Disclaimer: If I told you how much I owe, you wouldn't even consider suing me
Spoilers: General Season One

A/N: This is a follow-up to the world created in Part II of The Road Not Traveled Leads To Here. A major THANK YOU to leni_ba for chucking plot bunnies in my direction, and tempertemper77. Not only was she my uber-fab beta for the second time, but her Hiatus Can F#! Off Big Bones Re-Watch helped inspire this fic.

The prequel is here: /s/5785192/1/The_Road_Not_Traveled_Leads_To_Here, or at my LJ.

Sense Memory

They've been working together for a while now. Ten minutes of her time turned into a trip to the crime scene, and coffee became lunch before morphing into dinner. In the last month, he's been showing up at the lab for reasons other than work, coaxing her out with reminders to eat and promises to let her have the last of the mee krob. It's beginning to feel like those early days in Chicago; that completely frustrating ability of his to convince her with a half-grin and pleading eyes still as irrationally effective as ever.

But this is not Chicago. In the here and now, she does not roam her hands brazenly over his firm abdominals. She does not bite the flesh of his pectorals, or press her tongue against the curve of his mandible to elicit a moan. In the here and now, her only boldness with him comes from the steps she takes forward into his personal space when they're both being obstinate. Her tongue curls only around sharp words that make him groan. But the words do not taste the same as the memory of his skin, and the frustration they evoke is not as satisfying as his arousal.

This is not Chicago, where she let him walk away while she still could.

If you love something, set it free; if it comes back it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was.

Angela had said that once; the explanation given to one of her paramours when she left him "before he smothered the spirit out of her."

Brennan doesn't believe in romantic love, refutes the notion that any human being can claim possession over another. She set Booth free because she knew that she was incapable of giving him what he needed, and she wanted him to have the life he deserved. She still knows this, still wants this.

Yet he has come back to her.

She doesn't know what that means.

***

The first time she steps into his office, she realizes the truth.

She's come to the Hoover on a whim, with a file in her hand and an invitation to lunch on the tip of her tongue. This is the effect Booth has always had on her—pulling her of all people toward the whimsical. The office is empty, but his suit jacket hangs on the back of a chair, so she knows he can't be far.

She takes a seat to wait, letting her eyes wander over the chaotic workspace. It is consistent with the way she sees him, making a strange sort of sense where it logically shouldn't.

There is a framed medal on his wall. She wonders if he got it before or after Guatemala. Perhaps he even received it as commendation for the very actions that caused them to meet.

There is a picture of him in a hockey uniform. The same uniform she watched him pull out of the dryer and fold into his bag every Tuesday and Thursday for nearly a year.

There is a miniature flag in his pen-holder, emblazoned with the black, yellow, and white logo of some sports team he'd talked her into buying a TV just to watch.

There is a photograph of a young boy, smiling winningly for the camera.

She sucks in a breath, only to find that it is painful to do so.

Even without bone-markers, without knowledge of underlying facial architecture and familial traits that embed themselves into the very skull, she would have been able to see it.

There is no mistaking those brown eyes, that exuberant grin. She sees them every day, reflected back at her across the table at the diner, from the threshold of her office, and, if she's really honest with herself, sometimes in the convoluted tangle of her dreams.

Booth has a son, and something behind the sudden tightness of her ribcage feels irrevocably altered.

"I could hear you thinking all the way down the hall."

She jumps at the familiar, teasing voice. He's leaning in the doorway, nursing a coffee mug and smiling. As if he hadn't just turned her world metaphorically upside-down.

She tries not to look at the photo again, but her eyes flicker to it of their own volition. If he notices, he doesn't let on. He sighs, walking in front of his desk and perching a hip against it.

"What's up?"

She just stares at him; this man she thought she knew. There is half a frame of blond curls still peeking out from behind Booth's back, causing a strange sensation she can't quite identify. Almost like loss, although she cannot imagine why that would be.

She's never wanted children.

"Earth to Brennan! What's wrong with my favorite squint, huh?"

"Nothing, I… I just came to drop this off." She thrusts the file at him and makes her escape before he can question her again.

The last thing she notices is his hands.

Hands that have trailed every inch of her. That have brought goose-bumps to her flesh and ecstasy to her body. Hands that held her up on that last frantic mile in Guatemala, guiding her safely home.

It takes her the entire drive back to the Jeffersonian before she understands the fixation.

She knows what Booth believes. Of course she does, she's ridiculed him for it enough.

He believes in love and marriage and forever. He believes in happiness and faith, in families that stay and emotions that last a lifetime.

And yet.

Amongst the pieces of himself strewn about the office, there is no photo of a woman. No beautiful and smiling other half of that little boy.

His hands.

There is no metal band winding its way around the base of his left fourth proximal phalanx. No line of hypopigmentation on the tanned skin to indicate that there had ever been one.

His hands are exactly the same as she has always known them to be.

It's always about the details with her.

***

She tucks it away—evidence of the parts of him she no longer knows. That aspect of his life is completely irrelevant to their professional relationship and, quite frankly, none of her business. What she finds unsettling is simply a reaction to his apparent disregard for his own policy. Seeley Booth, proponent of honesty and sharing of self within the partnership, did not trust her enough to reveal his biggest truth.

Yes, it is most certainly this issue of trust that has her in an exceptionally foul mood for three days.

It is why she avoids Booth and snaps at Zack. It is why she rejects Angela's concerned overtures with caustic replies. It is why her ability to focus seems woefully lacking. But she can compartmentalize anything, especially something as menial as this.

It takes the unimaginable to convince her that maybe this isn't so easily compartmentalized after all.

Alone in the lab and preoccupied with her thoughts on Friday evening, she drops the ulna of an unknown WWI soldier.

The notion of being that clumsy child she'd purged long ago is unthinkable.

Brennan bends down and gingerly cradles the abused bone in her hands.

This is what she wanted. Isn't it?

***

She's come to his house on a whim, with a file in her hand and questions she swore she wouldn't ask on the tip of her tongue. This is the effect Booth has on her now—making her of all people doubt steadfast decisions.

The door opens and he appears, wearing faded jeans, a Flyers t-shirt, and a startled expression.

"Hey," he manages, holding the door close while his body blocks the entrance. "What brings you to Chez Booth?"

Now that she's here, she doesn't know quite what to say. Especially since he isn't inviting her inside.

"This needs your signature."

Booth makes no attempt to reach for the proffered folder.

"Now?" His stare is nothing short of incredulous.

"Why not now?"

"It's seven o'clock on a Friday night!"

She bites her lip for a moment, before meeting his stare unflinchingly. "I hadn't noticed."

"Of course you didn't. How many times have I said, all work and no play makes you a—ooof."

Booth's body lurches forward as something collides with him from behind. His hand drops from the door and it swings wide, revealing a tiny culprit with mischief gleaming in his eyes.

"Gotchya, Daddy!"

Booth laughs, an easy, joyous laugh, as he scoops the boy into his arms.

"Yeah, you did, Bub." He turns to her, and there is a pride and affection she has never seen before adorning his face. "This is my son, Parker. Parks, this is an old friend. The one I told you about, remember?"

The boy scrunches up his nose in thought. "The bones lady?"

"Actually, I'm Doctor Temper—"

"Jeez, Brennan, he's four!"

Brennan smiles uneasily, not knowing what else to do. "Well, I should probably go."

"Don't be silly, you just got here. Besides, you probably haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

A small head bobs up and down forcefully before she can protest.

"We have pizza!" Parker's enthusiasm for pizza makes her smile genuinely this time.

"No, I—"

"Pleeeeeeease, Dr. Bones."

She caves. He's pouting, in a way eerily reminiscent of his father. Something like that should not be genetic, yet the inheritance is undeniable. She is too busy musing over this to object to the new moniker.

***

Booth hands her a beer as he takes a seat on the couch. "He's finally out for the count. You had him more hopped up than sugar."

Brennan frowns a little, not meeting his eyes. "I don't have very much experience with children."

"You did great. Don't worry about it, you'll learn."

At this, she looks up sharply. "I have no desire to bear offspring, Booth. You know that."

He merely shrugs at the reprimand. "I wasn't implying otherwise."

"Then what were you implying?"

"Why did you really come here tonight?"

The label of the beer bottle is suddenly very interesting. She picks at it, formulating a careful response.

"I've been… uneasy. There were things I wished to discuss. It doesn't really matter now."

He opens his mouth to reply, but she interrupts. "You said partners, they share things. So, why didn't you tell me you had a child?"

Leaning back into the couch cushions, he exhales on a sigh. Her heart rate inexplicably accelerates, and she realizes how important his answer is.

"I wanted to, I did. But I didn't know how. And then, it was like, I'd waited too long."

"That's not logical, Booth. You would have had to tell me eventually."

"I know that! Don't you think I know that?" It is another deep breath before he continues. "Look. It took me a long time to get past what happened in Chicago. Almost a year, just to put it behind me. When I met Rebecca, it was… what I needed. She was strong and independent, and man, could she make me laugh."

Brennan feels something constrict inside her abdomen at his words, but waits for him to continue.

"We were only together a few months before she got pregnant. I wanted to do the right thing, you know? So I asked her to marry me."

Brennan sucks in a startled breath. She had been so sure that—

"But she said no. She wanted the baby. She just didn't want me."

He takes a long swig from his bottle, the strong column of his neck keeping her attention. She wonders if the bitterness she suddenly tastes is from the beer, or from his words.

Does he think the same thing about her? That she just didn't want him?

She doesn't feel like she has the right to correct that assumption.

They sit quietly, the weight of the past around them. It is when she feels his hand brush against her arm that she realizes she was beginning to drift off.

"You can stay here, if you're tired," he offers, and she moves toward the door so that he won't see how very much she would like to accept the invitation.

"No, no, I'm perfectly capable of driving." She looks over her shoulder at him, just two steps behind. "You should be proud, Booth. You're a very good father."

He smiles, surprised. "Thanks."

"Goodnight, Booth."

The smile grows into that cheeky grin she knows so well, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with a mischief that she witnessed a few hours ago on a four year-old.

"G'nite, Dr. Bones."

***

Being shot at is a frightening and unpleasant experience, and she doesn't know if Booth's hovering is making it better or worse. He is like a self-appointed guard dog, barking orders at everyone, including her. This behavior, while extremely irritating, reminds her of their initial meeting in Guatemala. He had rescued her then, too. And now, as then, she feels safe in his presence.

They argue about his insistence on dragging her out of the lab all the way to her apartment.

He whistles appreciatively once they walk through the door. "Nice place, Bones."

Brennan rolls her eyes good-naturedly. He's taken to calling her that ever since the night Parker initiated it, and she's long since given up trying to stop him.

"I could have just stayed at the lab," she grumbles, unwilling to let it go quite yet. "The security is tight there."

Booth sighs, replying calmly in a voice he would normally reserve for a child. "Then you would have worked. You would have gotten tired and you would have been more vulnerable when you did go out. Trust me, this is for the best, alright?" He rubs his hands together in anticipation. "So, where's the TV?"

"I had one but it broke. You know me, I mostly just read and listen to music anyway."

He smiles, heading for the stereo. "So, let's listen to some music."

Moving through the stacks with practiced ease, he suddenly pulls out a CD and laughs. "I see you still have a thing for those Tibetan throat singers."

"That's… proven useful for work, so…"

"Right." He continues to search her collection. "Whoa, what's this? Ha."

"What?"

"I can't believe you still have this."

He puts the disc in, chuckling to himself. As the opening chords to Hot Blooded float in through the speakers, Booth begins to bob his head.

"Uh, how did that get there?" she tries sheepishly.

"Oh, please. You wouldn't part with this if your Ph.D. depended on it."

Booth starts to sing in that endearingly off-key way she remembers, hands playing an air guitar. Brennan stares at him for a moment, then gives up the fight against her own smile and his infectious enthusiasm. She joins him, letting loose an impressive high kick and singing at the top of her lungs with reckless abandon. It is freeing in way she hasn't experienced in a very long time. He leans in close to shout the lyrics and she watches his fingers curl through the air, strumming an invisible cord. The heat from her cheeks suddenly flares low in her body before her brain can catch up to the cause, a dizzying arc that causes her to nearly moan.

Sense memory.

The last time they danced like this, wild and joyous, it had been in a much smaller living room in an entirely different city.

They hadn't even made it to the bed.

He had pulled her in and taken her right there, hard and fast against the bookshelf, and she had screamed his name so loudly that the neighbors couldn't look her in the eye the next day.

She stumbles back at the vivid images assaulting her senses.

"Hey, you okay?" Booth is at her side in an instant, and she wonders if he remembers that they've done this before.

"I'm fine. Just… it's been a long couple of days."

"I'll get you some water."

"Booth, it's fine, I'll get it."

"No, no, no. You know what? I insisted on being here, so I'm not your guest. I'll get it, okay?"

He rushes off to the refrigerator before she can respond, reaching for the door handle.

"Oh, there are glasses in the cupboard to the right of the fridge," she calls out.

It is the last discernible sound before the explosion.

***

She sits by his bedside and watches him breathe. In and out, in and out. The steady rise and fall of his bruised chest is beautiful in its predictability, mesmerizing in its mere existence.

If he hadn't reached for that glass, his solid bulk would have been reduced to bits of flesh and bone.

He shifts, and his eyelids open on a groan.

"Am I still here?" he rasps.

"Of course, where else would you be? How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"But you did get… oh, you were attempting to be amusing."

Whatever facial expression he is intending, it comes out as a grimace. That, combined with the emerging bruises, gives his handsome face a rather pitiful cast. She wants to reach out and touch him, if only to assure herself that he's really alright. But she doesn't know how, isn't sure where he hurts.

Booth makes a feeble attempt to reach for the cup on his bedside table. He can't quite manage it, and addresses her in a tiny, pleading voice.

"Can you…can you hand me one of the puddings?"

He sighs contentedly as she immediately obliges. "Oh man. Thanks, Brennan."

She can't help but smile. Even severely injured, he manages to act like all is right with the world as long as he has his treat. The smile fades as she glances to the file in her lap. Confirmations of long-held suspicions. Questions this is an opportunity to have answered.

She doesn't know where to start.

"Uh oh." A mumble through a mouthful of pudding.

"What?"

"I know that look."

Brennan narrows her eyes skeptically. "What look?"

"That 'I can kill you with my brain' look. Come on, let's have it."

"I don't know what any of that means."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's not nice to tease the patient?" He scrapes the bottom of the cup clean and licks the spoon, flicking the empty container back onto the table. "Whatever you're trying to figure out how to say nicely, just say it."

She takes a deep breath, watching him carefully. "You know, on your x-rays, there's a history of multiple fractures on your feet consistent with beating. It's a common method of torture in the Middle East— beating the soles of the feet with pipes or hoses."

Booth's jaw tics, and he doesn't meet her eyes. "Yeah, I know."

"And there are indications of injuries sustained while you were shielding someone."

At this, he looks up sharply. "How the hell can you tell something like that?"

Her look is nothing short of incredulous. "The scarring shows that the rib cage spread in such a way that—"

"Yeah, okay. A buddy of mine, he lost his weapon and I, uh, I tried. He didn't make it." He looks serious and uncomfortable, like she's disturbed something he never intended for her to find. "You know, you shouldn't be looking at my x-rays."

"Sorry." But she's not sure if she is, not really. "It's just that…there are things I noticed before, during the course of our sexual relationship. Assumptions I made. You know how I dislike assumptions."

Booth seems to consider this. "You could have asked me."

She scoffs. She knows him better than that. "You're notoriously secretive, Booth."

"I'm not secretive, I'm private. There's a difference. Just because I don't go around… what?"

She's been biting her lip, less certain now. Feeling almost… vulnerable.

Even though he's the one with the multiple bone fractures.

"I… were any of the other injuries on those films… was any of that from Guatemala?"

His eyes widen for a moment, before his face softens into a tender expression. "I wasn't hurt in Guatemala, Bones. How could I have been—you're my good luck charm."

The smile he attempts but can't quite accomplish incites a strange sense of sorrow within her.

"You were nearly killed by a bomb that was meant for me, Booth. I would hardly call that lucky."

"I'm still kickin', aren't I?" He wiggles his feet under the blanket for emphasis. She wonders if she's experiencing her first episode of gastroesophageal reflux; if that's the reason she suddenly feels the burn beneath her ribcage.

"I'm so sorry you got hurt."

His gaze meets hers with that unflinching honesty she's come to depend on. "Better me than you, Bones. Better me than you."

Brennan has that sense of wanting to reach out to him again, stronger this time. She thinks maybe she will, but she doesn't get the chance.

Agent Kenton interrupts, whisking her away to the tune of Booth's intractable tone.

***

In what she perceives to be her final moments, Brennan's life does not flash before her eyes. She feels no regret for the choices she's made, or the way she's lived. She doesn't want to die, but logic dictates that there can be no other outcome. Surprisingly, her last thoughts are of Booth.

She does regret that she'll never hear him call her Bones again. That she'll never dance with him in the living room, or share a pizza with him and his son. She regrets that she'll never look up to see him leaning in the doorway of her office, brandishing a file with more glee than is appropriate for the discovery of human remains. That she'll never again take said file from his hand and give a name to the victim. Most of all, she regrets that he'll blame himself for her death, when he is guilty of nothing but helping her cheat it twice before.

Her eyes remain open, trained on Kenton's face. She won't give him the satisfaction of closing them.

When the shot comes, it takes her a moment to realize where it came from. By then his welcome, beloved face is close to hers, murmuring words of comfort. With his injuries, he can't seem to lift her off the hook from which she's suspended. Groaning in pain, he ducks his head between her arms, lifting her with the strength of his body. They fall to their knees together, practically intertwined, and she holds onto him without reservation.

"It's okay. I'm right here. It's all over." He whispers it into her hair over and over again. As if he's trying to reassure himself as much as her.

She grips him tightly. She breathes him in, this man who is accumulating a running tally on saving her life. Who has shown her that there are people you can count on, no matter how irrational it may be. As her hands clutch his powerful back and shoulders, mindful of the injuries he's aggravating just by being here, she shakes with tears of laughter and relief.

His solid strength is exactly the same as she has always known it to be.

***

She makes her way towards his bedroom, feeling like an intruder.

It's bad enough that she fell asleep half leaning on his hospital bed last night. Now she's been tasked with going through his private things and packing him a bag. This is a small price to pay for all he's done, to be sure, but it unearths memories she'd much rather remain buried.

Brennan stands in the doorway for a moment, breathing in the familiar spicy scent that permeates this space. Years ago, she was intimately acquainted with his bedroom, and this one is not much different. Clearly, he even continues to make his bed with military precision. This is quite amusing considering the disarray the rest of the apartment is in, and she makes a mental note to tease him about it later.

Moving to the dresser to collect the necessities, she takes in the bits of his life that are strewn about.

There are some awards for bravery in the field, side by side with hockey trophies and a marksmanship medal.

There are several photos on the dresser, and she looks over them with interest.

Booth, as she knew him once, dressed in army fatigues and laughing with a group of other young soldiers.

Booth, with his brother and grandfather, holding up a large trout still hooked to the fishing line.

Booth standing beside a man in a wheelchair, pointing to a banner that exclaims Happy Birthday Hank!

Booth and Parker, the boy sitting proudly astride his father's broad shoulders.

The one closest to the edge faces his bed, and she has to turn it to see. It is a picture of a woman—hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes bright, a subtle smile just itching at the corners of her mouth. The memory of a long ago day stirs at the sight and Brennan stares, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

It's her.

Fin.