Weird. I've never written like this before, but that's how it came out. I'm a little stuck on the next chapter of "Shatter" so I wrote this instead. Tell me how you like it. Reviews always welcome.

Disclaimer: I don't claim anything of Bones.

I'm at your apartment. I don't know why. Rationally, I have case files in my hand to bring to you. But I know the files are just an excuse. It would have been easy—and much more efficient—to just email you the papers. But I haven't seen you in a couple of days, and it's lonely. I'm lonely. Not that I'd ever admit it to you.

You open the door and smile that mile-wide smile, but Hannah's face behind your shoulder takes the brightness out of my returning grin. You don't notice. You ask me what I'm doing here, and I wordlessly hold out the files.

"You left them on my desk," I say. "I thought you might want to look over them."

"Thanks, Bones," you reply, taking them. But your eyes are confused because you know I have no reason to be here. You must know, because I know it too. I'm suddenly glad that you opened the door fully clothed and that Hannah seems to have been doing nothing more than washing dishes; anything else, and I might not have been able to take it. But you don't know that, and I'm not admitting that to you, or anyone.

"Anything else?" you ask. There was a time you would have invited me in. There was a time you would have gotten me a drink and insisted I come in to review the files with you, even though we both knew we'd end up talking and watching your TV more than anything else. But not now. Now, you look at me with those still-friendly, but not the same eyes and ask me if there's anything else.

I smile and shake my head. "No. I'll see you tomorrow."

You nod simply and start to shut the door. "Okay. See you later, Bones."

But just before the door closes completely, you suddenly yank it back open, your eyes wide and your right hand reaching across your waist for your gun. I freeze in confusion for just a second before an arm slams into place around my neck, choking me. Instinct kicks in instantly, and I slam my elbow back, scoring a solid hit, but the arm doesn't loosen enough. Before I can move again, something cold presses against my temple.

By your wide eyes, I know already what it is. "Let her go," you say calmly, quietly, but I see the chaos in your eyes. I see the way you shift on your feet and grip your gun like you're about to explode.

"Drop the gun," comes an unfamiliar voice, dark and decidedly masculine. "Drop the gun or I blow her brains out."

"Let her go," you repeat, more fiercely this time. The emotion in your eyes is bleeding into your voice, and I breathe as evenly as I can manage, scrambling for a way to break free. Behind you, Hannah moves silently to the side, her eyes wide and a phone pressed to her ear. Good. She's calling 911. Now if only we can hold out until the police arrive.

"How does it feel?" the man holding me snarls. "Seeing your loved one in danger? Helpless to stop it? Knowing she's going to die at the hands of a cold, cruel bastard?"

"I'm not helpless," you answer coldly, your grip on the gun tightening. "If you don't let her go, I swear to God I'll put a bullet between your eyes."

The man behind me yanks my head back, digging the barrel of the gun into my forehead. I try not to whimper, but I must make a sound because your eyes harden in that dangerous way that tells me you're on the edge. The edge of the man you are now and the sniper you used to be.

"You don't remember." The man shifts, the gun swaying a little on my skin. "You don't know me."

"I know you're holding a gun, which counts as assault with a deadly weapon," you snarl back, the look in your eyes sparking to catch fire. "I know you're threatening my partner, which is the same as threatening me. I know if you don't let her go, I'm going to put you six feet under so fast you won't even have time to blink."

You're intimidating when you have that look in your eyes. Usually, you're friendly and outgoing and easy to approach. You have the boyish charm and that easy smile that people are attracted to. You have countless friends and a beautiful girlfriend and a son who loves you. But when you have that look in your eye—the one that has nothing but darkness in it—it's easy to forget all that. It's easy to believe that you are perfectly, perfectly willing to pull the trigger without thinking twice.

"You killed my son," the man holding me rasps, his voice raw with pain and fury. "Right in front of me. You killed him."

No recognition flickers in your eyes, but I remember abruptly. I remember standing tensely in the parking lot of a high school where you'd cornered the suspect. The boy had barely been eighteen. He'd planted a bomb in the school, and he had the trigger in his hand and a feral smile on his face. You and a squadron of SWAT and FBI agents had swarmed the area. You told the boy—first in soothing tones, then in sharp ones—to stop this madness, to drop the trigger and come in. He'd laughed and gone for the button, and you'd fired. One bullet. That was all it took.

It was only afterwards that we discovered his father had been standing in the parking lot, just behind the police tape. You'd forgotten to extend your condolences right then because you were numb, in shock, hating yourself for having to shoot the boy. A boy. But you'd always intended to go back, to apologize, as if words could ever be enough.

Now you don't remember. But I do. "Cary," I say, barely breathing. Your eyes flick over to mine anxiously, and I repeat, "Cary Green."

Recognition floods your eyes just as Cary Green's father growls, "So you do remember. You remember how you shot my son right there in front of me, with barely a blink."

"Your son was a terrorist," you say through clenched teeth. You sound callous, uncaring, but I can see the pain in your eyes. You are one of the few people I can read, and the subtlest changes in your face make sense to me. You're hurt, guilty, anguished about the boy. But Cary's father just digs the gun in harder to my forehead because he doesn't know you like I do.

"Let her go," you repeat, your voice steely. "If you came here for that, it's me you're picking a fight with, not her."

I hear a chuckle in my ear, and the man's beard brushes my cheek. "Let her go? I don't think so, Agent Booth. I think it's about time someone showed you what it's like to lose someone you love."

Your eyes find mine. You hold my gaze for a long moment, and I wonder with a racing heart what you'll do. You'll get us out of this, I know it. You always find a way out. It's just a matter of how.

Still holding my eyes, you say very quietly, "You're wrong, John. I don't love her."

I know what you're doing. You want to distance me from yourself, make me a less logical target. You want him to think that my death won't hurt you, and it's logical, what you said. But it still stings, irrationally. I don't love her.

John (how did you remember his name?) shakes his head, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "That's not going to work, you know. I see how you look at her."

Your eyes leave mine, and when they flicker over to John, they're cold and dispassionate. "She's my partner," you say, like it explains everything.

"You love her," John insists, his agitation clearly growing. "I'm not stupid. You don't look at your partner that way."

You shake your head. "Now that's where you're wrong. She's just my partner, John. Now that you know that, can you really shoot her?"

"Of course I can." The gun digs into my temple, and I wince. You just manage to hide the briefest flicker of fury and fear, but I see it. "Of course I can. See, Agent, I know that you care. You care about anyone and everyone."

"I cared about your son too," you say quietly.

"Don't talk about my son!" John snarls, his breath hot against my ear. "You don't get to talk about my son!"

"I cared," you repeat simply. "I feel sorry every day. There's not a day that I don't think about what I did and hate what happened. But I needed to do it. There were kids in that school—"

"So you could just shoot him?" John screams, and I feel the barrel press painfully into my head. "You had to shoot my son just above the heart, kill him?"

"He saved lives," I say, pleased when my voice comes out strong. "He saved someone else's son."

"Shut up," John retorts harshly. "Just shut up."

Your eyes lock on mine with the same message. Don't talk, Bones. Trust me.

Trust you. Of course I do. Even after all this time, even after Hannah, there's no one I'd rather have defending me.

"We can talk this out," you suggest lowly. "No one needs to die."

"Yes, someone does," John answers savagely. "She does. I need to see—I need to see that in your eyes. I need to see the desperation, the grief. I want to look into your eyes and watch you watch me put a bullet in her brain."

You swallow hard, determination solidifying in your gaze. "You can do that," you say calmly after a moment. There is the slightest tremor in your voice, but you push past it. "You can do that, but you won't be seeing any of that in my eyes."

"Really?" John sneers. "Are you sure about that?"

A tense, tense moment passes. You swallow again, and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of your face even though it's a comfortable seventy degrees in the hallway. I catch your eyes and think, I trust you, Booth.

You lower your gun. "Do it then."

Somewhere behind you in the apartment, Hannah gasps. Your flat suggestion surprises John enough for his grip to slacken, and I throw my head back. His nose cracks, and he lets out a curse, and I manage to yank his arm off of me. I lunge forward further out of his reach, toward you, and you throw up one hand to catch me while your other hand raises your gun. It's over then, I know, because you're an excellent marksman, and you very rarely miss. But your eyes widen, and suddenly, you shove me bodily to the side, my name on your lips. You're in front of me now, shielding me, and I hear Bones! and then a single, deafening gunshot.

Just one. I know that's all it takes.

I wheel around in time to see you bring up your arm and fire. It's an easy shot in close quarters, and you hit him in the chest, in the heart. He's dead before he hits the ground, and I let out a sigh of relief. The first gunshot must have missed.

But then you turn and stagger into the doorframe, the gun dropping from your fingers, and horror floods me just as the realization hits.

You've done it again. You've taken a bullet for me again.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn you.

I catch you under your arms as you fall, your full weight causing me to stagger. "Bones," you gasp, your eyes wide, your fingers clenching my hand weakly.

"Don't talk," I pant, laying you down and hurriedly unwrapping my scarf from my neck. The bullet entered just below your fifth rib, and, from the trajectory, doesn't seem to have struck any major organs. Blood is spilling from the wound, and I press my scarf against it with trembling fingers. It's Pam Nunan all over again, and the look in your eyes is the same.

Relief. You saved me. You're relieved. But my panic is just starting.

"You're going to make this," I breathe hollowly, and I should say it again, but I can't. Because the last time I repeated those words again and again, you didn't make it. So instead, I just press down on your chest and force back the unnecessary, unwelcome tears.

I'm barely aware of Hannah dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands hover over your chest indecisively, and I snap out, "Did you call the police? Did you call an ambulance?" I'm too terrified to be sorry when she flinches at my tone.

"Yes," she answers. "But not the ambulance. I'll call—" She cuts herself off to grab the phone and punch in 911, and I turn my attention back to you.

Your eyes are on mine, and fear swamps me at the way your gaze is distant. "Booth," I call, my voice shaking just as badly as my hands are. "Booth, stay with me."

You swallow hard, but blood comes up, running down your lips and face. I freeze for a second, panic escalating.

The scientist in me rises, pushing back the extraneous emotions. "The bullet nicked a lung, and you're going into shock. I need you to focus, Booth."

You grip my sleeve with weak fingers. "Bones…"

"Don't talk," I order.

"Bones," you say anyway, and annoyance surges in me, warring with the terror. Amazing. Even in a crisis, you can irritate me. You grip my sleeve tighter and whisper, "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't."

"I know," I answer, even though I have no idea what you're talking about.

You're fading. Damn it, damn it, damn it. You've taken a bullet for me, you're on the ground, and I can't stop the bleeding. Again.

"Stay with me," I gasp out. "Don't…you can't…not again."

It's hardly articulate, but you know. Your eyes are still locked on mine, and you squeeze my hand, barely. I know you're going to make it. You're Seeley Booth. You've been shot, burned, blow up, sick, locked in, scarred, broken, bleeding, and you've always, always pulled through. So you will now. You have to.

"Bones," you gasp, your voice barely audible. I try to hush you again, but you're talking again. "Didn't mean it."

"I know. I know." I have no idea what you're talking about. "Stay with me, Booth. The ambulance is almost here. Stay with me."

And my throat closes up. I can't speak anymore. I can just press down on your chest, feeling your heart pump itself to death under my fingers. I can just grip your hand so tightly it must hurt. I can just watch the light slowly bleed from your eyes.

Somewhere, finally, an ambulance's warbling sirens wail in the distance.