AN: This is a strong 'T' rating: please be advised-- I don't want to offend. As usual, I also don't want to infringe on any copyright, so I recognize that these characters aren't my own. Thank you for reading. : )
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Dear Booth,
I've always thought that's a hackneyed way to start a letter. "Dear so and so…" it's so British. I don't call people 'dear' so why do all letters have to start that way? It makes about as much sense as "Darling Booth" or "Beloved Booth". It all sounds positively Victorian. But I digress…
I'm writing you this letter because I know I wouldn't be able to say this properly to you in person. And I need to do this correctly—I need to apologize. The things I said to you today were inappropriate and unkind, not to mention false. I don't actually believe that you've given up on this case, or that you've given up on our victim. I know that you're as dedicated as I am, and just because your methods differ from mine doesn't mean that you care less than I do. I shouldn't have questioned your devotion. I said those things because I was frustrated, angry. But I wasn't angry at you. I was just angry at the situation.
Sometimes, when a case stalls, I take it too personally. I feel fifteen again. I see the faces of the policemen and the representatives from Children and Youth Services looking at me with blank pity—they had no answers for me and Russ. Our case went cold, and they told me what I thought at the time was an empty platitude but I have now come to know—if not accept—as the truth: sometimes we'll never know what happened. Sometimes cases go cold, and even the most dedicated professionals fail to solve the puzzle. Sometimes you have to just give up and move on. I've never been good at ceding that, and this case is no different.
So I yelled. I lost my temper. I wish I hadn't taken my frustration out on you. I apologize if my words hurt your feelings. I regret that I lashed out at a friend in a moment of weakness, and I'm sorry.
-Bones
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Dearest Lady Bones of Squintfordshire,
I have no idea what you mean about sounding Victorian.
In all seriousness, you should know, first off, that I do mean the 'dear' part. I'm comfortable enough with my masculinity to admit that yes, my partner is –dear- to me. But I know what you mean… it's not a word I use a lot either.
The other thing you should know is how much your letter meant to me. It wasn't even necessary—not at all. You never have to apologize for being passionate about the work we do. You never have to apologize for the way you empathize with our victims. It's one of my very favorite things about you.
I'll admit, it was a little weird to get that letter from you and then… you acted like nothing happened when I saw you at work. But I think I get it now, and I'm okay with it. I can even see the freedom of it. I'm not much of a letter writer, but I want you to know that I'm willing to talk to you in whatever way you choose. And if it's letters, well… I've got a nice, Bureau-issue pen here that doesn't get enough use.
What matters to me most is that you can be honest with me. With your past, with your feelings and thoughts, with whatever. You can trust me.
Your partner,
Booth
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DEAR Booth,
If you're brave enough to admit it, then so am I. You're dear to me. So there.
When I saw your letter sitting on my desk—very clever, by the way, to put it under my keyboard, where no one else would ever see it but I couldn't help but notice it the moment I sat down to work… the keys were off-balance, and it irritated me immediately—I was surprised. I didn't expect you to write back. But I appreciate the gesture. I'm not sure why it's easier for me to be forthcoming in a letter, but I am, after all, a writer. Thank you for… not making me talk about it.
I know that I can be honest with you, to an extent, and I value that. But you have to admit that even we aren't completely honest with each other. I doubt that any two human beings are. I appreciate the sentiment, Booth, when you tell me that I can trust you, but rationally… there are things that I can't tell even you. No matter how much I might want to. Some things are too precious to be risked, and I suppose that's just another part of being an adult. Just like some cases go unsolved, some things go unsaid.
And now I'm feeling melancholy. Do you think it's unhealthy to self-medicate with copious amounts of chocolate ice cream?
That was rhetorical, by the way. It's well-documented that too much saturated fat in a diet can lead to heart disease and multiple complications.
Your friend,
Bones
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To my friend, Bones,
I'm glad that in addition to being dear, we're officially friends. You put it in writing so it's legit. Not just coworkers who go for coffee… dear friends.
And as your dear friend, I just cannot accept this bullshit about things that need to go unsaid. What things? Why don't you try me and see if the world keeps somehow spinning on its axis? What's stopping you? I know you to be one of the bravest people I've ever met, so it can't be something as simple as fear. Could it?
For my part, I'm unafraid. You know about the awful, sick shit in my past and you haven't fled screaming yet. So I choose to trust you. I choose honesty, because that's what our friendship deserves. Just promise me you'll think about it.
Yours (does that sound stupid? doesn't matter—I mean it anyway),
Booth
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Booth,
Forgive me for taunting a degenerate (ex)gambler when I say that I'm half tempted to call your bluff. Just to shock the smug out of you—to show you that I'm right, that some things should remain unsaid, and that complete honesty is a childish and irrational notion.
Why can't you just trust me? Trust my judgment? Some truths are best left unmentioned.
Bones
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Bones,
Just tell me already.
-Booth
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Booth,
You asked for it.
What if I were to tell you, just hypothetically, that I sometimes think of killing myself? Or that I've been contemplating a career change and leaving forensic science? Or that I want you so badly sometimes just the sound of your voice makes me wet?
And what if I told you that only one of those three statements was true?
-Bones
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Bones,
I read your letter ten times before my hands stopped shaking enough to hold a pen. Do you know how hard I'm fighting right now to not sprint to my car and come hurtling over to your office with the siren blazing just to make sure that you're okay? But you want to continue this bizarre conversation on paper, even knowing that this is twisting me into knots, don't you?
You know me so well; you wrote down the three things in the world so unlikely, so impossible that I have difficulty believing any of them to be true … but then you tell me that one of them is. And my well-tested gut—this should amuse you—is still too frozen with a combination of fear, panic, and blind arousal that it's not helping me. So I'm trying logic, Bones, like you would.
Killing yourself? I reject the possibility. You endured more pain before you were even an adult than most people ever see. And looking at your life objectively, I think you're in a better place now than you have been in a long time. You have friends who care for you, your writing, longterm plans and places you want to travel to. Not the actions of a suicidal person. You are the last person to ever give up—you're a survivor, a fighter, and I can't imagine a world that you would ever… plus, you eat salads and worry about saturated fat. Hardly the actions of someone checking out in the short-term. Honestly, I'm having trouble staying rational here. I can't just calmly discuss the idea of you hurting yourself, Bones. I can't.
As for leaving forensic science? I see no evidence to support this. I've been remembering our recent cases. I can see your face in my mind, when you consider our cases, the lives and deaths of our victims. I can see your passion. Even the way you screamed at me and called me a 'rat bastard'—really low, by the way—on our last case because you thought I didn't care enough about our victim, for which you saw fit to apologize by letter, starting this whole insane conversation… Anyway, the point is you love your job as much as I do, even when you hate it.
Which brings me to your third statement. If either of the first two is true, I'm a lost man. If the third is true… oh God. (I demanded your trust—I told you there's nothing that friends can't be honest about. I'm going to man up and follow my own advice now. If I offend you, if I say too much, I'm sorry.) I've imagined us coming together so often, in so many different ways, but never like this: a bare confession in a letter, couched by some of the ugliest words I've ever seen. Did you intend this? Did you know the panic, the fear, I would feel at the idea that you might even consider suicide? Did you design this letter to jack me up so high on so many contradictory feelings that I can barely continue breathing? I feel like the atoms of my body are flying apart.
Or did you honestly think that you had to hide a declaration like that beneath the most awful news I could imagine? As if it would make me glad only because the first two options were so wildly terrifying? Did you think you had to play mind tricks for me to welcome your attraction?
Let me be blunt: if the sound of my voice can make you wet, it's only fair. Fair because I have touched myself a thousand times imagining all the little sex noises I could make you utter. Moans, gasps, the sound of my own name whispered in your throaty voice.
I want you so much it's indecent. It's obscene. The things I've done with you in my imagination would make you blush. I want to claim your body as my own, so no man can ever touch you again. I want to claim your mind, your heart, your time. I want everything, and I have for longer than I care to admit.
I still have trouble believing that I've somehow earned your attraction—it feels too lucky, like if I believe that then I'll be opening my heart to a rejection I'm not sure I could handle. Though, really… I guess it's too late for that now. I'm not going to play any wordgames. You started these letters, and you've been more open than you've ever been before. So I'll just return the honor.
Bones, I'm telling you this: I'm in love with you.
-Booth
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Booth,
If this ink is smudged, I apologize. I find myself… crying… like a child. It's unsettling, and I'm very glad that my office has blinds and a lock on the door.
I know that you rushed over here with your last letter because my words scared you. I know that you had to see me in person to be sure I was alright. And I appreciate your restraint in not saying anything. But I have to admit—the way you shoved the envelope at me and just turned and left my office… I was expecting the worst. I was expecting rejection.
So your words came as a surprise. (As if the surprise of you resorting to well-reasoned logic wasn't enough.) I had no idea that you returned my feelings. I suppose we're both phenomenal actors. Or cowards.
And while I'm on the subject of cowardice—I must once again apologize. My previous letter was cowardice, pure and simple. If you didn't share my feelings, I planned to lie. I was going to tell you that I was in fact considering a career change and chalk my racier comment up to a 'bad joke'. It's pathetic. But it's like I told you—I felt that some things are too precious to be risked.
I don't feel that way anymore. I feel hopeful… elated… drunk (metaphorically—I would never drink in the middle of a workday). Just yesterday, I was a coward and a liar. Today, I'm… ready. I won't hide from you anymore. Not even behind my words.
So this is my last letter. I know we have a lot to discuss—that any relationship between us has ramifications. But I'm ready now to face them, and you.
And by the time you read these words, I'll be standing right in front of you, waiting for your eyes to look up and meet mine. Waiting for us to begin.
So that I can tell you how much I love you, in person.
--your Bones
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