Author's note: I woke up Saturday morning with a theory about that infamous Hart Hanson comment that "the sex was real" and that there were clues in the episode towards that. So, I watched the episode again and again (which I would any way, LOL) and I notice one little thing: that when Booth is asleep in his bed, the image frames an alarm clock that reads 4:47. Nothing strange about that except that, after he had sex with Brenn, the camera movement is repeated but the alarm clock this times reads 0543. I don't know about your alarm clock, but mine always spells the time in the same combination of numbers... which got me thinking that the scene where they awake up and the scene where they have sex is not one and the same thing. There is something missing.

No one told us that there is a straight time line between The Critic in the Cabernt and The End in the Begining... this is my theory.

Thank you to MickeyBoggs for her proof reading and her kind comments.

And I will thank you if you let me know what you think about what you are about to read.

NOTE 2: I had to repost this chapter as, stupidly, I did not check that the changes from my beta had been accepted. Silly, silly Jane!

Jane

The end in the beginning

"Who are you?"

It was a fairly well known fact that her brain was an over-used, over-developed part of her body. So when she managed to get past the physical pain of hearing those words from Booth's mouth, past the agony of holding in the scream that wanted to be heard, Brennan detached from herself and watched- as if she had been a third person in that room- and witnessed that tattered, brittle, poor Brennan as the air escaped her lungs at the physical pain of it, as her bladder contracted and spasmed painfully, as her eyes welled in tears that didn't quite fall, as her limbs went cold and then numb until she couldn't move. She analyzed every though as she thought it: from the first, near hysterical You're just trying to get rid of me- even thinking back to all the times she'd been dumped in her life, searching, looking for a pattern, then a hopeful stop joking, Booth, it's not funny followed by the somehow less painful, more clinical severe unexpected reaction to the anesthetic- thinking back to that first Christmas of theirs, quarantined at the lab, when he had reacted to the antiviral drugs with sensory and visual hallucinations.

The third person Brennan watched as her face melted into a sad, miserable smile, felt the muscles of the face lose all elasticity as that smile faded and her face froze into a mask of acute loss, as her thoughts came to a screeching alt. Booth did not remember her. He could not remember their last four years together; he couldn't remember the good or the bad; he couldn't remember killing or dying for her; he couldn't remember all that he and he alone knew about her; he couldn't say who she was. He couldn't remember kissing her.

He couldn't remember making love to her.

Of all the ways she had always feared losing Booth, this had never been a foreseeable scenario. She twirled her mother's ring around her finger, feeling the burden of love.

"Bones. I'm your Bones." There was no flicker of recognition on his face, no spark of understanding, no smile. Just a blank gaze, empty of Booth.

People did things for love she was only beginning to understand. The only one of those things she knew well was to hold herself together and keep standing.

"I'll get your doctor" And she walked out of that room where she could still hear the shattering of her heart, of her hopes, echoing, reverberating from the walls.

**********************

She had walked that same corridor a week before, her knees threatening to give in under her, her mind racing blankly. She would have given anything to believe in God then, to be able to have faith or to pray or to do any of the things people do when they are scared shitless out of their wits. To be able to put his life in stronger hands than those of a human surgeon. She had walked the corridors silently, holding on to Booth's arm, not entirely sure if she was trying to hold him steady to just to trying to keep herself standing upright. All the time she had always thought she had, all the things with Booth she had taken for granted had suddenly vanished, sublimated from her hands, that solidity, that permanence of him in her life. She had walked with a sense of impending doom, knowing that if only she were a better person, she would be supporting him, offering him comfort, telling him that everything was going to be OK, was going to turn out just fine. If only she could be a better person, she wouldn't be so worried about the devastating effects of losing him. She would be more worried about him, about the recital of doom and gloom the surgeon had made out of his disclaimer- the movement impairment, the speech impairment, the incontinence, the blindness, the paralysis. The catch-22 that was leaving that thing in him, growing, overtaking him, putting him danger.

They had walked those corridors, the clean shine of the light off every surface a threat rather than hope, the smell of disinfectant doom, not salvation. He had felt her fear. Who wouldn't, she chided herself. Anyone looking from the outside would have though she was one with a sword hanging over her head, not him. He had put his index finger under her chin and looked deep into her eyes and had told her "Hey Bones, it's gonna be OK. You know me: too stubborn to die." She had wanted to shake him, to impress on him the seriousness of the situation.

Booth had told the surgeon there and then that he wanted to go ahead with the surgery. He couldn't stand the though of being a danger to others, to her, to himself, to be less of man, less capable because that thing inside his head was heating away at his alertness, at his sense of self. Hallucinations were not company, were not visions from God. They were a handicap. A handicap that would soon stop him from working with her and he couldn't stand to have that removed from him. It was a vital part of him, like air or blood or food. He needed that operation; he needed a good result out of it. And he had faith that everything was going to be OK because whenever God sends you on a rocky path, He always sends you with strong shoes.

"Trust me, Bones, everything is going to turn out OK. Besides, think about it, you could be there. It would be an opportunity to see how a brain really works, even if it's just mine. Just promise you won't show me any photos." Brennan hadn't been able to laugh. She had wanted to. She had known that he expected her to smile, that he was trying to distract her. But she just couldn't carry out the pretense. The doctor had sent him home to think through his options and to give him time to reconsider. Surgery was always a life and death situation, not be taken lightly. "Discuss it with your wife," he'd said and had given Brennan a meaningful look. It had surprised both of them than neither had objected to the word. He put it down to her not hearing it.

"There's nothing to think about. Just get it out of me. Now." The sooner the better. Before he lost all his courage, all his bravado.

"Think about it, Booth. It's benign. You can have a few weeks to think about it."

"I don't need weeks Bones."

"The odds, Booth..."
"Screw the odds."

The doctor had intervened. "The sooner the better, Mrs. Booth. The tumor is at a growing stage. As it grows, it minimizes the chances of a damage-free removal." Brennan was sure that he was again reciting damages. The man was obsessed with minute explanations. He needed a Booth to tell him that less was sometimes more, that blunt honesty is not a gift.

They walked out of the office with the surgery scheduled. She had 28 hours left. She had hated the knife-happy surgeon, hated him with all her strength. There had to be something else they could do, something that did not involve cutting into him, putting him at that risk. And he wasn't giving her any research time. She wanted to call up on all her acquaintances, all her colleagues, call in all favors, all polite offers, pull out all stops. 28 hours was nothing. Not nearly enough time.

"C'mon, Bones, lets get a hot cuppa joe... maybe some pie. Could be my last pie..." She inhaled sharply and released his hand, the one she'd been holding onto since the surgeon had mentioned surgery. He could hear her heart thrumming in her chest and see the panic in her eyes. "Oh, c'mon, Bones, just joking...". She couldn't breathe. And she hated him for it. For joking about it, for not taking it seriously, for having her heart in his hands and not know about it. She held on to the rage to keep herself standing.

"Give me the keys, Booth!"

"What?"

"GIVE. ME. THE. KEYS. BOOTH." Her hand signaled urgently towards him and the SUV. "NOW" He tossed her the keys.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to stand here arguing this with you. I'm going to prove it to you and to that dinosaur of a surgeon that there are other options, that you don't need to do this. And I only have 27 hours and 40 minutes to do it. And I won't waste any more of those minutes with your stupid jokes." Her foot pressed on the gas and there was squeal of the tires and the sound of gravel against the underside of the car. She pulled out of the neat parking space with sudden, jerky movements and drove towards her apartment with an absolutely focused attitude that had Booth slightly terrified that he might not survive the journey to face the operation. She pulled over at the door of her building not bothering with the no parking signs or the malevolent looks of the dog walker she had forced off of the sidewalk with her sudden maneuver. She left the car, banged the door after her and walked towards his side of the car where he was still holding on to the seat.

"Bones, I..."

"It's OK, Booth, I'll talk to you when I've figured this out." Hastily, she pressed a kiss against his hand holding onto the door of the car. "I'll see you soon." And she darted off.

***************

She had burned the midnight oil. She had logged on to the journals of medicine- American, Canadian, French and English, surfed through alternative medicine sites- only to dismiss them as unscientific- called up various colleagues, friends and friends of friends, called up favors and bullied people into helping. She had perused her medical library, made notes and diagrams, consulted with biochemists and doctors, nurses and cancer survivors. She had built up her hopes and had them crushed several times over. Then she looked at the clock. She had seven hours till she had to take him to the hospital. And not a single thing she could be absolutely sure could be done instead of the surgery. She gave herself 2 minutes to cry her frustration and her fears out. It surprised her that her eyes refused to shed tears.

It was 4 in the morning. She walked to her closet and tried to concentrate on choosing something feminine. She picked up the first thing that matched the requirement- a black skirt. She slipped on fresh underwear, stockings, heels, skirt and top automatically. She drove to his apartment, climbed the familiar steps, looked under the mat for the spare key and let herself in. Her heels clicked on the floor. She stopped by the couch and looked around her, at all the familiar objects, so familiar they could be her own.

Suddenly it was clear, so clear why she was there and what she was going to do. So clear what she wanted to hear from him. So clear it was blinding. She unzipped her skirt and let it drop, slipped off her shoes and padded to the bedroom. 4.47. His bedside table lamp was on, bathing him in a small amber light. His body, half wrapped in his gray sheets radiated warmth. As she moved into the room his senses alerted him to her. She climbed into bed and moved close to him. The clarity brought upon by impending loss all but blinding. In that eighth of a second all the clues of the last four years fell miraculously into place and her question was almost a statement.

"Do you love me?"

"Yeah..." And his hands held on to her. It took him an eighth of a second to understand it was no hallucination, that it was really her climbing into his bed, the reply at the ready. "Do you want me to prove it to you?" It was a miracle in itself, that radiant, tired smile of hers, that warmth that emanated from her, through her skin, through her eyes, from her smile and the sound of her husky chuckle.

"If you're not too tired." God, it had taken him so long to just give in and now she had knocked out his grossly indifferent, inappropriate line in less than a heart beat. He held her face in his hands and rolled over her, where he had always dreamed he would see her, her checks flushed, her eyes sparkling full of the emotion that had brought her to him in the dead of night. And it was as true then has it had always been, that love, good, honest, free, the love of man for a woman, of a friend, a brother, a guardian. His heart swelled with pride and joy and his hands held her face for a kiss. He wasn't in rush, but she was. She pulled at her black top and offered him a view of her breasts, of her lacy underwear, of her smooth neck and that dimple at the base of her neck that he had coveted for so long. It was his undoing. He took hold of her mouth and devoured and plundered to his heart's content, lost in her heat, in her sweetness, in the energy they created together. It was right that she should be there; it was just that he should love her. And it was amazing that this wonderful creature had chosen him to lavish affection on. He was momentarily distracted by the gleam in her eyes, that lively spark of blue.

She took that moment to roll over him and sprawl over his wide chest, to feel his arousal pressing against her belly. Her hands took over him, sliding up and down his well-toned arms and chest and legs, making sure that it was really him, that she was not sharing his hallucinations. The heat of want came down on her, fast, pressing, imperative. She could have very well made plans for how to do this with Booth. Such was her nature. When she was nervous, she planned. But nothing had prepared her for the blank that descended on her brain hand in hand with that greed for him, for his touch, for the feel of him inside her. So she surrendered to the inevitable.

His hands pulled at her panties, marveling at the smooth touch of the lace, at the silk of her skin. His member pushed at the center of her, unwilling to wait for her nakedness. She gave him that brilliant smile of hers, half victory, half love and her legs parted to allow him closer.

That pressure of his against her core was maddening, burning, demanding. That same hand of hers that had been playing with his mouth suddenly pushed under him, reached between them and grabbed at his hardness. She stroked him once, twice, guiding him to her little bundle of nerves, still hidden by the black lacy panties, teasing him into standing to attention, inviting more and more attention, making him want more arms so that he could touch all of her at the same time

"I want you so much," she crooned on the crook of his neck, her voice nearly fading under the weight of the fever that consumed them both. And that did it for him. All his good intentions of making that first time last for a century flew out of the window, evaporated in the air and his hand reached for the panties, pulling and tugging at them, and suddenly he was no more than a horny teenager learning how to touch a girl. She laughed again, at his impatience. This much she was positive: that they knew each other so well, that they had shared into each other's thoughts for so long that when they came together like this it would be smooth and natural- as if they had been married for a lifetime.

He loved the sound of her laughter. Any shade of it, even the small smiles, the silent, shy ones. "I love it when you do that."

She did too. That he was the one she wanted to save all her smiles for. She slid her hand to her panties and helped him pull the barrier down. She opened herself to him in invitation. She wanted to look straight into his eyes as he slid inside her. She wanted him to know that honest-to-god truth- that they were together- as much now as through all that was coming, that they would face whatever laid ahead like this, holding each other tight.

Booth saw it, read it in her eyes, that promise that he wouldn't ask her to make but that she would certainly fulfill. The emotion was too strong. Too many good things to know at the same time. He hid his tearing eyes in the crook of her neck.

"Look at me Booth. I want to see you inside me. Look at me. I love you."

There are times when words are superfluous. Mostly, when we have all the time in the world to show how we mean them. And then again, there are more pressing times, mere hours before life and death events. Times that come after years of denial- of all that makes you what you are. "I love you too, Bones. My Bones." And then words need to be said, because there is the urgency that comes from impending loss, the need to condense in a single moment all that the years have promised you but may not deliver.

In one wonderfully simple moment, Seeley Booth slid inside Temperance Brennan's body. They both looked deep into the other's eyes and knew the truth of it, that they were meant to be together. That it was the beginning of something new for them. He stayed very still for one second. Too many good things at the same time- her warmth, her tightness, her blue, blue eyes, her sweet breath on his face, her hands gripping his muscles because she too was trying to keep up with so many good feelings. As they had for 4 years before, they moved together, finding their rhythm together smoothly, easily, skin against skin, warmth against warmth. They built together in a wave of energy that fed on itself, a dynamo that both accumulated and dispensed energy.

As her body heated and flushed and tightened, bracing itself for the impending orgasm, the fleeting thought that she was off contraceptives crossed her mind. That she had asked him to father her child because it was the second best thing. Second best to this. And that thought morphed into another- that they were together, and that was like an echo that threw her over the precipice of her impending orgasm: together, together, together.

As her body spasmed and contracted, as she fell like Alice into wonderland, she gripped Booth's arms, holding on to the one solid, steady thing in her life. He saw as she fell and jumped with her, her contracting walls demanding that he did so, his seed exploding from his body, sowing itself on her waiting warmth.

Booth pulled her into his arms as they caught their breaths, their chests rising and falling in tandem.

When you love someone, you open yourself up to suffering. That's the sad truth. Maybe they'll break your heart. Maybe you'll break theirs and never be able to look at yourself the same way. Those are the risks. That's the burden.

Like wings, they have weight. We feel that weight on our backs. But they are a burden that lifts us, burdens that allow us to fly.

She woke up with daylight, the sense that time was running out pushing away at the sense of wholeness, at the ineffable sense of peace. She thought of cooking them breakfast. To condense a whole life of normality in a single morning before his surgery. Instead, she sat in bed and watched him sleep.

*****************

Brennan knew that their friends, their family were all waiting in the room down the hall. She knew that they needed the reassurance, the certainty that Booth was going to be OK. As she walked down the corridor, she heard their voices, hushed, tense, clipped.

"They're getting a second opinion." Her heart broke again.

She stopped by the door trying to get herself in check again. No use crying in front of them, adding that burden to theirs. She took a deep breath and walked in.

"I want you all to know that, statistically, he should be fine..." She felt it, pity, compassion, companionship flowing from them. And she couldn't deal with it. Not without wallowing and crying. Not without making a fool of herself. Not without sharing their new beginning with them. Not without adding to their burden. "This is not about me" and she skivvied [LB1] from the hugs, the kind words, keeping herself seemingly together.

*************

She avoided looking into the centre of all the action in the OR. She couldn't cope. She had been awake when the doctor had removed the bullet from her arm, strangely fascinated by her flexing muscles exposed to her naked eye. But at that moment, she felt bashful. She couldn't quite look into Booth's exposed brain. It felt like she was invading his privacy. It was silly, she told herself, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling off. When the monitors started beeping alarmingly, when the doctors looked at each other in confusion, she could have put her head through a wall. Booth had trusted her to check that they were doing a good job. Perhaps, if she had been looking, she could have seen this coming, perhaps she could have stopped it.

How irrational.

****************

The guilt did not recede when the doctor explained the reaction to the anesthetic. It was just more irrational. She sat by his side and waited. Waited through the long hours of twilight, waited though the breaking dawn and through noon. There was no telling how long it would take him. That coma was his body protecting itself, the surgeon explained when she rounded on him during one of his rounds. She wanted to believe that he would awake up. But as noon faded into dusk and the night became alive with the city lights and Booth remained asleep she had to find a way of seeing herself through the waiting. She wasn't going home. She wasn't going anywhere until he woke up. There was no way she was going to be out of that room when he woke up. And that could be at any moment. "Any moment", the surgeon had promised.

*************

Angela and Cam brought food and coffee, clean clothes and her laptop. The food remained untouched, the coffee was gulped down. The clothes took a little persuading. "Sweetie, those pants are walking on their own, now." As the two women left the room, she picked up the laptop and stared at it for the longest time. She opened a blank document, unsure what was exactly that she wanted or needed to do. She just didn't want to fall asleep. Not when he could wake up at any time. She closed her irritated and red-rimmed eyes for a second. There was only one thing she wanted to do: to be back in Booth's bed, her bed now, snuggle against his warm, firm body and wake up like any normal couple. Just wake up and go on with the beginning of that new stage of her life. Forget that those 21 hours before deciding to go there had been the darkest moments of her life.

In the darkest moments before dawn, a woman returns to her bed. What life is she leading? Is it the same life the woman was leading half an hour ago? A day ago? A year ago?

Hardly. Her neat, organized little chaos of a life had been thrown out of kilter as the center of that life spun between surgical aids and props.

Who is this man?

Are they living separate lives or was it a single life shared?

Brennan sighed observing the comatose Booth. That was the X of the question. For all the lines, for all the others included in their life, they were the center, one entity. But one entity that split to go home alone out of fear.

**************

Peace enveloped her as she wrote. She wasn't there anymore, in that sterile hospital room waiting for Booth to wake up. She went back to the best decision of her life, to their first time, changing it, for luck, into just one more time of uncountable happy times.

That nearly fictional Brenn of hers walked into the room, shedding clothes and shoes as she moved into the room towards her heart, the same amber light bathing the same Booth. A knock on the door awakes them. 0543.

Right at that moment, she believed in luck. She was happy, she had all her little ducklings around her and she could take care of all of them and fix the knot of the tie of man she loved. She had never seen death up close and the only thing to worry about was the money issue. She was happy. There were happy endings with babies for good people.

She fell asleep happy, leaning against the wall.

****************

Deep in his healing sleep, Booth dreamed back to the only significant event of life in the last 4 years, as she slid into his bed, into his arms. He dreamed of being happy and having their wonky family all under his wing, protected, safe. Of seeing his baby growing inside her.

Are they living separate lives or was it a single life shared?

***********************

The first sign of the storm is not a thunder clap.

No, there had been no thunder clap to give warning. There had been no gun shots, no crazed serial killers, no car accidents, no relocations, no relationships with other women. The first sign of the storm had been a man silently opening his eyes. "So real. It felt so real". And it was a silently devastating storm with all the fury of the natural elements condensed into three short words. "Who are you?"

It was the end of their little beginning.