Booth shivered under his blanket, the biting wind sneaking through cracks in the ramshackle hotel he and Mark had holed up in for the night. Their mission had pulled them farther north, and as the snow drifts grew larger, the numbers on the thermometer grew smaller.

Rolling onto his side, Booth hugged his knees to his chest, try desperately to fit his entire goosebump-covered body under the scratchy wool blanket. Mark was snoring gruffly in the bed next to him, the bedsprings squeaking with each breath he took. Booth scowled at him. The cold wasn't bothering him, he had no woman back home to keep him from sleeping at night, and he was throwing himself into the mission in a way that was almost embarrassing.

Booth was giving his all to the mission, but without a daily dose of Bones, he had a hard time concentrating on everything he did. Surveillance had been a mess; all he could think about was Bones sitting beside him during their own little watches, her questioning everything he did while he kept one eye on the streets and the other on his partner. Paperwork was just as bad. It seemed that it was impossible for him to check boxes and sign his name on papers when she wasn't next to him.

But just walking down the street was the worst. Everywhere he looked he saw her. A fleeting movement. A toss of auburn hair. A throaty laugh. She'd taken over Canada, and she'd taken over him.

And then there was Mark, eager as a puppy, focused completely on the task at hand rather than daydreaming about a beautiful anthropologist back in D.C.

Booth blew into his hands, not sure if the puff of air he saw come from his mouth was just part of his imagination or not.

He glanced at his watch, squinting in the dark to read it. 12:03. She was probably curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, working on her novel. Or she'd be at the kitchen table, her nose inches away from one of those anthropology journals that she always pretended to find more interesting than him.

Booth drew the pillow out from under his head and hugged it to his body, imagining it was her, warm and comforting in his arms. Finally he drifted off to sleep.

-OoOoOoOo-

It wasn't a couch or the kitchen table but a toilet seat. There was no wine, and instead of an anthropology journal, a pregnancy test was clutched tightly in her hand.

There were no tears—not yet—but she hadn't dared to blink in a very long time and everything was beginning to blur together in a soft splash of colors. Her eyelids pulled together, and she snapped them back open, wondering if the results had changed.

They hadn't.

She slumped back, wondering what she was supposed to do next. Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket and dialing his number was something her hand did by itself.

Six rings later she remembered.

He wasn't going to answer.

The phone slipped from her quivering fingers and clunked dully when it hit the floor. She didn't notice, her eyes still glued to the little pink plus. Her world was beginning to blur again, but this time it was tears she had to blink away, not determination.

Without know why, she reached down and picked up the phone from where it had landed on a pile of dirty towels. She hit redial and counted the rings. No amount of preparation would have helped. His voice still took her by surprise, stealing her breath and flipping her stomach.

"Hey. Sorry, but I can't talk right now. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. This is Booth, by the way."

It was the same message she'd been asking him to change for years. The same message with Parker giggling in the background. The same message that had always been able to coax a smile out of her.

She wasn't smiling now, as the loud beep chirped in her ear, prompting her to leave a message. She listened to the empty air, not able to fill the silence because she didn't know what words to say. Chances were he would never get the message anyway.

A sob broke free right before another beep informed her that her time was up. She swiped at the tears now streaking down her cheeks. Was that all she was to him now? A thirty second message he would never hear?

Blindly she stepped over the Wal-Mart bag and headed for her bedroom. Her shoes were kicked off and she stripped to her underclothes. The sheets hardly smelled like Booth anymore, but she pulled them closer and imagined they did, telling herself that she was a strong, independent, intelligent, motivated, rational woman and that she would work things out.

-OoOoOoOo-

Temperance turned the skull in her hands, looking for even the tiniest abnormality that would give her a clue to the man's identity.

The longer she stared at it, the more the white bone began to look like a pink face. Unconsciously she added tissue markers, and actual tissue on top of that. With the arches of the zygomaticofacial and infraorbital foramens, he almost looked like…

Booth.

She set the skull back on the examination table and lowered herself to eyelevel, staring it down. The man it once belonged to had been dead longer than Booth had been gone; there was no way it was him. Still she couldn't help but wonder. What if he was gone too? She forced the thought away.

The grinning skull mocked her and she left the platform, her feet taking her toward Angela's office like they always did when she needed someone to put her thoughts into perspective for her.

Angela was programming new data into the Angelator, a look of determination etched across her fine features as she tested multiple scenarios. The determination turned to frustration when she ran out of situations to try. The images faded and Angela jumped when she saw Temperance standing on the other side of the room.

She was just opening her mouth to apologize, when Angela exclaimed, "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

No words escaped her lips because she didn't know what words to say. Angela seemed to understand; she guided the mute anthropologist into a chair and sat down in the one beside it, her hand still resting on Temperance's arm.

She wished she understood things the way Angela did. Whenever Hodgins was nearby she looked so alive. And even when he was gone there was still an extra sparkle in her eyes.

Angela's hand was warm against her skin. She imagined some of Angela's happiness leaking out of her fingers and soaking into her.

"Osmosis," she whispered.

Angela raised her eyebrows, waiting for Temperance to explain herself.

"The passage of a substance from a region of high concentration to a region of low concentration," she murmured in a low voice, more to herself than to Angela.

Angela still said nothing.

Her nails were painted a deep maroon. Her little finger twitched almost imperceptibly.

Temperance felt nothing.

Of course she didn't. Osmosis was something water did, not happiness.

The words tumbled from her mouth before she could pause to hold them back. "I'm pregnant."

Angela's hand fell from Temperance's arm and she slipped from her chair to draw her friend into a tight embrace. Temperance rested her chin on Angela's shoulder, amazed at how just being in another human's arms could feel so comforting.

"Oh, sweetie," Angela cooed when she had stepped back. "Do yo—"

"It's Booth's."

Temperance wasn't sure what she'd expected. Maybe squealing or one loud, excited screech. Possibly a few jumps up and down and an extra-tight hug.

If it had been anywhere on her list, the stunned silence Angela was maintaining would have been dead last.

Feeling as though she had somehow disappointed Angela, Temperance fiddled with a tissue she'd found in her pocket, twisting it into little pieces in her lap. Her eyes were glued to the feathery scraps when she suddenly felt Angela's hands on her knees. "Sweetie."

Temperance looked up from the snowy mess on her legs. Angela was kneeling in front of her, her face showing so many things that Temperance didn't think she could name them all. Worry, curiosity, and a hint of thrill where out in plain view, but buried underneath were emotions Temperance only wished she could understand.

When finally Angela's intense stare become too much, Temperance reached into her pocket again, but this time it wasn't for a Kleenex. Her fingers closed around Booth's note.

With strangely steady fingers Temperance unfolded the paper, and though she'd read the words a thousand times, she read them once more before handing it over to Angela.

Angela hesitantly took the note and sought reassurance in Temperance's eyes before looking at it.

Temperance nodded.

She read it. Four times, as far as Temperance could tell. Realization dawned on her face as she recognized Booth's handwriting.

"What is love, Angela?"

Her voice was quiet, the question asked timidly. It was something that had plagued her overworked brain since she'd found the note on her counter. Since then it had followed her everywhere, from old movies to songs on the radio to the novels she read. I love you. I love you. I love you.

She couldn't escape it and even when she tried, refusing to flip on the television or radio and sticking to case files and scientific journals, she still couldn't help but open Booth's note every night before she fell asleep.

It didn't matter how many times she'd studied the note, she couldn't figure it out. Sure, she knew about love. She understood the love that made her parents leave when she was fifteen and could see why Booth loved Parker.

She just couldn't figure out why he thought he had to love her.

Angela had moved back to her chair and had Temperance's hand clasped tightly in her own. "Oh, sweetie." Her eyes sparkled animatedly and she was smiling, the initial shock of Temperance and Booth naked together gradually subsiding. Temperance wondered how many times she was going to be called 'sweetie' in this conversation. "I don't even know where to start."

Temperance waited patiently while Angela pooled her thoughts, slightly worried she wouldn't understand anyway. Everyone thought she was incredibly intelligent, a genius even, but there were different types of genius, different ways to be intelligent.

"You target his arrows," Angela finally said, breaking the silence.

Temperance decided against pointing out the fact that Booth had never shot at her and that his gun—not bow—was usually turned in the direction of the people he dubbed as the bad guys.

Seeing her unspoken confusion, Angela thought for a moment and tried again. "He feels like home."

Temperance frowned, lost.

Angela was warming up and rushed right into her next explanation. "Love is the way your stomach seems to drop when he walks into the room. It's why when he's talking to you, all you can think about is how his voice is enveloping you and how bad you curl up in it. It's sweaty hands and nervous stuttering and weak knees."

She was still talking, but Temperance hadn't heard much after Angela's description of stomach-dropping. "Wait, that's love?"

Angela stopped between 'all you can think about' and 'justifies your existence' and took a deep breath. "Yes. It is." She smiled.

"I—I need to go," Temperance stammered. She slipped her hand from Angela's and hurried from the office. "Would you tell Cam, please?" she threw over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.

It had been awhile since she'd drive home in the middle of the day. Everything looked so different bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Rain was forecasted for later that night, but for now only a few fluffy clouds dotted the clean blue sky.

The things Angela had said kept playing in her mind, an endless stream of words she was trying to put sense into.

Apparently she'd been in love for a very long time.