A/N: So while I think that "5 Hours and 37 Minutes" is destined to remain a one-shot, I still find myself stuck on the subject matter, trying to reconcile that who-are-you ending of the season finale. This is (hopefully) going to be a few chapters in that vein, and (again hopefully) it will come together into something that makes that last line a little more….palatable?

A genuine thank you to everyone for their encouragement during this little writing streak of mine, and always I hope you find this interesting. -Ana

This was the life he led.

He woke up at 6:30 every morning, grumbling as he turned off the alarm clock but not really meaning it. Brushed his teeth, took a shower and then picked a suit, picked a tie. Headed downstairs ready to start his day.

In the kitchen, he found his wife at the stove or the sink and wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. Their little good-morning ritual. Sometimes, if they were alone, he would slip a hand under her robe to cup her breast, or she would lean back into him with a suggestive sway of her hips. Most of the time though it was a just a silent hello, the kids already at the table behind them talking about the upcoming school day or asking for pancakes shaped like bunnies.

Bacon and eggs, glass of milk and some toast. Then, with a kiss on the cheek and a cup of coffee, he was out the door, the sounds of the search for backpacks, permission slips and missing tennis shoes still echoing behind him.

His commute, the day in the office, usually passed in an easy blur. The work wasn't hard, the people on his team were good but never took themselves too seriously. He'd learned a long time ago that the job didn't have to define who he was—so he was just as pleased to open the office door in the morning as he was too loosen his tie at the end of the day.

No later than 6:30 each evening, he opened the front gate and made his way up the short walkway to the front steps of his home, more often than not forced to step over a discarded bicycle or skateboard. On a really good day, one of the boys would be at the hoop over the garage and he would take a detour, shedding his jacket for a quick pick-up game.

At least two days a week, he entered the front door to the sound of piano music. Every other day was for ballet or gymnastics or soccer, but on Mondays and Thursday he knew he could her practicing after her lesson, her legs swinging beneath the piano bench because she couldn't yet reach the foot pedals. As soon as she saw him, she would abandon Itsy Bitsy Spider and run to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Carrying her on his hip, he would head to the home office at the end of the hallway to retrieve his wife. Some days he had to wade through a flurry of post-it notes, others he would find her tapping a pencil on the desk as she stared out the window. But no matter the circumstances, she never failed to close the laptop before he could get a peek at the screen. He wasn't allowed to read her novels until the first draft was done. He didn't mind the wait, but still paid her back by teasing her with the nickname she pretended to hate. Don't call me that didn't carry as much weight when she followed it up with a smile and a quick kid-in-the-room kiss.

The next couple hours were busy ones. Make sure the kids didn't feed their broccoli to the dog again. Multiplication tables and spelling words. Help fold laundry, walk the dog. Bath time, story time and one more glass of water.

After that he might grab a beer, catch the end of the game. But he didn't mind if she nudged him to the back deck with a glass of wine in hand. They kept an old radio out there, tuned to the jazz station she liked, and he could sneak in a slow dance and a not so quick, no-kids-in-the-room kiss.

Later he stretched out on his side of the bed, watching for her finish up with the face cream and all of the other girly stuff, thinking that she looked just as good in one of his t-shirts and an old pair of socks as she did in the frilly stuff he bought for her at the mall. Another few minutes and she curled up next to him as he reached for the light. And every night, just before his eyes closed, he felt her hand sliding into his.

This was the life he led.

Until one day, when the alarm clock sounded and he opened his eyes, there was no clatter from the kitchen, no parade of little feet up and down the stairs. Instead, he found her standing next to his bed talking about tumors and surgery and anesthesia. Even as he struggled through haze, he understood that she was his partner, knew that this was Bones, but still he saw the woman from the life he'd dreamed.

"Who are you?" he asked, a part of him wondering how she would answer even as he felt the last of that dream fading away.