[A/N: Thanks for stopping here. I hope you'll enjoy this story. Don't expect frequent updates. I've barely begun writing but have lots of ideas. Will take some time to shape and organize them. I've been working on this for quite a while and haven't gotten very far. In fact, I'm posting this to "force" me to work through this story idea. The idea is grandiose (at least in my head), but I've been struggling for some time to do it justice in writing. Bear with me as I try to do just that.

This story will attempt to explore Booth's past and his family's a bit. Recent events on TV have gone in directions I had not planned for this story. Not sure if I'll sync up with them or go the way I'd originally planned.

I must sincerely thank Laffers18 for reading this and for offering some wonderful suggestions! (Thanks so much!)

Thanks, in advance, for reading here and for offering constructive suggestions. I do take them to heart.]

Hidden in a Hero's Heart

Prologue

Hank hated it when his cell phone rang when he'd left it all the way across the room. He was still doggedly refusing to admit to old age, and near-jogging across the small, sparsely decorated room at the retirement center in order to grab that blasted contraption was bad enough. Doing all that only to hear it dinging that the message had already gone to voicemail was one modern "in"-convenience he could have done without. He sighed as he picked up the still-foreign object. He'd balked at the idea of a phone but had eventually conceded that it made keeping in touch with his grandsons and great-grandson much easier. He was a sucker for those kids and this blasted phone he could barely operate was just the latest evidence of that fact.

As he pressed the keys required to access his voicemail and sank down on the side of the bed to rest after overexerting himself, Hank heard the familiar tone of his eldest grandson's voice ring across the miles, "Hey, Pops. Hope you're having a good day. Sorry it's been a while since I've been out to see you. Yeah... I know. I haven't been calling much either."

There was a characteristic pause as the Catholic guilt took over and caused his grandson to consider the consequences of his actions. But the man he'd helped raise stepped up and admitted his fault without hesitation, "No excuse. Not one you'd buy anyway. Uh... Listen, Pops. I... I have something I need to talk to you about. I was wondering if I could come out and take you to dinner tomorrow night. Wherever you want. Listen, I've gotta run do an interview, but just give me a call back and let me know if we're on for tomorrow. I can be out there as early as 7."

Hank wasn't actually surprised that his grandson had left no farewell. This kid was busy. He remembered those days—having more to do than to fish and eat and sleep and wink at the ladies. As his ears continued to ring with the click of his grandson shutting off the line, Hank thought back to other times his grandson had called him with mysterious requests to meet.

Over the years he'd always tried to convince his boys to open up and talk to him; to make it clear to them that he was always there. He was fairly certain that they trusted him at least enough to call him about the really big stuff. Well... it still chapped Hank that Shrimp hadn't called him when he'd gotten that brain tumor and needed surgery. Come to think of it, he hadn't called him when he'd decided to go back overseas, either. Still, as much as Hank hated the fact that his closest relative wouldn't keep him informed about everything, he got it. Both of the boys had deep wounds—ones they tried to ignore but that were obvious to him because he knew so much about their tragic past. They didn't share unless it was necessary. He supposed he couldn't blame them.

From a young age, the kid had been hesitant to allow himself to become the focus of conversations. It wasn't until Hank realized what had been going on in his home that he understood the boy's eagerness to avoid attention. Still, even after Seeley had moved in with him and been assured that he and his younger brother were finally safe, he'd been a virtual dam. Barely made a peep. He wasn't a misfit or anything. The kid had always been talkative and polite enough to be well-mannered and pretty popular, but he had remained a young man of very few words about anything emotional. He'd been grudgingly responsive when pressed for answers, but he'd only said enough to pacify his grandfather. He'd answered questions about school and sports, talked about plans with his friends, and asked permission to go and do things. But any question hinting something beyond the superficial was avoided; any request for an emotional response evaded. Although Hank knew that his grandson had to have left a trail of girls drooling in his wake, the boy had never talked about girls except to answer mandatory questions about whom he was dating and what time he was supposed to have them home.

His grandson wasn't cold and Hank couldn't begin to consider him that way because the kid's enormous heart was just too obvious, but he had always been a virtually closed book. He kept most people at a comfortable distance and showed them only what he wanted them to see. It was his way of taking control over his own life, Hank knew, after having spent so long living in a chaos controlled by his father's drinking and the threat of abuse. Still, the boy seemed to always be looking for someone to redirect the attention at when anyone became too focused on him.

Hank knew that the kid had bottled up too much for anyone to bear from a really early age, but he could never figure out a way to help him relieve some of that burden. The only time that had changed was the day Hank had pushed too hard and the kid had uncharacteristically gotten in his face and told him outright that he would not discuss his father. Hank had been trying to do what a counselor had recommended, but he never made that mistake again. And the pained look Hank had seen in the boy's eyes whenever his mother had been mentioned had made it obvious that he could not talk about his mother either.

"Old man, your mind went off on another tangent," Hank said out loud to himself. He'd meant to reminisce about times his grandson had called him asking to talk. Instead, he'd wandered back through memories—some old and some fresh—of the things his grandson would not or had not discussed with him. He sighed, the recollection of a very desperate phone call from his grandson washing over him and dragging him back into his memories.

"Pops... Pops you've gotta come," his twelve-year-old grandson said as he managed to fight back the sobs building up.

"Where are you, son? What's the matter?"

He heard sniffling and waited for the boy to compose himself. The kid never cried. Not ever. He'd seen him grit his teeth and keep playing after football injuries that would have sent most players off the field on a stretcher. This had to be big to have upset the kid so much. As he waited, Hank tried and failed to remember the last time he'd seen Seeley cry.

"Son, just tell me where you are. I'll come right there."

"We're at home, Pops. But they're taking mom to the hospital. I couldn't wake her up. I tried, Pops. And then I called 9-1-1. The paramedics... they can't wake her up either. Please come, Pops. Please come take Jared and me to the hospital. We want to be there. We want to wait until she's okay and can come home. They won't let us ride in the ambulance, Pops. Please, please come over and get us?"

"Seeley, where's your father?"

The boy choked back a sob and then sniffled, "Don't know. He's not here. We looked everywhere for him, Pops. Please" he had begged," Please come get us."

"Seeley, stay there with your brother. I'll be there as fast as I can. I'm on my way," Hank had said as he'd rushed out to his car to race across town.