A/N: So many people wrote such lurvely post-eps to Wannabe.

Miss SSJL, however, remains firmly in denial about what exactly happened at the end of that epi. She lives in a happy dreamworld.

Hence, the could haves…

--

Jesus H. Christ. She was the most adorable thing to have ever walked or crawled or merely existed in this universe. He had accused her of thinking she was better than him sometimes. Well, now he saw that if she had thought that, she would have been right. She was better than him, better than anybody. And it had nothing to do with her bestselling authoring, or her forensic anthropologizing, or any of the thousand things she did that gave her elevated status. Maybe just a little. But those weren't the things that nearly made him fall out of his chair with pangs of adoration of her.

It was her, bouncing around onstage in a karaoke dive, belting out Cyndi Lauper like her very life depended on it, hamming it up for him and their friends as she danced and sang. It was the most beautiful goddamn thing he had ever seen in his life. He could see the intersection right then: the sexy, intelligent woman he worked with, and the 'tween girl, singing into her hairbrush while her mother laughed and clapped. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her joy palpable. And he was enraptured, unable to turn away, helpless to the grin that was nearly making his face hurt.

It was only because of the frightening desperation he heard in the voice calling his name that he turned, and saw that woman holding a gun, aiming it at his unsuspecting partner. He couldn't believe the audacity of Pam at that moment. He could understand crazy; he saw it all the time. But she wasn't even trying to hurt Bones right now. It was like she was trying to snuff out happiness and innocence and love itself. Who would do that? Standing in the way of the bullet was instinctive. His dying would have been a small sacrifice. He knew it hitting the floor, through the pain…when he saw her hovering over him, gripping his hand, willing him back to life. He had saved an angel. That was all that was important.

The good news was that he didn't die. The bad news was that the little "getting shot" incident very rudely interrupted what could have happened that night. What should have happened after his realization that she was his American idol, the star of all his fantasies.

She could have finished her performance with a flourish, receiving a standing ovation from the crowd in front of her. She'd be beaming, knowing that maybe her friends didn't expect her to actually follow through with the dare, know that once again, she proved her point, came out on top. Looking straight at him before she climbed down from the stage, she could have stuck her tongue out at him like the child she was for just a few moments, and he could have grinned, his hands coming together slowly, appreciatively. Get down here, Bones. She'd climbed down almost primly, face flushed from her dancing and the rush of exhibitionism, eyes sparkling. And he could have enfolded her in his arms.

"Thanks for believing in me, Booth," she could have whispered. He wouldn't have wanted to let her go, so strong and vibrant and her as she was in his arms. But her other friends would have wanted their turn, too, so he could have released her and been content for awhile just watching her interact with them outside of the lab, outside of her scientist persona that she so often used as a barrier against the rest of the world. He could have bought her a beer, and slid his chair close to hers, hand slung around the back of it. That night, they couldn't have been Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth. They'd be best friends. They were anyway.

Sweets could have sang his "impressive" rendition of Lime in Da Coconut, and they could have made fun of him throughout…it couldn't have been nearly as surprising to see him acting young and frivolous, but it still would have been entertaining, and they could have rested their heads together while they laughed. Maybe Angela and Jack could have gotten into the act, jointly belting out "I Got You Babe" into the microphone, or Zack could have could have shown off his apparently phenomenal (so he heard) vocal range with one show tune or another. At the end of the night, he would have felt warm, buzzing, his stomach a little sore from all the laughing. She could have offered to drive his tipsy ass home, and he could readily agree to that request, happy to have their time together extended even for the 15 minutes it took to travel to his apartment by car.

He could beg her to sit with him while he finished sobering up, and she'd probably see her opportunity there. "Not unless you admit it."

"Admit what?" he'd say innocently

"You said my mother wasn't being truthful."

He could sigh dramatically. "I was wrong. You are as good as Cyndi Lauper. Better. The best."

She'd be surprised by that, although she'd likely write it off to the alcohol. "You're being very agreeable."

"I owe you."

Her head could lower while she relented, sitting next to him on his couch. "Sweets said I'm a very controlled person. And it'd be good for me to let go."

In that moment she'd seem suddenly unsure.

"I liked seeing you like that," he'd tell her, softly.

"How?" Looking up, he could catch her eyes, be drawn into the sweet blue depths.

He could whisper. "Out of control."

She'd look at him almost shyly through the silky fringe of her eyelashes. "You haven't seen me out of control."

Swallowing thickly, a million interpretations of his words could have run through his mind. It was so hard to tell with her sometimes…whether she was being straightforward as usual, or metaphorical, or funny, or…suggestive. Provocative. He couldn't have known what to say. His usual reserve of witticisms would leave him.

"You don't think I looked ridiculous up there?" she could ask, head tilted in a question.

"No." Throat dry. "You looked…sexy." He couldn't believe the words had left him. He couldn't believe that instead of looking disgusted, or flabbergasted, she looked…considering.

"Hmm." A slight smile to her lips. "Hey. You want a drink of water?"

"Yeah," he could agree, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved by her change in topics. With a last look, she'd stand, moving gracefully around the couch and to the kitchen. He'd realize it was his kitchen, and follow to help. Grabbing two cups out of the cupboard, he'd hear her humming as she opened the door to the freezer.

"I wanna be the one to walk in the sun…oh girls, they wanna have fun..."

And he could have been back there at that bar, watching her, being amazed by her, adoring her, and without even knowing how it got in the position he'd be practically standing on top of her when she turned from the refrigerator with the ice tray in her hand, and the tune could die on her lips.

"Ice?" she could ask weakly, but despite the chill from the just-opened freezer, the temperature in the room would be suddenly scalding.

"I'm in love with you," he could tell her, the words bypassing his brain to come out his mouth, right before the (thankfully plastic) cups and the ice tray clattered from their hands to the floor. And then, she could have been pressed up against the magnets and drawings made by his son and the cool metal of the fridge while he kissed her desperately, his guilty hands roaming her hips and sides and shoulders.

He'd feel like he didn't have the right to touch her this way. He didn't deserve to see her, or smell her, or love her, so perfect was she of the blue lab coats and bestselling books and the crazy karaoke. He'd know it, and still be helpless against the warm silkiness of her lips, the wet sweep of her tongue against his, the pliant press of her breasts against his chest.

His kiss could have unleashed something inside of her…he knew that it would, because as controlled as she was, when Temperance Brennan trusted in something or someone, she went for it. This was the woman who pushed her gum into his mouth with her "sexless" Christmas kiss. This was the woman who let an entire courtroom believe she might be a murderer, so that they could have reasonable doubt about her father's guilt.

He could have been hard for her in a split second.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he could have groaned against the flesh of her throat, while she tilted her head back against the fridge and arched her chest out toward him, but he couldn't have stopped.

"Why are you apologizing to me?" she could have gasped.

"You're…too good…too much…" His hands could slip under the hem of her shirt, caressing her bare belly, feeling the muscles flutter under his touch.

"It wouldn't be in my best interest to sleep with someone who's beneath me," she could gasp into his shoulder, her pulling off his jacket frantically telling him that she certainly didn't see him as beneath her. She saw him under her, on top of her, and (he hoped to God) inside of her, but not beneath her.

There couldn't have been much in the way of thought then…there could have been impulses, emotions, fate, but his attentions were focused only on the here and now…the flesh that was in front of him at that very moment, the sounds she was making at that second, the almost audible beating of his heart then and there. He could have pushed away the layers of clothes she wore, one by one, like doing his best to savor the moment of unwrapping a long-waited-for gift. She could have gotten impatient and pushed him, sending him reeling backwards into his kitchen counter, staring at her wide-eyed. What could she do next? Anything. Anything she wanted.

"Why tonight?" she could have asked breathlessly, softly, as she encroached upon him, fingers reaching for the button of his pants. Temperance Brennan could be taking his pants off, and he'd be supremely grateful for the cheap Formica at his back that he was gripping to keep from falling over and making a fool of himself.

"I saw you…" he could explain, lamely, but honestly.

"You see me every day," she'd murmur, pulling his jeans down over his hips, focused as ever, on him.

"Not like this." His vision and his tactile perception could appear to be disconnected, while he watched her, trailing kisses down his firm stomach, moving those angel's lips downwards, the sensation not quite reaching him until it sunk in just how close she was to…"Oh God."

Her eyes could have been locked on his disbelieving ones as her mouth teased him, enveloping him, showing him in carnal detail just how worthy of her attentions she found him. And it could have been so much, out of this world, but it couldn't have been enough. He couldn't have let it end there. He would need to see her…

With willpower of steel, he could have drug her back up his body, hungrily devouring her lips and throat and breasts as he flipped her, lifted her up onto the countertop and pulled at her panties. "Out of control," he could have panted. "Show me…"

In agreement, she could have grasped at his hips, pulled him, fit them to hers between her legs, him still wet from her mouth and her wet from the things he had done to her, how he'd made her feel. And like he could never forget the pure joy and watching her sing and dance and be free, the image of her face as he first joined her body would be burned into his brain for the rest of his life. God. He loved that face. He loved her…

And she could have showed him. She could have been wild, abandoned, crying out for him, trusting him to shield her tossing head from the wooden cabinets with his hand. Words he would have never expected her to say could fall from her lips and into his. He could have watched her, until he heard her begging him to be there with her. She wasn't a star on the stage, an idol on a pedestal. She was his friend and his partner and his lover and his equal, and the second he felt it was true they could have fallen together, with each other's name on their tongues and eyes locked together the way they had been doing since they met. Only now, the look wasn't a challenging one. It could have been the look of total surrender.

Maybe, when she finally collapsed against him, although his legs would be jelly and his body near-stunned, he could have lifted her, carried her to the bedroom, made love with her more purposefully. Maybe he could have covered her with his jacket, and they could have laid on the couch, quietly confessing everything they had been feeling, the growing inevitability of what they were together. Maybe they just could have slept, letting the morning bring them to a new place, a new understanding.

But instead…he got shot.

Later, as he lie in the hospital bed, musing over the could haves, it would strike him how something always seemed to get in the way of them. Some of those interferences, like the delusional stalker who took away the possibilities on this night, were not their faults. Occupational hazards.

Some of those barriers were self-imposed.

One could wonder what it would take to knock them down.