Okay, you're wondering why the heck I'm posting this one-shot when I already have three other stories screaming for completion. I don't know-the muse paid me a visit yesterday. This plot has been germinating in the greenhouse of my brain for a while and I think it just wanted to finally get planted outside. (Hah, as if that metaphor's even remotely relevant in my frozen northern home.) It's my tardy contribution to the Bonesology Hiatus challenge, though not an official entry since it's way too long for a drabble. It's also a little on the frisky side of things, so as usual, if these things make you squirm, look elsewhere.

I got the idea for this one from a tiny snippet of conversation I heard in an episode of the '90's show Lois and Clark. (If you've never seen it, beg, borrow, rent or steal if you must the first two seasons; Terri Hatcher and Dean Cain's chemistry positively sets the screen on fire every single time they look at each other. I mean that-be ready to sweat. Along with Booth and Brennan, one of my top favorite ships, ever, and the fuel for an amazingly large number of high-quality ffs on the Lois and Clark FF site, even today.)

PS-still plugging away at my other ones. Thanks for all the kind comments!

On the third evening following the day Broadsky's errant shot finally forced Booth and Brennan to take a good, hard look at themselves, a two-syllable word almost brought their fragile, newfound reality down to its knees.

The reality that they loved each other, not just platonically, but in every possible way-mind, spirit and flesh and heart. The reality that they were without doubt in a relationship, unlikely as it had come about, and that they were now connected in such a way as to make it almost impossible to think of a future life spent only as work partners and friends.

The fear started gently at first, nothing more than a tinny metal cymbal chiming softly in Brennan's ear. But it quickly picked up its tempo, mimicking the intensifying thwacks of a darbuka drum chasing after a bellydancer's hips.

She was aware her partner was probably asleep when he rolled over on his side and casually slung himself all over her, as if she were a cushion. If the last couple of hedonistic, borderline orgiastic days and nights were any indication, there was very little chance he'd be lying there so sedately in such close proximity had he been conscious.

Nor would she have allowed it.

Flopping a heavy leg over hers and an aimless arm around her shoulders, he proceeded to whisper a household word into his pillow, right by her ear.

"Hmmm, honey" he growled squeezing her just a little, seamlessly falling right back into his slumber.

Up until that moment, Brennan had been relishing the grace notes of her partner's form as he spooned against her, an idyllic sensation which had brought a contented smile to her lips.

That was, until that incongruous 'honey' made its quiet, perfectly innocent appearance.

She immediately grew rigid, her mind searching helter-skelter for causes and meanings where there might very well be none.

Honey.

Booth had most certainly never called her 'honey.'

Bones, mainly, but there had also been a few Temperances early on and a robust number of "this here is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan." Even an unexpected 'baby' once, issued during a moment of extreme duress.

But 'honey'?

Never. Not in all the years they'd worked together, and not in the last few chaotic days where work had suddenly become just a footnote to their lives.

Brilliant, insightful, beautiful, meticulous, an innovator-these were the kinds of qualifiers she understood; the ones she felt at ease with. Cold, calculating, robotic, dispassionate-she'd heard those too, though they didn't please her nearly as much.

She wasn't sure what to make of Booth's 'honey', though.

It's not that she was philosophically opposed to that particular term of affection; there was nothing inherently offensive or paternalistic about it when used with discretion. Angela and her dad called her that often, and it never bothered her.

But coming from Booth it raised an eyebrow or two.

Uttered in a drawly, indolent voice that quickly trailed off into a moan, it actually sounded rather sensual. Slightly possessive in a way that ages ago might have irritated her supremely but which now held the potential to send her hyperactive hormones right off the Richter scale.

But she wasn't a honey; had never been one to Booth, or to any other man for that matter. This indisputable fact made her blood run a little bit on the cool side, a rush of icy water trickling down a mountain stream.

Whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, deep down she knew there was good reason to be wary.

Not that long ago, Booth had been on this very same bed with another woman, probably making love to her. A stunning, smart, highly desirable woman, worthy of being on the cover of one of those stylish magazines one was forced to walk by on the way to the checkout counter at the grocery store.

Hannah-Hannah was the kind of woman a man might called 'honey,' and maybe all sorts of other endearing, cute things. Even her golden blond hair fit the bill.

Temperance Brennan had always just been Bones to Seeley Booth.

A ripple of insecurity immediately coursed through her. Could he accidentally have lost track of who he was sleeping with, she wondered?

It was a possibility, Brennan realized, not that she would hold it against him. They'd only been together for three days; he and Hannah much longer than that. And a person couldn't control what they dreamed about or what they said in their sleep. It'd be both illogical and immature to take offense.

No, no offense; no censure from her.

But within that innocuous 'honey' there could be pain and heartache and just a splash of debilitating jealousy, and that heartache was starting to grow as the heat of his large, muscular frame settled deep into her skin.

The prospect that there might be traces of an old relationship still lingering in the back of Booth's mind brought a flicker of tears to the anthropologist's eyes, even as she pronounced herself an idiot.

She decided she could either forget about the incident and go back to sleep-good luck with that one-or act impulsively and ask him about it on the spot, hoping that in his disoriented state he might divulge the true meaning behind the word.

He didn't deserve the last, for sure; they hadn't gotten much rest the last few days and if anybody needed all their reflexes intact, it was an FBI agent. But she couldn't help that she only thrived within the confines of total honesty. If he'd actually said what he said in reference to someone else it was best to know about it, deal with it, and move on. A hidden doubt this corrosive would grow like a streak of rust on the underside of a ship, inevitably sinking their relationship in the long run.

Besides, even if her fears were confirmed, it wouldn't mean anything. She wouldn't allow it to mean anything. Booth loved her-she was positive about that-and she imagined in time whatever else was in his past would fade.

At least she hoped so.

But be it as it may, she still felt her heart pulling away from him as she prepared for the worst.

"Hey" she whispered, in a barely identifiable voice that could have been anyone's. Resorting to this base form of trickery was disgusting, hands down. But the woman currently contemplating such lowly stratagems was beginning to realize that being in love sometimes made people, even brilliant, otherwise reasonable ones, do the most underhanded of things.

"Yeah?" he grumbled drowsily. "What's up?"

She would have gladly traded all the royalties from her upcoming book just to hear a "Bones" attached to that incoherent query. Unfortunately, it was obvious her line of attack would have to be considerably more direct if this disquieting riddle was ever to be solved.

"Do you know who I am?" she ventured softly, the bitter taste of shame settling on her tongue. Booth had never done anything to earn that-or any-degree of suspicion from her, and she knew it.

She heard Booth take in a breath, and then she felt his broad, naked chest shaking lightly against her back. He was snickering. She could practically hear the smug, amused grin in his reply.

"Are you testing me, Bones?"

"Booth..."

He shook his head, the motion ruffling her hair.

"I can't believe this. If you really must know, Bones, I'm here with Temperance Brennan, the world's most amazing forensic anthropologist, a top-notch writer and hopefully-you asked for it-my girlfriend, the woman I'm crazy in love with. Whatever made you think I wouldn't know that?"

The gig was up.

"It's just you referred to me as 'honey' a minute ago when you were sleeping," she confessed. "I wondered if perhaps for a moment you might have thought I was someone else. It wouldn't upset me if that were the case though" she added, not very convincingly; "it's probably common to confuse the names of recent sexual partners at the beginning of a relationship."

He propped himself up on an elbow.

"Why on earth would you assume I wasn't talking about you when I said it?" he countered, starting to sound annoyed. "What kind of a guy do you think I am?"

"Well, you've never called me that before, and I'm not sure the appellation is particularly descriptive of my personality. I've never really thought of myself that way. It's too...nice. Too sweet."

He wrapped himself more tightly around her.

"I haven't called you honey before because I didn't think about it before, as if I could have gotten away with it; I mean, it's a little presumptuous-not to say suicidal-coming out of nowhere, especially when we weren't even going out. But I guess I'm feeling a little braver around you now. And the 'honey' suits you just fine, Bones; you are sweet and damn irresistible too, just like honey. And very, very nice. But if you don't want me to call you that..."

"You truly think I'm sweet?" she asked, a note of girlish hope in her voice. "I'm almost certain most people who know me, other than my dad, would disagree with your assessment. And he's naturally biased towards me."

"Well, those other people don't know you like I do. And if you don't mind, I'd like to keep it that way," he said, pinching her bottom playfully. "And just so you know, I never called Hannah 'honey'. Not once. I'm not even sure I've ever called anyone else that before. Whatever got into you?"

Much more relieved than she expected, Brennan turned her face to her partner, her cheek chafing slightly as it rubbed against his stubble. She couldn't see him in the dark, but she was sure Booth's expectant brown eyes were trained on her all the same.

"I'm sorry," she began contritely. "I don't know what's happening to me. Ever since Vincent died, since we..." she swallowed hard, feeling another round of tears coming on. "All these unexpected emotions keep coming out of nowhere. It must be fatigue."

"It's okay to have all these new feelings, Bones; they're good for you-it's exercise for your heart. Just don't assume stuff about me without at least giving me a chance to defend myself. Besides, you don't do the ambush thing very well. I was a Ranger in my previous life, remember?"

His hand splayed provocatively against her bare abdomen, bringing a sense of urgency to every one of her already over-heated nerve endings.

"And I'm also sorry I woke you up for such a trivial reason."

"It's alright, Bones. You can wake me up any time for whatever reason you want-that's why I'm here."

"Still, is there some way I can make it up to you?" she asked shyly. The innocent tone of her voice was completely at odds with the tantalizing way she arched her back against him.

He answered her with a searing, molten kiss and then a touch that was far more intimate than the one he had used seconds before. "I can think of some ways-honey," he teased.

As he was sliding on top of her she suddenly placed her hands on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

"Booth?"

"What now?" he replied patiently.

"Would you mind purchasing a new mattress?"

There was a pause in which she imagined him rolling his eyes, sighing, or possibly smirking-perhaps a combination of all three.

"I'll call the mattress store first thing in the morning" he pledged solemnly, as if her request were a perfectly run-of-the-mill one. "They might deliver it by tomorrow night-if not, we stay at your place until it does. I'm also going to get new sheets and towels for us, even if these aren't that old. Happy?"

"Yes; very. Thank you, Booth. And for the record, I'm 'crazy in love with you' too," she added softly.

Brennan's hands snaked around her mate's neck, firmly pulling him down on top of her.

"Hey, if the thing's got to go," he announced against her bruised lips, "let's at least give it the most amazing workout of its life, don't you agree?"

Brennan's answer, which surely would have been an affirmative one, was lost in a tide of giddy laughter.