Parker is giddy with excitement at the prospect of a second Christmas, and Booth quickly ushers him into the living room while Bones makes a beeline for Christine's bassinet. Oksana ruffles Parker's hair and wishes him Merry Christmas on her way to the door, but Booth barely notices her. His eyes are glued to the corner of the room that's taken up by a glittering mass of lights and colors, and he can't help getting a little choked up over the fact that the woman who doesn't believe in Christmas got the biggest, shiniest tree she could find for her daughter who's too young to understand or remember it.

They gather around the tree, and Bones doesn't even protest when Parker wants them to sing a Christmas carol. Booth is surprised to find out that she has a lovely singing voice, although he should have known better than to tell her so because she informs him in return that he managed to redefine the term "tone deaf" with his rendition of Silent Night. Parker giggles, and then squeals with delight as he unwraps the robot Zack built. Booth has to swallow another lump in his throat when it turns out that Bones has a present for Parker too, some kind of kiddy scientist kit that will probably turn his son into a mini-squint if he isn't careful. He's been debating with himself for weeks whether he should buy Christmas gifts for her and Christine, and now he wishes he had gone with his gut and just gotten them something instead of listening to his inner voice of reason that reminded him she might see it as an attempt to stake a claim. It's too late now, and he can only hope that he'll get another chance next year.

She has no marshmallows, and Booth thinks that her organic fair-trade cocoa tastes like dishwater, but Parker declares it yummy and drinks it so greedily that he ends up with brown sludge over half his face. Christine seems utterly fascinated by the sparkling lights on the tree, and even though she doesn't get the significance of Christmas presents yet, she happily plays with the wrapping until she falls asleep in a heap of brightly colored paper scraps.

Then the kids are in bed (Christine in the nursery and Parker on the couch by the tree, Zack's robot still clutched to his chest), and Booth drags Bones into the kitchen because he insists it's not really Christmas without eggnog. They have to improvise since she doesn't have all the ingredients, but the result tastes quite nice, and Booth seizes the opportunity to lean in and kiss the sticky sweetness off her lips.

"I wanted to get you a present." He isn't sure what makes him confess that, but it seems important, even though she just shakes her head and reminds him of what she said earlier about gift-giving. She's smiling when she does, but the smile fades when he admits that he keeps thinking of what she told Angela about those last gifts from her parents that she never opened.

She's giving him that look again, the one that strips him down to his bones and makes him feel about three feet tall, but she doesn't seem angry or upset, merely thoughtful. Then she tells him to wait and walks out; he can hear her rummaging around in the adjacent room, and after a while she comes back with a few banged-up parcels in faded gift wrapping.

.

She doesn't know what made her do it. She isn't used to this; she always has a reason for every action, but now she'd be hard-pressed to say why she's suddenly willing to part with something that has been with her for half her life, has been carried around in garbage bags for years even though she always considered it her most precious possession.

If there had been even the slightest hint of pity in his eyes, she would have told him to mind his own business, but even though he draws in a sharp breath when he realizes what the parcels are, he doesn't try to coddle or patronize her. Maybe, she figures, it's indeed time to let go of these remnants of her past, so she tears the colorful paper in the same way she would rip off a band-aid. The contents don't mean much – she's not the teenaged girl these presents were meant for any more, but still, it provides an almost peaceful feeling of closure to finally see them instead of just guessing at their shape through the wrapping.

It takes her a while to notice that he's had his arm around her shoulders since she began unwrapping the parcels, and her first impulse is to pull away, but something in his expression makes her wonder if he's really doing it for her sake, if it isn't something he needs right now –

to feel like he's somehow contributing to easing a burden that isn't his to bear. With that in mind, she leans in when he pulls her into an embrace, and the way his arms tighten around her as soon as he realizes she won't resist confirms her suspicion. He has probably been unduly influencing her with his romanticized notion of Christmas, but she can't deny that she enjoys the idea that this is something she's able to give him.

.

"I… have something for you."

She steps out of his arms as she says it, and he isn't sure what to make of her expression – maybe it's embarrassment at breaking her own rules, but she's out of the door before he gets the chance to ask a question. He hears a drawer opening and shutting in the living room, and then she's back with a folded sheet of paper held out before her.

His heart is suddenly in his throat, and then seems to drop all the way down to his stomach when he unfolds the paper.

It's a paternity affidavit.

He's seen this before; Rebecca gave him the same thing to sign right after Parker was born. He'd naively assumed that putting his name on Parker's birth certificate would be enough, but that was one of the advantages of dating a lawyer: she patiently explained to him how the law cared less about biology than about legal status, and that – since he wasn't married to his son's mother – it was necessary to for him to officially acknowledge his paternity so he'd really be Parker's father in the eyes of the law.

Now he reads through the official-sounding text that declares him the legal father of Christine Angela Brennan, born April 12, 2005, in accordance to the sworn statement of her mother, Dr. Temperance Brennan; her neat, flowing signature underneath is right next to another dotted line that is, as of yet, blank.

His mind is strangely blank too as he stares at the page, and then stares at her; she appears calm, but the look in her eyes tells him she's anything but.

"What… what do you want me to do with this?"

"That's up to you."

What she says to him often sounds like a challenge, but somehow this doesn't.

He finds himself taken back to that evening when he learned of Christine's existence, and he remembers how furious he was when he saw her standing there with a baby in her arms and could only assume that she'd kept this from him. Now, though, he can't help wondering what he would have done if she'd told him back then – or right away, just a few short weeks after their last encounter when his ego was still smarting from that slap to the face and the way she had walked out on him.

As much as he wishes he could have witnessed every second of Christine's life from the very first moment just like he did with Parker, he knows better than to believe he would have gotten the chance after that beginning. You don't start a relationship with "Hey, I'm pregnant and you're the father."

Not that he's certain that what they have right now can be called a relationship, but it's something, something that's precious to both of them, because he's standing here with a woman who doesn't believe in anything she can't measure or calculate, and who still took a huge leap of faith by deciding to entrust him with what is most precious in the world to her.

He fleetingly wonders how long she's been thinking about this; how long it took her to get that piece of paper, and how long she's had it before she could bring herself to give it to him.

You don't deserve to be a father.

The memory of Pops yelling at Dad, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, is suddenly fresh in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday. He has always promised himself, promised Parker that he'll be the father he never had himself, the father he wishes his own Dad had been, and he wonders if Bones will ever know what it means to him that the genius who takes it as her due that she makes the rest of the world look a little stupid, the brilliant scientist who's the terror of interns, local cops and FBI techs if she so much as suspects that someone isn't living up to her expectations, the former foster child who won't let anyone get too close for fear of being left behind again – that this woman considers him worthy of being her daughter's father.

He knows it's not something you should have to earn, but he still likes the idea that he has.

And yet, she has only shown her hand, she's not forcing his; they're in her kitchen, not in a courtroom or a notary office, and he understands very well that she's trying to make it clear she's offering him a choice.

Once more, he's reminded of Rebecca's explanation that biology isn't the law's first concern in these matters, and of the one answer she still hasn't given him.

"Bones… there's something I need to ask you."

"Yes, I assumed there would be."

She doesn't sound surprised, and her expression doesn't change; it's obvious that she's sure of the question she's going to hear.

Booth takes a deep breath and finds that the tight knot in his throat has disappeared, that it's suddenly easy to breathe again as he thinks of the little girl sleeping peacefully just a few steps away. He puts the paper on the kitchen counter and, carefully smoothing out the creases, asks,

"Do you have a pen?"

.

.

.

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FIN

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A/N: So this is it, dear readers... this is the ending I had in mind since I started writing this story. A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited or put this story on alert – I'm completely blown away by the reception this fic has gotten, and it made writing it a truly great experience for me. You're the best, my lovelies :-)