Even though this is a prequel to Pie, it is unrelated enough for people to understand this fic without reading it.

***

Cemetery

When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed.

The first thing my clouded brain registered was the clean, spotless ceiling above my body, the second was the number of bandages covering my limbs. Finally, after a thorough look around the room, my gaze fell on Angela's slumbering form resting in an uncomfortable chair, her head lolling tiredly upon Hodgins' shoulder.

"Angela? Hodgins?" I whispered. My voice was too weak and hoarse for my liking.

Something was wrong. Something was missing. What was missing?

"Sweetie? You woke up?" Angela mumbled groggily as Hodgins gently shook her awake.

"Where's Booth?" I asked without thinking.

Booth, yes, something was wrong with Booth. Something bad happened to him. Where was he? Why were Angela and Hodgins the only ones here? Shouldn't Booth be pacing up and down restlessly, badgering the doctors about my state? Maybe he went home. Maybe he's absolutely fine, nothing happened to him, he's...

Angela started sobbing.

I closed my eyes. I was correct. Booth had died.

***

People say when you die, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. But people are as wrong about that as they are about everything. Yes, I was spared during the explosion, but in my opinion my present existence is equivalent to death. And all I ever saw was the suspect, running ahead of us. All I heard was Booth, trailing behind, yelling at me to stop. He must have seen or heard something I never took time to notice, because an instant later I was surprised to find he had pinned me to the ground, covering me completely with his heavy frame. His body was too close for comfort, I could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. I could feel his heartbeat. I almost laughed to disperse the awkwardness of the position, yet my laughter quickly died in my throat when I realized his eyes were closed.

A bright white light engulfed my vision. There were no happy memories passing before my eyes, no images from the past to distract me from the heat, only a big, all-consuming white light. Who knows, maybe the light actually came from heaven, not a bomb, and some clichés are true after all.

Interestingly, I never told my memories to anyone. I simply let the moment play over and over in my mind until I became unbearably weary of the pain it brought, yet it restlessly haunted me and I was powerless to stop Booth from occupying my every waking hour. Talking could possibly give me relief, but if I talked to Sweets, he would try to analyze me. If I talked to Angela, she would cry, and I didn't have the strength to hurt her needlessly with my memories. The hurt is my own. I couldn't talk to Hodgins because he hovered around Angela constantly, and the last thing I wanted was see them worry about me behind my back. Sadly, I no longer trusted Max or Russ quite enough to talk to either of them yet. On the other hand, I most likely fabricated these fallacious reasons to convince myself I had no other choice but visit Booth again.

Talking to Booth will never be enough, never be as good as the real thing. Still, it gives me temporary respite until I wake up the next day, realizing like each morning that he is gone and won't come back. I felt safe was when I was on the floor, in his arms, his presence enveloping me and keeping me alive, and have never felt safe since.

After his death, I started work as soon as humanely possible, or at least as soon as Cam would allow, and tried to forget Booth by drowning him out with my work, making him and my constant sorrow disappear momentarily. It was stupid. I followed this tactic for a few months until one afternoon, while furiously finishing my last book, I realized I could barely remember his voice.

It scared me.

Instead of staying at the Jeffersonian until the security guards politely kicked me out, which was how my evenings generally ended, I hurried away directly after work. I had a surprisingly large amount of new messages on my recording machine, the majority of them left by an anxious Angela, but none remained from Booth.

I had to hear Booth's voice again. It was utterly irrational to be so terrified of forgetting someone's voice, and the idea of Booth talking back to me was insane, but I drove as quickly as I could all the same.

This is the reason why I visited the cemetery for the first time after the funeral. Simply to hear his voice again.

I stood awkwardly in front of the plain white tombstone, feeling extremely dumb.

Someone had left flowers on his grave. Maybe they were from Ange, Rebbecca, Jared. I didn't know.

I didn't have the courage to come before, too busy pretending nothing was wrong, knowing I was unable to fool anyone and particularly not myself. His second funeral had been a much more horrible experience than the first one, especially since this time he never showed up alive and well, looking as handsome in his uniform as ever, gallantly letting me punch him to the ground to vent out my frustration.

Many more mourners attended the service, including Booth's entire extended family from Pennsylvania, and there were numerous ex-girlfriends dabbing their cheeks with wads of tissues. I saw Tessa in the crowd, though she failed to recognize me. I saw Cullen, whom we had all lost contact with after his daughter's death and his consequent retirement. I saw some of Booth's old army buddies behind Jared and his father, who were both sober for once. Booth's Pops stood at a reasonable distance from them.

I will never forget the terrified expression on Parker's face when he saw me for the first time that day. "Bones," he whispered after the initial shock subsided, "What happened to you?" Rebbecca hurriedly apologized and chided the poor boy for his bluntness. Parker continued to stare as they walked away, his eyes filled with pure fear. He started crying, and ignored anyone who attempted to shut him up. He'd refused to believe his father's death, reminding everyone how very wrong the television had been last time. But if it was possible for Bones' face to be disfigured, it was also possible for daddy to be dead, wasn't it?

It's then that I started feeling guilty. A perfectly illogical reaction, but a strong one nonetheless. Why was I alive? Why did Booth save me when he so deserved to live?

"Hi Booth," I told the grave. I had promised Booth I would talk to him once in a while. Now that I was here and he was gone, I felt pathetic and very, very lonely.

"I miss you, Booth. We all do."

Of course I missed him. How could I not? He had slowly infiltrated every aspect of my life these past few years.

"I feel a little silly, standing here talking to a tombstone."

Well, I had promised him I would come. The least I could do was stand here after desperately trying to forget how much he had slowly infiltrated every aspect of my life these past few years.

"I miss arguing with you, sometimes. Car rides became quite lonely without your constant chatter in my ears."

Just arguing out of habit, neither of us really caring who's right or wrong, and bringing up completely stupid points because neither one of us wants to lose the argument. Now on the plus side, there are no more fights over who gets to drive.

"I tried to forget you by working overtime. I know you wouldn't have liked that. I'm sorry, I promise I'll stop working such long hours, and I'll remember to eat even though you aren't here to drag me out anymore."

Working like a maniac is not a healthy way to grieve, that's for sure. If Angela could be as effective at forcing busy forensic anthropologists to eat lunches, things would be much easier.

"I think I might have forgotten your voice. Isn't that awful?"

It's not that easy to forget somebody's voice. It'll probably come back soon enough, when you aren't thinking about it.

"I'm writing my last book. And you know what? Andy Ryan really is based on you. I can finally admit it. I hope you're glad."

It's not very surprising, everybody knows that already. I guess it's a nice thing to say anyway.

I paused for a moment, listening to the peacefulness of the graveyard, soaking in the light of the dwindling sun. I sighed.

"I'm scared Parker will hate me when he grows up. Do you think he will resent me? I'm alive, you're dead, and you saved me only to get yourself killed in the process."

Parker is a nice kid though, he'll understand. He could never hate somebody for such a cruel reason.

"I feel guilty too, you know? I feel very guilty. I should have died with you. Or you should have ducked and survived, but you had to save me, didn't you? You had to save me, and be your usual heroic self, and leave me behind just like everyone else always leaves me behind. This is the second time I had to go to your funeral because you saved my life, Booth! Do you know how painful it is?" I was yelling at the tombstone by then. "I wish you'd let me die, I do, I really do! Why should I be alive without you, Booth? You still had so much life in front of you, you had to watch Parker grow up and watch him get married and, and kiss your grandchildren, and interrogate suspects to arrest the murderers, and hug me when I cry, and... and I've got nobody to hug me when I cry anymore, Booth, do you know that?"

No, that's not true. Angela's more than willing to hug you if you'd only let her. And you still got plenty to live for, believe me, you shouldn't feel guilty about any of this. You have to give victims their faces back, and their identities back, you have to strangle the suspects who try to run away, and you also have to finish your last best-selling book, all that good stuff. Plus, your family loves you whether you care or not, the squints, and Max and Russ, they all love you and the way you're workin' like a crazy woman right now is making them worried like hell. And, well, you know I couldn't just let you die, right? I couldn't just duck behind something, I could either try to save you or we could both stupidly die for no reason. I know it was harsh to leave you behind and I'm sorry it turned out this way, but I'm glad you're alive, Bones. You really, really deserve to be alive, okay? So for Christ's sake, don't do anything stupid. It'd be pretty pointless if you killed yourself after I went through all that trouble to save you.

Only then did I realize the annoying voice talking back to me sounded exactly like Booth. Hearing his voice again brought me unspeakable relief, even if it was in my head, which likely meant I'd finally become demented with grief. Even so, his voice sounded familiar and reassuring, and although every single word he spoke was a figment of my imagination I almost started to believe the entire conversation was real.

And he called me Bones. No one called me Bones anymore.

"I miss you, Booth," I confessed.

I miss ya too, Bones.

"Did you love me? I wish I had asked. Sometimes I saw that glint in your eyes, and that smile, and I wasn't sure... Even if you didn't love me, at least I wouldn't be so deep in incertitude. And even if we eventually broke up without talking to each other again like so many couples always do, it seems almost better than never knowing if you loved me back. I should have asked you when I still had a chance, instead letting my fear..."

I loved you, Bones. I'll always love you. Don't ever doubt that. Even if in the end you think you don't deserve to live, that your life is pointless, or that what I'm telling you is just some screwed up daydream your brain made up because of your depression, don't ever doubt that I loved you and I always will whether you believe it or not.

"Really?"

Yeah.

"Thank you."

No problem.

"I hope you're in a nice place. Maybe heaven or some similar religious nonsense."

I am, Bones, don't worry about me. Just keep on livin'. Try to be happy for me, all right? You know you gotta move on eventually. I know you love me too, but you can't live the rest of your life pining over me.

And even though I still wish I had died with of him, even though I couldn't possibly accept the idea that the voice in my head was truly Booth communicating with me from beyond the grave, I knew he had loved me. It was a bittersweet revelation, but it nevertheless brought me comfort. Booth loves me. However empty and hollow it might be to reach this conclusion months after his death, I could still live on, knowing a wonderful man had once loved me back. Loved me enough to die twice.

I looked up then, and above the neat rows of headstones, there was a sunset. A beautiful, glorious, ironic sunset. The small amount of solace I garnered from Booth's voice seemed to immediately vanish into the darkening sky. I closed my eyes against the cold mocking light, unable to bear the sensation of something deep inside me slowly being ripped into shreds by the deeming but still radiant beams of sunshine. At that moment, I understood how hearts can be broken.

"All beauty is transient and of the moment," Angela told me once.
"Like a sunset is beautiful."

How right she had been.

I opened my eyes as the sun slipped away on the horizon. In a way, I had shared this beautiful moment with Booth, right? But Angela was wrong after all, those fragile instants of beauty were not enhanced by the presence of a loved one, they simply were simply rendered meaningless when the person you want to share them with is no longer by your side. Just like everything else, every lonely morning, every car ride, every sentence in my new book, every lost opportunity seemed to bring me misery after Booth left me. I wanted to be with Booth. I wanted to share a sunset with Booth. I don't know why, but the knowledge that I never would was more intolerable than anything else.

I sank down. I didn't have enough strength to stand up. The grass was prickly and slightly wet beneath my weary body. I rested my head on the cold white stone, letting the tears fall freely from my eyes and watching them roll down the cool surface while I traced the smooth carved name with my fingers. It was cold, while Booth's embrace had always been warm.

I remain unsure how long I stayed there, sprawled and crying on top of a tombstone until Angela came to pick me up. I have no clue how she knew where I was. I should definitely be more grateful for Angela. She hugged me.

From then on, I searched for memories everywhere. I desperately gathered the half-forgotten moments of happiness we had shared, as beautiful and transient and bygone as the setting sun. I treasured them, no matter how mundane and insignificant they were. Jasper the pig, my mother's earrings, mistletoe, Thai food, pie, colorful socks... I lovingly recalled all those little things I had ignored or found annoying about him when he was still alive, like the crinkles around his eyes when he grinned, the tiny dimple on his chin, the stubble that grew on his face when he went on without shaving, the coffee he brought me almost every morning, the way he dragged me out of my office every time we had a case, the way he helped me put on my coat, the genuine happiness in his brown eyes when they smiled back at mine. Seeking those small fragments of our years together became an unhealthy obsession, but it was better than working myself to death.

Booth is right, I will keep on living. It's not the first time I've had to move on. My parents left me, my brother left me, Zack left me, even Booth has left me once before. I can move on, I've done it, I can do it again. I have to.

But why does it seem so much more difficult this time?