{So, for anyone who happens to remember me, obviously my last story is yet unfinished. Every time I get my mojo for it, something happens on the show that shakes it all up. Don't worry, I still will get to it – but first I wanted to just post some short Post-Season-Six-Finale scenes. Actually, a couple of them take place during and after the penultimate episode, and then afterward. I realize there are already a lot of others out there, but I wanted to post my own version of events. How I think it all went down. I'd appreciate it if you'd read and review! You people make writing fanfics more fun.}

{Second note: this will not turn into a new story. I only wanted to do a few scenes. So only three or four chapters. And they're all basically done, so they will be up in speedy time.}

It hadn't happened like it was supposed to.

She wasn't even sure it was supposed to happen at all. She still wasn't one hundred percent convinced that being with him, actually physically being with him was a good idea, despite what they'd agreed in his apartment after their day in the elevator.

It would complicate so many things if she slept with him. And even though she ached for more than just the touch of a friendly partner, she was glad of his reluctance. It helped her be strong, because had he been willing, she would have been weak and given in to the secret hunger in her heart.

She was weak. And she did give in.

But not like she thought it would happen.

That night when they burned the paper with their dates, and she thought of the possibility of them as more than just partners, or friends, she imagined it happening differently. She imagined a late night after a tough case, a quiet, but candid conversation while he took her back to her apartment. A decision that perhaps they were both ready. And then, because the moment was opportune, they would go in to her place, laughing over some nonsensical colloquialism, they'd fall into bed and…and…

She never imagined it would happen the way it did.

So much pain swallowing up her whole heart – the way it had when Zach was taken, only this was so much worse. Worse, because Zach was alive, and because Zach had chosen his fate. And because Vincent was… What was he? In a way, he was to her what Sweets was to Booth. Irritating, young, but promising, and he'd proved his intelligence again and again.

When Booth insisted she stay at his place, her first instinct was to protest. But she was so tired, so heartsick, and dreading returning home alone so much that she agreed without argument. She just didn't want to be alone. The thought never even crossed her mind that, given the recent shift in their relationship, sleeping in the same environment might be too diffcult. She was hurting too much to think of their confusing relationship just then.

So she went in to his apartment. And she took his sweatshirt. And she insisted on taking the couch. And she wanted to tell him so many things, ask him so many questions, but mostly ask him to just sit with her for a while. Maybe until she fell asleep. Because the lump in her throat was growing and the pain in her chest felt like a wound – like Vincent's wound. But of course, she didn't say anything except 'goodnight,' and watched as he retreated to his room. She had to turn away as he was closing the door, she had to focus on a task, had to remember the motions of getting ready for bed.

The couch was comfortable, his sweatshirt smelled like him, and the blanket over her kept her warm enough in the cool room. All the right ingredients were there for a restful night of sleep, but it stayed just out of reach.

She lay there, awake, her ears full of the struggled gasps of Vincent's last breaths – his childlike pleading to be allowed to stay. It was soft when it happened, but the memory was loud in her mind, and filled her with grief and torment and confusion, and pain. She closed her eyes, but she saw Booth grabbing her favorite squintern and pinning him to the ground after the shatter of glass, saw Vincent's blood pooling around them even as Booth said they were okay.

To her logical mind, all of this felt like a crazy over-reaction to a sad, but fleeting event. She'd lost people before, she'd seen death, but this time felt different. Maybe because her emotions were closer to the surface now than she'd ever allowed them to be in the past, in her transformation from imperviousness to strength. Strength meant she could be damaged. And this was certainly damage.

Or maybe it was because he was her student, and she his teacher, and she was supposed to take care of him, in a sense. She hadn't lied when she said he was her favorite. He was brilliant! Irritating, certainly, in his apparent lack of concern for relevance, in his compulsive fact-spouting, but absolutely brilliant. She loved him, as a student and intern, and of all those she fellowshipped she had seen in him the most potential. And now all that life, that potential, was lost. Gone.

Gone where?

The question tore at her fresh wound with nails of glass. Was he simply gone forever? Everything inside her told her yes, rationally, she knew the answer was yes, but she didn't want to believe it.

The night was a dreadful time for her. She'd been alright during the day. Sad, heartbroken, grieved, yes, but able to compartmentalize and save face. While she withered within, outwardly she seemed to be coping well. In the group of everyone else, seeing their devastation, she managed to stay strong.

But in the night, alone in Booth's living room, her outer shell crumbled entirely and she was left raw and exposed. All the demons of the day rose up in her mind and kept sleep far off on a distant shore.

A restlessness grew within her, a wild desperation to answer Vincent's echoing pleas, a way to get them to stop. She had a reckless desire to leap over to the windows, throw open the blinds and shout into the night for Broadsky to come find her. Her, not Vincent. He was so young and full of life, he was loved by a family and would be missed so much. Would she even be missed? Perhaps, for a time, by her team, but eventually they would all move on. Not like Vincent. He was loveable, and his absence in the lives of those who had loved him would be huge.

But of course she didn't do it. Because really, she didn't want to die. Not yet. There was so much she hadn't experienced yet, so much she was afraid to experience. She might still be able to salvage her life, if she were more willing to take risks. She didn't want to die anymore than she had wanted him to die.

Her thoughts swirled, confusing and upsetting. She couldn't lie there any longer. The darkness, the silence, the solitude, they were unbearable. And so she got up. She forsook the couch and quietly approached Booth's door. An apprehension shook in her veins as she grasped at the handle. What if he were deep asleep? What if he could not hold conversation?

She hesitated. Perhaps it was better not to trouble him. But her heart ached again and she wanted only to be near him. Even if he slept, she would sit beside his bed and listen to him breathe. Knowing he was alive was comfort enough.

So she opened the door, and in a spastic flash of instinct and a strongly ingrained sense of self-preservation, he had a gun pointed at her.

With a gasp, she lifted her hands and her heart skipped a couple beats in her chest. It took him a moment to recognize her, or comprehend her presence in the dead of the night, but when he did he quickly apologized.

He did not lower the gun soon enough. While it was still pointed, her heart raced, and she could hear the shattering of glass and Vincent's gasp, over and over. An illogical, irrational sense of fear and guilt washed over her.

So she confessed, told Booth of the words haunting her over and over. She didn't understand them, and they were frightening, and she thought they were meant for her.

Tenderly, he took her hand and she sat beside him on the bed, glad he was awake, glad he was willing to talk. He explained carefully, gently. His answer was absurd and insulted her rational senses, but a greater sadness and confusion and sense of loss overcame her that drowned out the rational. She felt Vincent's plea again, but differently. It resounded deep inside her like the toll of a bell. He didn't want to die. He loved living.

She didn't want to die either. She loved being here too, even though she hadn't done much to show for her time here. Why didn't God, or the Universe, listen to his pleadings and let him stay? Why was he allowed to die? She wanted to understand, wanted Booth to explain it too her, but it was too much.

She was overwhelmed and her eyes swam with tears. She felt crushed beneath the weight of his heavy sorrow. She didn't have to finish her quiet, meek question before he agreed. He was perceptive, like always, and she'd felt his penetrating stare on her for long enough. He knew what she needed.

So he gathered her into his arms and let her sob into his chest, like child.

She wept hard, for Vincent and his death, and for the profound sense of insignificance that had come over her in the wake thereof. Nothing she had done with her life was permanent – it could be cut short in an instant – and her time was running out. She'd wasted so many precious moments.

Booth murmured softly to her as she trembled in his arms. He held her close and tight, whispering empathetic words. And by and by, she began to feel comforted. His embrace was soothing. In it there was some satisfaction, as if satiating a deep, ancient hunger. When she was a foster child, lost and neglected, abused and unloved, she would have done anything for a hug like this, for someone to cry on.

She'd grown hard and impervious over the years and fooled herself into believing, for a time, that she didn't need anyone to be a comforter to her.

But this awoke in her a yearning to be nearer, to melt deep into his arms and never leave them again. It was safe here. She could not be hurt here.

Her tears began to subside, she felt them wet against his shirt, pressed into her face. Her heart still ached, a real, physical ache, but she did not cry any more.

He leaned down and kissed her on her forehead, cradling her as he rolled to the side, letting her sink into the soft mattress, still tucked tight against him. The movement drew her face up and she looked at him, into his eyes. He wiped a lingering tear from her cheek, giving her a look of such tenderness that it made her shudder and press herself tighter against him, a trembling hand lifting to his cheek; wishing she could convey the same emotion, not knowing how.

And he must have seen something in her expression that gave him courage, that told him it was alright, because he then closed the narrow space between their faces, and drew the air from her lungs in a gentle, exquisite kiss.

And that one kiss – that real kiss – was all it took. She responded to it like a match to a spark. Her entire body responded. She kissed him back, harder, with the intensity of all the feelings she'd been keeping bottled up since their first encounter.

They ignited. It was the only word to describe what happened then. Fumbling fingers desperately sought each other, breath came raggedly, and they crushed together so effectively that they almost occupied the same space. Each touch was more exquisite than the one before it. The heat between them was molten, melding their two bodies and souls together. And they knew, each of them knew in the midst of their clamoring, that there would be no going back after this. The floodgates were opening, and there was no way to stop the tidal wave behind it.

It was so easy. Like falling off a cliff.

He knew exactly what to do with her, how to handle her. She'd had satisfying encounters before, but in those instances she had taken charge and controlled her own amount of pleasure. She never let anyone have so much control over her. They didn't know how to do it right anyway. But with him – it was as if he'd had the secret to her his entire life, and she surrendered completely to him. She had no choice. In his capable, instinct-driven hands, she was helpless.

And as for her – well, she was, for the moment, completely taken over by her own instinct. Her rational mind did not know what to do with him – did not know the exact way he preferred, the secret places she could touch to drive him crazy – how could she? They had never been together like this, and they never discussed it. But in a stunningly rare moment, instinct was strong. Her rational mind had completely given in tonight anyway, so she rose to the challenge and met him in skill in every way. And her name was ragged on his lips, and his name was breathless on hers, and he called her 'baby'.

She always had known they would be good together in bed, great even, but she never imagined the kind of supernova that it had become.
It was so wonderful, so intensely incredible, she almost couldn't stand it. It was as she'd never experienced, as he'd never experienced. And they held on to it, clung to it, drowning out the grief of death by this perfect celebration of life. She'd never been more aware of her own beating heart, the beauty of being alive, then she was now. And neither had he.

It was clear then that they had always been meant for this. Not just as a man and a woman, but as Booth and Bones. They were each other's missing face, and they fit together like perfect puzzle pieces.

{…}

When the dim light of morning came filtering through the blinds, they lay there tangled in each other's arms, each still quietly smoldering with the embers of their fiery blaze. He looked at her, watched her as her luminescent eyes drifted out of focus in pensive thought. She had never been more beautiful to him. Her skin seemed to gently glow in the weak morning light, a gentle shine to it that marked her has his own. He felt a warmth spread throughout him at the thought. Her face seemed peaceful, serene, but behind it there still lurked a distant sadness.

He brushed the hair from her face, and she glanced up at him.

"How do you feel?" he asked, very softly.

"Happy," she replied, smiling genuinely for a brief moment. But then her brow furrowed. "But also scared. And sad. Why do I still feel sad, Booth?"

He didn't smile. His expression was gentle, but concerned. "Because Vincent is still dead, Broadsky is still out there, and when we leave this morning we have to face all of it again. What happened here will just feel like a dream. Hopefully a good dream..." he added, glancing at her for confirmation.

She grinned reassuringly, brushing her fingers along his chin. "Better than any dreams I've ever had."

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "Nothing has to change, you know. If you don't want it to."

"Booth," she objected, "Weren't you present for all that? Didn't you feel it? I'm quite certain everything has to change now. It's exactly as I feared. I can't go back to how it was…"

He chuckled very softly – the sound resonating in his chest like distant thunder. "I'm glad you think so too. But we don't have to figure it all out now. I think we just have to focus on today."

"Yes…" agreed Brennan reluctantly. She didn't want to leave, to go back to the horrible ruins of their normal daily routine. She'd have to face more sadness today, and she wouldn't be able to run to him for comfort. At least her grief from last night had abated a little. Still, everyone else was going to want to talk about it, and she only wanted to talk to him about it.

And he would have to hunt down a deadly sniper. A sniper who wanted, specifically, to kill him. Wild fear raced through her and she shivered as the realization hit her.

He drew her in closer. "Cold?" he asked with soft concern.

"No," she said honestly. "Just…worried. What if-?"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said soothingly, cutting her off. "No worries here. This is a good place, a safe place. And look, Bones, everything is going be okay. Got it?"

She sighed, surrendering to the feeling of sweet delight that had lingered since that first breathless kiss. She snuggled into his warm chest, curling into his arms once again. "Okay."

{Next up, that conversation with Angela we missed, because Hodgins so inconveniently interrupted. R/R, if you please!}