Thank you so much for all the reviews. I've loved writing this story more than you know, and I've loved reading the feedback more than you know. Yes, this is the last chapter. Thank you so much for the support; your reviews are half of what made this so much fun.

Hope you guys are satisfied with this. I tried writing the ending so many times, but this is the one that stuck. Don't worry about it ending though; I'm almost a hundred percent sure this won't be my last foray into Bones. Look forward to more :)

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It hurts. Her ribs are on fire. Or someone's driven a red-hot poker through her side and left it there. Still under the haze of sleep, she tries to push the pain away like a bad dream, but it refuses to fade. No matter how hard she tries to compartmentalize the hurt away like she usually does, no matter how much she wants to roll over in her bed and sleep the morning away, she can't.

Gradually, her more logical nature begins to wake up. She realizes that there isn't a reason for her to be hurting at all, that if she is in pain, there's something wrong. And by the magnitude of the pain, it's something serious. Her mind is immediately alert, and, first things first, she opens her eyes.

An unfamiliar ceiling. Darkness. It's hard to breathe.

She beats back the panic, the one that always swamps her when she's confronted with darkness and tight quarters. It's been a long time since the Gravedigger, but it haunts her all the same. She's ashamed of the weakness, but she can't conquer it, even with all her logic and mental fortitude. She's never been able to truly stifle the fear, and for years afterward, it was difficult to handle it. But these days, she just lets Booth hold her, lets his warm, strong arms remind her that she's safe and that while he's there, nothing can hurt her. She's invincible in his embrace.

But he's not here. She corrals the panic and tries to sit up, wondering where she is. Not her home and not Booth's either. She doesn't remember going anywhere. In fact, she doesn't remember much at all. When she tries to rise, stabbing pain shoots through her torso, pain so bad she can't stifle a cry. Tears of pain springing to her eyes, she slumps back into the pillow, wondering wildly how she's gotten hurt.

When the pain's faded enough for her to breathe more easily, she carefully moves her arms and determines that none of her limbs have been affected by whatever's hurting her torso. It must be an isolated injury then, located somewhere on her left side approximately between the fifth and seventh ribs. She clings to these logical facts to ground her, to keep the growing alarm from overwhelming her. She's hurt and in a foreign place, but if she concentrates, maybe something will start to make sense.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes briefly. That's when she hears the quiet beeps. Rapid and slightly erratic, they sound perfectly in time with…with…

With her heartbeat, she realizes abruptly. She can hear the fear in her heartbeat reflected in those beeps. She searches for a connecting answer and finds it—a heartbeat monitor. Which means she's in a hospital of some sort, a medical facility at the very least. Which also means that she isn't in any immediate danger.

The thought reassures her enough to open her eyes again and begin a perfunctory scrutiny of her surroundings. Keeping herself still to avoid jarring whatever wound she's sustained, she cranes her neck around to find a curtained off area. Medical equipment are neatly hooked up beside her bed, and she can feel an IV running in her arm along with an oxygen tube snaking under her nose. The heartbeat monitor shows her pulse gradually calming as she realizes she's not in danger at all. She's in a hospital, which means she's safe.

She wants to find a nurse to figure out what happened to her. Was she attacked? Did someone attack the Jeffersonian? Is anyone else hurt? Or was it just an accident? Had she fallen, perhaps? And how badly is she hurt?

She turns her head to the right, intending to search for a call button, but the words die in her throat as soon as she spots the chair next to her bed—more specifically, the man occupying the chair next to her bed.

Booth.

The instant she sees him, reassurance rushes through her. If she'd had any lingering doubts about her safety, they vanish like smoke in the wind. She can't help the little sigh of relief that escapes her lips as she studies him from the bed.

He's leaning back in the hospital chair, his arms folded, his head lolling back, his long legs sprawled in front of him. He's wearing a black FBI shirt and a pair of slacks that look suspiciously stained at the knees. He looks about as uncomfortable as a man can possibly get. Brennan can tell just by looking at him how many aches he's going to have when he wakes up. He'd have had better rest by just sleeping on the floor.

And then she realizes that the reason he's sleeping in a chair at all is because of her. Because she's lying here in a hospital bed, and Booth, more loyal than any man she's ever known, would never leave her in the hospital alone. A pang of guilt shoots through her, though rationally, she knows that as she was unconscious, there was nothing she could have done to stop him. It doesn't stop her from feeling at fault for the pain he'll be in when he wakes up.

The pain's starting to bother her again. With a quiet whimper, she lifts the covers she's tucked under and tries to find the wound. Reaching a hand under the hospital gown she's wearing, she finds the swath of bandages on her left side on her ribs. It's a small square of bandage held there by surgical tape, by the feel of it. A cut then? Perhaps she's been stabbed? She can't remember, and it alarms her. Has her memory been affected? Is she experiencing post-trauma amnesia? What if…what if she's lost time?

The thought sends a shudder through her, and the heartbeat monitor spikes again. She takes a breath and tries to think rationally. All right…all right…think, Temperance, think…

Booth. As always, when she's searching for calm and support, her mind flies to him. All right, she still remembers him, which means she can't have lost too much time. She thinks back quickly and knows it's a Friday. The last thing she remembers clearly is sorting through the growing stack of files on her desk at the Jeffersonian and making a mental note to visit the Egyptology Department as soon as possible. The rest of her memory is hazy.

It can't be too bad, she rationalizes. She hasn't had any head trauma that she can feel, and she doesn't think the wound she sustained damaged any major organs. The tubes running around her body seem routine, not excessive, which means she's not hooked up to any machines beyond those that are for every hospital patient, like IV and the heartbeat monitor. She should be fine. If she waits, the memory of whatever happened will most likely return. Most likely.

She grits her teeth against the rising tide of pain and closes her eyes. The morphine or whatever they gave her to counter the pain must be wearing off, and quickly too. Her side feels like it's on fire, and she's frustratingly weak. As she tries to rise, the room spins sickeningly, and she throws out her hands to catch herself on the bed's rails. Gripping the rails tightly for a long, painful moment, she tries to catch her breath and fight against the agony in her side. It isn't bad, she tells herself firmly. She's had worse. It doesn't stop the quiet cry that breaks from her lips as she tries to reach for the call button situated a little ways above the bed.

"Bones!"

She looks up sharply to find Booth starting out of the chair, his expression twisted in worry. Even that small movement with her head causes her vision to spin wildly out of control, and she grimaces as a pang shoots through her. With that all-too-familiar look of concern, Booth reaches for her quickly, only to freeze with a quiet groan that he tries unsuccessfully to stifle.

"Your back," she says, immediately concerned. Then, when he doesn't say anything, she adds, "Booth?"

"It's nothing," he answers quickly, but even she can hear the pain he tries to hide. His hand goes to the small of his back, and he grimaces for a second before trying to smooth out his expression.

She eyes him and swiftly identifies the strain on his lower back and also the way he's favoring his left leg. He catches her eyes on his leg and shrugs sheepishly. "It's asleep."

"You mean the nerves in your foot have been compressed and are temporarily nonresponsive?" she says.

He looks at her for a long moment, but instead of his usual incomprehension or annoyance, his face breaks out into the widest smile of relief she's ever seen. She stares at him in confusion, wondering what he's so relieved about.

He laughs at her expression. "I'm just happy that you're okay, Bones," he explains, relief still obvious in his voice. "You had me so scared there. I thought…" He swallows, a thousand emotions running rampant across his face before he forces a smile again. "But it's okay. You're okay. You're even spouting all this scientific mumbo-jumbo. It means you're okay."

She starts to shake her head at his logic but freezes when pain wrenches through her side again. Her hand flies involuntarily to her ribs, and Booth zeroes in on it instantly.

"You're in pain," he says, his smile disappearing. "Does it hurt a lot? Should I call the nurse? I'm sure they can get something for the pain." He starts toward the call button, but she reaches out and manages to catch his sleeve.

"I'm fine, Booth."

Irritation flashes briefly through his eyes. "You don't fool me, Bones."

"I'm not fine," she sighs, "but I can handle it."

"I don't want you to handle it," he argues, his brow creasing. "I want you to be comfortable."

"Please, Booth," she says tiredly. "If they give me morphine, my thought process will be affected. I want to keep a clear head."

"For what?" he demands in exasperation.

She hesitates briefly before saying, "Can we talk, Booth? I don't…" She sighs. "What happened?"

He looks shocked for a moment. Then understanding crosses his face, and he lowers himself slowly back into the chair. Pulling it nearer to her bed, he takes her hand and asks lowly, "You don't remember?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sure it's some form of post-trauma amnesia. It's temporary, usually. If you would just give me a few details, I'll most likely remember everything."

He hesitates, and she can see that he's unwilling to talk about it. It's then that she realizes how deeply her injury and subsequent stay at the hospital have affected him. If it had been an accident or something minor, he wouldn't hesitate to tell her. But he does pause, and that alone tells her everything. She's grown adept—or as adept as she can be—at reading silences, and she can read his reluctance in this one.

"It's bad?" she guesses, watching his expression, trying to glean something out of it.

He sighs heavily and rubs a hand over his face. Watching him, she feels the stirrings of impatience and says, "If you're worried that I might be traumatized, don't be. I'm fine. Tell me what happened."

"It isn't you who's traumatized," he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Ah. Of course. "You feel guilty," she states matter-of-factly. What an utterly Booth reaction.

He jerks his head up in obvious surprise, which, really, is all the confirmation she needs. "What? What makes you think that, Bones?"

"You always feel an irrational amount of guilt when I get hurt," she replies. "You're unusually protective of me, and that causes you to feel responsible for my well-being, even though I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Unusually protective?" he snorts, staring at his shoes. "I'm not protective enough." He sighs heavily again and swallows. "God, Bones, I was…so close. Too close."

When he lapses into silence, she prompts impatiently, "Close to what?"

He hesitates, his grip on her hand almost tight. Then, he takes a shaky breath, not looking at her. "To losing you," he whispers.

She can't see his eyes, but she can somehow hear the tears in his voice. It shocks her, seeing Booth like this. She can count on one hand—half a hand, even—how many times she's seen him even get teary-eyed in front of her. Booth is a strong alpha male, which means he fights to hide his weak moments. The fact that he's allowing her to see him like this drives home the point of how shaken he truly is. How scared. And it scares her too.

"What happened, Booth?" she asks softly, reaching out toward him.

He grasps her hand tightly, still not looking at her. For a moment, he draws circles on her hand with his thumb, something he likes to do whenever he holds her hand. It calms her, always, and it does so now. She feels slightly less lost, less confused. Though she wants answers, of course, she silently lets him draw his circles, round and round, round and round…

"You were shot," he says abruptly, bluntly, his voice slightly rushed. "Do you remember going to the hospital? We went to Harrison Memorial because Leonard Teel had information for us, information on the case. You went into the room to talk to him, and I went with his doctor. The doctor took me to his office to show me some files, and—and then there were gunmen. They'd come for Leonard, and they shot you. They shot you." He's stopped tracing circles. She can feel his hands trembling almost imperceptibly over hers. "There was…so much blood. So much. You were just lying there on the ground, and it didn't look like you were breathing. I was so scared, so damn scared. I thought they'd killed you. God, I thought they'd killed you."

She listens in half-stunned silence. It isn't the fact that she's been shot that stuns her; it's his emotion. Booth is an emotional man, yes, and he lives in a world shaped by the heart, but she has almost never seen him so openly candid about his terror, his concern for her. He always seems so strong in her mind, so solid and world-wise in ways she can never be. It hurts, almost physically, to see him so broken. She can't say anything to comfort him because she doesn't know how. Instead, she just squeezes his hand.

He takes a shaky breath. "I dragged you the hell out of there. It was…hard. You weren't really conscious some of the time, and the shooters were looking for you, and…"

He swallows, and Brennan says softly, "It's okay, Booth. You don't have to—"

"No," he says roughly. "You should know—"

"I remember," she tells him quickly, because she does. She remembers Leonard's thin, sallow face, remembers talking with him, remembers turning at the sound of heavy footsteps. She remembers the sound the bullet made, tearing through her. She remembers and shudders.

A look of immense relief crosses his face. "You do? All of it?"

"All of it," she confirms. She remembers the ride to the hospital and…and…

She looks at him in sudden confusion. "You weren't in the ambulance. You weren't at the hospital either."

"Huh? I'm here now, Bones."

She shakes her head. "That isn't what I mean. You weren't there when they wheeled me into surgery."

It's more of a question than a statement. She wants him to tell her that he was there. She wants him to tell her that he held her hand all the way up to the surgery room, that he whispered reassurances in her ear, and that she just doesn't remember it. But the look that crosses his face answers that question.

"I'm so sorry, Bones," he says, sounding guilty. "I wanted to follow you, but Cullen held me back. I had to make sure the hostages got out okay."

The hostages. Of course. He's an FBI agent, not her personal bodyguard. He has a job to do outside of caring for her. As a federal agent, he operates in a world she isn't a part of, and it takes priority over her. There was nothing he could do in the ambulance anyway, except get in the way. It was better for everyone for him to stay behind at the scene and do his best to wrap up the case there. Yes, that's the logical answer. Rationally, he did the right thing. Irrationally, she still feels hurt. Maybe even betrayed.

"Good," she says, forcing a smile. "That's your job. You had an obligation to stay."

He sees right through her, like he always does. "No, I should've gone with you, Bones."

"Saving the hostages was more important than riding in the ambulance with me," she reasons. "You had the skills necessary to rescue the hostages, and you would just have been in the way in the ambulance."

"That doesn't change anything," he says stubbornly, meeting her eyes. "You needed me and I wasn't there for you."

"I didn't need you," she says, a bit stiffly. He makes it sound like she's dependent on him. She isn't. She's her own person, of course. She doesn't need anyone.

He senses the change in her immediately. "I'm losing you, Bones. Talk to me."

"You're not losing anything," she says automatically. "And we are talking."

"No, we aren't," he argues, catching and holding her gaze. "We're not talking about what you want to talk about. Remember when we started this relationship, Bones? No secrets. We promised."

"This isn't a secret," she protests. "Nothing is."

"Then tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"The truth. You're mad that I wasn't with you in the ambulance, aren't you?"

She opens her mouth to deny it automatically, but Booth's gaze stops the words on her lips. His warm eyes, always so open, always so real. Only rarely can she read the emotion in them, but they're always so…honest. She knows he deserves at least some honesty in return.

"I'm not mad, really," she says slowly, averting her eyes. "I just feel irrationally slighted because you chose not to pursue the ambulance. Which is completely illogical, of course, seeing that Cullen ordered you to stay, thus invalidating your ability to choose at all."

"You're hurt," he says simply, guiltily.

"You were under orders," she points out in return.

"Screw orders," he answers, his voice slightly annoyed. "I should've gone with you. You wanted me there, so I should've been there."

"You could have lost your job if you disobeyed Cullen," Brennan protests, confused by his logic. "You can't throw away your career for a simple trip to the hospital."

"A job should never be more important than people you love," Booth says, a bit roughly. "And I'd throw away anything for you, Bones. You know that."

She swallows hard. It's things like that, those sweet things he says, sometimes unintentionally, that catch her off guard. When he says things like that, she feels important. Special. Loved. Like no man has ever made her feel before. It's dangerous, that feeling, but Booth makes it so she can't ever get enough of it.

And she realizes she's not hurt anymore. Just the sight of him beating himself up—figuratively speaking—about it melts away all the betrayal she feels, leaving behind nothing but a wave of affection. She squeezes his hand again and smiles genuinely at him. As expected, he stares at her in surprise, but she doesn't say anything, just smiles at him.

After a moment, he says impatiently, "You know, Bones, sometimes you give me whiplash with your mood swings. Want to tell me what you're smiling about?"

"I'm smiling because I'm happy," she replies.

He rolls his eyes. "I could never have figured that one out."

"I'm sure you could have," she says innocently, choosing deliberately to ignore his sarcasm. Even before their relationship, she's always enjoyed teasing him like this, getting him exasperated. Sure, most of the time she truly doesn't understand half the things he talks about, but occasionally, she chooses to look oblivious just to irritate him. It's surprisingly fun.

He rolls his eyes again. "You did that on purpose."

"What?"

He sighs, but a small smile appears on his lips. "I'm glad you're not mad at me at least." He looks at her searchingly. "Right?"

She smiles again to reassure him. "No, I'm not mad."

A crease of confusion appears between his eyes. "Not that I'm not relieved or anything," he says slowly, "but why? I mean, just a second ago, you were making me feel guilty as hell."

"Because you feel guilty," she says, unsure of how to explain it. "Because you…you…care enough to feel guilty."

"Oh, Bones." He smiles warmly in sudden understanding, that smile that automatically makes her want to kiss him. She resists the urge, and he starts drawing circles on her hand again. After a moment, he looks straight at her and says, voice full of emotion, "You know I love you, right?"

She smiles. "Yes, Booth. You've said it too many times for me to forget."

"I'll say it forever," he says, almost like a promise. And he looks at her with such…love in his eyes that it makes her tingle. As many times as she's told herself and him that love is a result of chemical reactions in the body responding to external stimuli, she's almost certain that she's wrong this time. She's seen it. She sees it in Booth's eyes all the time, and it makes her warm, so warm. So special. Every time he says "I love you," no matter how many times he says it, it'll always send an incomprehensible thrill through her. She doesn't tell him this, of course. But, more and more often these days, she finds herself trying to say those words back to him, daring herself to give him what he wants. She can see it in his eyes every time he says "I love you" to her, the desire for some reciprocation. It doesn't matter how many times she tells him how much she likes him or how many times she calls him her boyfriend; it's those three little words he wants to hear most.

She wants to say them. She wants so badly to see his eyes brighten and his entire face light up when he hears her. But she's tried before, and the words just seem to stick to the back of her throat. It frustrates her to no end, that she's such a coward. She's afraid, of course; that's the root of the problem. She's afraid that "I love you" is a promise, that it's a pledge of permanency. She wants to stay with Booth, of course, always. She's known that for some time now. But what if he doesn't want to stay with her? What if he tires of her, or he realizes that his love was ephemeral?

Ridiculous. Obviously ridiculous. Booth has told her a hundred thousand times that he won't ever leave her, not for anything. But there's that part of her, the one that's been betrayed again and again, that expects Booth to leave like all the others. And she doesn't want her "I love you" to weigh him down, to make him stay with her out of pity or a sense of obligation. She doesn't want to chain a man who's so free.

"Bones?"

She blinks and realizes that she's been absorbed in her thoughts and looking through him. He leans forward anxiously and asks, "You okay? You looked a little dazed there. Maybe I should call the doctor."

Brennan doesn't let go of his hand. "I'm fine, Booth. Really." At his skeptical look, she admits, "My side hurts, but it isn't unbearable."

He groans. "Unbearable? I don't care if you can handle it. If you're in pain, I want it to stop." He rises and presses the call button by the heartbeat monitor before she can protest. A moment later, a nurse appears at her bedside.

"Is something wrong?" the nurse asks.

"Could you give her something for the pain?" Booth says. "She woke up about half an hour ago."

The nurse picks up the clipboard at the base of the bed, scans the information, and gives him a look. "You should have called as soon as she woke up. The doctor wants an update on her status."

Her tone is sharp and disapproving, and Brennan bristles automatically. "It isn't his fault," she says. "I asked him not to call anyone."

The nurse turns the look on her. "You should have called immediately, Ms. Brennan. You're in critical—"

"Doctor," Brennan interrupts quickly. At the nurse's blank stare, she says, "Doctor Brennan, not miss."

An annoyed look crosses the nurse's face, like she's irritated at being taken lightly while lecturing, but before she can start up again, Booth says impatiently, "Look, sorry for not calling you earlier, but could you just give her something for the pain?"

"People these days," the nurse mutters as she moves to adjust something with Brennan's IV. "Not a care in the world about doctor's orders, just want quick results…"

Behind her, Booth rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything. Brennan watches the IV line for a long painful moment. Then, abruptly, she can feel the throbbing lessening in her side. She sighs in relief and slumps down slightly into the pillow, relaxing as a wonderful numbness begins to spread through her body.

"Thank you," Booth says to the nurse. She looks momentarily surprised at the sincerity in his voice and mutters a quick order to call her if anything changes before disappearing. After a moment, Booth reaches forward to grab her hand again. A tell-tale wince flashes across his face, and Brennan frowns.

"Your back," she says. "You shouldn't have slept in the chair."

"This isn't exactly a hotel, Bones," Booth answers through a grimace. He braces a hand on the guardrail of the bed and hunches his shoulders.

"I mean you shouldn't have stayed," Brennan says, though she knows her words will have no effect on him. "You should have just gone home."

"And leave you here to wake up alone?" he replies, like the idea has never occurred to him. And it probably hasn't.

She smiles because really, she's happy he didn't leave. "Thank you for staying."

He shrugs and smiles slowly, teasingly. "I know you'll make it up to me," he says lowly, eyes glinting in amusement.

She pauses in consideration. "I think it might be a while before I'm ready to have sex, Booth."

He chokes, nearly falling over, and shoots her an incredulous look, his face flushing an amusing shade of bright red. "What! Bones! That's not what I meant!"

She finds it curious that he can talk about "making love" and "becoming one" without batting an eye, but when someone so much as calls it "sex," his eyes grow wide, and he looks almost scandalized.

"What did you mean then?" she asks politely.

"I meant—" He takes a long, steadying breath. "I meant you could fix my back for me. Not—not anything close to…that."

She stifles a smile at his discomfort. One of the things she likes so much about Booth is his boyish innocence. Not to imply that he's innocent in any way, but he's so conservative, so reserved about certain subjects that it's endearing.

"So," he coughs after a moment, still a bit red in the face, "maybe you should get some rest. It's been a really long day."

She wants to protest, but she is feeling tired. And weak. With a sigh, she lies down but doesn't pull the covers up or close her eyes.

"What time is it?" she asks.

Booth checks his watch. "Four in the morning. It's too early to be up." To prove his point, he yawns widely, but Brennan can see the true exhaustion underneath. She sees for the first time the dark circles under his eyes and the stress weighing down his shoulders. She sees the way his body practically trembles with fatigue, and she sees how he holds himself up almost through sheer willpower. He's so…worn. She wonders for the first time just how much it took him to get her out of Harrison Memorial, just how much it took him to sit here in the hospital for hours while she was in surgery, waiting in fear for her life.

"Booth," she says softly, emotion suddenly welling up in her. She hesitates, wanting both to ask him for details on Harrison Memorial and to tell him that he needs more rest than she does. In the end, she just says simply, "Thank you. Not for staying, but for everything else. For saving my life."

He smiles wearily. "No problem, Bones. It's my job."

No, it isn't his job. It isn't his job to injure himself trying to sleep in a hospital chair to make sure she's not alone. It's isn't his job to love her. And her thank you is for all the things that aren't his job.

He leans forward suddenly and gives her a long, sweet kiss. It's been an awful, trying day for both of them, and somehow, this is just what she needs: a little human connection, a simple show that someone cares. She clings to him for a moment, almost desperately, abruptly aware of just how close she was to losing it all. She remembers what she thought as they wheeled her into surgery, that she isn't ready to die because she has so much she wants to do. She realizes how easily it all could have been lost. And how, as he has so many times before, Booth has pulled her back from the brink. How he was there for her like he's always promised.

She breaks off the kiss much earlier than she usually would have, and he gives her a surprised look. Usually it's he who has to pull away. When he tries to pull back from her, though, she doesn't let him. Arms around his neck, she looks him straight in the eye and draws together her courage.

"Booth," she says steadily, and for once, the words don't stick to her throat. They flow effortlessly because this time, she knows they're true. She knows, finally, this twisting feeling in her gut, this swell of emotion that makes her irrationally think she can soar.

"Booth," she says again, his name barely a whisper, "I love you."

He freezes against her arms. For a moment, he just looks shocked and slack-jawed. He doesn't believe his ears, she can tell. He doesn't believe that she could have said that, not Temperance Brennan. The thought sends a pang of sadness through her and strengthens her determination.

"I love you," she repeats, stronger this time. She looks in his eyes and hopes he can read the sincerity there.

He gapes at her for another moment before stammering in confusion, "Bones, you don't have to…Just because I said it, you don't have to feel obligated—"

She silences him with a huff. "Booth, I don't feel obligated to say it. You know how I don't like lying. I deal with facts, Booth. The fact here is that I wouldn't say it if I didn't believe it."

"You wouldn't say it if you…" he repeats slowly. And then he trails off as realization hits him, and she can see in his face the exact moment he realizes the truth. That she loves him, and she means it. His eyes widening, his entire face glows suddenly with a joy she's rarely seen in his face before, and his eyes are alight with that feeling she's come to know as love. Beautiful, simple, and warm, it's for her and no one else.

With a quiet, breathless chuckle of near-disbelief, Booth leans forward and captures her lips with his in a fierce but somehow gentle kiss. In an unusually perceptive moment, she feels a thousand emotions in the kiss, and for once, she thinks of his lips on hers in terms of emotions rather than science. She can feel the emotion he's pressing into her with his lips, the happiness, the relief, the love. He's leaning her back, his eyes closed, and she forgets that they're in the hospital. She forgets that it isn't a good idea to engage in any activity that would exacerbate her condition. With a quick pause for breath, she draws him closer, breathing in his warm, familiar scent, tasting the lips that she can't get enough of, basking in the unfamiliar feeling of being loved and loving back.

And then he leans forward too far too fast, his eyes burning with desire, and she can't stifle the cry as he inadvertently presses up against her side. At her yelp, he pushes back instantly, his eyes wide with horror.

"God, Bones, I'm sorry!" He's pulled completely away from her, obviously afraid of hurting her further. "You okay? It doesn't hurt too much? Should I call the nurse?"

She shakes her head quickly, biting her lip. "I'm fine, Booth."

As usual, he isn't convinced. "Don't lie to me, Bones."

"I told you that I don't like lying, remember?" she replied wryly. "I'm fine." She is, really. The pain's already fading into the numbness of morphine.

He sighs resignedly and runs a hand through his hair, the FBI shirt riding up a little as he raises his arm. She realizes it's a little short for him, and she can see just enough of his midriff to catch a glimpse of his muscles underneath. Despite herself, despite the fact that she's run her fingers over those muscles before and felt them flex beneath her, she can't help the way her breath catches in her throat at his sheer attractiveness.

He sighs again and shakes his head. "Well, even if you won't admit you're in pain, you look like hell, Bones. You should get some rest."

"You don't look much better, Booth," she observes. Even in the dim light, she can tell how exhausted he is. She glances at the chair and at how he still winces when moving and suggests, "You should go home."

He pauses, eyes tightening. "Do you want me to leave?"

Does she want him to leave? What kind of question is that? With a sigh, she shakes her head and replies, "Of course not. But it would be detrimental to your back to sit any longer in a chair, and there isn't any other place to sleep."

"Who says I need to sleep?"

"Your clearly exhausted body," she answers wryly, eyeing his slumped shoulders and half-closed eyes. "You shouldn't deny your body its physical needs, Booth; it isn't healthy."

He sighs and rubs a tired hand over his face. "I know. It's just…I don't want to leave you alone, Bones." He looks at her for a long moment before sighing. "You know what? It's fine. I can take the chair."

"I won't let you," she argues, eyes narrowing. "I don't want you hurt because of me."

"It's not because of you," he counters. "It's because all the hospital has is these god-awful chairs." He sits down firmly and can't quite hide the discomfort that instantly crosses his face. "It isn't the Hilton, but I've had worse."

"Booth—"

"Bones, go to sleep or I'll call the nurse over to knock you out."

She tries to protest again, but he leans forward and silences her with a brief, sweet kiss. "Shh, Bones, okay? Just sleep. I'll be okay. Just get some rest."

Despite herself, she can't keep her eyes open anymore, the exhaustion of the day and her own weakness finally taking its toll. She's already drifting off into sleep when she feels Booth press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, "Shh, Bones, I'm here. I'll be here when you wake up." He brushes some hair gently out of her face and adds, "I love you."

And it's filled with a warmth and truth that makes her believe in love after all.

END

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