Author's Note: Okay, just to clarify and hopefully appease some of you who have reviewed. (And thank you for that, by the way!!) For purposes of my story it was the Department of Justice building that was bombed, not the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building - they are actually across the street from one another. It has been several years since I've been to DC so my relative geography may be slightly off. And yes, I realize that the building itself is huge. But I have also been to the Pentagon the week after 9/11, and I have visited the Ground Zero site in NYC and the Oklahoma City Memorial. I have seen firsthand what vast amounts of hatred can so easily destroy, and have seen the tragic results of those families left behind. I haven't wanted to focus too much on that horrible part of it, because that would be way darker than I want to go for this story. But I also hope that we as Americans NEVER EVER forget about what happened on those days, and that we carry it with us as an important part of our history that we can learn from and hopefully never ever allow to happen again.

OK, off the soapbox, and on with the story!!!

Max

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Chapter 4

She was beyond worried. Worried was something she had passed hours ago, when the group first learned that the building directly across the Capitol Mall, the building directly adjacent to where the FBI building was located, had been completely destroyed. Worried was something she had felt when she tried the first of many calls to his cell phone, to be met again and again with only the standard voicemail she had received only moments before the bombing.

No one dared voice the opinion, or the growing fear that they all shared, but as the hours dragged by with no word from Agent Booth they all began to suspect the worst. She had, predictably, thrown herself into her work, purposefully avoiding the frequent updates brought to the group by Angela, whose office had been turned into information central due to the large flatscreen plasma now permanently fixed on the news feeds. Call after call had been placed to the missing Agent's cell, work, and even home phone, with no response or further information from any of the FBI sources they had contacted as well. No one there seemed to know where Agent Booth was or might be, and at the moment their top priority was the current issue right outside their own building, not searching for one single agent in a growing list of unaccounted for personnel.

The platform had become deathly quiet, punctuated only by the occasional sounds of Dr. Brennan's instruments clinking against the cold metal table. Her responses to initial attempts at conversation or consolation had become more succinct, and her usually methodical instructions to the interns had become nonexistent, until all those around her had finally vacated the area leaving her to work alone in complete and utter peace; just the way she preferred it.

She didn't try to fool herself, for she knew as well as everyone else that Booth would have been in harm's way at the time of the blast. His normal route to the J. Edgar Hoover building took him directly past the Department of Justice building, well within blast range of the bomb. Details on the blast had come in slowly at first, but had rapidly proceeded to increase both in detail and number. The most recent report now indicated that a large cargo van, spotted directly outside the building prior to the blast, was suspected of carrying enough accelerant and propellant to not only completely level the DOJ building, but also destroy over half of the National Archives directly across the street as well as damage most of the northeastern corner of the Jeffersonian Museum of Natural History.

It was an extremely powerful bomb that had effectively caused an inordinate amount of damage, both to property and to life. She had managed thus far to tune out most of what the others were quietly discussing, but she had heard the most recent death toll easily mounting over 300. The building was staffed, despite being a Friday afternoon, and the area directly outside had been full of tourists and traffic. Rescue workers were not expecting to find many survivors trapped in the building alive, but remained ever hopeful that they would be proven wrong. As of yet none had been found, and instead the death toll continued to rise.

She knew if he was among the dead it may be weeks before he could be positively identified. The thought, the notion, the very idea that he could possibly wind up on her examining table was enough to make her pause, only for a second, and close her eyes ever so briefly. Unbidden, a thought came to her mind, and she was unsure as to whom exactly it was directed but followed the path of her heart nonetheless. "Please," her wayward heart begged silently, "please let him be okay."

Opening her eyes, she felt more despondent than ever. If he was indeed gone it would be her fault. He never would have left the lab, never would have been even remotely close to the blast if they hadn't fought earlier. He would have been here in his rightful place, by her side, as she worked over the body; teasing her, attempting to distract her, prodding her to keep her on her toes. And after the lab tilted, when the news began to filter in and the death toll mounted, he would have been the strong, stoic wall they could all lean on for comfort and guidance. He would have been there.

He would still be here.

She faltered, dropping the instrument she was holding and cringing slightly when it hit the floor. She closed her eyes again, dropping her head, arms outstretched to support her sagging body against the side of the table. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the moisture to dissipate, wondering why this time was so different. This time...was it different?

He had died once before. Karaoke, then a gunshot, and two of the worst weeks of her life had followed. The only comparative equivalent to the kind of gut-wrenching, mind-numbing pain she experienced with Booth's death had been the first few months after her parents disappeared when she was sixteen. At the time, she remembered thinking that somehow Booth would be disappointed in her. That he would be disappointed knowing all of the progress he had made getting through to her, and in turn getting her through to the outside world, had been erased with one bullet to the chest of one very special agent. That he would somehow be beside himself seeing how she had turned into only a shell of the woman she had once been beside him. There really had been no other option for her, though, because just as it was now, his death had been entirely her fault.

He came back. One minute she was mad at the world and her own stupidity for letting him die, prematurely and unnecessarily, and the next she was acting on instinct; protecting him, alive and well, from an unknown assailant. The anger she felt at him for the incident still remained, though she had proved Sweets right and dutifully compartmentalized. But aside from the heated tongue lashing she gave him that night in his bathroom they had never adequately dealt with the repercussions of the whole incident.

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly and acutely aware that someone was studying her from across the platform as they slowly drew closer. It was Angela, and Brennan cringed when she noted the 'I want to talk about what you're feeling' look in her eyes. The artist quickly made her way across the platform, eyes red from hours of watching traumatic news footage, and stood facing the scientist.

"Bren, sweetie, please come in here with the rest of us," she motioned to her office, where the remaining staff, Booth's special squints, had taken up residence in front of the large plasma.

"Why?" Brennan questioned, truly puzzled as to how it would help the situation.

"To be with other living, breathing, human beings in a time of crisis, that's why," Angela rubbed her friends arm. "This isn't something that happens every day. It's shocking, it's senseless, and it hurts like hell," she continued. "Now is the time to be with people who feel your pain and hurt just as much as you do. Who are upset and disgusted with the amount of needless damage that one demented and twisted action can cause."

Angela hesitated, only a moment. "And because Booth would want you to be in there with us, not up here poring over some dead guy that will still be here tomorrow."

At the mention of her partner Brennan's head rose sharply. Angela had been experiencing the same feelings of panic and dread regarding Booth's whereabouts and lack of communication. They all had, in fact, though without the heavy feelings of guilt threatening to consume Brennan. They had spent the last fifteen minutes discussing how best to proceed given the circumstances, and had ultimately decided to first prepare themselves, and their friend, for any confirmation of their fears that might come in the immediate future.

It had sounded good in their little "squint huddle", as Booth liked to call it, to try to coerce Brennan into their fold of humanity, but as soon as the words came out of her mouth Angela felt like a complete and utter failure as her friend. "I'm sorry, Brennan, that didn't come out right at all," she started to apologize, but was cut off.

"It's alright, Angela. I understand that you only said that because you are concerned about my self-imposed distance from the standardized human response to this tragic event." She could see her friend's eyes begin to grow wide, wondering where she could possibly be going with this, so she decided to attempt a layman's approach.

"It best correlates to the 'circle the wagons' philosophy dating back to the frontier days of the pioneers in the old west. As danger was imminent, or if an enemy attacked, the response was to form a perimeter of all individuals united as a common front to thwart future or consistent attacks. It's the same philosophy used by various Indian tribes as well, whereby they would band together as one large unit in order to appear much larger in number, as opposed to fighting their enemies individually."

She took a step closer to Angela. "What I'm trying to say in my own obviously completely ineffectual way is..." she paused, looking down at her shoes for only a second before meeting her friend's eyes once again. "Thank you. Thank you for not wanting me to fight my enemies myself."

Angela stared at her moist eyes for only a moment before pulling her close and enveloping her in a hug. "It will be okay." And then, cautiously, "He will be fine." Through her arms she felt Brennan's breath hitch in her chest, followed only by a whisper. "Booth."

Angela hugged her fiercely again and took a step back, surprised at her usually stoic friend's sudden show of emotion simply because of a hug. She halfway expected to see tears streaming down Brennan's face, but instead she was staring out into the lab, as if in a trance. Her face had become paler than Angela had ever seen it, and her lips quivered as she simply whispered again.

"Booth".