Disclaimer: Zero ownership, blahblahblah. The song "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum has been playing nonstop on the radio, and every time I hear it, I think of BB ... so here's a bit of one of my daydreams, concocted up while stuck in traffic, and sketched during work, and written when I should be sleeping! :)

Picture perfect memories, scattered all around the floor

Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore

And I wonder if I ever cross your mind

For me it happens all the time

It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now

Said I wouldn't call but I've lost all control and I need you now

And I don't know how I can do without

I just need you now

—Lady Antebellum, "Need You Now"

The crying was what had bothered her the most. She and Booth had sat across from him and all they could do was watch this grown man cry, hand clapped over his mouth to keep in the sobs, but his shoulders were shaking, and fat tears slipped down his cheeks and gathered between his fingers. They weren't even very far into the interview.

Hello, Mr. Cornwell—can you explain your connection to the victim, please?

Victim?

Yes, Melanie Smith.

Mel—What's this got to do with Mel?

She was killed yesterday, Mr. Cornwell.

He'd stared at them in abject horror, and after trying valiantly to ask what had happened three or four times, he'd begun to cry. Brennan wanted to get up and put her hand on his shoulder, but that wasn't in the rulebook. They waited until he got a hold of himself and then Booth slid a glass of water his way.

Cornwell grimaced and gulped down half the glass. "I'm real sorry," he murmured, voice thick and craggy. "I—I'm not usually like this. I just—Mel. Oh God. Mel."

"Were you close?" Booth asked, voice low and respectful.

"You could say that." Cornwell gazed down at the glass in his hands, clearly not seeing it, but some memory of her. The victim. "We—well. I loved her silly. She loved me, too. Would've married me if I'd asked."

"Why didn't you?"

"It scares the bajesus out of me, that's why. What happens if thirty years down the road you wake up and you hate the person you married? Or you fall for someone else? Christ. I don't even care." Cornwell's fingers made squeaking sounds as they tightened sharply around the glass. "I should have married her when I had the chance."

It wasn't a long interview. Neither she nor Booth could bear to look Cornwell in the face for long. They watched him leave long enough to make sure he got onto the elevator okay—the man looked like he might accidentally take a header out the nearest window—and then went their separate ways. She had lab work to do and he had paperwork. No discussion, no comments, no significant glances.

She'd tried not to think about it, and had mostly succeeded, but once she was home and in bed, there was nothing between her and the memory of Cornwell's crying. It was a horrible sound, like listening to a person's soul being pulverized. Brennan felt for him, really felt for him; she understood completely why he'd never gone the distance with his Melanie. She was pulling the same crap herself.

Booth's expression when she'd refused him had looked a godawful lot like Cornwell's.

The night crept on, but Brennan came no closer to falling asleep. She stared at a section of ceiling and saw Cornwell's face and heard Booth's voice saying, I'm that guy. Bones, I'm that guy! He was. It was her own personal demons that weren't up to it, and probably never would be.

Someday she'd be in Cornwell's position. Booth would be dead or married to someone else or sent somewhere awful, like Montana, and she'd have lost her chance forever. The trouble was she didn't even know if she wanted that chance. She wanted Booth, had always wanted Booth, but she didn't want the attachment—the trouble was, she couldn't have one without the other. Booth wasn't a fling, couldn't ever be a fling, and that scared the living crap out of her.

If you don't love someone they can't break your heart.

If, if, if—was she going to be Cornwell? Was that what she wanted? Damned it all to hell, but she was a coward. That got her dander up, and she sat up in bed, furious with herself. Coward, coward, coward. She couldn't pretend she wasn't an oddball. She was pretty, and that meant she could have one-night-stands without much fuss, but a real relationship? She'd had her fair share of proof that she wasn't the easiest person to coexist with.

Booth knew her better than anyone and he still loved her, still wanted her. Well, was that any reason to be with someone? Because no one else was likely to ever love you the same way?

The second she thought it, she was ashamed of herself. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted Booth. These were excuses, the same excuses she'd been using for six years. Brennan looked down at her toes and thought, You already know the solution to this hypothesis, Temperance.

Proof came through experimentation. Nerves steeled somewhat, Brennan got up and put on some clothes.

Booth paced from one end of his apartment to the other. It didn't take very long. Back, forth, back, forth, straight as an arrow despite the beer he'd chugged a second ago, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often he'd give the clock a moody glare, as if it were its fault it was so late, getting on past one AM now, and he still not even close to sleep. He was bone-tired but absolutely wired, and so he paced, back, forth, back, forth.

If he was being honest with himself it was because of the guy they'd brought in today. Phil Cornwell, expert carpenter. Phil Cornwell, who found that the love of his life had died in a chilly interrogation room.

God in Heaven but that'd been hard. It was easily one of the worst interviews he'd had, especially with Bones sitting next to him, her eyes fixed on Cornwell, entire body rigid. She'd been freaking out big time. He didn't blame her, because he hadn't been doing so hot, either. All he could think was that this could be him someday, alone because he wasn't persistent enough.

Some soldier he was. Booth stopped pacing and stared hard out the window into the blackness. You always give up on the first try, boy? his conscience demanded, sounding a hell of a lot like his drill instructor from basic.

Hell no, Sarge. Hell no.

He pulled his jacket out of the closet and began sticking his arms through the appropriate holes, but he'd been too hasty and got it all wrong, and had to do it over again. Possibly the beer was beginning to work. Finally he managed it, and was reaching for his keys when someone knocked on his door.

At first he was furious that he'd have to put off talking to Bones just to deal with the schmuck at the door, but then his brain kicked in. Who knocked on doors at one in the morning?

Bones.

Booth wrenched open the door and found himself staring down at Bones. Her eyes were wide, a bit startled, so perhaps he'd been too enthusiastic. Water under the bridge, as they say. "Bones," he said.

"Are you—are you going somewhere?" Bones asked, taking in his jacket.

"What?" Booth looked down at himself and then grinned. "Oh. Yeah. I was going to see you, actually."

He saw that she was confused, and stepped out of the doorway so she could come inside, but she only came in a little ways, so that he couldn't close the door quite yet. "Why were you coming to see me?"

"Uh," said Booth. "Ah. Couldn't sleep."

"Oh." Bones glanced down at her purse. "Me either. I was—thinking about the case, and—" She stopped to take a peek at him. "Well. You remember how I rejected you?"

As if he could forget. "Vividly."

She dithered for a little bit, looking at everything but him, but it didn't take her long to come to a decision. It rarely did, when it came to Bones. She looked at him, held his gaze, and as if she could think of nothing better, leaned forward and kissed him.

He wasn't prepared for it; it hadn't even been on his radar, though he'd been bracing himself for a possible hug. She'd looked upset enough. Bones wasn't the sort to hug but she always seemed in a position to get one whenever she was upset.

Of course Booth had kissed her before. (Of course—like it was inevitable.) It wasn't the same this time. It wasn't passionate, like the first, or restrained, like the second. It's quiet enough for the latter but the hand on his chest suggests the former, and in the end he was just confused, until he realized that it was a question.

More specifically, the question.

He broke the kiss, and she let him. They looked at one another in silence for a while, each trying to gauge the other's reaction. It was always Booth who started these sort of things, and he expected that he'd have to be the first one to talk, too, as soon as his vocal cords started working again.

Bones beat him to it for once. "Okay?" she asked.

"Okay," Booth responded.

The next day Brennan went to work like usual. Nothing in her routine changed. She showed up at the same time she always showed up and put her coat where she always put her coat and turned on her computer at the same time she always turned on her computer. Nothing had changed, but everything was different.

She was a ball of nerves. There was a psychotic elation to everything she did, mixed liberally with a desperate fear that made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of destruction. She hated feeling like this. Brennan rarely made a decision unless she was sure, within a comfortable margin, that the outcome would be a success. This wasn't even remotely the case here, and it was driving her insane. What if she'd made a mistake? Could she go back on her word?

This wasn't like the other relationships she'd had, if you could even call them that. This ran deep and strong and wouldn't ever be severed as neatly as the rest. With Booth, there could be no such thing as a fling; she'd known that from the very beginning and it was one of the primary reasons he'd been hands off.

If anyone noticed that something was wrong, they didn't say so. They moved in and out of her awareness, sometimes talking, sometimes not, and never once asked her what had happened. She had walked in that morning half-believing that it would be branded on her forehead, but they were all of them wholly oblivious.

A large part of her was glad for this. She was reeling, spinning right out of control, and could barely focus on her work, much less anyone else. When she'd gone to Booth's apartment last night she'd never expected to feel quite so—well. Terrified. It wasn't easy to grasp that yes, she really was in a relationship with Seeley Booth.

Because she was being entirely useless, she brought out the latest anthropological journal and tried making some headway on the articles. By the time two o'clock rolled around, she'd made it halfway through one—one!—and was now reading the same sentence for the fifth time, because she couldn't for the life of her focus on anything.

The phone rang.

Brennan stared at it like she had no idea what it was for, and then, on the second to last ring, picked it up. "Dr. Temperance Brennan," she said into the receiver, on autopilot.

"You left your phone at my place," said Booth, and her heart began to run itself into the walls of her ribcage, trying to get out. When she didn't answer, he continued. "I'm coming to talk to Cam and the squints. Don't freak out."

Don't freak out. Yeah, right. She'd passed that stage hours ago. She had transcended into outright hysteria now.

He came sauntering in through the glass doors, nonchalant, and gave a cheery wave to Hodgins, but he cut a direct path to Brennan's office. He smiled at her as he came in, drew her out of her chair and to the back corner, where they were out of sight of the lab, and without preamble drew her close and kissed her.

All the stress and nerves she'd been harboring burst like an overinflated bubble, and she more or less sagged into him. She felt him smile against her lips and pulled away. Sure enough, he was grinning. He knew her too well.

"I'll be right back, Bones," he said, and left.

Brennan stayed where she was, except that now she leaned against the wall instead of Booth. She found herself unsurprised, somehow, when Angela came in only seconds after Booth had left. The look of concern on Angela's face when she spotted Brennan didn't surprise her either.

"Sweetie?" Angela asked, brows drawn together.

Brennan pushed away from the wall and walked back to her desk. "Mm?"

"Don't 'mm' me. What's wrong?"

After a split second to summon her courage, Brennan raised her eyebrows at her best friend and said, "Nothing's wrong. Why?"

Brennan could tell Angela wasn't sold, not even for a second, but Angela pretended to be mollified anyway. When Angela finally wandered away Brennan knew it was only so she could go observe Booth too.

Angela couldn't have had much time to snoop, because Booth reappeared in her office only minutes after he'd left, and took his customary seat at her desk. He put his feet up on the edge and looked at her. She tried to ignore him.

"You okay?" Booth asked, and though Brennan's first instinct is to nod, she shrugs instead. "Royal Diner at six?"

Brennan wasn't sure what the Royal Diner had to do with her wellbeing. As panic settled into her stomach, she opened her mouth to back pedal, and managed a whiny "Booth—" before Booth cut her off. He had a look in his eyes, something hard and steely, and when he said abruptly, "Six, Bones," she knew there would be no arguing this point.

She found she was nodding her agreement. When he left she felt adrift, and twice as afraid as before.

It must have been written all over her face, because Angela came in again and hugged her. At least she didn't ask any more questions. Brennan wasn't at all sure how much more she could handle. It'd been a long time since she'd been this stressed out.

Booth was waiting for her outside the diner, shoulders shrugged against the cool wind. Before she even had a chance to react he grabbed her and kissed her. He let out a happy sigh and released her. "I've been waiting all afternoon for that," he said to her, and Brennan found herself smiling.

"You okay?" Booth asked again, taking a good look at her. Brennan stopped smiling.

"Why do you keep asking me that?" she demanded.

"Because you're freaking out on me," Booth said simply. Of course he was right. "Do you still mean what you said last night?"

She gave it due consideration. She'd spent the whole day hovering between hysteria and mania, which in her book was usually a cause for behavior modification, but her calculations today amounted to roughly the same as what she'd figured the night before. She gave a slow nod, but she felt this wasn't quite enough, and so she added, "I'm just—really scared."

He didn't dismiss this out of hand, which she took to be a good sign. He stood with her on the sidewalk and considered it for a moment. "When you were kidnapped—and hanging up on that meat hook," Booth said eventually, "what did I do?"

"You saved me," said Brennan, unclear as to where this was leading.

"And when the Gravedigger had you?"

"You saved me then too."

Booth reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's all right to be afraid, Bones. That's what I'm here for—to keep you safe."

"Even from myself?" By this she meant, from my own cowardice? Booth didn't seem to need a translation, though.

"From anything," he said firmly.

For the first time that day, Brennan felt at ease. A slow smile crept across her face, but before it had had a chance become a full-blown grin, Booth had taken her by the hand and dragged her into the Royal Diner.

The next day wasn't quite so awful as the first. Booth called her at noon, just as she was beginning to feel the panic set in again, and said, "What am I here for, Bones?"

"To keep me safe," Brennan repeated back to him, like it was something out of a primer, but she felt better the second the words left her mouth. It was true, wasn't it? Booth had spent six whole years proving to her he'd be there when she needed him, and there was no evidence to suggest that this would be any different. And when she worried about herself, well, Booth had promised to save her from that, too.

On the third day, Brennan took the initiative and called Booth first. She informed him that his presence was required, ASAP. He gave her a smart "yes, ma'am!" and showed up after an interval of time that told her he'd probably had his foot pressed hard against the gas the whole time. She took him to the back of her office and kissed him, just to show him who was boss, but then she ruined it by giggling, because it just seemed so ludicrous that she and Booth were sneaking around. It made it all feel rather daring and made her laugh harder, until finally Booth was forced to take her out to lunch lest she unwittingly spill all the proverbial beans.

As they were leaving Brennan saw Angela watching from her office, brows drawn together, mouth a firm line. It was Angela's plotting face and Brennan thought she could guess why it'd made an appearance. Brennan and Booth rarely went out to lunch together unless they had a case, which, at the moment, they didn't, as the Smith case had been open-and-shut and there hadn't been another since.

Angela doesn't stop them, though, or ask any questions once Brennan gets back. In fact Brennan didn't see her at all until almost four, and then it was only light gossip, nothing serious.

On the fourth day Brennan was all but over her insecurities. They hadn't vanished, but laying them on Booth's shoulders had taken away all their punch, leaving Brennan free to relax and enjoy the roses. With this languid satisfaction came side-effects, though, in the form of Angela.

"You're wearing your I-got-so-laid face," Angela informed her, dropping off a cup of tea.

"Mm, nope," said Brennan, eyes on her computer screen.

"Liar," Angela said. She sat down in Booth's seat, a movement which Brennan had learned was Angela's version of entrenching before battle. "So who is he?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh." Angela's eyebrows were high on her forehead. "So was it good?"

Brennan found she couldn't resist. She sent Angela a secretive grin. "Probably the best I've ever had."

"Wow," said Angela, more surprised than impressed. "Seriously, though, Bren. Who is he? Anyone I know?"

Brennan began typing pointedly, sipping at her tea every so often and generally ignoring Angela altogether. This was frustrating but also told Angela that it was someone she knew, or else Brennan wouldn't bother to hide it.

On the fifth day (or rather on the fifth morning) Booth and Brennan decided, more or less, that they'd had enough secrecy to last a lifetime. Neither was about to suggest putting an advertisement in the paper, or sending Booth's boss a memo, but their friends at the very least should know.

Brennan didn't see why they couldn't just tell them, and probably would have done just that if Booth hadn't insisted on having a little fun with it.

"Can't hurt anything," Booth said, pleading.

Brennan pretended to be stubborn long enough to have some fun herself before relenting. He went to the Hoover building and she went to the Jeffersonian, with the agreement that Booth would come to visit somewhere around ten, and that she should meet him in the open space between the glass doors and the lab.

He was early, and so Brennan was walking toward him in the same moment he was walking in. When he was near enough he put his hand at the back of her neck and kissed her, good and proper, but not too long, just a real sucker punch of a hello kiss. Behind them there was a chorus of "holy shit!" and "look! Look!"

Booth slid his hand down to her lower back and they started walking towards her office like they were walking into the Royal Diner, no biggie, nope, none—"You okay?" Booth asked, and Brennan replied, "I'm great," and meant it—Angela intercepted them, eyebrows permanently raised, and stood before them with her hip cocked and her finger waggling between them.

"How long has this been going on?" she demanded, eyes moving swiftly between their faces. When Booth just grinned and Brennan tried to look innocent, she switched tactics and said severally, "Was he your good lay?"

Brennan actually blushed, but Booth's grin only got bigger. He laid a finger against the side of his nose and said with twinkling eyes, "Oh, but it's a secret, see."

Daisy was peering at them from across a skeleton, and Hodgins was staring open-mouthed, and Cam, aghast, was leaning so far out of her office that she looked as if she might fall any second. Brennan found she enjoyed the attention, so she said, purely for effect, "Lunch, Seeley."

"Oh yes," replied Booth, and they changed directions suddenly, heading for the doors.

"It's ten in the morning!" Angela yelled after them.

"Long lunch!" Brennan called back. "I know you're familiar with the concept!"

Booth's squints gathered together in front of the glass doors where Booth and Brennan had disappeared only moments ago, still a little shell-shocked. Daisy hung back a little, unsure as to whether or not she was included in the group.

"At least now I know what's been bugging Bren," said Angela, folding her arms across her chest.

"Guys, this is serious," Cam put in, with her usual practicality. "If Booth's boss finds out—hell, if our bosses find out—they could separate them. A different agent would be assigned to the Jeffersonian."

Hodgins shrugged. "So we don't tell."

Their gazes all swung as one to Daisy, hovering on the peripheral.

"If Sweets finds out, he'll report it," Hodgins mused aloud. "Or write a book about it, which amounts to the same thing."

"Oh, I won't tell him!" Daisy cried, eyes round. "Oh, I swear! My lips are sealed!"

"No pillow talk," said Angela severely.

"None!"

"Or hints," added Cam.

"None of those, either!"

They looked round at one another, feeling almost as if they should shake on it. Cam put on a broad smile. "We're Booth's squints, right?" she said to them. "What else could we do?"

They all smiled and chuckled a little, but she was right. They were a family, more or less, and Booth was the father-figure. No way they were telling. Daisy felt a soothing warmth fill her up that said she was a part of this too, and even though she knew some of this had to do with her involvement with Sweets, she was glad of it anyway. Just for that sense of inclusion, she knew she'd keep it quiet.

Even from Sweets.