I'm sorry this took so long to get up! I've been having internet issues. Grr.
Alphadine: Thank you so much!
Meg: Thank you!
Rhea: Haha thanks! I'm glad you liked it!
Love0someone0shika: Thank you!
Medenbar: Thank you again and again for your feedback! Personally, I think it's cruel to name your child something like Wendell. And I agree - someone deserves to be pushed down the stairs!!
Disclaimer: I do not own Bones. If I did, Angela would have gone to Starbucks with me tonight; instead, I drank coffee by myself. Bummer.
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At first, I thought I had been kidnapped again.
I woke up with no recollection of my surroundings – keeping my eyes closed, I felt for where I was with my body. The soft comfort that supported me was, from my deductions, a bed – and a very nice bed at that. If my captor was keeping me in an expensive bed, then I highly doubted that he was planning on shining a blinding light in my eyes if I opened them. So I did.
I was in a dark room with wine red walls. Wood, stained with polyurethane, ran up the sides of the walls to their waists; large windows stretched up the rest of the walls from there in architecturally strategic places. The comforter of the bed that I rested upon matched the deep rouge of the walls; the room had deep chocolate and tan accents, which blended nicely with the wood.
I turned my head to the right just in time to see a large, majestic door slide open – everything in this room was well-kept, including the doors, which did not squeak upon opening. A lock of brunette hair fell across the tanned face that had opened the door and now peeked in.
"Honey, she's awake!"
The door slid open more to reveal the tall frame of my best friend. Angela looked fashionable, as always, but today was one of her "it's a 'whatever' Thursday and I threw on whatever felt right and matched" days. She wore a beige shirt underneath a long hunter green vest. Her long legs were clad in dark blue jeans, and she padded barefoot across the thick rug. Around her neck hung a Kelly green necklace, which mixed but did not quite match with the rest of her ensemble; some would call it artistic flair, but I knew that it was a sure sign that something was worrying her.
"Sweetie…" she did nothing but plod across the rug and sit next to me; she then wrapped her arms around me. I was still disoriented.
"Where are we, Ange?" I asked incoherently.
"Um…we're in bedroom number…" her brow furrowed as she thought.
"Eighteen," Hodgins finished as he stepped through the doorway. While Angela had bee-lined over to me, Hodgins carefully entered the room using slow motions – he approached me as one might approach a frightened dog, not wanting to provoke it or alarm it. "You've never been to my house, have you Dr. B?"
"No. But from my observations and your information, I assume it is quite large," I replied.
"Sweetie, he has thirty three bedrooms. That qualifies as 'quite large,'" Angela said.
"And you don't even want to know how many bathrooms we have," Hodgins quipped.
"How did I get here? I remember being in the hospital…walking down a long hallway…two amicable doctors…" Suddenly my breath was strangled. It was like someone cast my fuzzy memories through a different lens, bringing them into focus. Perhaps that lens was a pair of warm brown eyes. Perhaps it was a charm smile. Perhaps it was a last joke. Perhaps it was a karaoke rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." But now I pieced together my ragged last two days.
"Booth…" I choked out.
Angela's arms tightened around me, and I saw streaks of silver tear down her lovely face. Hodgins bit his lip firmly, trying to muster strength.
"How did I get here?" I asked.
"They had to sedate you after they found you in the morgue," Hodgins answered. "You were –"
"Really, really far gone," Angela finished. "You had completely lost it." I choked at the thought of my carefully placed walls, built with detached coolness and cemented by countless times where I had been proven right – I was destined to be abandoned – crumbling. In public.
"We brought you back here, Dr. B. We figured you'd want to wake up with the people that love you," Hodgins said, calmly but firmly. "We didn't want you to be alone." I remembered the time where we had been buried alive, and how he had promised that we would never be alone in our terror from that experience. I saw now that he was keeping his promise – I could not ask for a better friend than he or Angela.
"What time is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
"It's around eight thirty P.M. You were out for a while, sweetie."
"There's food in the kitchen if you –"
"No, I'm fine. I need to go, really," I said curtly.
"Bren, stay with us for a while. We're as torn up about this as you are," Angela whispered, keeping her sobs at bay. From the look of her face, she had been crying them a while.
"Thank you, but I can't," I said as I quickly stood. "I really have to be going. Is my car out front?"
"Yes, but don't you think that –"
"I'll be fine. Don't worry."
"Bren, you probably shouldn't drive –"
"I'll be fine, thank you!" I called over my shoulder as I rushed out of the room. The couple did nothing to stop me.
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I had never believed in what people called "autopilot" – when the brain goes on a rest and the body keeps functioning. I believed that the mind must always be working, ticking away like an old grandfather clock, and that it always controlled the actions of the body. The brain could never go off-task; the body would die otherwise.
Having stated my previous beliefs, I could not logically explain how I arrived at Booth's townhouse without consciously deciding that I was going to go there.
I parked the car; his black FBI-issued truck was nowhere in the nearby vicinity. I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that gave me as I strode towards his front door. I wasn't sure how I was going to get in, considering that I did not possess a key allowing me entrance…but I wasn't sure of a lot of things right now. For once, I didn't have a pre-calculated and proof-checked plan of action. I was working with a rough draft.
Booth is capable of losing his house key, I thought. Therefore, he would logically hide a spare somewhere in the area… I checked underneath the doormat. Nothing. Anything on the upper lip of the door frame? Nope. Underneath the we-haven't-been-watered-in-weeks house plants? No.
Next to one very dead potted plant, I saw a fake rock. Turning it over, I saw a sliding compartment. Dumbo!, I thought. Or was it Banjo? B-A-N-J-O, B-A…was that the song Parker was singing?
Removing the hidden key, I replaced the rock and slid the cold metal into the lock. It turned swiftly, and I walked, unfeeling, into the familiar hallway. I shut my eyes – I wasn't sure if I wanted to see this. Yet I kept walking forward to his kitchen. Blame it on the autopilot, Temperance.
Opening my eyes, I looked around. His apartment did not appear as I write them in my books, devoid of human touch and care for days, all coated with a thickening layer of dust and the unsettling look of a home that had not held anyone for days.
It looked like someone had just been here.
The kitchen light was on. One of Booth's suit jackets was slung over a chair in his living room, which connected to the kitchen, and the TV was playing some E-S-N-P thing of sorts. Something bit at the innards of my stomach, and I clutched both my arms around my waist. Autopilot, Temperance. Press on.
I snuck slowly into Booth's bedroom – I had never been in this part of his house, but I'd been here enough times to know where it was. Nudging the door open with my foot, I stepped in.
A choked cry escaped my buttoned lips when I saw his bed.
The sheets were still rumpled, and I could faintly see where he had last lain. His pillows were shifted so that it looked like he had rested his head on two and curled his strong arms around another. Indentations in the foot of the bed showed me where he had kicked in his last sleep, probably from a fitful dream. Finally, a large decline in the left side of the mattress showed me that he favored that side.
I could picture him – no, I could practically see him – getting up from his sleep, throwing his covers aside in the pissed-off face he makes when he's awoken too early from his slumber, and stomping off towards the bathroom childishly. It didn't look like Booth died three days ago – it looked like he'd gone to take a shower.
So I sat on the bed, letting my pelvis rest in the valleys his abdomen had made, and I stared at the closed bathroom door. He would come out, and be surprised that his partner was sitting on his bed – hopefully he had a robe, or a towel, so he wouldn't be too embarrassed – but he would be here. He would be here.
Eventually, I got up and barged into the bathroom. "Booth," I whined, "you're taking too long!"
There were water drops still in the sink. Little droplets kissed the glass of his shower, occasionally running down together like two young lovers escaping to elope. The towels were disheveled – damp to the touch.
But he wasn't there.
I stared into the mirror with pleading eyes, begging the reflection to show me his face. I didn't care if he was mad at me. I didn't care if he would use the night in The Checkerbox as a trump card in every argument we would have for the rest of our partnerships. I didn't care if he was happy to see me, or if he would throw me out of his house. Hell, I didn't care if he arrested me.
But he wasn't there.
Tears slipped down my ragged cheeks once more. How much water did I have left in me? How could I possibly have any more energy to sob as I did? Where was this coming from?
Where had I hidden all this…emotion?
"Autopilot," I whispered to myself. "Autopilot..."
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I'm so sorry this took so long to update! I promise this weekend that I'll have plenty of new stuff up for all you dedicated readers! I love you all!
Please review!
Vehe