I really thought this story was done, but I suddenly felt like adding another chapter. As usual, nothing earth-shattering; just Booth and Brennan together.

No real spoilers; the whole silly shenanigans with Booth being persecuted hasn't really happened in my world. And, of course, my Booth and Brennan are much more old-school in behavior. That's the way I like them.

And their pretty house was never destroyed. I loved that house.

Her shoes were off.

She lay still, her slow awakening dampening her senses to a crawl. Warm. She was warm, and comfortable, but had a slight ache in her lower back.

She drifted.

Several hazy moments later, she surfaced again. Experimentally she shifted her hips, just a tiny amount. She was twisted sideways and tangled up in a blanket, her deep inhalations lifting her in a slow, rhythmic manner. No. Not her breathing. Someone else's. Someone under her. As her muddled thought process began to clear, she processed the remainder of the data in a rush.

Booth was under her. Under her and around her, one arm tight between her shoulder blades, his fingers loosely weaved through her hair. Her face was crushed against his chest, the damp material of his shirt bunched uncomfortably underneath her cheek. Her bleary, swollen eyes cracked open, then just as quickly shut again in protest at the action. Still wondering, she searched her mind for the last bits of information to the mystery of where they were, and why.

Then she knew.

A low, abject moan released from her chest and she stiffened. Almost simultaneously, his arms around her tightened, as if to hold her even closer than she already was; impossibly close.

"Bones, shh."

The soft, deep murmur calmed her somewhat, but also, irrationally, made her want to cry. Cry again. Wishing she could just go back to sleep and blot the day from her memory, the week, even, she screwed her eyes shut. But she was not one to hide. Not for long. And not with him beside her. Supporting her. Mustering up some muscle control, she raised herself on sleep-numb arms and peered at him.

His eyes gleamed in the dimly-lit room. "You're okay. You just fell asleep."

Her forehead dropped back to his chest, then lifted again. "How long?"

"A couple hours." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly at her expression. "I'm not surprised. You were tired."

Not just tired. Her lips parted momentarily before she pressed them together. Tired, and...

And.

The funeral.

Responding, as always, to her emotion, he brought a hand to her face. His thumb swept gently under her eye, detecting the remnants of her pain. "It was a hard day."

One more tear spilled as if in punctuation to his sentence, but was brushed aside before it could join the others already on his shirt. "Yes." Feeling her throat close tight, she instead tried to sit up, but was thwarted by the knot of blanket and limbs and torsos. "I can't seem to...can you...?"

"Sure. Hold on." Gripping the back of the couch with his left hand, he pulled, tugging them both to a still messy, but upright, tangle. "Let me just get rid of the blanket." Once that was removed they both shifted; Booth stood, holding a hand down to her.

Gripping it tightly, she hauled herself up, wondering at the lack of cooperation from her legs. She felt as if she'd been climbing stairs for hours, rather than asleep. She clicked on another lamp, then turned back to him, her hand going to her stomach. "I think...I might be hungry."

Relief swept quickly across his face. "I made a sandwich; it's in the fridge. It might be a little stale, but it's edible. Unless you want me to make something else..."

"No, thanks. That will be fine. I just need to eat something."

"You do." Taking her hand again, he led her into the kitchen. "You haven't been eating much. Almost nothing since yesterday."

"I...was very nauseous. I was afraid I would be sick." Her stomach quivered at the memory. "I didn't want to be sick."

His eyes lit with understanding and sympathy, but he merely nodded and turned her toward the stools. "Have a seat. I'll grab the food."

She didn't feel up to doing, or saying she could do. She let herself be shooed into sitting.

"You want anything to drink?"

"No." Trying to shake off the exhaustion, she blinked her eyes and stretched her shoulders. "Maybe some water."

"Okay."

Once she was settled with the food, he cracked a bottle of beer and settled next to her, his shoulder bumping against hers in silent solidarity. "I got a text from Diane earlier. Christine's having a great time at the party."

"Is she?"

"Yeah." He chuckled quietly. "She busted the Dora piƱata wide open on the first swing." He glanced in her direction, eyes warm. "She gets that powerhouse swing from you."

It felt good to smile, even if just for a moment. "It's entirely possible, although your swing is also quite impressive."

"Yeah, but not like yours." The brief spark in her eyes was the best thing he'd seen all day. "My jaw still hurts from the last time you punched me."

"Booth, that was ten years ago."

"Exactly." Now he grinned, nudging her until her lips twitched again. "Anyway, our little girl is a slugger. Maybe we should look into softball teams."

"Or baseball," Brennan couldn't help interjecting.

"Or baseball," he agreed. "Well, we have time enough for that."

"We do." Finishing the last of the sandwich, she rose to discard her plate, then meandered around the kitchen, fussing at nothing. Finally she turned, bracing her hands on the counter behind her and meeting Booth's steady regard.

"Talk to me."

"I don't know what to do." Sighing glumly, she shrugged her shoulders. "I feel like I should be finishing some work, or making myself useful in another way. But I don't want to work." Tears sprang to her eyes, and her gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't want to do anything."

"Then don't." He met her surprised stare squarely. "There aren't any rules, Bones. You don't have to do a certain thing or feel a certain way. Just...cut yourself a little slack."

"Slack." She tested the word, thought for a moment. "I can try to do that."

"Sure you can." Rising, he skirted the counter, dropping his hands next to hers on the counter, leaning close enough to drop his forehead to hers. "You can do anything." After a moment, he moved, stroking a hand down her arm. "Just remember that you're not alone."

Her eyes shone damply up at him. "Would you hold me again?" Without waiting for an answer, she stepped forward into his open arms, resting her head against his shoulder.

No answer was required, but he gave one anyway; the answer that had been in his heart for so many years.

"I'll hold you forever."

Thanks so much for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed my little snippet.