Title: This is Life
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. Honest.
Rating: This one is rated a T.
A/N: I am hope you all like this. There is nothing too dark, although, I have saddened myself a little with my cruelty, but, I promise, things will be rectified and there is light at the end of the tunnel… somewhere…
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Summer came and went.
The flowers blossomed and now, as autumn approached relentlessly, they began to die. Outside the Jeffersonian the gardens had changed dramatically in a few short weeks – the vibrant pinks and purples replaced by earthier reds and browns. The trees darkened, and the wide maple leaves began to fall, blanketing the manicured lawns with a crisp vitality that was completely different to spring and summer.
It was the 'post death' month. It seemed almost as though the leaves struggled to offer one final burst of colour before fading. In retrospect, autumn and what it symbolised was the perfect time for death. As perfect as any time could be.
After their trip to Vermont, things had escalated to the point where he thought it was apt to say he was 'deliriously happy'. She glowed when their eyes met, spent the weekends welcoming his son, laughed at his jokes and became so comfortable with him that he couldn't have imagined his life without her.
He still couldn't.
Sipping coffee by the gallery window, Booth stifled the overwhelming grief and guilt, screwing his eyes shut and telling himself to take it like a man. His impatience at his own emotion proved ineffectual, for his remorse blocked out all the sense that tried to leak through – that tried to tell him she wasn't dead. Wasn't dead. To him, the gap between 'nearly' and 'actually' was too close. Too damn close.
Tossing the half empty cup in the trash can, he pressed his forehead to the glass and watched as a terracotta coloured leaf fell from the tree at the far end of the garden. Behind him, he felt a hand, tentative and kind, rest upon his shoulder, followed by a small sigh.
"Go home," Angela said, her fingers tightening a little. He closed his eyes, a headache pounding behind his eyeballs. "Standing here isn't going to do anything, you know. If you go-"
"I don't want to go home, Angela," he said, his knuckles white as he clinched the metal railing that traced the circumference of the inner building. "If I go home, I'll be reminded of the fact that Brennan is in hospital. If I go to the office, I'll feel guilty that I'm not there with her and…" his breath shuddered, "if I go to the hospital I'm not sure I can handle seeing her, yet…" Their mutual friend dropped her eyes, sympathy written into her features. "If I'm here, I'm surrounded by her. But objectively. Not personally." Angela's hand slipped from his shoulder, and she crossed her arms.
In the main lab below, a whistle echoed. "Hey, Angela! You up there?" She stood on tip-toes, peering over the railing.
"I'll be there in a minute, Jack!" She called, turning back to Booth. "There's a new body in and I'm meant to be working on it." He nodded, releasing the railing with a heavy sigh.
"Don't let me keep you," he said. "I don't want to be in anyone's way. I'm just here until the doctor calls with… some news."
'Some news' meant that she was either alive or dead. He should have been with her, at least holding her hand or coaxing her from the depthless medically induced sleep she was in. "The doctor said the surgery could take awhile… and he'd let me know how it went." Angela nodded.
"Booth… what happened out there?"
What happened? What happened? The question had echoed in his mind all day. It resounded and each time it did, the implication added another pile of guilt to the heap which had already accumulated. "She didn't…" he stopped, drawing his tongue over his dry lips. "She didn't get her vest on in time. The bastard…" his voice broke a little but he regained composure after a few moments of mental coaxing. "The bastard pumped four bullets into her. He hit her left shoulder… her right thigh… her hip and her stomach. It's my fault, Angela." It was the first time he'd spoken the words to anyone. Even to himself. He hadn't verbalised his guilt.
"Don't talk bullshit!" Angela snapped, snagging his wrist and yanking his arm until he spun, eyes wide at her conviction. "Brennan follows you because she wants to! How could you have stopped what happened? How…?" He shook his head numbly. How, indeed? He didn't know – but there had to have been a way. Even if he'd taken the bullets instead. If he'd jumped in front of her a few seconds earlier! His body was bigger than hers. "You can't answer me, Booth, because you're talking shit. She-"
"She could die, Angela. She could…" his voice trembled again. "It's easier to feel guilt than contemplate my life without her." She'd looked so frail, so different form the Brennan he'd known, as they hefted her into the back of an ambulance, her fingers trying to find his. She looked afraid. His Temperance, afraid.
"She won't die, Booth," Angela said with the same ferocious conviction. "Stop it, okay? Your foolish self flagellation is not going to help my friend get better. If you want to stay here dwell on 'what ifs' then go ahead, but personally, I thought you were less of a dweller and more…" she tilted her head, "more 'get up and get on with it'. So do yourself a favour, Booth. Go be with her."
He wanted to tell the forensic artist to fuck off and mind her own business. It was tempting. The words formed on his lips and dissolved when he remembered why Angela was there; she was a good, kind woman. And it was her friend whose life lay in the balance. It must have hurt her, too.
"Okay," he said. "Go do your thing." Booth gestured to the stairs, to the laboratory below where Jack Hodgins paced the floor, glancing at his watch with distain. Everyone felt the effects of Brennan's condition. Zach had spluttered rapid-fire scientific jargon in response to the news, and it was his way to dealing with the issue. Booth had ignored his own over-wrought nerves and his need to strangle the damn assistant.
"We'll talk later," Angela said, turning on her heel and descending the steps. After a few seconds Hodgins exclaimed his delight at her arrival, and Booth sighed, relieved to be alone yet so very… lonely.
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he checked his watch. Four eighteen. No one had called. No news. But, when it came to gun-shots, he considered no news to be good news. She wasn't dead.
Outside it had begun to rain, and the autumn afternoon ebbed close to early evening. The clouds darkened as the sun shrank away and the grey gloominess took hold. It reflected his mood so well.
Taking a steadying breath, Booth strode down the stairs, along the lab, beneath the atrium and out the front doors, listening as the rainfall cascaded in heavy droplets off the building and unto the ground. The sound was almost soothing.
A steady, almost predictable rhythm. He listened to it for a long few minutes, realising that he was stalling. Inevitably he'd have to see her, needle marks and plastic tubes, oxygen and heart monitors but, if he didn't, and something happened, he'd never forgive his inability to face the hardness of life.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Dr Hamilton was a small, unassuming man with wire-frame glasses and a disarming smile. His firm handshake put Booth at ease, and his confident stride reassured him that the aging doctor knew what he was doing.
"She's out of surgery now," he said, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "And she's stable. We'll know more when her anaesthetic wears off. Plus she's still sleeping off the effects of the drugs…" Booth nodded, following the doctor along the corridor, until he stopped at a blue door at the end of the hallway. "Would you like to see her?" Booth blinked, caught unprepared for the question.
Did he want to see her? A resonant 'yes' followed by a bellowing 'no' echoed through his brain like a mantra. He smiled tightly and dipped his head, a response that prompted the doctor to swing the door open. The room beyond smelt like disinfectant. The blankets covered her slight frame, all the way to her throat. Her arm was bandaged, wrapped in tight white gauze and her shoulder showed a tiny blood stain.
"Most of the damage was concentrated around her abdomen. Her leg will require physiotherapy, which is understandable, as the muscle was damaged when the bullet impacted. Her arm and her shoulder will heal fine… and…" he seemed to hesitate a little. "We'll discuss her condition more when Dr Brennan is awake. I'll leave you alone, okay?" Booth nodded mutely, resting awkwardly in the arm chair next to her bed.
The slight rise and fall of her chest reminded him that she was still alive. That, by the grace of God, he hadn't lost her. The relief was paramount, but still, shoved aside by the overwhelming sense of fear and guilt that he felt.
He reached out, touching her cheek, noting that she felt cold. She didn't respond to his touch. She always responded to his touch, dammit! Where was she? What place inside her mind had she retreated to in the medically induced coma? Did her memories play the scene over and over again? Or did she dream of nothing at all?
He dropped his head, resting his own cheek against her pillow, listening to the gentle 'whoosh' of the breathing apparatus and the constant beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor as her body continued to pump blood around her arteries. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, listening to her breathe, or even when he fell asleep, but there was no discernable moment between his unconscious state and when he was been shaken into wakefulness by a persistent hand on his shoulder.
He jolted, eyes wide. On the bed, her luminous blue eyes watched him, torn between pain and amusement. His startled expression changed to joy in an instant.
"Bones…" he sighed, reaching for her hand. She smiled tightly through her pain, just enough to reassure him. His heart continued to thud. "You're alright…" She tried to shrug, and winced.
"Aside from the aches all over my body… that bastard made sure he hit!" The chuckle she tried to force forward died on her lips, sounding more like a painful grunt. "Did the doctor say…?" She left her question unspoken. Booth's fingers tightened around hers.
"He said you'll be okay." He nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the words died on his lips as he door breezed open and Dr Hamilton, a lot less alert after so many hours of work, stepped in, removing a pen from his pocket and detaching the board from the bottom of her bed.
"Temperance!" He said, smiling. "How are you feeling?" Brennan tried to smile again – the expression resembled a wince. "I can imagine… that bad, huh? Well, the good news is there's no lasting damage done to your internal organs after the bullet hit. There was a lot of bleeding, but, once we got you into theatre it was quickly rectified." Brennan shifted, her breathing hitched a little.
"There's something else…" she said, gauging the doctor's cagey expression and the darkened despair in his eyes. "The good news… what's…" Brennan swallowed. "What else, Dr?" Booth stiffened, swinging his gaze between the two, his spine stiff.
"Dr Brennan…" Hamilton began, dropping his gaze to the floor. After a brief mental preparation, he sighed. "I am legally bound to tell you this, although I personally would rather you didn't know. When you were in surgery, we found that, while the bullets were removed without incident from your arm, thigh and shoulder, your abdomen revealed that…" his breath shuddered, "you were approximately seven weeks pregnant and… I'm sorry…" he lifted his shoulders in his best 'aw shucks' shrug, and tried to smile. He failed.
Brennan didn't speak, but in that instant, her eyes looked dead. "And what…?"
"Bones… don't…" Booth said, his stomach knotted.
When the doctor left them alone, Brennan didn't say anything. She retreated into herself, staring fixedly at the door. Booth stood, pushing his chair away and willing his heart to calm. It didn't matter. How could it matter? Neither of them had planned on children and neither of them had known of her pregnancy so…
Pregnancy… Brennan had been pregnant. Neither of them had known. Neither of them had predicted…
Turning to the window, he pressed his face against the glass, watching the darkened night as it passed by.
Autumn, he thought, a month that prepares for… death.
Without warning, his shoulders convulsed and he sobbed.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Okay folks, I am really sorry. It's late and I haven't proof read this at all, so apologies for any stupid mistakes. I also apologise for the sad subject matter. Don't hate me – I wanted to see if I had the ability to write angst well. Let me know.
