I've been itching to write something angsty for a while. (I can't keep writing cute and positive fluff, it'll make my brain go mushy.) So there you go. It's not a Kleenex warning fic, don't worry.

*****

I love her.

There.

I said it.

I admitted it. Or at least to myself, I admitted it.

I'm in love with her.

It's almost a relief to think that out loud instead of shoving it back down like I usually do, especially when it's become so hard to shove down lately.

And yet it's not enough. Because I haven't told her, and I don't think I ever will. Somewhere, I have to find the strength to tell her before it's too late. And if four years isn't enough prep time, how the hell can I do it in four days?

Four days.

God.

She's spent her time trying to avoid me ever since she accepted that goddamn job. If it goes on like this, she'll be gone without giving me a chance to say goodbye, let alone make declarations of undying love.

Four tiny little days left.

What if I do tell her?

Would she stay for me?

Something tells me that yes, she just might.

But then again, she might still go. And I don't think I could live with that.

She should go. It's for the best. What I think doesn't matter. I don't need to know why she's leaving me behind.

Right?

Right.

*****

I'm standing in front of her door, trying to ring the doorbell without dropping the bag of bagels and the two coffees I'm carrying.

The door opens before I can reach it, and Bones is standing right in front of me in a pretty white blouse and a navy blue jacket. We silently gawk at each other for a second or two.

"Hey Bones." I finally say as enthusiastically as I can manage.

She looks surprised. Mortified, even. "What are you doing here?" she asks in an affected tone.

She slept with someone last night. I don't know how I can tell, but I know her, and I know she did. I can almost smell the guy on her. And it makes me want to cry, or shoot someone, or shoot myself. As usual, I force myself to swallow it all down.

"Brought ya some coffee." I tell her with such completely fake cheerfulness that I'm scared she can see I'm trying much too hard. My throat is dry. I hand her the cup with soy milk in it.

"Thank you." She whispers. She stares at the cup instead of me.

"You want a ride?"

She looks up, and she's even more surprised than before.

Oh God, I shouldn't have said that. I never ask her if she wants a ride in the morning. I'm simply there in the doorway whenever I think she'd like me to pick her up, and I just smile at her, and she smiles at me, and I give her coffee, put my hand on her back, and open the door for her. She usually protests, and I either ignore her or argue right back. But I never have to ask. Now I feel stupid for making it seem like things are different between us.

Who am I kidding? Things are different.

"You rarely ask me if I want a ride, Booth," she points out.

"I… um, I thought…" I mumble. The wallpaper is suddenly immensely fascinating.

"It's almost as strange as say, hearing you knock before charging into my office. Or letting me work instead of dragging me to lunch," she adds. To my relief, I realize she is smiling.

I grin. "Well I'm making an effort to be exceptionally nice this morning, Doctor Brennan."

"Why? Because I'm leaving?" she whispers. Her smile is gone. So is mine.

She had to bring that up, didn't she? Just when things started to feel somewhat normal again for a moment.

I look at her straight in the eyes. "Yeah. Because you're leaving."

We stood in silence.

"Are you still angry at me?" she asks.

"No." And that's the truth.

"Do you… want me to stay?"

"Yes," I reply. God knows I don't want her to go.

She steps closer to me, and I can smell the sweet smell of her skin, and her hair is beautiful, and her eyes are absolutely crushing me. "I'll miss you," she whispers even softer.

"I'll miss you too." I whisper back. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. My throat feels like it's blocked by wet cement. "But in the end, I think maybe you should go," I finally choke out against my will.

"You think I should go." She looks sad. Of course she does. She must think I'm trying to get rid of her. Underneath her doctorates, I swear this woman has no self-esteem.

I cough. "Yeah. I… thought about it for a while, and in the end I'm sure you have good reasons deep in your heart, even if you refuse to tell me why the hell you're going."

"Oh, but I did tell you. Montreal needs a new Anthropologist, and since I have adequate qualifications…" she starts, a little exasperated.

"The real reason," I grunt.

"It is the real reason, Booth."

"You aren't leaving DC because some Canadian anthropologist decided to retire, Bones," I say gently. "Your family is here. Your squint squad, Russ and your father, your mother's grave. You'll leave them all. You'll leave your home. And you wouldn't possibly do that just because you have 'adequate qualifications'."

She has nothing to reply to that.

"I figure… If it makes you happy to move to Canada, and if you're absolutely sure about it, then…" I sigh. "Then you should go. And if you don't wanna tell me why, I shouldn't pressure you about it."

I still wish she'd just tell me, though. It would make it so much easier to let her go if I knew. Is she scared? Is she tired of me? What's making her run away?

She's looking straight in front of her, at my chin. I think she's trying not to cry.

"Come on," I nudge her arm, "I'll drive you to the lab. Alright?"

I want to hug her, burry my head into her shoulder, her neck, hold her against me so close that it hurts and I can't tell where my body ends and her skin begins, but I don't.

Instead we sit in the SUV in complete silence. That's rare. We're usually bickering about some unimportant thing, or even agreeing with each other occasionally.

It isn't a grumpy silence like when we're mad at each other, it isn't an impatient silence like when we're on a stakeout, and it isn't a thoughtful silence like when we're worrying about cases and personal crap. Those silences have a temporary feeling, as though they're simply there to fill in the gaps between conversations. This silence is just a lack of sound with nothing in it. A big, empty, invisible wall keeping us apart.

Maybe I should feel bitter. She sleeps with random guys, she leaves for Montreal, and she refuses to tell me why. But I'm beyond anger and resentment now. I'm mostly done with denial, even. Instead, I'm smack in the middle of despair.

*****

A warm hand glides along my back with a tender caress. It feels pleasant but unfamiliar against my naked skin.

"Booth?" my mind asks groggily, still trapped in a haze.

I open my heavy eyes to see... what was his name again? George something. I met him at the bar.

"Good morning," I tell him with disappointment.

"G'morning." He grins. I suppose he wants another "quickie" before disappearing from my life forever.

I slept with him.

I'm an idiot.

Booth yelled at me when I told him. Not because he wanted to control my decisions and not because he thought I was making the worst mistake possible by accepting that job in Montreal. He just wanted to know why. He deserved at least that much, didn't he? After all, I am not leaving with Sully for the Caribbean, shirking all responsibilities. I'm leaving for cold, boring Canada, where nothing but gruesome skeletons and harsh winters await me. I'm fleeing away. He simply wants to know from what.

When I told Booth, his eyes looked the same as when I asked him if I should sail away with Sully. Reading facial expressions might not be my forte, but even I knew he didn't feel anger, but hurt.

Then I felt guilty, of course. I had purposefully put that look into his eyes. So I had thrown myself at the first man who showed the least bit of interest in me, namely George.

I step out of the shower. He has already left the building. Good riddance.

I still can't shake away the irrational disappointment I felt when I discovered that the hand on my back wasn't Booth's. Why would I even think of him in such a situation? Of course it couldn't be Booth's hand. Maybe Booth put his hand on my back so many times that I have come to associate...

When I opened the door, Booth was standing on my doorstep, his hand on the doorbell.

"Brought ya some coffee," he tells me with a sheepish smile. I can hear the typical forced enthusiasm he uses every time he wants to make things better.

"Thank you." It was so… sweet of him. I had slept with a man I met at the bar yesterday, I had avoided him at every opportunity for days, and he brought me coffee as though he was the one who should apologize. Does he honestly think I would hold his outburst against him? I was the one who hurt him first.

"You want a ride?"

I look up, surprised. Booth asked me if I wanted a ride?

"You rarely ask me if I want a ride, Booth," I comment.

"I… um, I thought…" he trips on his words and stares at the wall, embarrassed.

"It's almost as strange as say, hearing you knock before charging into my office," I tease. "Or letting me work instead of dragging me to lunch,"

He smiles warmly at me when he realizes I'm joking. "Well I'm making an effort to be exceptionally nice this morning, Doctor Brennan."

Booth has such a beautiful smile. Beautiful.

And suddenly, I can't bear the thought of leaving him. I can't go through the day without seeing his smile, or feeling his big hand on the small of my back, or smiling when I look at his shoes because underneath his pant legs, his socks probably have polka dots.

What am I doing to both of us?

"Why? Because I'm leaving?" I whisper. His smile is gone as quickly as it came. I feel almost relieved to see it go. His smile was cruelly reminding me of everything I will lose after my departure.

He pauses. "Yeah. Because you're leaving."

We stood in silence.

"Are you still angry at me?" I ask. What I really want to know is whether he is still hurt, and if he will be able to cope.

"No," he answers sincerely. Yet, I don't believe him.

"Do you… want me to stay?" I shouldn't ask him this, but I need to know…

"Yes." Of course he wants me to stay.

I can't help stepping closer to him to see the little lines between his brows, to smell the familiar smell of his skin, so close to him that I can almost kiss the slight stubble on his cheeks. His eyes are utterly crushing me.

"I'll miss you," I whisper. I can feel the tears coming. They are already blurring my vision.

"I'll miss you too," he whispers back. He hesitates and adds, "But in the end, I think maybe you should go."

"You think I should go." I repeat his words, stunned.

I know he is trying to alleviate my guilt. I know he wants me to stay, yet as usual he is putting my feelings first and attempting to make me feel better. The irony does not escape me.

Why does he have to be nice and understanding all the time? It would be so much easier if he would yell at me again.

He coughs. "Yeah. I… thought about it for a while, and in the end I'm sure you have good reasons deep in your heart, even if you refuse to tell me why the hell you're going."

God, no, not again. This is exactly why I avoided him.

"Oh, but I did tell you." I affirm, almost in panic. "Montreal needs a new Anthropologist, and since I have adequate qualifications…"

"The real reason," he demanded.

"It is the real reason, Booth." I wish he could simply believe me. Sadly, he is as stubborn as I am.

"You aren't leaving DC because some Canadian anthropologist decided to retire, Bones. Your family is here. Your squint squad, Russ and your father, your mother's grave. You'll leave them all. You'll leave your home. And you wouldn't possibly do that just because you have 'adequate qualifications'." His tone is painfully gentle.

He is right. But as right as he is, I can't tell him. There is no possible way he would let me go if I told him why. I love his optimism, his hope in the future, but I don't share it. And even if leaving him is the wrong decision, staying…

"I figure… If it makes you happy to move to Canada, and if you're absolutely sure about it, then…Then you should go. And if you don't wanna tell me why, I shouldn't pressure you about it."

I'm not even listening anymore, too focused on the tears threatening to fall from my right eye.

"Come on, I'll drive you to the lab. Alright?" He nudges me softly. I walk to the car with Booth's hand on my back, not George's. And it feels right.

In the SUV, I stare at window without a word. I don't want him to hear my voice crack with unshed sobs. Moreover, if I keep my face in the opposite direction, he is unable to see the tear on my right cheek. When we finally arrive at the lab, I wipe it away discreetly before he notices it.

*****

Ironically, I've written stuff from Brennan's POV, Angela's, Charlie's, Sully's, and even random waiters', but nothing from Booth's POV. I love our big guy very dearly of course, but I don't really get him. I can't get in his head. Still I tried, (it's damn hard by the way), and I don't think it's too wildly out of character if you are willing to pretend he suddenly became emo.

And no, not all future chapters will be as repetitive as this one, I promise.