Remember me? It's been a while, I know, but this is another good ole "How they got together" Bones story. I really needed a happy place in the middle of the mad world we're currently living in, and it doesn't get much happier than BB, does it? This story is an alternate take on "Critic in the Cabernet".
THE ECHOES THAT REMAINED
I. Tabula Rasa
People say you only live once.
In the days and nights following his surgery, Temperance Brennan was acutely aware of that fact.
One life. One jagged line on the monitor, one beeping sound. One nurse every few hours checking his vitals, checking on her as well.
One thought gripping her heart, crushing it with brutal force. What if he died?
She spent hours watching his handsome face, willing him to open his eyes. It wasn't rational, but she couldn't stop. He couldn't die while she was guarding his coma, could he? She only left when they came to wash him, alternately grabbing a quick shower or something to eat.
At the edge of her perception she realized others every now and then. Angela, Sweets. They weren't important, though, and it was hard to focus on them.
Only he was important, he and the eyes that wouldn't open.
People say you only live once. You could say the same for dying. Although, technically, that wasn't true because he had already died on her once before. She remembered the sticky feeling of his blood running through her fingers, the sight of his eyes glazing over. She remembered the empty vastness of her soul thereafter.
Statistically, he should be fine.
Why, oh why was it so hard to find solace in that fact?
-BONES-
"Can I interest you in an amuse-bouche?"
The younger man ogled the dark mousse suspiciously.
"Ah, don't be afraid, Dr. Sweets, it's never too late to sensitize the palate to culinary subtleties."
"Well... what it this anyways?"
"Squid ink mousse."
"Eh, Dude, no. Just an omelet, please."
Gordon Gordon pursed his lips.
"You're missing out, young friend, you're missing out."
"Maybe. No regrets, though."
The kitchen came alive with the comforting sounds of cooking.
"So, how is he?" the older man finally asked while cracking some eggs with one hand.
His companion sighed.
"You heard about it, then?"
"Don't be ridiculous. It's Agent Booth we're talking about."
"He's still in a coma. The surgery was successful, but he had some kind of weird reaction to the anesthesia."
"And the prognosis?"
Sweets shrugged.
"He should be fine. But it's been three days."
"So, how's Dr. Brennan coping?"
"What do you think?"
The older man put onion and mushroom slices into a pan, stirring them for a while before adding the scrambled eggs.
"I imagine she's not leaving his side while refusing to talk to you," he finally said, and Sweets nodded vehemently.
"Yes!"
"I also imagine her behavior frustrates you."
"Hell yes! I'm their therapist. I could help. If only she opened up to me. Do you know that she asked him to father her child?"
The omelet was turned around expertly.
"That's interesting indeed."
"No, that's crazy."
Gordon Gordon arranged the omelet on a plate and placed it in front of Sweets.
"It's crazy for some people, indeed. I believe Dr. Brennan is having a hard time staying rational right now. As for the baby... My guess would be that her brain couldn't keep up with the growing urge to connect with Booth. Therefore, she translated it into something she could understand. The desire to procreate is as old as mankind. It makes sense. And having a child together, merging your own cells with someone else's – that is a great deal of closeness. And it's not as fragile as love. Agent Booth accepted, right?"
"How do you know that? This omelet is fantastic, by the way."
"Thank you. Sometimes the easy answer is the correct one. He accepted because he wants her to be happy."
"Man, I just hope he wakes up soon."
Gordon Gordon sighed.
"Me too, young friend, me too."
-BONES-
There was light. It hurt behind his eyelids.
He wiggled a finger, trying to remember anything about his whereabouts or the splitting headache, but came up with nothing. A beeping noise.
A hospital. Was he in a hospital?
He wiggled his feet, relieved that he had control over his limbs.
Had he been in an accident? He tried to remember, but his mind stayed blank.
After a short while of pondering, he decided that the logical next step would be to open his eyes. Forcing his eyelids open cost him the strength of many men.
A groan left his lips, alerting the person sitting next to his bed, and then he realized a few things at once.
He was in a hospital.
He loved the woman next to his bed with his whole heart.
Even though he had no idea who she was.
And he had no idea who he was.
Shit.
"Booth! Booth, you're awake!"
Her pale blue eyes focused on him, and it was like summer rain after a scorching day. He didn't know her name, but she was so utterly familiar that something inside of him calmed down instantly.
She reached for his hand, and he looked at her milky-white skin covering his darker one, automatically making space between his fingers for hers. Her touch sent a reassuring stream of warmth through his body, and his gaze flickered back to the face that had calmed him.
"Your operation was a success, but you reacted poorly to the anesthesia. You've been in a coma for the past four days," she said, and dizziness overwhelmed him.
Operation? Coma?
"Who," he licked his lips. "Who are you?"
Her beautiful face fell.
"What do you mean? Booth?"
"And who am I?"
He could see fear in her eyes, hurt and confusion. She tried to pull her hand away, but he clasped it tightly.
"Please, I don't mean to hurt you. I know that I know you. I..." His voice trailed off. "My name is Booth?"
She nodded, and he saw tears forming in her eyes.
"You're Special Agent Seeley Joseph Booth. You work for the FBI. You're a former Ranger. You've got a son, his name is Parker and he is eight. You're separated from his mother, but you're a great father." A single tear slid down her cheek. "You like the Flyers, God, cartoons and you play hockey."
His voice was soft, when he spoke.
"And you are?"
"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work for the Jeffersonian Institution. I'm a forensic anthropologist specialized in identifying human remains. We work together. I'm your partner. You... you call me 'Bones'."
She finally choked on her words, and he tugged at her hand.
"Come here."
She fell into his arms with a sob, pressing her face into the curve of his neck without hesitation. He wrapped one arm around her back, the other curled around her nape. Everything about holding her was so familiar; the weight of her, her scent, her curves pressed against his chest and the silkiness of her auburn hair under his palm.
"Bones..." He tasted the word on his tongue. "I get the reference, but, uh, that's not exactly a flattering nickname, is it?"
She stiffened in his arms.
"You really don't remember?"
"I remember that I trust you."
"That's not exactly the same, isn't it?"
Her voice was tiny in his ear, and he wanted to hold her forever.
"We should alert a doctor," she finally said, and he knew that she was right.
"Just... promise me one thing?"
She made an affirmative sound.
"Don't give up on me. Help me. Please."
Pressing her nose deeper into his neck, she inhaled slowly, once more, before disentangling herself from this man that was her partner but wasn't.
-BONES-
Memory is the area of the brain by which data or information is encoded, stored and retrieved. In the days following his coma, Booth found out that his brain was still doing a mighty fine job encoding, storing and even retrieving new information, just the rest of the retrieval part was broken somehow. There was a constant flow of doctors and tests and friendly but worried faces. Retrograde amnesia, they said, not uncommon after a brain tumor.
She was there for most of the tests, his Bones woman, and even though he wanted her around, the sadness on her face made him sad, too. He felt as if he'd failed her somehow by losing his memory.
A psychologist came to see him, two actually. Booth preferred the older one because he brought the most delicious pie with him. Pie. Did he like pie? He made a mental note to ask her about it.
He also had a video chat with the curly-haired boy called Parker. Booth hoped that he had played the "recovering dad role" to the boy's satisfaction, but aside from a faint flicker of rightness, nothing had happened in his poorly wired brain.
Others came by, coworkers, friends, they said, but after a few days, Booth got tired of reliving the same story of disappointment over and over again.
Not all was dire, though. The wound in his skull was healing nicely, and it seemed as if the surgery had been successful regarding removing his tumor. That was a relief, even though he couldn't remember said tumor in the first place. There were things he knew as well, instinctively and intimately so. He knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that his body was his body. The curve of his chin was familiar as he followed it with a razor, and so was the sensation of running his fingers through his hair. He could master all of his bodily functions and even though the sight of his naked form brought no revelations, it didn't feel foreign either.
In the beginning, Booth spent some time googling retrograde amnesia, but he quickly stopped, as he found out that Temperance Brennan was way more efficient and reliable than a web search engine could ever be.
There was nothing she didn't know about his condition; no specialist she hadn't consulted, no case she hadn't looked into. He watched with amusement how she managed to offend doctor after doctor without even noticing it. She was fierce, he realized, she was meticulous. And she was willing to go the extra-mile for him, the extra-mile and then some. It made him wonder... was that something you do for a partner?
Three days after he'd woken up in this strange world, she presented her findings to him. She wore a white shirt and a brave face, but he could sense fear underneath her science and facts.
Bottom line was: His memory could come back or not. It could happen sooner or later... or never. She used a lot of big words, as she explained it to him, and she didn't sugarcoat anything.
And Booth realized that she dealt in facts, his Bones lady, not in hope.
To be continued...