Author's Note: Obviously, season three was years ago, but I was up until 3 AM, and this is what I ended up thinking about. So… yeah. This quarantine is slowly driving me insane, and the fact that I've been re-watching Bones probably has something to do with all of my fic ideas. Also… mind the M rating. This takes place immediately after 3x14, "The Wannabe in the Weeds."

It took me forever to come up with a song for the title of this story (because I suck at coming up with titles for things, so I just rely on lyrics for it—plus, I always listen to music when I write). I finally feel pretty good about this one, but there were a few other songs that I listened to in order to set the mood: "Quiet in My Town" by Civil Twilight, "The Funeral" by Band of Horses, "Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eats World, "Dust to Dust" by the Civil Wars, "Fix You" and "Swallowed in the Sea" by Coldplay, and "I Won't Give Up," by Jason Mraz.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The story and chapter titles come from the song "Never Let Me Go" by the Florence + The Machine.

Day One

"I'm sorry. Agent Booth didn't make it."

Angela was the first to react, and did so predictably: she burst into loud sobs. Cam pressed her hand to her mouth as tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Hodgins was even crying, his fists tight at his sides, and Sweets was staring at the spot where the doctor had just been standing not long ago, his face blank.

Brennan clenched her jaw, took in a deep, even breath through her nose, turned on her heel…

And left.

She could hear Angela calling her name between sobs. Could hear Cam telling her to just wait a second, they still had things to figure out. Could hear Hodgins say something about calling people, making arrangements. Could hear Sweets, offering to be there to talk if she needed it.

Still, Brennan didn't stop. She didn't run; she simply walked out of the hospital. Her eyes were dry, her breathing even as she made her way out to the street and hailed a cab. Brennan didn't notice the odd looks the cab driver was shooting her—then again, she didn't notice much of anything. She dug a few bills out of her wallet once the cab pulled up in front of her apartment and handed them over without checking to see how much she gave.

It was late when Brennan made her way through the lobby of her apartment building, and she didn't even spare a glance for the night guard at the desk. On autopilot, she stepped into the elevator, rode up to her apartment, and unlocked her door. It was only when Brennan was passing the mirror in her entryway that she realized why she'd been getting such odd looks from the people she encountered between the hospital and her apartment:

She was covered in Booth's blood.

It had been all over her hands when she had been trying to stop Booth from bleeding out on the floor of that bar. She had somehow gotten it smeared all over her shirt, her hair. Her face.

Brennan stared at her reflection for a long moment and then turned, heading straight towards her bathroom. She cranked the shower up as hot it would go, and steam quickly filled the room, covering the mirror in the bathroom. She methodically stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the shower stall.

The water was entirely too hot, but Brennan almost welcomed the burning sting against her skin. For the longest time, she just stood there, letting the stream of water run over her body. When the water began to turn cool, Brennan quickly washed her body and hair. The water had become frigid by the time Brennan realized she had been scrubbing at her hands for quite some time.

Still feeling as though she was having a weird, out-of-body experience, Brennan stepped out of the shower, wrapped her hair in a towel, and pulled an old, flannel robe around her body. She grabbed her phone on her way back to her bedroom, vaguely taking note of the thirty-four missed calls from her friends wand coworkers. Brennan set her phone to silent and plugged it in to charge before she headed towards her dresser drawers to find some pajamas.

In some distant part of her mind, in a place that she had spent years pushing far down, an alarm went off. She should be doing something else, instead of going about her nightly routine as if nothing was wrong. She definitely knew she should be crying, at the very least. She should have been with her friends—the people that had become her family—and they all should have been grieving together.

Booth was gone, after all. He had been shot, after taking a bullet for her, and now he was gone. It was like it had happened to someone else, though, and Brennan was just watching. She should have been crying, should have been screaming about how unfair it was that something like this happened to a man like Seeley Booth.

Brennan couldn't seem to make herself do any of those things, though. She opened her pajama drawer, staring blankly at the contents, before she looked up and caught sight of a neatly folded pile just inside the door of her closet.

After a particularly grueling case, where they had spent the better part of the night chasing after two men that had killed at least two teenage girls and had kidnapped three more, Booth had spent the night in her guest room. It was nearly three in the morning by the time Booth dropped Brennan off at her apartment, and she had insisted on him staying instead of risking driving home while he was so exhausted. Booth always kept an extra change of clothes in his car, so he brought his bag up. In the morning, he had taken a shower and—in typical Booth fashion—left his clothes balled up on her bathroom floor and promptly forgotten about them. When Brennan had found the jeans and t-shirt later, she had washed them and set them aside with the intent to return them.

Now, staring at that small pile of clothes, Brennan felt something for the first time that night since she had pressed her hands to Booth's chest in an attempt to stop him from bleeding. She felt an inexplicable pull towards those clothes, and she slowly walked towards them.

Bending down, Brennan fingered the soft material of the green t-shirt. It was one of the ones he'd taken to wearing lately, with some stupid saying that she never really paid much attention to before… and suddenly, it was the best article of clothing that Brennan had ever seen.

Slamming the door shut on that sudden burst of emotion, Brennan scooped the shirt up and quickly pulled it over her head. Without giving herself much time to think about it, she climbed into bed and turned all the lights off.

Within seconds of closing her eyes, she was asleep.

All of the trauma the day before, coupled with the added strain of the Gormogon case, plus their usual workload, had essentially exhausted Brennan. She slept through the night without any interruption, and due to the fact that she hadn't set an alarm, didn't wake up until almost eight in the morning.

For one sweet, blissful second, she hovered in the space between sleep and true wakefulness. She stretched, not even fully taking note of the time yet, and wondered if she'd be able to talk Booth into stopping at the vegan café by her apartment for breakfast. They had chocolate chip muffins that Booth would never dare to admit to anyone that he actually liked, so she was sure she'd be able to convince him. She pictured the way he would grin at her as he gave in and took he to the café for breakfast before they headed off to work.

Then, suddenly, the events of the day before came crashing down around her. Brennan remembered everything with startling, painful clarity: the case with the wannabe singer; the interviews with Pam Nunan, the stalker; singing at the Checker Box.

Pam pointing the gun at Brennan.

Booth standing up, putting himself between that gun and Brennan.

Booth getting shot.

Booth, on the ground, clutching her hand.

Brennan, with her hands on his chest, trying desperately to stop him from bleeding out as she watched the light fade from his eyes.

Then, later, in the hospital. When the doctor told her that Booth hadn't made it. Booth was dead.

Making no move to get out of bed, Brennan covered her face with her hands. And she began to cry.

Day Three

Finishing up the report from the latest set of remains in limbo she had identified, Brennan reached for the cup of coffee sitting on her desk. It had cooled considerably since she had poured it over an hour ago, and she wrinkled her nose at it before she took a sip of it anyway. She needed the caffeine, and she didn't feel like making a fresh pot that would likely go cold again, regardless.

The first day, she had avoided the Jeffersonian entirely. Brennan hadn't checked her phone, but she had checked her email and saw that none of the team was expected to be in for the rest of the week. They could take all the time they needed, really—in fact, they wouldn't have to return to work until after the funeral, if they so chose.

They had, after all, lost one of their own in a tragedy.

Well, that wasn't going to work for Brennan. She took that first day, given that once she had started crying, she had found that she was unable to stop. Brennan had stayed in bed for almost the entire day, wearing Booth's shirt, and crying.

The last time she had felt like this… felt like her heart was getting ripped out of her chest… had been when her parents left. Brennan had taken steps to make sure that she would never feel like that again, and despite her best efforts, Seeley Booth had come waltzing into her life and slipped past her walls with no effort at all.

Then he left her.

Even though there wasn't anyone from the rest of her team at the lab, Brennan went to work anyway. She had a perpetual backlog of files, not to mention all of the identifications from bone storage. If all else failed, she could always work on her next novel, as well. She had plenty to keep her mind occupied, even if the rest of her team was at home.

She was on day three of Life Without Booth, and she was desperately clinging to work. Brennan was only thankful that she had chosen a career that would always present her with an ample amount of work. She couldn't think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Brennan was only focusing on the here and now, on what she could control.

Work had always been something that she could control.

There were times, though, when her body simply betrayed her. Like now. She had been working for forty-eight hours straight, and while she could handle at least another thirty hours without stopping as long as she had a few snacks and a quick nap or two, she was coming off fresh of a horrible event in her life. Dealing with the loss of Booth was like a shock to the system and that, coupled with the nonstop work, was causing the exhaustion to overtake Brennan.

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes before she sighed heavily and pushed some papers aside on her desk, clearing a space. Given that no one was really even in the lab, Brennan supposed that taking a quick nap would be alright. She folded her arms on the desk and rested her head atop them, closing her eyes.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

The dream was cruel. Of course, when it began, Brennan didn't realize that it was a dream.

"Bones! What the hell are you doing? What have I told you about sleeping on your desk?"

Brennan jerked awake and sat straight up, wincing when her spine protested. She had no idea how long she had been sleeping while slumped over her desk, but her body clearly hated her for it. She rubbed at her eyes and tried to stifle her yawn, but was wholly unsuccessful in doing so.

Booth was wearing that look that he had perfected over the past three years: part amusement, part exasperation, and part affection. He tucked his hands into his pockets as he leaned against the door frame of her office and he shook his head as if saying, 'what am I going to do with you?'

"You need a good night's sleep, Bones," Booth told her. "In a real bed. Not at your desk at the Jeffersonian."

Brennan huffed and took a look at the time displayed on her computer. 4:47 PM. "You're just saying that so I'll be cognizant enough to solve cases with you." She didn't really mean it. More than anything, Brennan said it just to start an argument with Booth. She liked bickering with him, enjoyed it probably a little too much.

"No, Bones." Now, Booth was walking across her office. He didn't stop at her desk, though. No, he came around the other side, until he was standing right next to her chair. He crouched down so that he was eyelevel with her, and Brennan couldn't help her sharp intake of breath. Booth often invaded her personal space like this, and it always made her feel the same: all warm and tingly, full of anticipation and want.

He waited until she finally looked him in the eye. "I'm saying it because I care," Booth continued. "You need to take care of yourself, Bones. And if you need someone to remind you of it every now and then…" He shrugged his shoulders and gave her that sweet, charming smile. "Well, I like being that person."

For some reason, the words made Brennan's heart squeeze painfully in her chest. Inexplicably, she found that her eyes were filled with tears. Booth's words were so sweet, but there was a pain that she couldn't explain, and she suddenly knew that something was very, very wrong. Brennan reached out, needing to touch Booth, hoping that he would tell her that this was all in her head, that she had no reason to be worried…

Brennan didn't jerk awake this time. Her eyes opened slowly, and when she looked at the time on her computer, she saw that it was just after two in the morning. She sat up slowly and noted the same twinge in her spine that she had felt in her dream. Brennan bit her lip as she remembered Booth's words, and as hard as she tried, she couldn't block them from her mind.

"You need to take care of yourself, Bones."

How many times had he said that to her? How many times had she brushed him off? Had he really cared, like he told her in her dreams? Had he cared in that way?

Then she remembered the times she had given in when he badgered her about working too hard. Of course, Brennan had never given in fully, because she would never allow Booth complete satisfaction. She had compromised with him, though. She'd eat the takeout he brought her, at her desk or in the corner of the forensic platform at one in the morning, safely away from any remains she might have been studying. She would take a nap on her couch while waiting for test results, trusting Booth to wake her up when they arrived. She would drink the tea he brought her when she had too much coffee, and she'd take a walk with him when she'd been sitting for too long.

With that evidence, Brennan could only conclude that Booth really had cared. She owed it to him now to show herself the same consideration.

So Brennan gathered her paperwork up and made sure that everything was organized before she shut her computer down. She scooped up her bag and her jacket and thought that the least she could do was get a few hours of sleep at home before she returned to work.

In the end, Brennan knew that she wouldn't be able to concentrate on work—and thereby use it as an effective distraction—if she was exhausted. So she'd go and sleep in her own bed for two or three hours, and then she'd be good to go once again. Brennan would get her rest.

It was what Booth would have wanted.

Day Seven

The nightmares really were a pain in the ass.

Brennan's dream of Booth coming into the lab had been bad enough. Now, however, it seemed that whenever she fell asleep, she was doomed to dream about Booth being shot.

They never made it to the hospital in her nightmares. It was an endless cycle of Brennan pressing her hands to Booth's chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding, of watching the light fade from his eyes, of feeling the grip of his hand loosen on hers as he lost consciousness.

And never regained it.

Brennan woke from those nightmares shaky and sweaty, nearly in tears. When she reminded herself of the new reality she now lived in, Brennan would allow herself to cry for a few minutes. She would let the grief overtake her, let it nearly drown her in its darkness, before she pushed it back.

Tears were a proven way to expel emotion, to reset the body, after all. Brennan knew that she needed the release. The problem was, she couldn't seem to make herself stop needing the release.

It was just after quarter to five in the morning when she woke from yet another nightmare, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes in an effort to stop the tears. They came anyway, squeezing into the small space between her lash line and her hands, and Brennan knew that she would cry whether she wanted to or not.

It wasn't fair, she decided.

Brennan knew all about the stages of grief, even though she didn't put much stock in psychology. She had gone through them all when her parents had abandoned her and her brother, and then had experienced it again, when Russ had left her to the foster care system. When she had been placed with her third foster family and had realized that Russ wasn't coming back for her, Brennan had resolved never to go through those stages again, no matter what she experienced in her life.

Lying in her bed, going on day seven of Life Without Booth, Brennan thought about those stages of grief and where she was at. She wasn't crying with big, gasping sobs; the tears were simply trickling down her cheeks, and they seemed to be ever-present. Those heart-wrenching sobs had come and gone on that first morning she had woken up and realized Booth was gone, but she knew that her tears now were still tears of grief.

Brennan knew that she wasn't in the denial stage; Booth was gone, and he wasn't coming back. She had watched him take that bullet with her own eyes, had heard the doctor explain to her that he hadn't made it. He was dead, and that was it.

She wasn't in the anger stage, either. These weren't tears of anger—maybe they were tears of loss, of sadness, of despair and hopelessness. It had been six days, and Brennan hadn't figured out how to live life without Booth. After three years of working together, she had come to rely on him in ways that she couldn't put into words. Was Brennan angry that Booth had stepped into the path of a bullet meant for her? Of course she was. Was that why she was crying? No, she didn't think so.

If there was one thing that Brennan was certain about during this whole thing, she knew that she wasn't in the bargaining stage of grief. There wasn't anyone that she could bargain with, at the end of the day. Booth was already dead, and she didn't believe in God. There was no left to bargain with, no one to promise that she would change if Booth could just have one more day on this Earth. There was nothing that she could give up, because she couldn't get him back, no matter what she did.

Brennan knew that she hadn't really accepted Booth's death, either. It had only been six days, after all. In her nightmares, the fact that she could still practically feel Booth's blood squeezing between her fingers… well, Brennan knew that she wasn't alright with the fact that Booth had died. She had yet to truly accept the fact—even if she had witnessed it—and she was self aware enough to admit it.

Objectively, Brennan supposed that she was at the fourth stage of grief: depression.

She wasn't much for psychology, but she knew that depression affected everyone differently. For Brennan, she worked herself to the point of absolute and total exhaustion, and then cried when she had nightmares about her partner dying in her arms. Brennan had no idea how to escape this stage.

She honestly wasn't sure that there was a way out.

Day Nine

The dreams really were too much.

Now, Brennan was alternating between the nightmare of Booth dying repeatedly in her arms, and with dreams that seemed so real it was like he was still there with her. Each were incredibly disconcerting, and every single time—no matter what the dream or the nightmare was—Brennan would wake up and for a few blissful seconds, she thought that Booth was alive and there, with her.

Inevitably, it all came crashing down around her, and Brennan would have to face the reality all over again that Booth was dead. He wasn't coming back, and there was nothing that she could do about it. She had already shot and killed the person responsible for his death. In the back of her mind, Brennan found that she wasn't bothered about it as she should have been.

She remembered the talk that Booth had with her when she had killed Epps' accomplice… when he had been so sweet and understanding. When he had given her Jasper. True, there was a cost every time someone took a life. This time, though… Brennan could only feel the loss of Booth. She couldn't bring herself to care that much about the fact that Pam Nunan no longer existed. Brennan didn't know if that made her a bad person or not, but… at this point, she honestly didn't care.

Finally, after over a week of Life Without Booth, Brennan had a dream that had shaken her to her core.

Soft, sensual lips skimmed over her bare shoulder. "You awake?"

"Of course I am." Brennan peeked at the clock—it read 4:47—before she rolled over and grinned up at Booth. He had stripped naked before climbing into bed with her, and she hoped that he couldn't tell how aroused she already was. God, just feeling him hard against her hip was enough to make her wet, and she pressed her thighs together.

"You're not too tired, are you?" Brennan teased. Her hand trailed down his bare chest. "Because if you are…"

"Yeah, right." Booth caught her wandering hand and laced his fingers with hers. "Like I could climb into bed and find you naked and be too tired?" There was that grin again—the one that she had tried so hard not to like. The one that made her heart skip a beat. "You must be dreaming, Bones."

So what if she was? She didn't want this dream to end. Not when Booth was pressed against her, all naked and hard. And especially not while he stroked a hand down her body and cupped her breast while he kissed her at the same time.

Brennan very specifically remembered kissing Booth two times before: the first time had been in a tequila-fueled haze, and the second had been under the watchful eye of a meddling district attorney. Each time had been unbearably hot, sensual, and had left Brennan wanting more.

The way Booth kissed her now, though… it was like he had been doing it for years. He nipped and sucked lightly at her lips, tangling one hand in her hair as he held her close to him. The kiss was masterful, making her melt completely against him. He gave as much as he took, and Brennan wondered if it was possible to come just from the way Booth's lips moved against hers, and the way his naked body aligned completely with hers.

The hand cupping her breast stroked over one nipple for a few moments, and then he moved over to the other one, pulling at it lightly with two fingers. It was just enough to make Brennan's hips buck up, desperate for more. "Please…" she gasped. She knew he was teasing her, and she knew what he wanted from her, and she was all too willing to give it.

Booth kissed her again, hard and deep. His lips drifted to her neck, and he bit down on the tender skin and sucked. "Say my name," he ordered. He moved his lips to her pulse point then, and licked at it before sucking delicately. Brennan moaned his name, long and low, and then gasped it again when he added teeth and then sucked once again.

"Booth," Brennan breathed for the third time in a row as she let her hands trail over the broad, perfect expanse of his shoulders. "Please…"

"Please what?" She could feel his smile against her clavicle— her collarbone—now. Booth placed another sucking kiss there, adding just the right amount of teeth. He was teasing her, pushing her with that husky voice of his rumbling in his chest. It was no trouble at all for Brennan to fall easily for it—she'd do just about anything for him, but especially when he talked to her like that.

"Touch me," Brennan gasped as she arched underneath Booth. "Put your mouth on me." Good God, she didn't care how he did it, as long as he did. He could use that mouth on her lips, her breasts, her pussy—she didn't care. She just wanted it somewhere, and she wanted it now.

Thankfully, Booth started with her breasts. Cupping one in his large, warm palm once again, his hot mouth descended on her other nipple, sucking strongly. Brennan cried out, arching underneath him once again as she rocked her hips up. God, she wanted him. And she had no problem telling him.

"I want you," Brennan gasped. "Now, Booth. Please."

She didn't have to beg that much, thankfully. Booth's teeth raked lightly over her nipple and one hand skimmed down her body. He slipped his fingers between her legs, stroking across her folds a few times. She was so wet, so ready for him, and Booth groaned.

"Baby, you're so wet." Booth's mouth moved over to her other nipple, and his teeth raked across it lightly. His voice was a rough rumble in his chest, sending shivers skittering down Brennan's spine. "You're so hot, Bones."

Brennan parted her things even more, wiggling her hips in an effort to get him to really touch her. Reaching down, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pushed his hand higher. She could feel him smirking against her breast.

"You want me to touch you, Bones?" he murmured hotly.

"Yes," Brennan breathed.

"You want me to fuck you with my fingers?" Brennan moaned long and loud at that, and it ended on a gasp when Booth plunged two fingers inside of her. She rolled her hips against his hand, in time with the pumps of his fingers. Lifting his head, Booth kissed her hard, his tongue mimicking the movement of his fingers inside her body. He twisted his hand and then pressed his thumb against her clit and Brennan gasped, rocking harder against his hand.

Booth's mouth was at her neck again, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate length. With one last pass of his thumb over that little bundle of nerves, Brennan came hard and fast against his hand. She panted his name, her body shuddering in pleasure, and all she wanted was more. More of this feeling he gave her, more of his naked skin pressed against hers, more of the strength of his hands stroking over her body, more of his mouth on hers.

Still trying to catch her breath, Brennan's eyes fluttered open just in time to see Booth slip his fingers into his mouth. They both moaned—Booth at the taste of her on his fingers, and Brennan at the sight of how hot it made her to watch him do that. Booth hovered over her, then, with his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of her body. He kissed her again, deeply.

"I love the way you taste," Booth said huskily against her lips. He moved down her body then, those sensual lips of his passing and nipping over her neck, her breasts, her stomach. By the time his mouth hit her thighs, Brennan's mind finally caught up with what he was doing. As much as she wanted to feel his mouth on her, she wanted to have him inside her even more.

"Booth, get up here," Brennan demanded.

"I want to taste you." With that, Booth's tongue dipped between her legs, and Brennan threw her head back with a cry of pleasure. Even with that one touch, the feel of Booth's tongue on her was as good as she imagined.

Brennan's fingers locked in Booth's hair, and she tugged until he lifted himself up. "Inside me," Brennan ordered breathily. She parted her thighs further, allowing Booth to settle completely between her legs. "I want you."

Booth's lips brushed over hers once in a tender kiss, and then he smiled at her—all warm and sweet. "You have me," he murmured. With that, he kissed her at the same time he pressed himself inside her.

Brennan cried out against Booth's lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding on to him as she became overwhelmed at the feel of him inside her. It was like they were made to fit together, and she relished the feel of his hard length inside her. This was everything, and she wanted to feel like this all the time.

"Oh my god, Booth," Brennan moaned as she arched underneath him, desperate to feel him move. "Oh my god. Move, please."

Booth buried his head in between the crook of her neck and shoulder. "You feel amazing, baby. Fucking amazing. So tight and wet and…" The rest of his words were lost in a groan as she rolled her hips. The feel of him inside her was more than she ever thought it could be.

The way Booth was talking to her was making her almost desperate and all she could think about was how much she wanted him. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, Brennan tugged on his earlobe with her teeth. "Fuck me, Booth." The need in her voice betrayed her, though. Yes, she wanted him to fuck her… but she also wanted him to make love to her.

He cursed under his breath and moved slowly against her, which only made Brennan dig her fingers into his shoulders as her body arched underneath his. Her legs wrapped around his hips, the heels of her feet digging into the small of his back as she pulled him closer, deeper within her. He knew exactly what she wanted, what she was asking for, and was always willing to give it to her.

The stroke of Booth's hips were even but deep and hard, hitting a spot inside of Brennan that had her writhing underneath him. His lips descended upon her neck as she surrendered to him, offering herself to him in the most primal way there was.

"You're mine, Bones," Booth murmured as his lips found her rapidly beating pulse at her neck.

"Yours," Brennan breathed without hesitation. Because she was. He knew her outside of the bedroom—knew what all of her favorite things were, knew when she needed a break when she pushed herself too hard at work, knew when she needed some space and needed someone beside her. Now, he knew her in every way that mattered. The way he moved inside her, the way he touched her, the way he kissed her… Seeley Booth knew everything about her. What else could she be, besides his?

"You…" Her hips moved against his, in perfect rhythm with his increasingly demanding strokes. "You're mine?" Brennan gasped as Booth clutched her hips in his large hands, tilting her at the most perfect angle.

"Yours, Bones," Booth agreed, and Brennan swore that she never thought her somewhat absurd nickname could sound so hot. The way Booth moaned it, all husky and full of wanting… well, Brennan had learned to accept his nickname for her long ago. She loved it now, and she wanted to hear it like that as often as she could.

Brennan tightened her arms and legs around Booth as they both lost any sense of rhythm they once had. His fingers were digging into her hips, his knees pressed into the mattress between her spread thighs, and all they wanted was to reach that place of ecstasy. Booth kissed her again, deeply, and his hand slipped between their bodies, his fingers passing briefly over her clit.

That was it. Brennan completely lost herself to her orgasm, crying his name out as she gripped him tightly against her and shuddered her relief. She knew that Booth came as well, felt his hips jerking against hers as he spilled into her.

Booth kissed her again as they both came down from their highs. The kiss was slow and deep, unhurried as his arms tightened around her. Brennan gave herself over to him completely, wanting nothing more than to feel his lips against hers for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes, wondering how anything could feel as good as this.

Brennan's eyes drifted open slowly. Her heart was thudding in her chest, and her body was wired. Her cheeks were already damp with tears, and more escaped as she quickly realized that she was alone in her bed—it had all been a dream.

It wasn't the first time she had dreamt about Booth in such a sexual manner—she had normally brushed those instances off and taken care of them herself, with the help of her vibrator.

Brennan was stupid, after all. Booth was an extremely attractive man, and she had been drawn to him for years. She had kissed him twice before, knew what it was like to have those perfect lips against hers. Who could blame her for having a few fantasies that went beyond that?

This dream that she just had… well, it was more than some random, sex-fueled dream, however. She had imagined quite a few times how Booth would touch her, what it would feel like to have those hands, so strong and masculine, against her skin. Brennan closed her eyes once again and inhaled deeply through her nose as she tried to get a hold of her raging emotions.

Booth was dead. There was no point in dreaming about how he would touch her, how he would feel, because he was gone. They would never get that chance. Brennan had missed out on it, all because he had been too noble and she had been too afraid to lose him. She had wondered for years what it would have been like between them—originally, she had just been physically attracted to him, and it was only furthered by his confidence and his ability to do his job well.

The longer they worked together, the more she could sense her feelings taking on a decidedly more romantic edge. At first, she just told herself that she didn't know what they meant, that she didn't understand why Booth made her feel safe and at ease without even trying. Deep down, though, Brennan knew. She was aware of exactly what those growing feelings meant. She could deny it all she wanted, but they still existed.

It was just easier to pretend that those feelings didn't exist, and in the end, she had been right. Look what happened: Booth got shot taking a bullet for her.

And he had died.

Day Ten

After her erotic dream the night before, Brennan had been too shaken to go back to sleep. She had worked on her new book, and then had almost thrown her laptop across the room when she realized she was writing her dream as a sex scene for Kathy and Andy.

So she had changed into some jeans and a comfortable blouse, stopped at the café by her house to grab the largest coffee she could find, and then went to the Jeffersonian.

Brennan had been by herself in the lab for the last nine days. She hadn't even seen Zack there—if she hadn't been so caught up in controlling her emotions, she would have thought that was more than a little odd. So Brennan was surprised to find Angela in her own office, looking through some pictures.

It was early and the lab was quiet, so Angela could clearly hear the clicking of Brennan's boots across the marble of the lab floor. Brennan saw her best friend and briefly thought about retreating—she also thought about just diving into her own office without saying anything at all. Almost immediately, Brennan dismissed those thoughts. In the end, Angela was her best friend, and they were both hurting.

"Hey," Brennan greeted quietly as she stepped into Angela's office. She clutched her coffee tightly, feeling strangely unbalanced. It wasn't lost on Brennan that even though she had never admitted how much she cared about Booth out loud, Angela knew anyway. It was like her superpower, or something.

The smile that Angela sent her way was half-hearted. "I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that you're here."

Brennan lifted one shoulder in a move that resembled a shrug. It wasn't something that she did often, but this was Angela, and her artistic friend was never one to judge. She leaned against the doorframe and looked towards the display that Angela had been sitting in front of—and promptly stopped breathing.

Angela had been looking at pictures of Booth.

There was one that Brennan had always been particularly fond of. In fact, she had a copy of the paper that particular picture was in. A reporter had been allowed on the scene on one of their more easily-solved cases, and pictures had been taken of Booth, the FBI techs, and the Jeffersonian team during the recovery and in the lab. For the most part, they had all just pretended the reporter hadn't been there, and had only answered questions when directly asked.

Brennan had no idea when the reporter managed to take this particular snapshot, and she wasn't quite sure who had approved its placement in the paper, but she rather enjoyed it—in addition to having a copy of the actual paper, she had also called the reporter and asked for a hard copy of the photo.

Booth had picked up lunch from the diner and had sweet-talked Brennan into taking a break. They were sitting on the couch in her office, rather closely—they always seemed to manage to invade one another's space like that. Their knees were pressed together, and Booth was holding out a French fry for Brennan to take, even though she had already stolen three from his meal. They were both smiling, and it was a personal, intimate sort of smile. Their heads were tilted towards each other's, and Brennan thought about this picture whenever someone pointed out that she and Booth acted like no one else existed but them.

Every time she looked at the picture, she remembered the moment clearly: Booth had brought Brennan her favorite veggies sandwich, while he had ordered a burger and fries for himself. Her sandwich came with a side of chips, but as always, she found herself stealing fries from Booth more than she ate the chips. Even though Booth bitched about Brennan stealing his fries, he let her take them anyway. And he always ended up offering her one.

She missed that.

Clearing her throat, Brennan pressed her lips together and struggled to get a hold of her emotions. It wasn't the only picture that Angela had been looking at; there were several displayed on the array of screens, and they were all of different parts of Booth's life. There were some from his days in the Army, one of his official photo for the FBI, and several of him and Parker, with the little boy at different ages. There were even a few of Booth in high school, playing football and hockey and basketball.

Of course, Angela had immediately seen the look on her best friend's face. She felt tears instantly rush forward at the heartbreaking look of devastation in Brennan's eyes, and she did her best to hold them back.

"Cullen asked me to go through some pictures of Booth," Angela explained quietly. "They need them for the… funeral."

"Right." Booth was a hero. Of course they would organize an elaborate funeral for him. He deserved nothing less.

And then, Brennan felt an irrational surge of anger. He shouldn't have even needed a funeral in the first place. If he hadn't been so insistent on keeping her safe, on putting himself in danger when it came to her, if he wasn't such a damn hero… he would still be here. Complaining about her stealing his fries.

Brennan resolutely pushed that anger deep, deep down. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to focus on the pictures Angela had pulled up. "I like that one," Brennan told her, pointing to the one from the newspaper of her and Booth.

Angela smiled sadly. "It's a good picture."

The warmth of that memory, of sitting so close to Booth on the couch in her office, washed over Brennan. She almost closed her eyes, wanting to breathe it in, hold on to it. Instead, Brennan focused on the lines of Booth's face.

"It doesn't really belong in something like a state funeral, does it?" Brennan finally said. A picture spoke a thousand words, after all, and even Brennan could see that that one told a story.

Angela got that stubborn set to her mouth that appeared whenever she was trying to convince Brennan to just give it up and get with Booth already. "Well, I think it does. And I'm going to make sure that it's there."

There was only one thing that Brennan could do, then, and it was something that she should have done ten days ago: she hugged her best friend, finally accepting the support she had been waiting to offer her.

Day Thirteen

"Mommy! Mommy! I made a goal!"

Smiling, Brennan looked up from the cheese she had been painstakingly shredding. A little girl with thick, light brown hair, blue eyes, and the sweetest smile came running towards her. She looked absolutely adorable in her green and white soccer uniform, and she was practically bursting with excitement as she bounced around the kitchen, reenacting the goal she had made at her soccer game. It was 4:47 in the evening, and they were right on time.

Taking a break from the macaroni and cheese preparation, Brennan listened intently to her daughter. She had been irked beyond belief that she had to spend the last week on a book tour, but her contract required that she have at least one per novel release. She had missed her daughter's soccer game—luckily, her husband had taken plenty of video, so it was almost like Brennan had been able to watch the whole game.

Said husband sauntered into the kitchen, with a gurgling baby boy strapped in a baby carrier to his chest. The little boy squealed happily at the sight of his mother, and the man carrying him grinned. The grins of her two favorite boys were already practically identical, despite the years between them.

"God, Bones," Booth breathed as he swept Brennan into his arms and pressed a sound kiss to her lips. He wasn't able to kiss her as deeply as he wanted, given the fact that their son was strapped to his chest and their daughter was still dancing around the kitchen. Still, there would be time for that later. "I missed you so much."

Brennan smiled against his lips and caressed his cheek before she pulled back and expertly extracted her brown-eyed son from the baby carrier. She cradled the little boy to her chest, leaning down to press a raspberry to his cheek. His sweet baby giggles echoed around the kitchen, and the little girl laughed with her brother.

"I missed you too," Brennan declared as she looked up, gazing into Booth's warm eyes. "All of you. Next time, you and the kids are coming with me. Parker, too." Parker had been spending his summers with them, and Brennan would make sure that her next book tour took place during the summer, so their oldest son could be with them.

Booth chuckled at that and slid his hand over the slight roundness to her belly. "Given the way you bang out those bestsellers, you'll be on another book tour not long after this little one is born."

"Come on, Booth," Brennan teased. "We had the highest solve rate at the FBI for over ten years. Now, you're the assistant director. Do you really think we can't handle four kids on a book tour?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Smiling, Booth leaned down and pressed another kiss to Brennan's lips. This one was a little longer, a little deeper, as if neither of them could help it. It made Brennan's whole body tingle in anticipation of her own private reunion with Booth later that night.

Booth scooped the infant boy from Brennan's arms, holding him expertly in one arm. "Let me get the kids settled, and then I'll come help you finish up dinner."

"You mean, you'll sneak bites of the macaroni and cheese," Brennan corrected as she wagged a playfully reprimanding wooden spoon in her husband's direction.

Shrugging, Booth was completely unapologetic. "What can I say? Your mac and cheese is food of the gods, Bones."

Laughing, Brennan shook her head as she returned her attention to grating the cheese. The shallots and the pancetta were still browning in a pan on the stove, and the pasta was waiting to be covered in the gooey, cheesy sauce Brennan was preparing. Her entire family loved this meal—of course, it didn't hurt that with this pregnancy, she was a having a craving for all things cheesy.

Booth was at the doorway of the kitchen when he stopped and turned around. "Hey, Bones?" he called.

Brennan glanced up at him, and Booth took her breath away in that moment: their daughter was still bouncing around at his feet, he was holding his son in his sure, strong arms, and their third child was growing in her belly. "Hmm?"

Booth's smile was amazing: so warm and happy and wide, that Brennan hoped she could see him smile like that every day for the rest of their lives. "I love you, Bones."

Brennan returned that beautiful smile, and without hesitation (because she hadn't hesitated in years), she said, "I love you too, Booth."

Brennan shot straight up in her bed, gasping for breath.

Tears were already streaming down her cheeks, and there was a riot of emotions spinning through her: devastation, fury, grief, heartbreak, frustration… and something deeper. Something she was afraid to name.

Picking up one of her pillows, Brennan launched it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a decidedly unsatisfying thump, and Brenna threw herself back against her bed, covering her face with her hands.

Maybe it was because she kept wearing his shirt to bed. She wasn't even sure why she was still wearing it. It had been thirteen days since she had first found it in her closet, and Brennan still pulled it on every night. It didn't even smell like Booth—it hadn't since she had washed it—but it was still a part of him. Brennan sure as hell wasn't going to let that go.

She didn't understand these dreams, and this last one had been particularly painful. It was like a knife had been dug into her chest, twisted in her heart, made her want to scream out with how unfair this all was.

She had thought about having a family before, of course. For all her disdain of marriage, all of her talk about not wanting children… well, it was born from a pain of having the last part of her childhood snatched away from her. There was more, she was sure, but Brennan certainly wasn't in a mood to dissect her feelings.

That dream felt like something far away, like something that Brennan hadn't ever thought she'd really be able to reach. The sad truth was, now, no matter what else happened, she couldn't. Because Booth was gone.

And he wasn't coming back.

Day Fourteen

She hadn't wanted to go to his funeral.

Yeah, okay, she didn't believe in funerals. Brennan knew that Booth was gone, and there was nothing left of him that was hanging around, spiritually or otherwise. This funeral was the end, really—it was forcing her to say goodbye to Booth. And she didn't want to say goodbye. She was on day fourteen of Life Without Booth, and Brennan had been surviving. This though... she wasn't sure that she could handle this.

Really, there would just be that casket, sitting there, waiting to be put in the ground. And the only thing in there was his bones. In the end, that's why Brennan had decided to go.

Because she was his Bones.

The anger that she had spent the past fourteen days pushing back kept rising to the surface, getting closer and closer to breaking every time it rose up. When Caroline had told the crowd gathered just how Booth had sacrificed his life for Brennan, she couldn't help but angrily snap her retort to whoever was listening.

Brennan would have gladly taken that bullet, if it meant that Booth could be there.

She didn't feel bad for speaking out against Booth's God, either. She was sure she was right, anyway: if there really was a God, why would He have let Booth die? Seeley Booth was the best man she knew. He deserved to live a long, full, happy life. He deserved everything she had dreamed of… and underneath the anger, Brennan found that she wished she could be the one to give it all to him. The realization was startling, and it only made the turbulent feelings of anger mount higher and higher.

It was easy to let the fury take over, though. It built further as she watched a man from the crowd surge forward, and it nearly erupted when one of the soldiers broke rank behind her, jumping forward to engage in a fist fight with the other man.

Everything seemed to happen in a blur, after that. The coffin being knocked over in the scuffle; the discovery of the mannequin in that coffin; the second, shocking reveal of the day of Booth as the soldier; Brennan, picking up one of the mannequin's arms to knock the other man out.

"Nice shot, Bones!" Booth exclaimed, as if nothing was wrong. As if he hadn't been dead for the past fourteen days. As if she hadn't spent those fourteen days floundering, wondering how she was going to live life without him.

There were too many feelings, too much swirling in Brennan's brain, and she couldn't make herself calm down. She reacted without thinking, her body moving on autopilot as she stalked towards Booth. Finally, all of that rage she had been holding back burst forth in one single, decisive act. She hauled off and slugged Booth as hard as she could. As Brennan stalked off, one thought prevailed over the rest:

Seeley Booth was alive.

There's going to be a second part to this! I was originally going to keep it all as one long piece, but it was definitely going to get a bit out of hand. Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear what you think! :)