AN: Long time... I know. I survived planning and DIYing a hella ton of stuff for my wedding and am now a married chica! Huzzah!

I was catching up slowwwwwwly on weeks of fic and suddenly was struck with this what if concept I had to write. I'm mulling a continuation of this one-shot. You'll let me know if that's a good idea, won't you?

Disclaimer: I disclaim!

TITLE: One Millimeter
TAG TO: The Hole In The Heart
PROMPT: What if Vincent survived Broadsky's shot?
RATING: T

One millimeter.

Cam had said it softly, whispered, like the prayers he'd spoken while the surgeons went to work. One millimeter closer and his left atrium wouldn't have been lightly grazed; it would have been pierced entirely. Vincent wasn't out of danger yet – the doctors had given him a 20% chance of survival – but it was better than no chance at all.

One millimeter. One millimeter that shouldn't have to matter right now. Because that bullet belonged to him. It had been meant for him.

Booth splashed cool water against his face, allowing droplets to tumble and fall as he hunched over the sink. He was so young, so goddamn young, so trusting... So quietly troubled, as he'd confessed while making amends for actions committed during his alcoholism. So full of trivia that Booth had never cared to know and now prayed for time to hear, because it meant that he didn't have to bear the weight of another innocent life taken by his hands.

A quiet rapping on the door startled him, his hand instinctively reaching for his service weapon.

"Booth?"

"Bones?" His face still dripping, he threw open the door in a panic. "Bones, what's wrong?"

Her lips fell open, eyes wide, and it occurred to him that he was a hell of a sight. In her hand she held a large cup of the vending machine coffee he'd come to know too well over the years.

"I... I bought you coffee."

He reached just inside the closet masquerading as a bathroom, snatching a handful of paper towels and wiping his face. "Thanks, Bones. That's nice of you."

His hand brushed hers as he reached for the offered brew, electricity sparking between them. She startled slightly, her lower lip trembling.

"Did the doctors come back with an update?" he asked.

"No. Cam says that's normal... That it's a long procedure and if it is successful, it should keep the doctors occupied for several more hours."

Her words rang with logic and truth, but her voice shook almost in spite of herself. She was trying so hard to keep herself in check, drawing her walls tighter about her frame, but he knew her better than anyone on this earth. It was a house of cards and he feared that if he were to merely breathe too heavily, the fixed neutrality of her expression would tumble away.

Don't let them see you hurt. It was something his buddy Greg had said in college about his time in the foster system. He'd seldom mentioned those early days of bouncing between group homes, but the one time he'd opened up, he'd made it clear that it was the only way to survive. Booth had forgotten all about that conversation until that terrible goddamn night in Sweets' office, when she'd revealed her foster parents had locked her once in the trunk of a car.

If he really challenged himself to search his heart, he'd first become conscious of his already consuming love for Temperance Brennan that night, tossing sleepless in bed, haunted by Greg's words. It was a final piece of the puzzling enigma that was his partner.

Once upon a time, she'd let him see her hurt, had bestowed that trust upon him. But he'd ruined it, marred it with his mistakes.

"He'll be okay," he told her quietly, brushing aside a tangled strand of hair with his free hand. "He's a tough kid."

Her head shook slowly and she took a step backwards. "He wouldn't need to be tough, as you say, if he didn't work with me."

Oh, hell. As consumed as he'd been with his own grief and guilt, he'd failed to anticipate that just as he'd assumed responsibility for Teddy Parker, she would place blame upon herself for the welfare of her intern.

"Bones, listen – "

His hand reached for hers but she retreated rapidly down the hall. He began to give chase, desperate to sway her from her self-reproach, but she halted, firing one final shot of her own.

"You were gone a long time from the waiting room. I was worried."

Booth could do nothing but watch her flee, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. But I gave him the phone, Bones. I gave him the phone...

Critical condition. ICU.

The staff of the Jeffersonian kept weary vigil in a private waiting room, some sleeping but all refusing to head home. In unspoken agreement, they waited for Vincent to wake up or improve. Together, they were also safer from the barrel of Broadsky's gun – or so they believed.

After all, Booth had been with Vincent and look where it had gotten him?

If Booth wasn't terrified of what the man's next move was, he'd retreat from the hospital. Draw the line of fire as far from his partner as possible, far from their friends. Instead, Booth gulped another cup of lousy coffee and watched as stormy blue eyes gazed at the floor, scrutinizing the scuffed tiles with the intensity customarily reserved for bones and the consumption of cooked fruit.

Angela slept fitfully, strewn across a cot not meant to accommodate a very pregnant woman against Hodgins' wishes. The bug doctor's head rested upon her hand as he slept sitting on the floor beside her. Sweets stared blankly at the TV, watching a muted talk show of some kind with Daisy's head on his lap, snoring quietly. Cam had wandered off again, pacing the hallways no doubt, demanding answers about Vincent. Fisher was on a fast-food run with Clark and Wendell – McDonald's maybe. Booth didn't pay much attention, although he'd given them a limited time to achieve their goal of greasy food before expecting a check-in.

Bones rose to her feet abruptly, smoothing her blouse with her palms and heading for the door. Confused, he caught her by the arm, blocking her departure.

"Where are you going?"

"I need air."

"I'll come with you."

"No."

She yanked her arm free and made it just outside of the room before he caught her again, this time gripping both of her shoulders firmly. She winced at the contact, hissing angrily.

"I'm coming with you," he told her.

"Booth, I am an adult and perfectly capable of – "

"Broadsky's still out there," he interrupted.

"Booth – "

In his mind, he saw it: the bullet striking her chest, the force dropping her to her knees. One of many nightmarish images he'd grappled with in the last eight hours. Broadsky wasn't done with him. Broadsky had targeted the Jeffersonian. He would come for her; Booth was certain of it.

"Bones, I can't let you walk away from me right now," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't. I won't."

He felt her shoulders sink beneath his palms, watched her seemingly shrink. So vulnerable, yet strong. Flesh was weak, no matter how powerful the spirit within. His hand pressed instinctively to the small of her back and she moved forward, heading for the small courtyard down the east corridor. He matched her stride, adjusting his gait to keep her close.

The faint whirring and blips of machines drifted from behind ajar doors, signs of life in dim, jaundiced light. He hated hospitals. They reeked of death.

She elected to settle upon the bench closest to the doors and Booth wondered if she was instinctively selecting the safest position possible. Closest to cover, hidden from most rooftop vantage points: it was where he would have asked her to sit. He settled beside her, studying the darkness for signs of movement.

"I called Vincent's mother earlier."

Booth winced in empathy. "How is she?"

"She's flying out here as soon as possible. I purchased her ticket. She... I could barely understand her through her crying."

"It was kind to fly her out here, Bones. You have a big heart."

"She seemed grateful, but she shouldn't be." At this, Booth glanced over and noticed a single tear slide down her cheek. "Her son may die still. Because of me."

"It's not your fault," he insisted, reaching for her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong."

She shook her head in anger. "My position at the Jeffersonian – my work – placed him in a dangerous situation."

"But he chose to work with you as his supervisor – "

"He's hardly the first, Booth. Hodgins wouldn't still have nightmares about Taffet if I hadn't dragged him into crime-solving. Zack wouldn't be in the institution. And you... My reckless pursuit of the truth and insistence upon field work have compromised your safety repeatedly," she continued, the words tumbling out in rapid-fire succession. "I believe the metaphor is 'toxic'."

Booth knelt in front of her, his gaze fixed upon her. "You are not toxic. It's not your fault that there are criminals out there. It's not your fault that there are fucked up people in this world who enjoy inflicting pain on others!"

Her hand reached out, pressing gently upon a scar he was acutely aware of each day, but particularly tonight. Pam Nunan. In his mind, he could see her hands pressed firmly against him, painful but necessary. She'd saved him then, physically. It wasn't the first time, nor was it the last. But emotionally, she'd been saving him for years.

"Booth..."

"I'm an FBI agent. I know what my job entails." His hand reached up to cover hers, marveling at the softness of her skin. "But more than that, I'm your partner. The only thing I regret about taking that bullet was not telling you myself that I'd survived."

It wasn't the time or place. It was wrong to think it now, as she sat before him, crying silently and pressing her hand harder against his shoulder. It was even worse to speak it, but he couldn't take another chance. Anger, hurt pride, fear – it was all so fucking stupid, but it had silenced him for months. No more.

"I would have died for you then," he confessed. "I still would. I'm not willing to live in a world without you, Temperance. Do you understand me?"

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his with a heavy sigh. "I do."

They remained that way for a long time, her hand pressed to his scar and his protectively laid atop hers. He was breathing her air, she his. It was the most intimate exchange between them and Booth fought the urge to break down and weep in her lap.

He loved her so damn much, always had. The wasted months weighed heavily upon him, suffocating and condemning him. Because he knew now, as her lips moved within a millimeter of his own for scant seconds before retreat, that she had always loved him back.

Vincent woke up twenty hours after surgery.

His mother had been beside him, weeping with joy as her son asked for Jaffa cakes, which were some sort of soft cookie, from what Bones had explained to Booth. She'd called a specialty store near her home and arranged for them to deliver the eight boxes in stock to the hospital.

His Bones and her big, loving heart. It knew no limits. She'd quietly arranged to be billed for Vincent's medical care as well.

He'd asked to speak with Bones after awakening, falling back into slumber within minutes. Five hours later, the intern was more alert and insisted, this time, upon speaking with Booth. This was how he'd come to find himself standing outside of his room, swallowing hard against the cottonmouth. How the hell could he atone for getting the kid shot? There weren't words for that. Sorry was five letters of inadequacy in a two-syllable pitiful package.

The kid was ashen but surprisingly affable as he entered, his mother glancing up briefly at the agent's arrival. Her hand smoothed over his hair lovingly as she rose to her feet.

"You don't have to leave, Mrs. Nigel-Murray."

"I need to stretch my legs," she insisted. "Vincent, I'll be right back."

"Take your time, Mum. Agent Booth will be here."

Booth struggled with whether to sit or stand, his feet aching yet his heart also full with regret. Compromising, he leaned against the wall, shifting his weight partially off his aching heels. He smiled at the stack of cookie boxes on the nearby table, gesturing to them with a nod.

"The one perk of being in a hospital: Bones will spoil you. How are you feeling, Vincent?"

"Sore," he replied hoarsely, shifting beneath the sheets. "But grateful. You saved my life, Agent Booth."

"Just Booth, and I didn't. If I hadn't handed you that phone – "

"Then I... imagine Dr. Brennan would be... very upset." Vincent coughed violently and Booth immediately reached for a nearby cup of water. Helping him drink, he remained at his side as he continued to talk. "You didn't know I'd be hurt."

"Still, I should have expected Broadsky to do something like that," Booth countered.

"You're... two of a kind, Booth," Vincent observed. "You and Dr. Brennan. None of us get it."

"Get what?"

"Why you don't just love each other already," the intern replied, rolling his eyes. "I may be young and rather full of bollocks, particularly when drunk, but I know what love looks like."

"It's... complicated."

Wait, why am I having this conversation with an intern? With anyone at all, really? His disaster zone of a love life was not exactly high on his list of issues to chat about with recovering shooting victims today.

"Life's too short for complicated," Vincent mumbled. "I know that now... and so do you."

"Vincent, I'm here to make sure you're okay and apologize for endangering your life, not to go all Oprah," Booth protested, rising slowly.

"You want to make amends?"

Booth sighed sadly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I wish I could, but – "

"Tell her you love her. Tell her and I'll consider you atoned. So will your God, I promise. I'll even pray to him to insist, if you oblige me," Vincent joked weakly.

"She knows I love her," Booth replied.

"Have you said it since Hannah?"

Booth groaned loudly. "God, did Sweets put you up to this?"

"I'm a scientist," Vincent said. "I observe. She talks to herself, sometimes. I watch her watch you leave. She thinks you can't forgive her for the Hoover."

"How do you know about the Hoover?" Booth demanded.

Vincent's eyes fluttered close, but he continued to speak, his words slow and measured. "I had a dream. This woman, she told me that there was a bad choice in front of the Hoover... that Dr. Brennan wanted... forgiveness for it. I asked her... and she wept. It was very odd to see it."

"Bones crying does have that effect on people..."

Was it possible that she believed that he didn't love her? They'd discussed the prospect of trying to have a relationship, hadn't they? Wasn't that clear? Hadn't he outright wished for it – told her he was making the wish to ensure they got their chance? He could see the paper burning now, feel the thin page turn to ash. Less than one millimeter separating them from fate, or so he'd believed.

You qualified it, though, he realized. You said when you weren't angry anymore that you could try.

His own words haunted him, that bitter, scotch-soaked night months prior rewinding for him. He'd as much as told her that he was angry at her, at her rejection of him. Bones was a woman of rationality, of the overt. She said what she meant and expected the same of him. Vincent was right, damn him.

"I brought you some juice, Vincent."

Booth glanced up as the intern's mother slid back into the room, juggling several bottles of cranberry juice. He moved quickly to take half of them, setting them carefully beside the cookie boxes. She thanked Booth warmly, returning to the chair where she'd been keeping vigil.

"You look tired, honey," she gently chided her son.

"I want to see everyone... Just briefly. Then sleep."

"I'll go get them. The waiting room's a little ripe, just as a warning."

Vincent's mother chuckled. "I'm certain we'll manage, Agent Booth."

"Booth?"

He met the intern's stare with a slight nod. "I'll do it. Soon."

"Thank you," he murmured.

The waiting room emptied quickly, an army of squints filing down the corridor, eager to see their friend. Only Bones turned in the opposite direction, heading briskly towards the emergency department entrance.

"Hey!" Booth ran after her, blocking her path. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Home. I need to shower and change before returning to the lab," she replied calmly.

"Like hell you're going there!" Booth snapped. "Bones, it's dinner time. Sleep time. The case can wait until morning."

"Broadsky needs to be found," she insisted.

"And we'll find him, I promise you. But not tonight. You're going to rest and have a good meal first."

"Booth – "

"You're staying with me tonight."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was stated fact, with no room for contradiction, not even the scant space that separated their bodies now. Booth readied himself for an angry barrage of arguments against the idea, for indignant refusal of protection or perhaps her rebuking him for "alpha male behaviour". And while yes, her eyes flashed steely grey for a brief moment, it was a storm he never had to weather.

"Okay," she assented.

"Thank you," he whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace.

One millimeter. It was the reason Vincent was still here, opening his eyes to the truth. Booth had never been so grateful for so little.

Well... *nervous* whatcha think?

And yes, before I'm asked: I will be returning soon to all of my stories, promise! I'm looking to get ahead on Ring and Shuffle before I resume posting, just in case. In the meantime, please say hi and let me know what you think.