Title: Lost and Found

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Rating: This one is rated M. The whole story will be rated the same.

Summary: With a hefty price put on Booth's head after he puts Columbian drug dealers in prison, he is forced to flee with his son once the child's mother is murdered. Brennan takes the news of his departure with drastic consequence.

A/N: I think I like this one more than Captive Souls. I have a lot of stories in the pipeline but this one has caught my attention because I can play a lot. Let me know if you like.


They told him there was a threat upon his life.

Cullen, with his expressionless monotone explained with brutal honesty that, after busting an international drug ring from Columbia and ensuring fifteen men were convicted under US law, a price would be paid for his head.

"They found Rebecca," he whispered to her, his head pressed against her doorframe as though he were a defeated and broken man, "in her home, shot four times. Once through the head." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the tangible silence. "Parker was with his babysitter in Arlington… but there is no doubt in anyone's mind that, had he been with his mother, he'd surely be dead too." His fingers flexed, tugging on the collar of his shirt. "They want to hurt me, Bones, as that means murdering my family, one by one. Cullen thinks I should take Parker and get out of here."

Temperance Brennan blinked, her arms crossed over her torso, her eyes turning to hardened stone. Granite. Impassive and dark. "I don't understand what you're telling me, Booth," she said, tapping the toe of her shoe against the floor. Her back ached, her spine stiffened and all her muscles tensed into hard bunches.

"I have to leave Washington," Booth said, his eyes swirling, the colour of milky coffee in the muted light of her hallway. "Cullen thinks it's best…"

"What does Cullen know?" Brennan snapped. "What about my friends? Are they safe? They helped to convict these people too, you know…" Booth was still for a long moment before lifting his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers over her silken jaw line, across her rosy cheeks, blinking with the slow sadness of a melancholy dog.

"This is so like you, Temperance," he said, his knuckle grazing her ear. It took all her resolve not to tremble in response to his touch. A touch she'd become dangerously accustomed to. "You did the majority of the work in finding evidence to convict these bastards, yet you aren't concerned for your own welfare. That is so you," he repeated, his fingers lacing in her air, in the way an expert weaver might weave silk. "Lovely, selfless Temperance." She shook herself free of him, filled with hurt and fury that no amount of nice words could erase.

"And what are you? Selfish Seeley? How dare you turn up at my home and tell me you're leaving. How…" she sucked a quivering breath into her lungs, burning her throat as she did. "You told me it would take… how did you phrase it? Oh yes, 'an apocalypse' before you would leave. I hardly call a few blood thirsty men an apocalypse." Booth reached for her again, missing her by inches when she sidestepped him.

"I have to. For my son. He's in danger…" he tried to explain, easing the door shut behind him as he stepped out of the hallway and into her home. "Surely you understand…?" She turned her back on him, striding across the living room to the window, her body rigid with anger as she folded her arms again, listening as the wind howled through the buildings on her street and the rain plummeted with terminal intensity. It was cold outside and inside.

"I understand that you are a coward," she bit, her tone sounding like broken glass. "That you're willing to sacrifice…," she swallowed, "our partnership because you don't want to fight anymore." Booth sighed, watching as her shoulders lifted, almost touching her ears as she tried to block out the fury she felt. He had hurt her with a blow tantamount to pulling her heart from her chest, but as he thought of his son, vulnerable little Parker, unable to understand why his mother had been murdered, he knew that he had to put his little boy first. Brennan would understand too. He knew she would.


"Leave, Booth. Just… leave." She sounded defeated, her voice a breathy whisper as she struggled to revive her dying anger. Instead of taking a step backwards he moved forward with tentative steps, silent like a stealthy cat. She was trained in martial arts, educated in how to sense an approaching predator. Her skills did not let her down, tonight. "I can hear you, do not touch me, Booth." The broken glass was sharpened now, carrying the same threat as titanium knives.

He was perhaps a coward when it came to running away, protecting his son. But he was not afraid of her. She could unleash any number of dangerous moves on him, leave his bones broken and his head in a mess, but a determination had taken residence in his body and all he wanted was to comfort her, soothe away her pain and promise that he'd return to her, their partnership, as soon as he was safe to do so.

"Bones…" An extremely petulant part of her mind barked out a command that he not call her 'Bones'. She hadn't said it in months. She hadn't wanted to, because she'd grown accustomed to it. To him. To them. "Okay," he whispered, so close to her back that he could feel the pulsating heat radiate from her body, "Temperance, then. Temperance, I'm sorry…" He was. He'd never been so sorry for anything in his life. Not even for what he'd done as a sniper. It ravaged his soul, knowing that this wonderful woman, who had trusted him implicitly, was hurt because of him.

His hand touched her waist, and her whole body tightened, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She didn't turn, nor did she warn him that if he advanced any further she would break his arm. She was more than capable of it. But her anger did not, could not, dissuade him, now. He had touched her, felt the warmth of her skin beneath the white silk shirt she wore.

His thumb traced a circle, as though he were trying to comfort her, when in reality, he was drinking in the feel of her body, soft yet firm beneath his touch. Like an addict, it wasn't long before he wanted more. Required more. He pulled the hem of her shirt up, exposing the smooth skin there and he rubbed a callous thumb across the waist. From behind, he could have assumed with almost certainty that she was seconds away from cutting his arm off. But as he glanced over her shoulder, he caught her reflection in the glass and saw the glazed impassiveness that had come over her spectacular eyes. He could only assume that she was lost in his touch.

As if of its own accord his hand had slipped around her waist entirely, stroking across the toned plane of her belly. Her image in the glass swallowed and her nostrils flared a little as she pulled a breath through her nose. He stepped closer, his body perfectly aligned with hers, the hard wall of his chest pressed against her back. It was almost as though her body betrayed her mind, for she leaned into him, yet her jaw remained tense.

"Your breathing changes," he whispered, his mouth against her ear.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, tensing when his hands slipped over her biceps, unfolding them her tight arms, stroking his palms along her forearms.

"Your breathing changes," he repeated. "I can tell when you're not angry anymore." He could, for instead of drawing deep, long breaths into her lungs, she inhaled infrequently, as though she were savouring each breath inside her body. Or she forgot to breathe entirely.

"I hate you for what you're doing to me," Brennan whispered, her eyes staring straight ahead at the blackened windows of the building opposite.

"What? For leaving or for what I'm doing to your body?" His hands had taken a lengthy trail over her arms, her waist, and now rested dangerously close to her breasts, straining against her shirt.

"Leaving," she growled, her fingers clenched into fists. "And for what you're doing to me…" He understood this. How could he touch her, make her feel the way she felt, now that he was going to leave? He pressed his lips to her ear, drawing his tongue over the soft, fleshy lobe. "You should stop now," Brennan said, shifting as if she were going to move. Booth's arms tightened, holding her in place. If she really wanted to, she could easily have eluded him. But her protests were compulsory in moments of anger. It didn't make them true.

When he touched her breasts, she melted into him, and the anger and hesitation evaporated in an instant, his hands kneading the flesh as though he wanted nothing more than to remember how she felt to his touch. The way she responded to him made his penis harden within his pants and a fiery urgency claimed his body.

He tore at her shirt, unbuttoning the garment with the speed and dexterity of a hungry man. He saw her nipples in the window, dark and tight as they pressed against her simple lace bra, standing to attention, craving his barbaric touch. When his palms skimmed across the bullet points, she arched her hips, thrusting her ass into his crotch and encountering the hard ridge of his penis.

There was a strange awareness of what they were doing, touching and fondling in front of the window, but he was addicted to the pure lust he saw in her reflection, the unselfconscious way in which her features begged for him. He pulled aside the lacy cup of her bra, pinching and rolling her nipple until the puckered flesh was inflamed and hot.

"Booth…?" she whispered, her hand covering his, urging him own, showing him exactly how she wished to be touched. It would be their only time, after all. Tomorrow he'd be gone, and there would be no more perfect sex. No more arousal throbbing between her thighs.

He slipped in front of her, bending to take the nipple into his mouth, wondering at how hard it felt against his tongue. She stroked his hair, whispering his name and begging him not to torture her. He wanted to make it last forever, to never leave the soft, malleable body that responded to readily to his touches.

He left a wet trail along her chest as he moved his kisses to her other breast, offering the same attentions to the second nipple. She sank to her knees, pulling him over her, undressing with the desperation of a dying woman. Perhaps she was dying. He saw dark, lasting sadness in her eyes when her gaze met his, her hands furiously tearing her remaining clothes off before turning her attentions to his.

When he finally thrust into her body, she felt the pain ebb away for the smallest amount of time as he moved inside her, filling her completely, making her aware of nothing but how he stretched her and made her feel, in a strange, overly romantic way, complete.

She hooked her legs behind him, thrusting her body up to meet his, her nails digging into his shoulders, tearing at his bronzed skin, words of delight spilling from her lips as she thrust.

He was mesmerised by her breasts, their heavy weight moving in tandem to her frantic thrusts. He wrapped his arm around her back, pulled her towards him and sucked a nipple beneath her teeth, listening with pure joy as she cried out, quivering around him when he bit down on the tiny nub. His own release came seconds later, coaxed by her rippling walls, milking him, tightening around his penis.

"I hate you," she hissed, thumping her hand against his shoulder, trembling amidst her climax. "I hate you. I hate you. I love you. Why are you doing this?" She was sobbing, her chest tight with her efforts. He stroked her head, smoothing her soft hair and she buried her face in his shoulder, soaking his skin with her salty tears.

"I'll come back for you, Temperance. I will never leave you." She pulled away from him, as if burned.

"Hypocritical bastard," she hissed. "You are leaving me! You make love to me, and don't tell me you don't love me, and then you leave!" Booth reached for her, but she was gone again.

"I do love you," he agreed. "And I will come back."

It didn't matter what words he spoke, or how he soothed her, but she permitted him into her bed anyway. And they touched and caressed and fondled beneath the sheets, exploring and tasting until he was certain he knew every crevice of her body and she knew his.

But when she woke in the morning, he was gone, retreating into hiding and leaving her with only the memory of their single night together.

The fourth of November.