I'll get back to replying to reviews starting on this chapter, I promise. I just wanted to upload this for you guys first. Hope you enjoy, as always.

Disclaimer: Bones does not belong to me.


I don't sleep. I lie in bed, still, silent, but I can't sleep. I'm so terrified of getting that call, the one where someone with a cold, clinical voice tells me that you passed away because of complications. I'm tempted to disconnect the phone lines, but I don't because it's illogical. Just because I don't receive the call doesn't mean it won't be real. And if I never receive the call, unplugging the phone lines would just be illogical. Paranoid.

I keep my cell phone under my pillow, volume set as high as it can go.

As I lie there, I can't stop my mind from wandering, and as expected, it wanders to you. I relive again those terrible moments as you slipped away as I held you. I relive that voiceless horror at the thought of losing you, that voiceless horror of actually losing you those long years ago. I am terrified of losing you, but I don't know what I'll do if I do get that call. Will I go on, like last time? Will I attend your funeral only reluctantly? Will I stand there beside your coffin, staring hard into the uniformed guards in hopes of seeing your face there again? And after? I've never considered an after without you. I can't consider it now.

To keep those dreaded tears from surfacing again, I think of the good times we had. I remember like yesterday the day we met, the kiss we shared, how you were obnoxious but charming at the same time. I remember those comfortable nights spent on your couch or mine, watching an old classic you couldn't believe I hadn't seen, eating the Thai you'd brought over and sharing the fortune cookies. I remember how I'd fallen asleep on your shoulder more than once, and how you'd laid your head on mine and we'd wake up like that, with cricks in our necks but smiling.

The good memories hurt almost as badly as the darker ones. Those are things I'll lose if I lose you. Maybe we haven't been doing those things as often since you came back from Afghanistan with Hannah, but we're still friends, aren't we? Last week, you came by with Thai, just to make sure I ate. You didn't stay long, and we only watched some news on the TV, but you didn't forget me. We're still friends, even now. If I lose that…if I lose you

I take a deep shuddering breath and struggle to hold back the tears, even though there's no one to see. I can't cry, because I'm just your partner. Hannah will cry. Hannah can cry. But partners don't cry for each other. Friends don't either, do they? Friends may worry and fret, but they don't cry over each other. Of all those times you saved me, of all those times I woke up in a hospital room with you sitting by my bedside, you never cried. So I won't cry now.

I can't stay in bed anymore with these dark thoughts, so I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and make my way to the living room. There is a stack of case files on the desk that I was supposed to look at tonight before…

I swallow and sit down, taking the first file from the stack and flipping it open. Immersing myself in work has always been the answer before, with my father, with my mother, with you. So I flip through the pages fully expecting that sweet release, that absorption of science that demands complete concentration. But I'm distracted, and for the first time, a stack of case files and pages of terminology aren't enough to force the fear, the emotions, away. I open a second file and find a photograph of the crime scene, the red blood staining the carpet eerily, horribly familiar. It's your blood, suddenly, and the scene is your hallway with you gasping, trying to breathe with a collapsed lung. I'm holding your shoulders, cradling your head, pressing my scarf against your chest and whispering, praying, Don't die—I can't, not again—don't leave me

With a gasp, I jerk myself back from those memories and slam the file shut. The tears are back, and I swallow hard, wiping furiously at my eyes. You're going to be fine, damn it. I saw you at the hospital, and though you were a far cry from healthy, you were breathing and your heart pumping. I have nothing to worry about.

I hear your voice in my head suddenly, incredibly, as clear as if you were standing right next to me. Don't get so worked up about nothing, Bones. I'll be fine.

Auditory hallucination. Definitely a sign of stress and sleep-deprivation. Possible mental trauma. Pushing the files away, I stand again and fetch a glass of water in the dark kitchen, drinking until the burn of tears at the back of my throat is gone, drinking until my hands have stopped trembling. There is, rationally, nothing to worry about. You've already made it past the worst of the danger, and Hannah is with you. You aren't alone.

I shouldn't be worried. Logically.

The shrill ring of my cell phone cuts through the dead silence of the apartment, and my heart leaps into my throat. I'm running without consciously deciding to, and the phone is in my hands before it rings again. For a long moment, I stand there in the darkness, staring at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen, wondering if I'm ready for this. Wondering how I'll take the news, if I'm even capable of taking it. Am I emotionally prepared to hear the cold, clinical voice on the other end? Am I simply overreacting?

Should I just set the phone down and pretend to be asleep, to keep the news away for as long as I am able?

No. As much as I'm terrified, as much as my hands are trembling, I can't stand not knowing. So I yank open the phone and answer breathlessly, "Doctor Brennan."

"Temperance?"

Not a dispassionate voice trying hard to seem sympathetic. A warm, familiar voice full of fear. I recognize Hannah's voice in relief, but the fear in her voice makes my own fear wash over me twice as strong.

I swallow hard and ask evenly, "Did something happen?" Tell me nothing happened to you. Tell me you're fine.

"No—yes—it's hard to explain. He woke up about twenty minutes ago—he had a nightmare or something, and he was sweating and delirious—"

"The doctors?" I ask sharply. They must have been able to do something for you. They must have something to help.

"They gave him a mild sedative to knock him out, but I'm afraid it'll happen again. It was—scary, it was scary. I've never seen him like this. He seemed terrified out of his mind."

"Did he say anything?" I ask, more calmly now that I know you're okay. "His nightmares may have involved something he saw in Afghanistan. Maybe one of his soldiers was killed?"

"I know it has nothing to do with that," Hannah answers quietly.

I pause in surprise. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because it was your name he kept calling out."

My breath hitches, and the phone feels suddenly heavy in my hand. You called for me? It makes no rational sense. You have Hannah and Parker. You most likely have a stronger emotional connection to Cam than you do to me. If you had nightmares about your loved ones, those would be the names to cry out. Those would be the people you called. Not me. Not your partner.

"I'm sure it means nothing," I assure Hannah, after a moment of silence. "The doctors should just keep him sedated until he's better."

"I want you to come." She says it firmly, almost commandingly. "I don't want him to wake up like that again. If he needs you sitting here by his bedside all night to keep him calm, then you're going to do it." She sighs briefly, her voice losing some of its sharpness. "Please, Temperance. I don't want to see that look in his eyes again."

What look? That hard look in your eyes that tells me of the sniper you must have been? The nervous, apprehensive look you had when you realized your coma-dream was so far from reality it was almost humorous? That look in your eyes when you realized John Green was perfectly willing to fire the gun at my head?

No. I don't want that look back in your eyes either.

"I'll be there soon," I breathe hurriedly before shutting the phone. For a second, I just stand there, wondering if it's wise to see you again so soon. What if I look at you and all those emotions overwhelm me? What if those horrible, illogical, unreasonable tears well up, in front of you, in front of Hannah?

But I can't leave you. As conflicted as I am, leaving you alone to your dreams and your nightmares has never been an option.

The drive to the hospital passes in a blur. I don't remember parking or walking up the stairs to the third floor. I just remember standing outside your hospital room. Hannah's back is to me as she sits in a plastic hospital chair, your limp hand in hers. She reaches out and strokes your cheek, then rubs your hand. Has she been here all night, since you got out of surgery?

I knock quietly on the doorframe, smiling slightly when Hannah glances up.

"Hi," she says softly. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and I see she's been crying, just as I thought.

"Hi," I return, glancing at you as I move into the room. You're just as I left you, pale and still. A light sheen of sweat covers your brow, and I wonder if you're dreaming again.

"Thanks for coming," Hannah says. "I just didn't want him to wake up and be that scared again."

"I wanted to come," I answer truthfully. "Has there been any change?"

She shakes her head and looks back down at you. "A nurse came in a few minutes ago to check on his vitals or something, but she didn't say anything."

I turn to pull the other hospital chair up to the other side of your bed and sit. After a moment of hesitation (I've never been good at concern and empathy, after all; that was—is!—your area), I say, "Maybe you should…take a break. You look tired."

She gives me a weary smile. "Of course I'm tired. My boyfriend was shot right in front of me. They're still not sure if he'll survive."

"Oh." Right. It's not as if I can force her to get a drink, and I understand her completely. If I were your girlfriend, I would be immovable from your bedside as well. If I were your girlfriend.

We resort to silence because it's too uncomfortable (at least, for me it is) to talk. I run my eyes over your face, studying your strong zygomatic arch, your well-structured jaw, your pale lips that are illogically talented at kissing. Quickly, I shake away those thoughts and hope it's too dark to see the automatic blush that spreads across my cheeks.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

The abruptness of the question and the question itself shocks me so much I can't do anything but stare over you at Hannah, wondering incredulously if it's a joke. But she's not kidding; her eyes are as serious as I've ever seen them. Serious and sad.

"No." I force the word out, hating the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. Do I have feelings for you? No, I'm your partner. We're friends. Yes, I care about you. Yes, I would find it impossible to cope if I lost you again. But no, I don't have feelings for you, not feelings beyond friends.

Your girlfriend looks unconvinced. "Did you ever have feelings for him?"

"No," I repeat, more strongly this time. It's not entirely true, because I think I did have feelings for you at some point. When you confessed to me, when you told me you were the gambler, I hadn't been ready. But in Maluku, I think I realized some things, not the least of which was that I might have returned your sentiments. But when we got back to Washington and you had a picture of a blond reporter on your cell phone, I realized that our feelings stopped at friendship because they would never be any more. I wonder if I ever loved you. I wonder if that crushing ache at the thought of losing you is what love feels like.

Hannah stares at you, but she's talking to me again. "You're special to him," she says. "I don't know how. I asked him once if there was anything between you two, and he denied it. I…I don't know if I believe him. There's something about you two, you know? Something different."

"Booth and I were never lovers," I answer honestly. Not for lack of trying on your part, though I'd never tell her that. Clearing my throat, I add, "We're good friends though. We were always friends."

Hannah shakes her head. "I don't know what to think. I can't deal with it right now. It's just…He's an FBI agent. He's in the line of fire every day, and I know he's going to get hurt some time. I just didn't think…" She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know what I would've done if you weren't there. How—how did you know to do all that stuff? I thought you worked with bones, with dead people…"

"The study of forensic anthropology involves the study of the human anatomy," I reply, shrugging slightly. "I picked up some things here and there." I don't tell her that I've been through this before. I don't tell her that you died on me before, and that after I realized you were alive again, I researched bullet wounds and the damage they could do, just in case. Just in case.

With a quiet sigh, she shakes her head and rubs her eyes tiredly. "I don't know. Sometimes…sometimes it just seems like he's not mine, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I answer truthfully.

She sighs again. "He's my boyfriend. He loves me, he said so himself. But sometimes, it feels like his heart isn't in it. I don't know why."

"Booth is very serious about relationships," I tell her, forcing the note of accusation from my voice. You have never been a person to do things halfway. I know that once you get started, you don't stop until you finish, until you have given whatever it is all that you have. That she would doubt you like this, that she would think for a moment that you are uncommitted…I feel a flash of annoyance bordering on anger.

Before either of us can say anymore, you stir in your sleep. It isn't a natural movement in your sleep; we know that the instant we spot the furrows in your brow and the way your breathing catches unevenly. You toss to the other side before either of us can move, and I start up out of my chair, afraid you'll tear open your wound. Your chest heaves as your breath quickens, and I reach for your arm, intending to shake you awake.

"Bones!"

My name coming off your lips and the sheer terror in your voice stop me in my tracks. I don't have to glance over at Hannah to feel her confusion and fear. Your pulse jumps, and the heartbeat monitor beeps accordingly.

"Bones!" you cry again, your face contorted. "Bones—you—goddamn it, I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

Hannah's face pales, and she glances over at me. "Is he…he wants to kill you?"

"No," I say, and I know I'm right because you've had this nightmare before. Once when we fell asleep on your couch, and once when you dozed on the couch in my office after an exhausting case. It scared me the first time, startled me the second. Now, I wonder why the dream is back, when it clearly hasn't cropped up since you returned to Washington. Is it the stress? Is it what just happened?

"Booth," I say firmly, shaking your arm. "Booth." Another shake. "Booth, wake up. You're safe. I'm safe." When you don't respond, I snap sharply, "Booth!"

You jerk up as if you've been electrocuted, and even just out of sleep, your hand reaches automatically across your waist for your gun. I take your arm firmly but gently, not wanting to startle you, but you instinctively lock your hand tightly around my wrist to still my movements. For a moment, we freeze like that, staring into each other's eyes and breathing.

And then you take a shuddering breath and let it out as my name. "Bones…"

"I'm fine," I tell you, using my free hand to gently pry your fingers away from my wrist. "You were dreaming again."

You fall back into the pillows, your eyes wide and your breathing still erratic. The heartbeat monitor leaps unsteadily. "God, Bones, I…what…" Your eyes run over me again, as if searching for injuries, and relief flushes across your face. "You're okay."

"You were the one who got shot," I remind you, an edge of anger to my voice.

"Shot." You sound confused for a second before realization and remembrance flits across your expression. "You're okay?" you breathe out again, glancing me up and down.

"I'm fine," I reply, annoyed. "You're the one everyone's worried about."

"Right," you murmur, letting your head drop back to the pillow. "Right." After a moment of hesitation, you ask, "What happened? After?"

After. "The ambulance got you into surgery," I reply evenly. "They got the bullet out and repaired what could be repaired. You need rest."

"What were you dreaming about?"

Both of us start; both of us, it seems, have forgotten Hannah was in the room. Although, to be fair, you likely never realized it in the first place.

"Hannah," you breathe, releasing my hand. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding onto you until your warmth is gone. I try not to miss it as you pull away.

"Hey." Her smile is slightly forced, and I don't miss the way her gaze darts up to me before landing back on you. "You okay?"

"I feel like crap," you say with a wince. "But getting shot usually feels like that, so I think I'll be okay."

"What were you dreaming about?" Hannah repeats, curious and suspicious all at once. I'm almost completely sure she suspects something about our past. Even if we never engaged in a sexual or romantic relationship, I'm fairly certain she won't be happy to find out you propositioned me once, or that you kissed me before, three times at the least.

You manage—you just manage—to hide the flash of guilt in your eyes from her. But I see it, because I've known you for a long time.

"Something from a while ago," you reply ambiguously. "Just the dangers of the job."

Hannah's eyebrows raise. "And it had something to do with Temperance?"

You shoot a glance over at me, clearly startled, and I explain uncomfortably, "You might have called out my name once or twice."

"Oh. Right." You take a deep breath and then try to hide the subsequent wince. I move toward you automatically before stopping as Hannah reaches out to take your hand in what is probably supposed to be a comforting gesture.

"You can tell me," she says softly. "It's okay, Seeley."

"Right," you mutter again. "It's just…it's kind of hard to talk about."

To the side, I swallow, because I know how hard it is to talk about that incident. I probably have more nightmares about it than you do.

You still seem shaken and upset by the dream though, and entirely unprepared to talk about it, so I say as steadily as I can manage, "I was buried alive in a car and left to die by a woman called the Gravedigger." Your eyes snap up to mine, instantly anxious, but I continue anyway, "It was…hard." So much worse than hard. Terrifying. Full of gut-wrenching terror that still leaves me panting and sweating in my bed sometimes.

I swallow again and finish quickly, "Booth got me out."

Hannah's expression has morphed from suspicious to compassionate, and she rubs your hand gently. "I'm sorry."

"Bones had the worst of it," you mutter. Then, visibly, you pull yourself together and force a smile. "You look like hell, Hannah. Have you been sitting here this whole time?"

Your girlfriend smiles sheepishly and nods. "I just couldn't leave you."

With that smile, you lean forward and kiss her chastely on the lips before saying, "Go splash some water on your face or something. And get a drink and some food. I don't want you passing out and ending up in a hospital bed right next to me."

Hannah smiles back and squeezes your hand briefly. "I love you."

You nod and reply, "Love you too."

You share another quick kiss before Hannah rises, nods to me, and disappears out of the room. Awkwardly, knowing for the first time what it means to feel like the third wheel, I stand next to your bed and stare at your badge the nurses must have left on the bedside table. They obviously didn't leave your gun lying there, and I conclude that Hacker must have requisitioned it until you recover.

"Thanks," you say quietly, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Thanks?" I echo incredulously. "You're the one who took the bullet for me."

You grin wryly, glancing down at your torso, to where the injury is. "Gee, Bones, I hadn't noticed." At my clear annoyance, your face softens, and you amend, "Thanks for coming, you know. The first time I woke up, I could tell I kind of freaked Hannah out."

"You were delirious," I point out. "You remember waking up the first time?"

You shrug. "Not too clearly, but I remember that you weren't there."

"Hannah called," I explain, standing there somewhat uncomfortably with my coat in my hands. "She was afraid for you, so she wanted me here to calm you down."

"Thanks," you say again. "For calming me down, I mean. I know dealing with me after those dreams isn't the easiest thing in the world."

"There are easier things," I agree. "Like breathing. Or beating you at chess."

Just as I'd intended, you let out a laugh, but it ends sour when you cut off with a grimace and press your hand against your side.

"Does it hurt badly?" I ask concernedly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

"Not badly," you answer, though your teeth are clenched.

I frown. "Sorry."

"No." You shake your head and pull your hand away from the wound. "Don't be sorry. It's fine."

I want to say thank you. I should thank you. But I can't. Somehow, the words stick in my throat, because part of me isn't grateful. Part of me absolutely hates you for doing this again, not because you're hurt but because of a completely selfish reason: you've scared me again, and I can't take it. I still feel brittle, as if the tears are lurking just below the surface, and I hate feeling unstable.

You seem to sense some of my conflicting emotions, even if you don't know the reason behind them. "Come here," you say, holding out a hand. I eye you questioningly, and you say, "Let me just…I just need to hold you for a second." Something dark flashes in your eyes, and your voice wavers. "Please."

I give in to the impulse to touch you then, moving toward you before I'm fully aware of it. You grab my wrist and, in a sudden movement, pull me down for a tight hug.

"That was close," you whisper in my ear. "Too close." You're trembling. Almost imperceptibly, but your fingers are shaking ever-so-slightly as they grip my shoulders.

For a moment, I stand there stiffly, wanting both to push you away and to pull you close. Your words bring back the memory of Green's cold gun pressed against my forehead, though, and I need to feel warm. Safe. So my arms raise to wrap around your shoulders, and suddenly I'm clutching you like you're a lifeline, my grip on your hospital gown tight. All the fear, all the terror, of waiting tensely for news of you suddenly surges to the forefront, and it's all I can do to not succumb to helpless tears as I feel your heart beating solidly in your chest. I'm afraid—so afraid—of feeling you slip away between my fingers. I'm so afraid of losing you.

"Yes," I breathe back, and you must hear the unshed tears in my voice because your arms tighten around me. "Yes, it was too close." Far too close. Before I know what I'm saying, I'm whispering furiously, "Don't do that again. Don't do that to me again."

"Sorry," you answer softly, your voice tight with emotion. "Sorry, Bones. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," I return. There are so many things I want to say, but what comes out is just a slightly choked, "Just don't…"

I don't know what I'm asking you, but you know anyway. "Yeah."

It's enough. We've always communicated like this, in half-sentences, each of us able to know intuitively what the other is asking. Is this what it means to have a connection? A connection like the one Angela is always insisting exists between me and you? I wonder if you do the same with Hannah.

You release me, finally, but your left hand stays where it is on my shoulder. After a moment, your fingers run down my arm, eliciting a shiver that I try to hide, and you take my hand.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" you ask, a bit sleepily. The medication and exhaustion must be kicking in again in the absence of the adrenaline surge from the nightmare.

"Hannah?" I ask. "She's your girlfriend." She should stay. She's the one.

"So?" you say drowsily, clearly half-asleep already. You drop back into your pillow, your eyes fluttering closed.

"So…" I repeat, wondering why you don't seem to understand that it's your girlfriend's hand you should be holding, not mine.

"You're my partner," you murmur, as if it explains everything. As if being your partner gives me the right to grip your fingers tightly and want to never let go.

"I'll be here," I say finally, softly, because I can't say anything else. How can I refuse you, when you've done something like take a bullet for me without batting an eye?

I settle into the hard hospital chair still holding your hand, remembering all the times you sat here when I was in the bed. I hold your hand because I'm afraid to let go. I hold your hand because I need to feel your warmth, your pulse, beneath my fingers. I hold your hand because I'm your partner, and somehow, that makes it okay.