Guys! Guys! Hi! ;)

Sooooo… I guess I owe everyone an apology for being gone for….yeah. A long time. Life sort of destroyed me for a while – but many things have changed and I am back! I've been frustrated by my inability to get back to this story, and I promised that I wouldn't abandon it, so I'm making good on that promise!

So please forgive my long absence, and know that I am already working on the next chapter…. We are almost done!

Thanks for the private messages and the concern and the reviews – they've really kept me going and motivate me to keep writing!

Chapter 36

Booth awoke with a start and glanced at his watch. It was past nine – P.M., judging from the darkness of the room.

How he'd slept so long and so soundly in that position – folded in half, forehead resting on her bed – he had no clue. His neck and back protested loudly as he straightened, and he rolled his head around a few times to work out the kinks. Yawned and stretched. It was the best sleep he'd had in months, really, and he felt good.

Then he remembered: she'd awakened. They'd spoken.

She was okay. She'd smiled at him.

That smile, he knew, was indelibly printed on his soul. It would carry him for the rest of his life, whether she decided she wanted him in her world or not.

He studied her now. She was sleeping, her expression relaxed, her breathing soft and peaceful. He desperately wanted her to wake again, to get on with the conversations he knew lay ahead, to move forward in some way…but he knew she needed rest.

He stood and stretched again, then wandered to the window. Nine floors below, orderlies and nurses sat at a picnic table under a bright orange, moth-peppered floodlight, smoke from the workers' cigarettes curling upwards and disappearing into the night. (What nurse smokes? he mused.) Beyond the break area lay the parking lot, and beyond that, their friends and family, scattered about the city, all of whom were waiting to hear news of Brennan's recovery.

He knew he should probably tell someone that she'd awakened. The nurses should know. Max should, too. However, he knew that as soon as the news was out, their private sanctuary would be invaded with staff and doctors, friends and family; with questions and prognoses, tears and laughter, well-wishes and heartfelt confessions.

He just wanted to freeze this moment of peacefulness with her. Once the word of her recovery was out – once the visitors started arriving – they'd have to face reality. He'd have to tell her what he did to her, before she heard it from someone else. And then, what? He'd betrayed her repeatedly over the past several months. That alone was cause for her shutting him out of her life. To find out that he'd nearly killed her – hell, he would never forgive himself. He should have known it was her. He would have known, had he been there.

He turned his attention back to the scene below and silently exhaled a prayer, heavy on his lips, and imagined it floating out into the night air, mingling with the smoke rising from beneath, then dissipating into the blackness.

################

Brennan's eyes snapped open as she suddenly became aware of a change in the room. Disoriented, she scanned her immediate surroundings, frantically trying to put pieces into place.

Hospital. Why? What had happened to her? Why couldn't she remember?

Head wound. How? She remembered only snatches: a van ride. A device strapped to her chest. A veil. What else?

A rainforest. A boat. A cult leader. His vile hands groping at her. Booth and Doggett. An explosion.

Booth. She reached out a hand and found the space next to her bed empty. She'd assumed he'd be there. He had been there, right? She'd heard his voice, felt his hand.

Hadn't she?

Confusion gave way to panic. Where was he? She struggled, painfully trying to push herself to a more upright position, wildly searching the room, tangling herself in the maze of wires that were attached to her body.

Oh, god. She'd conjured his presence in her semi-consciousness. It must have been a dream. She'd only imagined his voice. He was dead - she'd seen it happen. A sob choked her, stole her breath. She fought against the restraints of the wires. He was gone…

"Bones!"

And suddenly, he was there.

"Bones, it's okay. Shhh…" Still disoriented, it took several seconds for her to comprehend that the warmth on her face was his hands, and the pair of eyes staring into hers belonged to him. After that, the tears blurred her vision, and she reached for him, buried her face in his chest – Booth! – and wept.

Finally, she stilled, and he pulled away slightly and brushed her hair from her face, his eyes full of concern – and something else. Fear?

"Bones – are you – okay?"

She nodded and lay back on her pillow, still shaking. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again, they were wet with tears.

"B-Booth?" she whispered.

"Yeah, Bones?"

"What…what happened? Why am I here?" Her eyes searched his, desperate for an answer. "I – I can't remember…."

He smiled down at her, and she wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed sad.

"Bones. You need to rest – please. We'll talk tomorrow, I promise. The most important thing right now is to get better. Okay? Go back to sleep. I'll be right here."

She considered him for a moment, then sighed raggedly.

"Okay," she whispered. "Can you…can you just…"

He nodded, then shifted from the edge of her bed to a nearby chair, pulling it close and taking her hand in his.

"I'm right here, Bones. Get some rest now…" he soothed, stroking her forehead.

Within minutes, she drifted to sleep.

###################

She awoke again when the nurse came in the morning to change out her IV bag. Upon discovering that the patient was conscious, the nurse hastily left, and Booth braced himself for what would surely become a constant swarm of activity in the room.

And so it began. For the next twenty-four hours, Brennan's waking hours were filled with laughter, tears, and catching up with loved ones – which were also punctuated by a steady stream of doctors, specialists, nurses, tests, and therapists.

As the activity surrounding Brennan increased, so, too, did Booth's agitation. Brennan was beginning to remember pieces of her ordeal, but many gaps still remained. Angela, Max, and Sweets (who had dispensed himself with overseeing her post-trauma mental care) tried to help by filling in the blanks with what they knew: that she'd been taken out of the country, had been missing for weeks, had been held by a terrorist - and that she'd been shot. What they hadn't told her, however, was who had pulled the trigger. Though no one had discussed it in front of him, Booth knew that there was a tacit agreement among their friends to leave that part to him, if he so chose to tell it.

He retreated to the edges of the room, looking on as nurses came in and repeatedly checked her vitals. He stepped out when her friends stopped by to visit, always checking back in when they left, hoping to snatch a few minutes alone with her, but was always interrupted by another doctor. Finally, when they came to take her for an MRI, he slipped out and headed home for a few hours, agitated and desperately needing some time away to think, shower, and check in with Finley.

##############

Brennan felt Booth's absence immediately. Despite the well-meaning friends and family, she was lonely for him. She needed him – and yet, as soon as she recognized that need, she chided herself. While his presence was reassuring, and while she knew he would help her sort out the puzzling pieces of the past several weeks, something in her hindbrain nudged her. A warning? No – it was more of a check, a sense that she should temper her innate trust in him, guard herself.

She'd noticed him standing off to the side, and it seemed as though something was bothering him. She had an underlying sense that there was unresolved tension between them, that a rift existed. She could not, for the life of her, pinpoint exactly why.

Later that night, as she was fighting (and losing) the battle with exhaustion in the hopes that he'd return, a soft knock on the door jolted her awake. She sat up and called out permission for the visitor to enter, then straightened her sheets, hands trembling.

The door cracked open slowly, and then Doggett appeared, oozing into the room in limb by limb. When he caught her eye and realized she was awake, a smile lit his face.

"Agent Doggett!" Brennan returned his smile. Though she hadn't seen him in weeks, his presence was calming. She marveled at the thought that, though they'd only been partners a short time, she'd grown to trust him with her life.

"Hey there, Doc. " His gleamed with genuine happiness as he assessed her. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you. You feeling okay?"

"Yes, thank you. The pain is manageable, although I am quite tired. And I seem to have post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. I can't seem to put all the pieces together. My father and Angela have tried to help, but I find I just can't remember."

Doggett looked at her kindly for a few moments, then moved to the chair near her bedside. He sat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and smiled.

"Doc, look, it's okay. You can't remember because you were drugged up most of the time. Now, I'm not saying that your injuries haven't contributed to some of that, but Matthew Taylor – Jacob – used some pretty potent stuff on you. Give yourself some credit."

Brennan looked at him for a few minutes, considering his words. "I find…" she said, her eyes misting over, "I find that the hardest part is not knowing exactly what was - done to me. My memory is so confused – I don't know what is real and what I may have hallucinated. I don't know what I might have assented to under the influence of the drugs – scopolamine, according to my chart – that he administered to me."

Doggett took her hand. "Look, the doctors examined you, right? You've been poked and prodded and worked over nonstop since you've been here. They found no evidence of anything – no sexual assault – right? Trust that. And trust yourself. You've been through a lot, but you don't have to figure it all out – or snap out of it – tonight. It'll be a process, and you have a lot of people who love you and who want to walk you through this stuff." He studied her for a few moments, then cleared his throat. "How are things…with Booth?"

She sighed. "I don't even know where he is. He was here when I first woke up, but he disappeared hours ago."

"Hey, he probably just went home to change. He's been here for days without a shower or a change of clothes. I'm sure he felt like he was in the way and took the opportunity to slip out for a bit."

Brennan's eyes dropped to her lap. "I think he is still upset with me. We fought. I do remember that."

"Trust me when I say this, Doc: Booth loves you. Hell, you're all I heard about when we were trudging through that God-forsaken jungle. He was bent on finding you. It nearly killed him, but he put it all on the line for you – not to ease his guilty conscience, but because he realized what an idiot he'd been."

Brennan considered this for a moment. "But…there's more, isn't there, Agent Doggett? I am not very adept at reading people, but I get the distinct impression that he is keeping something from me."

Doggett winced. "Yeah, okay. So I guess you two haven't had the chance to…catch up yet."

"No. It's been a bit crowded in here."

"Look, I don't wanna speak for him, but I do know that he'll be back as soon as he can, and I'm confident that you two will get everything squared away. Booth's an honorable man. He cares about you. I know he won't stay away any longer than he has to."

Brennan nodded, perplexed at his words, but too exhausted to pursue the conversation further. Doggett smiled at her again and stood.

"I'm gonna let you sleep, Doc. Get some rest. Don't worry about anything but getting better, okay?" His blue eyes bore into hers in earnest, and she sighed and nodded her assent.

He strode to the door, pulled it open, and turned back to her just as she was settling back into her pillow.

"And Doctor Brennan? If for some reason Booth doesn't show up in the next day or so, I'll kick his ass. That you can count on."

###########################

Booth paced in front of his bed, his bare feet causing the ancient wood planks to creak and groan with each pass.

He'd just drifted into a semi-sleep state when his thoughts began to assault him like grenades, each one more violently heart-crushing than the next, until he finally flew out of bed and retreated to the bathroom, hoping the bright lights and a splash of cool water on his face would stop the barrage.

Instead, his fully-awake mind began to process the horrifying events of the past several weeks all over again, and his guilt rose with each remembrance. Unable to bear the sight of his reflection, he fled the bathroom and resorted to pacing.

What a damn fool he'd been. He'd nearly killed Bones. There was no way they would recover from this – once she found out what had happened, he was done. Pulling the trigger was just the icing on the cake – he'd pushed her away until they were practically strangers for the past year, then dealt the final blow by abandoning her after that disastrous night when he'd proposed to Hannah. She'd been loyal despite his insidious behavior, had pursued him, and he'd run as far and as fast as he could from her.

In their better days, he'd been her constant, having finally won her utmost trust, but because of his selfishness, he'd systematically wrecked it all. And now – now she lay in a hospital bed, having nearly been killed numerous times by others, and finally by him.

The anger took over then – at God, at himself, at the damn terrorists, at Doggett for letting her go undercover in the first place – it was all so wrong. She'd gotten involved in something way over her head, and now, she lay shattered in a hospital. God only knew how far-reaching the damage to her brain or what that would mean for her future and for the career she loved so dearly. And those responsible were in the wind….

…himself included.

He'd promised not to leave her side, and yet, here he was, pacing the floor and hiding in his bedroom like a damn coward because he didn't have the balls to face her. She didn't deserve to be abandoned again. She had genuinely seemed to want him nearby. Okay, then. He would suck it up, stay with her, offer his support, find solace in the busyness around them. She didn't need to know he had been the shooter – in fact, it was probably better for her recovery that she didn't.

Once she was back home, he knew that he'd have to own up to his mistakes – all of them – and he deserved nothing less than for her to completely cut him out of her life. As long as she was in the hospital, he could maintain the illusion that things were okay. He had to, for her sake.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he strode to his closet and dressed, and, as the sun threw its first rays of purple and gold over the city, he made his way back to her side.