"Why is this so important to you Booth?" she asked. Her voice was strained with forced calm. She wasn't looking at me. Instead, she was staring absently out her window, unconsciously twisting her hair around her finger. It was a very unusual activity for her.

I sighed and tried to calm my voice. She closes herself off as a defense mechanism—I get that—but still. Just because I understand it, that doesn't mean I think it's right. I know that she's stronger than that—or at least she should be—but I knew that saying that out loud wouldn't get me anywhere with her.

"Because I know the kind of person that you are, and I think you should let other people in on the secret too," I said instead in a patient voice. I tried to make my voice soft and unthreatening.

Her eyes flashed up at me, and I saw her anger before she turned and looked out the window. My comment obviously angered her, but I couldn't see why. I hadn't even said what I was really thinking.

"Because that's worked so very well in the past," she muttered under her breath, but I heard her perfectly. I couldn't understand her bitter comment. How could she still be so stuck in the distant past?

"What was that?" I asked. Though I tried to sound causal, I knew my tone gave me away, and she knew that I'd heard her perfectly well. Suddenly, her posture changed. She sat up straight in her seat, and she turned and looked me straight in the eyes. She was mad; she was ready for a fight. I'd never seen her that… angry.

"I am not an insane person, Booth," she said in her coldest, most detached voice. The cool tone and dispassionate, blue fire in her eyes sent chills down his body. Yes. She was definitely mad. At me.

But what does insanity have to do with anything? Booth wondered. Did I imply…? He thought back and couldn't remember offending her recently.

"The definition of insanity is to perpetually do the same thing, and yet continually expect a different result," she continued. So she wasn't completely oblivious to my confusion. As usual. "I am not insane, therefore, I will not repeat the same course of action more times than I already have and expect a different result." Then she turned away from me again, back to looking back out her window like she couldn't bear to look at me, as if she'd made complete sense and there was nothing left to say.

I tried to comprehend her metaphor. What does insanity have to do with anything?

"What does you not being insane have anything to do with showing people who you really are?" I asked as I pulled the car to a stop at the suspect's residence. She sighed in frustration, but I couldn't understand where her strange, sudden anger was coming from. These last few weeks she'd been especially cold and emotionless. I was almost glad to see her angry—if only to get some kind of emotion from her.

"Because no one likes her," she said evenly. She was so calm and so sure of what she said, but I couldn't believe it. Where was the anger from earlier? Then she continued, "Why should I continue to be a person that no one likes? How is that at all rational?"

"What are you talking about Bones?" I responded immediately. What the hell is she talking about? Is she really so blind that she can't tell that she has a whole family of people who love her and depend on her?

Probably, he answered himself.

So, gently I said, "I've seen who you really are, and I think you're great!" I tried to smile my charm smile at her—the one that always melted her—but she looked away, turning back toward her window.

"No you don't Booth," she said. She seemed to be working hard to keep her temper again. I was surprised and confused by her words. How could she honestly sit there and say that I didn't like the real her. Wasn't I the only one who would put up with her? Doesn't that give me some points? Then she broke into her explanation. "You don't like the scientist who refutes professions and practices that she believes to be unnecessary; you don't like the woman who does not eat meat and who does not like pie because cooked fruit is a waste of the fruit's nutritional values; you don't like the awkward, anti social who doesn't know pop culture references, who takes idioms seriously, and who doesn't understand sarcasm; you don't like the little girl who can't face rejection because she's had too much of it. Those are all facts, Booth. You don't like those things, but they are what make up the real me." By this time, I'd pulled into the suspect's driveway and stopped the car. Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything she'd listed were things that I'd either teased her about or said something callous to her about—sure I'd apologized, but obviously the words had still hurt her. But how could she not know that all those things as a whole were what made me love her in the first place? I didn't get the chance to tell her, because she continued before I could process everything she'd said. "When I told you that I wasn't good enough for you, you believed me; when I told you that I couldn't change, you agreed and said that you'd just move on then; when I told you how much I love you and how much I regret trying to protect you and that stupid little girl who's afraid of rejection, you ran the other way. Since everything has already happened, I see no reason for us to discuss this further. We have a case to solve." With that, she opened her door and got out, completely professional. Not even registering what I was doing, I followed her out of the car.

How does she think she can put all the blame for our situation on me?

"There appears to be no one home," she said to me in that completely professional, unemotional scientist voice of hers—that stupid squinty thing that she hides behind when she doesn't want to face something that she's afraid of. Then she asks, "Do we have the proper paperwork to enter this facility?"

I couldn't even bring myself to answer. For one, I was feeling way too guilty about what she'd just revealed, and second, I was still processing.

"Bones," I began slowly with a frustrated sigh. "What the hell do you think you're saying? How could you think that I don't like you?" I sighed again. I had to remember that this was what she did best: she ran from any situation that might cause her the slightest bit of emotional discomfort. "You know that's not true, it's just you being too weak to face reality."

I couldn't believe that I had just said that to her. Hurt flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by anger. This anger was worse than before. She looked murderous. (No pun intended.) But the anger couldn't fully hide her shock and hurt.

"Weak?" she asked. Her voice sounded so small, I almost broke right there. But I couldn't. It wouldn't help her or me if I stayed silent.

"Yes, weak," I retorted. To be quite honest, I was angry at her. Well, not really at her, more like because of her. I was over her—over her—so the sight to her hurt shouldn't hurt me so much. "The impervious Dr. Brennan can't deal with something, so she either runs away from it or overly logicates it." I smirked, at her, feeling rather proud of myself for standing up to her and giving her the hard facts for once. The look that flashed in her eyes honestly made my life flash before my eyes; it was that scary.

"I. Am. Not. Weak." She said, pronouncing each word carefully. Her eyes flashed up at me in pure anger. "I am an intelligent, successful woman who has overcome many adversities to get to this point. I have a career—forensic anthropology of the body as a whole unit—that is my life. I have traveled to lands that you cannot even pronounce and have lived off nothing for months—even years. I have led the scientific world ever since I entered it." She leveled her eyes at me. "So, I may be socially inept, emotionally ignorant, and my heart may be impenetrable, but I am not weak."

If I'd been thinking clearly, I would have refuted her evidence—I would've told her that she was perfect and she never needed to change. But I was too into the argument—I was just too angry—so I wasn't thinking clearly, and once again, I didn't say the right thing.

"And for all that Temperance," I said pointedly—angrily, pronouncing her first name carefully, "what will you have left when you can't be a scientist anymore? When you die?"

And just like that, looking at the hurt in her eyes that even she couldn't hide, I realized that I'd gone too far. She sucked in a breath and looked up at me in shock. She couldn't even summon anger to mask it. In that one moment to silence, I read all the emotions raging under her anger, and I wanted nothing more than to take back my words—to take back everything since I'd returned from Afghanistan.

"Bones—" I said, reaching out to her. But she shied away from me, looking dazed and confused.

"No," she whispered in a broken voice, backing up as fast as she could. She backed up so fast that she hit the brick wall of the suspect's home. Her head slapped against the brick and I winced in pain with her. Her eyes got all blurry looking, and she was stumbling for a moment. I went forward to steady her, but then she yelled louder, "No! Stay away from me!" And then she turned and fled in the other direction. Acting on reflex—the same one that had prompted me to save her life again and again—I reached out and caught her wrist in my hand.

"Bones," I started, trying to explain—to apologize. Her other hand came up and slapped my face. She jerked my arm from my grasp. For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. Her eyes were wild with panic, as if she thought that I would physically hurt her. The thought made me sick.

"Booth," she said quietly in an almost drunken voice, like she couldn't focus, "I am going to take a walk and call someone else for a ride home. Do not follow me, just get in the car and go home." With that, she turned on her heel and left, stumbling all the way.

For about a minute and a half, I just stood there, unable to more. It was so much to process, finally seeing what my partner felt. The way I'd been treating her was inexcusable. I wanted to slap myself for not realizing it sooner. And speaking of slapping, I moved my jaw and tasted blood. Well, Bones sure wasn't physically weak, that's for sure.

Thinking of Bones brought back the memory of her head slapping against that brick wall, and the way she'd stumbled away afterwards. That was about five minutes ago now. I knew she wouldn't appreciate me following her, but I was too worried about her to care. I took off in the general direction I'd watched her go.

"Bones," I called softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Bones!"

I called over and over, but there was no answer. Just then, my cell phone rang.

"Booth," I answered immediately.

"What the hell did you do, Seeley?" It was Angela and boy was she mad.

"Angela, thank God!" I didn't care that she was angry at me—in the back of my mind I knew I deserved it—I was just relieved. If Angela knew something was up, then that meant that Bones had called her, and if Bones had been able to make the call, that meant she was fine. "Did you talk to Bones? Is she okay?"

"Yeah I talked to her," Angela said, "but she's not okay. She was sobbing when she called me, then she started moaning like she was trying to talk, but she couldn't get the words out. Then there was silence. I'm almost there now." She paused. "Booth, what happened?"

"I think something's really wrong," I managed to get out. "I have to go look for her. I'll call the ambulance."

"Wait, Booth," Angela said. "She said she was by a road."

A road. And I knew where she was.

"Thanks, Ange," I said in relief, and then I hung up to be ready to call 911. I was already running down the road when not 100 yards from the suspect's house when I saw her. She was unconscious and laying on the side of the road in the shelter of a small grove of trees.

"Bones!" I yelled, even though I knew she wouldn't answer. Whipping out my phone, I dialed 911.

"Emergency Response, how may I help you?"

"I have an unconscious woman. She hit her head and stumbled off. I just found her."

"What is your location?" the responder asked immediately. I related it as best as I could. "Someone will be there within five minutes. In the mean time, make her as comfortable as you can, and keep talking to her. I'll stay on the phone until the ambulance arrives."

"Thank you," I said. Then I set the phone down and took off my suit jacket. Folding it up, I placed it under her head. I looked into her face and noticed that it seemed thinner than usual, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

Making sure that she was comfortable, I began to talk to her.

"Look Bones," I began, "I know I've been really horrible to you. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. And everything I just said to you? It was terrible of me, Bones. I had no right to say any of it. So guess what? You have to wake up so you have the chance to get me back. Wake up so you can hit me again. Wake up for Angela and Hodgins and their baby—she has to know her Aunty Bones. Wake up for all your interns—they depend on you to learn, Bones. Wake up for Max and Russ—I don't know what Max would do without you. Wake up… for me. Please, Bones. I love you."

The sound of tires made me look away from the broken woman in my arms. It was Angela and Hodgins. I got up and waved them down. As soon as the car stopped, Angela was out of the passenger's side.

"How is she?" she asked. Then she caught sight of Bones. "Oh my… Bren!" She rushed over to her friend. "What happened, Booth?"

"We were arguing," I answered. "It was so stupid. Then, I went too far and said something even more stupid." I paused, trying to get it out. It was even harder than I'd thought it would be. "She was trying to get as far away from me as possible, Ange. She backed up against the wall and slapped her head. Then she ran away."

She took a moment to process this. Finally, she spoke.

"What did you say Booth?"

Could I even answer that question?

"I s-said," my voice broke, but I took a deep breath and willed myself to continue, "I said, we were arguing and I was angry and I said… I said, 'What will you have left when you can't be a scientist anymore? When you die?'"

And she just looked at me in shock. Then I heard the Ambulance sirens approaching.