Title: Beyond the Fear

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.

Rating: T

A/N: Thanks for all your support. I love everyone who takes the time to tell me what they think.

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His phone buzzed in the distant recesses of his slumbered mind, and next to him, she hummed in her sleep, her fingers dancing easily over the valleys of his muscles. He twitched, searchingly blindly for his phone, willing the incessant noise, tantamount of that of a chirping cricket, to stop.

"Booth," he barked grumpily into the receiver, turning his cheek towards her hair, seeking out her warmth. Tucked into the nook of his arm, Temperance snuggled her nose deeper, her forehead creasing in frustration.

"Will you meet with me?" Camille whispered, her voice urgent and troubled. He opened one eye, peering at the red neon clock on Brennan's bedside table. 2.15am. He shifted, slipping from beneath her weight, pulling the under sheet around his naked body. On the mattress, Brennan mumbled her protest, drawing the blanket against her breasts. "Seeley?" Camille asked, tentative and unsure.

"Why?" he asked, searching for his underwear on the floor. Outside, branches rapped noisily against the glass, drowning out the sound of his annoyance. He glanced nervously towards the bed, hating that he had been torn from her lovely warmth.

"I'd like to talk with you..." Camille sighed, and he imagined her nervously pacing her apartment floor, pulling back the curtains. "But some of this bad feeling to rest." He paused, hand on his hip, his eyes narrowing with instinctive distrust. After her bitter resentment earlier, he felt sure she wouldn't want to forgive so quickly. "Please?" Shaking himself, he began the difficult task of locating his clothes, scattered from the bedroom to the living room, piles of his, tangled with piles of hers.

"The diner," he said, slipping into his pants. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Her phone clicked, and he sighed, pressing his forehead to the door frame. He could easily have slept in the blissful warmth of her arms, and as her fingers danced across the sheets, subconsciously searching for him, he felt guilty for leaving her. He could have taken off his clothes again, clambered back into bed and forgotten all about the inconvenience of Camille's call. He would have liked to.

Buttoning his shirt he searched for his car keys, lifting pillows and books before he found them wedged between the sofa cushions, inches from where he'd dropped his pants. As he slipped out of her apartment, a heavy, anxious feeling pressing against his gut, he winced. Why had he agreed? Why would he even consider a late night rendezvous with Cam? Hadn't she done enough damage without tainting their relationship further? Why was he even provoking another disaster?

The journey to the diner took ten minutes, and as he stopped outside, he saw Camille at the window, nursing a cup of coffee, her face turned towards the road. She offered him a faltering wave, her smile coy. He realised his fingers were tight around the steering wheel, his knuckles aching. Killing the engine, Booth cleared his throat, willing himself to be calm. He'd never hurt a woman yet, and he had no intentions of making tonight a first.

The air was cold, biting against his still bed-warmed skin, and he realised his hair was dishevelled from sex and sleep. He had taken no time to inspect his appearance before leaving, and for the millionth time, he wished he'd asked Camille to meet with him in the morning. The diner's lack of customers made him feel uncomfortable, almost as though they weren't in public after all – for aside from a lone trucker, they were the only two patrons.

"Thank you for coming," she said, by way of greeting. He slid into the booth facing her, declining a cup of coffee from a passing waitress. Camille held her mug for a refill, keeping her eyes lowered. "You look tired," she commented, shifting her gaze across the table cloth.

"It's two thirty," he replied dryly. "I was asleep." Camille's eyes flew upward, settling on his face.

"With her?" she asked, her fingers tight around her cup. He blinked slowly, tilting his head as though to silently ask her why this would concern or surprise her. "I expected as much," she admitted with a shrug. "Thanks for coming." He noted that her repetitive was symbolic of her nervous, or perhaps of her mentally wishing she had chosen another time. Another place.

"Yes," he said patiently, "you said that already." A frown marred her forehead and she sipped her coffee. "Did you want me here so you could look at me from across the table and insult my appearance, or..."

"Why her?" she interrupted. "Why, after all the time we spent together, after our 'getting back together' did you suddenly give up on us?" Booth groaned deeply in his chest, massaging the creases of his forehead. Suddenly the florescent lights were too bright, and his temples ached.

"Firstly, Camille," he said, "we never got back together. There was never anything exclusive. Secondly, you knew how I felt about her, which is exactly why you asked me to call time on us if I wanted to. When I did, you were alright with that." She dropped a compact cube of sugar into her coffee, inhaling sharply.

"I'm not alright with it," she said at last.

"Then I apologise that your feelings are hurt or that we crossed wires." He thought he saw a watery layer of tears in her eyes.

"I thought," she pulled an unsteady breath into her lungs, "after all this time, we had something. I thought for a moment I loved you." He dropped his head back, closing his eyes against the harsh light. It was too early in the morning for such emotional revelations.

"You knew I loved her," he replied, his nails digging into his thighs. It was the first time he had voiced it, even to himself. Camille downed two mouthfuls of coffee, as if she were washing away the emotion in her voice.

"And do you?" she asked soberly.

"Do I what?" he queried, opening his eyes again.

"Love her?"

"Yes," he said, without skipping a beat. Then, more slowly, "Yes, I do." Camille shrugged.

"Then there's not really anything left to say," she whispered, emptying her cup. "Goodnight, Seeley."

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"Hmm... where did you go?" she asked sleepily, her eyes barely opening as he slid between the sheets, his body shifting against hers.

"It doesn't matter, Temperance," he said. "I'll tell you all about it in the morning."

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