"Bones," Booth whispered into the darkness of her bedroom. "Are you awake?" He stood in the doorway, trying not to feel like a creeper for letting himself into her apartment- her bedroom- at 2 in the morning.
"Why are you here, Booth?" she murmured back from the direction of her bed, her voice scratchy from sleep. He noted with gratitude that she did not sound like she was about to kick his ass for breaking and entering, even though technically he did have a key.
"I-," he paused. Why was he here? "My apartment's a mess." Silence. Another pause. "You went there. While I was gone."
"How did you know it was me? And you came to tell me that your apartment was a mess?" she was waking up a bit, but even though she was more conscious, the reason for Booth's sudden presence wasn't becoming any clearer.
"Can I come in?" He was still standing in the doorway, and it made him uncomfortable knowing that she could see him due to the light of the hallway behind him but he couldn't see her.
"You already are in," she replied. She wasn't angry as she would've thought; she couldn't describe how she felt.
Booth took this as an invitation, shuffling in slowly so as not to bump anything. He felt the edge of the bed and sat down beside her, finally able to see her in the dark room.
"Why?" he asked her.
"Why what?" she feigned ignorance.
"You know what." He moved beside her, getting under the covers and facing her. It was funny how it felt so natural even though he'd never even seen what her bedroom looked like.
"I missed you. I felt closer to you there," she admitted.
"I thought you didn't care." It had been a fear of his, after seeing her at his funeral.
"Of course I cared. I cared too much." She knew it wasn't an accusation, it was an insecurity of his.
"Did you spend the night?" He already knew she had. He'd found some of her clothes strewn about the room and makeup on his bathroom counter. "Temperance," he begged.
"Yes."
He paused, not sure where he was going with this. He didn't even know why he was here. He had been in his apartment, taking in all the tissues in the living room and broken glass in the kitchen, her clothes in his bedroom, and then he'd been suddenly at her apartment.
"I found your letter," he told her, his voice barely audible. "And my apartment… I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"I know. It doesn't matter anymore. You're here now," she whispered.
"It does matter. If it had been you…" he stopped. He couldn't think about that. He heard her start to cry and looked over. He took her hand. "I knew that I was dead, but I guess I didn't understand what that meant till I saw the evidence of it."
"I thought I was never going to see you again," she squeaked out. "It was so final and then you were back and then it wasn't." He wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her to him as she started to cry harder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You were supposed to know."
"I know." She paused. "The letter… I wrote it a couple of nights later. I forgot about it. I didn't think you'd ever see it."
"We don't have to worry about it now."
"I'm so tired," she cried, and he knew she was tired more than just physically.
"Go to sleep, then," he sighed next to her ear.
"You'll stay?" For once she didn't care how vulnerable she sounded.
"I'm not going anywhere." And he meant it. He wasn't leaving ever again.