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THREE DRABBLES


I. TRUTH

The Jeffersonian at one in the morning is a beautiful place. Objectively, she knows it is the dimmed lights (installed for energy saving two years ago), the absence of human cacophony, the world reduced to the honesty of fibulae and vertebrae. She does not speak to herself. There is no need for speech.

Words can be twisted, and hers to Booth rush back, "so you told them something that wasnapos;t true to make them feel better." "Yes." How many times have people done the same? From donapos;t worry, theyapos;ll like you to so you canapos;t say with complete certainty, Dr. Brennan to youapos;ll get over it. Before her, the wordless testimony of a WWII soldierapos;s cranium presents itself.

She only needs to speak for the dead. Their bones do not lie.


II. FAITH

It is the absence of hope that Booth finds saddest about Bones, when heapos;s a little drunk and more honest with himself than he cares to be. Itapos;s not the loss of her parents. Itapos;s not how she sometimes says exactly the wrong thing, this beautiful, brilliant woman who has more walls than anyone heapos;s ever met.

He carefully avoids thinking about Tessaapos;s last words to him, as she left without even taking her toothbrush back with her. It doesnapos;t matter, I can leave my stuff there, I can move into your routine and your house but Iapos;m not really in your life, am I?

Booth doesnapos;t need stuff. He supposes he once loved to collect things like all boys--rocks, comic books (and Bones wonapos;t ever let him live that down) but he got used to the comfort of a life compressed into a single rucksack. Gun, boots, Bible; everything you needed for this life and the next. He supposes that he didnapos;t even need the Bible; he lost it thirty miles west of the Peruvian capital, but it was good to have it when he still had it.

There are no atheists in foxholes. There are no presents for Bones under the Christmas tree. There is no Christmas, because Bones would rather not believe in anything that might leave her. Booth feels the weight of Godapos;s presence in him, as weighty as his own bones. But this is something that cannot be measured, and he canapos;t help but feel that her stubbornness to disbelief is, in its own perverse way, a kind of faith in and of itself.


III. STRENGTH

He holds her hand, slightly bloody across the knuckles. Harvey Welk will be sporting a broken nose for a few months. Janie, his foster daughter...Booth doesnapos;t want to think about how many years sheapos;ll carry the fear with her, if sheapos;ll ever learn to bring down the walls that barricade her old-woman eyes. No child should have eyes that old.

"Abrasions of the epidermis, possible a slight contusion." Her voice is clipped, the same she uses on her official autopsy tapes. It is very different from the voice she uses for her bones, the ones that donapos;t come with casefiles. "No permanent harm to the metacarpals or phalanges."

Her voice softens a little. "Booth, itapos;s just soft tissue damage." She obviously doesnapos;t understand his fuss over her hand. He wonders how much soft tissue has given way to hard, invisible scars over the years, like the knots he feels in his feet when it rains.

How can people think of her as hard? Booth has seen hard people before, gone so brittle they crack right down the middle when life pushes at them. Guys he knew, before, who thought they could handle whatever shit was handed to them because theyapos;d killed without flinching, and who broke when maybe a routine mission suddenly went wrong. They go blank behind the eyes, some terrible silence that those whoapos;d gone through hell could read, easily as day.

They lose the ability to bleed. They lose the ability to heal.

"Yeah. Okay." He lets go of her hand, although neither of them makes a move to get up. "Are you okay? I know cases with...you know, kids like Janie...you feel a real connection with."

"I...think so."

Her eyes are shadowed but not shuttered. Booth counts it as a victory. Just a year ago, she wouldnapos;t have allowed him to ask. Dr. Brennan would never have hit Welk. Bones did, tough, resilient Bones with her bloody hand and triumphant, pained smile.

He allows himself to grin back, gets up, and offers her his hand. She takes it, pulls herself up.

"Wong Fooapos;s, Bones?"

"That sounds ideal. Donapos;t call me Bones."




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