A/N: Oh my gosh! I think I've gotten more reviews/alerts/favorites for this story than for any other story I've ever written - do you know how amazing that makes me feel? Thank you soooooooo much to everyone who's reviewed/alerted/favorited me!

I've decided that odd-numbered chapters are going to be what's going on in the real world - where Bones is in the coma and Booth is talking to her - and even-numbered chapters will be what Bones sees while Booth is talking to her.

Brennan was severely confused – it was not a feeling she was particularly fond of. This place was familiar – the outside of the FBI building. She was here all the time, this time should not be special. But the time felt familiar also – like she had already lived through this, but was back as an observer on someone else's experiences in her own time.

She turned around slowly and caught sight of something nearly as familiar to her as breathing – her own form walking step for step with that of Booth, her head on his shoulder, her cream coat striking against his dark gray suit jacket. And suddenly she knew.

It was that night – or at least that's how she still referred to it in her own mind. That night when they had gone to confront Sweets about his book. And they talked. They talked all about that very first case, and their very first kiss, and she had realized that she'd stopped building walls where he was concerned. So when they walked outside, and he decided to play the gambler, to go all in, she was ready. Or she thought she was. But as soon as his lips met hers, her walls flew back up, for once not to keep people out – but to keep her in.

She watched her past self, the self so torn by those stupid walls, walk with Booth's past self. She watched him put her in a cab, watches him watch sadly as the cab takes off towards her lonely apartment. Her past self did not look back – she can see this pains her partner. What he did not know is that silent, painful tears had coursed down her face as she began again the process of tearing down her walls – in that instant, where she did not look back, she had been so torn between logic and love that her walls had become a prison instead of a fortress.

But her present self did not dwell on past events in her own life. Instead she followed Booth's past self, pain jarring her chest at the dejected slump of his shoulders and angry-yet-certain set of his jaw. He headed back towards his apartment, and furthering the impression that this was only a dream, she was there quickly, with no real explanation for how.

Booth grabbed a beer from the fridge and plopped down on the couch, but he made no move either to pop the cap of his beer or to turn on the television. He sat in silence for a few moments, staring blankly off into the middle distance, a look of pain etched into his features.

Words began to flow through Brennan's mind, words spoken in a whisper in Booth's familiar voice. She deduced that these were his thoughts, again accepting this as logical in the frame and context of a dream.

"Why on earth did I ever let myself listen to Sweets?" comes the whisper, "why did I ever think I wouldn't lose this gamble? She's not ready, I'm not sure she'll ever be ready…"

Brennan felt the same pain as early fill her chest again, and she wanted to yell, "You're the only one who can make me ready!" But she knew he could not hear her, and she watched silently, his jumbled thoughts almost one with her own.

Booth pulled his wallet from his pocket, flipped it open. Two pictures fell, fluttering gently to rest on the coffee table. One she knew was Parker – he'd shown it to her numerous times, it changed every year around October when school photos came out. But the other – she did not know he carried two photos in his wallet. She stepped closer, leaning over the back of the couch to see.

It was her – laughing at some long-forgotten joke, her hair long and loose around her shoulders, blue eyes sparkling merrily. Booth gazed at the photo, thumb caressing the already well-worn edge.

A sad smile softened Brennan's features as she watched him. He keeps a picture of me in his wallet, she thought, right next to that of his son.

The whisper of Booth's thoughts invaded her own again. "I told her I need to move on, to find someone who will love me…" the whisper trailed off, then came back full force.

"But I knew! I've always known, since that first case, that very first case…"

Brennan was no longer in Booth's apartment – now she was in a rather familiar lecture classroom at American University. Her past self stood upon the lecture platform, bodies in various stages and methods of decomp surrounding her. Her present self stood just behind Booth, in the back of the room, as he watched the goings-on in front of him with mild interest in the lecture and a rather strong interest in the lecturer. The students began to file out, and Brennan watched the very first meeting of herself and her future partner. It was casual, and impromptu, and charged with electricity that she distinctly remembers being flustered by. And the old Temperance Brennan had even less tolerance for being flustered than the new.

Booth's whisper-thoughts invaded her head again, and she nearly laughed out loud at their word choice and phrasing. "She is hot. H-O-T. Wow. She handles dead bodies all day? Not what I thought Cam was talking about, not a looker like that…"

The funny thing was, Brennan did not remember her thoughts being all that much more coherent. More logical, maybe, but that did not necessarily mean coherence to a rational mind like her own.

She was back in Booth's apartment again, back again to that night. He sat in the same place, beer still unopened, television set still dark.

"I knew!" he shouted angrily, not a whisper-thought but an actual sound, at least in the dream. He stood up, still thumbing the picture of Brennan from his wallet, and began to pace. Dark shadows crossed his face as he kept mumbling, "I knew. I knew…"

She wanted so bad to reach out to him and hug him, as he did when she was upset. He knew her better than anybody, she knew that. He was the closest thing she'd come to a real brother, closer than Russ – she had told Caroline as much after that fateful mistletoe Christmas kiss. But he was so much more than a brother – she knew that. She just had no idea how to break down her walls – at least not yet.