The Stump In The Logic, a bones fanfic

A/N:- This is set following The Critic In the Cabernet – aka ep25 of S4. It's set from Tempe's POV, partly because I find it easier to write from a woman's viewpoint, and partly because I can't even begin to imagine the torrent of thoughts running through Booth's mind, in order to write him. I hope Tempe's thoughts don't come off as being a bit too emotional here, but considering the conclusion she seems to have come to by the end of The End In The Beginning, I think that the poor woman must have been doing some soul searching along the way. Besides, she's not entirely cold… and previous evidence suggests that she really does care, no matter how much she tries to deny it. This is just my take on how she may be processing the situation, and sets us up nicely for her to go sit there typing away at Booth's bedside, as she did.

Disclaimer:- I still don't own Bones. Any discrepancies in how I have written about Tempe's medical knowledge, you can blame me for, as I am not – nor is it likely for me to ever be – a medical student.

It was too fast. One moment, we were leading yet another murderer into the interrogation room, and next thing is Booth's being forced into a backless hospital gown and told that he needs brain surgery.

Quick as that.

Talk about a harsh turn around of events.

Thing is, I still haven't processed it all properly. I need time. Not that this is about me, in any way. I told Angela as much when I went down to the waiting room earlier to inform the others of Booth's situation. She hugged me fiercely and whispered, "Hang in there, sweetie." And with all of them standing there watching, I suddenly felt selfish for taking their sympathy. It was Booth lying there waiting, scared out of his mind. Not me.

Regardless though, I can't help but feel that my own wellbeing is hanging in the balance. As I watched Booth through the glass window of his side-room, the irrational thought came to mind that if I could, I'd quite gladly switch places with him.

The thing is, I've never seen him look so terrified. He had this wide-eyed, bewildered look going on, as his gaze flitted around the various nurses and doctors invading his personal space, wiring him up to a number of machines.

Inexplicably, Booth seemed to ease slightly when he caught sight of me. I did too, I suppose. But then, moments later as he near enough pleaded with me to go into the operating theatre with him, that same scared expression was back. It was that expression, more than all my – albeit limited – knowledge of neurosurgery and it's implications, that frightened me, if I'm being honest.

Booth has gradually come to be my rock over the past few years; solid, dependable – in the best way possible; and always, beyond always, there when I need him.

Even if I don't know it.

Today however, the man I'm so familiar with is laid there looking as small and fearful as a child. The man whom holds in greatest importance, the ability to look after those around him; the man whom has so much pride that he'd sooner take twice as long over something than ask for help. We're not so different in that respect, I guess.

Which is why I know just how much it must have taken him to ask me what he did.

He called me a genius. As though that somehow fixed things, made them alright. I wish it did. I just happen to have a high IQ though, and in terms of what I can actually do to help Booth, it sort of ceases to be relevant.

He seemed to think I'd have an idea about the intricate workings of brain surgery. Sure enough, I sat there and held his hand as we listened to Dr Jurzik explain the process. It is fair to say that I understood what the man was saying, from the technical terminology alone. Although – being blunt as ever – that isn't actually saying much, as it has more to do with my obvious familiarity with the human form.

The fact of the matter is though, I'm not a medical doctor. In actuality, my knowledge on such a specialist subject barely eclipses Booth's, save for a very detailed documentary that I once saw on the matter. They don't tend to teach much neurosurgery when you're studying for a doctorate in anthropology, you see. So the majority of what I do know is sat in a rather dusty corner of my brain from back in my earlier undergrad days. Not that Booth seemed to mind, when I informed him of this. Apparently a genius IQ is enough for him.

It's logical for his judgement to be a little off-kilter, I suppose, seeing as he has a tumour growing in his brain.

But regardless of this fact, I feel that Booth's unwavering trust in me is more foolish, than an inability to think straight. He isn't behaving in all that different a way to how he usually would with me; not besides the blatant fear, at any rate. He is putting too much trust in abilities that I don't have. Same as always, he's expecting me to wave my magic wand. He's putting this illusive 'faith' out there as if it was possible for me to somehow save him; and believe me when I say I wish I could. It's a pity faith doesn't exist.

I can't help but wish that I had decided to go down the route of becoming a medical doctor. Wish that I knew everything there was to know about neurosurgery. Wish that I was the best neurosurgeon this side of the north pacific. Maybe then I'd be of some use to Booth.

When I'd led Dr Jurzik just outside the room earlier, to inquire about the possibility of going into surgery with Booth, the man looked quite alarmed. I put it down to the assumption that perhaps he doesn't get many requests from people wanting to accompany a patient whilst they are getting their head sliced open. That, and the fact that Dr Jurzik was under the impression that Booth and I were somehow romantically involved.

Maybe from his point of view, that was a logical deduction to make. I fairly dragged Booth into the hospital, made the biggest fuss that I remembered making in a very long time, to get Jurzik himself to perform the operation, and since then had spent almost every second with my hand practically glued to Booth's.

The Doctor had sighed and said that it was very unethical for a patient's partner to venture into surgery with them. He meant partner as in lover. I told him we were just partners, as in the FBI/Jeffersonian 'shoot you if you mess me around' type. And close friends, as a result.

And that I just so happened to be Booth's next of kin.

Though I had enough sense to not mention to Jurzik that until a few hours previous, I'd been all set to have Booth's baby.

I informed him of my medical stance; explained how accompanying him into theatre was the one thing Booth seemed adamant on; and promised the man that I would sit in the corner and refrain from interfering.

He held my gaze long enough for me to understand that it was a demand, and not a request.

Sit in the corner and not say a word? Well I will, so long as Jurzik does his job properly!

Booth is constantly trying to get me to hush up when certain important people are involved, but there is no way in hell I'll sit back and do nothing if I think they're making a mistake.

I've already forced the medical staff to review Booth's stats and notes several times. It isn't exactly newfound information that I can sit and stare at a piece of evidence for hours on end, until it tells me something that I don't already know. Bottom line is, I expect no less attention for Booth, and I'm damn well going to make sure he gets it.

I didn't really know what to say earlier, when Booth requested we stop, whilst on the way to theatre. I hated that he was scared enough to seriously be thinking about dying. Hadn't thought the look of terror could possibly get any worse, but then I'd been proven wrong with one look at his face. I refused to be drawn in when he told me to take his sperm for a baby, if he did die. As touched as I was, it scared me even more when he told me I was going to make a great mother. He was speaking with too much certainty of the situation, for my liking. I told him that he'd be okay.

In fact, I told him that he'd be okay, all the way into surgery, before he made me promise that I'd not leave. He whispered it hoarsely at me as the medical team crisscrossed around us, making sure that everything was set to go. I gripped his hand more tightly, and before I knew what I was doing, had leant my head down so that our foreheads were touching.

I refrained from mentioning that if the medical team wanted to kick me out, then I really wouldn't have a choice. I whispered back that I'd stay right there; that I wasn't going anywhere; that I'd still be there when he woke up afterwards.

When I said the last part, he told me that I wasn't thinking straight. That Temperance Brennan didn't believe in faith.

And I told him that maybe I was willing to pretend it existed, just for a while.

He found that amusing. A shuddering chuckle which at that moment, sounded like music to my ears.

When the chuckle turned to tears and he clamped his eyes shut, I lifted my head slightly and pressed a fleeting kiss to the part of his scalp that had just been shaved. I wasn't sure why, just thought that it might be a little bit reassuring. When I pulled back, Booth's eyes were open again. He brought a hand up to my face, brushing a thumb over the apple of one cheek, and wiping away the tears that I hadn't even been aware were there.

He gulped audibly, and told me he'd be okay.

The anaesthetist was by our side moments later, saying they were ready to begin.

We each took a shaky breath, and Booth nodded his acceptance, all the whilst holding my gaze. We stayed that way until the anaesthesia took hold and Booth was lulled into his induced sleep, murmuring once again that he'd be okay, as his eyes closed. I felt a little as though I was failing him when one of the nurses asked me to please take the seat in the corner of the room. I didn't like having to let go of his hand and walk away.

I'm finding it somewhat ironic that Booth is always telling me that I think in too clinical a manner: "You can't tell the poor bloke THAT about his wife!" "Straight to the point then, Bones?" "Oh, for goodness sakes, think with your heart for a change, will you!"

Well, Seeley Booth, I'm damn well thinking with my heart now. I'm sitting in a room so familiar to only those whom have studied human medicine in some capacity. That bleached, sterilised 'lack of' odour which I have spent every single day of my adult working life surrounded by, is suddenly permeating right through the surgical mask that I have been given, and is making me feel ill. Sorry, let me rephrase that… the smell of cleanliness, the smell of organisation, of capability, of abiding by the rules, of being everything that I hold in high esteem, is churning my stomach in such a way that I can't comprehend. I have no logical reason.

Except, I refuse to let myself leave. I told Booth I'd stay, and I am doing.

I don't like the hands of the hospital's surgical staff. They aren't nimble enough; aren't taking adequate care. Despite knowing that these are highly trained professionals, I can't accept that any of these people could possibly be good enough to operate on Booth. I've decided that I don't even like the hands of Dr Jurzik. I keep reminding myself that I argued with those 'high-up' paper pushers until I was practically blue in the face, to get the guy brought in. He's supposed to be the best. But right now, relegated to the corner, watching the overhead magnification of the inside of Booth's skull on the television screen which sits to the side of an unfamiliar operating table, surrounded by unfamiliar eyes that aren't squinting half as much as I'd like, in an unfamiliar hospital, feeling more numb than I have in almost 18 years, and I. do. Not. Know. What. To. Do.

The fact of the matter is, that if this had been anybody else to whom I was close, Booth would guide me through it without even the merest flicker of hesitation. He'd know just what to say and just what to do, and he'd hold me in one of those 'guy hugs', that really aren't 'guy hugs' at all. He still thinks I haven't figured that one out.

The strangest part? I'm sitting here knowing that if I could, I'd give up absolutely everything for Booth to just come out of this okay. Yet somehow I am failing to piece together the reason that it is, that this isn't even something I'd have to think about: It is more like an instinct. And I can't explain why.

The hospital staff shoo me out of the theatre – it takes three of them to remove me – when they discover complications with the anaesthesia, and the numbness turns, once again, to fear in it's purest form.

A/N:- Sooo… what's the verdict?

Review's are very welcome, even critical ones – though try to keep it constructive :)

One of the things I'm most curious to know, is whether or not it flows right? I wrote it on two separate days, you see, so I'm slightly concerned that the pace is a little lumpy! Hmm yes, reviewers will be awarded with cookies for their imaginations*.

*Cookies are for the imagination, and therefore imaginary. A sound sense of the imagination must be present, and used accordingly when cookies arrive.