Okay everyone, I have another oneshot to introduce. This one originally was inspired by a bones podcast I always enjoy listening to, Squint Squad (check it out, people! Find it on iTunes.). In one of the recent episodes, the two hosts, Crystal and Logan, issued a bit of a fanfiction challenge: to reveal what we thought might have been the letter that Brennan wrote while buried underground in Aliens in a Spaceship. Eventually, it morphed into a full-fledged oneshot. As I had written the story portion, I had actually initially it to be somewhat angsty. Instead, it turned into almost a fluff piece, or at least at the end it did. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know how you felt about how I started writing it about halfway through, more driven by individual thoughts and actions then the big picture. I suppose I was sort of experimenting with style. But hey, maybe nobody will be able to tell! Either way, give me an honest opinion!

Oh, and thanks a million to my beta, BXBForever, and the other two writers who offered to help beta, Dr. Temperance Brennan and crearealidad.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything having to do with any of the characters mentioned in this story, nor do I own the previous storylines hinted at by it. I do, however, own- and take full responsibility for- the actual story. But nothing else. So there.

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The lights were going out throughout the Jeffernsonian Institute, indicating to its employees that it was time to go. Seeley Booth knew that if he needed to keep the overhead lights on in Dr. Temperance Brennan's office, he would have to find the access panel and figure out her code, so he started to rummage through her desk a little bit faster. If he didn't get that file to Cullen by six tomorrow morning, he was dead meat.

If I was a boring casefile written up by Bones, where would I be? Where would she put me? The hypothetical scenario didn't help the predicament; she was still on the flight coming back from Israel, and the file still wasn't in his hand.

And the lights just went out.

Growling in frustration, Booth pulled out his keys and turned on the penlight he kept attached. He groped for the wall looking for the keypad, avoiding the display case she kept next to it. After trying nearly two dozen different possible number combos she may have chosen, he struck gold. The lights flickered back on.

Unfortunately, he still didn't know where the paperwork was. It wasn't in the file cabinet in the corner; in wasn't in any of the desk drawers. Sighing, Booth dropped to his hands and knees pulling out a box beneath the case. I might as well look here.

The faded flower pattern on the box looked dusty, as if it had been there untouched for at least a couple of years. It struck him that the papers were probably not in it, and that he was invading her personal privacy, but curiosity took a hold on him and he lifted the cardboard lid.

It was stuffed with random junk- at first glance, Booth saw a battered old copy of a Jane Austen novel, a stack of scribbled-on post-its, two wristwatches, an old wooden yo-yo. And then- what is that?

He didn't touch it, afraid he would crack the brittle leather, but there it was, clear as day: her mother's belt. The rusted dolphin buckle rested next to a small unwrapped christmas box, glinting faintly in the light. There was something unsettling about seeing something so precious to his partner in this box seemingly full of everyday objects. He knew that if he had had something like that somewhere, it would mean something.

Now he really was invading her personal privacy. Booth had just been replacing the lid when something caught his eye.

Folded in half, a yellowed sheet of paper was tucked into the corner of the box. Normally something like that wouldn't have attracted Booth's attention, but this particular page had one visible word printed on it.

BOOTH.

This could not go ignored, no matter how big a breach in privacy it was. What about him possibly could have earned its way into this box? Very delicately, Booth carefully pulled the page out and examined it. The side that his name was written on appeared to be the copyright page out of any normal book- the edge was torn, as if it had been ripped out hastily, and upon further inspection, it had the publication info for Bred in the Bone. Bones's book? Why is my name on this?

And then he realized that the page was covered in tiny perforations- clearly someone had written on the back of this with a ballpoint pen. He was still unsure if he should flip it over or not. While his head told him that his partner wouldn't like it if he did indeed read it, his gut told him that he would later regret it if he didn't.

And Booth was a man who followed his instincts.

As he opened the paper, a small stream of dirt and pebbles tumbled out. A small patch of something red- blood?- darkened the top corner. Taking a deep breath, Booth began reading.

Booth-

If you are reading this, there is a very probable chance that I am dead, that the Gravedigger has gotten Jack and I. As I write this, our air supply is dipping dangerously low, and I know that I do not have much time to write.

I do not have much time to live.

So, as a final goodbye, if the plan that Dr. Hodgins and I have come up with does not work as we hoped, I am writing this letter to you.

The past two years I have spent working with you have been the most exciting, scary, and rewarding I have experienced in my life. For all of my time here on earth past my childhood, I have spent all of my time in a lab, studying and connecting with none but the dead. When you walked into the picture, however, my outlook on life was turned upside down. You have made me laugh, you have made me cry, and you have been there for me when I truly needed it. If I get out of this alive, I hope to say someday that I can do the same.

At this point, Booth choked up. He lightly touched the last words with his index finger, where a single water splotch- presumably a tear stain- marred the words slightly. It took a minute's gathering of courage to continue reading the page.

I do not believe in any form of reincarnation or life after death.

You do.

For both of our sakes, I hope you are correct, although both my head and gut believe it is not so. My heart, however, is still deciding. I want to believe that someday I will have the chance to see you again.

If Angela was here right now, I am certain that she would be telling me to tell you that I love you.

I wish I could.

I wish we had had a chance, Seeley. If there wasn't the professional barrier that there is now and that there will always be, perhaps something could have been. I am not so irrational, though, to believe that this could have someday been possible. I am just happy that I had you as such a good friend for as long as I did.

Please do not cry at my funeral, if there is one. I do not want to be remembered in sadness, only in esteem, which I should hope I have earned in my life so far. Tell Angela and Russ and everyone else the same.

-Bones

He said nothing, only held a hand over his mouth in shock. How could this have happened? How could he have not seen this before his very eyes. Of course, he felt the same way. There was nothing he could do about it, but...

Oh my god.

I do feel the same way.

That one thought alone was enough to make his entire head spin. If Booth hadn't already been kneeling beside the box, he probably would have sunk to the floor for support anyway, blindsighted by the simple physics of gravitational pull. But he was where he was, and the phrase "I feel the same way" running through his head like a broken record paused all other rational thought and reasoning, froze time into an infinite loop of realizations.

I feel the same way.

She wishes we could have had a chance.

A chance to love, and a chance to live.

She lived.

Another pause.

Screw the file.

Now with body on autopilot, Booth replaced the entire box- save his letter, of course- and managed to pull himself from the ground. Lights off. Door locked. Parking lot. Unlock tahoe.

Go.

Drive.

He refused to allow his mind to butt in. His heart was running this, recklessly and also breaking at least six different traffic laws. No time to pause. Just do it.

After an entire half hour of inward arguments, the car pulled to a halt at the entrance of his destination. Although the signs had been directing Booth to the location he now found himself for the entire drive, he was still shocked to see where he had ended up.

"Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport (DCA)" the sign ahead of him read, "Welcomes you!"

The cold white colors against their grimy metal background seemed so fake, so hypocritical to Booth. If it wasn't for the handy F.B.I. badge he kept all ready for situations like this (this being, of course, demanding to be allowed through every terminal and checkpoint with little to no resistance by the generally horrendous TSA), he might not have made it to the gate in time to just meet Brennan's flight on time. They had been quite rude, actually. Welcome, my foot.

As he stood there, awaiting her arrival through the doors ahead, thoughts of warning still weren't registering. If they had made it to his mind, they might have said things like, Don't do it, Booth! or there is a LINE, remember?. There may have even been a shred of doubt clinging in the back.

And as she made it across the ramp towards the Plexiglas double doors, his heard sped. A lump the size of a ping pong ball lodged in his throat. He was going to do this.

The doors opened; she didn't see him yet. Booth took the opportunity to once again drink in the sight of his partner. The expression her face was a mixture of fatigue and relief- he knew how plane rides did that to her- and a large green canvas carry-on bag was slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

Keeping his eyes trained on her face, he approached. First, a look of surprise. Then, a furtive look of curiosity. His own expression remained completely the same. He took the bag from her; it looked heavy. She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound died in her throat when a large hand swooped in to support the back of her head, when he lowered his own head to a breath's amount of space between their lips. Two sets of eyes closed.

Lips met.

A minute later, the two parted. Travelers from halfway across the globe strode past, ignoring the partners engulfed in their own little world.

She spoke first. "So what was that for?"

He paused. "It was for..." he said, faltering, "It was for never giving up."

And although she had no idea what he meant at the time, Brennan smiled and craned her neck up for another kiss.

"So." she said, "What now?"

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So: honest opinions all around, please. I am still debating whether I will submit this to the podcast peoples, so tell me what you think. Was his reaction too...much? Any choppy sections? Stuff like that.