip of fine, aged whiskey.

oOo

A quick check of the clock tells her she's woken before her son and she closes her eyes to take in a few precious moments of rest. The house settles around her, groaning at the early morning when her hand strays to Booth's side of the bed and she discovers only cool sheets.

As helpful as Booth is with their son, he's not taken the 2 a.m. feedings because of his new job at Quantico, so she checks the baby monitor as she rises and pulls on a robe and slippers before padding to the nursery.

The baby is not in his crib.

It's a short walk toward the living room where the only glow is coming from the jukebox whose volume is turned down low as Booth feeds their youngest. She lingers at the door.

"Yeah, you better drink up," Booth is cooing to their son. "Lots of veggies in this stuff even though its milk. Your mom will explain how that happens, but I'll explain other things to you. Important things. Yes, I will, little man."

needs are a small hiccup in a busy schedule that includes consulting for a Canadian research project and finishing two books she's committed to while focusing on caring for her children. But there's something in Booth's voice, something in the one-way conversation that draws her in and she leans against the doorframe as Booth shifts the nursing baby in his arms.

"You like this song?" She sees only a chubby fist from her angle. "Yeah. It's a good song. It's one your mom and I dance to, sometimes." His shoulders shift. "First you got to finish eating, little man. Then I teach you to dance."

"Is that a priority, Booth?"

Her comment earns a twist of his head and a smile. "Hey, the music isn't too loud, is it? I thought you could sleep this one out, Bones."

She slides onto the couch beside Booth and rests her head against his shoulder.

"I guess I'm used to waking up." She sighs as she closes her eyes and pulls at her shirt. "I should take over, Booth."

She adjusts her position as they make the hand-off and their son latches on without missing a beat.

"Should I get your stuff?" he asks as he tickles the baby's feet.

"No," she says as she watches her little one's movements. She's never told anyone—certainly not Booth—but her little man's dive toward her breast has always reminded her of Errol Flynn somehow. She dismisses the image.

"Tell me about what you want to teach your son, Booth." It's not meant as a challenge, simply idle curiosity. "Besides dancing, of course."

Booth looks at her, his eyes—are they twinkling?—as he finds a comfortable position to accommodate their son who seems to be doing his own kind of dance with his feet.

"I'd teach him how to dance the foxy trot, and the hippy-hop, and I'd teach him how to do that little two-steppy thing you like so well."

He's smiling as he moves the baby's feet to illustrate his point.

"I'm serious, Booth. I thought you said you wanted to teach him to throw that twirly thing and how to hit a home run into the net and when to spit a ball at the goalie."

She knows that she's mangled the sport idioms, but she enjoys his company and the ease they have with one another. It's one of those "blessings", as Angela calls it, that she does not take for granted.

"You're killing me, Bones. 'Spit a ball at the goalie?'" Their littlest one pauses in his feeding and she shifts him to her other breast which changes Booth's access to his son's feet. She leans against her husband as she tucks her son under an arm so his feet are pressed against the couch.

"What important things do you want to teach your son?"

She knows that he regrets having missed out on parts of Parker's childhood and while he is only a phone call away, he feels the distance between them.

"I'll teach him that twirly thing. . . ."

"No. Really."

He takes in a breath and nods slowly. "I'll teach him to throw a perfect spiral, backhand a puck into the net and throw a spitball—which is illegal, by the way." He looks at the baby tucked under her arm. "I want to teach him to respect himself and respect others. Especially to respect the ones he loves."

His eyes meet hers. "It's easy enough to love someone, Bones. But to respect them? You have to respect yourself. You have to be honest with them and with yourself. It's hard, especially when we make bad decisions or have bad DNA. . . ."

"I don't know if you can say it's bad DNA. . . ."

"It's not ideal DNA. But we face our faults and fight through and in the end, we have a good life."

"A good life?" It's a vague concept, but one she understands on a certain level.

"Yeah," he says. "That's the most important thing I need to teach him. How to have a good life with the people who love him and have his respect."

oOo

The good life is on his mind as he wheels his grandfather under the shade of one of the cherry trees lining the parkway at the nursing home. He's here at least twice a week since the heart attack, something made easier by retiring from the FBI and then becoming an instructor at Quantico.

Summer sun dominates the morning, but here under the cherry tree, the shade is welcome as is the company. He helps his grandfather to ease onto the bench under the tree and settles in next to him.

"This okay, Pops?" he asks as he leans over and adjusts the top of the sweater around his grandfather's shoulder. "You doing okay?"

The older man rumbles. "I'm fine, Seeley. Just don't fuss over me. I'd be just as fine in my room."

"It's a beautiful day, Pops," he counters stretching out on the bench. Days of rainy weather have given way to a sun-washed morning with a light breeze that's perfect for being outside; it's why he's taken the day off from his duties at Quantico. "You need anything?"

"I don't need anything right now, Shrimp." His grandfather grunts as he settles into the seat. He practically swims in the sweater that he insisted on wearing. "The way you fuss over me, makes me think you think I'm going to kick off any minute."

His good mood is darkened a bit by Pops' words as well as by his appearance. He's lost weight and he fears a light breeze could blow him away. "Don't say that, Pops. Don't even put that out into the universe."

"Well, at my age, it's something you have to consider. My ticker's not working like it used to."

He takes a deep breath and holds it, letting the comment pass. Since the heart attack, Pops has been more fatalistic, more fragile and the thought of losing him far too close to the surface. He changes the subject.

"Look what I brought." He pulls out a box. "I think I won the last game."

"I don't think so."

"Sure I did," he counters. "You've got me confused with Jared."

"I'm not so old that I'd do that." Pops points him toward a table on the other side of the trees. "We're playing Old Bill's rules."

He pauses to consider that as he strides toward the table. On his return trip, he questions his grandfather. "I don't think you've ever taught me Old Bill's rules."

"You know, Seeley, no gambling on the outcome." Pops dumps the contents of the box and is eyeing him. "Old Bill W. founded AA and by extension, GA. That's your group isn't it? What they call a support group?"

"I'm not going to gamble, Pops," Booth says. "At least not today."

The eyes remain on him. "This is serious, Seeley. You've got a lot to lose with that gambling. A whole lot more than just money."

"I know, Pops. I know." And he does. He begins to turn over the dominoes and sizes up his grandfather. "I call my sponsor or go to a meeting or I talk to Bones if I have an urge." He levels his gaze with his grandfather's. "I know what to do and I do it."

"You better." He turns over a tile. "I won't always be around to set you straight."

It's the second taunt of the universe, but this one he lets go. "You don't have to worry about me, Pops." His tone is softer. "I know what will happen if I mess up."

This time his grandfather says nothing, so he tries to change the tone of their conversation. "I really think you're wrong, Pops. I think it was Jared you beat last time."

"You don't think I know the difference between you and your brother?"

"Well, you did say that your eyesight was a bit hazy." He grins at his grandfather. But the gentle teasing hasn't changed Pops' focus.

"I know that you will do the right thing, but I'm not so sure about your brother." He takes in his grandfather's words. "You're a strong man. And I don't just mean physically. You're strong where it counts, Seeley. But not Jared."

He puts down the domino he's been holding. "Jared's strong."

"No, Seeley." Pops is emphatic. "Not like you. He's not the man you are. You only become that when you face your problems and deal with them. You understand me? Jared hasn't done that." Pops taps the table and points at him. "You have."

He knows what a train wreck Jared's life can be and he nods.

"You have to promise me something, Seeley. You have to promise to look after Jared and keep him out of trouble." His eyes are centered on his. "You understand, son?"

"I do."

"He came over to see me with one of those Navy types." Pops' voice betrays his feelings. "I didn't trust him. Not at all. Jared saved your life to get cashiered out of the Navy. This other one? He's shifty. The man's shifty. And I don't trust him."

"You understand me?"

The thought sobers him. Years as an MP had taught his grandfather more than a few things about people and he accepts his judgment. "I understand."

"Good."

For a moment, he lets everything sink in. He's been doing that a lot of late, soaking in advice, soaking in experiences, especially those with his grandfather. It's part of the program, part of living in the moment, part of a new approach. The memories of having practically gambled away the best parts of his life seem almost as far away from the present as the one wisp of cloud marring the perfect blue of the sky.

"You know, I'm very proud of you, Seeley." Pops gives him that same look he often earned as a boy when the man who came to be his guardian wanted to impart some special kind of wisdom. "You've become the man I always hoped you'd be."

His eyes feel liquid as he thanks his grandfather. "My sponsor would say I'm still a work in progress."

"Well don't you screw it up," he continues as he leans in. "Temperance is a real keeper, she is. She's strong, too. And you need a woman like her to call you on your crap, Seeley."

It feels like his grandfather is steering him in two different directions, but he welcomes it as he agrees fully with him. "Bones is the best."

"You're darned right she is, Shrimp." Pops is on a roll. "Your grandmother was the same way. She wouldn't take guff from anyone. I remember a time. . . ."

The memory ends almost as it begins with a cry of "Gran-pops!" Christine's practically flying across the lawn while Bones trails pushing the baby carriage.

"Is that the little monkey?" Pops leans forward to see better. "You didn't say they were coming."

He didn't know. His heart practically somersaults seeing them. "I guess she wanted you to meet the newest Booth, Pops." He stands and slides the table safely out of the way. "Bones had one of those Skype meetings with her publisher today. Must have finished early."

"I'm glad she did, Shrimp." Pops bends down to accept Christine's hug and when they separate, his grandfather holds her at arms length to look her over. "She looks just like Temperance." He glances up at him. "That's a good thing for her."

Christine's giggling just as Bones wheels in their youngest. He can't help but stand by her side and hold her hand feeling the hardness of the ring in the soft embrace.

"Christine wanted to see you, Hank. And she thought it would be a good idea to introduce you to her brother."

"Seeley said the two of you hadn't decided on a name." Pops' hand shakes as he touches the baby who is just as curious and just as unsteady, grinning his toothless smile, his eyes somewhat unfocused as he reaches out. "This handsome fellow really needs a name, Shrimp."

Christine's looking between him and Pops, looking as if she will burst. A glance at Bones tells him all he needs to know.

"We've named him, Hank. After you, Pops."

A tear courses down his grandfather's cheek, but it does little to dilute the old man's gruffness. "I know that's my name, Shrimp. It's a fine name, Temperance."

Little Hank looks at Big Hank and grins, but before Bones can give a slightly squinty explanation of how baby's eyes aren't really focused, Pops reaches out a finger that the smallest Booth grabs onto.

"Thank you, Seeley."

"He's also named after my Uncle Sweets."

Pops wrinkles his nose at Christine's contribution. "You shouldn't have done that, Shrimp," he says. "With a middle name like Sweets, he's going to be fighting off the girls on the playground every day. Noo-o, that's not a good idea."

Christine can't answer since she's giggling, so it's up to Bones to set things straight. "Hank, his middle name is Lance. We wanted his name to reflect the love we have for two very special people in our lives."

Pops' wink betrays him and he offers his free hand to Christine. "Why don't you crawl on up here and help me beat this jamocca in a game, huh? You can keep an eye on him for me."

Christine scrambles onto the seat next to her great-grandfather and settles in as he sets the table back amid Pop's half-serious calls to avoid losing any tiles. Little Hank isn't letting go—or is it Pops?—and the five of them sit around the table and he and Bones help to turn over the rest of the tiles.

"Christine and this little guy and I are a team," Pops declares. "We'll play you two, but you're separate. And none of that ESP, psychic, voodoo stuff you two do."

"I get it," he says. "Bones and I are going to beat your butt even though we're not playing together."

"Oh, you think so, Shrimp?"

The emphasis is on his nickname and Christine giggles and Bones flashes him a look—and all he knows is that he's sitting down to play a game and the only stakes in all of this is how much time they'll spend together and how much fun they'll have under a welcoming sky. He pauses just a bit too long for his grandfather.

"You okay there, Seeley?" Pops gives him that look and he shakes it off.

"I'm better than okay, Pops," he says. "I've got my 4 favorite people here and I'm having a great time. I'm living the life of Riley."

And he is. He looks at all the people around him and sees the best bet he's ever made.

"Then shut up, Shrimp and play the game."

oOo

Author's note: This is it. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story for all the starts and stops and Bones-like hiatuses. We learn to be a patient bunch, don't we?

I'm going back to finish my other two stories before the show ends which, given how slowly I write, is going to be a feat.