It's been a long time, and I'm so sorry about that. I won't make any excuses, but I'll try (fingers crossed!) to update something soon. Meanwhile, I hope this will tide you over for a little bit. Based on spoilers from the promo for 6x22 (you know what I'm talking about).

Disclaimer: Bones is not mine.

One minute he's smiling and telling her about the average number of families in the United States who own electric toothbrushes, and the next, he's on the ground. For a moment, Brennan just stares, frozen in confusion, wondering if he tripped.

Then she sees the blood. Dark, red, and terrible, it's spreading in a puddle beneath his prone body, spreading like spilled water, and she can't understand what's happened.

"Mister Nigel—" is all she manages, her voice slow in confusion, before the breath is knocked from her. Then she's on the ground, and it takes her a disorienting moment to realize that Booth's practically on top of her, his back to her as he scans the scene wildly.

"Booth," she tries, abruptly alarmed. "What—"

"Bones, stay behind me," he says.

"What—"

"Bones." His voice is sharp, sharper than steel. "Stay behind me and don't move. For God's sake, don't move."

There is something in his tone that makes her obey him. Crouching there, clutching his arms from the back, she waits, heart pounding, mind whirling to try to make sense of things. What happened?

Only then does she realize the alarms in the Jeffersonian are blaring and that the platform in front of them is empty. There's a lab technician crouched behind a nearby desk, and somewhere nearby, someone is sobbing loudly.

Mr. Nigel-Murray lays still on the floor.

"Oh my god," she whispers, as the realization sweeps through her. She makes to rise, but Booth forces her back.

"Stay back, Bones!" he snaps, not turning to face her.

"He's bleeding!" she retorts, her voice rising. "I can help, I can stem the bleeding—"

She can feel the muscles in Booth's back relax infinitesimally and notices the slight shake of his head. "Stay back, Bones." His voice is quiet now, but she can't believe what his tone tells her. It can't be…not that quickly…

"I can help," she insists, pushing against his arm again. "Booth!"

"Stop it," he says firmly, pushing her back. Before she can shove him out of the way, he turns and grabs her wrist, staring her in the eye. "Listen to me, Bones." When she tries to look over his shoulder at Mr. Nigel-Murray, he gives her a shake and repeats, "Listen to me. The kid's dead, Bones. He's dead."

She shakes her head vehemently. "No, he's not! The trajectory of the bullet—the way it came in, it couldn't have…Let me go, Booth, I can help him!"

"You can't help him now, Bones." Booth's voice is tight again. "Stay behind me. The trajectory of the bullet says Broadsky shot from a vantage point over there." He points, then drops his arm quickly to bar her as if he's afraid she'll bolt. "We're safe here. We're in a blind spot."

"We have to help him," she presses, gripping his arm. Booth's eyes bore back into her own, and he shakes his head again, holding her as she repeats, "We have to help him." We have to help him.

Finally, common sense kicks in through the initial fear, and she yanks her arm out of Booth's grip, plunging it into her lab coat pocket to find her cell phone. With trembling fingers, she dials 911 and gasps out to the operator, "We need an ambulance! Someone's been shot!" As the operator tries to reassure her and asks for the details, Brennan pretends she doesn't see Booth's closed gaze, the tight set of his jaw that means he's fighting some strong emotion. Because Mr. Nigel-Murray can't be dead. Vincent Nigel-Murray cannot be dead.

They sit there for a minute as she tries to pull herself together enough to tell the 911 operator what she needs. Two minutes. The operator assures her that an ambulance is on the way, and what's the status of the victim? She pulls on Booth's hold for another time, and he lets her go. She's surprised but doesn't waste any time. Clutching the phone, she rushes over to Mr. Nigel-Murray, lying in a pool of sickeningly dark blood. With shaking fingers, she presses into his neck, searching for a pulse. For a long moment, she feels nothing. Then she thinks she can feel the slightest beat, and a cry of relief breaks from her lips.

"He's got a pulse!" Brennan whirls, waving hurriedly. "Booth, get over here. He's got a pulse! He's alive!"

"That's great," the operator says encouragingly, and Booth moves to her side, his shoes making a wet squelch in the blood. He gives her a narrowed look and shakes his head, but she grabs his hand and thrusts it against Mr. Nigel-Murray's pulse point.

"Feel," she orders.

"I'm feeling," he answers, shaking his head. "Bones…"

"No." She glares at him fiercely, wondering why he can't feel it. "Can't you feel it? It's—it's weak, but it's there. He's alive!"

"Bones," Booth says gently, removing his fingers. "He's gone."

"No," she repeats, her voice rising. "Booth, feel." She shoves his hand back, holding it there this time. "The carotid artery is right there, Booth. The pulse—the pulse should be clear. Weak but clear. It should be there." She grips his hand, holds it there, waiting for a change in his expression. Waiting for that moment of realization, the moment of relief and hope.

Booth pries her fingers from his hand. "Bones, there is no pulse. The shot went straight through." He swallows hard and repeats, "The shot went straight through. You know what that means."

She's shaking her head before he's even finished, thrusting her own fingers back at the pulse point. "People survive bullet wounds to the head. People can survive damage like that. You should know that. You should know that. People survive all the time, Booth, they survive—"

"Bones—"

"No! They get shot and they live, they don't—they don't die!"

His expression is soft as he reaches for her. "Bones—"

She can't feel his pulse anymore. She can't feel it.

"His pulse is gone," she says abruptly.

Booth pauses. "Yes, Bones, he's gone."

"No, his heart's stopped." She tries to remember the training. Tries to remember through the haze and adrenaline what she's supposed to do.

Heart stopped. CPR. Right.

"You're in the way, Booth," she snaps out, shoving him away. Positioning herself, she clasps both hands together and finds the spot two finger-lengths under the sternum. "One, two, three, four…"

"Bones." Booth is looking at her with sad, defeated eyes, but he's not the scientist, he doesn't know. He doesn't know that there's still a chance, because there is still a chance. There has to be a chance. So she ignores Booth's gaze and focuses on counting. Seven, eight, nine…

"Bones, you can't save him." He touches her shoulder, but she shrugs him off. "Bones, it's too late."

"Stop it," she retorts through clenched teeth, blowing out her breath. "Stop it."

Booth kneels next to her, trying to catch her eye. "Bones, you stop it. You're a scientist. You know better than this."

"He's not gone!" she insists, panting. One, two, three, four…

Booth is silent, and she's glad. If he's not going to help, the least he can do is shut up so she can work. So she can save the know-it-all intern who spouts random facts when he's nervous and can reconstruct a skull almost as well as she can.

She doesn't know how long she's been pumping, but her arms ache with the strain. Shouldn't his heart have restarted by now? She can't remember. How many compressions has it been? How long ago did she call the ambulance? How many…what…

"Bones," Booth says quietly, pulling at her again. She tries to resist, but she's shaking and he's stronger. He pulls her back away from Mr. Nigel-Murray, toward him, and she chokes back tears because it's no time for tears. She has a life to save. She has to save…she has to…

"Bones," Booth whispers in her ear, his tone warm and gentle, "stop it. He's gone."

"He's not gone," she says, but her voice breaks, and she can't do more than stare wide-eyed at her intern. She can't move, can't breathe, can't think. She just can't.

He's gone.

He's gone?

Rationally, she's known it. She knew from the blood loss and the entry wound of the bullet in the forehead. It would have carved through everything. It would have killed him instantly. She knew the instant she saw him. But still, she can't believe…

"Compressions," she hears herself say faintly. "I have to perform compressions."

Booth gives her that patient look that makes her want to scream. "Bones—"

"I know!" she snaps. Struggling to rein in her emotions, she barks, "I know he's gone. But if there's—if there's even a chance, we should…until the ambulance…"

She tries to break free of his hold, but he pulls her back again. "Stay there," he says quietly. Before she can protest, he shifts closer to the body and begins compressions, counting out loud as he does so. And then her vision blurs, and she can't breathe as the truth of it hits, that Mr. Nigel-Murray has been killed right here in the lab and she saw him die right in front of her. She saw him die, and there was nothing she could do, and now Booth is performing CPR on a dead body to calm her down.

She can't breathe.

"Bones? Bones."

Glancing up to meet Booth's concerned gaze, she realizes that she's leaning over the puddle of blood surrounding her, gasping in shallow breaths as she stares at the floor and tries to make the reeling in her head stop.

"You're in shock," he says, starting to move toward her.

"Don't!" she says sharply. At his confused expression, she orders, "Don't stop compressions." As much as she knows Vincent Nigel-Murray is gone, as much as the scientist in her knows the damage is irreparable, the woman in her needs to see some action. Needs to see that they're doing everything they can to save him, even if he can't be saved.

As Booth resumes CPR, the alarm in the building shuts off abruptly. Startled, Brennan glances up around the lab, wondering if they caught Broadsky and if they have the threat contained. The automatic doors behind them whoosh open suddenly, and dozen police officers rush through, followed by paramedics with a gurney. The police fan out, guns drawn, and the paramedics are at Brennan's side in an instant.

"Where are you hurt?" the first one asks her.

Brennan gives him a confused look until she realizes that her clothes are soaked with Mr. Nigel-Murray's blood. Shaking her head, she replies slowly, "I'm not hurt. It's him."

Booth glances up at them, still performing CPR. "He's shot through the head." One of the paramedics leans down to press her fingers against the intern's neck and then shakes her head.

"He's gone," she says. Looking at the injury, she adds, "With a head wound like that, he must have died instantly. There's nothing we can do."

"Yes, there is," Booth replies, motioning the paramedic closer with a jerk of his head. "Take my place and do CPR."

The paramedic gives him a patient look. "Sir, I told you, there's nothing more we can do."

"Take my place and perform CPR," he growls back, his eyes narrowed. There's that hard edge to his voice again that's impossible to disobey. The paramedic gives him a long-suffering stare before switching places with him, beginning slow compressions. Booth stands, crossing quickly to take Brennan's arm, and half-drags her out of the lab.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her head buzzing.

"My apartment," he says tightly, pulling her along so quickly they're practically jogging. "There's no way in hell you're staying in a public place, and there's no way you're going back to your apartment alone."

She's so shaken that she doesn't even protest. She just obediently gets into his SUV and lets him drive her straight to his apartment, without stopping for any signs or traffic lights. Along the way, Hacker calls and Booth engages him in a terse, confrontational conversation that ends with Booth snapping his phone shut and flooring the gas pedal. They make the apartment in record time.

Booth rushes her up to his floor and puts himself between her and every window he sees. Normally, she'd be annoyed at his protectiveness, bordering on paranoia. But right now, all she can focus on is the blood stains on her hands and the knees of her pants. All she can think is that this is Mr. Nigel-Murray's blood on her hands, her student's blood, her friend's blood.

God.

She's freaking out. She's in shock and under the weight of heavy adrenaline, and the truth hasn't fully hit her yet. Booth can see that. Even after she spends nearly an hour in the shower, even after she slips into his worn gray sweatshirt and stuffs her bloodstained clothes into trash bags, her eyes are still glazed with disbelief. She can't come to terms with it.

But Booth can. He knows the poor kid died instantly, knew the instant he heard the crack of a sniper rifle. Knew he hadn't been hit because if he had, he wouldn't have heard the shot at all. He'd have been dead before he knew it. But then he'd been terrified the shot had hit Bones, and when he'd seen her standing there, her mouth half-open in confusion, he'd felt so goddamn relieved that the shot had killed someone else. Anyone else but her.

What kind of person does that make him?

And now she's sitting motionlessly on the edge of his couch, staring into nothing. After a moment of hesitation, he sits next to her, close but not touching.

"Bones?" he ventures after a moment, glancing at her.

Her gaze returns to reality, and she clears her throat as her eyes settle on him. "Yes, Booth?"

He's about to ask automatically if she's okay before he realizes that that's an awful question to ask. Instead, he says off-handedly, "You're taking the bed tonight."

She gives him a sluggish look. "I…I can't, Booth. You should take the bed. Your back."

He shrugs dismissively. "Bones, take the bed. I'll be fine." He'll be fine, in more ways than one. He's used to death. Not the kind of death Bones sees regularly, but the kind they saw today. The violent, blood-spattered death that Afghanistan and the Gulf War hardened him to. Yes, it's hard to see a young man he knew get killed like that, and yes, he'll probably get nightmares, but he'll be fine. Eventually, someday. But Bones…he worries about her. How long has she had that dazed look in her eyes? Hours?

She doesn't even press the issue like she normally would. Instead, she lets him lead her to the bedroom and sits herself on the edge of the bed. Wanting to make sure she gets her rest but also not wanting to push, Booth hesitates in the doorway, his hand hovering over the light switch.

There's a moment of silence before Brenan asks, "What, Booth?" Her stare is still glazed as it meets his.

He pauses, wanting to say everything from It'll be fine to I love you. Wanting her to know that it'll be okay, for both of them, for all of them. But he knows from experience that that's something she'll have to figure out for herself, so he says, "You know I'm here for you, Bones. For anything. Just call me."

There is a flash of something in her eyes—fear, grief, anger? It passes so quickly that he can't read it clearly, but it makes a wave of relief roll through him. If she's starting to feel, then the shock is dulling. She's starting to see, to realize, what's happened.

"It'll be okay." He says it more for himself than for her. After a long moment, she breaks eye contact and nods slowly.

"I know," she says softly, staring at his bed covers.

Giving her one last, long look, he turns out the light and closes the door behind him.

She's crying.

He's lying on his couch with all the lights off, wide awake because he can hear Bones crying in his bedroom. Not sniffling, not even the quiet crying from the time she told him she wanted no regrets. Full-blown sobs that tear at his heart and force him to his feet. He tosses the blanket off and pads quietly to his bedroom door, pausing indecisively with his hand on the doorknob. He doesn't know if she wants him there. Wouldn't Bones want privacy to grieve? That's the kind of person she is. But she's also the kind of person who needs to lean on someone when it gets too hard, the kind of person who needs a shoulder every now and then.

He can't keep himself from opening the door anyway. The crying stops instantly when he swings the door open, and his eyes pick out her form in the darkness. She's sitting up in bed, the covers drawn close over her shoulders. There's something in her hands, and as he draws closer, he realizes that it's one of his suit jackets. She must have dug it out from his closet. She's wrapped herself in one of his suit jackets over the blankets, and her hands are clutching it like a lifeline.

"Bones?" he says softly into the dark. "You…" …okay? But that's a dumb question. He pauses a moment before switching thoughts. "What are you doing with my jacket?"

It takes few seconds for her to answer, and he realizes she's composing herself. Still, her voice is shaky and thick when she speaks. "It…smells like you."

He stands there in the darkness, his heart swelling suddenly. "Oh. Oh." He looks at her for a long moment before crossing over to her and gently taking the jacket from her hands. "Isn't the real thing better?" he asks, quietly teasing as he sits on the edge of the bed next to her. He can feel her hesitate a couple of seconds before she turns to him, her breath hitching.

"He could reassemble a skeleton within ten minutes," she begins haltingly. "He knew so many things. He won on Jeopardy. He got over his drinking addiction. He apologized to me. He apologized, Booth."

"I know." He tries to find something to say, can't, and says again, softly, "I know."

"He was telling me the cause of death," she continues, her voice picking up speed. "He was telling me cause of death, and somehow he started to tell me about statistics of electrical toothbrushes. I got annoyed at him. I was going to yell at him, and then—and then—"

"I know," he says gently. "It's okay, Bones."

"It's not okay!" she cries, her voice shaking. "He's dead!"

"I know that." He finds her eyes in the darkness and clarifies, "I mean, it's okay to cry."

She stares at him for a long moment with glistening wet eyes before she moves. He opens his arms to accept her, and then she's sobbing into his shirt, the force of her trembling causing him to fall back onto the pillows. He holds her and stares at the ceiling, knowing there's nothing he can say to make this better for her. So instead, he pats her back and whispers soothingly into her ear, "It'll be okay, Bones, it'll be okay…" There's nothing more he can say.

Eventually, after long minutes of crying that make his heart heavy, he hears her breath begin to even out. Her grip on his shirt loosens, and her sobs subside slowly into sniffles. Before long, she has literally cried herself to sleep.

He sighs softly, tousling her hair with his breath. It's been…a trying day, to say the least. He tries not to think on the kid that has been killed because of him—he's not stupid enough to think the shot wasn't meant for him, as a message—but Vincent Nigel-Murray's face flashes up in his mind's eye. Such a young kid, but brilliant all the same. Every intern is brilliant, isn't that right? He hadn't known Nigel-Murray that well, but the kid had been all right. Certainly better than a bullet in the head. Certainly too smart to get caught up in a chase between two snipers who didn't belong in the same world as the Jeffersonian.

It's his fault. In the end, it's his fault.

God, Nigel-Murray had been so young.

He closes his eyes and swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. He's stronger than this. He's got to be strong, because Bones needs him now. There will be time to grieve the kid later. For now, he's got to be the guy Bones needs him to be. He's got to hold her together until he knows she's okay.

He shuts his eyes, wondering if it'll be Vincent Nigel-Murray's face in his nightmares tonight.

Booth looks peaceful in sleep. Really peaceful. Brennan stares at him because she can't sleep anymore, can't close her eyes without seeing the red spatter of blood and hearing Vincent's voice in her head. But she doesn't want to leave the bed either, because Booth's arms around her make her feel safe, even from her memories. She inhales his warm scent and uses it to block the images of bullet wounds.

God, it was quick. So quick. She hadn't even had time to blink. One moment he'd been there, and the next…

How was it so quick? A life, a complicated, complex life, ended with just a pull of the finger and the span of half a second. She can't wrap her head around the idea.

Beside her, Booth stirs with a quiet sigh, instinctively tightening his warm embrace before opening his eyes. She sees surprise register there for long, suspended moment before realization shutters across his expression.

"How are you doing?" he asks quietly, giving her a concerned look.

She half-shrugs and tells him her automated response. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine," he mutters disbelievingly, shifting his hold around her. He yawns and settles back into the pillow to face her. His gaze is knowing. "You're not fine, Bones. You probably won't be fine for a very, very long time. But you'll be okay. Eventually. We'll get through this together."

It doesn't feel like she'll be okay. She feels almost like crying again. The numbness of the day before has broken, and she feels splintered, lost, swallowed up by emotions much bigger than she is.

How was it so quick?

"His family is coming down to see him," she tells Booth. "They were coming to visit him next week. He has a little sister." With a shudder, she says, "I don't think anyone's told them yet. What if no one tells them? What if they get here and…"

And he's dead. He's dead.

"Shh," Booth murmurs, drawing her closer. "I'll tell them. Don't worry about it."

She clutches his arms around her and focuses on his warmth, on the muscles flexing in his arms when he hugs her. So warm. So alive.

It was so quick. And it could have been him. It could have been him.

"Oh God," she whispers, tears stinging her eyes at the awful image that flashes to mind—Booth lying there instead of Mr. Nigel-Murray, Booth's skin rapidly cooling under her hands.

Booth's blood all over her hands.

She shuts her eyes hurriedly, struggling to banish the thought from her head. She can feel Booth draw back, his voice alarmed as he says, "Bones?"

"Sorry," she breathes, forcing back tears and managing to keep her own voice level. "I was just…" She turns her face away from him, trying to will the tears back.

Booth loosens his embrace, shifting away from her. "I'll give you some space—"

"No!" Her eyes snap open again, and she grabs his hand, suddenly panicked. "No, don't go. Don't leave me." Not alone. Not when it was so quick. And not when it could have been him. She suddenly needs to see him, to keep him in sight. Irrationally, she needs to make sure he's still alive.

"Shh, relax, Bones," he says gently, sliding back into bed beside her. "I'm right here. I'm staying." He opens his arms to her, and she doesn't hesitate to pull herself up against his chest, so close she can hear his heartbeat. Strong and warm. Alive.

"It was so fast," she chokes out suddenly, clutching his shirt. "He was talking to me and then—"

"I know," he whispers, hugging her close. "I know."

"And—and it could have been you," she gasps, shaking her head. "You were so close, and none of us were prepared, and it could have been you. I wouldn't have been able to do anything. You could be lying there with her head split open, and I wouldn't have been able to do…I wouldn't have…"

His brow furrows as he stares down at her. "No, Bones. No. Look, I'm fine. I'm okay."

She shakes her head, trying to breathe evenly and failing. "But still—Booth, it was so close. You could have…right there, and it would have been so fast…it was so fast…"

"Bones. Bones." He grabs her fingers and presses them against his carotid artery. "Feel. Right there. Can't you feel it?"

For a terrifying moment, she thinks she can't. But then…Yes. The steady, strong thrum of a pulse. His pulse.

"Yes," she breathes.

"I'm okay, see? You feel it?" At her slow nod, he pulls her head to his chest and holds her there. "And you can hear that, can't you?"

Yes again. The strong, even thump-thump of his heart.

"Yes," she whispers, closing her eyes and immersing herself in the sound. He's alive.

"It'll be okay," he says, pressing a soft kiss on her head. She doesn't even feel it as she listens to that thump-thump and tries to slow her breathing.

"Shh," he repeats softly. "It'll be okay. I'm going to get him, okay? I'll get him. I promise."

"No," she says fiercely, shaking her head. "Don't go after him, Booth. He could—you could—"

Die.

No. He can't.

"Bones, listen to me." Booth pulls back slightly so he can meet her eyes. "He's good. He's very good. But I'm very good too. And you're going to have to trust me, okay?"

"But he could…" She shakes her head again and suggests desperately, "Can't you let someone else do it?"

Something in his eyes hardens, and he takes a slow, measured breath. "Bones. I started this. This is between me and him." Guilt underlies his voice. Guilt and sadness and a steely determination.

She stares at him, into his dark eyes, and knows that there's nothing she can say that will stop him. Broadsky has been haunting him for too long, and if he doesn't end this himself, the sniper will haunt him forever.

"Okay," she relents softly. "Okay."

"All right," he agrees and hugs her again. "Then it'll be over."

They lay there in silence, and she thinks about Booth confronting his former friend. When will that be? An hour from now? A day? A month? Maybe it'll take years, but she knows Booth will find him. Booth will find him, and it—all of it—will end with one of the two dead. Broadsky has done too much—has made it far too personal—to get away from this with a jail sentence. If Booth has a shot, she knows he'll take it without hesitation. If Broadsky has one…well, she knows he'll do the same.

One of them will be dead. And it will happen so quickly. Too quickly. Just the pull of a finger.

Suddenly, before she knows what she's doing, she's kissing him. She reaches up to pull him down and presses her lips against his. He freezes under her, but she doesn't stop, just kisses him because she can, because she wants to, because yesterday he could have been dead but today he's alive.

"It was so fast," she breathes against his lips, her voice breaking. "It was so fast. And next week or whenever, you're going to face him and—and it could be just as fast. It could be over in a second."

His eyes are soft and slightly narrowed in confusion. "Bones…"

"No." She kisses him again, trying to memorize the feeling. "How much time do we have, Booth? How much time do any of us have?" Mr. Nigel-Murray must have woken up yesterday morning expecting a lifetime. Instead…

How can any of them afford to believe in forever?

"Please," she whispers. Please. It could be over tomorrow. Today even. And if that's true, she doesn't want to live the rest of her life suspended in fear and caution. She wants to love and be loved and do everything she can in life right now. And she wants to do it with him. She wants to do it all with him.

"Oh, Bones," he breathes, and then he's on top of her. He gives her a long, dark look before dipping his head to kiss her again, deep and lasting. She closes her eyes and falls into the feeling.

"I'll be here," he whispers into her ear. "I'll always be here, I promise, Bones. Trust me."

"I can't lose you," she says, staring up at him from the pillow. "I can't."

"Bones…" He smiles, his eyes softening as he looks down at her. Reaching up, he brushes a strand of hair from her face and just gazes at her, his eyes so warm. "I'll be fine. I'll finish this. And I'll come back to you."

"Then…" After a moment, she pulls him down for another kiss, savoring the taste and touch and his sheer life. When they're both dizzy and breathless, she pulls back and says quickly, "Then I love you. I think you should know that. Just in…" Her voice catches.

"Just in case?" he finishes gently. He takes her hand and intertwines their fingers. "Bones, there is no 'just in case.' It's going to be fine."

She shakes her head. "But if…" There's a chance. There's always that horrible, real chance.

Booth shakes his head back and her and locks eyes with her, his eyes shining. Her words have forced back the darkness in his gaze and filled it with something soft and golden instead. With a gentle smile, he squeezes her hand and says, "Then just in case, Bones, I love you too." He laughs softly, almost giddily, and repeats, "I love you too. I love you."

Her lips tug up in a smile, and she echoes, "I love you." Three simple words. Three words that mean everything. She's glad, so glad, she's had the chance to tell him. She's so glad he's alive.

"Bones," Booth says, running his fingers through her hair. "Let me tell you something. We're not going to have forever. No one has forever, and that's the reality. But we'll have enough time. We'll have all the time we need. We've had seven good years, and we'll have seventy more. And it'll be enough." He kisses her lightly and leans his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "It'll be enough. I'm not going anywhere."

It'll be enough? How can there ever be enough time for them, for this? But then she thinks for a moment, really thinks, and realizes that he's right. Whether it's five years or fifty, it'll be enough, because it's Booth. Because they've gone through so much together and now they've come together at last. It's got to be enough, because it's all they'll have.

So she kisses him again, because she can, because they're alive, and because she loves him.

"It'll be enough," she agrees, sliding her hand under his shirt, and then there's no more talking for a long time.