When the first reply arrived, after weeks of waiting, his heart turned violently. It was a physical reaction to the concrete confirmation that Bones, his Bones, was alive and well.

This intense reaction would have scared the crap out of him two years ago. He'd spent so long denying his love for her and stuffing the feelings down inside, but that was all over now. He still loved her; he knew he always would, and because it was out in the open he could finally allow himself to fully feel it. It was a rich feeling, one that could fill his entire being and overpower everything else. It was nice to have something like that in this environment, where negative emotions reigned strong.

He took his mail from the private and returned the young man's salute as he walked away, on to his next delivery. He ducked into his makeshift office, shutting the door to ensure a modest amount of privacy as he enjoyed the letter. He sat down in the ancient desk chair, metal, not leather, squishy and swivel-ly like the lovely office chair sitting in FBI office storage back home. He missed that chair every time he sat down.

The envelope was made of a brown waxy card stock, and despite the obvious beating it had taken on it's long journey from the islands, it was completely intact. Bones was so thoroughly practical; he smiled at the familiar thought. He tore the top perforated strip off, and tilted the envelope downward, allowing the letter to slide free onto the fake wooden top of his bare desk. He immediately decided that her letters would be the only decoration this desk ever needed.

He could tell that her stationary was expensive. The two sheets of thick paper felt smooth in his hands as he flattened out the slight waves caused by the moisture they'd accumulated during their time in the jungle with Bones.

This was the best letter he'd ever gotten, and he hadn't even read it yet. He unfolded the paper and his heart turned over again when he saw her familiar script dancing across the unlined paper in precise stripes of black ink.

Dear Booth,

I am glad to hear that you are doing well; I catch myself worrying about you sometimes even though that's quite illogical seeing as I have no knowledge of your being in danger.

The coffee stain made me laugh just as you thought it would, and the accompanying sand was humorus too. Or Humerus? Like the bone. I just did it again! That is, made a lame joke like you always do. I've been doing that in my head ever since I left, apparently my brain is reflexively compensating for the dearth of bad puns in Maluku.

Thank you for writing to me. Recieving your letter was a revelation. It made me realize that the strange feeling I've been carrying around with me since I left Washington isn't nervousness after all. I knew it couldn't be nervousness, but that was the only theory I had. I mean, isn't it you that said: "Bones doesn't intimidate:"? You might be able to guess what this feeling was- you and your gut instincts. I realized that I miss you. I've never missed someone like this before, and it certainly isn't a pleasant feeling.

I miss your presence. I miss you and Angela, because you both know me so well. Coming here is strange, getting used to a job where my colleagues only know me professionally; not at all like our Jeffersonian 'family' at home.

I have heard only from you and our ex-patriate contingent- Angela and Hodgins. They sent me a postcard, which Hodgins had laminated to ensure that it got here in one piece. They are enjoying Paris and the surrounding country "even more than you could imagine" Well, it is widely considered the most beautiful city on earth. Maybe we will work a case there someday together; you would love their food- and unlike the English, the French like coffee just as much as you do.

As I read your letter I imagined the desert. I long for any dry air, the humidity here is overpowering and combined with the daily rain showers I have had trouble keeping my clothes dry… it seems as if everything here in the island jungle is perpetually damp. As regards the research, there is nothing much to report, archeology is a very slow tedious discipline; you wouldn't be patient enough for it. There are even times I run out of patience for it. However much I'd like you to be here, I can just imagine how bothered you would be with the pace- you'd stand over my shoulder and ask what I was doing every ten minutes- or complain and want to go to the beach because 'Skeletor here isn't getting any dead-er'. I'm just teasing of course, and the beaches on these islands are so beautiful you never want to leave. I'll try and send you some pictures if I can.

-Bones

P.s. If you are wondering what the smudge in the second paragraph is- well it used to be a bug. Hodgins would have know what kind.


Review! -I promise the next one won't take as long, haha.