Spoilers/Timeline: None/Set in future (B&B are in an established relationship)

A/N: This is what happens when you cut me off from the internet for a night – not one, but two new fics. Thanks to Jess (CupcakeBean) for offering opinions.

Disclaimer: Bones still doesn't belong to me. Title (Come to Me Now and Rest Your Head for Just Five Minutes. Stupid character limit) from Crosby, Stills, and Nash's Our House.


"No, no, no!" She comes flying into the room, startling Frank so much he almost drops the couch on my foot. "This goes upstairs."

I glance to the staircase and back to the couch; we could manage it, but it would take at least an hour. "Are you sure, Ma'am? The sign says: 'downstairs, front room'."

Her eyes blaze and I fleetingly think that I'd never want to really cross her. "Of course, I'm sure."

"Bones," Sometime during our discussion he'd sidled up to her. Evaluating the scene, I suspect. "We agreed my couch was going upstairs and yours was staying down here."

"The more I contemplate it, the more convinced I am that my couch will be more aesthetically pleasing upstairs."

"Your couch is larger; it makes sense to leave it down here." He looks at Frank and I, effectively dismissing us from the room.

I pick up another box from the entryway and carry it to its destination, listening as they continue arguing.

"Why should size dictate where we put furniture? It should go where it will be most functional."

"And your couch will be most functional down here because the movers won't have to waste an hour and a half trying to get it upstairs."

She sends back a response that I can't hear, but, by the tone, I can tell she hasn't given in yet. The debate could go on, as evidenced earlier in the morning, for an hour if they weren't interrupted. One argument seems to bleed into the next and – I pause, counting – if separated I estimate this is the fourth one of the morning. I can't see how they'd ever make it.

"Besides, we wouldn't even need movers if it wasn't for all your books and artifacts." He gestures to a large box as they leave the room (yes, we don't have to take the blasted couch upstairs) and start towards the kitchen.

"What about all your sports memorabilia?" She crosses her arms, a look of annoyance and something else – amusement? – flitting across her delicate features.

I lean down and pick up a small, unlabeled box. Not wanting to be on the receiving end of another of her outbursts, I decide it's best to ask where they want it.

"Excuse me, this box doesn't have a label." I swallow my question as he takes it from my hands.

"Thanks, I'll take care of it." She's looking at him puzzled and I rush to find a box for the kitchen. After several minutes of searching, I finally discover one and am just setting it on the counter as she opens the box, pulling out a blue, handmade clay plate: one of those elementary school art projects. I should know; I have five similar gifts from my own kids.

I scoot out of the room, tripping over a rolled throw rug as I observe the confusion and surprise dancing in her eyes.

"Where?" Her question is soft as she turns the plate over and I note a grey blob that could possibly be a dolphin or a hippopotamus. It's unclear.

"Your father." I pause mid-step as she leans up, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. He lets out a chuckle and wraps his arms around her. "Welcome home, Bones."

I put the box in my hands down, replacing it with one for the downstairs bathroom, and amend my earlier conclusion; they would definitely make it.