Author's note: Gaaah, this was a hard one to write. I was thinking of making it even longer and add the break-up (yes, the break-up's here. Well, almost here) but then I realized that B&S are not gonna split up as I initially intended to because it'd be too much and I think you would all hate Brennan then and I can't handle the Brennan-hate (I'll explain it to you on the next chapter, lol). Anyway, here comes the new chapter! It deals with the aftermaths of the kidnapping and an old issue between the partners is brought up to the surface (one I'd love the writers to actually bring up, but what to do). Also, there's a scene you'll probably recognize from The Hole in the Heart which totally sucks because I wrote my scene before I even watched that freaking promo, lol. And speaking of real episodes. . OH MY GOD THAT FINALE. I have so many feelings right now, it's sick, but I'll leave you to read now.
Oh, before I forget: THANK YOU for the reviews. You can't imagine how happy I get every time I get a new one, my face literally lights up and everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. I replied to them as you probably noticed by now :) As usual, I'm posting this really late (I know, I know, I should go to sleep) so if there's any mistakes you know what to do.
Hmm, what else? Oh, right. Enjoy the chapter and pleaaase review :D
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones tra la la.
—
It's too much, too fast, too soon.
There's a wind storm outside.
There's a wind storm, and Booth lies awake on his bed, his head overly filled with thoughts, somehow refusing to shut down so that he can finally get some proper and well-deserved rest. He tosses around, shifts position, rolls to his side, rests an arm on his forehead. Takes a quick, painful look at the empty space next to him, all the while his conversation with Cam replays in his head over, and over, and over again.
...
"No, Cam. From my partnership with Bones."
Her eyes flew wide open at the revelation.
The partnership between Booth and Brennan had been threatened before, yes, and if she looked at it objectively, even severed when they ran off to different parts of the world.
But this?
This was Booth, the one who had always been so adamant about keeping that constant in their lives, the one who agreed to keep working with Brennan even after she had to reject him, telling her that he needed a time off. From no one other than precisely Brennan.
"Seeley, I…"
"I know it doesn't make sense, particularly after today." His voice was soft, yet incredible firm. "I know I made an unspoken promise, during all these years, that I wouldn't leave her, and I won't. I'm not saying I … but I need to get away, Cam, if just for a moment, I need to …" He stopped himself, gaze fixed, once again, on the old bottles of liquor. "It's not even about Sully," he added, but a rather bitter laugh escapes his lips right away. "Although I gotta say that it really doesn't help that the guy is so damn perfect all the time. It doesn't help that you can see from the other side of the room how good he is for her, and she for him."
Cam shook her head, eyes still wide in disbelief. What about him? How could he still not see how good he had been and was for her? What more proof did he need other than the influence they had had in each other over the years?
"You're not giving yourself enough credit, big guy," she told him softly. "And once again, it's messing with your head."
"She just…" The words seemed to be caught in his throat, and his eyes were incredibly dark when he turned to face her. "She just dived into it, completely." His attention shifted to the glass trapped in his hand, as if afraid of the vulnerability that he knew was contained within his next words. "No doubts, and certainly no rejections." A heartbeat, and then, "I guess it was a little bit about Sully after all."
His point didn't escape her — on the contrary, she had predicted this a while back. But even so, whatever way you looked at the situation and whoever's side you took, she had always thought that they were both to blame seeing as these things were a dance of two. Cam laid a gentle hand on his arm, wishing to comfort him in silence since she found herself at a loss of words. The thought must have haunted him quietly ever since he found out about Brennan and Sully, and the sentiment, childish and evil, seemed to have creeped onto him and settled under his skin: why is he enough whilst I wasn't?
"Are you sure about this?" she asked cautiously.
The whole night had been, to say the least, terrifying, and the partners in particular had been through a rough patch over the last few months. Making hasty decision … well, it hadn't worked remarkably good for them in the past.
His lips parted, the words about to leave his throat, but nothing came out.
"Come on," she said at last. "Let's get you home."
...
Of course he's not sure.
He's not sure at all, even after Cam put him in a cab and made him promise to sleep on it.
It's just too much.
Brennan, and Hannah, and Sully coming back. The infamous conversation in his car that rainy night, the weeks following his break-up with Hannah, having to watch Brennan rekindle her relationship with Sully, and then her getting kidnapped and almost killed. God, almost killed. His eyes squeeze shut at the bare prospect — an unthinkable scenario where she doesn't exist anymore. His brings his palms to his face and tries to rub off that fictional reality, to chase it away from him, as far away as possible.
She's safe now, she's okay. He, on the other side …
Groaning, he rolls to the edge of the bed, sits up and casts a glance over his shoulder, brown eyes landing on the empty side of the bed, the one where the sheets appear untouched and the pillow rests unbothered.
Hannah.
Maybe he did need to grieve, even if it was a little bit. A smile breaks onto his face as the image of her pops up in his head. Were they meant to be? No. Is he glad it ended before any further pain was inflicted on either of them? Yes. But does he miss her? Absolutely, and — selfish as it might be — especially on nights like this one. Shame washes over him as the silent admission breaks free, but he refuses to let the sensation get the best of him. He's only human, after all.
Human, like the life he took mere hours ago, minutes after uttering the biggest lie he's probably ever told out loud.
Answer now, or I swear to God you won't even get the chance to say goodb—
- I don't! … I don't.
You don't what?
- I don't love her. I've never loved her.
God, had she really believed it? In that instant, when a gun was being pointed at her, there was nothing he wanted more than for her to believe him, too. He'd been so damn scared, so afraid of taking a false step that he had aimed to convince both of them, just in case, just out of plain fear. And yet, now... he can't even recall if he himself had sounded convinced, at all. Maybe his eyes betrayed him, or maybe it was the way he avoided looking at her after the words had left his lips. Suddenly, he finds himself thinking of signs that might have told her otherwise, that might have exposed his lie to her.
He shakes his head. No, she must know it isn't true. After all this time... she can't not know. Even while he was with Hannah, even after the Eame's case … she might not be aware of his feelings now, but she did know how he felt about her in the past. Surely she must know what she means to him?
Jesus christ.
He blows out a breath, thumping back on the mattress. Never has he overanalyzed his actions or her possible train of thought as he is doing now. Sheer exhaustion creeps into his body, pulsing through his veins, reaching every single corner of his tense muscles.
To assure or not assure her about his feelings for her, to break or not to break their partnership … to do anything at all or to let things take their own course, whatever that course might be.
—x—
She wakes up to a gentle knock on her front door, closely followed by another one, and another one. Still rather sleepily, she rolls out of bed, only to be painfully reminded of the wound on her thigh as her injured leg hits the floor. She stands up with caution, and before heading out of the room, casts a glance at the digital watch resting on the nightstand.
11:47.
She can't even recall the last time she woke up close to midday, much less the last time her whole body felt so … numb. The pain killers are definitely not worth it if they compromise the general state and functionality of her brain, she concludes as she reaches the door.
"Oh, sweetie." Angela pushes the door wide open as soon as it unlocks and pulls Brennan into a tight hug. "Thank god you're okay."
"I am," Brennan assures her softly, trying her best to reciprocate the hug despite her body's battered condition.
Slowly, Angela pulls away, a small smile playing on her lips as she takes a quick look around the apartment. "Are you alone?" she asks as she steps inside. "No Agent Wonderful taking care of you?"
Booth's face crosses Brennan's mind for the shortest fraction of a second, and although she drives it away with a shake of her head, a disturbing sensation lingers in her. She lifts her gaze to meet Angela's, who is staring at her lovingly, and clears her throat before replying. "No, he … Sully went back to his place this morning, then to the office. There is paperwork to be done on last night, among other things."
Blurry images of the agent in question placing a kiss on her forehead and whispering words of reassurance early that same morning pop up in her head. Her stomach twists slightly. Something has shifted.
"Perfect," Angela replies with a grin. "Because I come bearing gifts." Promptly, she fishes out an ultrasound picture from her bag, which she hands to Brennan, whose eyes immediately narrow as she squint at it. "I had an appointment this morning. Hodgins wanted to cancel it — you know, considering everything that happened last night — but I was set on swinging by with the picture and cheering you up," she explains. But Brennan remains silent, her mind seemingly elsewhere. "Bren? Are you listening?"
It takes a few seconds for her voice to reach Brennan's senses. She stares at the photography, thoroughly stares at it, and feels a wave of warmth wash over her as her thumb caresses the picture's right corner. If she feels this way now, long ahead the birth, then what will her reaction be when the tiny human being finally arrives?
"Brennan?" Angela tries again.
She looks up to her friend with a genuine smile on her face. "It's beautiful, Ange. Truly beautiful."
Brennan attempts to return the photography, but Angela shakes her head.
"It's yours. I have another copy for me and Jack."
A heartbeat, then, "Thank you, Ange."
Angela gives her one more smile, and studies her friend properly for the first time since she got there. She can tell that Brennan is physically wounded, but there is something else bothering the anthropologist, something apart from the injuries Hodgins explained about when he picked her up at the lab the previous night.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Listening to the prudent side of brain, Angela's question is posed carefully, but Brennan looks down in obvious reluctance, so she hurries to add, "I mean, we don't have to. It's probably nothing you want to relive, and it's almost lunchtime anyway, so we could just grab something to eat and—"
"I thought he was going to die, Ange." What had been interpreted as unwillingness when her gaze dropped to the floor, was in fact Brennan attempting to form her voice into something stronger than just a thin thread of emotions. "I really thought Booth was going to die. He could have gotten killed."
The look Angela gives is as harsh as it is caring. "You could have gotten killed, too, Brennan. You were both in great danger."
"Yes, but I was the main target. Booth would have been…" Several shivers shoot down her spine at the memories from the previous night. "He would have been collateral damage."
"Okay, no. Come here." Angela's hand closes around Brennan's, and she drags her to the couch with caution, but still determined. Once they've sat down, she launches, "First of all, don't get all clinical on me, Bren, and quit using words like target or collateral, or even damage. You were really close to not making it out of there, sweetie. So was Booth. Now you can either drop the whole objectivity thing, or we change the subject. I'm not about to allow you to distance yourself from this, not this time."
It has happened, in the past, that she has allowed Brennan to cope in her own way, at her own pace, but this is way too big. There are other things to be taken into consideration as well, and she is almost certain that Brennan has those things present too, the equations ready and waiting to be solved. The previous night, Booth, Sully … God, how she wishes she could be of help, because she if someone knows what is it to have your heart beat differently for different people. It's a hot mess, the whole thing, and all Angela wants is for it to be solved already, whatever the outcome may be, as long as Brennan is happy, as long as doubt isn't haunting her crystal clear eyes.
Meanwhile, Brennan draws a deep breath, buying herself a few extra seconds to put some order in her train of thoughts.
"Booth shouldn't have been there," she says at last.
"You don't mean that."
"No, Ange, I do. If something had happened to him—"
"And what exactly do you think was going through his head from the moment we noticed you were gone 'til Jack and the others arrived to the cabin? Brennan, if something had happened to you, he would've never forgiven himself. Ever."
But Brennan has set her stubborn mind on it, and shakes her head vehemently. "It wasn't Booth's fault, Angela. Any of it; it wasn't his fault."
Angela reaches for her friend's hand and gives it a light squeeze, her voice gentle as ever as she speaks, "You, me and everyone else are aware of that. But you know him better than anyone, Bren, so you tell me if that's not precisely what was going through his head." A confirmation is, however, needless. His reaction when they spoke to Atwood was more than enough for Angela to understand the depth of Booth's feelings. God, what a sucky timing. "It's Booth we're talking about. You know, the knight in shinning FBI standard-issue body armour."
Despite the seriousness contained in their topic of conversation, Brennan lets out a low chuckle. "Ange… things are different now."
"Yeah," Angela agrees, honest as usual. "Yeah, they certainly are. But different doesn't necessarily mean bad. Listen, sweetie, I know everything's really messy right now, but I do think you and Booth have some serious talking to do."
—x—
None of them see it coming.
One minute she's jumping around the scene, singing a song she knows oh so well and enjoying the smile of her friends as they mouth the lyrics with her, and the next one … the next minute, she's kneeling down by his cold body, choking in fear.
Not even his brown, kind eyes have that familiar warmth in them anymore. They're scared, frightened, and so is she. The people surrounding them, they … they're afraid, too — the screams are the vivid, slashing proof — but their arms aren't trying to hold him as close as humanly possible, and there's no thick, dark red blood running through their fingers. No, the blood is in her hands, in her blouse, and it's coming from his chest.
Per inertia, she looks at him and tells him that he's going to be okay, the words automatically tripping down her lips. Her eyes travel down to his chest, to the spot her hands refuses to leave (apply pressure apply pressure apply goddamn pressure), and the amount of blood makes her sick, so sick that she has to rip her gaze away, forcing herself to meet his vacant eyes once again. More words aiming to calm him down. Can he even hear her? God, he's shaking in her arms. He's shaking, and he's cold. So, so cold. Somehow, he forces his eyes to focus on her, and they don't leave them, his gaze doesn't leave her, but there is something in it that tells her he is losing the battle.
And she's losing him.
But it can't be, it can't be. He's not allowed to leave her. He can't enter her life and just leave her, can't take a bullet for her and then not survive so that she can yell at him for being so reckless, for being so unconsidered, for making her trust him like she has never trusted anyone before and then just—
He's not … his eyes aren't even brown anymore. They're dark, so dangerously dark it takes every ounce of willpower she has in her not to break the gaze, not to run away from the establishment, from his almost lifeless body. She tries to apply more pressure to the wound, because that's what you do in cases like this, but he doesn't react in the least. He doesn't react, or wince, or complains, because there's a fight going on inside him and he's losing it.
He's losing the battle.
Two strong arms pull her up drastically, and before she gets to react, Cam is down there, next to his body. His almost lifeless body. She fights against Hodgins' arms and ignores Angela's reassuring, empty words. She fights, she fights like he should be fighting, and manages to escape her friend's grip at last, rushing over to him again.
When she's back by his side, when her arms are wrapped around him, when she hears a team of paramedics arriving, that's when everything goes black.
Everything goes black until her sight adjusts to the dim lighting surrounding them.
They're alone. It's freezing cold, and they're alone outside the wooden cabin. Her wrists are aching, throbbing, and so is her head. There is also something liquid and disturbingly warm running down her leg. Suddenly, her eyes catch sight of a gun hovering next to her head, a gun pointed at him, and she swallows against a piercing scream. She swallows a scream because she's gagged, and her wrists hurt because her hands are tied behind her back. And he … he stands there, powerless and unarmed, because she got kidnapped, and he made sure to find a way to her before anything happened to her. But he's going to die. They're both going to die, and she selfishly wishes she is the one who goes first, because kneeling down by his cold body it's not … it is not an option, seeing him go again.
A wicked laugh tainting the dead silence is the last thing to reach her ears as the trigger is pulled.
He drops to the floor in slow-motion, as if his bones were breaking painfully, his breath turning into smoke before her frightened eyes. And she runs. She's suddenly free from everything that was impeding her to get to him before, so she rushes over to him and collapses by his side. The woods are completely deserted with them being the sole exception, and he's dying on her, again.
He's dying on her, so she wraps her arms around him, and her hand lands on that familiar spot on his chest, applying pressure (because that's what you do). And she looks at him. She looks at him in the eyes, and outright tells him that he's not allowed to leave her, because that is not what partners do. Partners stick together, so now that everything is over, he has to make it. He simply must make it.
But they're alone. Nobody is pulling her up, nobody else is kneeling down by his side, no team of paramedics is arriving to the scene. They're alone in the dark, and she cries, and shouts, and yells. She yells the words that seem to be seared onto her brain as floods of thick blood spread on his white dress shirt.
Booth, you're gonna be fine. I'm right here, come on. You can do this, you're gonna be fine. You're gonna make this.
He cannot leave her. He can't … he can't just leave. He has to fight, he has to—
"Brennan," she hears the muffled voice from above, from far, far away. "Brennan, it's not real," the voice tries again.
The whole scene starts to spin around her, around them, and everything is getting blurry. And then, he's no longer in her arms, dying. He's gone.
"Brennan!"
And she's back. Her eyes snap wide open and she jolts up in the bed, gasping for air, her heart racing inside her chest and her sleeping tee completely soaked. She turns to her left and sees him observing her with scared, yet reassuring eyes, and collapses in his arms, silent tears running down her cheeks.
"It's over," he tells her, and places a kiss on the top of her head. "B., you're okay. You're safe" he insists. "And he's okay, too, Brennan. He's fine. Booth is fine."
She nods desperately, and tells herself that Sully is right, that it's been four days, that Booth did not die that night outside the cabin as he did three years ago in that karaoke bar. But her own strangled voice echoes inside her head.
Come on, Booth, no…
—x—
A week, he reminds himself as the elevator opens before him.
It's been a week since he held her close to him and she clung to his body after realizing it was all over. A week, seven days in which she has been at home (much to her reluctance), and he has been calling her once a day to know how she's holding up.
Short, slightly stiff and sometimes overly polite phone calls is all he has managed to give her. A huge part of him is eternally grateful that Angela convinced his partner to take some days off, because he knows deep down that that was exactly what he needed, too. On top of that, it's been a case-less week, so his work load has been moderated, quite easy to handle. All these things put together, along with the wicked, ironically perfect timing, have given him the possibility to take that desired step back, to withdraw as he wished for without having to entirely remove himself from the equation.
His knuckles fall on the wooden door, once, twice, three times.
"Bones?" There's a soft edge to his voice as he calls her. It's past eight, and he knows for a fact that Sully isn't there. Not that he asked — he's been avoiding his fellow agent as well — but he overheard something about a friendly game between some guys from the bureau tonight. "Bones, you there?"
Perhaps she isn't home. Maybe she went to the game, or somewhere else. He feels slightly foolish for assuming that her world doesn't extend past the lab or her apartment, that she's got nothing else to do on a Friday night but to stay in. The sentiment vanishes, however, as he hears vague noises coming from inside the apartment, followed by footsteps approaching the door. Brennan opens up without any hesitation whatsoever, but he can tell, even before she speaks, that his visit is unexpected. Quickly, he eyes her from head to toe, and swallows against the lump in his throat. T-shirt and yoga pants, her hair in a messy ponytail.
Perfect, he muses bitterly. She puts on the most casual clothes in the world and still manages to look nothing short of stunning.
"Booth," she drags him back to reality. "What are you doing here?"
He locks eyes with her and notices the skeptical frown between her brows. "Great to see you, too, Bones." He gives a nod towards the yoga carpet he can discern splayed on the living room floor. "Aren't you supposed to be resting instead of jumping around and stretching?"
Brennan looks over her shoulder as well, then turns around to face him again. "I'm feeling much better now," she explains, and her arms fold across her chest in a way that assures him that she has started to feel as uncomfortable as he already is.
He can't blame her. Last time they saw each other… well, it wasn't under normal circumstances, even for them.
"That's not the point," he says with an earnest shake of his head. "You're still injured, you should be—" But he's cut off by the annoyed glare she's aiming at him. A small smile plays on his lips as he realizes that there are certainly things that never change. "Alright, fine. I just … are you busy? I mean, um, can we talk? There's something I have to tell you."
The chosen words along with the serious ring to his voice don't escape her, and she steps aside to let Booth into the apartment. Her eyes never leave him, not even when she pushes the door close with her back, her palms leaning against it. She remains there for a moment, waiting for him to stop pacing her living room. Finally, he decides for the couch, and when his eyes meet hers, she joins him there, claiming the spot next to him.
Booth swallows with difficulty as he attempts to remember the things he had planned to say on his way to her apartment, but every single one of them seem to have gotten lost in a fog of things he has yet to tell her. Brennan's wide, bright eyes study him in both curiosity and concern, and she bits down on her lip out of pure habit. Generally, she's able to read him effortlessly just by looking into his eyes, but the task is proving extremely hard at the moment.
To her surprise and immense relief, Booth takes the plunge and starts talking, his eyes dropping to his hands as he does so.
He tells her about it all: explains how he needs to be in control when it comes to his job, how she has become an essential part of it but also of his life in general, and how he nearly lost it when he found out she was missing. Because they're partners, because it's his job to protect her, because … because he doesn't think he could go on without her incredibly irritating, endearing logic and rationality. Her features soften at the jokingly way in which he utters those last words, but his light chuckle and goofy smile are rapidly replaced by his brows knitting together, his expression suddenly rougher under her examining gaze.
Carefully to really make himself understood, Booth also tells her about the thoughts that crossed his mind at that bar a week ago. He doesn't mention Cam's intervention as he deems it to be quite private and something that should remain between him and his old friend, but he does express how this week apart has helped him put things into perspective.
After that, he goes silent.
He goes silent, and this time, he waits for her instead of the other way around. But Brennan doesn't say anything. Instead, she scoots away from him (god, the way his heart sinks at that), and shakes her head absently, eyes fixed on her fidgety hands, mirroring his previous behaviour.
"I don't…" She makes a pause, the words caught in the back of her throat. "I don't understand." Her eyes travel up to his, and as he stares back at her, Booth can see the shadows darkening the usual shades of pale blue in them. "You're putting an end to our partnership?"
"No, I—" He runs a hand through his dark, messy hair. "No, I was thinking of it, and it wasn't breaking it off completely, Bones, I—I just needed some time."
She stares at him, her eyes inquisitive, her mind traveling back to that particular birthday of his when they shared a piece of cake outside the Founding Fathers. "Time and space?" she asks softly.
"Yeah… yeah, I needed both."
"But why?"
"I just—Bones, I just told you why."
"Is it because of what happened with Montgomery? Angela mentioned that you might feel guilty. And I… I know how much you hate taking someone's life." Her eyes wander back to her hands, but she forces them up again. Eye contact, always so imperative. "I'm sorry, Booth."
But he shakes his head, refusing to let her go down that road. "No, it wasn't your fault. Don't make it sound like it was."
"It wasn't your fault, either," she points out. Immediately, he tenses up next to her, his spine going rigid. "Booth…" she calls him. Nothing. "Booth." But his eyes are fixed, glued on the coffee table. "If it wasn't for you, I'd probably be d—"
His head snaps back to her. "Don't say it."
"But—"
"Just don't say the word, okay?"
It's a plea.
She nods slightly. "You saved me."
"Well, I shouldn't have to in the first place," he replies sharply. God, the whole thing is backfiring faster than he can handle. "That came out wrong, I didn't mean… I just, I can't keep putting you in danger, Bones. I can't."
"Booth, we already talked about this."
"Yeah? Well, that was before you almost got killed, okay? I think I get to see things my way now." He knows he's coming off as angrier than he actually is, but it's so damn vital for him that she understands. "Listen, just… we've been partners for a long time, and we have never really taken a step back, just to breathe for a while. After what happened, I really needed that."
A frown settles between her brows. "That's not true. I've been away on vacation several times, and then to the Maluku Islands, and you… you went to Afghanistan."
"I was in a war zone, and you were digging up dead corpses," he reminds her after he lets out a light chuckle. "I think it'd be pretty safe to assume that those weren't exactly relaxing times."
The thought crosses his mind right before her lips utter the words, almost as if he could read her mind:
"But you found Hannah there, which could be interpreted as you having time to relax," she says.
She's totally oblivious to weight her words are laying on his shoulders. There's no bitterness in her voice either, no anger, nothing. He feels immensely stupid for forgetting, even if it was for a fraction of a second, that she has actually moved on from whatever it was that she felt that rainy night. She adjusted, just like she said she would.
His jaw hardens, however, at the oh so clinical ring to her voice as she utters the sentence. She's simply stating facts, and he's drowning in despair as he wishes, more than anything, for her to let him know how she really felt about his relationship with Hannah, just for once. He refuses to believe that, after everything they have been through, there was nothing but neutrality from her side when it came to that matter, especially seeing as he has a lot of feelings regarding her new-found relationship with his fellow agent.
On the other side, there's a stinging, sickening sensation creeping up his spine. The most prominent reason for him to decide and leave for that war zone in the first place (and thus, meeting Hannah), was because she left him. She ran away, she turned her back on him and their work together. Involuntarily, Booth's fist clench, his eyes suddenly cloudier, and he can physically feel the last ounce of his sanity flying through the window.
"Well, it wasn't all fun and games, Bones, if that's what you think," he snaps, scrambling to his feet. "God, you of all people should know that."
Still on the couch, Brennan blinks at him, her brain working towards figuring out what part of her statement was the one that has him riling up. "I didn't mean to accuse you of not doing your job correctly, Booth. I know for a fact that you're extremely responsible and meticulous, at least most of the time."
"Most of the time?" he hisses. What the— "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"You tend to be quite impulsive, which in certain situation has resulted in irresponsible actions."
His jaw is already ajar in sheer indignation, and his hand waves towards her accusingly. "Care to elaborate?"
And then she's on her feet as well, standing right in front of him, meeting his contempt with defiance of her own. "You shouldn't have gone to the cabin all by yourself. You could have died. Parker is still a child and he needs his father, and Pops, he … you should know that better than anyone."
Oh my god. "You're kidding me, right?" He's laughing, but it's hollow and bitter and devoid of any emotions whatsoever. "You could have died, too! I don't regret going there, Bones, because if something had happened to you—"
"Then so be it."
"Are you fucking serious, I—"
"You can't keep risking your life to protect me!"
"And you can't possibly have so little regard for yours!"
"What about your family?!" she bites.
"AND WHAT ABOUT ME?" he roars back, his hand flying to slam his own chest. "What about me, Bones, if he had gotten his way? What about me when you die in his hands?"
Features softening as understanding dawns on her, she dares for a step forward. "Booth…"
"No, I—you don't get to turn around the tables here! You don't get to turn my actions against me, not this time. God, I'm not going to feel guilty about this! I just wanted to come clean about this past week, and also tell you that everything should be fine now, and now I have." His eyes are dangerously dark as he offers her one last look. "I'll see you on Monday."
In the blink of an eye, he has turned around and is marching his way towards the door, leaving nothing but the trail of his footsteps dissolving before her. She struggles for a moment, her mind lost in a pool of insecurities, but then his hand closes around the door handle, and the words are automatically set free.
"I don't believe I could through it again," she says quietly. "Not if it's under similar circumstances."
Slowly, Booth spins on his heels, his eyebrow raising as his gaze lands on her again. "Through what?" he asks, highly skeptical.
His veins are still throbbing because of the things she just threw at him, but something about the sheer vulnerability in her expression is telling him to wait around.
"You, dying," she says simply, and the tiny shrug she gives is like a blow to his stomach. It's taking all of her willpower not to let her voice falter as she speaks. "You already died once, Booth. You died in my arms, remember?" God, her façade is about to crack altogether. "I was … you jumped in front of that bullet and collapsed on the floor."
Zack, call 911!
Hodgins' strangled voice hits her so clear and loud that she could almost swear she's back in the karaoke bar if it wasn't for the overall scientifically inaccuracy of time travel. Despite that, despite the science, images of that night begin to form in her head, becoming sharper by the second. When her lips part again, Booth has already shortened the distance to her, only a few inches separating them now.
Her quivering lips fall back together. She knows the unshed tears are filling up her eyes, and she hates it, hates how fragile she must look, and there's the certainty that there is no going back now, no matter how blurred her vision might become. "I tried to keep you awake," she goes on, a weak smile forming on her lips. Her attempts to blink back the tears are in vain, and the first one burns down her flushed skin, closely followed by another one, and another one. "But after a moment, your eyes shut, and I felt your heart stop—stop beating under my hand. You weren't breathing, and there was so much blood that I … I couldn't…"
Out of all the things she could have brought up, he never, ever expected this to be one of them. But now that he ponders on it, he realizes that they never really talked about it. They never touched the subject of him being dead for two whole weeks, and even though he wondered, back then, about her whereabouts and the general state of her during that span of time, he never gathered enough courage to ask. After falling victim of her rage at his fake funeral, and also later when she broke into his apartment, he simply assumed that that was all she felt: anger. Anger because they had tricked her, anger because of the way she had to find out, anger because she had to attend his waste-of-time funeral. And he had been angry, too, because deep down, he had hoped she would feel something else besides plain rage. But then they had lost Zack, and suddenly that was all they could think about. Whenever he looked back to that time, to the time towards the end of the Gormogon case, he immediately connected his fake death with losing the young man to a loony bin, a simple consequence of both events taking place within days of each other. That is why, somehow, he'd managed to bury everything related to said events somewhere in the back of his head, to lock it all up in a vault never to be opened again.
But she, on the other side …
He places his palms on her shoulders, and she flinches at the mere touch, stepping back, breaking the contact, regressing.
"Bones…"
"No, Booth." She's shaking her head, refusing to look at him. Her eyes remain fixed on his chest as she goes on, "Your heart stopped beating. You died on me." It sounds like an accusation because it is an accusation. Her voice has raised, and several tears are streaming down her cheeks, but those thing land among the last of her concerns at the moment. "The only reason you came back was because of the CPR performed on you by Cam before paramedics arrived, but then we got to the hospital, and you … you were gone…" Against her strong will, a sob leaves the back of her throat. "You were really gone." She shakes her head again, as if trying to regain her goddamn composure, and wipes the tears off her face with the back of her hand. "You don't have the right to do that again. I won't allow you to—" She lifts her hand, her finger ramming against his chest in sync with her syllables as she repeats, "You died on me." Another piercing sob, another poke. "Your heart stopped beating. You died on me, Booth, you died on me."
He flinches at the contact at first, but has his mind set on staying on the receiving end of her pain. His eyes close with every poke, not because she's hurting him, but because he's just now realizing just how much pain he inflicted on her. A part of him is glad that she refuses to meet his eyes, uncertain that he would be able to hold the gaze if she did.
"You don't get to do that again," she goes on, her voice thin but incredibly firm. "You died on me. You don't get to—you can't do that again, I won't—"
Gently, he wraps his fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand back down. Stubborn as she is, she attempt to lift it up again, but he closes his arms around her frame, yanking her towards him, her forehead crashing onto his chest. "I'm so sorry, Bones," he whispers against her hair. "I'm so sorry."
To her own surprise, she doesn't try to wrestle herself out of his grip. Instead, she allows the walls to come down completely, the sobs gaining force, the hot tears damping his shirt. "There was so much blood … so much blood…" She fists the fabric of his shirt, as if afraid of him evaporating on the spot.
"I know," he promises. "I'm so sorry, Bones. I know."
—x—
Sirens of an ambulance rushing through the main street along her building wake him up three hours later.
He feels a stinging, growing pain on his back, and blinks sleepily a few times in an attempt to force his eyes to adapt to the dark faster than they actually can. It takes him a moment, but the familiarity of his surroundings hits him soon enough, as does the warmth of the body his arms are still wrapped around. Last thing he remembers after falling back on the couch with her is hearing her breathing getting steadier as the sobs decreased, all the while he made sure not to stop stroking her hair … that is until they had obviously and inevitably surrendered to sleep. This is probably the most intimate moment they have ever shared, yet there was nor is anything sexual about it. It's pure trust; trust that they have been building for years — that has been shaken, yes, but never entirely broken.
A vague wave of warmth washes over him, a sentiment that, combined with his unconscious smile and thoughts on how natural this awakening feels, only seems to trigger his guilt. Not only does he feel responsible for having inflicted that amount of pain on her all those years ago (god, she's been carrying it all with her since then), but he also knows that it is up to him to extract himself from this situation, to run away from the moment in order to preserve their partnership.
This is as far as he can go right now, because if she were to wake up in his arms in the middle of the night, looking up to him with those big, clear eyes... then god help him, he's not sure if he would have the amount of willpower required to restrain himself from crashing his lips with hers. And if he can't trust himself with that task, then it's essential that he gets out of there as soon as possible. Besides, despite everything that has happened in the span of the night, he can't let go of the fact that, precisely one week ago, he was considering taking time off from them.
Careful not to disturb her sleep, Booth manages to slide out from underneath her body, tucking the pillow that rested against his back under her head in the process. Still immerse in sleep, she shifts position as soon as he's out of reach, rolling to her side and coming to face him as he lingers by the couch. He stares at her for a moment, absorbed by the bliss and calm surrounding her, then reaches out for a blanket resting on the armchair next to the couch and covers her with it.
Before leaving, he crouches down and considers her one last time. Her breathing is even, quiet, and some of her longer strands of hair are brushing against her eyelids. Gently, he tucks them behind her ear, and as his eyes travel down, he can almost make out the trace each tear left on her cheeks. God, she must be exhausted not to feel his fingers whispering above her skin. A gloomy smile spreads across his face, and the words leave his lips in form of a bare murmur.
"It was a lie, you see? I can't tell you, because it would ruin everything again, and because… you're happy now. But what I told him, it was a lie. I'm so sorry."
A new form of guilt hits the centre of his chest, and he pushes himself up, heading for the counter in the kitchen. She's still sound asleep as he exits the apartment, whilst he feels more awake than he has been in years. There are still so many things they need to speak about, but he knows that, right now, this is just enough.
—x—
The sun isn't entirely up when her eyes flutter open. Between a yawn and her arms stretching to the sides, Brennan sits up on the couch. She feels surprisingly well-rested, but it takes her a moment to remember how she ended up sleeping there in the first place.
A conversation that evolved into an argument, a confession, tears, comfort … Booth. Her eyes dart in all directions, searching for a sign that will either confirm or deny Booth's presence, but the dead silence in her apartment assures her of the latter. With a sigh, she raises from the couch and heads for the kitchen. Coffee is required, and urgently.
It isn't until she has the cup of steaming beverage between her hands that she catches sight of the colourful note lying on the counter.
Hey, I'm picking up Parker early tomorrow so I had to go, but I'll call you, okay? And stop jumping around the apartment—you need to rest. From what I've heard, Buddha was a very quiet man.
— Booth.
A small smile forms on her lips as she finishes reading the post-it note. She ponders on the proof that has been found over the years, proof that informs humanity about a primitive version of what later came to be called yoga that already existed long before Buddha, but these thoughts are shoved to the side by something bigger, something considerably more preoccupying.
Booth's scent.
She can still feel it, feel him all over her clothes, her hair, her skin. The single word that caused to rush to the terrace that night before Montgomery found her hits her for the first time since she slumped against the cool brick wall of the hotel building and closed her eyes.
Home.
It's as if she'd gotten a literal blow to the stomach, because she finds herself forced to lower the cup to the counter, suddenly feeling beyond confused, dizzy, anxious. Thanks to Angela's insistence, Cam's confident assurance that she wouldn't be allowed into the lab, and Sully's expected overprotectiveness, she has spent the last week being even more disconnected from the world than usual. Her activities have included writing, reading, exercising and watching old movies—in other words, doing everything she can think of except for really thinking about that night, let alone reliving it in any way. The only exception was Angela's visit the morning after, precisely one week ago. Not even Booth's daily, sometimes rather rigid phone calls had manages to snap her away from the process of compartmentalizing long enough, and yet, all it takes for her to start listing the events of that night in her head is for him to show up, for them to engage in a heated argument, and for her to break down in front of him. Again. Just like she'd done that rainy night, only this time he'd wrapped his arms around her and held her close, so close to him as humanly possible.
The events from a week ago fly rapidly through her head, and in a matter of seconds, she has managed to scan through them all; only two of them now lingering above the rest. Two scenes, two memories that are all of a sudden extremely sharp and clear in her head. Somehow, she had buried them along with the rest of the occurrences from that night, to avoid them for a whole damn week, but now they have broken free and are out, as fresh in her mind as ever. Genuine shock shoots up and down her spine in form of several shivers. She had never realized the tricks her mind could play with her, and vice versa.
You don't what?
- I don't love her.
Do you love me?
- Yeah. Yeah, I do.
Both their voices cut through her painfully, as if she had been stabbed in her metaphorical heart.
Booth loved her once, she is quite certain that he did. She knows that, and she also presumes the lengths to which he would have gone for her, which is why the memory of him looking downright crushed and begging for an explanation still haunts and crushes her as well.
And Sully … she now remembers feeling as if she was going to drift off any second, and blurry extracts of images puzzle together in her head. She asked. She was the one who asked, but his answer was immediate, short, and as sincere as it could ever be. He loves her, present tense.
And Booth loved her, once. But still, there is something about the way he refused to meet her eyes when it was all over, something that pushes her towards re-examining the evidence.
You say that, but you won't look at me. You're the one who taught me the value of making eye contact.
When they had held that conversation by the reflection pool before parting away, he had looked at her differently than he had over the years, and told her things had to chance. And they had, things had definitely changed. But if she pauses for a moment, if she stops to thoroughly think about it, Booth's eyes have been glancing in her direction in that old manner, his gaze containing that old familiar spark for the last couple of months, as if they were back to dancing around each other like they did every since that very first case.
Only everything is different, everything is …
She casts a glance at the couch. Sully loves her, and Booth looks at her like he used to before, when he carried those feelings with him in silence. And she … she has hurt both of them in the past. She hurt them, but only one of them hurt her to the point where she didn't even know how to begin picking up
—x—
"And you're sure about this?" he asks.
Brennan glances at him briefly, then looks back down. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Okay, alright. I, um, I'll call Caroline and ask her to send over the files so English squintern can match the facts with the findings, then."
"Thank you."
"Hey, I trust you. If your scientific voodoo is telling you that this," he gestures towards the set of remains on the table between them, "is the son of Senator Roger, then I believe you."
Eyes still fixed on the bones before her, she gives a light chuckle. "It's not magic, Booth."
"No need to remind me of that," he assures her. A heartbeat, then, "How are you holding up?" He clears his throat, propping himself on the edge of the table with both hands. "You feeling better?"
"It's been two weeks since the kidnapping, Booth." Her voice is firm, but her reassuring smile betrays her seemingly firm façade. "They removed the stitches, the wounds are healing, and the trauma to my wrists is gone. I'm fine."
He nods slowly. "Okay. Alright, yeah, that sounds good." Another pause. Booth's hand sneaks into his pocket where his fingers start to flip the poker chip out of pure habit. "When is Sully getting back, then?"
At that, she rips her gaze from the remains, eyes traveling up to her partner. Sully has become one of the subjects they never touch this directly, and so she finds herself a bit taken aback upon hearing his question. They both work for the FBI, though, so it would be foolish to assume Booth doesn't know about the call Sully got from Matías Riquelme, the brother of one of the victims in the case that drove Sully back to Washington.
...
"It'll only be a couple of days," Sully told her as he picked up some shirts he had forgotten at her place, then shoved them carelessly into his bag. "I just wanna make sure he's okay, and then…" He let out a sigh. "Then maybe I'll get struck by luck and catch Mendez this time." He spun around to face Brennan, who was standing by her bedroom's doorway with a small smile on her face. "You alright? I really hate leaving you like this, but I need to—"
"Go," she cut him off, resting her head against the doorframe. "You have done more than enough already. Go."
He let the bag down on the bed and walked over to her. "It'll only be a couple of days," he repeated, then leaned in to place a kiss on her forehead. "Besides," he added, looking her in the eyes with a vague smile on his lips. "I trust you won't be alone."
She returned the smile, and he headed back to the bed as her eyes wandered around the room. Up until that point, she had never realized how many of his dress shirts hung in her wardrobe, or the amount of ties that lied piled up on the chair next to the nightstand. Her eyes traveled back to him just as he worked the zipper to the sport bag he was taking with him.
"What exactly happened?" she asked.
Upon his arrival fifteen minutes earlier, Sully had only mumbled something about picking up some things, catching a plane, and getting to the boy as fast as he could.
Sully looked up to her, his amused expression indicating that he was waiting for her to ask about the details. He grew serious as he spoke, "Laura Montero paid Matias a brief visit yesterday."
"Laura, the woman who stabbed you?" she asked, arms folding across her chest. "What did she want from him?"
"Nothing, apparently," the agent replied, a bitter laugh leaving his throat. "It was a warning, she just wanted to scare him. Which she succeeded with, by the way—the kid is a mess."
"But how did she find him? I thought you and Agent Perotta were the only ones that knew about his connection to the murders."
Sully rubbed the back of his neck as guilt flew across his face. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too. I just—I don't know exactly how she found him, but I know that it means he's in danger, and he must sense that as well since he was afraid enough to give me a call."
She simply nodded, and followed Sully out of the room after he grabbed the bag and headed to the front door. He was silent as he slid into his shoes and jacket, and she remained a few steps away from him, studying him discreetly. When he looked up to her, eyes inquisitive (as if he'd felt her gaze all over him), Brennan bit down on her lower lip.
"Something wrong?"
She shook her head, tilting it to the side as she offered him a small smile. "Please, be careful."
"Look who's talking," he teased her, beaming. "Be safe, okay?"
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Yes..."
"Good."
In a swift move, he yanked the bag up from the floor and threw it over his shoulder, then turned around to leave.
She took a sudden, hesitant step forward. "Wait, Sully."
He spun around on his feet with the bag dangling over his shoulder, but didn't have time to react before her lips met his. The bag fell from his hand and back to the floor when she slung her arms around his neck, and his hands circled her waist, dragging her as close to him as she was pulling him to her, the kiss growing deeper and frantic as they slumped against the wall. He didn't taste like the sea anymore, and hadn't done for a while.
Feeling the urge to catch some air, she broke the kiss and looked up to him wide-eyed, her heart throbbing against her ribcage in sheer despair. "When you come back…"
"Yeah," he said in a breath, nodding. "Then we'll talk."
...
That had happened five days ago, the same morning she had woken up in her couch after Booth's visit the previous night.
Sully has been calling once a day to check on her — unnecessary, yet highly endearing — and according to what he has told her so far, they haven't succeeded with anything else other than finding a safe place for the boy.
"He doesn't know," she answers Booth, shoving away the five day old memory. "They're trying to follow up every lead. I believe it will take a few more days."
"Yeah, that's what Perotta said, too. As long as they don't drive Mendez underground, I think they still have a shot at catching him. Good thing she stayed behind, though."
Her eyes, that had fallen back to the remains on the table mere seconds ago, travel up to him again.
Having Booth at the lab always means he needs someone to entertain him (god, he's like a twelve year old), and that task usually lands on her, which she doesn't mind at all. This time, however, she finds herself genuinely intrigued by his statement, and so she blows out a sigh and lowers the femur she's been unsuccessfully trying to examine for the past ten minutes.
"Why is it a good thing that she stayed behind? They're partners, aren't they? Partners are supposed to work together."
Booth flashes her a shameless smile. "You know I'd never leave you behind, Bones. Not that I could do it either, you're kinda impossible to get rid off."
"Booth."
He bursts into a brief laugh when her cheeks acquire a vague shade of pink. Fuck, she is adorable.
"I'm kidding," he says, the hum to his laugh still echoing in her ears as he grows serious. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, and his voice is even as he explains it to her, "It's personal, Bones. That thing between them, it's personal. Whether we like it or not, Sully has plunged into a personal vendetta here, which has caused Mendez to take him as seriously as Sully does him, thus automatically increasing the risks for everyone involved. Leaving Perotta behind was the best call in this case, because Sully already lost a partner, and that's not something you can get used to. Definitely not something you wanna risk going through again."
As he talks, his mind wanders to all the people whose deaths he has witnessed while trapped in different war zones, both all those months ago, but also before he started working for the FBI. He thinks of Teddy in particular, and a shiver shoots down his spine at the plain memory of sitting on the ground with the young man's lifeless body lying next to him.
Brennan, on the other side, hears Sweets' condescending voice extracting itself from that nearly four year old memory, along with her own sharp answer.
It's Agent Booth's funeral, Doctor Brennan. Losing a loved one—
- A partner, Sweets. I lost a partner.
The change in her expression doesn't go unnoticed for Booth, whose brain only required mere seconds to realize the context in which she must have taken his words. After their talk last week, he feels he can take the liberty to assume certain things in regards of the subject, and so he rounds the table, astonished that his presence goes unseen by her, otherwise, remarkably good observation skills.
"Listen, Bones," he begins, placing a hand on her shoulder. Brennan jumps slightly at the touch, her eyes staring first at his hand, then making their way up to him. "I promise you, what happened back then is not gonna happen ag—"
"King of the lab, Dr. B!" Hodgins shouts as he enter the room with a smirk on his face.
Booth removes his hand from her shoulder and takes a step back as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden. Brennan's gaze lingers in his direction for a fraction before she turns her attention to her colleague.
Not oblivious to the sudden change in the room, Hodgins raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, didn't mean to interr—"
"You didn't," the partners chant in chorus.
Booth clears his throat and adds, "You didn't interrupt. What have you got?"
"It's about the clothing," the bug man explains, his eyes still slightly narrowed at their behaviour. "I recognized some unusual particulates known to be found in…"
—x—
The lab is dead silent as it usually is by that time of the evening, when only a few employees remain there and most of the lights are off.
Brennan cuts the falafel ball in two and pops one bit in her mouth before pointing at the picture lying on the coffee table. "I told you it was the son of the senator," she says with a proud grin.
"Yeah, yeah," Booth answers, feigning annoyance. "It still took us two days to close the case after that genius brain of yours figured that out, though."
From the seat across the couch, Hodgins clears his throat. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe my unusual particulates were the ones that send us in the right path," he declares, reaching out to take a large fry from Booth's plate.
The agent shoots him a look. "Not to be rude here, but shouldn't Angela be done by now?"
"Booth," Brennan hisses, a thread of stern warning in her tone.
"What about her?" Hodgins asks, waving an accusing hand at Brennan. "She's been stealing your fries since I got here and I don't see you casting any glares her way."
"Yeah, that's because she's, well, Bones," the agent points out. "And no matter how many glares you shoot at her, she's still gonna steal them. It's a lost cause, really."
She jumps at the blatant accusation. "Excuse me?"
"Really, Bones? You gonna deny it after all these years?"
"No," she replies, "I would simply like to explain that most of the time, you seem to b—"
Booth bolts up from the couch, causing her to lose her train of thought. He holds up a finger, indicating her to wait as he flips his buzzing phone open. "Booth," he answers. "No, paperwork on the Roger case. What? … you positive?" He casts a glance in Brennan's direction. "How—no, I'm with her." Upon registering the mention of her, both she and Hodgins shift their attention to Booth, looking at him expectantly. "How did it—" He checks his watch. "Alright, yeah. We're on our way. Thanks, Charlie."
He flips the phone shut, and she steers him back to her. "What happened?"
But Booth addresses Hodgins first, "Looks like you're in a rush of luck today. Take the rest," he tells him, gesturing toward the plate of fries, then turns to his partner. "Grab your coat, we gotta go to the hospital. Perotta's been shot."
Her gaze flickers between both men as she tries to figure out why they would be needed at the hospital, especially seeing that neither of them work directly with Perotta. Hodgins gives her a shrug of his shoulders, and Booth claps his hands impatiently.
"Come on, Bones, hurry up. Sully's there."
—x—
His hands clench around the steering wheel for the whole duration of the ride, and — irrational as it sounds — she can feel him tensing up more and more the closer they get to their destination. He barely gives her any details of Perotta's condition, simply because there aren't any details to give out. The only thing he tells her is that, according to Charlie, the bullet punctured one of her lungs, and that she was taken into the OR immediately.
They make it to the hospital in record time, and it doesn't take them long to find the waiting room in which Sully is sitting, elbows propped on his knees, head hung, fingers raking through his hair. Once her eyes catch sight of him and her pace increases, Booth makes a point to slow down in order to give them some privacy.
"What happened?" she asks as she claims the seat next to Sully's. The agent barely acknowledges her presence, and she casts a glance at Booth, as if begging for his assistance. "Sully, what happened? Is she okay? Have you spoken to the doctors yet?" She looks around the waiting room. "Are you al—"
"She's okay," Sully cuts her off, nodding his head slowly. Brennan's attention shifts back to him, and Booth stands now closer, but still adamant in keeping his distance. "I think … I think she's okay. I don't know, the doctors, they haven't—they won't tell me anything. I've got her…" He holds up her badge. "Apparently, she forgot it at the office. I don't know why, she never—she never forgets anything," he explains, his brows knitting together. "But she forgot it, and then she—she got shot. She…" His eyes wander to the swinging doors on the other side of the room. "They said surgery wasn't going to take long, but I … they've been in there forever … and she got shot. Payton got shot."
"I'm sorry, man," Booth offers sincerely. "Look, she'll make it, alright? She's tough. She's gonna make it."
"She shouldn't have been alone when it happened," Sully goes on, his thumb absently caressing the edge of the badge. "I should have figured out it was a trap. Of course I'd take the first plane to Miami if that woman showed up at that poor boy's door. Of course I'd leave Payton behind in order to keep her safe. And of course he'd take advantage of that. God, it was a … it was…"
"A trap, yeah," Booth agrees with a nod. "But there's no way in hell you could have predicted that, so don't beat yourself up. Nothing good can possibly come out of that."
Sully chuckles dryly, cloudy eyes traveling up to his fellow agent. "Easier said than done, isn't it?"
On pure instinct, Booth's eyes land on his own partner, whose gaze is already on him. Easier said than done for sure. His jaw clenches at the memory of her dark, beautiful dress completely covered in filth and dust, and her terrified blue eyes burn hot under his eyelids along with the picture of gun being pointed at her head.
God, yes, easier said than done.
Booth drives the memories away with a shake of his head. "I'll check with the nurses in case they know something by now," he tells them, then heads for the hall.
It's not until an hour later that they get some information of use. Both Booth and Brennan are sitting in the waiting room when one of the doctors in charge of Perotta comes out in his scrubs. He asks if they're family, and Booth rushes to clarify their work situation, adding that every single one of Perotta's relatives live in another state and that her partner is outside taking some fresh air. The doctor nods then, drawing a deep breath before explaining the state of Perotta for them. She remains silent while Booth poses some standard questions, and soon they're left alone in the room again. A few words are exchanged between them before she gestures towards the hall, claiming that she needs to find Sully to tell him the news.
After checking both the terrace and the cafeteria, it doesn't take Brennan long to figure out where he might be. Since the elevator doesn't go all the way up, she heads for the emergency stairs, just as she did all those months ago at the Hoover. And just like that time, once her eyes land on him and she walks over to him, she slides down the wall, sitting next to him.
"He's gone," Sully mutters. "A witness saw him driving down the road to Texas. He's probably out of the country by now." She doesn't say anything. "I can't believe … I can't… Payton's been shot…"
"The surgery went very well," Brennan informs him. "They're waiting for her to wake up to see if there is any secondary damage. She'll have to stay in the hospital throughout most of recovery, but she should be just fine."
His face lights up once he registers the news, but his expression falters almost immediately. "It's my fault. All of this—everything, this whole damn thing, it's all my fault."
"No, it was a trap. It was a trap, Sully. This isn't on you."
"Yeah, it is. This time it is. God, I can't lose her, too," Sully murmurs, burying his face between the palm of his hands. "This can't be happening. Not again, not Payton."
The sit in complete silence until she, much later, suggests they go back inside just in case Booth has managed to get a hold on more information. Absently, Sully nods and follows her back to the waiting room, where Booth is seated, still expectant.
When they arrive, Booth takes a quick look at his colleague and silently hopes he will never have to go through anything remotely similar with his own partner.