AN: Um, wow guys! Thank you so much! The last chapter's probably my favourite so far and it seems we all agree. We also seem to agree that as much fun as Buck and Wanda can be, we all miss Tony and Roxie.

We've sailed over 101 reviews in less than 24 hours and I am touched! I am also in possession of your promised extra chapter. I'll see you next Sunday with a season five story, but for now, let's celebrate the new year with our couple's song.

Tag To: Two Bodies In The Lab

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or the Foreigner classic "Hot Blooded". I do have a tendency to sing it to one of my cats, Kali, who thinks I'm a silly idiot but purrs anyway as I dance her around. What a good pet she is!

Hot Blooded (Foreigner)

The call chills my blood and I nearly drop my phone in shock.

"Someone tried to take out Dr. Brennan."

"Take out? What, you mean kill her?"

"Shots fired. She's fine, Booth. She asked us to let you know."

I grit my teeth. "And why isn't she letting me know herself? What's wrong?"

The cop on the other end laughs. "Because she's bossing around forensics and refusing to go to the hospital. Could you maybe convince her?"

I shake my head and take down the address he gives me. Why am I not surprised? Bones would solve her own murder if she could.

Murder. The word reminds me of the seriousness of the situation. Someone took shots at my partner on the same day two bodies arrived at the lab, one being an infamous mobster.

No one is taking another shot at her. No one.

By the time I've reached the scene, I'm told she's sped off towards the Jeffersonian, ordering forensics to retrieve the bullets aimed at her skull. After throwing my weight around enough to ensure the techs know how goddamn serious I am about finding the shooter, I hit the sirens and floor it to the lab. Sure enough, there she is, on the platform in her lab coat. Working.

She won't stop working, even in danger. The woman lacks a self-preservation instinct.

"Look, whoever killed these victims wants to make sure you don't finish your investigation."

Defiantly, she replies, "Hundreds of criminals would like me to stop what I do. Are you suggesting that I just give up my career?"

I fight the urge to boss her ass out of the lab. It's pointless; I've learned that the hard way. Bones must be convinced that a course of action is her own idea.

"Just... Be reasonable."

"Fine. Logic suggests that the shooter is involved in one of these cases, so I should find out who killed them before he tries to shoot me again."

She walks away, examining a computer monitor. I hate her intelligence at times like this.

"Did forensics recover the bullets intended for me?" she asks.

Bullets intended for me. Those particular words in that combination make me sick to my stomach. "Ballistics is running tests on them right now."

Another question, rapid-fire. "And have you picked up the suspect in the young woman's murder?"

"Hollings. I don't want to spook him until we have enough evidence but I've got guys watching him."

"Did you get a list of women missing age 18 – "

"18 to 25, yes, they're on your server," I interrupt. Softening my voice as best I can manage, I reassure her. "Bones, everyone is doing their job."

"Okay, I'll see if any of them match the victim," Angela says, settling at a computer. I can tell she's on my side, but has likely lost her own argument prior to my arrival.

"What about the Romano family? Hodgins says they were feuding with the Cuginis."

I have to go there. I'm about to piss her off, but there's no avoiding it.

"Kenton has pulled all files related to the case and all mob activity six years ago. Bones, there is one other person we have to look at: your date."

She's trying to remain casual, but the tone feels forced. "Well, I spoke with him, Booth. He was in his car in traffic. And why would he want to kill me?"

"Why would somebody want to kill your victim over there?" I counter. Her discomfort is unfortunately necessary, but it still makes me feel shitty. "Look Bones," I continue, "I know it's hard for you to admit that you might be wrong about something, but I really don't care about your feelings right now. I'm more concerned with your life, so they're bringing your date in for interrogation. Grab your coat."

"I'm working," she insists.

"Bones! I'm not letting you out of my sight until I find out who is trying to kill you."

Her eyes meet mine and I see a begrudging admission of defeat. She's going to hate me as much as the time I had Homeland Security detain her, but I don't give a shit right now. I have to keep her safe. I have to protect her.

It's what partners do.

At every turn though, she fights me. I drag her to the Hoover every time I'm called back there by Kenton. Everywhere we walk, my hand is on the small of her back, ready to pull her against me and shield her body with my own, should a shot ring out. It wouldn't be the first time I'd thrown myself in the line of fire and while a part of me senses this recklessness with my mortality isn't wise as a father, my nature is to step in harm's way and let others run to safety.

I can live with a gunshot (maybe). I can't live with watching someone I care for being hurt or killed if I have an opportunity to stop it. I can't have any more blood on my hands.

Standing there in her pristine starched collar and sweater, she's almost a teenager. Perhaps a good Catholic girl on her way to school, although she'd hand me my ass if I ever drew the comparison aloud.

This is definitely not how I expected the night to go. My brain was thinking TV, popcorn, shoo my workaholic partner to bed and keep watch throughout the night from her couch. These are basic plans, adaptable to any situation – except for an evening with Bones. She doesn't have a working television. Who lives without a television?

Rummaging through her music is a desperate move to avoid boredom and the lingering awkwardness from me interrogating her date and appointing myself the Kevin Costner to her Whitney Houston. I suspect the music of the Whosawhatsit tribe of some country will be my only option and the first rack of CDs is loaded with throat singers and bird chirpers or whatever the hell they are. But once I wander from the work shelf, I learn she has alright taste for the first few dozen titles I scan. The jazz is particularly impressive, and her passion for it leaves me in awe. How had I not known this about her before?

"I love it!" she enthuses. "The artist has to live within a set tonal structure and trust his own instincts to find his way out of an infinite maze of musical possibilities, and the great ones do."

I know a decent jazz bar in the city. Maybe sometime, we'll swing over to celebrate closing a case.

Then, I spot it: Foreigner. Mind blown... until my dumb ass figures out that this is like that Sesame Street game and this is the thing that doesn't belong. A relic from an old relationship, I assume. But hey, screw it! I play it anyway, despite her "How did that get there?" protests.

"What, please! Everyone loves Foreigner! 'Hot Blooded' – talk about a guilty pleasure!"

I jokingly goad her into singing, figuring she'll sidestep a bit with me. What do I get? Her belting the song at the top of her lungs, joining me for air guitar and drums – a little rock star party. So much for it being some guy's forgotten arena rock treasure!

.

"Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see
I got a fever of a hundred and three
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?
I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded..."

.

She's such a serious woman most of the time that seeing Bones just break out the grin and cut loose is incredible. She's so gorgeous, it's not fair. I'm supposed to be looking after her and all I can think of is spinning "I Want To Know What Love Is" next and talking her into a slow dance. Nothing unprofessional – just two people with a complicated almost-sex history having a slow dance late at night.

Who am I kidding? Rocker Brennan here is my dream girl. How many women appreciate the cheesy thrill of Foreigner with as much gusto as she does?

The phone rings and I remain lost in the music for about twenty seconds, which is how long it takes me to realize that Mr. Cybersex Dick431 David is on the phone. Creepy bastard. What sort of nice guy needs to find women online? Bones, I sorta understand: she lives at work. Aside from screwing Hodgins (laughable thought) or Zack (even more laughable), what other options does she have?

Me. But not really. It would never work and we have more than professional respect and lust between us now. I value her friendship, our partnership. It's made me a better agent and, more importantly, a better man. It's not something I can afford to risk.

But oh, how the gambler in me calls!

.

"You don't have to read my mind, to know what I have in mind
Honey you oughta know
Now you move so fine, let me lay it on the line
I wanna know what you're doin' after the show

Now it's up to you, we can make a secret rendezvous
Just me and you, I'll show you lovin' like you never knew..."

.

She hangs up the phone and it's just us and suddenly, that "it would never work" becomes "it would absolutely work if you found a loophole in the FBI fraternization policy". Dangerous thinking, sponsored by the less brilliant head on my body. God, why does she have to be so damn beautiful and brilliant and quietly kind?

I need a drink. Not booze – someone's out to kill my partner, after all – but my throat is dry and my palms are sweaty. I'm burning up with possibilities for the night ahead and I'm pretty sure the nuns would beat me with ten rulers simultaneously for the thoughts I'm thinking.

"You got a soda, juice?"

She offers to get me a drink, but no way. Not only is she not my servant, but I need a few moments away from her faint perfume and that shy smile. This is fast becoming intense. Maybe it's the threat of death; maybe it's memories of tequila-soaked chat and what I've learned about her since. Either way, I'm feeling far too emotional, and that's not going to help her if some bastard decides to take another shot.

.

"But you've got to give me a sign, come on girl, some kind of sign..."

.

I draw a deep breath as I step into her kitchen. Alright, God. You need to help a guy out. You can't keep putting me in this position where the woman's in a halo of light or the proverbial sun shines out of her posterior. She's so different from every woman I've dated. Is that a good thing? Is she interested? Should I tell her I've never quite let go of kissing her again, or do I keep my mouth shut?

I reach for the fridge door and hesitate as she calls out the location of her glasses. Give me a sign, God. Help me do the right thing for her. For us.

And God says, Sure, Seeley. I got your sign.

My arm craning for the cupboard, I open the fridge door and everything goes black.

Goddamn the stupid bomb! Who knows where the night could have taken them? I have to say, though: injured rescuer Booth? So hot. Gah. Right in the goddamn feels, every time.

Happy New Year, everyone! If you're a follower of The Bard, I should be updating Wednesday. If you're subscribed to my one-shot series (and I suggest you do, since at least two of these chapters reference one-shots over there), I'll be posting the "Brennan Vegas stripper" story soon. This week, I hope!

I also hope to have a playlist ready to stream for this fic next Sunday so you, too, can listen to the mix tape.