She had stayed silent and still under she heard him walk away (it had taken awhile—he must have stood there for several minutes, staring at the door. Probably wondering, as well, what the hell had just happened). And then the words, unbidden, began to leave her lips: "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod…" Eventually, she stopped saying them, but they repeated in her head, maddeningly, unrelentingly. She sat on the couch for a long while, staring into thin air. Then, she took a shower, washing herself absently, with no real thought behind the actions. After this, she drifted into her bedroom to change. Not the smartest idea. The state of that bed would have been unmistakable to the most naïve observer. The air was still so thick with the smell of their passion that she almost choked on it, exhaling heavily to try to drive that memory out of her lungs. Quickly, she stripped the bed, carrying the armful of linens to the washer and dumping them in, almost overloading the machine. All she knew was that she wouldn't be able to sleep surrounded by that smell tonight.

Hell, who was she kidding. She wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

What had come over her? What had possessed her to throw herself at her partner (who she had just set up on a date with someone else) and kiss him like he was air while she was drowning? One second, she had been completely, utterly confused. Then the next—it was like there was no other choice but to kiss him. And that was ridiculous, because there was always a choice.

God, he had tasted good. And felt good against her…

And she had sent him out the door. For Bridget. For Troy. But, let's be honest…mostly to protect herself.

And now, what should she do? She thought briefly about stuffing the whole thing neatly into a box of denial. Packing her things. Waking up early and going to Inner Harbor. Sightseeing. And, later that night, going back to the hotel room and having sex. With Troy.

Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she felt disgusted with herself. As well as one hundred percent, undeniably, completely confused. For the second time that day, she couldn't seem to hold a logical thought in her head. And for the second time, again, she had just one, strong, uncontrollable impulse. She grabbed her keys and headed for the door.

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She came home an hour later, now moving more slowly, but shaking slightly. Ascending the stairs to her apartment, she tried to calm that nervous energy with the exercise; she was unsuccessful. So she very nearly had a heart attack when she rounded the corner of her hallway and saw a man's form leaning against her door.

"Where did you go?" Booth's voice was low, and it sent a chill through her. He sounded mad.

"You shouldn't be here," she told him, swallowing her almost paralyzing anxiety and pushing past him to open her door. Despite her words, she made no attempt to prevent him from entering, and he followed her.

"Where have you been?" he asked again. When she turned from dropping her bag and coat on the couch, he was standing almost right on top of her, and she jumped. It was none of his business where she was.

"I went to Troy's," she answered anyway, a little defiantly, crossing her arms across her chest. Maybe she was hoping that this would stoke his anger. She felt more comfortable with his anger, much more so than with his shock and confusion of earlier. She wanted him to yell at her, tell her that she had ruined their partnership. Call her names. Any excuse to be able to fight back. But she was surprised when, instead of screaming at her, he crumbled. His shoulders slumped back; he looked defeated.

"How could you do it, Bones?" he asked, sitting down on the couch, with his head in his hands. "How could you just let me in…give me all of you…and then force me away?" She tried to look away from him, but he raised his head and caught her eyes, wouldn't let them go. Something about his expression made her about as sad as she ever felt in her life, and her guilt, already nearly unbearable, expanded in her chest painfully.

She heaved a sigh, then collapsed next to him on the couch, her posture a mirror of his. "I'm a mess, Booth. You know I'm a mess, and I'm just not capable of having or maintaining that level of intimacy…not the kind you need. You deserve to be happy. So…you should go be happy, because it certainly isn't going to be me that makes you that way."

Stubbornness flashed through his face again. "Don't you tell me what would or wouldn't make me happy."

"Come on, be real here. Which part of our relationship, exactly, makes you happy? The part where I express derision about your belief in God? The part where I refuse to acknowledge the power of your intuition? The part where I don't understand your pop culture references most of the time because we live in different worlds?"

He stared at her for a second, then, for the first time that evening, he laughed. "Well…sort of. Because…well…that stuff is just so Bones." Her head cocked, not understanding him completely, which proved his point. His smile then faded a little bit. "But also…the part where you try to understand me…really get inside my world and understand me…and the part where you always makes me think and see things in new ways…and the part where you let me hold you, and don't question it. Those things make me happy." His eyes flickered upwards toward her and down again, almost embarrassed. "For example."

She blushed faintly, and looked down as well.

"There are some things that don't make me happy, though. Like being kicked out of bed when I'm enjoying myself immensely. And the thought of you going to see that tool after I'm gone." His jaw clenched at the thought.

Rubbing her temples, she sighed. "He's not a…" Before the words were even out, she gave up.

"Did he touch you?"

"Booth…"

"You're right. I don't want to know."

She shook her head, and leaned back on the couch. "I broke up with him."

His eyes raised, hopefully. "Really?"

"Even I'm not that good at compartmentalizing. There's no way I could spend today in bed with you, and tomorrow with him. It disturbs me to think about. Besides, I don't think it was really going to last anyway." She looked up at him with a small smile. "He was starting to annoy the hell out of me."

They both chuckled briefly at this, before falling into a slightly awkward silence. "So," she said, finally breaking it, "how was your…date with Bridget?"

"She's a great girl."

"Yeah, she is." Brennan nodded.

"But there was one problem."

"Yeah?"

"She's a little too perceptive for her own damn good. Oh, and one other problem."

"Like what?"

"She's not Bones."

Brennan slowly nodded her head, still confused, but becoming a little more accepting of their little dilemma. They sat quietly for a moment, before he spoke up.

"Bones?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you set me up?"

She thought about this for a moment, for the first time really questioning her motives. "Well…on the surface, I suppose because Troy urged me to. Got me thinking that maybe there was something wrong with how close we were getting."

"Have I mentioned that I hate this guy?"

"Don't hate him because of that. Because when have I just went ahead and done something just because somebody told me to do it?"

"Touché." He nodded. "Why, then?"

"I don't think I was setting you up. I think, not knowing it, I was setting us up. Creating a…catalyst, I guess."

"A catalyst, huh?" He considered this. "You're right." She looked at him questioningly. "You are really messed up." A slow smile came over his face, and she hit him playfully.

"Hey. It worked, didn't it? It made something happen."

"It did. Do me a favor though? Next time, instead of setting us up for an explosion…how about we just create our own? On our own? No friends or tools allowed."

She looked hesitant. "But what about…" She trailed off.

"Bones. You're a smart woman. You've gotta just know when something is just meant to be."

A smile touched her face. "Can't set up fate, huh?"

He looked pleased. "Don't even try."

He enfolded her in his arms then, in happiness, and in relief that things were finally out in the open. And that they were now setting themselves up for a chance, rather than a fall.

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A/N: Oh, I could have made this so much longer and angstier and smuttier, but I think I might have a revolt on my hands if I don't start the sequel of Talk to Me soon, and I can only do so many things at once! So I hope that you found this remotely satisfying…it was a nice little diversion for me.

Season premiere tomorrow. Be still my little heart.