I'd love to read your thoughts on this, so leave some at the end :)
I wake up to find a hospital-order blanket draped around my shoulders and my back stiff from the hard plastic chair. A few sleepy blinks clear my eyes, and I notice that bright sunlight filters in through the window in the room. Morning.
"Thought you'd sleep forever."
Your voice makes a shiver of relief run through me, and I turn to see you sitting upright in the bed, the covers pulled up to your waist. Good. Good. You don't know how relieved I am to see you sitting there, pale and weak but alive. You've made it through the night; statistically, your chances of survival are much higher now.
"Illogical," I tell you, stifling a yawn. "Everyone wakes up eventually. Sleep is impossible to maintain as long as forever." Turning to reason and calling you out on your assertion makes everything feel better. Makes everything feel more…normal.
You laugh softly, wincing infinitesimally as the movement pulls at your injury. You keep smiling though, probably thinking I don't notice, but I do. I notice and feel a wave of guilt at having put you there, having let you nearly die for me.
"Hannah?" I ask, moving the chair a little closer to your bed in case you try anything more strenuous than talking.
"She went home to freshen up a bit," you reply. "She was here until about an hour ago, but you fell asleep a while before that." At my glance at the blanket, you add, "She got you a blanket. It got a bit cold at night."
"Thank you," I say, just a bit awkwardly. Taking the blanket at the corners, I fold it into a neat square and set it on the bed next to you. That done, I look back up at you and ask, "How do you feel?"
You groan and stretch your arms briefly. "Like crap, but that's normal." There must be something negative in my expression—guilt, remorse, or something like it—because you amend hastily, "I actually feel pretty good, you know? I'm not feeling too bad."
"Liar," I accuse, but I'm relieved all the same. You're acting completely normal, trying to reassure me when you're the one lying in the hospital bed. There has likely been little permanent damage then, and with any luck, you'll be walking out of the hospital with nothing more than a scar.
You peer closely at me for a long moment before asking, "How are you?"
I look at you, startled. "Booth, you were the one who got shot."
You nod. "I know. But you're the one sitting in that god-awful hospital chair with red eyes and circles under your eyes so dark it looks like someone punched you."
"Red eyes?" I repeat, instantly self-conscious. I turn away from you slightly, not wanting you to see that I cried over you, that this affected me much more than it should have affected a regular friend. I can feel your worried gaze on me, asking questions I pretend not to notice because I don't have answers.
"It's okay," you say softly, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
"I didn't cry," I mutter stiffly. "In case you were wondering. Red eyes are symptoms of exhaustion, that's all."
"Hey," you repeat, "it's okay. Okay to cry, I mean."
"I'm your partner," I point out. That alone explains everything. Partner. A word that can hold so many meanings, some of them intimate and some of them purely professional. We have always fallen closer to intimate than professional on the spectrum, haven't we? But when it matters, when partners is the only defense we have, partners to us just means work colleagues. Sometimes it's an excuse, and sometimes, it's the only thing keeping me from kissing you. But you don't know that.
"We're friends first," you say gently, after a moment. "It's okay."
No, it's not. It's absolutely not okay, because crying is just the beginning. After crying comes breaking, and after breaking comes hurt. The loss of control, the loss of logic and reason—I can't handle that. You, of all people, know that.
You sense my reluctance to talk and switch off to another subject. "So, how are my x-rays and whatnot? Am I okay?"
Relieved, I grasp the facts and tell them to you in my composed scientist voice. I tell you about your pneumothorax, about some of the complications of your surgery, about how the doctors have ordered you to bed rest for weeks to come. It's easier this way, pretending you're a victim in a case, a stranger. It helps me compartmentalize until all those extraneous emotions have been shut away, until there's nothing left but the bare, base truths.
You listen as you always do, not really hearing and understanding all the terminology I use, but smiling all the same. I used to think that you did that to humor me, to pretend that you were smarter than you really were by nodding along like you comprehended. But now I know you can read those subtle hints like no one else I've ever met, read the look in my eyes and hear the facts in the rise and fall of my voice. You know what I'm saying even when you don't.
"That's good," you say finally when I finish. A smile curves your lips, and you add, "So I'll be out of here soon and back in the field with you in no time."
"No," I say sharply. You probably said that to reassure me, but I can't think of you going back into the field again so soon. I can't think of you facing off criminals, you holding your gun, without remembering the terrible sound of a gunshot and feeling your weak, tired pulse under my fingers.
"No," I repeat. "You need bed rest. You can't leave the hospital before the doctor approves you, you can't work on cases when you're supposed to be recuperating, and you can't skip taking medication when you want to. You have to follow the doctor's orders explicitly."
For a moment, you look surprised. Then the smile returns, and you tease, "Is that an order, Bones?"
"I'm serious," I insist, my brow furrowing. "If you don't follow orders, you won't recover as quickly. And…" I clear my throat and stare at the pillow over your shoulder. "And your welfare is important to me."
Your smile widens, and you assure me, "Of course I'll do all that. I always do that."
I fix you with a skeptical look. "No, you don't. There was that time you snuck out of the hospital prematurely—"
"Once."
"—and the time you forgot to take your medication and passed out in my office—"
"Again, once."
"—and the time you went back to a crime scene that you weren't supposed to be working on, grappled with the assailant when he showed up, and tore all your stitches."
You put on a pout and get that look in your eyes that people always liken to a puppy: your eyebrows rise, your lips turn down in a slight frown, and your eyes widen until you look like a little boy whose candy has been stolen from him. Unruffled, I stare firmly back at you, and after a moment, you lean back into your pillows and sigh. "Why doesn't my cute and innocent look work on you?"
"Maybe because it isn't as cute and innocent as you think," I suggest, not bothering to tell you that you do look extra pitiable when you stare at me like that, and that if I hadn't been able to withstand this gaze of yours, you probably would have taken advantage of me years ago. Luckily enough, my concern for your health overrides any instant surge of pity and affection I feel for you. Lucky for both of us.
You grin and reply confidently, "One of these days, Bones. One of these days, I'll get to you."
I hope not. For both of our sakes.
"I'm starved," you say with a yawn. Your arms automatically reach up to stretch, but a spasm of pain shoots across your face.
"Don't stretch," I order, pushing your hands back down. "Try not to engage in any strenuous activity that involves moving your body; it will only exacerbate your condition."
You manage a weak smile. "Right. I just won't move then."
"That would probably be best for a while," I agree, standing. "Do you want me to get someone to bring you breakfast?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind."
After a second of hesitation, I reach down to squeeze your hand. You glance up at me in surprise before squeezing back, your grip stronger than it was the night before.
"Don't…" I take a breath, wondering what to say. Finally, I just say, seemingly illogically, "Don't go anywhere."
You smile at me, reassuringly but seriously all the same, because you know I'm not being ridiculous. You know that it's always a possibility that you would need to fake your death again, for some far-flung reason that is enough for the FBI but will never be enough for me. It's happened before.
"Nothing in the world could make me budge from this bed," you say lightly. "Especially because I seem to be strapped down." You glance down with a wry smile at the restraints around your waist.
I smile too and explain, "After you woke up the second time from the nightmare, I was afraid you'd have another dream and tear your stitches. The nurses brought some restraints."
"Sure," you say, rolling your eyes. "You just wanted to make sure I didn't run off out the window while you weren't looking."
"We're three floors up," I say, smiling because I know when you're joking. "You'd probably break your legs or your arms, depending on how you land."
You groan. "Well, that sounds appealing. Never mind then. I'll just have to sneak out the regular way when your back's turned."
"You aren't going anywhere," I say sternly.
"Okay, okay," you laugh, holding up a hand. "Fine. I can't argue with you when you've got that voice on."
Satisfied, I leave the room to find you something to eat.
The first harried-looking nurse tells me shortly that she's busy and that Room 212 is not her responsibility. The second one says breakfast should be coming any minute now and offers nothing else before hurrying off. The third nurse tries to quickly dismiss me, but I narrow my eyes at her and begin a lecture on how important timely nutrition is, especially to a person who has recently sustained a wound and extensive blood loss. I throw in some high-end medical terminology as well, since you tell me that people are always more intimidated when I use multi-syllabic words. By the time I've firmly established that I know much more about the body than the nurse does (which makes it a mystery as to how she obtained her degree in the first place), she agrees timidly to get me a breakfast tray without delay.
Five minutes later, I'm heading back to your room with a tray laden with food in my hands. Reaching your door, I'm trying awkwardly to maneuver the tray to one hand so I can open the door when I realize there are voices inside.
A glance through the little window panel in the door reveals a blond head bent over your bedside—Hannah's back. She's facing away from me and obscuring your view of the door so I have time to step back out of sight.
She's back already? I don't know why I feel disappointed—I have no right to feel disappointed—but I do anyway, irrationally. It's just that it's been so long since I…since I had you to myself that I miss it. I miss you.
But you aren't mine. I shouldn't be feeling this way. If losing your company has made me jealous of Hannah, then logically, losing Angela's company to her marriage would make me jealous of Hodgins. But that thought is so absurd that it's almost comical, while the thought of being jealous of Hannah is all-too-real. Irritatingly real.
I'm about to set the tray down on one of the carts outside your door when I realize that I can hear you two talking from outside. I'm half a second away from shutting down the spark of curiosity and leaving when I hear some familiar words.
"You know, traditionally, when you come visit someone in the hospital, you bring a gift."
At this, I stop, curious and surprised. It's almost exactly what I remember Hannah saying to me months before, except it isn't Hannah saying it this time; it's you. Where exactly are you going with this?
Hannah's surprised; I can tell even with her back to me. She stiffens ever-so-slightly and pauses for a long moment. When she shifts slightly, I can see part of your face, and I see that you've pulled out that disarming, supposedly-innocent puppy-dog look again.
"Where did you hear that?" she asks finally, her voice uncertain. I lean forward, curious about the answer too.
"A little bird told me," you answer mysteriously. "Anyway, where's my gift?"
Hannah casts around for a suitable object, and I can see that her face is flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd…" She trails off and sighs apologetically. "Well, I'll get something right away. Next time I come, I'll get something, promise."
"You don't need to buy anything," you say oh-so-innocently. It's that "innocent" edge to your voice that convinces me you have a hidden plan behind this.
"What do you mean?" Hannah asks slowly.
You smile your charm smile and say, "Well, it gets pretty bright in here, and it bothers me, so maybe you could give me your sunglasses."
My brow screws up in confusion, and I press closer to the glass pane in the door, wondering what you need with her sunglasses.
"Mine?" Hannah laughs amusedly. "They're girl's sunglasses. I'll just run down and buy you some new ones in the gift shop."
You shake your head adamantly. "Nope, I want yours. I like them."
Hannah and I both pause, and slowly, after a long moment, she takes her pair down from her head and hands them over. "I have no idea why you'd want them, but if it makes you happy, Seeley," she says, her tone puzzled, "you can have them."
"It doesn't make me happy," you say, though your tone implies the direct opposite. "It's tradition. Now you don't have to bring me anything else." You slide the sunglasses onto your face, and I have to smile, even through my confusion. You look so ridiculous in those, so unmanly, that it's impossible to keep a straight face. Hannah seems to feel the same way, as she giggles and adjusts them on your face until they're straight.
"You look great," she teases. "Like a superstar."
"I think I should be fed like a superstar then," you grumble. "I'm starving."
Abruptly, I remember the tray I have and think it's a good enough time as any to intrude. So I push open the door and announce, "Got your breakfast, Booth."
Your face lights up with a wide smile, and you say, "There you are, Bones! I was starting to think you got lost."
I set the tray down on the collapsible table in front of you. "It would be a challenge to get lost in such a densely populated area, Booth. And I got you an extra pudding."
Your smile widens even further, and you reach for the dessert. "Ah, yes. Just what I needed."
Shooting you a stern look, I slap your hand away and point to the soup. "Eat your main meal first, Booth. Getting real sustenance into your body is important in the healing process."
Predictably, you groan and whine, "But, Bones…"
Hannah laughs in amusement. "She's a doctor, Seeley. You should probably listen to her."
I smile and correct, "Technically, I'm a scientist."
You shake your head at both of us and mutter, "Spoil-sport," before reaching for the soup. As hungry as you claim you are, you only manage to finish half the soup and some of the orange juice. You look so tired by the time you're done with those that I remember all over again what you're doing in the hospital bed in the first place, and I feel too guilty to have the heart to stop you when you reach for the pudding.
I realize eventually that the water jug by your bed is nearly empty. "I'll just refill this," I say, reaching for it.
Hannah reaches for it just as quickly, snatching it up before I can take more than a step. At both of our questioning looks, she explains, "It just seems like Temperance has been doing everything for you, Seeley." She smiles and sighs. "I guess I just want to feel useful too."
"Sure," I say, returning her smile. "Of course. I'll just wait with Booth then."
With a nod, she leaves the room, and you watch as the door closes. After a few moments, your eyes sharpen like you're forcing your weariness away, and your gaze settles on me.
"What?" I ask.
"Here," you say, and I look down to find that you're offering me the sunglasses you solicited from Hannah.
"These are…" I start, intending to remind you that they're yours but not wanting to give away that I was eavesdropping. "…not mine," I finish eventually.
You give me that wry grin of yours and nod. "Yeah, but they used to be."
Startled, I glance down again to realize that, yes, they were mine. They're the ones I gifted Hannah when she was shot; it's just been a couple of months, so it takes me a second to recognize them.
"How…?" I meet your gaze, the question unspoken.
"I learned about Hannah taking your sunglasses," you say seriously. "You love these glasses, and it wasn't right of her to take them like that."
"I'm sure she was trying to be friendly. I didn't mind," I say, wondering at the same time why I'm defending her. Wondering why I'm asking questions when I should just be taking those sunglasses and never letting them go ever again because they're that important to me.
"I mind," you reply, taking my hand and curling my fingers around the glasses. "They're just…yours, Bones. I gave them to you, not to Hannah."
And that's why they're special, in the end. It's because they were the first gift you ever gave me, even if you just bought them on the fly because I was shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand. They're good glasses too, having weathered years of use. They've been with me since the beginning, since our beginning, and it feels right to have them back.
"Thank you," I say quietly, looking down to examine the pair. The tinted lenses seem perfectly fine except for the one scratch on the left side from the time you and I chased a suspect down an alleyway and ended up with a couple of bruises each. Hannah appears to have taken good care of them, and for that, I'm grateful.
"Well?" you ask, your tone lighter. "Let's see them on you."
"Booth—"
"Oh, come on, Bones, is it too much to ask? I just want to see if they're still good."
"Fine." With a harrumph, I slide the sunglasses on my face and look down at you. "How do I look?"
"Like a model," you say, beaming. "I knew right from the beginning that those glasses fit you."
I take the pair off and roll my eyes. "They were the only ones the vendor was selling."
"That exact pair," you insist. "It was that exact pair that fit you."
We stand and stare at each other in silence for a moment. You look so tired, and I know that you're fighting to stay awake. You shouldn't be, because sleep is one of the best things you can do to recuperate more quickly. I'm about to tell you that when you open your mouth again.
"I'm fixing things, Bones," you say, quietly and seriously. "Just…I want you to know that I'm fixing things."
"Things?" I repeat, confused. "Things like what?"
"The center," you answer after a moment. "I'm fixing the center."
The center. Us. Our partnership. Is that what you're fixing?
Your eyes have already closed and your breathing evens out before I can ask any further. I'm left standing there with my sunglasses in hand, staring at your tray of half-eaten food and empty pudding containers. And suddenly, abruptly, I realize that I'm holding it: the first piece. The first step towards fixing it, and fixing us. These glasses are the start, and…and where does it end from here?
How far does fixing it go?
