A/N and Disclaimer: In this section I incorporate parts of Sylvia Plath's poem "Tulips." I've condensed it somewhat, but without cues about what I've left out, so please look up the original. And please don't sue me (owners of Plath's estate). I make no money from this; in fact I spend a lot of time writing when I should be out earning money.

Thanks to my tireless reader la mome for giving this the once-over.

Part 10

Brennan did not feel truly awake until Tuesday morning. She knew it was morning by the light coming through the window blinds to her left, and by the clock on the bedside table. But she had been in and out of consciousness so many times, she had no idea what day it was, until a nurse told her. The fact that so much time had passed without her knowledge should have been disturbing. But it wasn't.

How are you feeling? a nurse had asked. And Brennan realized, she didn't feel much of anything. Perhaps it was the medication. A doctor had appeared to give an overview of her condition, explaining that she had been in the ICU until recently. Although the synopsis was simple enough for a layperson, Brennan did not ask questions. She was too tired to hear details of her injury. (So she did feel something, after all.)

Another nurse had offered her ice chips to suck, and Brennan realized how thirsty she was. The cool water trickling down her throat was one of the best things she'd ever tasted.

After the nurse pointed out how to use the 'pain button,' Brennan was left alone with her thoughts, such as they were. It was still too early for visiting hours, so she gazed around the room. The walls were painted a pale blue and there was a TV mounted in one corner. A door to Brennan's right led to a bathroom, and its outside wall formed a short corridor to the main door.

There were also a lot of flowers. A few bouquets sat next to the bedside clock, and the rest clustered on a table under the TV. Brennan could see cards attached to some of them, but couldn't make out any of the writing.

She decided to occupy herself by identifying all the devices connected to her body. But that was not a very interesting diversion, because they fell into simple categories. Monitors for pulse and blood pressure. Tubes to let fluids and medications in, and waste fluids out. Her skin pinched and ached, where the tubes or needles pierced it. But it was something she could ignore.

Next she wondered who had sent which flowers, and in fact, what kind of flowers they were. Some were easy: daisies, tulips. But other bouquets were a riot of colors and shapes. Pretty, but they made Brennan's eyes hurt. So did the morning sunlight, angling through the blinds. It touched the vibrant reds and yellows of the tulips, heightening the textures and contrasts. The effort of focusing her eyes across the room… Brennan found it too exhausting. She would rather lie quietly, until sleep claimed her again.

.

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly

As the light lies on these walls, this bed, these hands.

.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.

.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

How free it is, you have no idea how free—

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing.

.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.

They turn to me, and the window behind me

Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins.

Before they came the air was calm enough.

Now they concentrate my attention, that was happy

Playing and resting without committing itself.

.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

And comes from a country far away as health.

.

.

Brennan dozed on and off for several hours. The clock told her it was noon when one of the nurses breezed in, with Angela. The artist came into the room like a small whirlwind.

"Sweetie! I'm so glad you're awake. You're looking much better today."

Brennan thought to ask, What did I look like before? But Angela was leaning down to squeeze her shoulders, and chattering on about visiting hours—"I'm glad they're so much longer now you're out of the ICU"—and all the flowers people had sent. "They're beautiful, aren't they? But let's get some more light in here." She went to the window to open the blinds, making Brennan squint.

"Cam gave us all lots of time off work so we could stay with you," Angela continued, "and I don't think Booth's boss is giving him any trouble over it either. You know that he's hardly even left, Sweetie? Not once."

Brennan's mind felt sluggish, and she had trouble following what her friend was saying.

"Why don't I read you all the cards so you know who these are from?" Angela had hurried back across the room and reached for the nearest flower arrangement. "I read them to you yesterday but I don't think you were awake."

Brennan tried to pay attention as Angela read the messages. There was a pretty bouquet from Hannah and an elegant one from Cam. A pleasing but uninspiring one from Hacker. A rare plant from Hodgins and several Jeffersonian colleagues.

Angela chuckled as she picked up a bouquet of daisies. "These are from Sweets and Daisy."

Brennan watched her, wondering if Angela had been sleeping enough lately. She looked tired. And wasn't she being a little too cheerful? Brennan knew the artist had been here before, sitting with her. So had Booth and her father, and the presence of loved ones had been comforting. But now, it was a bit overwhelming. She had the nurses' impersonal care, and that was sufficient. She didn't need hugs and well-wishes. She didn't need people and noise.

Angela was pointing to a large, dramatic bouquet from Caroline. "This one says, You don't do things by halves, do you, cherie? Get well soon, or I'm going to come over there and read you a very impressive speech about prudence and caution.

"And this one is from your publisher…" Angela stood at the foot of the bed and read the concerned, cordial message. But then she paused, looking reluctant.

"What is it?" Brennan asked.

Angela smiled, but it seemed forced. "She couldn't help saying something about your popularity. Your books are going to fly off the shelves once the media gets wind of this. Any chance you can work it into the plot of your next novel?"

Brennan thought it was a fair question, but Angela was looking more and more upset. She threw the card down on the table. "I'm sorry," she exclaimed, "but that is completely inappropriate. You almost die, and all this woman can think about is more profits?"

Angela's eyes were watering. She went over to the bedside table, taking a Kleenex and blowing her nose. Is she allergic to the flowers, Brennan wondered, or…?

"Listen, Sweetie, how are you really feeling?"

A little surprised by the switch, Brennan considered. She should give her friend an honest answer; and in fact, the longer she was awake, the more physical sensations she became aware of.

"My ribs and abdomen are very tender, but as long as I lie still and don't breathe too hard, I'm fine."

Angela made a strangely muffled noise as she blew her nose, and Brennan realized she was trying not to cry. "Ange?" Helplessly, she reached out to touch her friend's arm.

Both her own arms had tubes taped to them, which hurt somewhat and restricted movement. Her gesture must have been the final straw, because Angela gave up trying to conceal her emotions. "This is just all hitting me at once," she sobbed. "It was somehow okay when you were still asleep and recovering, but…"

She jumped to her feet, balling up the Kleenex in her hand. Then she glanced around as if checking that the nurse had left for a moment.

"I am really angry at you. And at Booth." Her voice was a harsh whisper. "With all this stuff you do, catching bad guys—for years I have had to watch you running off, wondering what horrible things could happen this time. And now…"

Brennan saw the hurt and fire in her eyes, and thought, Angela does have a point. I took a big risk, going into that barn.

The memory was still so recent. It was more clear than the confused montage of hospital scenes. Part of her felt like she was still jouncing along the dirt road in her car, wondering what she would find. Then gripping her gun and creeping toward the barn door. Pushing inside, and trying to guess the killer's actions.

Angela shook her head, tears tracking down her face. "When are you going to get it into your head, Brennan? You could have died! Going in there alone… Do you have any idea how stupid and reckless that was?"

Brennan thought about trying to subdue Dawes without handcuffs or backup. She thought about how unprepared she'd been, for all of it. For shooting him properly the first time. For trying to free Ingrid, then comfort her with nothing but a hand and some inadequate words. She thought of trying to staunch her own wound, the blood seeping under her fingers, while she prayed the team would hurry.

"Yes," she told Angela. "I do know."

That made her friend's anger deflate, and she sat back in the chair. She looked so miserable that Brennan had to say something. "I'm sorry, Ange. I should have been able to… do better. Without getting myself hurt."

"Don't you apologize," Angela said fiercely. "Not for that. Maybe for being so damned brave and noble, but…"

Brennan was struck by a new anxiety, one she should have thought of long before. "What about Ingrid?" she interrupted. "Is she—?"

"She's okay." Angela sighed. "She's been back with her family since the weekend. There was barely a mark on her, physically. As for the other stuff, well… you saved her from the worst of it."

Angela might have said more, but at that point the door opened to admit Russ and Max. The artist got up quickly, wiping her tears, and smiled at them.

"We don't want to rush you," Max said.

"It's okay, I was just leaving." Angela collected her jacket, then leaned down to kiss Brennan on the cheek. She said, "I love you, Sweetie," before departing.

Brennan was still trying to make sense of her friend's mercurial moods, when Russ came over to hug her. She patted him in return, and was grateful for the bed's controls, that let her sit at a higher angle without engaging her abdominal muscles.

When her dad leaned down to kiss her, the first thing he said was, "How's my little hero?"

"Technically," she corrected, "it's 'heroine.'"

He chuckled. "Now I know you're going to be okay."

He and Russ took seats next to her, and began to talk about innocuous topics, in the same cheery tone Angela had used. But their expressions, like hers, were not fully in tune with their voices. It was the worry in their gaze, Brennan thought, and the depth of feeling. It was making her feel too much, too.

That sheen in Russ' eyes, like he was about to cry… he'd only ever looked that way twice. First, that Christmas Day when he'd brought out the presents, and she'd thought their parents had come back. And again when she'd given him his childhood marble, and hugged him for the first time in fifteen years.

Her dad, on the other hand… He had a patient, enduring quality about him. Something in the lines around his eyes told her, I've been through a lot with my family. I can handle this, too.

Brennan leaned against the pillow, listening to their voices. Her chest ached and her incision throbbed dully. She wasn't numb anymore and she didn't like it.

Angela, Russ, Dad… They were all so tender, and it was overpowering her. Even if they were family, even if what she felt was love… It still hurt.

-.-.-.-.

A/N: I was sure Booth would appear in this chapter, but Angela had too much to say. He has to wait until next time.