A/N: *happy dance* Thank you all so much for the copious, wonderful, specific reviews for 43. You made my day, my week, my year. It's amazing how inspired I am to write when I know people are reading! As such, I present a nice long chapter for your enjoyment. =) Many thanks to Eternal Destiny 304 for the beta and constant encouragement.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"All four victims have now been positively identified." Brennan slid the children's pictures across the desk and over to Booth one at a time. "Maria Rose Sanchez, age 9; Jessica Capshaw, age 8; Maureen Lanette Kennedy, age 10 and Sebastian Fitzgerald, age 9."

Booth stared down at the photographs, his mind automatically transposing Parker's own toothy grin onto each of the smiling young faces. The thought of having to tell four different sets of grieving parents that their children were dead made him physically ill.

"How'd they die?"

"My original assessment was correct. Each of the victims' skulls were severely pitted, indicating blunt force trauma."

He sat back against the couch and crossed his arms. "Meaning somebody smashed their heads in, right?"

"In laymen's terms, yes, a direct blow to the occipital lobe resulted in each of the victims' deaths. Perhaps even more pertinent to the case are the remodeled fractures found in each victim. Maria sustained long bone fractures with subdural hematomas. Jessica's femurs showed evidence of torsional fractures, while Maureen and Sebastian's lowering extremes had scarring from simultaneous burns."

Booth had been working with Brennan long enough to be able to decode certain words, leading him to an extremely unpleasant conclusion. "You're saying each of these kids was abused."

"Badly."

His sympathy for the parents evaporated. "Have you found a connection among the children?"

"Each victim was in the foster care system in a different state. Hodgins' examination of the particulates on the individual remains indicates that the murders were committed in four different places, outside of DC."

"So we have to track down multiple sets of foster parents and interrogate them." Booth sat up, pleased that he at least had something to follow up on. "Good work, Bones. You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Foster care cases tend to really hit home with you."

Her mouth opened to tell him she was fine—he could read it in her eyes, if not her lips—then closed again, while she apparently reconsidered.

"Though I am capable of compartmentalizing my own experiences from situations encountered at work, I will admit to some level of innate, perhaps unprofessional, personal distress when confronting such cases."

A small bubble of happiness formed in Booth's chest. "There's nothing unprofessional about being human, Bones. You don't let your emotions interfere with your work, and feeling sad because what happened to you is still happening to so many other helpless kids is completely normal." Booth reached over and took her hand, feeling the bubble grow exponentially when Brennan didn't shy away. "Thanks for being honest with me."

She nodded a little stiffly, and he knew it was time to give her some space to deal with the emotions his question—and the case—had stirred up.

"Tomorrow's Saturday and we haven't been on many dates for the fourth week of our experiment. Rebecca's got Parker this weekend … are you free at all Saturday or Sunday?"

"I still have a lot of work to catch up on from the three days I was absent. I haven't made any progress on the Revolutionary War victim, and I would like to more accurately determine what weapon was used to kill the four children."

"So, that's a no for the weekend." Booth stood up, trying not to feel too disappointed. "Okay. How about Monday evening instead?"

"No." Brennan got up from her chair. "I would like to spend Saturday with you, Booth, if that's convenient. Then on Sunday I can come in to the museum."

Holy hell. The woman was actually compromising. And Booth hadn't even had to pull any teeth, for a change!

"There is, however, one condition to my agreeing to spend Saturday with you," she added before he could say anything.

Booth was instantly suspicious. "And that would be …"

"I'll be taking paperwork home tonight and Josie is no longer around." She paused for a long moment before continuing. "I had grown accustomed to having her in the apartment. When you finish your own work day, will you drive by my place and pretend you see the lights on from the street?"

It was all Booth could do to stop his jaw from dropping.

"I can do that." He lowered his voice. "I'd kiss you for asking that, Bones, but there are people on the platform …"

"That's something we need to discuss, Booth. What about the FBI regulations regarding sexual relationships between partners? Is this experiment jeopardizing our work together?"

He'd been expecting that question from Day 1.

"Bones, the top brass at the FBI figures we've been sleeping together for the last four years, at least," Booth told her frankly. "It obviously hasn't affected our success rate, and they're not about to mess with a good thing. As long as we're discreet around Hacker and Cullen, they aren't going to give us any grief."

"In that case, why does it matter if people on the platform see us kissing?"

"It doesn't," Booth stammered, taken aback, "I mean, I just thought … it's your workspace, Bones, and you've kind of drawn that boundary—"

"So long as it's in my office and during my personal time, I have no objections. I realize that within the FBI building we need to proceed as always. However, there is no such impediment to a physical relationship here, other than your personal views about public displays of affection." She said the last bit with a note of taunting sarcasm.

Oh, he'd show her …

"Is this still considered your personal time?" Booth asked casually, shrugging off his coat as he asked the question.

Brennan glanced at the clock on the wall. "I have 17 minutes left of my lunch break."

He caught her arm and tumbled her, unsuspecting, onto the couch, twisting his own body as he followed her down and pinned her beneath him.

"Booth!" she exclaimed breathlessly, bracing her hands against his chest as his head lowered meaningfully toward hers. "The door—"

Then his mouth was on hers, demanding; his hands were fisted in her hair; her legs acted of their own volition and wrapped themselves around Booth's lean hips; her fingers dug into the firm muscles of his back, and the heat of their mutual arousal drove any further thoughts of propriety from both their brains.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The first thing he saw on Saturday morning when he opened his eyes were her eyes, smiling into his. She was lying on her side, auburn hair mussed on the pillow, watching him.

"Good morning." Her voice was husky with sleep.

Booth rolled halfway on top of her, bracing himself on one elbow and reaching out to cup her cheek in one large hand.

"Great morning, you mean," he corrected, skimming the contours of her lips with a fingertip. "You're never still in bed when I wake up. I like this."

"My circadian rhythms generally dictate my morning routine." Her eyes fixated on his jaw, her thumb rubbing back and forth across the stubble. "I prefer to start my day early. But I also like this."

He pressed a kiss to her palm. "How long have you been awake?"

"Around forty five minutes."

"And what have you been doing all that time?" he teased, hoping she'd play along.

She idly trailed her fingertips across his collarbone before answering. "I was watching you sleep."

It was an unusually tender statement, leading to a rise in emotions within Booth that were far too powerful for so early in the morning. Brennan took care of that problem with her next casual comment.

"I was also considering removing my clothing and providing you with blatant temptation on awakening, in hopes of breaking your resolution to wait until Week 6."

Booth poked her in the ribs, eliciting an outraged squeal, followed by immediate retaliation from her own nimble fingers in the region of his abs. They tumbled over and over in the bed, laughing and tickling each other until Brennan finally came to rest above him, still laughing. She looked even more beautiful than usual, her features relaxed and happy, her hair tumbling down to form a private curtain around their faces.

He slid a hand into the long tangles of hair cascading all around him and pulled her down for a lingering kiss before Brennan climbed off him and got out of bed.

"You are invited to shower with me," she said over her shoulder, walking toward the bathroom with a deliberately pronounced sashay to her hips. No woman wearing pajama pants emblazoned with cartoon pigs should be able to look so sexy.

Booth threw a pillow at her, barely missing her cute little backside. He used the pillow left on the bed to muffle a groan of desire as she stepped into the bathroom and turned to cast a heated come-hither look at him before closing the door behind her.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"Where are we going? Are we almost there?" Brennan asked for the third time in two hours.

Booth was tempted to ask whether she was hungry, bored and had to pee, but decided that line of inquiry would only confuse a non-parent.

"It's not far now," he reassured her, turning off the highway at the "Welcome to Virginia" exit sign.

"I'm hungry," she complained, lending credence to Booth's earlier thoughts. "Why wouldn't you let me eat breakfast?"

"Because we'll be eating breakfast when we get where we're going."

He hid a smile as she continued to grumble in her own uniquely Brennan way.

Thirty minutes later, he turned off the main road onto a dirt track surrounded by acres of green hills and wildflower meadows and a large, bullet-pointed sign that effectively gave away the surprise he'd hoped to keep a secret for a few more minutes.

BUTLER'S APPLE ORCHARD

Pick your own, buy a bushel, bring the family!

In colonial times apples were called winter banana or melt-in-the-mouth.

2500 varieties of apples are grown in 36 states. Most are still picked by hand in the fall.

Apple varieties range in size from a little larger than a cherry to as large as a grapefruit.

25 percent of an apple's volume is air, which is why they float.

It takes about 36 apples to create one gallon of apple cider.

Apples are a member of the rose family.

Brennan turned to him. "We're going apple picking?"

"That's part of the plan for the day." He pulled the SUV into a small improvised parking lot that was surprisingly full for 10:30 am.

"You have very creative ideas for dates," she commented as they got out of the car and slathered on sunscreen.

"Is that a good or a bad thing according to the fabled Brennan brain?" he asked mildly, handing her the same sunhat she'd worn on their island outing.

"It's a great thing," she corrected, referencing his words from that morning. "I like it."

She held out her hand and he took it, enveloping her fingers beneath his as they walked toward the orchard trees in the distance. Other than the howls of cranky children as they were awakened and unbuckled from car seats, the morning was quiet with the sounds of birds and busily working bees. Lazy clouds drifted overhead in an otherwise flawless blue sky.

A small red stand greeted them a few yards down the road.

"Breakfast," Booth announced, pointing at the homemade menu posted to the metal frame.

The little old lady behind the counter was stereotypically round, red-cheeked and beaming as she bustled around assembling their order. She looked like she could have been lifted from the pages of a Mother Goose nursery rhyme, complete with a cooing grandchild in the background to distract her occasionally.

"Is this your young lady?" she asked, peering at them from behind huge granny glasses.

"Yes," Booth said firmly, taking a tighter hold of Brennan's hand. "She is."

"Such a nice thing for a young couple to do together on a beautiful Saturday." The woman dished up fresh oatmeal for Brennan, doused it liberally with milk and cream before covering it with crisp apple slices.

"Just picked this morning," she smiled, handing the bowl over.

A few minutes later she plated a steaming apple turnover, hot from the oven, alongside a scoop of homemade applesauce dusted with cinnamon and passed it along Booth, who was just about salivating.

He reached for his wallet and she waved him away. "On the house."

Brennan frowned. "That's not financially prudent. If you give free meals away to all your customers, how will you recoup your initial investment?"

"Bones," Booth hissed. "What, you're a banking guru now?"

"I don't give free meals away to all my customers," the woman replied cheerfully. "Just to ones who are so obviously in love. Lenny died last year, but I like to believe he's watching from heaven and enjoys seeing visiting couples who are in love as we once were when we founded this business."

She poured two cups of apple cider and gave them to Booth and Brennan, who were standing awkwardly, uncertain of how to proceed.

"Just because one of you may not know it yet, doesn't mean I'm not right," the grandmother said gently, turning her attention to the next person in line.

o-o-o-o-o-o

With the property owner's permission they settled in a nearby meadow, reclining on the slightly dew-damp acres of grass.

"This," Booth announced ecstatically with a full mouth, "This is …" he waved his fork, "Definitely the best pie on the planet. Want a bite?"

Brennan made a face and pushed his laden fork away. "Pie for breakfast is not appealing. My oatmeal is excellent. Would you like to try some?"

"Sure."

She held out the spoon. Booth bypassed it and palmed the back of her head so he could kiss her instead. Her mouth melted willingly under his and he slid forward to explore her mouth leisurely, tasting tart apple and spicy cinnamon mingled with a sweet taste that was 100% Brennan. The explosion of flavors under his lips made him giddy.

"Yep, you're right. Excellent oatmeal."

"Your pie is overly sweet, as I suspected," Brennan retorted, but her dislike of his favorite dessert didn't stop her. She shoved him flat onto the grass and leaned in to take over the kiss, doing her own in-depth exploration as he ran his hands up and down her back.

"Bones …"

She pulled back questioningly and Booth caught his breath, awed at how beautiful she continued to be—would always be in his eyes—no matter what setting. The picturesque landscape around them was only an added bonus to the copper sheen of her hair and the blue glint in her eyes.

He plucked a small red flower from her temple and offered it to her, smiling. "Souvenir of our date?"

Brennan took it from him, examining the specimen carefully. "I have nowhere to put it."

"Back in your hair works for me," Booth said softly, taking the flower back and rearranging it behind her ear. "You are so beautiful, Bones Brennan, inside and out. The breakfast woman was right. I'm completely in love with you."

He turned them swiftly so he was above, and kissed her hard.

. o-o-o-o-o-o

"Apples ripen from the outside of the tree they're growing on towards the center." Booth pointed toward the large, juicy fruits hanging directly above them as they walked under the natural canopy created by the orchard's arrangement of apple trees. "Don't pull on the apple. Kind of roll it upward and give it a small twist." He demonstrated, picking a beautiful dark pink fruit for her.

"How do you know so much about apples?" she asked, placing his apple in her plastic bucket. "I wasn't aware botany was one of your interests."

"Pops really enjoyed it." Booth began to methodically remove fruit from the nearest branch. "He took me and Jarred a bunch of times when we were kids. Of course, we thought it was completely lame, teenagers spending the day out with Granddad apple picking."

Brennan paused in her own apple picking. He so rarely said anything about his childhood.

"I never knew my grandparents," she said, unsure of how else to initiate the conversation. "They died long before I was born."

"Yeah, well, you know Pops raised me." Booth worked his way around to the next branch.

She wasn't good at subtlety. "Will you tell me about your childhood one day?"

He looked over and Brennan was suddenly, unusually, worried that she'd seriously overstepped personal boundaries.

"I didn't mean to be intrusive."

"You weren't." He went back to picking. "There's not much to tell, but if you ask me, I'll answer any question."

"Can I eat this apple straight from the tree?"

He laughed. "Not the question I was expecting. I'd wait until you've washed it off, but I guess a small dose of pesticides and dirt never hurt anybody."

"I would dispute that final statement, but will take a calculated risk anyway." She rubbed the apple on her shirt sleeve and crunched into the fruit.

"This fruit is excellent. You want a bite?"

"Of you or of the apple?"

"You can have both," Brennan replied invitingly.

"I'll take my anthropologist with a little less chemical aftertaste, thanks," he chuckled.

They picked apples in companionable silence until Brennan spoke again.

"What was your mother's name?"

"Laura."

"What was she like?"

He glanced down at the growing pile of apples they'd picked. "I'm not avoiding your question—just wondering, how many apples do we want? 10 lbs is $15 dollars."

Brennan followed his gaze. They'd picked at least 40 of varying sizes, more than enough to give several to each member of the Braintrust and have ample leftovers.

"I think we have enough."

"Why don't we go leave them at that little station where they hold purchases for visitors who are still wandering around the property? Then we can go sit somewhere and I'll tell you about Mom."

o-o-o-o-o-o

An old apple tree which was no longer bearing fruit, located toward the back of the property, was an inviting, shady place to talk. They sat down on the soft earth beneath the tree, careful not to jar their fresh cups of coffee.

"Mom was somethin' else," Booth said quietly. "She was always happy, no matter what was going on. Dad would come home drunk and crazy, slap her around, say all kinds of shit, and she'd somehow manage to still keep smiling. The only time she lost it was when Dad would come after us. You think I'm protective—guess where that was inherited. She went after him with a shovel once, after he gave me a bloody nose."

She rested her head on his shoulder, offering wordless support as he revisited old memories.

"She was really smart. She always said she was going to go back to school one day, get a degree in something. There just wasn't much chance for her to go to college. Dad kept her busy enough, and then she had to look after us kids. She loved music. Didn't matter if she was washing dishes, doing laundry, cleaning up after dinner, she was always singing. That's how she composed her jingles, singing. It's what I remember most about the days after she died. How quiet the house was."

Brennan took a sip of coffee. "She passed her love of music down to you."

"Yeah. That's something else she gave me, besides keeping a roof over our heads, feeding us, driving us to school, trying to make a nice home for our friends to visit. That and keeping Dad constantly at bay."

It was an inane question, but she felt the urge to ask it anyway. "Do you miss her?"

"Sure. But I know she's watching me, and I can go talk to her if I need help with something."

"I've attempted to visit my mother's grave and talk to her, as you suggested."

Booth looked over at her in surprise. "Good for you, Bones. How'd it go?"

"She hasn't answered yet," Brennan replied wryly.

"She will." He kissed her temple. "Give it time."

"So your mother speaks to you?" Brennan asked hesitantly, not intending to mock his beliefs, but simply not understanding how anyone could derive comfort from speaking to thin air.

"She's the one who told me to risk this experiment with you."

"I don't understand."

"Remember when you made the request originally and I walked out of the office?"

She nodded.

"I went to talk to Mom. It was like I kind of felt her tell me to take a chance on things."

Brennan sighed. "I still don't understand."

"Just keep trying, Bones. You'll hear her voice eventually."

o-o-o-o-o-o

"Sorry the hayride wasn't romantic," Booth apologized as they drove up to Brennan's apartment late that evening, having spent the day after apple picking just generally enjoying time away from the city. Booth's final plan for the evening, however, had bombed big time.

The advertised hayrides that had drawn him to the orchard's website in the first place had turned out to be communal property—everybody in at the same time, no specials for couples hoping for a little privacy. With the big harvest moon overhead and a gentle breeze riffling through the leaves of the surrounding trees, Booth had made multiple attempts to kiss Brennan, but an eagle-eyed kid would invariably ewwww or screech, or just generally interpose him or herself in such a manner that a little innocent making out just never managed to happen.

"I hadn't anticipated so many kids screaming."

Brennan chuckled. "It was a nice date, Booth. Even if the hayride didn't go as planned, you had plenty of other opportunities today to kiss me."

Up against a tree, under a tree, behind a tree, in the branches of a tree that they had climbed illicitly, on the banks of a small creek, in the meadow all over again …

"So what you're saying is you're kissed out completely?"

"Not at all." Her smile was sultry. "Would you like to spend the night?"

"Fully clothed?" Booth asked cautiously.

"If that's how it has to be in order to ensure your presence in my bed for the evening, then, yes, fully clothed," she replied regretfully.

"Tell you what," Booth decided. "I need to run home and get some clothes that aren't covered in hay. These itch like crazy. I'll come by in an hour, maybe? It'll give you time to shower and change."

"My invitation for the shower remains," Brennan hinted through the open window of his SUV.

Booth leaned out and kissed her quickly. "Crazy, sexy squint," he groaned, watching her grow smaller in the rearview mirror as he drove away.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Sniper reflexes were never far beneath the surface. As soon as Booth let himself into his dark apartment he felt, rather than saw, the movement in his living room and knew someone was waiting for him. He flattened himself to the wall, wishing he'd taken his gun along for the daytrip. He spotted a knife gleaming on the nearby kitchen counter and began to make his way toward it, figuring he could impale the intruder if things got hairy. Almost in the same breath, a familiar voice called out,

"Don't shoot! Not yet, anyway."

Booth frowned and reached for the light switch. "Max?"

Max Keenan stepped out of the shadows, shrugging sheepishly. His face was a swollen mass of purpling cuts and bruises. "You should do a better job of hiding your spare key."

"Where the hell have you been?" Booth advanced on him angrily. "Bones is worried out of her mind!"

Keenan took a small step back, holding up his hands peaceably. "Just let me explain."

"You damn well better!" He shoved the older man backward into a chair, hovering over him menacingly.

"I'm the one who hit Tempe."

"What?" Booth exploded, feeling the axis of his world shift. His hands curled into fists and reached for Max's neck, but murdering Brennan's father didn't seem like a good way to finally get her to fall in love with him. The confession also somehow didn't ring true. In spite of all his faults, Max loved his daughter, and Booth had always known that and even respected the man for his efforts to protect Brennan. "You wanna run that by me again?"

"Is she okay?" Max asked, strangely anxious for a father who'd left his daughter to die in a drainage ditch.

"I'm not answering that until you tell me what the hell is going on," Booth snapped, taking several steps back in an effort to avoid breaking every bone in the man's body. "Start talking, Max."

"Several members of the old gang—ones you've never heard of, so don't ask me for names—resurfaced recently. They put a hit out on Tempe in order to get to me, so I took the fight to them. The day Temperance came to my place, they'd converged on my place. They had their guns trained on her from every angle from the minute she got out of that car. If I hadn't followed their orders and knocked her out, they would've shot her."

"You do know they left her in a drainage ditch to die," Booth snarled. "Right?"

Max blanched. "I found out later, yes. But right after I knocked her out, they shot me."

He lifted the hem of his t-shirt, revealing an extremely crudely patched wound just above his solar plexus. Blood was seeping from the fringes of the homemade pressure bandage.

"You need to get medical attention for that, Max."

"I had no idea what had happened to her," the conman continued. "They tied me up in the basement, left me there to bleed to death, but I got free. Is she okay?"

Booth groaned, sinking into the couch. "She is now, but she definitely won't be once she hears this."

"You can't tell her," Max said quickly.

"What?" Booth raised an eyebrow in amazement. "How are you planning on keeping the bullet wound from her? She won't miss the way you're walking with a limp. What'd they do, shoot you in the leg, too?"

"They tried to kneecap me and then quit for some reason. Booth, she can't know," Max repeated. "They'll found out soon enough that neither of us is dead. They'll find out, Booth. You know it. I have to take them out, and in order to do that I have to leave town and cut ties with Temperance again."

Booth vaulted from the couch in horror. "No, Max, you cannot do that. No way in hell can you just vanish from her life again without a trace. You'll kill her."

"You're in love with her," the older man said quietly.

"Damn straight, I am. That's why I can't let you do this."

"I've always known you loved her. You be good to her. Keep her safe."

"Max," Booth pleaded, "She's finally taking a chance on somebody, and the lucky bastard just happens to be me. I love her, yes. I would die for her. And I hate, I really, really hate that the woman I love never manages to catch a fucking break!"

He paced back in forth in agony. "Every time she has a chance of happiness, something comes along that blows it all to hell again. Her future is opening up after years of being locked behind padlocks and chains. If you leave again, you might as well bury her alive like the Grave Digger did."

"There's no other way."

"Let me help you. We can track these goons down and lock them away."

Max shook his head sadly. "It doesn't work that way and you know it. If it did, Christine and I wouldn't have had to go into hiding. These people are above and beyond the reaches of law enforcement."

Booth's phone chose that moment to ring. Max quietly withdrew a pistol and trained it on Booth.

"If that's Tempe, tell her everything's okay and you'll see her in the morning."

Keeping his eyes on Max, Booth opened the phone.

"Hi, Bones."

"Hi. Could you pick up a quart of milk on your way over here?"

"We're going to have to postpone our date. Your dad is sitting in my living room holding a gun on me."

"What?"

Max fired a warning shot into the arm rest of the couch, his distorted features twisting in anger. Booth dropped the phone, aware the call hadn't been disconnected.

"You're an idiot. If I take you out, she'll lose both of us at the same time. I thought you loved her."

"I love her enough not to lie," Booth answered calmly. Being shot at and threatened was nothing unusual in his line of work. "Enough not to let you leave without a fight."

Abruptly, Max stood up and turned the gun on himself. Booth scrambled to his own feet hastily.

"Max—"

"You take care of my baby girl," the man said hoarsely, backing away with the mouth of the pistol pressed to his temple. "Put a ring on her finger one of these days. She loves you too, Booth. Don't let her make you think differently because she's afraid."

"She's afraid because of you! You're the reason she's terrified to trust anybody. And your leaving all over again isn't going to help matters any!"

"I wish things didn't have to be this way." Max waved at the couch. "You sit right there. Don't follow me any farther, or I pull this trigger and check out of Tempe's life permanently."

Booth wasn't altogether sure that would necessarily be a bad thing, but he did as ordered, watching Max Keenan vanish out the door even as he knew what Brennan's reaction would be.

o-o-o-o-o-o

"Where is he?" Brennan raced into the apartment, disregarding every warning Booth had ever given her about being wary around half-open doors.

Booth held up a hand as he finished speaking to the FBI dispatcher, then turned to her. "He's gone, Bones. I've got agents out looking for his car."

"You let him go?" Brennan's voice was shrill.

Booth warred with his instincts. On the one hand, he didn't want Brennan blaming him. On the other, he knew she probably would anyway, and it would save her having to know that her father was so intent on abandoning her again that he was willing to threaten suicide.

"He had a gun on me."

"You could've disarmed him! What about all your training?"

"Bones, I'm sorry," Booth said gently, taking a step toward her.

"Don't come near me!" she cried. "How could you let him just leave, Booth?" Her eyes glittered with anger and accusations.

"Bones, please." He took another step.

"No. You stay away from me." She backed towards the threshold.

"Don't shut me out, Bones," he begged. "Let me explain."

Just like her father, she stepped through the door and vanished down the hallway, leaving Booth alone again.

o-o-o-o-o-

Post-narrative A/N: Okay, dear readers. Just so you know: the angst is well and truly about to hit the proverbial fan. (Much worse than above, yes.) Never fear, however, I promise I will make all your suffering (and theirs) well worthwhile in the end. ;)