AN: This story is a bit out of my comfort zone. It involves intrigue and action where I'm far more comfortable with mental processes, reflections and simple events. So, can I please ask you to let me know if something is off.

Note number 2: the story is set tagging the end of Hero in the Hold which, living in the UK I will not see for one further week. So a few moments in the beginning may not be exact with the show. I'm sorry for that.

Now on with the story!

Jane Bond.

1

The noise of the helicopter was overwhelmingly loud. So loud it nearly managed to drown out the sound of the explosion that sank the ship into it's watery final rest. She should have felt like the prisoners of the Bastille did when the revolutionaries blew it up. It should have felt exhilarating and liberating. Instead, there was only that compassed thud of the helix carrying them away from what could have meant the end of the man she was now hugging. And by all accounts, hers. Because Brennan was under no illusion and she knew that she had been in there, with Booth, for the last 12 hours. And she would have gone down with him if that had been the way things had ended. She had been in there with him, in her heart, in her mind, in her thoughts and in all her actions. She knew what it meant to be buried alive, confined to a space you had little hope of escaping and nothing more than faith in someone other than yourself. Yes, she knew that so well it had been difficult to concentrate on anything else, nearly impossible to concentrate on anything but what he must have been feeling, what he must have been seeing for every single one of those 21 hours, every single one of those 1260 minutes, each of them felt as acutely as needles on her skin.

And now she knew as well what it had meant to be him when that bitch had taken her and Hodgins, that there were only small, insignificant things that you could do. There had been no one and nothing to shoot at, no doors no knock down, nothing you could satisfactorily do. That rage was not productive, and that sorrow was not an option.

She hugged him closer, tightened her grip further. She was never letting go of him. She was never letting him off her sight. Ever. His skin felt cold. She willed all her body heat into him. His hand on her back, always so warm was cold.

She removed the head piece that had allowed her to communicate with everyone on board and burrowed in his chest, rubbing her face lightly against his shirt. The rhythmic thud of the helix faded into the background. There was only the beating of his heart, reassuring, comforting. And the echo of his words, in that church, so long ago "Take one of us, anyone one of us, and you and Hodgins are in that hole forever". He had thanked God for that. She wasn't quite sure who to thank. Though, she knew in her heart, more than in her brain right now, that a thank you was in order. For being in that strange family that always came together when she needed them the most. Always came through.

**B**B**B**B**B**B**B

The next few hours passed in a haze. The landing, the drive to the hospital, the reports, the meetings with Cullen and the briefings and debriefings. She was running on adrenaline, the only sign of the hellish day was her make up, not so perfect any longer, fading into marks of rubbed eyes to push away tears, into lipstick nervously bitten clean of her lips. When she was finally free to go and see Booth, he was ready to leave the hospital, probably after threatening nurses and doctors into signing his release papers. She saw his silhouette at the end of the corridor in the dim yellow light, his stance, to her knowing eyes, less than light, less than happy. Less than relieved. Something was heavy on his chest, on his shoulders. And as she walked down the starkly lit, seemingly endless corridor, she vowed that that was a load he would not be carrying alone.

Impatience won and her heals stepped faster, hammering harder on the floor, hurrying their rush to get to Booth. Much like her heart. The rhythmic click clacking drew his attention. He turned to her and smiled. And God, she could have run and jumped into his arms just like in the old movies. She felt herself smiling like an idiot. She needed him like the air that she breathed. His laughter, his jokes, the grumpiness... hell, the whole package, she realized. She missed all of him when he was not around. Even if that measured in small amounts of time. She was unable to contain her enthusiasm and ran the last few feet towards him. To touch and smell, to hug and kiss him. She would have thrown herself at him, all thought of possible injuries forgotten. She would have thrown herself in his arms had it not been for a long, blond main of hair belonging to Agent Perotta making an appearance through the door of his room, an Agent Perotta fresh, perfumed, smiling and carrying his overnight bag. The very same overnight bag she had asked Angela to pack for him and take to the hospital. The very same she had lovingly instructed Angela to assemble in one of the few breaks she was allowed during the whole excruciating day.

Her heart fell to the floor. The hug her arms had started died before it came to be. Her smile extinguished itself and her throat closed in a painful knot.

"Bones! You're here!" The hug she expected from him did not happen. The hand she had got accustomed to having on the small of her back stayed in his pocket. Of what was usually hers, only the ghost of a smile remained.

"Dr Brennan, so you finally decided to join us..." Her brain registered the coldness of the other woman's tone, the dangerous glint in her eyes. But it refused to formulate an appropriate answer like what the hell are you doing here or drop dead bitch. All the appropriate replies only came much later, when she was tossing and turning trying to sleep. Hindsight is not always a benefit. At that moment she managed only a stuttered reply.

"I... No... I was... Cullen..."

"S' OK, Bones... Can we go now?" At least, Brennan thought, he wasn't smiling at the blond cow. That was something.

"Sure", Agent Perotta piped in. "I got my car at the entrance". And her smile was for Booth only, it excluded Brennan much like a brick wall would. The thought of that woman driving Booth home and offering to make him soup or some such, the mere thought of those nails running down his back was enough to finally pull Brennan out of her stupor.

"That won't be necessary, Agent Perotta. I'll drive Agent Booth home" And she looped her arm through his, still resolutely in his pocket. She saw the protest dying in the the lightly lipsticked lips, her for-Booth-only smile still in the freshly makeuped face. It did occur to Brennan that Agent Perotta had had the time to refresh her make up and apply some perfume and even change from the clothes she had last seen her in and into something soft, feminine and alluring. And pink! God she hated pink! Oblivious or not, Brennan was not stupid and knew when a woman was out to get a man. She knew all the little tricks, all the strategies, all the moves. She had studied them like an anthropological project. What she did not recognize was that this was a woman who knew how to lose a battle in order to win a war.