Title: Broken

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and I am just using them for my own mindless entertainment.

Rating: Still just T for the moment, M later.

Author's Note: Although atozmom was rather scathing in her review to me in regards to "I suspect you don't know what a parody is", I must apologise for the equally rude comment I sent back. I had not realised I had put 'parody' instead of 'angst' as the story category. I am sorry I was so quick to jump the gun in replying back – but next time I would appreciate 'Andrea, this story isn't really a parody as you have put as your category'. Thanks to everyone who has sent me reviews for this, so far! I was very pleased to see that so many people are enjoying it and it always encourages me when you let me know! Note: There is a brief shift in tenses in this story – to 3rd person whenever Booth is the central focus.

***

Time.

That was Dr Kirby's remedy for Booth's memory loss. There were no medicines to be given, no miracle cures. I feel hopeless as I pack up his belongings and prepare him for the journey to my apartment.

"I have goldfish," he says to me as he ties the laces on his sneakers. I am surprised by this, pausing as I neatly fold his shirt and place it into his bag. "I've always had goldfish, since I was a kid. I keep them in my bedroom. In a bowl, under the window." The sharpness of this memory is great progress – even if it doesn't signal that he is particularly regaining any later memories. "Have you seen them?" I falter. If I admit that I have never been in his bedroom then this will make him wonder about our intimate affairs. Mutely, I nod. "Then we should bring them to your apartment, if that's where I'm going to be staying."

It's been a week since he woke and seeing Sweets, Angela and Jack hasn't jogged any recognition in his mind. He stared at them with an apologetic and blank expression and I watched them each struggle to hide their devastation. It was then that I realised we had all become such firm friends in our years together. He spoke to Camille with a cool formality, clearly forgetting that they too, had rebuilt the burned bridges of their past.

"I will pick them up later tonight," I promise him. "Let's just get you out of here, first." The hospital walls are closing in on me – eleven days of sitting vigilant by his bedside and I'm ready to lose my mind from lack of proper sleep. My rest has been fitful at best. "I'll even stop off for some Thai food on the way." He smiles brightly at me, getting to his feet. The bandage around his head has been removed but the patch of hair that the surgeon shaved has been covered by a small gauze to ward off infection. I had glimpsed the wound earlier, reassuring myself that it was healing satisfactorily.

"Thai is my favourite, next to Italian." I frown at this, then I remember his adoration of pasta in rich tomato sauce, and I sigh.

"You have an intolerance to pasta, Booth," I remind him gently. "You stopped eating it because it gave you belly ache." He ponders this, searching the missing five or so years of his life for some inkling of what I'm telling him. I have newfound admiration for my partner for he handles his enormous hurdle with surprising grace and dignity. I cannot imagine the frustration he feels, searching for his memories and drawing a blank. I decide to change the subject. "Time to go. We can speak with Dr Kirby on the way out."

Philip Kirby was small man with greying black hair and a kind grey eyes. "Good afternoon," he greets us with a warm smile. "You look much refreshed after a shave." Booth gives a self deprecating chuckle and touches his hand to his smooth cheeks. "I know you feel disheartened that a week hasn't made much difference to your memories," Dr Kirby continues smoothly, "but you must persist and give yourself time. Dr Brennan," he turns to me now, "you should introduce things to him now. Items of clothing or memorabilia that are significant to him in the past few years. Anything that could jog his memory." I nod mutely, having already thought of this last night. "Come by next week and we'll see if any progression has been made." Booth shakes the aging doctor's hand firmly, thanking him for his care and attention.

***

"This a nice apartment, Temperance," he says as we step inside. I'm still not used to his liberal use of my first name but I find that each time he does, my body seems to give an involuntary shudder. "Are these artefacts genuine or replicas?" His eyes pass over the shelves filled with treasures from my worldwide journeys – from Somalia to Peru, Japan to India.

"There are a few replicas, but mostly they're real." He is eyeing a crystal replica of the Koh-i-noor diamond in its original cut. "That one isn't real," I assure him with a chuckle. "If it were, it would cost millions of dollars and I'd have to steal it from the Crown Jewels in England." He looks at me and gives a low whistle. "It's the largest diamond ever mined and was taken from India by the British. I acquired this replica some years ago while on an anthropological dig in Andhra Pradesh in South India, where, incidentally the original diamond was mined." I'm blabbering, but he doesn't seem to mind, taking the large stone in his hand, turning it over and examining it as though it were genuine.

"You sound like a pretty smart woman," he tells me, replacing the artefact carefully on its stand.

"Yes," I reply immodestly, "I think I am." He doesn't comment on this, moving to the next shelf to an Aztec fertility statue. A genuine one, at that. "Come," I say, leading him away from the ornaments. "The food will get cold if I explain to you the intricacies of all these things." I have forty-seven artefacts in my collection and each one with a detailed and fascinating story behind their history and how I came to have them in my possession. I want to tell him about it, but right now, I have plans to help him jog his memory.

We sit together in my kitchen, facing each other across the countertop. I am amazed at the unquestioning trust he places in me as he slowly and thoughtfully eats his food. Though he is no doubt confused about his life, who I am and where I slot in, he has been open and accepting, trusting me implicitly. "Booth?" I say and he hums to confirm that he is listening. "Look at this." I have decided that I will show him one piece of his history per day – slowly introducing his memories back into his life in the vague hope that perhaps he might see something that will ignite a spark. I've heard stories about amnesiacs that see just one thing and suddenly their whole life falls back into place.

He looks up as I set the little plastic statue down on the counter between us. I have a box of other such trinkets and memory re-joggers. Brainy Smurf with his white shoes and hat and thick black glasses makes Booth chuckle, but I can tell he doesn't see the significance in the little statue. I hide my disappointment well. "You gave me this once, to remind me that being thought of as intelligent instead of beautiful wasn't a bad thing." He runs his thumb over the smooth white hat.

"But you are beautiful," he tells me firmly.

"Yes, but you told me it was more important to have brains than beauty. You said I was better than Smurfette... that I had my looks and more." He chuckles. "I always wanted to be Smurfette." I eat some more, watching him privately as he continues to study the plastic toy. "I'm going to go out shortly and collect your fish," I inform him. "But make yourself at home. Watch some movies, play some music." He gives me a kind smile – an appreciative smile.

"Thanks, Temperance," he says. I wish he wouldn't.

***

Booth stands in the middle of her living room, eyeing the pieces of her life and wondering where he fits in. She is a wonderful, intelligent woman with many interesting stories to tell, of that he can be certain on just a cursory analysis. Her artefacts and her books, the neat stacks of paper filled with words too big for him to even pronounce let alone understand.

He wonders around her home, pausing to admire these little insights into who this woman is. He knows that the have a shared past, although he cannot fathom a single memory to his mind. She tried to hide her disappointment over dinner, when he failed to draw anything from the toy Smurf. But he had seen in her clear blue eyes – if only for a brief second before she forced herself to be optimistic once again.

From the moment he'd awoken and found her there, Booth had known she meant something to him. Perhaps it was the power of his dream – the subconscious being a magnificent and powerful force.

He steps up to her stereo and runs his eye over the vast and diverse collection of CDs she has accumulated. They are neat, organised by genre. She has an impressive collection of world music, with colourful covers and foreign words. He continues to browse, a peculiar sensation clouding his mind. He stands still, his mind lost in another place and time.

"Hot Blooded...talk about a guilty pleasure..."

He hears his own voice saying these words, right here in front of this same stereo.

He sings to the lyrics of Hot Blooded, playing air guitar as he struts about the room. She's there... she looks different – but the same. Reserved and yet open. The room moves as he rocks to the music and then she's joining in, kicking her leg into the air and strumming her own imaginary instrument with unabashed joy.

Then there's a gap. He's somewhere else – in her kitchen. And there's a blinding white light and her voice, alarmed and panicked. Booth flinches, worried by the desolate feeling that comes over him. He can't grasp the rest of the memory, or what has happened. Why is she shouting? Who is she shouting to? He groans, angry suddenly at the picture is so close and yet so heartbreakingly unattainable.

"Dammit!" he snaps, slamming his fist against the table. But this is good, he knows. He saw something – a real memory and the only one so far. "What the hell happened in that kitchen?" he asks aloud, his eyes darting around the living room for another trigger that might complete the puzzle in his head. He draws nothing but a blank.

He isn't sure how long he stands like that, staring into the abyss. After some time, the front door slams and he sees her illuminated by the yellow lamp light that casts a warm glow on the old, exposed and reclaimed brickwork. She holds his four goldfish in a spherical glass bowl, their bodies whizzing around the water. He cannot remember having four goldfish – only two, some years ago. What did he call them, he wonders? Would she know?

"Are you alright?" she asks, her tone edged with concern.

"I'm fine. Temperance, I think I've had a memory." Her face breaks into a grin and she sets the bowl on the table, crossing the room to him. "We were dancing here..." he points to the ground beneath his feet. "To Foreigner, of all things." He begins to think that maybe his memory his a false one, until she emits a joyous chuckle, clasping her hands together. "Did we?" Tears shimmer in her beautiful bright eyes and he is surprised by this. She had been emotionally solid all week and he has admired her for it, yet the emotion she shows now warms him in a very real and comforting way.

"Yes... we hadn't been partners for long. That was during our first year together." Despite the sparkle in her teary eyes, her voice is strong.

"Then what happened? I seen a white light, and I heard you calling out... scared." Her voice rings in his ears even now – the sheer horror and fear, like an icy glove around his heart. But he knows that he had been powerless to do anything about it.

"There had been a bomb implanted in my refrigerator... whenever you opened it to get a soda it blew. At the same time you were reaching for a glass and you were marginally out of line with the impact. A few centimetres to the left..." she leaves the sentence unfinished, but he gets the implication. "You were very, very lucky." Her soft, small hands have found their way into his. He likes her touch and the comfort it brings him – he also feels a spark of something when her skin brushes his. He wishes he has memories of what it felt like to touch her intimately – something instinctively tells him it will be divine. "This is wonderful progress," she tells him soothingly. "Dr Kirby will be delighted, and Sweets. He is speaking with some experts this week." Booth met Dr Sweets a few days earlier – but the fresh faced man hadn't been familiar to him.

"Yes..." he says. "Good, good." She releases his hand and returns to the fishbowl. "He seems like a smart kid, Sweets." Temperance nods her head.

"We've had our disagreements, but yes, he's very articulate and well read. He knows his field and his expertise has proved invaluable to us many times." Booth considers this, sitting on the edge of her couch as she finds an ideal spot for his fish. "There," she announces proudly.

"What are they called?" he asks her.

"I don't know," she admits. "You never told me." Booth thinks he might have named them after sporting heroes, or fellow soldiers in the army. But he cannot be sure. "We could give them names, if you like." Their eyes meet and he smiles at her, that familiar warmth spreading through him again.

"Lets watch some TV," he says, "and we can pick names later." He doesn't know why, but when she sits next to him and shifts into the crook of his arm, resting her head against his shoulder so that her soft breath fans across his neck and sends tingles through him, he feels like she's always belonged there. He wants to tell her that he thinks he might have loved her but he's afraid to make a fool of himself - in case their relationship was purely casual, so he doesn't say anything at all. By the time he's stopped watching TV she's asleep against him and he carries her into bed.

***

End Note: Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing the first chapter! I hope you like this chapter too and will come back for the next one!