Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, although I wish I did.
AN: So, it's been a while since I've published anything, fanfiction or otherwise. This is my first posted Bones fic, although I've been reading in the fandom for several years. I was tired of seeing a lot of post season 6 fics, so I decided to take us back... This is post season 4, right after the dream, right after Booth wakes up. There is no Catherine, no Afghanistan or Maluku, no Hannah. Read and enjoy!
Oh, God. It's all you can think, even though you're not quite sure you believe in God. Actually, you're convinced He doesn't exist. It's irrational, it's emotional, it's instinct. But you can't help it. You can't help it.
You stare at you hands as if they're detached – they're someone else's, not yours. Either that, or you're having an out-of-body experience, which is illogical and impossible. But it sure doesn't feel like your hands that have the dark scarlet of his blood trickling down your hands, staining the carpet. You know you should do something – wash your hands, get a towel, help him! Yet you can't move. All you can do is watch.
Your face now upturned, you see him lying on the bed, the perfect, pristinely made bed, but not in peaceful slumber. No, in agonizing pain. His chest is sliced open in a coroner's "y," his organs exposed for viewing. Blood leaks from the crack – for that's what it is, a crack right down the center of him – like water pouring from a pitcher. Up and just to his left, his heart still beats, one-two, one-two, and you watch, engrossed, as it slows. One… two. One… and a two. One…and…a two. And then it stops.
You rush forward, no longer paralyzed, fear pounding adrenaline through your veins. From the burn you feel from the inside-out, you must be on fire. You grab his shoulders, shake him, but all it does is jostle his now-still organs until they bulge from the opening as if eager to escape.
His eyes are still open, gazing right at you, but the glaze over the top makes you frantic. You take his face in your hands, but you've forgotten about the blood. It runs from your hands down his cheeks, down his chin into his partially open mouth. You scream his name, glare into his eyes, but get no response.
It's too late.
Sobs violent wrack your body as you hold him to you, passed caring about his exposed body and its affect on your appearance. He bared himself to you, he opened up, but you weren't ready. You weren't ready.
And now it was too late.
Brennan jolted with a start, sitting upright before her eyes fully opened. She blinked several times and then glanced around, trying to take in her surroundings. A hand-carved wooden table. A badly upholstered green chair. A string of beads covering a doorway. Several large canvases, a few filled. There was a painting of two hands, intertwined. Also, a man's face, half in red, half in blue.
"Angela?" she called out groggily, recognizing the shabby but comfortable living room of her best friend's apartment. She heard a startled exclamation, the bang of what sounded like cabinets, and then hurried footsteps before Angela brushed the beads aside and stood before her.
"Sweetie," Angela breathed, offering a genuine but wary smile. She paused for a moment, surveying the woman on her couch before moving to sit at her feet.
"What?" Brennan bristled at the expression on Angela's face. She generally wasn't good at reading people, but Angela looked afraid, like she was approaching a volatile and dangerous criminal – not her genius yet socially awkward best friend.
"Bren, are you okay?" Angela peered at her curiously, searching her face. As Brennan's brow furrowed, Ange moved her gaze to her lap, watching her hands fiddle with the hem of her shirt.
Brennan cleared her throat. "I had a nightmare just now, but other than that…" She paused, noticing that Angela still refused to meet her gaze. "Ange, what's going on?"
Angela looked up, surprised. "You don't remember?" At the shake of Brennan's head, she continued. "Booth woke up early this morning and… he was pretty upset."
The past week's events flooded Brennan's mind. Sweets. Response game. Babies. Booth. Hallucinations. The tumor. Surgery. Coma. Awakening. Confusion. Anger. Tears.
Tears. She couldn't help that they sprung to her eyes, and without her permission they leaked out and rolled down her face. She brought her hands to her cheeks, but the tears came faster than she could wipe them away. Pretty upset was an understatement.
"Oh, Sweetie!" Angela exclaimed, leaning forward and pulling Brennan into her arms. She rubbed a soothing hand up and down her friend's back, trying to calm her tears. Several minutes ticked by, but finally Brennan pulled back.
"Can I see him?"
Angela sighed. Of course. Even after he'd caused her all this pain, the first thing on her mind was visiting to give him company and comfort. She bit her lip, hemming and hawing, before deciding to answer truthfully.
"I don't think that would be the best idea, Bren. For either of you." Her eyes flickered to her lap. "Plus you've been temporarily barred from the premises."
Brennan would have laughed if she hadn't been so hurt. "He hates me," she declared, burying her face in her hands.
Angela groaned and wrapped an arm around Brennan's back. "He doesn't hate you," she scoffed. "He's just… confused."
Brennan straightened up and turned to look at her. "It seemed more like he was angry, to me."
Angela sighed. She rubbed her hand up and down Brennan's back absently. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Angela offered, "How about I get Hodgins to go and keep us updated?"
Brennan blinked, her eyes rimmed red. "Why don't you just go?"
Angela looked away, guilt reflected on her face. "I don't want to leave you alone right now." When she looked back up though, Brennan seemed nothing but understanding.
"Thanks Angela," Brennan whispered, turning to pull her friend in for a hug. For a moment Angela was tense, but then she relaxed and gave Brennan a squeeze of her own. Brennan wasn't usually one for physical affection, but Booth's guy hugs always made her feel better. At that thought, Brennan pulled her friend in tighter.
Guessing where her thoughts were, Angela whispered back. "You're welcome, Sweetie."
Booth looked up at the knock on his door. Hodgins was leaning against the door jam. Booth nodded to the bedside chair, but Hodgins hesitated at the entrance. All of the equipment and furniture in the room had been reorganized while Booth was sedated, though this time everything was positioned out of his reach.
"Angie says she won't stop crying." Hodgins crept into the room, hands jammed into his pockets. He took a seat in the chair Brennan had been occupying for the past four days. "Took her three hours to get her to fall asleep. And she woke up twenty minutes later, crying all over again." Booth tried to read him, but Hodgins' face stayed impassive.
Booth felt a twinge in his stomach, and recognized it vaguely as guilt before tossing it away. He had made Bones cry… that was not something he ever wanted to do. But right now, that barely registered. All he could think about was how devastated he was. Booth turned his head away stubbornly, no longer able to face Hodgins' emotionless, concentrated gaze. It reminded him too much of her.
The tension was palpable, but finally Hodgins coughed. "She wanted to come see you." That made him turn his head. Once it became clear that Booth wasn't going to talk, Hodgins continued. "Angela didn't think that would sit too well with anyone… and she said something about visiting restrictions…"
Booth tightened his jaw. He should have known. "So you're here." He tried his hardest to sound detached, noncommittal, but even he could hear the resentment in his voice.
Hodgins sighed. "Yes… But I care, man. You gave us all a scare there. I'm glad you're back."
Booth just grunted, turning to look out the window.
Hodgins sighed again, then waited. Nothing. He cleared his throat. "So, what happened?" He waited patiently, not expecting a response.
Booth's jaw tightened and then released. "I had a dream."
"Whoa, harnessing your MLK junior, there?" Hodgins chuckled.
"No," he groused, sending Hodgins a glare to silence him. "About us."
"Us?" Hodgins' eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
"No!" Booth shouted. "Me and… Bones. And you, Angela, Cam, Sweets… You know, us."
"Really?" Hodgins looked skeptical. He'd been comatose for four days and his subconscious chose to dream about the squints?
"Yes."
Hodgins paused. "Is this what happened between you and Dr. B?"
Booth shrugged. Finally, "I don't want her to know."
AN: Well? Please review. Criticism more than welcome. Already have the next four chapters written and edited, so more coming soon...
