Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.
Tears of hope run down my skin
Tears for you that will not dry
They magnify the one within
And let the outside slowly die
-Remember When It Rained, Josh Groban
She didn't realize she was shaking until she was still. Sitting in one of the hard, molded plastic chairs in the hospital waiting area, she watched the way her hands trembled, despite her efforts to stop them.
Flashes of images and sound played on a loop in her head. The sound of the shots, the soft grunt her husband had made as the rounds hit him, the heavy thud of his body hitting the floor, the flash of another muzzle firing, a screech of pain. Then everything had exploded into a cacophony of shouts and sirens and blasts of static as the back-up that had been called minutes before had finally arrived, too late to stop the horror unfolding before her eyes.
Each loop of memory bringing to mind other memories of past terrors. Pam Nunan firing a pistol in a crowded little karaoke bar, armed masked men in their home, all of them trying to kill.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it all out. It was no good. With her eyes closed the sharp image of blood seeping between her fingers, warm and sticky, appeared once more, haunting her. Just like at the Checkerbox her mind whispered to her.
Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes she tried to chase the images and thoughts and memories away, but to no avail. Tears slipped unchecked down her cheeks, pooling in the cup of her palms as she held them over her face.
"Don't you die on me! Don't you die!"
She'd screamed the words at him, demanded that he not leave her behind. That he stay with her, stay with her and Christine. The paramedics, when they'd finally been let in, had had to drag her away from him, her screams and cries and pleas echoing in the night as she was led outside.
Now, three hours later, she was in limbo, waiting anxiously for the doctors to come out and tell her what was going on, how the surgery was going. Thoughts of him not making it through this were quickly squelched and stamped down, refusing to be acknowledged.
Fear clawed at her, tearing and ripping at the, fragile, slim stems of hope that she so desperately clung to as the hours ticked away.
Lost in her worry, she didn't hear the door swing open and click shut again as someone entered the waiting area. Instead the warm, slender hand that came to rest on her shoulder jolted her back to awareness as she started violently. Looking up at the interloper, her gaze was met with the worry filled, red-rimmed, eyes of her best friend.
"Hey," Angela whispered quietly, taking the empty seat beside Brennan. "Have you heard anything yet?"
Shaking her head mutely, Brennan gripped the hand Angela offered her. When she found her voice again, it was shaky and cracked on the edges of words. "He's been in surgery for almost three hours. I'm so scared, Ange. I can't lose him. I can't."
Squeezing Brennan's hand in return Angela tried to find words of reassurance for her friend. "He's tough sweetie, and a fighter. He's gonna be okay."
A watery, shaky smile was all Brennan could offer in return as her eyes lifted to the clock above the double doors that led into the waiting room, watching the minutes tick away.
The two friends settled into silence, absorbed in their own thoughts. The squeak of the door opening had Brennan looking up anxiously, her heart in her throat. Her eyes however met those of her best friend's husband, two steaming cups in his hands, as he stepped into the room.
"Hey, Dr. B, thought you could use a caffeine hit." Hodgins handed her one of the steaming cups, eyes betraying his own worry and concern.
Brennan took the cup gratefully, murmuring her thanks, she took a sip of the acrid liquid, hoping the hot beverage would provide some kind of comfort to her overwrought emotions.
The first sip was scalding but she relished the burning sensation against her tongue, the sharp pain helping to distract from the terrible fear clawing at her belly.
Beside her she could hear Angela and Hodgins whispering quietly together, their words muffled.
Staring into the black depths of her coffee, Brennan tried to keep her mind focused on something positive, pushing the wayward thoughts of what ifs and fear induced panic away.
She wasn't sure how long she sat staring at her coffee but the passage of time was marked by the coldness of the cup in her hands when she next became aware of her surroundings. A woman in her fifties, wearing pale blue scrubs was just entering the room when she looked up; a surgical mask hung around her neck by one tied string, booties covered her shoes, her hair hidden beneath a surgical scrub hat the same shade of pale blue as her scrubs.
"Mrs. Booth?" Her voice was slightly raspy, as though from overuse or not enough. Her eyes, when Brennan looked into them, held the look that Booth's often got when informing families of their loved ones' passing.
An icy fist gripped her heart, stilling its beating. The fear that she had so far kept at bay now roared like a hurricane through her veins. Forcing herself to stand on legs that felt more like wooden planks, Brennan rose from her seat.
"I-I'm Mrs. Booth."
The woman held out a weathered hand, only to have it hang suspended between them unnoticed and untouched.
The fear roared louder, fighting it's way to her throat and eyes where tears stung and sobs choked her.
Behind her she felt more than saw Angela and Hodgins stand, come towards her, ready to offer their support. It took her a few tries but Brennan finally found her voice, though it cracked and splintered when she spoke.
"Please, please, tell me. How is he? How is my husband? Where is Booth?"
The other woman hesitated, for fraction of a second, but that was all it took. Brennan saw the way her eyes darted away for just that fraction of a second, the intake of breath, the stealing of resolve, the licking of her lips in a nervous gesture before she lifted her eyes to Brennan's.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Booth. We did everything we could. Your husband's injuries, they," the doctor paused, emotions stilling her voice. "I'm sorry."
Her knees buckled and she collapsed, too stunned to even cry. Instead she stared ahead at the wide double doors that led out of the waiting area, shaking her head. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It echoed over and over in her head. I'm sorry.
"No, no. You've got it wrong. You've got it WRONG. He can't be dead! He can't! You made a mistake! You're wrong! He's not dead! He's not!"
The denial keeps rushing out past her lips, as if saying it enough will make it true. The world is tilting and spinning around her now, her vision blurred by a wash of tears that seem to break faster than she can stop them.
She never notices Angela coming over to her side and wrapping her arms around her, her cries joining her best friend's. Nor does she notice the doctor who had come to deliver the terrible news leaving the room, giving this grieving family their space.
"No. No. He's not dead," she whispers into Angela's shoulder, tears still falling in thick streams. "He can't be dead. He's supposed to finish building Christine's new treehouse this weekend. And then we're all supposed to go to the movies. Christine is so excited. Booth promised he'd make her Mickey Mouse pancakes on Saturday because he didn't have time this morning. He wasn't supposed to leave. He wasn't supposed to die. Not now. He wasn't supposed to die." Her voice trailed off into a choked whisper, tears overcoming her once more.
She was limp, dead weight in Angela's arms as she cried, something inside of her breaking as the reality of what had happened sunk in. That she would never see him smile at her again, that charm smile that would make her agree to anything, however irrational it was. Never see his sleepy, soft brown eyes first thing in the morning. Never again would she feel the press of his lips against her forehead or against her own. Never again would he hold her or she hold him. Never again would she make love to him. And Christine …
Thoughts of Christine had her sitting bolt upright, pushing away from Angela and scrambling to her feet.
"Christine, I-I-I have to tell Christine. How am I going to tell Christine?" Mindlessly she paced between the spaces of chairs, hands wringing in front of her, babbling incoherently. "I have to go. I have to tell Christine. She needs to hear it from me. I-I-I have to go."
Angela could only watch as Brennan seemed to grab all the broken pieces of herself and pull them tight against her, trying to fix the breaks that Booth's death had created.
It was Hodgins who stopped her pacing, who wrapped arms around her and pulled her close. It was against his shoulder that all those pieces of herself shattered again, falling away into dust.
Angela came to their sides, wrapping her own arms around her best friend and her husband. Together, she and Jack tried to help Brennan put the pieces back together.
AN: I'm sorry! I really am! *ducks thrown objects* I really agonized over this one. Just ask DGSchneider. But unfortunately this is something that is an all too real possibility for someone that is in Booth's profession. And while I almost wanted it to be a dream I couldn't do that because it would have taken something away from what this story is. I promise however that I have at least one, maybe two fluffy stories in the works to make up for this. Anyway please let me know what you think of this. Thank you.
Also BIG thanks to DGScheider for being the awesome friend and beta that she is. She listened my worrying and fear over this piece and encouraged me not only to finish it but also to post it. So thank you hun. :)