Author's Note: First, skip ahead to the B lines if you're ready to jump right into this very brief and Boothy angst story that takes place directly after episode 5x01. I won't be offended. Between here and there is just my fan-to-fan, behind-the-scenes, in-my-head setup.

I've been rewatching Bones, and I've found the angst of Booth moving from his season 4 coma dream into season 5 has really struck me a little deeper and differently this time around. The season 4 finale was just this cute little AU adventure… until he woke up. The writers, in torturing Booth, are tormenting me a little bit, too. And what is it all leading to? The moment Booth tells Brennan he wants to give it-them-a shot then watching helplessly as she offers an adamant no and literally pushes him away. Happy 100th episode, I guess.

All this to say, Bones has put me in a mood. An empathetic heartbreak. And since I was channeling my inner Booth, I figured I may as well write it down so someone else can feel it along with me. Sorry 'bout it.

In this very short fic, we're not going to get to that 100th episode, except in reference to the flashback. You could watch that if you wanted: Bones and Booth's chronological first kiss in episode 5x16 ("The Parts in the Sum of the Whole"). While I'm giving homework, I might also suggest the mistletoe kiss in 3x09 ("The Santa in the Slush"). Of course, the majority of references in this story come from 4x26 ("The End in the Beginning") and 5x01 ("Harbingers in the Fountain") with the last scene of the latter directly preceding my piece. I apologize, in advance, for the YouTube rabbit hole this may lead you down, but also, you're welcome.

So before you begin, if you've even made it this far, I want to share just a teeny bit more setup:

We know Booth is the emotional one, but each hint of feeling we see on the surface is just the tip of the iceberg. I'm no Sweets or Chef Gordon-Gordon so it's hard to know the real reasons Booth suppresses and conceals his feelings for Brennan (okay, I have my theories), but this fic is my interpretation of his internal conflict as it stands just after the last scene in episode 5x01.

Thank you for reading and sharing in my catharsis.

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"What did you want to tell me?"

"That I love you."

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I said it. Finally, I said it. And for about two seconds there, this weight I've been feeling was lifted. Finally, it was lifted. But on the third second, I retreated.

My feelings aren't real. That's what Sweets said while showing me scans of my brain. I didn't love you like this before. Sweets said. Before the surgery, I didn't love you. He said. I didn't love you until they took it out. He said. When I was in a coma. He said. When I was dreaming. He said. When we were married and making love and loving each other in a way that felt more real than anything the real real world has ever rolled my way. Like a lotto win on top of a Vegas jackpot, baby. Baby. I should take this bet. The payout is huge, and I'm a gambler. But I'm recovering.

And, anyway, the odds, they don't feel good. You count cards. All I got is my gut. And my gut is telling me that goofy socks are stupid and that I'm in love with you. Meanwhile, you're telling me I love those stupid, goofy socks and that all we are is partners. The dream felt real. So real. And reality? It feels like a nightmare. One I want to escape. With you. But I can't do that right now.

Because Sweets, he had more than psychology, which you hate. Sweets. He had science, which you love. With all your heart. And all the blood inside that heart. And that's all you think is in a heart. I think I know better. But what if I don't?

Cutting out a tumor caused me to love you. That's what the science says. Or something like that. Kind of ironic that you're the one who figured it in the first place and forced the issue. Took me to the hospital and told those dumbfounded doctors exactly what they were going to do. Held my hand and headed into surgery with me. We could have left that tumor right where it was and avoided all this. But I don't really believe that.

I believe I've loved you all along. Right from the beginning, I loved you. I knew it even before we kissed that first time. When I said I thought this was going somewhere. Boy, how it's gone. And after, too. I loved you after. Long after you said you wouldn't sleep with me because... tequila. It was the best first kiss I've ever had. And then we were done. Tequila might have ruined my life because, in that moment, I would have gone home with you in a heartbeat. I would have gone anywhere with you. Wow. Maybe tequila saved me. I'd like to know your thoughts on it. And your feelings, too. But we don't talk about that night.

You've kissed me since then. Under the mistletoe. Merry Christmas to me. It was even better than our first kiss. Because I knew you by then. I could feel the invitation and permission. Spoken with a mouth that didn't have to say a single word. Said silently just to me. And for a split second, we occupied the same space. And it was a miracle. A Christmas miracle. But then I opened my eyes.

Our affection has grown more natural and more tangible over time. A quick peck on my cheek expressing fast gratitude over a favor. A soft kiss on your head soothing the shock of barely averted danger. These tender exchanges pass quickly, but linger on my skin or on my lips or in my brain. My stupid brain. The brain that lit up like the 4th of July when it finally got to dream up more than a hug or a hand squeeze. In that place, a place you created to cook up a new story, you were mine. Finally, you were mine. Finally. You were all mine. But now you're not.

Attaboy. Way to screw this up. Or save it. If Sweets is right, if Cam is right, I've done this right. But it still feels wrong.

Don't push you. Don't give you false hope. Don't breach your defenses. Don't crack your shell. Unless I'm sure. You'll never open up again. You'll never trust anyone again. You'll run away. You'll be ruined. But you're not as weak as they think on the inside.

I should have asked Angela. She would have told me to push and give and breach and crack. Force my way in. Earn your trust. Hold onto you. Take the chance. Or Caroline. How many puckish, pucker-up steamboats would she have demanded this time? A whole flotilla, cherie. I know what that means. Now. But I didn't ask then.

You love me, too. There's that, at least. In a professional kind of way. Attagirl. You broke my heart. But that's what I expected anyway.

And that's the truth. That's the reason I didn't persist. Because there's a good possibility that there isn't anything in your heart that can't be explained by basic biology. No hidden mysteries at all. At least, in regard to me. Because if you loved me, I would know it. But what if I don't?

I want to think I'm more than a partner. More than a friend. More than a guy whose bone structure you can appreciate. I want to think you could see me as a boyfriend. As a husband. As the father of your children. Our children. But all I know is that you want my sperm.

And, actually, I'm not even sure you're still interested in that. You haven't mentioned it. Please don't find someone else. Let it be me. But maybe even that would be too much to ask.

I gave up tonight because I expected rejection, and I couldn't bear it. The look on your face that would surely come from me upsetting the status quo. The feeling of utter despair and devastation over something so much deeper than your average everyday brand of disappointment. Maybe it was the sense you smacked into me all those years ago that keeps telling me you'll never be mine. Literally, you slapped me. Hard. But that was nothing compared to this.

I guess the idea is these feelings of mine will start to fade. According to Sweets. And in a few weeks, I'll start to feel normal. According to you. And not having you next to me in bed every night will start to feel—well, anything less than torture would suffice. According to me. But I'm no doctor.

I'm just an FBI guy who's been in love with this brainy, sexy anthropologist for a good number of years now. To hell with what Sweets and his "science" says. But this all feels much bigger than that.

Back at my place now, and I'm putting these thoughts down on a piece of paper that I'm going to burn with the lighter I found on my dresser next to that dumb cocky belt buckle. Even Angela and her magic computer machine won't be able to reconstruct these words when I'm done with them. And in a few weeks, I'll forget all about them. But I'm not sure that's really what I want.

That was a lie. I am sure. I'm sure it's not what I want at all. I'm sure forgetting my feelings for you is exactly what I don't want. Even if you don't love me back now. Even if you won't love me back ever. I'm sure I want to hang on to this. Yes, hiding it hurts. But I'm afraid sharing it would hurt more.

I know I can't tell you now. But someday, I want you to hear me.

I love you, Bones.

In a personal kind of way.

But I can't say it now.

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"I love you, too, Booth."

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