Okay, so this isn't my most original work, but I started it last fall and it fell on hard times. The ending of Season 3 lent itself to stories like this and mine joins many others like it. Thanks to my faithful editor, redrider6612. Oh, and for those of you who care, I'm still working on the sequel to Wounded and Scarred. It has turned out to be much longer and more complex than I expected.

The nurse removed the bandage Brennan had placed over the deep gash on Booth's shoulder. The nurse efficiently cleaned the wound and stitched it up, applying a fresh dressing.

"I'll be back with the paperwork in a few minutes, Mr. Booth," the nurse said, bustling out of the room.

"How do you feel?" Brennan asked.

"Not too bad, considering some lunatic took a wild shot at us and manage to hit me," he replied, "but I'll feel better once the pain killers start doing their job."

"You shouldn't have tried to shield me from that bullet. I'm not worth it," she said in her usual blunt manner.

He stared at her in disbelief for a moment. She was serious.

"Why do you say that, Bones?"

"I… well, it's not like there's a lot of people that would miss me. I know you and my team would, but you'd understand. My father and brother abandoned me twice, and Amy's girls don't know me that well. You, on the other hand, your son needs you. He wouldn't understand if you were killed trying to protect me. So, next time, just don't," she answered in her usual matter-of-fact tone.

He responded slowly, "So, you're measuring your worth according to how much the people around you need you, and by that standard my life is more valuable than yours."

That's what she'd said, although not exactly with those words. She looked at him a bit uncertainly and then nodded her head.

"Let's use another standard," he proposed. "There are somewhere between fifty to sixty forensic anthropologists in the world and there are thousands of FBI agents. Also it takes many more years of school to become a forensic anthropologist than an FBI agent. By this standard your worth is greater than mine."

She heard his words, but they didn't really connect.

"Temperance, what's really going on here?" he asked softly.

She really hated it when he went looking for the reasons why she said things. She disliked psychology and he was always pushing her to try and understand herself and other people.

Taking a deep breath, she answered obliquely, "When Simmons pointed that gun at you and took the shot, I… you're a big part of my life."

He hopped off the hospital bed and stepped toward her, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. "Hey, it's alright. I'm okay. It's nothing but a graze."

Unfortunately, his words didn't have quite the impact he'd hoped for. Instead of cheering her up, she looked more upset than ever.

"One day, Booth, it won't be something you recover from."

"Hey, since when did you become such a pessimist?" he chided her gently.

"Statistically speaking…" she began, but he cut her off. "Nuh uh. I don't care what the statistics say, Bones, I care about why this is upsetting you so much."

She took a deep breath to steady her voice. "I know what my life is like without you in it. Those two weeks you were 'dead' were some of the worst in my life. I don't want to go through that again." She deliberately left out the fact that his death had felt worse than her parents' abandonment.

Finally, he thought he understood. "And Simmons shooting at us brought the emotions up all over again."

She turned slightly so he wouldn't see how deep her pain went, but he snagged her chin and turned her face toward his.

"Oh, Bones. Are you saying you want me to find out what my life is without you?"

As his hand dropped to his side, he could see the 'no' in her eyes. "I can't even begin to imagine it. We see each other almost every day and we usually eat together."

"There were so many holes in my life when you were gone. There was no one to argue with, no one to share late night dinners with, no one who understood how I felt. It just wasn't the same."

"I'm here now."

Suppressing the tears that threatened, she opted for attempting to lighten the mood. "You're not allowed to die, not ever!"

He responded to her small smile with one of his own. He pointed his finger at her to emphasize his words. "If I'm not allowed to die, you aren't either."

At the sound of footsteps outside the door, they stepped apart. The nurse bustled back into the room. "Here are your discharge papers. The stitches will dissolve in about a week. In the meantime, limit your motion with that arm so they don't pull. We just need your signature here so we can bill your insurance."

Booth signed the paper quickly, and then slung his uninjured arm casually around his partner's shoulders as they headed toward his vehicle. What neither said, but both knew was that he would put his life on the line for her again in a instant, and she would do the same for him.