A/N: Wow, what a response to the last chapter! Thank you so much for all the positive feedback... it feels great to know you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. I wanted to finish this up and post it yesterday, but my block kept losing power thanks to the bad weather... fortunately most of it has blown over now. Anyway, this chapter is a little fluffy, a little angsty, a moment of past and a lot of present. I wanted to give you a nice, heartwarming, fluffy chapter... but that didn't really happen as planned. xD Oh well, sometimes your muse takes you on a detour... and the view is good. Enjoy!

I wanna bullet proof your soul
Would you like to lose control?
I won't let you fall until you tell me so...

- Bulletproof, The Goo Goo Dolls

Brennan spent most of the next day in Limbo, assembling and identifying remains. She avoided the platform and the rest of the team as much as possible, preferring to immerse herself in her work, where silence was golden and empiricism ruled. In Limbo she didn't have to run from Angela's knowing pouts, Hodgins's sympathizing head tilts, or Cam's keen sense of going-ons. Sometimes she felt like Cam could look straight through her and see the story play out like a movie clip, a feeling that made Brennan squirm inside. Brennan didn't need to be coddled, pitied, or scrutinized today. She just wanted to stare at skeletons; let them tell their stories, instead of being badgered to tell hers.

Late in the afternoon, a rap of knuckles on the inside of the glass door told Brennan that someone had broken taboo, and come to see her. She looked up from the small male skull she had been pouring over and saw her best friend's slender silhouette in the door frame.

"Bren," she said, in her very Angela-esque I know something's up and I won't leave you alone until I figure it out way.

"Ange," Brennan replied in a tone that was partially warning, partially pleading.

"I'm not going to ask if you don't want to talk about it," Angela said, and Brennan breathed a sigh of relief. Angela approached the table and put both hands on the edge.

"But I am worried about you," she added, raising her eyebrows. Brennan looked down at the skull before her.

"Don't be, Ange. I just need some space to… clear my head," she said. Suddenly Angela grabbed the skull Brennan had been fixated on, holding it up and looking into the empty sockets.

"Well clearing your head or not," she said, turning the skull to face Brennan. "You're not Hamlet, and this guy isn't going to give you any answers." Brennan smiled and took the skull out of Angela's hands, setting it down gently on the backlit table.

"Is that all you came in here to tell me?" Brennan asked, and Angela shook her head.

"No, I was actually going to ask you where Booth was," Angela said. Brennan's brows furrowed.

"He's not at his office?" she asked. She hadn't seen him all day, but she had spent most of her time holed up in Limbo, and had assumed that since he hadn't been in pestering her, he must be back at the FBI headquarters.

"No, they said he called in sick, but he called in sick yesterday too. What's wrong with him?" Angela asked.

"His son Parker was really sick, he probably got whatever he had. The flu, I think," Brennan said. It wasn't really a lie—if he was out sick today, he probably really did get whatever Parker had. She just neglected to mention that he hadn't really been sick the day before.

"Bummer," Angela said. "Okay, I just wanted to make sure he was alright… and you, too," she said, putting her hand on Brennan's shoulder. "I'm here, sweetie; don't forget that."

"I won't," Brennan said, leaning her cheek against Angela's hand. "Thank you."

"Hey, best friends, right? That's what we do," Angela said, pinching Brennan's cheek playfully and exiting the room, leaving her alone with her wordless skull. Brennan flipped open her phone after Angela and hit speed dial #1, Booth. It rang several times before he finally picked up.

"Hullo?" he said, sounding extremely congested.

"Hey, it's me," she said. "You sound awful."

"I dink I got what Parker haths," Booth snuffled, taking a sharp breath and sneezing loudly. Brennan held the phone away, as if afraid the germs would travel through the wireless connection.

"Uh oh," Brennan said. "Are you guys doing okay?"

"He's okay," Booth said thickly. "He's been asthleep most of the day."

"And you?" Brennan asked.

"I'll make it," Booth said.

"Do you want me to bring you anything?" Brennan asked. There was a pause.

"How about some macaroni and cheeths?" Booth asked pitifully.

"Dairy thickens mucous," Brennan pointed out. "You don't want that. How about some soup instead?"

"You make thsoup?" Booth asked. Brennan snorted.

"I'm not a one-act woman, Booth," Brennan defended. "I have many talents, macaroni and cheese the least of these. I'll be over in a little bit."

"Thankths," Booth said, unleashing another powerful sneeze into the receiver. Brennan hung up, wondering what exactly she was volunteering herself for.

She left the Jeffersonian shortly after, driving herself out to the nearest Piggly Wiggly. She picked up the necessaries for soup—broth, chicken, vegetables—as well as a carton of

orange juice and some popsicles. By the time she pulled into Booth's driveway, the sun was beginning to duck below the tops of the trees.

"That was quick," Booth said when he opened the door and saw Brennan standing on his welcome mat with an armful of groceries.

"I keep telling you, I'm a good driver," she said, letting herself in and setting the groceries on the counter. "Is Parker still asleep?"

"Yeah, he woke up earlier but now he's out," Booth said, hacking loudly. He hauked his sputum into a napkin on the table and tossed it into the garbage, sniffing loudly.

"You should take a hot shower," Brennan suggested. "It would help with the congestion."

"I haven't had time to, Parker's been needing me," Booth said woefully. Brennan waved him off.

"Go take a shower, I'll… well, if Parker needs anything, I'm not totally inept, right?" she said, almost asking as much as making a point. Booth smiled.

"No, you're not," he said. "Thankths." He started down the hall and Brennan heard him sneeze violently on his way.

By the time Booth emerged from the shower, he could smell chicken cooking in the kitchen. The fact that he could smell at all was a vast improvement—she had been right, the long, hot shower really had done wonders for his ability to breathe.

"Mmm, what's that?" he asked, padding into the kitchen. Brennan waved him out.

"Sick people stay out of the kitchen," she said. "I already had to send Parker to the living room."
"He's up?" Booth asked. She nodded.

"I gave him a popsicle and turned on the TV for him… I guess he found a show he likes, I haven't heard from him since," Brennan said, chopping a handful of red potatoes and tossing them into the boiling pot.

"He's probably asleep," Booth said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the carton of orange juice. As he reached for the cabinet to get a glass, he felt something smack his shoulder. He turned around and saw Brennan wielding a fly swatter, looking cross.

"Did you think I was kidding? Get out! I don't want you contaminating the food," she said, using the handle end of the swatter to push him towards the door. "Go watch TV with Parker, I'll bring you some orange juice." Booth laughed, which quickly turned into a cough, and

plopped down on the couch next to his son, who was not asleep not quickly heading in that direction. Booth felt himself slipping into sleep as he watched cartoon animals chase each other across the screen, eyelids growing heavy. Soon the weight of Parker's head on his leg told him that his son was out, and Booth's head was resting against the back of the couch when he felt something cold press against his hand. He pried his eyes open and saw Brennan holding two glasses of orange juice—one large, and one in a kid's cup. Booth took both cups, setting one on the coffee table, and Brennan pulled two pills out of her pocket.

"I saw that you gave him his last Motrin at noon, so he can have another dose now," she said, dropping the small pills into Booth's palm.

"Wow, Bones," he said, sipping his juice and trying to conceal a grin. "For someone who doesn't want kids, you sure jump right into the mom role." She gave him a sour look and went back into the kitchen without another word. He heard her return to chopping vegetables, and sighed contentedly, soon lapsing back into a coughing fit.

After another half-hour of slipping in and out of sleep, Booth saw Brennan poke her head back into the living room doorway.

"You want me to bring it to you?" she asked. Booth nodded.

"Yes, please," he said, in such an ungodly pitiful tone that Brennan had to choke back laughter. She found the wooden fold-out trays tucked between two cupboards, and moved them into the living room, setting them up in front of the two sick Booth boys. She returned shortly with two bowls of soup, and a package of Saltine crackers. Returning to the kitchen one last time for her own bowl, she seated herself lightly on the opposite end of the couch, Parker sprawled out between them. They all ate wordlessly, Booth picking at his while Parker ate with gusto.

"Feeling better?" Brennan asked the boy, who sopped up the last of the broth with a few Saltines. He nodded.

"A little," he said, smiling up at her. "The soup helped."

"Good," she said. She looked over at Booth, who was still working on his.

"Good soup, Bones," he said after swallowing down a bite. "I'm just not very hungry, is all." Brennan tilted her head slightly, watching him eat.

"Have you taken your own temperature lately?" she asked. Booth shook his head.

"I don't need to, I'm fine," he said. "It's just a head cold." He launched into a round of deep, wet coughs as soon as he finished his sentence, and Brennan pursed her lips.

"Come here," she said, reaching over Parker and placing her hand on Booth's forehead. He resisted but she won, nearly smacking him in the face as she did so.

"Booth, you're burning up," she said, feeling the heat radiate from his face. He pushed her away, grumbling.

"I'm fine," he insisted, taking another bite of his soup. "See? Hungry. Fine."

"You should take some Motrin yourself," she said, standing up and taking her and Parker's bowls back to the kitchen. She rifled through the medicine drawer for adult-strength Motrin, and by the time she found it Booth had lumbered into the kitchen, carrying his bowl and glass.

"I don't need it, I'm fine," he argued, but Brennan ignored him, popping open the cap and shaking two pills out into her hand.

"You are not, take these," she said. He cut his eyes at her but took the pills, swallowing them down with the last of his orange juice. He made a bitter face.

"Go sit down," Brennan said, grabbing the crook of his elbow and turning him in the direction of the living room. "I'll clean up."

"But you cooked," he argued feebly, allowing himself to be lead back to the couch. He fell back down onto the couch cushions, and by the time Brennan had rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, Booth and Parker were both sound asleep, sprawled out across the length of the couch. Brennan picked up a pen and divided the pad of paper Booth had been keeping track of Parker's medicine intake on into two columns—one marked with a P, one with an S. She wrote down the times of their dosages in the columns, and suddenly wondered who had taught her to do so.

Then she was curled up on the couch at Janice's home, wrapped up in the hand-sewn quilt that always remained draped over the back of the couch. She rested her head on the arm rest at one end of the couch, and Kamaria slept on the other end. They had been in a tight race to see whose fever could spike fastest, and Temperance was winning hands-down, having climbed to nearly 103 degrees. Janice took their temperatures every hour, soaking the old mercury thermometer in alcohol and rinsing it in lukewarm water between each use. She brought them bowls of homemade soup and encouraged them to drink a variety of juices—apple, orange, cranberry, anything they'd sip on.

"When it rains, it pours," Janice said, carrying a small baby boy around on her hip as he cried frantically. He too was spiking a fever now, the illness having spread quickly through the home. Most of the children were sick or getting sick, curled up on couches, chairs, and pallets on the floor. Janice preferred to keep them all in one "sick bay", she called it, so she wasn't running from one end of the house to the other.

"Take these," Janice said, handing Temperance two Asprin. She swallowed them down with a glass of water, feeling the rough, uncoated pills scratch against her throat. Janice wrote down the time—two thirty seven in the afternoon—on a pad of white lined paper. The paper was divided into nine rows, each with a different child's name at the top, keeping track of who got what, when.

"That's how you keep track of it," Janice said to Temperance when she inquired about the paper. "Otherwise, there's no way I could remember who took what, and when they got it again. This is the best way to remember." Temperance nodded, only hearing about half of what Janice said. Delirium was kicking in, and she smiled up at the woman, who stroked her sweaty forehead lovingly. She closed her eyes and heard Janice's soothing voice speak to another child, encouraging them to drink something, nibble on some crackers, just a bite. Just a bite.

"Bones?" Booth asked, walking into the kitchen and finding Brennan sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at the sheet of paper he had been keeping track of Parker's meds on. "Bones, are you okay?" She looked up, and he saw the tears in her eyes.

"I'm…" she started, but she could not finish her sentence—instead, a sob choked its way out. Booth lowered himself onto the tiled floor, sitting next to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

"It's alright," he said, and she leaned into him, burying her face in his neck. He stroked her hair and tried to hold back a cough. It came out anyway, shaking both of them. He shifted onto his knees, wrapping both arms around Brennan's small figure, letting her lean into him fully. Her arms snaked around his neck and she began to cry, really cry. He rubbed her back and let her cry, feeling her tremble as sobs shook her body.

Parker slept on the couch, belly full from a good meal, the dishwasher rumbled and hissed, and Temperance sobbed into Booth's clean shirt, letting the fullness of the pain truly grab her, rattle her, from the core outward. It writhed inside of her like a snake, grabbing her throat

and choking her, sometimes to the point where Booth had to remind her to breathe. She remembered the fear, the pain, the pieces of earth and rock ground into her palms. She remembered the first night she was sick at the group home, crying for the one thing a sick child truly needs—their mother—and finding nothing. She remembered Janice stroking her forehead, showing her how families keep track of one another. She remembered trying to grasp the concept of a family that kept track of one another.

"You're okay, Temperance; I'm here," Booth said soothingly, hugging her close as the tears ended and were replaced with dry, heaving sobs. He brushed the hair out of her face, wet pieces stuck to the tracks where her tears had fallen, and she continued to hide her face in him, press herself against him, like she was trying to fall into him.

He held her, he guarded her, and he wanted her to see how loved she was more than anything… but he did not have the words. So he just kept holding on.

She breathed him in and felt safe. The demons that were abusing her, dragging the corpses of the past out of the water, were stopped. He gave her shelter, he gave her an anchor to cling to when she felt that she might break into a thousand pieces and fly in as many directions. He gave her sanctuary in a moment of terror, and she wished she had words to describe what that meant to her… but there were none. So she just kept holding on.

A/N: I love getting your feedback, good, bad, and otherwise, so please let me know what you think! :)