Author's Note: Well, we've finally reached Booth and Brennan's date night. It didn't turn out anything like I planned it to be, after I wrestled with writer's block for what felt like forever, and it's a bit angsty. Brennan might be a little OOC. Thank you to all of those who've put on alert, favorited or reviewed this story. I really appreciate it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, and I never will. It belongs to Fox and Hart Hanson.

She raised a fist, and knocked on his door. Thankfully, the strange nervousness she had felt for a moment in the store had passed, and she was back to feeling more like herself.

"It's open!" He yelled, and the knob turned easily in her grasp. She stepped into the tiny foyer, pausing to hang up her light jacket and purse, while slipping out of the slightly-too-small heels that Angela had insisted would go perfectly. She usually didn't have a problem with wearing heels, but these were already giving her blisters, and she'd only spent a few minutes in them.

She stepped around the corner to find him at the stove, dressed simply in a form-fitting black long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His dark jeans hung on his hips as he puttered around the kitchen, seeming to do a million things at once. She noticed that his feet were bare; his characteristic 'crazy' socks were nowhere to be seen.

"Need any help?" She asked, leaning the wall in the doorway to his kitchen. Her voice startled him, and he spun around, a lasagna noodle dangling from one hand.

"Is it seven-thirty already?" He seemed embarrassed that she'd found him in such a state, and yet he still stood there staring at her. Finding herself a little uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny, she walked up to him and plucked the noodle from his hand, ripping off a piece and throwing it in her mouth. She ignored his "Bones!", and continued chewing.

"Hmm…you did a good job with the noodles. It's not overcooked or chewy. Perhaps a little bland, but I'm assuming that you're not planning on serving them plain." She said, only to have him snatch the rest of it back. "Booth! I wasn't finished with that."

"I know. But since you said that it was a little bland, why don't you try it with the sauce?" He now offered it to her, one end almost dripping with the red sauce.

"Don't you want me to be surprised?" She asked, taking it from him. A little bit of the sauce fell onto her palm, and she stared down at her hand, the redness already spreading over her skin, sinking into it. Just as it had before…so much red.

The blood had long since dried on her hands, turning them a faint red color. Angela had tried to get her to go to the bathroom, wash her hands, but she'd refused. It had taken everything she had to get here; she couldn't move. She just kept staring down at her hands, stained in his blood.

"So much blood…" She whispered, the pasta falling from her grasp. She heard him take a step towards her, felt a hand go out to her arm to steady her, but she couldn't take her eyes of her palm. "There was so much blood…"

"Bones?" His tone was concerned, and she raised her head to meet his gaze. His eyes were troubled; his mouth in a firm line, but suddenly everything seemed to change.

She could see him again, lying there in front of her, the blood draining out of the wound in his chest. Then it changed again, back to the desert in her dream, with the wound in his side, clotted blood under her fingers.

The room spun for a second, everything topsy-turvy and unsteady under her feet. What was going on with her? This wasn't how she was supposed to act, how she was supposed to feel.

"Bones?" She could hear him again, but it was though it was coming through a dense fog. She needed to get it off; wash away this physical reminder of what he'd gone through for her.

Her breathing was coming more quickly as she tried to get enough air. Her chest felt heavy, like it had that night, once she realized that he was never coming back. This was irrational, this response she was having. She knew that it was just sauce, tomato, for his lasagna. But yet, it wasn't.

Was she going crazy? This had never happened before.

She made her way over to his sink, flipping on his faucet with her forearm. Squirting some of the soap into her hand, she began to scrub.

She stood in the public bathroom, in the hospital, hands stuck under a roaring stream of water that was much too hot. She was surely exhausting the soap supply with the amounts she was using, but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting his blood off of her hands.

"Bones!" He grabbed her, spun her around to face him. Her hands dripped hot water and soap onto the floor in between them. "What's wrong?"

She realized she was shaking in his grasp, and when she spoke, her voice was unsteady. "I-I don't know. I really don't know." Just that, for no reason at all, the sauce suddenly changed into his blood.

"All right. Here, Bones, you're dripping." He grabbed a towel off the counter and began drying her hands.

"I can do it myself, Booth." She snapped, wrenching the towel from his hands. "I'm not incompetent, you know."

"I know. I just wanted to help." He said, turning back to the stove. "You don't want dinner anymore, do you?"

"No. I don't." Her appetite had been wiped away by whatever had happened to her.

"Yeah, me neither." She heard him sigh, and guilt rose up in her chest. He'd made dinner and everything, and now she'd ruined it. What else had she ruined in the past two days? His admission that he had to go to Iraq, his confession of love, and now the date that he'd been so happy she'd accepted after rejecting (after accepting) it the first time.

"I'm sorry, Booth." She murmured, still holding his dishtowel. He took it from her hands and threw it up on the counter, his arm coming to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her close to him.

"It's fine, Bones. I'm flexible." She turned until she could wrap her arms around his waist, and he returned her embrace, resting his head on top of hers. This was definitely more than a 'guy hug' now, she thought to herself as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

Although she supposed they were never really 'guy hugs' in the first place.

"Do you think we could just watch a movie?" She asked, raising her head until her gaze met his. His eyes relaxed, and the corners of his mouth flexed up into a smile. "And can I choose it this time?"

"Of course." He said, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Of course."

___________________________________________________________

They sat on his couch, the documentary she'd brought over to his house once, but never watched, long over. He had groaned when she chose it, but she'd reminded him of his promise, and he'd conceded.

Now, she was practically in his lap, and he was running his fingers up and down her arm. It would have been distracting if she'd been trying to think, but for once, she decided to take his advice and let her brain shut down and her heart take over. It was nice, this not thinking or talking. Very relaxing.

"Bones?" He asked, his voice loud in the silence of the room. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes." She replied, shifting so that she could lay her head on his chest, and he could wrap one arm around her waist.

"Bones, you can't get much closer than this." He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head this time.

"Was that your question? It didn't sound like one, and besides, maybe I do want to get closer." She retorted. He chuckled again, and she sighed in annoyance. "Are you going to ask me something or not, Booth?"

"All right, all right." He said. "Why did you go see Father Hartwick?" She stiffened in his embrace, and pulled away.

"He told you." She stated, turned away from him. "I told him not to tell you."

"Why, though? He's a priest, and you…you don't believe in all that."

"I know he's a priest, Booth." She snapped, pushing away his hand as he reached for her. "Do you want the truth?"

"Would I get anything else from you?" She looked over at him, eyes flashing. He held up his hands in apology, a sheepish look appearing on his face. "Sorry."

"It was stupid, irrational." She sighed, the anger gone from her eyes to be replaced by something close to sorrow. "It was one of the low points I had when you were dead. Why are you making me tell you this?" She had hoped that he would never learn about this, but as he attended church quite regularly, she should have figured that he would have found out about it at some point.

"Because I want to know."

"Because you want to know?" She said in disbelief, brow furrowing. "I should tell you something like this just because you want to know. I don't get to choose whether I should tell you something or not? That's ridiculous, Booth, and you should know that."

"I just want to understand why you would do something so out of character like that."

"If I tell you, will you stop asking me things like this?" She didn't wish for him to hear this, how weak she'd been, but as long as he would stop asking questions like this, she supposed it was worth it.

"Yes." He replied, and she sighed.

"I wanted to know if you made it to heaven." She whispered, looking down at her feet. "And of course he couldn't tell me for sure. Just gave me some stupid, textbook reassurance that everyone had been giving me for the past week."

"You wanted to know if I made it to heaven? You don't believe in heaven."

"I told you, it was one of the low points. You have no idea what it was like to wake up every day and realize that the most important person in your life was gone. Booth, you might think that I had nightmares, or that I barely slept, but neither of those things are true. When I slept, I dreamt of you. Like when you were alive, when everything was still fine. It was horrible to wake up and realize every single time that nothing was ever going to be the same. And it was making me crazy. For a little while, the thought of seeing you again in another life was very comforting."

"But after the priest gave me his answer, I seemed to wake up, and begin thinking rationally again. There was no heaven; I would never see you again, and that was that." She finished, surprised to find tears coursing down her cheeks. He reached out to her again, and this time she let him pull her into his arms. "I just wanted to see you again."

"I'm sorry, Temperance." He murmured, his thumbs absently tracing circles on her back.

"I suppose that's why I was so angry about you going to Iraq. You could die over there, Booth, and I already know what it's like to live like that; without you. And I never want to have to go through that again."

"I know. I promise you won't have to." She pulled away, and he knew that she was about to retort with her 'you can't promise something like that' speech. But he didn't let her.

His lips fell to hers in a kiss that was soft, yet filled with a passion that he had so far restrained. Not that he wanted to keep it restrained much longer.

He pulled away first, his breathing heavy. She held his gaze, her eyes filled with an unfamiliar question.

"Will you make love to me?" She whispered, her words like music to his ears. How long he had waited, and dreamed to hear those words, but never really expected them to fall from her lips.

"Of course." He replied, just as quietly, and leaned in to begin to show her that love really did exist.