Author note- OY. As you can see, I am making a leap. The series lost me, for the most part, but I hate to leave an orphan fic. I'm going to wrap this up in two.

I got you, baby.

I remembered the tone and feel of that sentence, that day, that word, long after it was done, like an alert that would sound at random times to remind me that I had not thought of him yet. Except now that he was gone, I thought of him constantly.

I was content after the stabbing. The restrictions of recovery and occupational therapy aside, our working relationship was back to what it had been before the tumor. Granted, neither of us spoke of the events up to and including his coma, but we were back at the cafe, at the lab, and the work was engrossing and rewarding as ever. Booth and I solved murders, and this framework was the basis upon which we formed our work culture, which had then not predictably but pleasantly developed into our friendship. Contemporary cognitive anthropology attempts to access the organizing principles that underlie and motivate human behavior and while not my specialty, I did find it comforting as a reference. Because my studies in the field were currently truncated by crime-fighting, Angela and Booth were the ethnographic shortcut through which I experienced culture, and I...relied upon them.

Whenever I caught Booth staring off into the distance, I worried about a possible recurrence, and he dutifully made appointments and allowed me access into his medical records so I could verify that the scans were negative. I made sure to keep up on all the relative literature, convinced that if the need arose, I would have the necessary data to make any pertinent decisions. I like to be prepared in case of eventualities. It is the socially responsible way to be, and Booth was my partner. I was determined to anticipate his needs so I would be qualified to fulfill them should the need arise.

It isn't easy for me to be wrong. I am a genius.

It wasn't until the walk home from the FBI that night when Booth's ludicrous insistence on fate and Sweet's encouragement that he take the lead that he decided to revive old, bad habits and gamble… on me. I remember his sudden stillness, the way he lowered his face down to level his eyes with mine. I am not a sentimental woman, but Booth's eyes in the dark were broadcasting emotion, his hands on my arms holding me perfectly in line with his body. I remember the instinctual rush of adrenaline. Booth was extremely proficient at haptic communication, and everything about him was telling me that something important was happening. I got you, baby.

-"I'm the gambler. I believe in giving this a chance. Look, I want to give this a shot."

I couldn't pretend that I didn't know what he was referring to, but even so, I couldn't contemplate it. It was completely illogical. The FBI wouldn't allow us to work together. He had said so himself on our first case. I told him so. Booth was not as intelligent as I, but he had to know our working relationship was paramount. We could sleep with anyone, but no one had our case closure rate, our ability to keep monsters off the streets-it was something we could not give up. Not for a romantic attachment that well may be temporary. He saw the gamble as a worthy one, but that was because gambling was an addiction. I could quote dozens of studies where risk-taking behavior was deemed an undesirable trait in mate selection. I didn't get the opportunity.

When he pulled me in for a kiss, my brain paused and observed. Booth as a male specimen is really in the upper tenth percentile of his sex, and the empirical evidence of this is a hard thing to ignore. I allowed the kiss to go on for a second longer than necessary, foolishly indulging the endorphins and the way the blood pounding in my ears rushed through my fingertips to meet the rhythm of his heartbeat on my palm as it pressed upon his chest. This was not our first kiss, but as ludicrous as it was to assign purpose to what was basically a mating overture, I could feel the dimming at edges of my logic, the entreaty to let go, feel.

I was not sure I could return the intent.

I had always thought about what it would be like to have sex with Booth, but Booth was… Booth. He was a traditional, Catholic male from a long line of like individuals. Any long-term monogamous relationship with him would inevitably lead to children, yes and...marriage. Psychology was at best a pseudoscience, but I was well-aware of what the likelihood of a stable relationship was for someone with my background. My romantic history was littered with men who were ultimately disappointed by the limits of what I could give. Men I didn't speak to anymore. Men that never looked at me the same way again. I pushed him away.

-"No. No." Sex was a basic biological urge, an accepted way to form boundaries, reproduce. I thought back to our aborted agreement, the insemination that never was, the paperwork that detailed visitation, holidays... I knew what I was, what I could be. I was not clouded by sentiment. I counted on him to navigate difficult emotions, to tell me how to act, but this night, I could not.

-"Why?" I remembered when he told me about Rebecca, her refusal to be with him. He would assume it was his fault. Even at this time, Booth wanted the truth, but he was asking the wrong question.

I hated to fall into such a sexist trope, but I couldn't stop the tears. All I knew is that this good man was asking me for something I couldn't figure out how to give without the loss of a vital part of my identity. Booth was a master of interpersonal relationships. I was stunted. Unable to manage even the most basic long-term relationships without constant friction and missteps. If I were to engage in a romantic relationship with Booth and things didn't work out, the possibilities were too catastrophic to consider. We would fall apart… our work… our team, and I would have to let him go. The life we had built, that I relied on. He would be gambling the existence of an entire ecosystem on the remote possibility of romantic success with a subject who had consistently proven unreliable. His experiment was not only flawed, it was untenable. But he didn't know. Booth wasn't thinking. He was feeling.

It would have to be me. I would ensure our survival.

I got you.

I tried to think of the best, the kindest words.

-"You...you thought you were protecting me. But you're the one who needs protecting."

-"Protection from what?" Booth was usually an excellent detective. I was saying it wrong.

-"From me! I don't have your kind of open heart. I am not a gambler. I'm a scientist. I can't change." I wanted to. If anyone deserved it, he did. Booth deserved every good thing, every best thought, every effort. He just picked a woman who was broken.

I knew, empirically, that you could not die from the look on a person's face. I opened my mouth without knowing what else to say, and what came out was the truth.

-"I don't know how... I don't know how."

His eyes fell, and I knew he would let it be. He would go home and watch a game and see how confused I was, how unable to handle this, how inept and he would eventually come to realize I was a bad prospect. He would find someone else, who could give him what I could not. What it came down to was that I could handle not sleeping with Booth, not kissing him, not having sole claim to his time, or attention, or genetic material. I could not conceive of a world where he was no longer my friend.

I was scared to ask if we could still work together. I should not have been. Whatever else, Booth's patience with me was constant and reassuring.

-"But I gotta move on. You know, I gotta find someone who's- who's going to love me in 30 years, or 40 or 50."

I knew it was important to support him. I was not the people person that Booth was, but for him, I could pretend. In time, this would be easier. He was right beside me. To feel like I was giving him up made no sense. My non-verbal communication skills were vastly inferior to his, but it was important that he understand, in every way, that I would be there in 30 or 50 years, even if it was not in the way he wanted. I wrapped my hands around his bicep, taut with emotion, and smoothed my hands down his arm, laying my head on his shoulder. I tried to broadcast my emotions.

I need you. You are important. I am sorry.

What I said was, "I know."

His cheekbone resting on the top of my head felt like forgiveness.