A/N: Okay, so I was so happy with the first part before I realized I forgot to include certain details. Then I just kinda shoved them in wherever they sorta fit. So if it seems confusing anywhere, please let me know. :) And the second part is probably just really weak; I have no experience writing Daisy's point of view. As always, reviews are welome and appreciated!

Edit: Ps, I also have no idea how APBs work, but I'm pretty sure they're not how I described them. Not the first time I've blatantly made shit up haha. I'm willing to just roll with it if you are. ;) Enjoy!

(Edited and reposted July 15, 2015)

December, 2014

"Bones."

The keyboard tapping, the light from the computer scream, they fill the room. They hold her focus, and she barely notices her husband enter; such is typical when she's focused on something important. He knows that. The tapping pauses for just a fraction of a second, her eyes coming up to glance his way, before continuing again. She's too far into what she's doing to offer her husband anything more than a curt nod to acknowledge that she even heard him.

He won't take that, of course.

"Bones, come to bed."

She types out a few more words, reads for just another quick second before finally giving her attention to Booth – however short-lived it may end up being.

"I can't. Not yet."

And she very nearly goes right back to it, but pauses when she sees the hard, tired look on Booth's face. The lines of exhaustion on his forehead, the greying circles just underneath his eyes, they're all prominent features at this point. He needs sleep, and is probably just inches away from pulling Brennan upstairs to join him.

But she can't.

"Booth, I –"

"What are you working on?" he asks, his voice flat and quiet. They've been up to their eyes in assignments, not least of which was their own missing person's case. She could have anything up on that screen, could be pouring over every small detail pertaining to whatever. It doesn't much matter. Nevertheless, he sits down on the couch beside her and leans his head over to look.

Temperance Brennan, never a woman of subtlety, closes the lid of the laptop in one soft, fluid motion. The statistics on the screen, the case files, the notes and research, they're now invisible. Perhaps if they can't see them, they'll cease to exist; they'll lose their validity, their power. But Brennan – not a woman of subtlety, but of pure science and reasoning – knows that is not the case. Facts, of course, are ubiquitous, ever-present. You could fight them to the bitter end, but they'll always win.

"Booth," she feels him tense beside her as she speaks, eyes to the carpet. She braces herself. "You need to adjust the APBs. And the missing person's report."

"What do you mean?" If she would just glance up at his face, she'd see his eyes, clouded with confusion. It translates into his voice, though – so she need not look. It's all the same, really.

She breathes deep and forces the words out.

"You need to take out the word alive. The possibility that – that we may find nothing but remains, it needs to be included."

She should have expected the wide shake of Booth's head, the firm, "No," he gives automatically. Why would he respond any differently?

"No," he repeats, standing up from the couch and running an exasperated hand through his hair. "No, I'm not doing that. Not yet. Sweets is alive, Bones, I'm telling you. I'm not changing it yet, no way."

The lid of the computer comes back up as quickly as it went down, displaying pages on pages of bitter statistics.

"Booth, you know how unlikely it is that we'll find him alive. It's been three months. We did what they wanted, and the messages stopped weeks ago. All I'm saying is that you need to consider –"

He rounds on her. She expected it this time – not that it changes anything, of course.

"He's alive, Bones! Conspiracies aren't normal missing person's cases, you know that! And if they were going to kill him, Bones, they would have just killed him and been done with it. They woulda left him on the floor of that parking lot to die, and then we'd be finding his body. But they took him somewhere! And then they wouldn't have contacted us at all if they killed him, Bones. They had a plan to use him, you gotta see that! People don't kill useful hostages."

Standing in the middle of the room, arms dropped to his sides, Seeley Booth looks completely and utterly dumbfounded. Lost for words, at this point.

"Booth," she starts, her eyes locked firmly on his this time. "I am an extremely capable, skilled forensic anthropologist. Cam, Hodgins, Angela, Daisy, Aubrey, you and me – we're all talented in our work. And our work is to catch killers. Everyone in the FBI knows it. Whoever is pulling the strings of this conspiracy, why would they leave Sweets' body behind if we could identify the killer so easily? Have you considered that? To whoever took Sweets, he's dispensable if the plan doesn't work. So using him as incentive, or whatever they wanted – if it didn't work, they probably killed him. It's just logic, Booth, you –"

"Bones, you're giving up on him!" Booth finally shouts, his voice rising to meet the ceiling. She flinches. He barely notices. "You are completely giving up on him! Do you think he'd ever give up on you? If it were you missing, you know he would never suggest that. He wouldn't give up hope of finding you alive, not for a second!"

She shoves the computer to the side, onto the cushion of the couch, and stands tall, in the most intimidating pose she can muster. The cool, collected voice of reasoning has gone silent, mostly overtaken by her yelling right back to Booth, "I am not giving up on him! Don't you dare think for one second that I am! I want to find him alive just as much as you do. He's just as much family to me as he is to you, and you know I would never give up on him like that. You know that! I'm just looking at facts, Booth, and the facts…"

She deflates, her frustration disappearing just as fast as it appeared. She whispers, and if a few tears start trailing down her cheeks, Booth says nothing about them.

"The facts say that he's probably dead."

And he wants to keep yelling. He wants to keep insisting that the facts are wrong, that Sweets is not – he can't be dead. God, the kid's twenty nine, just shy of thirty. He can't be dead.

Those words tug at his mind but don't reach his mouth. He drops it.

He makes the necessary changes to the reports a week later.

January, 2015

Daisy Wick has already decided by the time she steps off the elevator that the number three-sixteen is the most beautiful number she has ever heard. Dazzling, glorious – for the single reason that she'll find Lance Sweets in the room with that number displayed by the door. After four months, a near-boundless stretch of waiting and endless searching, after chasing leads that led them in circles, she's finally seen the end. Or at least the home stretch.

A mid-afternoon phone call from Seeley Booth, a hospital location, a kind-eyed receptionist repeating the room number over again and assuring her that he is well and truly alive. If she hadn't just been driving with one eye on the dashboard clock, counting every minute until she's once again by her boyfriend's side, she'd be certain that it all was just a hazy dream. She's never really believed in God before – but she can suddenly see the appeal. Perhaps miracles, scientifically unsound as they may seem, anomalous as they may be, are not strictly myths.

Her thoughts run in time with the click of her heels on the linoleum floor, quick yet controlled. And when she finally reaches the doorway – they screech to a halt.

The last time she saw Lance Sweets' face, it was smiling at her as he pulled the house door closed behind him, leaving. He blew a kiss, threw her a quick, "Love you," and he was gone. He didn't come home after that. And now here he is – his face beautifully calm and soft in sleep, his chest rising and falling perfectly, proof of life. She swipes her eyes and stares, barely daring to believe it. But God, it must be true; he's alive.

"Yeah, he's alive," Booth's rough voice echoes in her ears, proof that she was apparently just speaking aloud. If he or Brennan minded her interruption, though, they don't say as much. The agent stands from his chair and envelopes her in a gentle hug. She returns it forcefully. "He's alive. They found him."

After a few long moments, they pull apart and Brennan stands to receive her intern's grateful embrace in turn. And once they're apart, they just turn to stare at Sweets, who's still oblivious to all of them. He has no idea he's found, no clue he's safe. But perhaps the gentle hand Daisy cups his cheek with as Booth and Brennan sit back down will give him the message. The soft warmth of her lips on his forehead, the tickle of her hair on his shoulder, even the smell of her perfume if he could make it out – perhaps they'd be home enough for him. She cards a hand through his hair and kisses him again, just as much for her own sake as it is for his.

Booth finds her a chair, and she's soon seated as close to his left side as possible, his warm hand held tightly in her own. She shows no signs of leaving, at least for the time being. Neither do Booth and Brennan. Thus, the vigil continues.