Author's note: There's only one thing I want to say about this chapter: brooding! Oh, and also to carefully watch the timestamps. If you ignore them, things might get confusing from now on.

Thanks M for looking over my grammar, Amasayda for the medical mumbo jumbo, and Addictt for being my reading guinea pig.


Chapter Four - Head Down

Thursday May 31st 2007 -- 10:28 p.m.

Smoke wafting from cigarettes, the stench of men in desperate need of a shower, and the peculiar smell of oil and leather penetrated their nostrils. A fairly large man with his shirt loose, a stub dangling from his lips, stomped past their table. A few drops of beer splattered onto the table's surface because he was waving around his bottle, but Booth and Brennan didn't notice. They didn't acknowledge him or the skinny man on the self-made stage gyrating with a microphone. A clumsy waitress with too much red lipstick on placed two bottles of beer on their table. Brennan gave her a brief nod, which made the woman shake her head in disapproval. In a place like this, it was inappropriate to be friendly towards one another, even if it was just a smile or a nod of the head---unless you were seeking some horizontal entertainment.

The pair normally didn't frequent this kind of bar. "Yodelling Bob's" was nothing compared to their regular spot, but The Royal Diner was in D.C.---the place they called home, but was miles away. They needed some distraction before heading off to bed and this bar was the only one of its kind in a three mile radius, meaning it was the only place you could get a decent drink. Both knew they shouldn't drink while on medication, but they needed something to ease their memories.

One hour ago, Booth had pulled up to a shabby motel where they would spend the night. It turned out their rooms weren't as bad as they had feared. At least there weren't any cockroaches, unlike the last motel they had stayed at. Temperance studied him for a moment. The worry lines drawn on his face weren't as deep as a while ago, but they were still there. They'd probably never vanish. Even through the billows of smoke she could distinguish the fatigue plaguing his eyes. An uncomfortable grimace pulled at the corner's of his mouth, giving him that distant and unbending look she disliked.

"How's your shoulder?" Booth asked, shaking her from her staring.

Temperance shrugged. "Not too bad. How are you holding up?" During their journey, she had noticed he favored his shoulder and clutched his side every once in a while. It wasn't unusual behaviour since his injuries weren't healed yet. His physical ones were coming along nicely; Brennan made sure to check up on them at least once a day. It was the emotional wounds that concerned her. Until now she'd mainly been focused on regaining her breath. It hadn't occurred to her that Booth was trying to do the same.

He slowly lifted his head. The lines around his mouth deepened briefly before he spoke. "I still hear the bullets whizzing past us. I still remember the flash of the knife right before it plunged into you." Screwing his eyes shut, he bent his head down again, and clenched his hand into a fist as though trying to choke the memories. "I still feel your blood trickling through my fingers."

---°---

Thursday April 26th 2007 -- 04:35 p.m.

Five hours and thirty-seven minutes since she had been hit. Five hours and twenty-two minutes since they had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Four hours and forty-six minutes since they had taken her up to surgery. One hour and thirty-six minutes since they moved her into recovery. Booth had been roaming the hallways of the ER since they had treated him. The second Brennan had been brought back to her room, he had stayed close to her. He had seen every minute pass on his watch. Time had slowed---every minute felt like ten. If he hadn't kept a close eye on the clock, he could've sworn he had been locked up in that room for days.

He contemplated the woman lying in bed. Had he looked so pale when he had been in the hospital? Did he look that pale now? His hand flew to his face---stubble and patches of dried blood, Brennan's mixed with his. He cringed as he felt them. The nursing staff had tried to clean him up, but he'd swatted away their hands. He'd tolerated them treating his injuries, but nothing else. However, he was grateful the nurses had cleaned her up. With her hair combed and her make-up removed, it looked as if she was sleeping deeply. According to the doctors, she had been lucky to have him around. If Booth hadn't dragged her to safety, the bullet would have perforated her lungs. Thanks to his intervention, the shot had only hit her spleen.

Ignoring the stinging pain in his side where the bullet had first grazed him before drilling into Brennan's upper body, Booth resumed his nervous pacing. Why is she taking so long to wake up? She should have been awake by now. With each step, the other wound on his thigh where he was grazed by another bullet seemed to mock him. Something's wrong. Something has to be wrong. Anaesthetics should've worn off by now.

Part of him knew he wasn't thinking straight. The anaesthesiologist had impressed on him that it would take several hours for her to come back to him. They had given her an extra dose of anaesthetics so she could sleep peacefully. If only they had done the same for him. Maybe then the clock would tick faster. His gaze was glued to the minute hand as he continued to pace. As long as he didn't have to take in the sight of his partner lying in a hospital bed---arms on top of a crisp clean sheet tucked tightly around her hiding her ravaged body and her eyelashes throwing shadows on her cheeks---he wouldn't have to acknowledge the harsh reality of their situation.

But the small cogwheels in his head didn't stop clicking and turning. No one had counted on an accomplice, let alone one with a flick-knife. There was just no way they could have anticipated this. Still Booth felt like he had failed. He was torn between guilt because he had allowed her to go in with them and anger because he hadn't kept his promise. He hadn't been able to protect her. No matter what the doctors said, he hadn't saved her. Proof of that was Brennan was lying in a hospital bed, looking paler than ever, hooked up to a machine that never stopped sending out small bleeps in a steady pace. The extensive blood loss had slowed her heart rate down. It had even caused her heart to beat irregularly during surgery. Now she was on a heart monitor---to closely watch her heartbeat and take action when it was necessary. He was relieved the doctors had removed the intubation. The sight of Brennan with tubes in her throat or with an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose would've been more than he could stand. It would've meant she was unable to breathe---survive---on her own.

Cringing while the doctors were explaining her medical situation, he had been teleported back to the scene where he had begged her to calm down and take a deep breath. The last couple of hours he had been solely focused on her chest moving up and down. He had barely thought about Sully, who'd been left in charge at the crime scene. The second the medics had burst through the door, Booth had offered up a twisted thank you to their attacker for wounding him as well. It had given him the opportunity to accompany Brennan to the hospital, instead of staying behind to follow up on the shooting like the agent in charge of the investigation was supposed to do.

It briefly crossed his mind that Sully should have been at Brennan's side by now. If Booth had been in his shoes, he would have wrapped everything up as fast as possible and rushed to the hospital to check on her. Booth shook his head. What Sully does is his own business. He glanced at Brennan, still under the influence of anaesthetics. Good thing she doesn't know that he isn't here.

The rhythmic sound of his pacing began to frustrate him, since it was as pointless as wearing a hole in the hospital floor. He ran a hand through his hair. The other one was wrapped up in a sling to prevent him from making unnecessary gestures that would open up the wound in his shoulder. Booth didn't even remember how they got the bullet out of his shoulder, let alone how they stitched the gap closed. All he recalled was the clock and the minute hand slowly pushing past each mark. His free hand fell limply down his side. He was done pacing. All he needed now was to see what all those doctors had told him---that she was going to wake up and feel sore, but would be fine in the end.

"Bones, I need you to tell me you're fine," he said, his voice rough from not saying a word as he kept vigil by her side.

Focused on the monitor's thin green line of peaks and valleys, he approached the bed and sat down in the plastic chair. Head bent down, all Booth saw was her hand resting on top of the disgustingly white sheets. It beckoned for him to take it. He needed to feel her skin, make sure she was warm, instead of deathly cold like she'd been right before going into shock. But that would mean all of this was real, so he refrained from reaching out to touch her. He didn't want this nightmare to be real. He couldn't take it---handle it. It would be too much. As time passed by, the need to encourage her to wake up became stronger. Eventually he sighed and said, "My faith in you, Bones, is absolute. You always seem to find trouble and we both end up with a couple bumps and bruises, but…" Looking at her pale hand, he shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I don't mind. I know we make each other crazy sometimes, but it's all worth it." As an afterthought he added, "You're worth it."

Silence reigned as he returned to his taciturn state. A pair of nurses---oblivious to the scene unfolding inside---passed the door while having an animated conversation. Their voices and the steady beat of the heart monitor were the only things that could be heard.

"I need you to tell me you're fine, Bones," he whispered. "Then I'll be fine too." Booth knew he was losing it. He was losing her. Brennan needed to wake up for his sake. If she didn't, he'd go insane. "This is just me talking. You're the one who has to do the waking up." Unlike in the movies, Brennan didn't magically open her eyes in answer to his pleas. Thirty minutes passed in heavy silence punctuated only by the ticks of the clock. Booth was slumped in his chair, obsessively staring at her hand, but still unwilling to take it. The hour hand passed the twelve hour mark, meaning he had now spent nearly three hours at her side. "Come on, Bones," he sighed. "Don't make me wait any more. Open your eyes and start spouting that anthropological mumbo jumbo you drop into every conversation. I need to have no idea what you're talking about, 'cause it'll mean your talking...breathing..."

The long wait was starting to get to him. His anguish grew as time crept by. Eventually, because he saw the futility of trying to escape reality when it was literally staring him in the face, he took her hand into his own. Relishing the vague warmth of her skin, he let his head rest on their joined hands. For the first time since the knife and bullet buried themselves in his partner, Booth allowed himself to break down. No man could go through this without reaching his breaking point. The prayers for strength, forgiveness, and for her health falling from his lips were proof of that.

---°---

Thursday May 31st 2007 -- 10:35 p.m.

Her hand slid over the table and around his clenched fist. "I never fully realized how hard this was for you," Brennan softly said.

Booth kept his eyes cast downwards, but he relaxed in her grip. He brought his other hand up to run his thumb over her knuckles. "All I could do was stare at you and beg God to let you wake up." His hand stilled as he admitted, "I was terrified."

Temperance said nothing. Another biker stomped past their table. The overly made up waitress left the bar alone to take a grubby looking guy to the back. Smoke continued to swirl up from cigarettes and permeate their clothes. In the middle of that dingy bar, Brennan did the exact same thing she had done a while ago at the cemetery. She wrapped her hand around his and squeezed hard to let him know she understood just how frightened he had been.


I forgot to mention that this chapter was inspired by a song---Head Down by Kane. So...care to share your thoughts with me?