A/N (from when I wrote the first half a few weeks ago and thought I would finish but then didn't): Okay so there is no excuse. I have a lot of great prompts for the next in the series of 60 seconds. And yet the world of the second chapter, The One in Which Angela Talks for 60 Seconds Longer Than She Did in the Original, really stuck with me at a time when a good fantasy world is a necessity. I am having one of my hardest work weeks of my life. So I am indulging myself. In the chapter referenced just now, I suppose a set of circumstances whereby Booth and Brennan are together as a couple—even though very recently—when VNM dies. I guess I just want to live in that world a little bit longer. You don't have to read it. Just in case you want to, here it is. Cause tonight, that's how I roll. 3sq 9/30/13

A/N 2 (from this weekend when I actually was able to finish the second half): Well, I am still here, so that is something. And so are all the people I'm responsible for, so that's even better. I often wonder, now that I write and know how much my stories reflect my inner state of being, what it meant for my favorite authors to have written that book or that one. I don't know if this story feels like it was written at two separate times or not, but I feel that this is a quieter story than I often write maybe. I hope doesn't feel anticlimactic somehow. It felt right to me. 3sq 9/19/13

Brief glimpses and tags to the Killer in the Crosshairs, The Blackout in the Blizzard, The Pinocchio in the Planter. I'm not sure if they are obvious or not.

The One in Which Angela Talks for Sixty Seconds Longer than She Originally Did (Part II)

That night with Brennan, at the movies, felt like a beginning. Actually, really what it felt like was an end. An end to his paralysis, to sitting at home and moping, to avoiding Brennan when really what he wanted was for things to just be normal again, to be able to do things with her, to consider the possibility of more without feeling like he is being observed while he does it. An end to the gloomy spirals of self-doubt that spring from the poisonous and persistent thought that the women he loves don't love him back, or at least not enough to stay with him. Is he so horrible? So that night, when he got back from seeing movies with Bones, eating breakfast and pie in the middle of the night with her, he felt so good, optimistic.

But it wasn't that easy. He still felt low and irritable a lot of the time, still had to work to stay even-tempered at work when he wanted to snap and snarl at people who didn't move fast enough, didn't know what he wanted done. He avoided Sweets who insisted on asking questions about Hannah. For the same reason he avoided Angela. Cam was better, she didn't talk about it, but she was thinking it. Bones, for her part, continued to be patient and even-tempered even in the face of his moodiness. Frankly, it was starting to piss him off and he wasn't even sure why. Finally on the Thursday following the week of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre Day—he would forever think of it that way now—his ill-temper spilled over at a crime scene. He only had time to bite out his criticism at Hodgins before Brennan stepped in. The cruel words would have flown from his mouth like bullets. The crime-scene techs, the squints, the local pd, all would have taken the brunt of his simmering rage. As it was, he didn't feel the biting rain, so flush with anger and...yes, hatred, was he. If she had yelled, or tried to push or grab him, he would have fought gladly, escalating in public. That's how much he needed a release.

But she didn't. She stood up to him, face turned up to his, and when he stepped even closer, not caring that he was so close that he was almost spitting her face, she didn't flinch.

"We will talk about this later, Booth. Go take a walk. Go back to the Hoover. Go anywhere but here. You aren't helping." Her eyes were bright and flashing, hot in her pale face. She was cold obviously and used her elbow, not her gloved hands, to brush impatiently at the wet strands of hair that slipped out of her ponytail and now whipped around her face. It was that, her strength in the context of her vulnerability, that stopped him. He couldn't bring himself to say anything but he turned around and drove back to the Hoover to interview several witnesses.

That night and the next day passed, and with them the funk he had found himself in. By the time that Friday afternoon came, by the time he finished working out at the gym—he had spent a lot of time working out since Hannah left—he felt pretty good. And pretty ashamed. He thought about texting her, but felt like she deserved more than that. At a sudden thought, he detoured to a local drug store and then drove to her apartment.

He didn't let himself think that she might really be mad at him, just hoped she was home. He knocked, a little more aggressively than he meant to. He heard her footsteps and then the chain and locks release.

"Hello, Booth." Brennan stood in her doorway, in her work clothes still, looking up at him inquisitively, her face giving nothing away, a sure sign she was hiding something, to his mind.

"Bones." He shifted and brought the brown paper bag out from behind his back to hand to her. "I brought you something."

Her mouth turned up in a pleased smile. She loved presents; he knew that. And Booth wasn't good at apologizing. Maybe this way he wouldn't have to.

"What is it?" She gripped the top of the bag with one hand and supported the bag with the palm of the other, as if it might be fragile.

"Go on. Open it." Her eyes flicked up to his quickly and then back to the bag, smile growing.

"Well...alright." She opened it up and laughed. "Booth!" She turned and walked back into her apartment, leaving the door open behind her in invitation. When she got to the dining room table, she poured out the contents of the bag. Mike and Ikes, Good N' Plenty, nonpareils, Butterfinger Bites, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, and yes, even Raisinettes.

"Is this an invitation? Or apology?" She asked pointedly.

Booth was still reluctant to apologize, why he wasn't quite sure. "Does it matter?"

She didn't argue but he thought he knew the answer. "I suppose not. So, you want to go to the movies? Or stay in and see one."

"Do you have a T.V.?"

"Booth, you know I bought a T.V. It isn't very big but it is sufficient to watch the documentary about the Jersey shore."

"Oh, right. I forgot." He wasn't going there for fear of prompting a performance of her Jersey act. "Do you have any movies?"

"I have The Mummy, of course. And The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance." Bones looked a little embarrassed. "That is all I have had time to purchase. Do you want to watch one of those?"

"Sure, Bones. That's fine. Whatever you want."

They decided they should have real food first and he ordered take out while she changed into a v-necked shirt and girly sweatpants that went to mid-calf. At these signs of a normal friendship, and honestly, at the smooth, slim ankle and leg showing, Booth felt a weird mixture of nostalgia, misery, and anticipation. Nostalgia for the time when they had dinner together often like this, and misery for the fact that he had lost it for so long, that it was his own damn fault. But anticipation, that was new. He couldn't help but notice the way her shirt molded to her curves. And the fact that it was pretty low cut—he could see the swell of her breasts. His hands twitched and he took a deep breath.

Despite this difficult beginning, they had a good night, watching the John Wayne movie over Thai and movie candy. He thought he might leave while she was in the kitchen or something, calling out a goodbye, but there never seemed a good time. Finally, Booth drained the last of his beer and leaned forward to put the bottle on her coffee table, heaving himself up and snagging his leather jacket from the chair where he had thrown it.

"Well, Bones, I'd better let you get some sleep. See you—" He just stopped himself from turning this last statement into a question, knew he had been about to ask if he would "see her tomorrow". He wondered what it would be like to stay, not leave tonight. As if trying to outrun these dangerous late night thoughts, he walked a little faster to the door and pulled it open so fast it almost bounced against the wall. She was still a few steps behind him to the door and he was already through.

But he couldn't run from her. He slowed his progress down the hall and turned to face her, sketched a little wave, repeated.

"See you later, Bones."

She stood in her doorway, lit boldly from behind and more gently illuminated in the front by the hall lighting. He noted the way her hand rested on the frame lightly, not for support but decidedly, as if standing in the doorway saying goodbye to him was a thing, a routine. Her voice came, a little husky from fatigue and wine.

"Yes. Goodbye, Booth. I will see you next week sometime most likely."

"Yeah, sure—" He trailed off.

Maybe ten feet of space between them, but it might as well been ten miles for all he could read her. What happened, what changed? He used to be able to tell what she was thinking. Better than now anyway. Her brows drew in slightly and he felt the urge to run again. She seemed to read him better than he was reading her. That was just wrong. He felt blind and stupid with it.

He turned and left. He walked halfway home, down city streets, long blocks and short. And the dangerous late night thoughts lurked in doorways, in alleys, in the unlit windows next to the bright ones, in the glimpses of empty stairways leading up. Every dark thing caught his eye. Shadowy fire escapes, dim shuttered businesses, discarded tickets and paper underfoot.

Finally tiring, he took a cab the rest of the way home.

The next day, he woke refreshed. Lighter, free of the dark mood of last night, of the whole damn week. Decided to run, remembered that she often ran in the park on Saturday mornings. He ran fast because he loved running fast not because he thought he might catch up to her. He did catch up to her though and she laughed when joined her, when he tapped her on the arm and beat her to the coffee cart. He joked with her, bought her coffee. Bones. Her ponytail, wispy bits sticking sweaty to the sides of her face was not the same as in the lab. His fist clenched at the thought of pushing his fingers through the bunded mass to unbind, to hold the back of her head, to pull her toward him…

And then, murder. And misunderstanding. Broadsky could have killed him, could have killed her. He didn't trust himself to go to her then so he just ran. It was raining and he ran until he was shivering, if not from cold, from something he could call cold. Or like he had been freezing, had climbed out of an icy prison and now was warm, hot really, but shivering from the memory of that frosty place.

The next month or so was better. He felt better. They worked, indulging in petty banter and pushing each other, carefully, but still pushing in that way they had. Suspects and witnesses and squints and coworkers all looked at them with reassuringly familiar expressions of amusement or irritation or wonder. He drove and she asked to drive. They did some paperwork together. He helped her on with her jacket. Life got back to normal. Booth felt normal, at least like he was breaking even, for the first time since Hannah left.

Except for one thing. His ability to read Bones was still fucking broken. He was reduced to reading her actions because he could do that with anyone and because her still, watchful eyes—bright and blue and penetrating as ever—gave nothing away. She made him mac and cheese. She picked fights when he started to descend into the funk again. She met him at the diner. She handed him her coat and let him put it on her. But he didn't know what she was thinking. Was she pitying him? Or was this friendship? Or something else? That night in the car, in the rain, her tears. Did she still feel regret?

They went to the movies. Finally, he insisted on having a turn choosing a seat and made her sit in the back row on principle but then was sorry for it. He hated seeing all the other people in the movie theater, knowing they were there, and wished he were back in the third row with her, pretending they were alone, his body slumped in the seat so that his head could tip back in comfort to see the screen. Screw principles. He made them move halfway through Bringing Up Baby, Bones whispering triumphantly and laughing as they crouched and scuttled down the aisle into their places.

They settled into their seats and when they were finally comfortable, they turned simultaneously to smile at each other. Booth felt his smile melt away even though Bones, in the dim flickering of the film, held on to the remnants of hers. Their faces were close enough to feel one another's breath.

"Booth?" Brennan whispered.

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I think you owe me breakfast in the morning."

His breath caught. Was she saying…?

"Want to meet at the diner at 9?"

Relief. Disappointment? "Sure. The weather is suppose to be nice, do you want to run first?"

At the sound of mutters behind them and some shushing, Brennan lowered her voice. "Okay, yes." She turned to settle on her back to watch the rest of the movie, posture uncharacteristically sloppy and her hair loose and messy against the seat. He watched her watch the movie, in profile, until she turned back to him.

"What?"

"Nothing." And he turned too.

Sitting, slumped side by side in the dark of the movie theater, he couldn't help but think of all the dates he had taken to the movies, the way that he and the girl would sit, side by side—

Bones straightened at his side.

—legs not touching but somehow aware of one another, ready to bump in a friendly way, but signaling something more than just friendship—

Booth straightened too, pulling his legs up into a normal position, preventing the cramping that surely would have come.

—the girl would rest her arms, slim and smooth compared to any boy's, at her sides, tiny hands resting on her knees—

Bones long, elegant fingers rested lightly on her legs and he glanced down, mesmerized by the comparison of his own knobby, veiny hands, so masculine compared to a woman's, to Brennan's surprisingly delicate ones nearby.

—his hands would start to sweat thinking about taking the girl's hand and he would rub them involuntarily on his jeans—

Booth almost jumped when he felt Bones' cool fingers settle on the back of his hand. His eyes jumped to hers.

"Did you ever hold hands with anyone at the movies, Booth?" Whispering again.

He hadn't moved his hand and hers stayed where it was, resting on top of his. "Sure, Bones. All the time."

"I did too. Once. But the boy's hand was very...moist." Her face, even in the dim light, contorted in distaste. Before he thought about it so long that his hand started sweating like the poor junior bastard's that had the balls to hold young Brennan's hand so long ago, he flipped his over under hers.

"Oh." A small sound of surprise escaped at his sudden move. "Your hand is dry." Her eyes met his and her fingers curved and tightened.

He didn't answer, didn't know how. After a minute, or an hour, he didn't know how long, they both turned back to the movie. But he didn't let go. Neither did she. And, miraculously, their hands stayed dry, but not cool anymore. The heat generated by their hands seemed to pulse and settle in other parts of his body. Booth wanted to shift in his seat but was afraid he'd give away how hard he had gotten just from holding her hand. He wondered what would happen when they stood up to leave.

By the time they stood up, he had thought about little else. But when the lights came on, and they stood, they automatically let go of one another and the moment was past. Booth felt bereft, his hand empty without hers. They put on their jackets, gathered up their bags, their trash. He had the pleasure of putting his hand on her back and having her go first up the aisle. They walked on the almost sticky plush carpet out into the lobby, dumping their trash. They each went into the restroom and came out again. When they exited, though, from the garish fluorescent lights of the movie theater, into the welcoming darkness of the neighborhood streets, things seemed simpler again. It was dark and cool, the streets wet from the rain that had fallen while they were in the theater. As they walked together toward the car, their arms brushed, even their hands once or twice. The third time it happened, he took her hand, careful not to look at her. She wove her fingers through his and told him things about Katherine Hepburn that he barely listened to so loud was the blood pounding in his ears.

He had rehearsed things he could say to her. He was angry, just angry—not at her—but still just angry and maybe sometime when he wasn't so angry, they could be together.

He had thought about telling her the honest truth, that it meant everything to him that she had stayed with him that night that Hannah had turned him down. That it felt like a lie, a sin of omission, not to have told her that. And that he knew, now, had probably always known, that that dreadful night was about more than just Hannah. It was about her, Bones, too.

He had thought about what it would mean, for he and Bones to be together. He found himself wishing time away. He had guessed dates...next Christmas? Maybe at the beginning of spring—new life and all that? He had even peeked at a couple of Sweet's books on grief and situational depression to see if there was a usual time frame. He thought about writing one of the dates down and burning it like he used to do when he was a kid, sure that now it would have to come true.

But now, the heels of her boots clicking decisively next to him on the wet pavement, the lit windows of late night bars and cafes bright in the darkness, he felt the peace that came with being with her. With Bones. Just that.

"Bones?" He interrupted her comments on Hepburn's later career, pulled her to a halt next to him on the sidewalk. She stopped, looking up at him in the ambient glow of the street lights.

His voice cracked a little as he confessed. "I love you."

She didn't betray surprise or any other emotion but searched his eyes for a long minute while he waited. Her chin came up and her voice was certain and so serious that if he hadn't already seen the joy in her eyes, if he didn't know her, if he had been anyone else, he would have thought she was going to let him down in some way, tell him it was all a mistake but instead for the first time in months he could see into her the way he always had been able to and he knew, even as she said it.

"And I love you, Booth." And that's why so serious, not because she was going to let him down, but because she was afraid of being hurt herself even though he just told her that he loved her. Her eyes are steady on his but vulnerable and questioning and he wanted to laugh. From happiness and because the meaning of her expression was so illogical.

He said, "You know Bones, I still love you now, ten seconds later, even though you love me too."

And she laughed, understanding. "It's just, I don't know, it's just...now?"

"Yeah. Why the hell not? Now." He reached for her other hand, pulled her a little closer. Never one to back down, her chin went up even higher and her bright eyes danced with challenge.

"Will you kiss me now or should I kiss you?" Booth eyes were on her lips and he could barely keep it together long enough to answer her.

"Why don't we meet in the middle?" And then they were kissing as if their lives depended on it, joined by lips and hands only. The feel of her, the smell of her, the taste of her now, after all this time, was incredible. Oh Bones.

And she must have felt the same because she broke a way with a little moan—Booth—and buried her face in his neck. He did everything, everything he always wanted to do in a moment like this. He kissed her head, buried his nose in her hair, pulled her close into him. He loved, reveled, in the feel of her arms banding around his waist, her body swaying and leaning into his. He took her weight easily, gladly, and rubbed her back, pushing and dislodging clothes until his naked hand pressed against her bare skin and she shivered. Her mouth opened on the skin of his neck and her body arched against him and he needed to get them home now.

Holding hands again, they ran to the car.