A/N: PLEASE READ THIS FIRST!

This is a Christmas chapter.

Okay, I know half of you (ok, all of you) must be going WTF right now. It's not even Halloween yet. And yes...you're right.

But it's snowing in my neck of the woods and snow always makes me feel Christmassy, so bear with me. If you don't feel like reading something holiday-related right now (my dad hates anything Christmas-related before December 15th, so I can understand how you feel), maybe file this away for later. But it's snowing and I'm feeling kind of depressed because of it and this totally got it out of my system.

And I don't know about you guys, but the simple thought of Christmas always brightens my day :)

If it helps, I'll make you guys a promise: next chapter=something Halloween-y.

She stood alone in the room, the only light the soft colors from the tree in front of her. Around her the living room was cheerful, although its decorations were hidden in the dark. She'd sent Booth up to bed a couple of minutes ago, claiming she only needed a glass of water, but now that she'd begun to look around she found she couldn't turn away.

How different this was from the way she'd been before! When she had been single, before she'd met Booth, her living room had not changed with the season, had not rearranged itself for a tree, an array of houses on the fireplace, popcorn strings. When she'd been single, Christmas had meant nothing to her, and so her living room had remained unchanged.

And then she'd met Booth. In those six Christmases she'd known him, before they were together, little things had become apparent. Gifts were placed under a potted plant the first year. The second, she decorated the plant with a miniature string of lights. The third, she took home the tree he'd gotten her family, placing it in the middle of the room and staring at it at night. The fourth she found herself digging up Christmas CD's, listening to the songs he and Parker warbled in the car. The fifth was the year she hosted dinner, and that year her room was entirely dressed up because of his help.

And then there was the sixth year, the year with Hannah, and her spirit had fallen apart. There was no tree, no decorations, not even gifts under the potted plant. She'd declined his invitations and found herself curled up in bed nearly all of Christmas day, not sad, not depressed, not anything. Just numb.

But then the seventh year rolled around, her first Christmas with him, and things changed drastically. He insisted on decorating, but she insisted on the expensive glass baubles from designer stores. Although he'd declined the idea at first, her hormones had gotten in the way and, joined with the emotion automatically associated to the season, she'd begun to sob at the thought of not being able to decorate the tree with him. It was no shock that she'd gotten her way after that, and even Booth had to admit that it was the prettiest tree he'd ever had.

The eighth year, the first with Christine, had brought along a child-proofed Christmas. Glass baubles were put away, exchanged for popcorn strings and child-proofed lights, plastic decorations and paper snowflakes. The room took on a childish air, and so did Booth (and, although she would never admit it, Brennan). They splurged on gifts for her, and on each other, and Christmas morning was spent on the floor of their living room, as Christine gurgled and screeched her laughter. He took her to church while Brennan cleaned up the mess and made pancakes, and a new tradition was born.

And so went the second year, and the third year she was once again pregnant. Emotions ran high again, and she cried when Booth presented her with a diamond necklace that cost about a month's salary and wasn't consoled until her daughter crawled into her lap and announced that if her mommy didn't like the necklace, she would wear it. The fourth year another little girl sat under the tree with her older sister, and that was the year Booth decided they should have a card. An entire day was reserved for pictures: of Joy, of Christine, of all of them, of just Booth and Brennan, of just mother and daughters, of father and daughters. The card was simple, the picture one that hadn't been planned: it was of Christine giving her younger sister a blanket, and Joy squealing with, well, joy. This card tradition, although Brennan didn't quite like it, had become a tradition, and remained in place up to today.

The fifth, sixth, and seventh years were spent in a similar fashion, the presents changing with every year. Although both parents splurged, it became nearly a routine for Booth to buy Joy's and Brennan to buy Christine's, simply because they knew what each daughter would like best. Booth became lost when wading through the science kits and experiments that Brennan and Christine so enjoyed, but Brennan was clumsy and awkward at finding the dolls and tea sets that Booth so loved buying for Joy. Middle ground was great: candy, clothes, books, things they could both buy, things both girls got in equal.

The eighth year she was pregnant for the third time, and with Christine old enough to shrug off the selfishness of childhood and embrace the giving of the season, she found herself pampered by her oldest daughter. Breakfast in bed was followed by making mommy open her gifts first, and she once again found herself struggling with her emotions when Booth presented her with a large collage-like picture frame of their family (including an ultrasound of their child in the corner). Even Joy was pulled in, happily baking cookies with her older sister and her father after church. That year was the first year Brennan attended the service, sitting through it quietly and thoughtfully. Although she made it clear that she did not agree with his 'mythology', she didn't argue against it either, and Booth couldn't put into words the ecstatic feeling he had sitting with his family in the pew: his wife beside him, head on his shoulder, his arm around her; Joy in his lap with her head tucked beneath his chin and her legs tucked in; Christine on the other side, sitting proper and prim but holding his hand.

The ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth years...all the years up to this year, the fifteenth. They were full of happiness, of spirit, of giving and receiving. Christine was now eleven, and was incredible at making do with the little money she had and coming up with extraordinary gifts. Joy, at eight, had a knack for creativity and spent hours weaving intricate designs with string and beads and whatever other scraps she could find, brightening the atmosphere of the mood. Even four-year-old Zach got into the spirit, happily holding his father's hand as they walked through the aisles of stores and found presents for their entire family. Parker visited often, bringing with him gifts from countries he'd visited for his step-sisters and step-brother; bobble-head toys and other assorted memorabilia for his father; and whatever heavy science material he could find for Brennan.

She turned around the room once more, taking it all in again: the village on the mantel, the soft lights of the tree, the beautiful portrait Joy had decorated, the brightly-wrapped gifts shining in the light. And then, behind her: him, arms crossed in front of him, a soft smile on his face like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

They stared at each other for a minute, communicating through nothing but sight, and he stepped around her towards the tree and flicked a switch behind the tree. Soft music wafted through the speakers placed strategically in the branches.

Silent night, holy night

He stepped towards her and placed his hands on her waist, her arms around his neck, and they stepped closer together and swayed to a rhythm as old as time, embedded within them.

All is calm, all is bright...