Tuesday, 9:57 a.m.

The man sitting next to him could be soooo damned frustrating.

"I just think it might be good for you and Dr. Brennan to discuss some things in my office, Agent Booth."

Here came the frustrating part. That grin. The eternal optimist grin that only Agent Seeley Booth had perfected during the year since he and Dr. Brennan had finally burst that dam and became a couple in spectacular fashion.

Not just sex, mind you. Not just hot dates and hotter nights.

She had given birth to their daughter just two months ago. Booth was ecstatic.

And this was no frozen-sperm-unfrozen kind of thing either.

They were TOGETHER in a way they had never quite been together before, despite rumors, despite innuendo, despite just how damned close they might have seemed before Maluku and Afghanistan and books and brain scans and reporters and. . . .

That grin, which popped out and popped up to remind him of just how together they were after all that had happened just said it all.

Whenever he tried to ameliorate a conflict or offer advice, one or the other or usually both of them closed up saving the disagreement for them and them alone. Even a damned difference of opinion was theirs to deal with; they regularly refused his assistance. Never mind that he knew them so well. They answered his offers with silence or misdirection or Booth's self-assured, we've-got-it-covered grin.

The only saving grace was that that grin was just as annoying as his voice must be to the FBI agent. Booth had mentioned it more than once, the concern oozing out in a "misguided attempt"—Dr. Brennan's words, not his—to save us from ourselves. The last words were Booth's, delivered with a fair measure of sarcasm.

"We're fine, Sweets." That grin again. "We're fine."

"I'm just trying to help." He had made this same point dozens of times with little effect on the man. "I can offer some psychological insights, mediate any conflicts you two might have."

"We mediate just fine, Sweets."

On the surface, that might be true, thought the psychologist. On the surface Booth appeared happy, tired certainly with a two-month-old baby to test his sleep patterns, but generally in good spirits. But even with her recent plunge into motherhood, Dr. Brennan continued, to the casual observer, to be almost distant from her own life, commenting on it as if it were someone else's. Touched, but untouched by recent events. Whatever feelings lay just beneath the surface lay under an impenetrable layer.

Time for another tack, he thought.

"Have you scheduled the baptism yet?"

The tic around Booth's eye was minute, but to a trained observer, it screamed volumes. So did the slight tightening of his hands on the steering wheel and the new set of his jaw.

Hard question ninja'd shit-eating grin every time.

"So I take it, no."

Religion. Politics. Money. Status. Most couples knew those were the regular battlefields. But Booth and Brennan could find conflict in just about anything. Really. Name it and it seemed the bickering Bs were as just divided on it as North and South Korea.

After years of observation, he knew that letter of the alphabet very well indeed.

"We're meeting with the priest tomorrow."

Sweets studied the man. The tic was still there. "You're meeting with the priest without Dr. Brennan." He was guessing, but given how long he'd been studying the two of them, it was a good guess.

Booth's jaw seemed set in iron. "Bones and I are meeting with a priest tomorrow to discuss the baptism."

He'd been privy to enough of their discussions about religion to know that Dr. Brennan plus a priest was more than a bad joke waiting to happen.

"That should be interesting."

He could have said anything at that point and the tension in the car still would have ratcheted up. Hey, that's great. Tick. Tick. Tick. Do you think that's a wise idea? Tick. Tick. Tick. Maybe you should take a sedative before you go? Tick. Tick. Tick. Bring one for the priest, too. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Why does it matter to you?"

He was used to this tactic as well. Just one of several tools in the B&B defense kit. Set up a diversionary topic. Avoid. Deflect. Ignore. Twist words. Rinse. Repeat.

"I care, Agent Booth. I understand that Dr. Brennan has a difficult time understanding that your religious beliefs are important to you and with some timely interventions, we might be able to. . . ."

His words and tone were all meant to convey one thing—he was on Booth's side. He could offer a friendly ear, a strong shoulder. Tell me your troubles and I will share the load with you. I will be your sounding board. I can help you weather the. . . .

"That's just a load of shrinky mumbo jumbo, Sweets."

Sweets instantly felt defeated. I can be your substitute punching bag.

He took a deep breath and headed back into the fray. "It's not. I want to help. I understand how Dr. Brennan thinks and I can help defuse the situation. She's going to decry the very act of baptism which you hold sacred, one of the sacraments of the church and. . . ."

"I know it's one of the sacraments."

"I know you know. But does Dr. Brennan know? I mean, does she know that you know what she knows?" It was beginning to sound like a comedy routine. "I mean, does she understand how important this is to you?"

"Hold it right there," Booth said, his right hand held up to hold back the words. "Bones and I have talked about what the sacraments mean and she and I are meeting with the priest tomorrow to discuss our daughter's baptism." The agent seemed to be one bundle of taut nerves. "But if you keep talking about it, I might just leave you at the side of the road and let you get your own ride back."

It had been a while since Booth had threatened to shoot him or had retaliated in any way. Revving up his treadmill had been the last act of an angry man and that had been more than a year ago when Booth had been with Hannah and. . . .

"At the risk of having to pull out my cell phone and call a cab, Agent Booth, I just want to say that I understand how difficult it must be for a believer such as yourself to try to make an atheist like Dr. Brennan understand the importance of a religious ritual."

"You understand?"

"Yes."

There was a beat. He'd retreated, stated the obvious and waited. Another beat. If it bothered the man, he might actually open up and let him in. But he hadn't gone there in some time. A long time.

"Bones and I are fine."

He had expected it. Fine. Booth hadn't been fine with Hannah, had come to him repeatedly for advice on his son and how to tell Hannah about Dr. Brennan and. . . .

The insight hit him. Booth was protecting something precious. Someone. No, someones. He wasn't confused with Brennan. He might be involved with a woman who hid her feelings under a polar ice cap, but he knew how to drill down to find the warm springs beneath.

Okay, so drill was probably an unfortunate turn of phrase, but it meant only one thing.

"I know you two are fine." He could concede this one. They were fine. They would argue and stumble along but in the end, they were fine in only a way that made sense to them. "You'll work out the baptism details." He glanced at Booth who seemed to be considering this new tactic. "I imagine Dr. Brennan, given her past, would appreciate the idea of godparents who would be responsible for the child in some capacity," he offered. "Even if it falls under the guise of tending to the child's spiritual life." Which she doesn't value.

"What's this, Sweets? A shrinky tactic?" The grin was making a slow comeback. Assured. In control.

"No," he admitted. "Every time I ask about you and Dr. Brennan's relationship, you tell me you two are fine and basically tell me to butt out. So I'm butting out."

The grin. He had to admit it. Booth was doing that more these days. Grinning. Teasing. Poking back. Both of them, actually. Well, Booth more than Dr. Brennan, but that was to be expected. He never quite knew how many of his messages penetrated the fortress she erected to keep out any valuable psychological insights. In some ways, it was as if the two of them were ganging up on him again, like they did back when they were his patients, when they communicated more with their looks than they ever did in his office with their words.

"You want to make sure you're invited to the christening."

He shot a look toward Booth. The tension was gone. The grin had reached his eyes.

The grin was winning.

"Well, you're invited, Sweets. We're just working out the details as to when."

"And if you need someone to step up to be your daughter's godfather, I'd be honored to." It was hard to argue with that grin; sometimes help could be offered by retreating.

Booth shifted slightly. "We already have someone in mind for that, Sweets." He drummed his finger on the steering wheel. "We've already asked them."

"That makes sense," he said. "You've got a brother and Dr. Brennan has a brother and between the two of you, you have enough family you can fall back on. . . ."

He was babbling. Somewhere deep inside he wanted to be the man that Agent Booth could rely on.

"We asked the Hodginses." Booth cut him short. His voice was gentle and low. "Angela is Bones' best friend. And Hodgins. . . ."

"I get it." He did, even if he didn't want to admit it stung that he wasn't first on the list. "I get it. They're a package deal." He couldn't avoid the dig that followed. "All that money doesn't hurt, either."

"They're a couple. Parents." Booth's tone was patient, the same tone he might take with his son or his daughter. "Little Michael's only a few months older than Little Bones. In a way, they're family."

"And you and Dr. Brennan agreed on that."

It made sense. At best, Booth's relationship with his brother was strained and Dr. Brennan's brother had enough to deal with one daughter with cystic fibrosis.

It was rational.

"Yeah," Booth said. "We also want Angela and Hodgins to step in for us in the event something happens."

He studied the man next to him. What he did was dangerous. And Dr. Brennan would follow him into the depths of hell if he were in danger. Despite their differences, that was one truth that bound them together.

They definitely might need a village to raise their child.

"If you need a back-up to your back-up, I could step in."

A frisson of tension seemed to flare up. "We've taken care of that, Sweets." This was tone that he didn't much like. "We've asked Cam and Russ."

"Well, I can understand Hodgins and Angela. And Russ, he is family."

"Cam is a parent, and I've known her for years." The tone was patient. Gentle.

Rational rationale was winning. "Well, I can be your back-up to your back-up's back-up."

Booth frowned. "We've covered that as well. Jared and Padme are on deck for that."

Sweets felt like a balloon with a steady leak. They'd already put together a village for their daughter and he was someone's second cousin twice removed living across the creek that ran under a rickety bridge used only every other weekend but only in a leap year. "You know," he started, the disappointment hard to disguise, "I do spend a great deal more time with you and your daughter than your brother does." He kept his eyes forward, not sure he wanted to see the agent's reaction. "She seems to like me. Mostly."

"Until I told you where the milk she was drinking came from." Booth's look was pure mischief. "You couldn't wait to hand her off."

"I just didn't realize," he sputtered, "I mean, it just caught me by surprise, I mean, do you. . . uh, of course you. . . oh, never mind."

Holding a bottle of milk that had once been produced by Dr. Brennan's breasts had, well, unnerved him for some reason.

He kept his eyes straight, not wanting to see Booth's reaction to his embarrassment. But it wasn't enough; he could still hear Booth laughing at him.

oOo

Tuesday, 10: 32 a.m.

He never really had anyone like Seeley Booth as a friend before. He'd hung out with the disenfranchised and the nerdy in high school and while college and grad school put him in contact with the intellectual crowd, he'd never really had many friends like the agent. A guy like Booth was, well, the kind of guy he'd do algebra homework for in high school, watch him as he made the big plays on the football field then see him walk away from the school dance with the prettiest girl on his arm.

Dr. Brennan's assessment had been couched in anthropology—Booth was an alpha male. Sweets had his own labels for the man: athletic, rugged, worldly. A man's man in a very manly profession.

And he liked that he was his right-hand man these days while Dr. Brennan was still on a not-quite-maternity-leave cutback of her time in the field.

"This is it."

The house was a grayish green bungalow, the front porch populated by only a rocking chair and a few potted plants. Booth had drummed it into him that it was important for him to pay attention, to keep a sharp eye out for everything and anything at a scene, even if they were only there to tell a family member that a loved one was dead.

Everything could be a hazard to one's safety.

He re-read the information on the computer and glanced back at the house. A curtain at the window had shifted and he wondered if the occupant had heard their vehicle.

"Ashley and Tom Bancroft. She's a nursing student, he's a machinist. Early thirties." He read the other information from the database. "She reported her sister missing a month ago."

Booth paused before opening his car door. "She's not missing anymore," he said under his breath.

Sweets; waited at the curb for Booth to round the SUV. Death notifications were tough. No matter how gently you conveyed the news, the pain could flare up in dozens of different ways. Dealing with the emotions was difficult, something he was constantly aware of in the next of kin.

And something he tried to measure in himself and the agent.

Dr. Brennan always seemed to want to skip over a short grieving period and get right down to the questions, but when he was alone with Booth, the agent always seemed to know the right moment to begin the questions.

For such a tough man, he had an equally sensitive side.

Sweets appreciated that in Booth. He warmed to people, eased into the questions, offered a bit of comfort that so often translated into key information for the case.

Say what you will, he thought, Booth was a master at using empathy as a tool to extract information.

It was a pleasure watching him at work.

Booth often let him take the lead, too, which always made him feel he was valued as a member of the team. He rang the doorbell and heard the distant chime from somewhere in the house.

"She waited the 48 hours before reporting her missing," he said.

He glanced at Booth who seemed contemplative. "Phone records indicate they talked daily. Sometimes twice a day."

Booth had done his homework, understood the nuances of the case. As his right hand man these days, he appreciated that. He appreciated Booth's handling of the cases, his insights, his doggedness.

It was only a handful of things of many that made him such a good agent.

Behind the door he could hear footsteps and the squeak of the lock turning, then the swoosh of the door being opened. A young woman with tousled hair stood framed by the door, her eyes wide with anticipation and dread.

He confirmed her dread and watched the brown eyes become liquid with grief.

He hated that part of the job.

oOo

Tuesday, 12:17 p.m.

He heard rather than saw the ambulances in the distance. Crouching besides Booth, his tie firmly knotted around the agent's arm with a handkerchief in place as a compress, his own hands occupied on the wound to the stomach, he wondered if he was merely the little Dutch boy with fingers in the holes within the dike trying to hold back the inevitable. Booth had lapsed into silence more than a minute ago and he felt only the warm goo of his blood beneath his hands testifying to one truth, and one truth only.

Booth was dying.

After he had turned him over, he had tried to keep Booth talking, tried to equate talking with life because he knew that silence meant only one thing. The agent's eyes were closed and he looked almost peaceful.

"Tell Bones. . . ," he rasped out and Sweets bent toward him.

"I'm so sorry," he gushed.

Had it been a movie, he would have been the sidekick reassuring the main guy that he could tell his own girl whatever he wanted to. He'd be fine.

But he was sure that Booth would not be fine.

The man had stood against their assailant and took him out with one, no, two shots. The first had caught the man in the chest and the second had followed it nearer his heart.

The second man had been a shock, a damned surprise that hadn't stopped Booth. He couldn't count the shots—it seemed like the air sang with a chorus of bullets whizzing past him until both men had been brought down by small bits of metal against flesh.

It had been so quick he had had little time to react. Little time to set things right. Little time.

He should have pulled his gun the moment he saw the shadow.

Booth would have reassured him that a psychologist is not a trained agent and as such would not be expected to react to the sudden movement. Booth would have slapped his shoulder and stared down at the man he had killed and spent his time reassuring him. The sniper comforting the psychologist.

But he had froze and when the other man had trained the gun at him, it had been Booth who had done more than just slap him on the shoulder in reassurance.

He'd taken a bullet before he fired back. He'd taken two more before he put the second big man down.

Sweets had lost count how many times Booth had saved him.

"Tell Bones," the voice came out gruff and uneven. "Tell her I love. . . ."

He would be leaving behind a son and a daughter and a partner.

And an emptiness too great to imagine.