The Hole in the Team
By Ralkana

Disclaimer -- Bones is owned by Josephson Entertainment and Far Field Productions, in association with 20th Century Fox Television, based on the novels by Kathy Reichs. I own none of it, but if someone wants to give me Agent Booth for Christmas, I think I could be persuaded.

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Timeline -- An alternate version of the first few scenes of The Pain in the Heart. WARNING: Spoilers! Do not read if you haven't seen The Wannabe in the Weeds, or The Pain in the Heart!

A/N -- The synopsis is a quote by Oscar Wilde. Some dialogue has been taken directly from The Pain in the Heart.

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Temperance and Zack discussed the remains she'd pulled from limbo, the little evidence they had. The bones felt solid in her hands, something to concentrate on.

The lab was quiet, as it had been for the last two weeks. It was mostly deserted, except for Zack, and she refused to think about why. It was a day like any other, the way it would be from now on.

"The carbon isotopic composition of the collagen shows a value of minus sixteen percent," she told Zack, grateful for his presence, for his dedication to his work. The work was what mattered.

"Supporting the theory that the deceased was born in Provence, France," Zack hypothesized.

She felt the others as they neared the table. Surrounding her. She nodded, ignoring them. "In the 16th century."

"It's time, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said, his voice soft but firm.

She refused to look at him. At any of them. She knew they thought they were helping. They were not. "The metacarpal phalangeal joints are smooth, showing dexterity, perhaps a musician..."

Cam's voice was firm, cutting through Temperance's defiance. "That's enough. We're going. Now."

Fury bubbled up at Cam's authoritative tone, and Temperance clamped down on it. "I have remains to identify. He could have a family."

She refused to think about his family. Mourning. Grieving.

Angela sighed. "He's five hundred years old. They've probably adjusted by now."

"I'm not going. I've already made that clear." If they wanted to participate in antiquated rituals, if they thought it would help them feel better, then that was their choice. It wasn't going to help her. She refused to take part in such nonsense.

"It's Agent Booth's funeral, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said, as though she didn't know. "Losing a loved one is -- "

"A partner, Sweets. I lost a partner." He was just a partner. Losing a loved one could destroy you. She knew that. He was just a partner.

"Someone close to you," Sweets continued doggedly, and she wanted to punch him, just to get him to shut up. Didn't he see that she wasn't going? Why were they insisting? "A funeral allows you to grieve, so you can come to terms with his death -- "

Come to terms. How? By watching them bury him? Throw dirt over him? "The Arunta aboriginal tribe in Australia grieve by burning down their village, and -- and moving to a new one. That seems no crazier to me than gathering around a hole in the ground!" she argued. Funeral rites were for the comfort of the living, not the dead. She didn't need comfort.

Sweets kept talking. No wonder Booth always wanted to hit him.

The thought rocked her. Booth didn't want anything. Not anymore.

"Brennan, a -- a word." Angela pulled her aside, and she went without protest. Too tired to resist.

"Look. I know how you see things, and I respect that, but... I need to ask you a favor." Angela's voice was soft, tears just under the words.

She pulled out something colorful. Something with the American flag and his picture. Temperance quickly looked away from the smiling photo. Looking into Angela's distressed face was no easier.

"I have to go to the funeral. I'm not going to be able to get through this alone. I've been crying for, like, days. I really need your shoulder here."

Temperance sighed. This was what happened when you cared about people. Their emotions affected you. Moved you to action you hated.

"I need my best friend," Angela told her, and even as she grudgingly nodded, the pain knifed through her again. Angela was her best friend. Had been one of two. Now, she only had the one.

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By the time she agreed to go with them, it was too late for them to attend the funeral mass.

She was grateful. The graveside service was going to be hard enough. She couldn't have sat through a church service that focused on commending Booth into the arms of the God who'd let him die.

Her eyes were drawn against her will to the gleaming flag-covered casket as the pallbearers slowly made their way from the hearse to the grave.

There was no reason for her to be here. He was dead. She knew it. Why did they insist on this? Why did they need to reinforce his death with this pointless posturing? She shifted from foot to foot, fighting the urge to flee, and Angela grabbed her hand. Temperance couldn't tell if it was for support or to keep her from retreating.

She tried to focus on the significance of the military rituals as the chaplain spoke, and the flag was removed, folded, and handed to Booth's mother. Her focus was shaky. She found herself wondering what he'd been buried in. Uniform? A suit? Who'd chosen his tie? His belt buckle? His socks?

Tears filled her eyes at the thought of his lifeless body, forever trapped in a plain tie and plain socks. She blinked them away and concentrated on Caroline Julian, who was preparing to give a eulogy.

Caroline's irrepressible spirit was muted, her colorful clothes replaced by the black of mourning.

"I knew Seeley Booth," she started, a beautiful white rose held in her fingers. "He was a good man, who earned my respect and affection. And I don't like many people. Booth had a selfless commitment to his work, first in the military, and then the FBI."

Selfless. Was it selfless to leave behind so many grieving people? Was it noble?

"Two weeks ago, he made the ultimate sacrifice, giving his life to save his partner," Caroline continued, and Temperance felt the gaze of everyone shift to her.

I didn't want this! she wanted to shout. I never asked him to! She bit her lip to keep her silence.

"And in that brave act, he showed us what greatness we are all capable of."

Stupid! He was stupid! "That woman was aiming at me; I would have happily taken that bullet," she argued.

Angela squeezed her hand. "I know," she said quietly.

Caroline stepped forward to place her rose on Booth's casket. "May God's mercy and love shine on Seeley Booth as he takes his place beside the Lord."

"If there were a merciful God, why wouldn't he have saved Booth?" She couldn't help the objection that burst from her. How could his family rationalize his death this way?

Angela squeezed her hand again. "Sweetie, this is not the time."

"Angela -- "

"Please."

She subsided with difficulty, the rage bubbling within her as the honor guard prepared to salute him.

With gunfire. She breathed deeply. She would never hear a gunshot again without hearing the screams. Watching him fall.

The gunshots never came. There were gasps and cries of horror as several of the pallbearers -- agents Booth had worked with -- converged on one man standing in the shade at the edge of the crowd. There was a scuffle as he dragged two of his attackers down. The others drew weapons, but did not fire, afraid of hitting their fellow agents.

The scuffle rolled across the ground, closer to Booth's -- closer to the grave, and there was a crash as they hit the casket and it fell to the ground, popping open.

Angela flinched, burying her face into Jack's chest, not wanting to see Booth's body defiled this way. Temperance stared, unable to process what she was seeing, as the cries of disbelief and anger escalated.

The casket was empty. Well, not empty. There was some sort of mannequin or dummy in it, roughly Booth's size.

The scuffle ended, and two of the men in suits dragged away the other man, reading him his rights as he continued to struggle between them. Deputy Director Cullen followed close behind them.

"What the hell is going on?" Angela asked quietly, but Temperance had no response. The mourners stared in shocked silence at the spilled casket and the fake body.

Booth's mother sobbed by the graveside, clutching the flag she'd been handed, and there were more shocked cries as she appeared to collapse. Several men sprang forward to support her, gently leading her to one of the chairs nearby.

"Oh, God, that's his mother," Angela breathed, pulling Temperance by the hand. "Come on."

"Wait!" Temperance protested, as Angela dragged her closer. She had no idea what Angela expected them to do. "Angela, stop!"

The breath caught in her throat as one of the men supporting the keening woman looked up. Her lips parted to say his name, and then her brain caught up with her heart.

It wasn't him. She'd avoided looking at the other mourners, especially the pallbearers and his family, or she'd have seen him earlier. His facial structure was very similar, but this man was younger, with lighter eyes, and lighter hair. His face wore an expression of anger so similar to her partner's that it took her breath away.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded as Cullen returned to the graveside. "Where is my brother?"

Several men in uniform crowded behind Booth's brother, also demanding answers.

"I know you all must have many questions," Cullen said, raising his voice to be heard above their demands. "If we could all just head back to the chapel, we'll be able to get your questions answered."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where my brother is!"

Cullen glanced at the furious group around him and sighed. "The man we arrested has been a threat to national security for several years. Comments he made around the time he went into hiding led us to believe that Agent Booth's funeral was our best -- if not only -- opportunity to catch him."

"You turned Booth's funeral into a government operation?" Hodgins' voice held the suspicion and anger it always held when he discussed government conspiracies. "I knew there was something going on when you wouldn't let us see his body!" He looked at Cam. "Didn't I tell you?"

She nodded, light dawning in her eyes.

"Where is my son?" Booth's mother clutched the flag tightly in her hands, and though her voice shook and her face was wet with tears, her determination to get answers was clear. It was easy to see where Seeley and Jared had gotten their stubbornness.

Cullen sighed again. "Agent Booth's injury was an opportunity for us to engineer a scenario we could use to our advantage," he said.

"Injury?" Jared pounced on the word, his arm tightening around his mother.

"Agent Booth is alive," Cullen said, clearly giving in. The reaction was instantaneous and shocked, as murmurs and gasps spread through the crowd like wildfire.

Temperance heard Angela's surprised intake of breath, but she couldn't look at her friend. She stood frozen, Cullen's words reverberating through her brain, and it was only when Angela murmured, "Breathe, sweetie," that she remembered to, and her breath came in a great, shuddering gasp.

"Hah! And you told me I was paranoid!" Hodgins' voice was filled with triumph.

"Shut up, Jack," Angela said, her voice tearful. "Booth's alive!"

Cullen's glance slid once more to the chapel up the hill, and suddenly, Temperance knew. Not waiting for further clarification, she started up the hill, ignoring Cullen's halting attempts at explanation, hampered by even more demands by Booth's friends and family.

Angela was calling her name behind her, but she ignored it, picking up speed until she was practically running by the time she hit the chapel doors. The crowd was behind her now, hurrying towards the chapel, but she had a head start on them.

The doors flew open and she burst into the chapel. Booth was making his way carefully down the stairs from the choir loft, but he looked up, startled, as she came in.

He was pale and thin, his face drawn, dark circles under his eyes. He moved gingerly, favoring his right side, a pair of high powered binoculars in his left hand. All her observations flew through her mind lightning fast, and when he smiled, everything hit her all at once.

"Bones," he said tentatively, and her vision of him blurred as tears filled her eyes. Guilt and hope and relief and rage battled within her. Her rage was clean, and uncomplicated, and it won.

The sound of her fist's impact with his face shocked her, and she jumped back with a gasp even as he stumbled and fell, crying out as he hit the stairs. He tried to brace himself with his right arm and it collapsed beneath him, dropping him further to the ground.

"What the hell?" Jared came skidding into the chapel, his eyes wide as he caught a glimpse of his brother on the ground. Temperance watched in horror as the mourners crowded into the narthex, cutting off her avenue of escape. Their shocked gazes moved from where Jared was helping Seeley up to her, and she whirled away, striding up the center aisle toward the altar and the chance of exits there.

All exits were blocked by unsmiling agents with wrath in their eyes, their faces hard and unforgiving. They made no move to intercept her, but neither would they let her out. She heard raised voices and it drew her reluctant attention back to the narthex, where Jared was clearly arguing with his brother and gesturing towards her.

The words were lost to her in the echoes of the chapel, but she heard when his voice broke, and his brother pulled him into a clumsy, one-armed embrace.

Temperance watched, emotions boiling just beneath the surface, as he hugged his mother, burying his face in her hair as she sobbed against his chest. He awkwardly shook hands left-handed with his army buddies, nodding and smiling apologetically at other mourners. Betrayal added to the mix as Angela and Cam moved forward to hug him, both wiping tears from their cheeks as they stepped away. He shook Hodgins' hand, returning the man's smile, and he even nodded at Zack and Sweets, a half-smile on his face.

How could they just accept this? He'd lied to them! All of them! He'd let them go through two weeks of hell without even a phone call! Every night she'd awakened, crying out, from dreams where the panic and fear in his eyes faded to nothingness as his life slid, wet and hot and slippery, through her fingers. She'd spent hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling, seeing his cold, lifeless body on a steel table, precise incisions ruthless and obscene on his bloodless skin.

Her breath caught in a sob, and she sank onto a pew, watching as he argued again with his brother before turning to her. He moved toward the altar, even more gingerly than before, and she didn't have it in her to flee. She wasn't even sure her legs would support her. The rage slid away, leaving breathless astonishment in its wake. He was in pain, it was clear, but he was alive. Alive.

Booth was alive.

He slid into the pew beside her, swallowing a grunt of pain.

"Hell of a shot, Bones," he said, staring up at the altar.

She couldn't speak. He was so near she could hear his breathing, feel the heat of his body beside her. It was overwhelming, and she held herself stiffly, refusing to look at him. When she felt him finally turn his head to concentrate his gaze on her, she closed her eyes.

"Bones," he pleaded. "Temperance. Please look at me. I need to explain."

She shook her head jerkily. "No," she bit out. "You don't."

"Yes. Please, Bones."

Gritting her teeth, she opened her eyes and turned to look at him. His eyes held regret, and sorrow, and she looked away. Her gaze fell on his chest, and she sucked in her breath.

His light colored shirt was marred with blood. Not a great deal of it, but it was there.

"You -- you're bleeding," she murmured, hating how weak and unstable her voice sounded.

"I think I popped a couple stitches when I fell," he said, and guilt slammed back into her like a freight train.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said, unable to look away from the bright stain.

He nodded. "I will. After we talk."

And that was how she knew how much pain he was in. It wasn't in his voice, or in his body language, but he was volunteering to go to the hospital.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally looking up into his eyes. "I shouldn't have done that."

The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile, and her breath caught. Alive. He was alive.

"It was an honest reaction," he said, and when he turned back to where his family and their friends stood, her gaze followed. His brother was frowning at the two of them, but the rest of them were still staring at him, amazement in their eyes. Amazement she knew must be mirrored on her own face.

He'd said something, and she'd missed it.

"Hmm?" she asked, shaking her head to clear it.

"I said, I'm just glad they didn't all have the same honest reaction."

She looked back into his eyes. They were warm, swirling with so many emotions, but all she could see was the fear they'd held as he'd lain dying in her arms.

"Why?" she asked, her voice choked with emotion. She cleared her throat, and tried again. "How could you, Booth?"

He shrugged, winced. "There wasn't a choice, Bones."

"There's always a choice," she argued, and he shook his head.

"Not this time."

She raised an eyebrow. "What?" she asked, disbelief sharpening her tone. "The FBI held you against your will?"

Booth shook his head. "I was given orders. Stop," he added, placing a finger on her lips when she would have objected.

Her arguments vanished. His skin was warm, the scent of him so familiar, and she bit her lip to keep her breath from escaping in a sob.

"I was given orders," he said again. "Even if there'd been phones in the safe house, and even if I'd been willing to risk my job and charges of treason to compromise this op and let you know I was okay, I still wouldn't have disobeyed those orders."

"What the hell was so important, Booth? Who is that man?"

"We tangled several years ago. He threatened me and several other agents, said he'd surface only to spit on our caskets and dance on our graves."

"Melodramatic." She rolled her eyes.

He shrugged, winced again. "Maybe. But he obviously meant it, and we needed to catch him. He went underground back then, got into some very serious shit."

"Like what?"

"It's classified, Bones," he answered, and at her huff of impatience, he added, "Look, you're probably better off not knowing, but please believe me when I tell you that thousands -- maybe tens of thousands -- of lives were at risk. Okay?"

Temperance was torn. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, but the fate of so many unknown lives seemed to pale in comparison to the blinding agony she'd felt since that night, to the grief that had hardened the faces of those she loved, the impotent rage that had silenced their lab, made it a tomb.

Anger flashed in his eyes. "Dammit, do you think I wanted this? You think, what, I had fun?"

His anger sparked her own. "You could have found a way to tell us!"

He deflated, sighing. "You haven't listened to anything I've said, have you?"

"We could have kept it inside wrap," she insisted.

A rueful half-smile kicked up the corner of his lip as he shook his head at her. "Under wraps, Bones. And I'm sorry, but we couldn't compromise the entire operation by depending on the acting abilities of my friends and family and the squint squad. If that bastard was smart, the first thing he did was check to see if my family was really grieving, to gauge if it was a setup."

His eyes darkened, his face tightening. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Do you think I wanted you in pain, Temperance? Do you think I wanted my mother to grieve, my brother to feel guilty that we argued the last time we talked? I did what my country asked me to do -- again -- but I didn't like it. I couldn't concentrate on the setup; I got warned so many times to stay on task that I'm surprised they didn't just give the whole damn thing up and tell me to get the hell out."

He was struggling with his decision, she could see. It was in his eyes, and in his voice, and she knew that he hadn't done what he'd done to hurt her, or his family. He'd done what needed to be done. That was the man he was.

"I... understand why you did it," she said carefully after a moment. "But that doesn't mean... it doesn't mean that the feelings of anger, and..." She groped uselessly for a word to describe what she was feeling.

"Betrayal," he said softly, staring down at his hands.

The feeling knifed through her again as he voiced it, sharp enough to take her breath away and make her blink. "Yes," she answered. "It doesn't mean the feelings of anger and betrayal just disappear."

He reached for her hand and, still reeling, she pulled hers closer into her lap. The look of hurt that sprang into his eyes made him look young, and vulnerable, so like his son. Her breath left her in a gasp of shock.

"Where's Parker?" she asked him.

"Disneyworld, with Rebecca," he said, trying unsuccessfully to mask his hurt at her withdrawal. "They left early in the morning the day after I was injured, to get him far away from all this bullshit." When her eyes narrowed, he sighed. "He's six, Bones. I cooperated fully with the operation, with one request, that my son not know about any of it. I used my one gimme to protect my son, Bones. I'd hope you could understand."

She nodded. She did understand. She was struggling with everything that had happened; there was no way a child Parker's age could ever understand. Fathers protecting their children -- it was something she could comprehend, now.

They sat in silence for a moment more, before Booth sighed.

"I've said everything I can possibly say, and I don't know what else I can do."

"You should get back to your family." She stared up at the altar again.

He nodded. "We're going to get something to eat," he said. "My family. My friends. Come with us?"

She shook her head. She felt brittle, fragile -- a loud celebration, and she felt like she would snap, fly apart. His disappointment was obvious as he got slowly to his feet.

"I missed you, Bones," he said quietly, and he limped back down the aisle.

She stared at the altar, unseeing, blinking back the tears that filled her eyes. She refused to let them fall, refused to watch as he and everyone else left the chapel. It was quiet, and she sat and thought, sifting through emotions and memories.

She jumped when someone sat next to her. She'd thought she was alone.

"Sweetie, what are you doing?" Angela asked, disappointment and confusion in her voice. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing," she said defensively, twisting her hands in her lap.

"The man came back from the dead, you'd think he'd be happy. He looked like you'd killed his puppy!"

"He wasn't dead, Angela. He wasn't dead, and he didn't tell us, he just let us suffer. Doesn't that bother you?"

"He wasn't off fishing in Cabo, Bren -- he was helping catch what sounds like a really bad guy." When Temperance didn't respond, she sighed. "Booth is alive, sweetie. Why aren't you happy? Think about that. He's alive."

She blinked back more tears, remembering how solid and warm he'd felt beside her in the pew. "I know."

"You've spent two weeks falling apart -- "

"I have not -- "

"Yes, you have," Angela interrupted, her voice sharp, and Temperance blinked. Angela's bursts of temper were rare, and always unexpected. "You've been working eighteen hours a day, you haven't been sleeping, or eating, and you've been running away whenever someone says his name, Bren!"

It was easier. It was easier to build up the wall of anger, Temperance realized. If she could just get her walls back in place, she wouldn't let him behind them again. There was too much pain when she did.

"What you're doing now, it's just punishing yourself. And him. Haven't you both been punished enough?" There was no answer, and Angela sighed again. "He's a good man, Bren. He didn't do this to hurt you. Or any of us."

"I know," she murmured. But it hurt all the same.

"I love Jack," Angela told her. "More than anything. Anyone. But if I had the chance to watch Kirk walk through that door, alive, and whole... think about your mom. What would you give for her to come back to you? What you've been given is a gift, Bren. Don't throw it away!"

"Angela, please," she begged. "I just... I need some time to think."

Angela sighed again. "All right. Come on, Jack and I'll drive you home."

"Take me back to the lab. Please," she added, when Angela looked like she'd object. "Please, Ange, I have work to do."

"If that's really what you want. Come on." She pulled Temperance up out of the pew and down the aisle.

As they went through the chapel doors out into the sunshine, Temperance shielded her eyes from the glare. Her gaze was drawn down the hill to the grave site, where workers were dismantling the trappings of the funeral. She looked away, anxious to get back to the lab. Bones were uncomplicated, and that was what she needed now. Something simple.

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Temperance felt herself falling forward, jerking awake instantly. She carefully set down the fragile mandible, afraid she'd damage it in her exhaustion. She rubbed her eyes, blowing out her breath.

The lab was dark and silent, the only light haloed over the table where she worked. She frowned, putting her hands at the small of her back, stretching to try and relieve the tension there.

Her notes were sloppy, her findings inconclusive. She'd been looking over the same bones for hours now. She couldn't concentrate.

The morning seemed far away, a distant dream. With alarm, she shot bolt upright. Was it a dream? Had she progressed beyond nightmares of his death to delusions that Booth was alive? Was she so exhausted that she was dreaming standing up now?

She caught sight of a faint bruise on her knuckles, and her breath left her in a shaky sigh. She wondered if his jaw sported a matching bruise.

Her yawn was big enough to make her eyes water, and her stomach continually rumbled in protest at its emptiness.

She thought of Angela's words. Did she really want to go back to this life? Six, seven days a week of nothing but work? Catnaps on the couch in her office, food only when she became too weak to ignore the hunger, too weak to process the information she was gathering? It was easier, but was it really living?

She tried to summon up the feelings of anger and betrayal she'd felt so sharply that morning, but all she could remember was the terror and panic as she'd begged him not to leave her, as she'd watched the light -- his life -- fade from his eyes. She felt the blood again, slick between their hands as his grip slackened and his hand fell to the floor.

The sob burst from her before she could stop it, and she sank to her knees on the lab's cold tile, clutching the edge of the examination table for support, trying to hold in the whimpers that wanted to burst free.

"Stop it," she ordered herself, but her voice was breathless and weak. "He's alive."

Suddenly, the bruise on her knuckles wasn't enough proof. She needed to see him. To see his eyes and hear his voice.

To hear the nickname she'd once hated so much.

She remembered, as she hurried out of the lab and secured it behind her, when she'd realized that she'd never hear him call her Bones again. It had been in the shower, the day after the doctors had told her he'd died. She'd sunk to the shower floor, letting the water beat over her and wash away the tears she had let no one see. The water ran lukewarm, and then cold, and then frigid, and she'd sat, shivering, for countless minutes, until she'd summoned up the strength to drag herself out, dry herself off, and return to the lab once more.

Traffic was heavy even though it was past midnight, and she was nearly screaming with impatience by the time she pulled up at his home. She knocked on his front door once, and then again, harder, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

There was no answer, and his home was dark. A chill raced down her spine as the doubt resurfaced, stronger this time. Maybe she had been hallucinating. Maybe his home was empty because he was in the ground.

She crouched, her hands shaking as she picked up the fake rock, the one he'd shown her so long ago, when he'd told her if she ever needed a safe place to come, his home was hers. She'd rolled her eyes at the ridiculous hiding place, and he'd ignored her and made her promise to use it if she ever needed to.

Well, she needed to.

The key rattled in the lock as her unsteady hands fought with it. The door flew open at her shove, and she barely caught it before it could slam against the wall.

She hurried through the dark house to his bedroom, Parker's nightlights providing just enough illumination to keep her from tripping over the furniture. It was only when his bedroom door slammed against the wall and he jerked up with a startled cry of pain that she realized what she was doing, that she'd practically shouted his name as she came barging in.

"What the hell, Bones," he said, his voice thick with sleep and pain medication. "I could have shot you."

"You were sound asleep," she retorted automatically, and then her words broke through. "I'm sorry," she said, watching as he scratched sleepily at the skin around the bandage on his chest. "I'll... I'll go."

"Wait!" he demanded, sitting further up and groaning in pain at the movement. "Please, Bones, don't go, okay? Just... can you give me a minute?" He rearranged the sheets more carefully over his waist, and she felt the heat rise in her face.

She suddenly realized how much of his skin she could see through the moonlit window, and she whirled away, facing the hallway. "Yeah," she said quickly. "I'll... I'll be in the living room."

She hurried back down the hall, flipping on the hall light as she went, ordering herself to stop blushing. So her partner slept in the nude. It was nothing for either of them to be embarrassed about. She should be more embarrassed about the fact that she'd burst into his house -- into his bedroom -- uninvited, in a blind panic.

Of course he'd been asleep, she realized. It was after one in the morning, and she'd broken into his home without a thought that most rational people were in bed at this time.

With the hall light on, she could see signs of him now, signs she should have seen when she'd first entered. His keys, wallet, and sunglasses lay on the kitchen table. A sling for his arm was draped over a chair, she noticed with a frown, rather than actually being put to the use for which it was intended. A military duffel bag rested against the wall by the hallway, clothes strewn on the floor around it.

A muffled curse came from his bedroom, and she turned back in that direction. When there was another one followed by a hiss of pain, she retraced her footsteps.

She stood in the doorway, watching him. He sat on the edge of his bed, clad only in a pair of boxers, trying with one hand to carefully remove the bandage on his chest.

"Do you need help?" she asked, and he jumped and swore when the movement ripped the tape off.

"Jesus Christ, Bones, will you stop sneaking up on me? You're going to give me a freaking heart attack!" He glared at her, trying to shake the used bandage off his fingers.

She switched on his bedroom light and came toward him, taking the bandage off his fingers. When she knelt on the bed beside him, he shifted slightly, trying to block her view of his wound.

"I'm fine, Bones," he said tightly.

"Please," she said, picking the adhesive and gauze up from the bed beside him, and he sighed, and shifted back.

The wound was angry, red and puckered, the black stitches neat slashes in the inflamed flesh. Colorful bruising spread out over his chest, and she could see areas that looked more irritated -- the stitches he'd popped earlier, when she'd hit him and he'd fallen.

They were both silent as she smoothed the bandage over his wound. Her hand rested for a moment on the warm skin of his chest, and she closed her eyes as she remembered the last time her hand had lain there, his blood slipping hotly through her fingers.

Would the damn flashbacks never end?

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"Don't be," he told her. "It's just a couple of stitches that got popped. Not a big de -- no?" he asked as she shook her head violently.

She stared at her hand on his chest, refusing to look into his eyes. "You got shot. Because of me."

"No," he said instantly, and she glanced up into his face, startled. "I got shot because of me. Because I didn't take that bitch seriously, because I thought that since she didn't kill Sour, she wasn't a threat. Hell, I know how dangerous stalkers can be -- I've had the training. I had no excuse. I was an idiot, Bones, and that put you in danger."

He took her hand in his, sighing in relief when she didn't pull away this time. "I'm sorry, Bones. Sorry I didn't get the shot off, sorry you had to do it yourself. Sorry you had to take a life."

She felt no remorse for killing Pam Nunan. "She shot you, Booth. She was going to shoot again, either at me or at you. I'd do it again. You shouldn't have jumped in front of me. She probably wouldn't even have hit me at that distance, from that angle."

"Not a chance I'd ever be willing to take."

"You're not my bodyguard, Booth!" she exclaimed. "It is not your job to take bullets for me!"

"I'd do it again," he said firmly, echoing her words as he tightened his hand around hers. "In a heartbeat, Bones."

"Don't," she argued, pulling her hand from his and crossing her arms over her chest. Hugging herself tightly. "Don't ever do it again."

"That's not a promise I can make, Temperance."

Rage shot through her, pulling her to her feet, moving her away from him, from his determination to die for her. "You were dead, Booth. Don't you understand? You died there, in front of me."

"I didn't, Bones. I'm right here."

She faced the window, unable to look at him. "It was hell. I spent the whole time at the lab, and I kept expecting you to come bounding in to tell me we had a case, or to tell me to go sleep, or to tell me to go eat -- " Her voice broke.

There was a rustle behind her as he stood and crossed the room toward her. He caught her hand in his, uncurling her fist until her fingers were linked in his own.

"Come on," he said, "Sit down here with me."

She did, staring down at their linked fingers. "Cam requested your autopsy reports," she told him, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. "They told her the case was still under investigation. She told me, expecting me to be as angry at the Bureau's stalling as she was."

She shrugged. "I was relieved. I didn't want to see them."

"My favorite empiricist? Refusing scientific evidence?" Booth joked, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

"I didn't want to see," she repeated. "Didn't want to see the autopsy results, didn't want to see a case report... I didn't want to talk about it with Sweets, or with Angela. I didn't want to go to your funeral."

"Funerals are useless, right?" he said tightly. "Antiquated rites and all that."

She shook her head. "I didn't want to see them put you in the ground," she whispered. "It would have been proof. I didn't want proof. I didn't want it to be real."

"Oh, Bones," he sighed, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against his uninjured side. "God, I'm so sorry."

"I know," she sniffled. "I know you are. All day long, I was trying to be mad at you, because I don't want to let you in again. It hurts too much, Booth. But, God, I'm so happy you're alive."

"Me too," he said, and it was the tears she could hear in his voice that undid her. She buried her face in his chest and let the tears fall.

He said nothing as he held her, rocking her gently, and she felt his own tears in her hair. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, and she cried out her grief and relief and anger, until she felt weak and empty.

They sat in silence for several moments, and she felt his heartbeat begin to pick up. His breathing roughened, and she suddenly became aware of how closely she was pressed against his nearly naked body. His skin was warm, his body firm and toned. She took a deep breath, breathing in the familiar scent of him she'd missed so much, and unease shot through her, closely mingled with a host of emotions she didn't want to think about. She pulled back, looking up into his eyes.

She looked away quickly when she saw that same maelstrom of emotions swirling in his eyes as well.

"I should go," she said softly, and his hand tightened on hers.

"Don't," he whispered.

"Booth -- "

"Just... stay. Please. Just to sleep. I know you're exhausted, Bones. I just... I missed my partner."

She knew he used the word purposely to re-establish some distance between them, and she was gratetul. The thought of returning to the empty apartment where she'd grieved over him did not appeal to her in the slightest. It was cold, and lonely, exactly the opposite of his lived-in, comfortable home. She could stay, at least until he fell asleep. After that, she'd leave. Or, at least, she'd move to the couch.

She let go of his hand, felt him stifle whatever he was going to say. She crossed to the doorway and switched off the light, leaving the room bathed in moonlight once more. Kicking off her shoes, she settled against his headboard while he gingerly moved to slip under the sheets once more.

"Lay down," he murmured, and she could see he was just as exhausted as she was.

"In a minute," she answered. She reached for his hand, linking their fingers once more, and she was glad the moonlight gave her only a glimpse of what flashed in his eyes at the gesture. "Sleep," she told him.

She watched him try to fight it off, but he was still weak, and tired, and the remnants of pain medication in his system finally got the better of him. His eyes slipped closed and his grip on her hand loosened, and she fought the flash of panic.

His steady breathing calmed her. He was fine. He was safe, he was alive, and he was going to recover. She frowned. Tomorrow, she would get him to reveal the extent of his injuries. She had no idea if it was likely -- or even possible -- for him to continue his work as a field agent. The idea that he'd have to give up his work distressed her, and she pushed it out of her mind.

For now, she was just too tired to worry anymore. His gentle snores finally lulled her into the sleep that had eluded her for two weeks. She drifted off, a grateful smile on her face.

END

A/N 2: I hated the finale. Pretty much all of it. Except for how hot Booth looked. At this point, I really have no idea how to deal with the Gormogon aspects of it, nor am I sure I have any desire to try and fix that mess. I could, however, try to fix the beginning. The story the writers gave us was weak, and obviously not thought through. I hated Brennan's reaction, hated everyone else's lack of reaction, hated the way Booth was grappling on the ground two weeks after he sustained a serious enough injury for them to believe he'd died from it. I hated the way they turned what could have been a huge chance for emotional growth into a cheap ratings stunt. What kind of secret goverment plan has a list like Booth's? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? I know I am a crap actress, and there is no way I could convincingly fake grief if someone said, "Quick! Your best friend/mother/cousin is supposed to be dead! Act like it! It's a matter of national security!" I had to fix it. I hope that I did, even a little bit.