25.
I came back to myself, gasping like a swimmer who had dived too deep and barely made it to the surface. The sound of my breath rattled in my ears. I heard an answering inhalation, felt something warm leave one hand, come to my forehead.
"Thank God."
I'd managed to open my eyes, but masses of encrusted sleep made it impossible to see, and blinking didn't clear my vision. I tried to raise a hand to rub my eyes, but found I was too weak.
"Hold on. Stop. Let me get a towel." The bed sank under your weight, and a damp warm towel patted at my closed eyes, dissolving the encrustations that littered my sight. "Here, try now." I blinked again, and my eyes cleared, but you'd moved away from me already, back into the bathroom. It was dim, and it showed dark outside the window. I had an oxygen mask on, and I wondered if my old friends the central line and the Foley Catheter had made an appearance. There was a heart monitor beeping, but my limbs were so heavy that I couldn't tell what else they had me hooked up to. My throat burned.
You sank into the chair that was pulled next to the bed, the sidebar down where you'd been holding my hand. I was so shocked at your appearance that I gasped- you were practically grey with fatigue, every smile line around your eyes and mouth worn instead into creases of worry. You pulled my hand over, started chafing it between your hands. A tear slipped out of my eye as I took in how exhausted you were.
You gave me the most wan smile I'd ever seen, and said in a rasp, "Yeah, well, you don't look any better. We're not going to win any beauty pageants in the next few weeks."
I tried to smile, managed to move my hand between yours enough to approximate a squeeze. I licked my lips-- "Love you," I began. It came out as barely a whisper. My arms were starting to respond, so I took my hand from between yours to lay my hand against your cheek. Your hand came up to cover mine, and you turned your face, eyes closed, into my palm and laid a kiss in its center. My other hand came up, then, and I managed to move my arm so my hand was flat on my chest. I was trying to get my hand to motion the "come here" gesture, but I just managed to scratch the covers with my fingers. You looked up at the sound, and I moved the hand on your cheek to the side of your neck, pulling you a little bit. This time, my other hand managed to pat my chest, and I tugged at you again.
"Come here." My voice was gaining strength, though it was like swallowing razorblades.
"Temperance, no, you stay put. You've been extremely sick."
I tugged again. "Please?"
Standing, you pulled up the covers, slid into the bed. So gently, you laid down, then slid an arm under me, pulling me closer. You were concentrating so hard on not moving too quickly that the lines on your face etched themselves deeper as you watched me for any sign of discomfort. Finally, you finished adjusting us so that I lay on my side, my head against your chest, and I could hear your heart beating beneath me. I reached up and laid my hand over your heart, looking up at you in the dim light of the hallway light coming in to the room. "Love of my life."
"Love of my life. I knew you wouldn't give up."
"I knew you wouldn't give up." Your other arm came up, your hand closing over mine, letting me feel the steady beat of your heart, our heart.
At some point in the night, a nurse came in and checked my pulse. I shifted slightly under the touch. "Sleep, Cherie. You sleep, so he'll sleep. You'll be fine."
- - -
I woke again, the light bright against my eyelids. I was still clasped against you, your heart still beating under my head, your chest still rising. I opened my eyes, to see Angela sitting in the chair next to us, sketching, tears streaming down her face. Looking back up, she met my eyes, and put down the sketch pad. I smiled at her. I still had the mask on. My throat still burned. And I didn't think I'd be running any marathons soon. But I could smile, so I did. And I could mouth "hey," so I did.
"Hey," she whispered back. "Welcome back." I smiled again, and nodded. "Sleep some more, Bren. We've got all the time in the world to talk." I did as my friend suggested, and fell back to sleep with the sound of your heart beating and her pencil scratching on paper, together making a sweet lullaby.
- - -
I next heard your voice murmuring, low, the warmth of your chest still beneath me, though you'd shifted to sit up more. The other voice was male, gravelly, and it took me a moment to place it as my father's. As I woke, your words began to make more sense. "They put in a catheter to release some of the fluid in the lateral ventricles, but it built up again almost immediately. The doctor decided there'd been an idiosyncratic interaction with the tumor-reducing cocktail she was on, and the tumor itself was stimulating the production of excess fluid even after they discontinued the original drugs. At that point, there wasn't much choice but to do the transsphenoidal surgery, but they were able to get the whole thing out, and as soon as they did, the fluid levels dropped back to normal. She'll be in another week, then home. She's going to be hoarse for a bit-- the surgery involves a lot of mucking around in the sinus cavities."
"Thank God," said my father, and you echoed him. My hand in yours twitched, and your arm squeezed me gently.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Your dad's here. Want to say hello?" I nodded, pulled up a bit, turned my head to where Dad's voice seemed to be emanating. "Hi, Dad."
"Hey, baby. You gave us quite a scare there, but you're better now." I nodded.
"Hallie?"
"She's fine. Everyone's fine. You sleep some more." I did.
- - -
I finally woke for good, feeling mentally alert if physically weak. I was lying on my back, and you were curled atop me, your head half-buried in my neck, one hand in my hair, a leg thrown across mine. You were breathing deeply, and shifting upward so I could look at your face, I could see your color was better, and that the lines of exhaustion had eased, though not entirely. The arm not trapped to my side by your weight came up, and I stroked your face as you slept. Dear man. My oxygen mask was gone, so I curled my head up from my pillow to place a kiss on your head. I threaded my fingers through your hair, watching, trying to memorize the planes of your face anew. Slowly, your breathing changed, and you opened your eyes to me, as I traced your forehead. "Hello there," I whispered.
You blinked, an innocent smile dawning on your face. "Hi." Your hand in my hair flexed as your fingers strayed to the side of my face. I turned my head to kiss the fingertips tracing my cheek. Pushing yourself up, you lay on your side so that we could look in each others' faces, your hand still stroking hair from my face as mine tried to memorize your features. I ran a finger across your lips, and you kissed it. I laid my hand along your cheek as your hand moved behind my neck, both of us drawing the other close, until our breath and our lips and our eyes reunited, and locked, became whole again.
- - -
I managed to convince Delia and Henry to move me out of the ICU the next day. Maureen and Jeanne somehow managed to get themselves temporary transfers down to my floor, and marshaled an array of other nurses to assist me as I slowly practiced sitting, standing, balancing, and made my shaky way once around the floor while navigating the IV pole before I broke out in a sweat. The pathologist came to talk to me about the tumor, which he'd saved for me, and the idiosyncratic reaction I'd had to the drug cocktails. I agreed to provide a patient's perspective so he could write a case study of what had happened, when I could use my voice for more than 5 minutes at a time.
The third day, I made it three times around the unit before my knees wobbled, your arms behind my back and under my legs before I'd really even registered I might fall. But we treated it as a cause for celebration. I had pudding and the filling from a pie for dessert, though I was still mostly having soft foods because it still hurt to swallow.
I ran through stacks of paper, scribbling notes furiously. Angela came everyday for a lunchtime visit. My first day out of the ICU, while you were in the shower, content to leave me alone only so long as Angela was present, I tried to enlist her help in getting you out of the hospital.
"Make him go home tonight. He needs to see Parker."
"Bren, Parker's been here—he insisted that Dr. Bones needed company while she slept. But they had a vacation planned this past few days, so that's why he hasn't been back to visit."
"He did?" I shook my head. "But Booth's been here the whole time."
"We were picking up Parker up after school and taking him back and forth to Rebecca's from here." Oh, Ange. Jack. What had we done to deserve you?
"Still, Booth should spend some time away from here, at home. This is too hard on him."
"Bren, his home is you. Wherever you are."
My hand shook. "Me too."
"How's your throat?"
"Lousy. But we'll be back to bickering in no time."
"You're doing a pretty good job of it now, though I'll admit it's funny when he just crumples up whatever you've written without reading it, and throws it across the room."
I snorted, then winced. "Hah hah."
- - -
Henry and Delia came by that next day to examine me, you sitting by and letting me ask the questions even though you'd been mother-henning me when it was just the two of us or there were visitors.
Henry began. "Your incision is healing well, good drainage. Everything's fine on the MRI, the EEG. It's a miracle your blood oxygen didn't dip any lower."
"Talking?"
"A few more days. Hot tea and honey are okay. You'll have some voice fatigue for a while. Between the incision and the straining from the vomiting, and the bile, your vocal cords and throat are just worn out right now. But there shouldn't be any permanent damage. You strain too much now, though, and there will be. I think your publisher would be annoyed if you couldn't do any more public readings." Delia shot me a sympathetic look; she was really so nice, but never gave any false comfort.
"Home?"
Henry responded. "Saturday. You should come in Monday for another checkup and MRI."
"Chemo?"
Delia sighed, thought. "Not next week. You still need to recover a bit more. Concentrate on eating and sleeping." Then she looked at you. "It's probably not a good idea for her to be alone the first few days. And while I'm not your doctor, you could stand a week off, too."
"I'd planned on it."
- - -
Cam and Sully came by after work, Cam seating herself in the larger armchair, and Sully perching on the arm, though there were two others, empty, in the room. You gave me a small smile.
They had wrapped Henry Clifford's case. Sully had gone back to the employers, and "smelled something off," so he walked the site, still under construction, that Clifford had been supervising. His carpentry background allowed him to see that the framing and materials being used were dangerously off-specification, and after speaking confidentially with some of the workers, he learned that that contractors were also the site developers, in trouble financially, and under major pressure to finish the project. He got a warrant, and brought Charlie and Rodgers with him to arrest all three men as soon as he found that even more materials were being replaced with less expensive, less sturdy substitutes.
"There was a bit of a chase with the last one, Booth, and Rodgers took off after him like a bat out of hell. He tackled the guy before he'd gotten twenty yards. You're right, we've got to get him out of that lab. Said he'd never had so much fun in his life."
Your arm tightened around me. "Bones actually suggested it. Tell Sam I said to start the paperwork."
The three men eventually confessed; they'd beaten and killed Clifford after they learned he was planning to meet with the building inspector. Caroline cut a deal that allowed their families to keep their personal homes; all other personal and business assets were forfeit to pay the employees, the supplier's, the victim's compensation fund.
The conversation turned to Emily Harris. Cam shook her head. "We've all been through those films—it's still those two and it's impossible to tell. Both women were cut from the team."
I thought a bit, then reached for my notepad. "Did they come in for questioning?"
Sully nodded.
"Filmed?"
"Sure. It was at the Hoover."
I pointed at the TV—it had a DVD player. "Send Clark over, we'll watch them, lend a fresh eye."
You rumbled, but I shot you a look, then grabbed my pad again. "What's the difference between VH-1 Behind the Music and a few interview films?"
"VH-1 is not work."
"Keeping up with all those people I've never heard of? Work. Postural analysis is a walk in the lake, compared."
"Walk in the park, Bones." You turned, sighing, to Sully and Clark. "How long are the films?"
The two of them thought. "Forty-five minutes, for all the relevant ones?"
I wrote, shoved the pad over at them. "Tell Clark to come by after breakfast tomorrow." I wanted to wrap this one up, too.
"Not before 10. You didn't sleep enough today." I grabbed his hand, squeezed it, licked my lips.
"Chill, Booth." It came out as a rasp, and hurt like hell, but the look of surprise on all of your faces as I used the term correctly was worth it.
The conversation then turned to office gossip.
"Clark has a date with Amelia from dispatch." Sully advised.
"How did that happen?" you asked. "She's a cute girl, but real choosy, and fierce. Have you ever seen her shoot?"
Cam smiled. "We took him to O'Reilly's last week, and their eyes literally met across the room."
I poked you, wrote. "What's O'Reilly's?" The other two, leaning forward, looked at you and laughed. You did not look comfortable.
"Cop bar." You weren't looking at me.
"Bureau bar? Or cop bar?"
"Both." Now you were turning red.
"And we never went there why?"
Sully laughed at your growing discomfort, and you reddened further. "Temp, he didn't want any one zooming his game."
My eyebrows furrowed, but before I could write, Cam said, "Don't waste paper. You don't know what that means."
I looked over at you again. Now you were rubbing the back of your neck and looking up at the heart monitor, which I knew you couldn't read, so you were just avoiding me. I poked you. "Bones, if we went to O'Reilly's there would have been a parade of drunk cops trying to buy you a drink while we had paperwork to do."
Cam choked. "Paperwork? You did paperwork at Sid's and the Diner?" She looked faintly horrified.
"No. We did paperwork at my place, after supper, or over takeout. Booth, you're not answering, which leads me to conclude that your motivations in not bringing me to O'Reilly's stem not from a desire to manage our cases efficiently but rather from a need to hoard a possession you viewed as yours."
"Damn, she writes fast," murmured Cam.
"It's loud in there. You can't hear yourself talk. And the burgers are lousy. And," you said, warming to your excuses, "even their vegetarian food has bacon in it."
Sully laughed. "Uh-huh. Booth didn't want to get ragged about why he hadn't tapped his hot partner yet."
You shot him a look that would melt plastic, but Sully'd been working with us too long now, and he just smirked before saying, "Sorry, man, but it's true."
"Bones, those guys are all assholes. Don't know how to respect a woman." You were mumbling now, and Cam was working hard to stifle what I suspected was a guffaw.
I squeezed your hand, then resumed writing. "It really would have been easier if you'd just peed on my leg. Or, 'been a cop' when I told you to." You laughed then, then some more as I waggled my eyebrows at you.
"Lone wolf."
"Insufferable know-it-all."
"Territorial alpha-male."
"Smarty-pants."
"Love of my life."
"Love of my life."
Cam muttered to Sully—"C'mon, Peanut, let's go get something to eat. I'm going into sugar shock with the sweetness twins over there making goo-goo eyes again."
- - -
I didn't wake until 9:30 the next morning—my breakfast tray was sitting on the table next to the bed, and I could hear the shower running. I'd swung my legs over the bed, and was sitting, deciding whether to risk the wrath of Booth to try standing on my own, when you opened the door back into the room.
"Bones, what are you doing?"
"Waiting. Help me up so I can kick your ass. Deanna gave me a sedative, didn't she?" God—I sound like a thirty year smoker.
You came over and boosted me up to standing, then pulled me against you. "Trust me Bones, you need the sleep."
"I want to go home."
"Three more days."
"Threaten to shoot someone. Make Caroline get a habeas writ. I'll sleep more at home and won't need more drugs."
You kissed the top of my head and repeated yourself. "Three more days. Want a shower before Clark gets here?" I nodded. "Want a nurse?"
I shook my head. "I'll leave the door open."
"Good. Thanks."
I made my way to the closet and pulled out one of your dress shirts and some shorts for changing. The johnnys were so cold and uncomfortable. The nurses had complained a bit at first, but since your shirts were button-down, they could still listen to my heart and do all the other things they needed to do. Angela had also brought some of our things from home, so I wouldn't have to use the hospital's harsh soap.
I was reveling in taking a shower on my own. The first day after I'd woken, I only got a sponge bath. The next, the nurse insisted on helping me. Yesterday, Jeanne had sat just outside the shower curtain in case I needed her, telling me blackmail-worthy stories about Caroline while I worked quickly, hoping my legs would hold me long enough to finish. Today, I felt much stronger, and wanted the quiet and privacy of hot water beating down on me.
I finished and got dressed, still toweling my hair as I emerged. The nurses had changed the bed while I was gone, and you'd taken your place on the bed, reviewing some more paperwork or something.
"You accuse me of being a workaholic." You looked up and smiled. "Just some new policy drafts Sam asked me to read."
I tossed my towel back in the bathroom, and made my way back into bed, you getting up the last three steps to put your hand on my back and give me a boost as I swung my legs back up and settled under the covers again. Sliding back in behind me, you pulled my brush off the side table and started in on my hair, something you'd started doing since I woke up. I could do it myself, now, but you needed the contact and so did I, so I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of your hands in my hair.
Once you'd finished, you pulled over the breakfast tray, and opened the lid. "Oooh, look, Bones! Cheese sticks, apple slices, and tea! Food with colors!"
I laughed, though it hurt, then tapped the tea cup. Understanding, you went to get more. I was going to need a lot of it to get through whatever explanations we'd need.
Clark and Sully came in as I was finishing my cheese sticks. "Whoa! T.! Food that requires molars! Way to go."
"Funny, Stretch," I rasped, throwing a piece of apple at him that hit him right in the nose. "Less taunting, more forensic anthropology."
Sully pulled a chair over next to me, as you settled back in behind me and Clark loaded the first disk. I motioned him to sit in front of me, saying, "Stop the film if I poke you." He nodded, and began.
"This is Lisa Harris. Cut the day before the murder."
The interrogation rooms film automatically from the time the door is unlocked until it is locked from outside again, so Clark forwarded through the first part, where he and Sully had set up the room, resuming the regular speed at the point at which Sully entered, leading the witness in. I watched her walk in, stop to take in her surroundings, then move forward to sit opposite Sully and Clark. While the interview was essentially cordial, Fisher was not particularly shaken by Harris' death.
The interview concluded, and Sully and Clark stood, the witness standing a moment later. There it was.
I poked Clark, waved my hand in what I hoped he's see meant "rewind." He rewound to the point right before she stood up, then looked back at me as I waved him to let it go forward. Fisher walked away from the camera, and left the room. I poked Clark again, and rasped out, "From the beginning."
Clark obliged, running the film back to the beginning, and replaying her entrance through when she took her seat. Watching it again, I was certain. I swallowed some tea.
"It's not her."
All three were gaping—we'd watched five minutes of elapsed film. "Rerun it from the start," I squeaked, then had some more tea.
"Okay, pause. Her gait is off. She's favoring her right leg. Run it again?" I watched, doing what you call my squinty thing. "Stop. Right there."
Clark turned, blinking. "She used her hand to brace herself not even three seconds before she sat, and she's leaning away from her right side."
"Exactly. Okay…" I took some more tea. "To the end again."
This time, Clark caught it, and paused the film as the witness placed her right hand on the table, just for a moment, compensating for what was clearly an old knee injury. He ejected the disk.
"No way it's her. I must have watched this twenty times. Want to confirm with the practice films?"
You squeezed my shoulder, then answered. "Please. Caroline loves to draw you squints' testimony out. We'd be thwarting her flair for the dramatic if we couldn't let her beat the jury over the head with all of the evidence."
Sully flipped through the remaining disks. "Here—this is the day before cuts." He pointed out Harris, and Fisher, and the other suspect, Sarah Vincent. Both of the suspects were playing on the scrimmage team opposite Harris.
"Are Harris and Vincent the same position?" I asked.
You answered—"Yes. Center. Fisher's a forward."
I watched about half of the scrimmage, until Fisher had the ball and was running down the court.
"Rewind one minute." I watched again. "See? There—same uneven gait. Now watch," more tea, "she always pushes off with her left foot when she's turning. Her medicals should show an old ACL repair. She wouldn't have quite the strength in that knee to account for the pelvic misalignment."
Clark was gaping. "T. I see it now, but how? How did you see that?"
I smiled. "Booth blew out his ACL in Kosovo—he has the same gait alteration when walking, running and kicking, though he doesn't do the hand thing when he sits. And he's right side dominant, too, and always slightly overcorrects on the pivot leg when he's kicking something."
"I do?"
"You limp when it's cold, too. Just a little. Your right shoulder goes up half an inch."
"Bones, how do you do stuff like that?"
"It's my job. Plus, I've been taking second to your point for how many years now? I always enjoyed the view. You have a very cute butt, you know."
Both Sully and Clark were still shaking their heads over the identification, though Sully snorted at the look on your face when I complimented you in front of them.
I started my second cup of tea. "Okay, boys, voice is running out. Let's see the rest of the film and confirm Vincent."
As I watched the two womens' interaction, I could see it. The two women were highly competitive, but Harris clearly had an edge. She was just faster, stronger, more graceful. At one point, Vincent, who was balancing too far forward, was knocked down by Harris as Vincent tried to steal the ball, and laded on her rear.
"Oh!!" cried the three of you, forgetting this was a hospital until I shushed you all and made you get up to shut the door.
"Clark, rewind right there, let me see that again." I looked. "Can you zoom in on her shoulders? How about her face?"
He complied, and I could see it. "She's furious. Look at the muscles crawling on the back of her neck, how her shoulders are bunched, the way her hands are clenched. Her jaw is so tight, too, but her face…"
"Totally blank," you supplied, sounding satisfied. "That's her. Let's roll the rest just to finish."
Time and again, Harris bested Vincent, making shots, avoiding steals, dribbling around her and through Vincent's legs, all three of you managing to keep your cries of "Oh!" and "Snap!" and "Stuffed!" to a dull roar. Right before the clock ran out, Harris had the ball again and took it down the court, Vincent playing close defensively. Harris feinted right, then switched and blew past Vincent to make a layup. Vincent, overreaching for the ball, landed flat out on the court as Harris scored and the whistle blew time. Harris turned and saw Vincent on the floor. Walking back over, she extended Vincent a hand, but Vincent ignored it, her face an utter mask, as she pushed herself up and walked away.
Clark ejected the disk and handed it back to Sully. I smiled as I looked at all of you. "And that, boys, is what we call a little bit of bad ass forensic anthropology."
- - -
You shooed the boys out of my room not long afterward, complaining that I hadn't finished my breakfast, and threatening to arrest anybody and everybody, even the team, if they came back to visit before supper. As you stood with them talking in the hallway, and handed Sully the folder you'd been reading earlier, I guiltily picked up the remaining pieces of apple left on my tray and set to work, even though I wasn't really hungry, and hadn't really been the entire time since I'd woken up. I knew it was the drugs affecting me, but it was hard to apply logic when my body wasn't interested in listening. You came back in, turning off the overhead light that had been on as we'd watched the video, then sat behind me, taking your now-usual place as my pillow, my bedwarmer, my rock.
Leaning your head on the pillow so you could look at me, you said, "I told them they're on their own for work for the next week, at least, no more Booth, no more Bones. No paperwork from the Bureau, no Kathy & Andy, no more legal paperwork, nothing. If they want to visit, it had better be sunshine and puppies and unicorns or DVDs and popcorn. And I am limiting visits. We're both too damned tired."
"Okay."
"Temperance?" Your voice hesitated, and your brow furrowed a bit. It was the look you got when you were about to tell me something you didn't think I would like.
"What, Seeley?"
"I was going through your laptop to get Goodman the syllabus and course notes you wrote up, and I found your other book project."
Oh. I turned a bit, brought my hand to your cheek as I looked you in the eye. "Seeley--it's not a book project. I thought it might be, at first, but it's not. It's just a ... collection of thoughts and memories. A way of keeping track of things. I wanted to make a tangible record. It's ... too private, now."
You smiled then, a hint of humor in your eyes. "No-- it's perfect the way it is, though it's . . . um, even spicier than the Kathy & Andys. You should submit it when it's done, but not before then. I want to see how it ends."
"Me too. But I wouldn't leave it the way it is-- it's too..."
"Temperance. It's perfect the way it is. Really. I . . . added some things to it."
"You did?" I hadn't expected that. I don't known what I'd expected, though I always planned to show it to you, one way or the other.
"Like you said. A way of keeping track of things. I think it'll be helpful. You can read it, if you want. Or wait." Your eyes were expectant, and I wondered what you'd written.
"Can I read it now?" You nodded, bent over to the side table, and pulled the laptop back over from where it was resting, plugged in, ready light blinking. Settling it in my lap, you opened the screen, and opened the new document you'd started. I began to read.
"Bones, I've been sitting here, watching you not wake up again, yet, after you've had your third episode of vomiting so violent it practically killed you. That was almost two days, and fully two lateral ventricle catheterizations, and one brain surgery ago, and you know how time can either compress, or go on forever?"