Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for your encouragement on the last chapter! Haha, I feel so much better that my first time writing a love scene was a success. I tried to keep it very emotional and not graphic. I know I might be in the minority, but I can't stand just mindless smut. Lol, what's wrong with me, right? lol. Anyways, carry on!

Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ACHIEVING THAT BLESSED REDEMPTION

*

When you have come to the edge of all light that you know
And are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown
Faith is knowing one of two things will happen:
There will be something solid to stand on
Or you will be taught to fly

-Patrick Overton-

August 26th, 2010

The early morning is kind. Lulling both the fatigue and energy away, leaving her with a strangely numb contentment. She doesn't rely on this avenue of thought for long. Instead, she's simply still.

She's been wakeful for a while. At ease in his arms, tracing her fingers slowly, gently, over his skin. Fascinated by the way it dips slightly under the soft pressure. Incredibly tired–the past few days catching up to her–but she doesn't crave sleep. She wants to be aware of this, this closeness. Fingernail outlines the chain of the St. Christopher's medal, the only thing on his sleeping form. It winks the low, muted light back at her, making the colors of her eyes idly dance.

His chest rises and falls slowly beneath her cheek. She mentally counts the makeup of his skeletal structure beneath her touch. Being deprived of her loved profession for too long.

Clavicle… sternum…

Tie goes here. Metal chain goes here. He doesn't wear ties anymore, but the delightful myriad of colors she remembers well.

After naming all the ribs, still trying to occupy herself in order to remain awake, she moves on to the musculature structure.

Deltoid. Sometimes exposed by those sleeveless shirts he favors.

Sternocleidomastoid. Once hidden by white dress shirt collars, now sometimes concealed behind those of a black combat jacket. Available entirely to her now, throat bared. Tanned and strong.

Pectoralis major. Bruised by bullet and biting daggers. Broad, they safeguard the devoted heart beneath.

Biceps brachii. Ideal for sheltering hugs that exude warmth and affection.

Abdominis. Smooth, flat.

Her eyelids droop, fingers stilling in their leisurely task. For just a moment, she closes her eyes, listening to the heartbeat beneath her ear. She smiles. It's normal, slowed. That promising thump-thump of ordinary grace. She's never heard anything more beautiful. It's a wonder her own heart can even beat–being so full of Seeley Booth instead of what should be running through her veins. Strangely exquisite.

Her gaze rests on the fading scars near the right side of his chest. They're little more than weakening nightmares, barely visible now. Still, they make her stomach knot. It hurts, these memories. There are more. Faint data, scattered over his form, some almost faded completely. One day, she'll learn all his scars.

Impulsively, a kiss to his shoulder. Thank you, she reflects silently. Gratefully. At the contact, he shifts just a little. Sighs quietly. Protective embrace curls around her just a little more, strong arms drawing her close in his slumber. Even so, she's never seen him sleep so deeply. Eyes traveling up his form, he looks completely at ease. Youth is rekindled in the peaceful expression on his sleeping face.

That brow isn't drawn into a constant worry line. Lips aren't pursed with seething concern. No, dark hair disheveled endearingly, eyelashes content to rest over his angled cheekbones, he's happily lost to the world. And she can't take her eyes off of him. Can't stop looking at him. Even with her eyelids heavy, she watches him. She's waiting for him to reveal his wakefulness and tease her lovingly about her new creepy pastime, but soon she's already lost to blessed oblivion.

Asleep in his arms.

The second time awareness tugs at her consciousness, it's the sunlight coaxing her awake. Despite the warmth bathing her affectionately, there's a developing cold spot next to her. Rolling over, she sees the empty space. Curious, she yawns quietly and eases into a sitting position, pulling the sheets over her form. The window barriers are open and inviting, so he's risen for the day.

A most delicious smell floats from the hallway, filling her senses and rendering her almost to butter. Ready to investigate, she retrieves his t-shirt from the floor, tugging it on. Stretching languidly.

"Morning." His warm voice carries from the doorway, and she can already see the smile in his voice. He's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and it must be contagious, because she gives him a shy smile in return.

Nothing has changed between them. And yet everything has changed.

Everything's different. But it's not. Despite its irrelevance, time allows the evolution of growth. The adaptation of budding devotion.

"Good morning." She sinks herself onto her elbows and tousles her hair with her fingertips. Then she smiles at him. He smiles back. And for a while, that's all that happens. Finally, she laughs–and it isn't awkward–but a pink flush tinges her cheeks.

If it's at all possible, the grin grows larger. Boyish. "I made pancakes." Expectant enthusiasm decorates his face, and the laughter breaks from her lips again like a chorus of bells. He reveals the two plates from behind the jamb, where they'd been sitting on the hall table. Patting the space next to her, she grins excitedly and he takes up a spot beside her on the bed.

Hers are smaller, dotted with strawberries that leave a smiling face staring up at her from the top pancake. She laughs huskily, touched. A tiny awwmurmurs in the quiet space. This should annoy her, but it doesn't. "For the severe snuggler in my life," he says, pressing a kiss at her temple.

"I knew you were awake," she says, poking him in the ribs. He chuckles as she nestles up against him, long bare legs tangling with his. His own plate is caked in syrup and she snickers approvingly. "That's disgusting." He laughs heartily, taking a large bite from his fork. She pats his stomach affectionately, shakes her head in amazement. "I don't know where you put it."

"I'm a growing boy, Bones," he says, nudging her.

She's about to retort when she takes a bite of her own. "Oh. Wow…"

"Good?"

She's amused at how much he brightens at her praise, lets her eyes roll back in pleasure. "Yes. These are fantastic."

"Diggin' the pancakes, huh?" he grins.

"Very much so."

"Well, if you're especially good, I'll have to make you my famous Mac and Cheese for dinner."

After a moment of careful contemplation, she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling coyly. "Booth family recipe?"

He lowers his plate, bumping his nose against hers. "Secret family recipe," he whispers conspiratorially. The press of his lips against hers is just another reminder to her of how real and alive he is. She finds herself sighing happily against his mouth as she kisses him back. A kiss that's both sugary and sweet.

"Mmm… it's a good thing I can keep a secret."

He chuckles quietly and she feels the gentle reverberations through his chest beneath her roaming hand. Plates become forgotten on the bed. "Good thing," he agrees. His own investigative hands tickle the sensitive skin of her sides through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. He nuzzles his nose into her hair. "You're wearing my shirt." He means to sound annoyed, but he can't seem to exude anything but affection today.

"Yes," she contends matter-of-factly. His lips are performing admirable feats upon her neck.

"You keep stealing my clothes, I might have an empty closet. Then what?"

"I'll be extremely happy. Nevertheless, if your supreme need to nurture your Puritan modesty arises, you can always borrow from my closet."

His barking laughter abruptly shatters the calm, and she's laughing now, too. Both shaking with collective mirth. Eyes dancing, he rests his forehead against hers, delighting in the dawning smile that lights up her face. The sweetest thing he's ever seen.

Eyes adoring, gazing, everything is the way it's supposed to be. Perfection. He brushes a copper strand gently from her face, pulling back a little. There's a tightness in his chest, stomach feeling like it's just underwent a hundred foot drop. And suddenly he's terrified. "I love you, you know," he says quietly.

Her smile fades a little at the gravity of his words, but doesn't vanish from her face. Softly, she takes his hand in hers, places it over her heart where she feels the warmth spread. Holds his eyes with her own, showing.

His heart pounds somewhere in the vicinity of his throat as he waits for her reaction. Lungs scream for release because he barely registers he's holding his breath.

"I know," she smiles. Kisses him. It rolls off her lips like it's the easiest thing she's ever said. The truest, most important . "I love you, too."

He exhales, and then his breath catches again, holds. He'd had no idea what those three words would do to him once they came from her mouth, if they ever would. Slowly, the brightest smile she's ever seen breaks across his face. Makes the infamous Charm Smile look positively restrained. And he laughs, but it's different. The happiest sound she's ever heard from him. He deserves this contentment, after suffering through so much. They both do.

She shrieks when his previously teasing hands launch attack at her sides, his lips peppering her in chaste kisses. She laughs, head thrown back, auburn waves fanned across the pillow. Returns the euphoric affection when his roving lips meet hers.

She tugs impatiently at his shirt, like a cat being deprived of her new favorite toy. He stills her hands with a gentle smile, amused by her eagerness. "You're tired," he reminds softly when their breathing returns to normal, gazing down at her.

He chuckles at her disappointed pout. Lowering himself onto his side beside her, he traces her face, kisses her forehead. "You've been through Hell and high water these past couple of days. Plus you've openly neglected that injury on your leg. Don't think I hadn't noticed," he interrupts her attempt at rebuttal. Gives her a stern glare.

There's a darkening flicker in his eyes, a vulnerability, and she knows it to be guilt from the wrongful blame he puts on himself for her injury. She's displeased, but can't ignore the same painful wound throbbing on her outer thigh. As always, he's right. Sighing heavily, she sinks into the mattress, still figuratively sore for being denied the attentions of her partner.

She wants to explore this new sensation further. Wants to learn more about him, in this way. Craves this requited love and resolved but further captivating desire. "Rest, Temperance," he tells her earnestly, smoothing a hand over her hair. "We'll take care of routine later. Among other things," he adds cheekily at her reminding poke to his chest. Her pinched mouth and large, hungry eyes.

She twitches her nose in contemplation, considering his words. A deeper emotion swells in her being, and she meets his eyes in somber askance. "Today, I don't want to leave. The world can wait," she says with feeling. "Just… stay. Stay here, with me."

He catches her stare, returns it meaningfully. "Okay," he smiles, happy to please her. Softly, he presses another kiss to her forehead. "But for now, sleep."

She nods against the pillow, compliant to his wishes. He knows how difficult it is for her to put voice to the words, these words. And so he's proud of her, honored that she ask. "Take care of me?" So soft, barely enough to break the air between them.

A single peck on her nose. Those brown eyes warm her from the outside in and give assurance. "Of course."


July 28th, 2009

He's at the diner when she finds him. Brown curls are loose, even browner eyes heavy and sullen. This isn't her, this poor worried creature.

He isn't staying. He's come for some food–he has to eat. Much as he has no mood for it. Not many frequent the tiny restaurant, not anymore. People stay home, fear the world. They aren't wrong to do so. He just doesn't fear it. He hates it.

"You saw it." It isn't a question. Her voice isn't steady, fractures taint every syllable.

He saw it.

"I don't think she's coming back," the artist frets, hands shaking as she presses the letter onto the counter.

He's yet to look at the woman beside him. But he shakes his head. "She won't." God, he isn't hungry. He's even less so when the mask-wearing waitress slides him his takeout container. He'll force himself to eat, as he does every night.

"She just… she just left us these letters. Specifically addressed to all of us."

One for each and every squint. For all her family.

Except him.

He forces down the painful boulder in his throat and snatches the food box from the counter. Ready to leave, though he's not sure where he's going. He can't go to the lab–too painful. Hoover, maybe. Home, most likely. "Well, at least she said goodbye," he tells her dryly, the inward feeling of his apparent unimportance almost too much to bear.

He tries to brush past her, but she prevents his departure with a pleading look. Tears swimming in her eyes. "She wrote us all letters," Angela says. "Except you." He tries to ignore the insistent tug in his chest that returns with her words. He's already had phone calls from her father, brother, all the squints. Hell, even her publisher. He doesn't have any answers for them.

He attempts another escape, but her arm catches him across the shoulders, stalling him. She's stronger than she looks. Or perhaps he's just unwilling to put up a fight.

"It's because she plans on seeing you again," she chokes out, the tears spilling down her cheeks. It hurts that her goodbye has been issued through a piece of paper, but she knows this man is the only solid factor their mutual friend will cling to. He stills at this revelation, that tiny part of him yet seeking any fiber of hope jumping at the very rational explanation.

Angela squeezes his hand, brown eyes drilling into his in earnest. "It's you, Booth. You know she'll come running to you." He feels his throat catch, emotion swelling in his chest. The pressure of it insufferable. "When the hour is dark, you are the light she seeks." Drawing him down with a single hand, she presses a desperate kiss to his cheek, evidence of her emotional torment transferring to his own face. "Take care of her."

It's an order, a plea. It's the last time he'll see her.

He meets her eyes, conveying the deep truth that circulates his thoughts. His innermost loyalties.

He offers a discreet, solemn nod.

Of course.

Feeling something tickling at her nose, she scrunches it up in response. Slowly blinks her eyes open to find herself staring into endless brown and greeted with that smile of his. He stills in the effort of tapping her nose with a lock of her own hair, breath caught in his throat. He looks utterly mesmerized, lips parting to release a soft sigh. Eyes riveted to her face.

This woman, who he's done unspeakable things for, who he's loved from afar for as long as he can remember, is smiling up at him now with adoration laid bare. Those eyes… loving him. "Wow…" he whispers, barely a sound. So quiet she'd nearly had to read his lips.

She wonders what he can mean, briefly curious if there's something on her face, or if her hair is tangled in an amusing nest. "What?"

"It's just… seeing you. You know… waking up next to me." So very quiet. He still seems endearingly bashful to their shift of relationship. Perhaps she is, too. This is just as new to her. Still, she's hesitant, not quite understanding his meaning. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, drawing the dimples into sight. She traces them fondly with her finger. "I like it, Bones."

Her nose crinkles with the way her own smile stretches her face. "Me, too."

Angling her face up to him, she gently meets his lips with hers. He hums a pleasantly surprised response deep in his throat, eyes fluttering closed. Both smile against each other's mouths.

When she pulls away, she fixes him with a teasing glare. "I thought you wanted me to rest."

"I did."

She pokes him twice in the abdomen, blue eyes sparking with light badgering. "What, did you get bored?"

"No," he protests with a wounded expression that has her stifling her laughter. "I let you sleep for a few hours. Even had time to fix Fred while Sleeping Beauty was getting her much needed breather."

Uh oh.

"Fred?" Provoked into amused reciprocation, she rolls him over onto his back without warning and surprising strength. Leans over him, the ends of her hair tickling his face. If he minds being manhandled by a woman, it doesn't show in the least. In fact, he seems to be greatly enjoying the exchange.

He chuckles at the way her eyes widen at the mention of their former ally-cum-nemesis-cum-puddle scrap. His playful look turns immediately to one of angelic innocence. "Of course. He was all by his lonesome–lonesomes, actually, if you count the dispersal of his limbs–out there by the bank in the scary dark." As an afterthought, he explicates, "Duck taped the poor bastard."

She rolls her eyes, though richly amused. Folds of his t-shirt crinkle under her curious hands over his chest. "How very considerate of you, given that you were the one who saw fit to blow him to bits. Sleeping Beauty is a fictional princess, correct?"

He laughs at her abrupt backtrack of topic, nodding appropriately. "Yes. Anyway, I have a surprise for you. You can rest on the couch while you enjoy it." His eyes are alight with ill-contained enthusiasm, fixed on her hopefully.

She moans at the prospect of removing herself from the encompassing blankets and burrows herself further into a warming cocoon. He laughs at her antics, sliding from beneath her and tugging at the covers. She cracks an eye at him, still looking supremely annoyed. "Come on, wakey, wakey," he indulges of her softly, brown eyes sparkling. Her resolve cracks. His smile broadens. "Ha! Let's go, lazy Bones," he triumphs.

She snorts into the pillow while swatting him away.

On the coffee table in the living room, both Peter Pan movies faithfully await. The first is already set to the menu screen on the large television, drawing her in with impossibly airborne individuals and soothing, uplifting musical scores.

She stares in amazement, breathy laugh escaping her agape jaw. He smiles widely, patting the spot next to him on the sofa, where she seats herself on the opposite end, feet in his lap.

As they watch, sometimes laughing, always enjoying, the charming classic, he sets to work on her injured leg. Gauze and sterilizing solutions pave another corner of the small table, and for a few hours, it's just them and Pan.

She inhales quickly at the unexpected sting of the alcohol. His face becomes instantly apologetic. "Sorry," he whispers, focused on his task. "I think it may be infected…"

She unconsciously cringes at the word, pain in her eyes, and he's looked up again in time to catch the event. She cranes her neck away, eyes sliding closed. She bites her lip to still its tremble. Two times today, she's been reminded of his awful accident.

"Hey."

She doesn't start when she feels his fingers under her chin, guiding her back. She unwillingly meets his eyes as they bore into hers, soft and all the more brown in his concern.

"I'm fine, Temperance," he reminds, voice no higher than the low murmurs of the Lost Boys on the screen. Suddenly, she isn't paying attention to the movie. "You saved me." Anything she might have responded with clogs in her throat. Her lips press tightly together, and she nods.

Appearing to detect her unwillingness on the subject, though quiet acceptance, he smiles gently and sets back to work. At ease again, she slumps lower into the cushions, exhaustion still clouding her brain cells and motor function. She thinks she might have drifted off a little when his voice invades her thoughts again.

"There," he says, smoothing the bandage gently over her thigh. Able to access the injury due to her small pajama shorts. "Feel better?"

"Mmm," she sighs, reclined back against the sofa cushions, still tempted by the realm of sleep. Refusing to give in though, so that they may finish the movie together. "Yes. Thank you."

"What's wrong, Peter?"

"You can fly now. You can go home…"

Wincing slightly at the sad exchange, Brennan blinks her eyes against the surprising emotion pricking behind them. Shifting, she scoots to the side more to accommodate her partner. She's learned now what she needs at times like these. "Come up here by me?"

Nodding with a half-smile, seemingly sensing her change of mood, he crawls up between her and the back of the couch. Once in place, she shifts to lay atop him, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"Hello, Peter," Wendy, a beautiful woman now instead of a pretty young girl, greets shyly of her old friend.

He tilts his head to the side, eyes wide and troubled. He floats idly beside the window, turns away, saddened. "You've changed," he says quietly.

She smiles though, if a little saddened herself. Still, a brave face extends to him. Gentle fingers brush his chin, ask him back. "Not really."

Booth feels a spot of moisture seep through his shirt, but remains silent on the subject. Her head's tucked under his chin, and he assumes a calming pattern with his hand over her back.

The boy seems better contented, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. He waves, Tinkerbell fluttering faithfully at his shoulder. "Goodbye, Wendy."

Her bottom lip quavers, but she takes it between her teeth to still it. The credits roll, bittersweet music sounding from the speakers. She's brave enough to say it now. "Peter and Wendy never got their happy ending."

It's mumbled faintly against his chest, and she almost hopes he doesn't hear. His hand stills over her, and she can feel the gentle vibrations in his chest when he speaks almost as softly. "Is that what you're looking for, Bones? A happy ending?"

She turns her head against him, but doesn't meet his eyes. "Maybe," she admits quietly.

A silence descends around them, and he's the first to end it. He kisses her once, soft as a feather, on the lips. Ducks his head to catch her eyes. Tousled curls frame her pale face, blue gaze sad but open for him to read. "I haven't left you," he tells her, his own voice a little choked by the raw emotion. And she swears she can see that second star glimmering in his eyes.

She sniffs, blinking her eyes against the welling tears. Nods. She buries her face against his chest, hugging him tightly. Sighs heavily, but expels the negative emotion. "I just… I wish Angela was still around." She laughs lightly, happy to remember her friend, sad to remember her gone. "It seemed her foremost desire to see us together, for whatever reason. It's sad that she'll never get to now. I wish it could be different."

He smiles gently, lips pressing softly against her hair, just barely. "Have faith, Bones."

He knows it's a long shot, but she's glad he'd said it.

"There," she announces happily, withdrawing the syringe to seal it away for safekeeping. Their eyes meet tentatively, and she peeks at him from under her lashes. Her smile is modest, searching. Her fingers dance over his hands, also searching, and he accepts them. Folds them in his warm grasp. Her voice is low, and he sees the scientist, the woman, and the friend she has always been reborn. Like a phoenix, she's also new, and there're galaxies in her eyes. "The Booth Cure."

It's later, now. The sun is still relatively high in the sky, but dinner will be ready soon. Her stomach flips at the look he gives her. Rejoices as one side of his mouth pulls up into her favorite uneven smile. "Booth Cure, huh?" he echoes in amusement, seated on the exam table comfortably. Much more at ease than previous times.

"Yes," she confirms, cheeks rounding with her grin. Pleased with her decision. "Now everyone gets a little Booth in their life."

He tosses her a goading smile, eyebrows jumping in question. "Not jealous, Dr. Brennan?"

That half-smile lights up her face. "I'll share the love." A second later though, and it's vanished. "But with conditions, of course." She takes his hand possessively, pouting petulantly. "They'd better be dead or dying. My caveman," she asserts.

He laughs, happy to be owned, and it's a nice sound. He draws her in for a quick kiss and a hug. He will never get tired of this. "My squint," he agrees. He nudges her affectionately, grin threatening to split his face. The dimples are back. "Alpha female."

She squawks as though affronted, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. He slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her in close, chuckling as they make their way up the stairs. Deliriously happy.

And there it is.

Warnings never come paired with things so pivotal, so powerfully critical.

Drawing near to the hall, his smile slowly fades until he stills them completely. Frozen. "What is that?" His entire demeanor has solidified. Spine rigid, shoulders severe. He reminds her of a panther, ready to pounce. Ready to defend. Immediately, mirroring his posture, reacting against his movements, she is on the alert as well. Both completely attuned to the other's actions and thoughts.

"What?" she prods, suddenly concerned. Entering into the kitchen, they hear it again.

Static.

Suddenly, the back of her neck is on fire, nerves aquiver. Heart throbs, but hasn't quite begun to excel yet. "Did you leave the television on?" she grasps.

"No."

It's a dull sound, what his voice has become. Approaching the entryway, both brown and blue gazes lock on the radio communicator.

More static. And then, "We're at… hello… ask that you help… please, help. We need… at the Hoover Building…" More than one speaker. The message itself is chaos. But the hellish shock boiling in the pits of their stomachs is no less because of it.

"Oh my God."

The events in our lives happen in a sequence of time
But in their significance to ourselves, they find their own order:
The continuous thread of revelation.

-Eudora Welty-