Major spoilers for "The Hole in the Heart," so turn back now if you haven't seen it!
AN: But before I start, 4:47 AM was the time featured prominently in "The End in the Beginning" when Brennan returns at the beginning at the episode, and also when Brennan enters Booth's bedroom in "The Hole in the Heart." I know what I think it means, but I won't go into that until the end author note. Until then, enjoy.
Twitter: ObjectiveMiss
Summary: In the darkest moments before dawn, a woman enters his bed. What life is she leading? Is it the same life she was leading a half an hour ago? Intimacy takes many forms; which did it take? Spoilers for "The Hole in the Heart" B&B
4:47 AM
"I can make the bed. Thanks Booth." Brennan offered a small smile as she smoothed the fresh pillowcase.
It had been a trying day, to say the least.
"Goodnight Bones," the corner of his mouth quirked up. But his eyes told a different story before he closed the door behind him.
See let the breath she was holding go, pulling the borrowed pillow tighter to her chest before turning back to the task at hand. Her makeshift bed had been completed, now she simply needed to finish her preparations. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them next to the couch, while simultaneously removing her earrings to store safely on the nearby coffee table. Next came her shirt, which she folded and placed to the side before replacing it with the borrowed grey sweatshirt.
Not caring about anything else, she dropped to the couch, flicking out the nearby lamp.
It was dark, and she was alone.
She pulled the covers up around her, shuffling around and changing positions until she found herself as comfortable as she could be. It wasn't the couch that that was causing the discomfort, rather, the entire sequence of events beginning of the introduction of Brodsky to her case load.
This wasn't supposed to happen, losing good interns to acts of violence. Yes, her line of work was dangerous, and it was something she took in stride every day. But her interns…they didn't go into the field with her and Booth for that very reason. Brennan shook her head, looking to dispel the thoughts. She draped an arm over her eyes, forcing them shut.
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Brennan awoke with a start, her heart felt as if it were beating in her throat. She wasted no time regaining her bearings. Booth's apartment. Booth's couch. Booth's sheets. She pushed herself into a sitting position, the crisp sheets rustling with her every moment. Greedily heaving in gulps of air, she swung her legs over the side of the couch. She dropped her head in to her hands in a vain attempt to control her heavy breathing.
Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was dead. He was never coming back.
A breath hitched in her chest.
He was never coming back.
That breath transformed into a sob halfway up. Tears welled up in her eyes. Greif welled up in her; an iron fist squeezed her heart in a vice grip, pulling it down in to a sinking pit of despair.
But Brennan wasn't ready to cry again. She lifted her arm, wiping the tears now streaming down her face clear away; only a sparkling trace was left in the wake. His smell wafted up from the borrowed sweatshirt. An odd comfort descended upon her, she took a moment to calm her sobs. She had spent the entire evening literally wrapped in is scent; in him. A small, albeit, sad smile crept on to her features at this thought.
She snuck a look at her cell phone on the coffee table.
1:58
The two hours or so of sleep Brennan had enjoyed had passed like mere seconds.
Reluctantly, the anthropologist dropped her head back to the pillow of her makeshift bed, pulling the throw blankets up to her chin. It wasn't morning yet.
- - - - - - - - - -B&B- - - - - - - - - -
Déjà vu. Awake again.
This time, panic coiled around her throat. Mr. Nigel-Murray was plucked from life, right in the middle of, what she would consider a safe haven. The Jeffersonian was no longer safe as long as Brodsky was around. It would never provide the same safety ever. Sanctum sanctorum was Latin for "Holiest of the Holy." This was the lab platform that she worked on every single day with her interns. They couldn't get hurt there. Or, at least, they shouldn't be hurt there.
His death of course disturbed her; she was no cold salmon. But the circumstances, the location, the surprise truly shook her to her core.
The unthinkable had happened.
Vincent Nigel-Murray was dead. He was never coming back.
Brennan lifted her head with great unease to check the time.
2:46
She had slept scarcely an hour, for what had seemed like a few seconds.
The extremely familiar feeling of impending tears crept up upon her from nowhere. She was a wreck; the only way for her to deal with such a situation was to break it down to tiny fragments and scrutinize it in a highly scientific manner. It was the only way.
Well, bone remodeling began in the basic multicellular unit. The repair the body makes begins microscopically and slowly but surely restores the affected osseous matter to the best working order it is able to. Was that how emotional healing worked? Shattered pieces slowly crawling back to their rightful places? No, that wouldn't do; there was no way to rationalize what she was feeling. Anger, sadness, a want for comfort; usually these emotions could be swiftly dealt with. But tonight, everything seemed inexplicably different.
Still feeling utterly distraught, she pulled the sweatshirt sleeve up, and took a deep whiff of Booth's soothing scent. Thoughts of him seemed to be the only thing that could lull her into a remotely calm state. Was she dependent upon him? If so, would this dependence necessarily produce adverse effects? But she had faced worse, and had faced it alone. She could sleep through just one night alone.
- - - - - - - - - -B&B- - - - - - - - - -
4:28
The now severely agitated forensic anthologist flung the device down to the carpet. It didn't matter that it had no control over the passage of time; but she needed something to blame for her inability to sleep. Searching for blame was a common source of grief release; therefore, it was perfectly normal for her to do so. Normal, like bringing flowers to a gravesite, as Booth had said was customary quite a while ago. She brought him that potted plant, though she still failed to see how that differed from flowers. Booth always said it was "the thought that counts." She didn't argue when he ordered that she spend the night at his apartment. She had changed.
By nature, she was a runner. Emotional stress triggered her flight instinct by default. It would be all too easy to get in a taxi and never look back, or to find a dig in Guatemala, or Maluku that would gladly welcome her to the team. She needed to be strong, not just for herself, but Angela, Hodgins, Cam; everyone. but Vincent.
Vincent was dead. He was never coming back.
But he thought she was making her leave. He thought she was making him leave. Why would that be his dying thought; hadn't she always treated him well?
What kind of monster did he think she was? If he thought that of her…others must have also thought in a similar manner at some point.
"No no no no no!" Brennan mumbled, pressing her quaking palms to her eyes to squash the feelings within.
She couldn't stop the thoughts from popping in to her head as tears began to well up in her eyes. Cold. Calculating. Unfeeling. Just a scientist.
More than ever, she just wanted someone there. Someone to tell her that everything would be alright. Booth was just one door down.
She got to her feet, rubbing a hand to rub her opposite arm reassuringly. Step by step, she moved towards that bedroom door, hoping that nothing would be underfoot and cause her to stumble blindly in to the dark. She fumbled with the door knob, her hands still shaking. Quietly, she pushed the door open; part of her hoped he wouldn't be awoken by her entrance. After all, he did need to kill Brodsky, he needed his sleep.
The familiar lock of a gun helped to jolt her from her half-woken state. Her pulse immediately raced and her rate of breathing in turn.
Brennan raised her hands in a shaky surrender. "I-I'm sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," Booth kept his gun trained steadily at her. "I'm sorry, did you hear something?" He swung his legs out from under the covers and on to the floor.
"No, no." Her voice cracked a bit, as she took a small shuffled further into the room.
"Want me to put the gun away?"
"Yes."
As he was told, the gun was returned to the bedside table. "Okay, what's wrong?"
She couldn't pick up the emotion behind his tone of voice. Was he tired? Angry for the disturbance in his sleep? Surprised, or frazzled? NO matter, she closed the distance to him, her eyes shut as she tried to hold back the floodgates of grief from breaking. She had no one else to turn to.
"He kept saying…don't make me go," a solitary tear ran down her cheek.
"What?"
"Vincent. He was looking at me, and he was saying, don't make me leave. He said that he…" she looked away, just trying to stall her full on sobs until she could finish. "…that he loved being there. Why would he think that I'm the one making him leave? What kind of person am I?" She shook her head.
"No. Come here. No, no, no, no, no, Bones. You got that all wrong, all right? You got it all wrong-" he pulled her down next to him.
"-No, I….heard him. You did too." Brennan knew she had to be right. "Don't make me leave. That's what he said"
"He wasn't talking to you."
Surely he was just trying to reassure her. "I was the only one there…and you." But Booth wouldn't make him leave. "He wasn't…he wasn't talking to you."
"He was talking to God. He didn't want to die."
"No, Vincent was like me Booth." He was wrong. "He was an atheist."
"Okay. Then he was talking to the universe then. He didn't want to go. He wasn't ready, Bones. He wanted to stay."
Tears were freely flowing as she struggled to retain some semblance of composure. She hated to hear how God as benevolent when she dealt with murder victims every single day. How would someone or something let the world operate as it did if something had absolute control and the needs of everyone in mind? Why did children starve, why was there genocide, why was there terrorism?
"Well, if there was a God, then he would have let Vincent stay here with us." Brennan didn't mean it as a challenge; she might have meant it in this manner any other day. It was simply a statement.
"That's not how it works," he frowned.
Why Vincent? Why now? Why ever?
"Can you just..?" she leaned forward as sobs overtook her.
"Yeah, that's why I'm here," he whispered soothingly. "I'm right here."
He held her close. It just wasn't fair; any of it.
"I know, it's hard."
She nuzzled further into him, simply trying to get closer to the comfort and peace she wanted so badly. They had faced so much; too much. They had lost friends and worked under enough pressure to crush your average person.
"But we'll get through it Bones," he cooed over her plangent sobs. "You're strong. I know you, I know you are."
She had reached a braking point, "I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone-"
"No, you aren't alone."
"Yes I am," she choked out. "I have no one."
"Bones," he nudged her. "Bones, look at me."
Slowly but surely, she raised her eyes up to meet his.
"You have me, and I have you."
With that, more tears gathered in her eyes. Was he what she needed? Could she take the next step?
"Thank you," Brennan lowered her head back to his chest.
"Now get some rest."
That was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep.
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AN: Hey, so I hate to Hart Hansen you guys, but I don't want touch what "happened" that evening when we will know for sure on Thursday. I know the current debate is whether they had sex or not and quite frankly, it doesn't matter. They shared something that evening, something special. And this story can conveniently work for those with either inclination!
I hope you enjoyed, and please do leave a review!
Twitter - ObjectiveMiss