(Alternate ending for S6.03, The Maggots in the Meathead. Fair warning, Here Be Hannah.)

One of my favorite TV moments ever came from the first episode of CSI: New York. Although I lost interest in the show pretty quick, I adore Gary Sinise so I was watching when it debuted. His character's story included the fact that his wife had been killed in the World Trade Center attacks on September 11. One particular scene in the pilot showed him at home, removing a beach ball from a closet. His wife had blown it up and he couldn't bear to get rid of it because it contained her breath, and that beach ball was the last, tangible piece of her he had. While incredibly sad and tragic, I've always thought it was also one of the most beautiful, romantic moments ever.

The B&B I carry in my head, the ones I see when I write, they have that kind of love. And I want them to have a beach ball moment.

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Booth hung on to the shiny red bow in his hand and stared at the door for several long minutes after it closed behind Brennan. He felt vaguely unsettled and somewhat disappointed and was both afraid and unwilling to examine either feeling very deeply.

"So, you really like it? The phone?"

The bright voice behind him captured his attention. When he saw Hannah's wide smile, he locked the dangerous thoughts away.

"Yea!" he exclaimed. "Absolutely!" His hands circled her waist as he pulled her close for a kiss. "I've always wanted one of those old style phones!"

"That's what Temperance said." She linked her arms around his neck and laughed. "I'm glad you have friends who know you so well. Otherwise, I probably would have just bought you socks!"

Booth ignored the twinge he felt at the sound of Brennan's name and kissed Hannah again. "Well, socks would have been great, too!" He glanced over at the small pile of luggage on the floor. "Is that really it? That's all you brought with you?"

"That's it," she shrugged. "What can I say, I travel light!"

"Well, you know what that means." His voice lowered to a seductive murmur. "It won't take us long to get you unpacked and then we can celebrate you moving in."

"Mmmmmm." Hannah snuggled closer. "I like the sound of that! Let's hurry!"

Booth picked up two bags while she grabbed the third and followed him into the bedroom. He dropped his burden just inside the door and crossed to the closet. The light inside came on with a flick of his finger, revealing a long, narrow space filled with clothes hanging from the bars that lined two walls. He immediately began shifting hangers from one side to the other.

"How much room do you need?" he asked over his shoulder when Hannah stepped inside with him.

"Oh . . ." She examined one wall carefully and waved her hand over the clothes already hanging there. "Maybe half of this side?"

He frowned. "That's it? Are you sure? There's plenty of room. Hell, I don't even wear some of that stuff anymore. I should get rid of most of it." He grabbed an armful and transferred his belongings to the other bar. "Take as much as you want."

Hannah shook her head as she gathered up more of his shirts and passed them over. "That should be more than enough. You are obviously the clothes-horse in this relationship, Seeley. I will need a few empty hangers, though. Got any extras?"

He nodded toward the back of the closet. "Help yourself."

She squeezed her way around him, taking the opportunity to grope his backside and nibble at his ear before grabbing a handful of the wooden hangers. A long black garment bag tucked against the wall caught her attention.

"Oooh, what's this? A tux? I love a man who owns a tux!"

Busy grouping shirts and suits together, Booth shook his head without looking over. "Well, I hope you love a man who rents a tux because . . . "

"Ewww. What is this?"

His head swiveled around at the sharp sound of her disgust. The garment bag was in her hands, unzipped and hanging open to reveal a white dress shirt marked by a large rusty brown stain that spread across the center. Booth froze for an instant then took one step toward her and jerked the bag away.

"Don't touch that!"

Taken aback by the sharp tone, Hannah watched, frowning, as he gently tucked the sleeves back into the bag and rezipped it.

"What is it?" she asked again. "Is that . . . Is that blood? It looked like blood. Is it yours? How badly were you hurt?"

Jaw set, Booth hung the bag at the rear of what was now his side of the closet. "It's not my blood."

Hannah studied the stiff lines of his profile; her shrewd eyes captured the movement of his fingers as they lingered against the seam of the shiny nylon.

"Why would you keep a bloody shirt that isn't yours?" Something about his demeanor unsettled her. "Did you lose a partner . . ."

In the suddenly tense atmosphere of the closet, she heard the swift intake of his breath and saw a muscle jump in his cheek before he turned his back on her.

"No, I didn't lose . . . It was Bones. It's hers. The blood is hers."

Hannah's mouth opened soundlessly. She stared at the bag, seeing again the dark, heavy stain on the white cotton.

"Temperance?" she clarified slowly, her eyes wide. "It's her blood?" Her gaze went to Booth, to the back of his head, because he wouldn't look at her. "What happened? How was she hurt?"

His silence went on for so long she didn't think he was going to answer.

"We had a case," he said finally. "She went by herself to see one of the suspects. He attacked her." His tone was curt, the words short and harsh. "If I hadn't gotten there in time -" He bit off the rest of the sentence.

She waited for him to continue and when he didn't, prodded further. "What happened to the suspect?"

A group of thin metal hangers from a local dry cleaner crumpled beneath his fingers.

"He's dead. I shot him."

Hannah said nothing for several minutes. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and resigned.

"She's the one, isn't she?"

Her choice of words got his attention; Booth frowned as he looked at her. "The one what?"

"The one who didn't love you back." At his shocked face, she attempted a casual shrug. "That night in Kabul, when we had a little too much to drink? I asked why a guy like you didn't have a girl back home and you said 'because she didn't love me back.' It was Temperance, wasn't it?"

He responded automatically. "Bones is my partner. That's all." He gathered another handful of shirts and shoved them carelessly onto the bar in front of him. "We're just partners. We're just partners."

Hannah stared at him for several long seconds and then took the shirts he'd just moved and put them back into the empty space he was trying to clear for her.

"What are you doing?"

"You have a bloody shirt hanging in your closet, Seeley. I really don't think there's room for me."

Disappointed but resolute, she cupped his face in her hands and went on tiptoe to place one last, lingering kiss on his lips.

"Hannah . . ."

When she stepped back she glanced toward the garment bag again.

"I think you're wrong, you know. About Temperance not loving you back."

While Booth stood frozen, Hannah gathered the bags she'd never had the chance to unpack and looked around the apartment that might have been home, at least for a little while. The phone caught her eye.

"Be good to him," she whispered and let herself out.

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I know, I know - "Oh my God, another Hannah story!" But hear me out! First, this is only the third one I've written so I'm still under quota. Second, see how nice I was? Nothing bitchy in this at all. That's gotta earn me a gold star somewhere. And third, I've always wondered what Booth did with Brennan's shirt from Harbingers in the Fountain. And now I can say I know, even if only in my own head.