A/N: Thanks to lizook12 for her lookover and general awesomeness.

--

Four weeks, two days, eleven hours and twelve minutes since Booth had asked her who she was. His head was mostly healed, but his mind wasn't.

He went to physical therapy three times a week.

She went to see Sweets once a week. He told her about ambiguous loss, about the trauma of having a loved one be physically present, but psychologically absent. She'd be mostly quiet, trying to find some comfort in knowing and understanding, although she didn't.

She'd spend time with him, take him places that they had shared together. It was hard not to stare at him over the tabletop of the diner, searching for some hint of recognition at the waitress who always served them their coffee after their cases. There was a polite smile, a generic greeting…but nothing else.

Sometimes she'd take over the work of the therapists, sit with him with thick photo albums open across their laps. She'd point at people, try to jar his memory.

Who is that?

That's Parker. He's my son.

How old is he?

He's 7.

What grade?

First.

What's he like?

That was where he always got stuck. He memorized facts about the people in his life like a child learning shapes, recognizing without really understanding. Pieces clicked in place with no meaning. The square peg fit into the square hole…but what was a square, really?

She'd move onto the next picture.

He always tried his hardest. He was curious about her and her desire to help him. His questions nearly always broke her heart.

So…I am Catholic. And you aren't.

Correct. I don't believe in God.

I see. Then after a pause…Does that bother me? That you don't believe what I do?

Sometimes. But… She hesitated.

But what? He pressed.

But…I think you feel that makes my faith in you more humbling.

He nodded his understanding, and the irony of her explaining his own feelings to him did not escape her, when she couldn't even comprehend her own.

A few evenings later they sat quietly on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. She thought of telling him about the last time they were here, of scotch and Blitz and the love of her father, but she felt talked out, her powers of speech drained by the constant explaining. She settled for staring out across the reflective pool, shoulder grazing his as he also gazed thoughtfully.

I think I'll remember soon, he told her. I think this is a test…something to make me really appreciate when I have my memory back. My life back.

Despite herself, she smirked. You're a romantic.

I am?

The next day, he gave her a flower.

For all your help. And…you know…because I'm a romantic, he replied to her questioning look.

She wondered if he thought she told him he was a romantic just so he'd get her a present. You'd do the same for me.

I can see why.

For the first time in four weeks, five days, eighteen hours and forty-two minutes, she felt a warmth inside her similar to the one Booth used to give her. The Booth who remembered.

Still. It wasn't enough.

Later in the week she brought him to her place and showed him homemade flash cards of the people and things in his life that he loved. He seemed distracted, eyes wandering to every corner of the room.

You have a lot of stuff.

Artifacts and cultural items I've amassed during my travels. I'm an anthropologist.

I know that.

But his brow remained furrowed, as if she were an item more exotic and bizarre than the artifacts that decorated her home, and he couldn't possibly wrap his mind around her. His attention was caught by something far away in his mind.

She wished he'd call her Bones. But it seemed silly to ask, and an empty request, at that.

That night, after she drove him home and went to bed, she cried for the first time. There was a time when she had been led to believe that Booth was dead. She had thought that it was the worst possible feeling she would ever experience.

She was wrong.

It was a few hours before she drifted off, her pillowcase uncomfortably wet against her face. She dreamt of piecing together a shattered skeleton of a soldier, but finding that none of the parts fit with the others. She would take it apart and start over again, and just ended up with a different variation of the same mess.

A loud pounding woke her, so sharp and desperate that she nearly tumbled from her bed in surprise. A glance at her clock…3:41…confirmed that her visitor was very intent and insistent on seeing her as soon as possible.

As soon as she let him in, he brushed past her. He was soaked…there was a mere drizzle outside, but he wasn't yet able to drive and had obviously walked the whole way there…at least a mile and a half.

Booth…what…?

This. He snatched an item off her shelf, nearly knocking over her expensive, ancient Peruvian vase in the process. Whirling around to face her, droplets of rain flying from his hair, he thrust the object into her face. I remember this.

Blinking, she stared at the tiny plastic figurine…the one that was so out of place among her other décor. You remember this?

He nodded, his eyes wild. You wanted it…I don't know why you wanted it…but I wanted to give you something you wanted. So much.

Tentatively, she reached out to touch it. Jasper, she told him. Her eyes raised and met his. You could have called.

I needed to be sure.

She understood that. Of all things…

Here, she said softly, taking the gift from his hands. Let's get you dried off.

She gave him a towel and her oversized white robe…the only thing in her closet that would fit him…and made up the guest room as he changed. She didn't know what to make of his moment of remembrance…her head spun, and she didn't know whether to be grateful or thrilled or terrified.

He entered the room and she started.

You need to sleep, she told him. You need to rest in order to get better.

Oblivious to her words, he reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. I think…I must have been in love with you.

Her throat nearly closed at his words, her chest seizing up. The tears that had dried on her pillow again threatened to return once more. Her face was fire where he touched it. I don't know, she said, and it felt like a lie.

His gaze flickered down to her lips, then back up again. He urged her a bit closer with the hand on her face, and even though he had just a fraction of Booth's memory, he looked like Booth, smelled like him, sounded like him.

A devastating longing took hold of her. Her lips were a hair's breadth from his.

We've never done this before, he stated, and she wasn't sure whether or not it was a question.

No. Her voice cracked.

It feels like we have.

He made love to her like he had never tasted a woman before, and this might be his last chance to do so.

Afterwards, they laid still, exhausted beyond anything she had ever experienced. Her mind felt mercifully empty of all hopes and fears. There was quiet. There was peace.

He spoke to her, eyes closed. If I didn't get my memories back…could we start over?

She thought that maybe he could start over. But her…she still had her memories. Not just Jasper. Every late-night talk. Every time he saved her life. Every moment that should have led here…to bed, in his arms…but didn't.

There was no starting over for her. He was in her.

Sleep, she said. She pressed her lips against his temple, before pushing the covers back and sliding her feet to the floor.

Where are you going? he murmured, turning towards her. Don't go away.

She paused, looking at him, realizing that there was not even one moment in all these weeks, days, hours, and minutes that she even considered leaving him.

I'll be right back. I just want to lock the front door.

Oh. 'Kay. This seemed to pacify him, and his face relaxed into almost-sleep again.

G'night, Bones.

She froze with her hand on the doorknob and looked back. Opening her mouth to respond, she realized it would be pointless…he was lost to slumber.

The iron vice on her heart unclenched for the first time in five weeks, one day, four hours and thirteen minutes.

We're gonna be okay, Booth, she whispered. And she meant it.

It would just take some time.