The EMTs and the D.C. cops came almost instantly, the EMTs loading her up and out as quick as any I'd seen before. I somehow managed to recall her blood type and some other information. After ordering the cops to hold the scene until I could get someone out here, I followed them down, at which point I got the shock of my life.
"Agent Booth-- you're her health care proxy. Will you ride with us, or meet us there?" What? Not Russ? Not Angela?
"I'll meet you there, I need to radio in."
I ran to the truck to get in, intending to ambulance surf all the way. I'd probably hit something if I tried to go on my own.
"22705."
"Dispatch."
"Tell Ronnie to send a team to Dr. Brennan's apartment with a bag and Evidence. Suspect is eliminated, Dr. Brennan is wounded. D.C.P.D. holding scene."
"Destination?"
"Georgetown Medical."
"Over."
That was the easy part. Now came the hard part. I picked up the phone, and dialed.
"Angela."
"What?"
"The dealer from yesterday... he was already there. She's going to Georgetown right now."
She hung up on me without any response.
- - -
When Angela arrived, Jack in tow, their faces unreadable, it had been only ten minutes since they'd taken her to surgery. Angela pulled up short when she saw me-- my hands and clothes were covered in blood from trying to keep the wound closed-- then resumed heading toward me.
"How?" Was the only word she bit out at me.
"I got a call right after you left that he'd been spotted in her area-- I left right away, but by the time I got there, it was already over. She'd killed him, and he'd ... wounded her."
"Where is she now?"
"Surgery."
Her eyes narrowed, Jack's face impassive. "You can leave now. We'll wait."
"Angela ... I can't."
"You won't, you mean!" She was shouting. "You lost any right to her yesterday! Now get out of here!"
"No... Angela, I can't... she made me her health care proxy. I have to wait, at least until Russ and Max get here, they'll want two family members before they... and... I can't reach either of them, I tried. I have to stay."
She slapped me then, hard. "That's her blood on your hands, and I hope it never, ever washes off. This is your fault. She'd be safe if you'd just kept your mouth shut."
I didn't argue with her. I just met her eyes and responded. "I know."
- - -
At some point, one of the nurses came over. "Sir?"
I looked up—I'd been counting floor tiles.
"She'll be out of surgery soon, but you've got to wash your hands before they let you in to see her. There's a washroom two doors down. The doctors will come out when they've sent her up to recovery."
I nodded and went down the hall, half in a daze as I watched the now brown and maroon blood swirl, sickly pink with soap, down the drain. I'd had my friends' blood on my hands before, when they'd been shot, or otherwise wounded, and I'd had the blood of enemies on my hands too, sometimes so much that I'd wake up from dreams of drowning in it, but until now, I'd escaped something like this. I'd never had the blood of a partner? A best friend? A what? A loved one? To wash off- especially when it was my fault.
Would this be different if I had at some of the many, many, chances I'd had to do so, actually told her how I felt—if I'd gotten rid of the stupid line I'd drawn and that I pretty much ignored a hundred times a day anyway? Professional partners do not use their keys to their partners' apartments to stock their fridges when they're coming back for a book tour—or to sneak in to their apartments after they've both been shot at and escaped, just to check to make sure she's sleeping, and breathing. They don't lie about their insatiable need to touch their partner all the time, calling it a 'guy hug' when really, you just can't breathe deeply unless you can feel her heart beat and her chest rise against yours, while you inhale the smell of her, like lemons and honey and spice. Partners don't stare at each other when the other one's engrossed in their work, memorizing the curves of their body. If I'd told her, what would be different?
If she said she didn't feel the same way? Well, I never could figure out what I'd do if she said that. Transfer? Let go of the steering wheel into oncoming traffic? Pretend like nothing had happened, apologize, and go back to the way things were unless she wouldn't let it? If she did? Maybe I wouldn't have been so damned frustrated, would have been more patient, and kept my mouth shut—or been living with her, or had a right to be in her apartment for other than work things, and would have been there when he arrived?
I don't know. All I know is that this? This was avoidable, and even though the physical evidence of my failure was gone, Angela was right when she said the real stain wouldn't wash off.
- - -
"Ange, baby, don't you think you're being too hard on him?"
She looked at me, shocked, as I watched him walk toward the washroom.
"How can you say that? It's his fault!"
"Is it, really? Because they've been shot at lots of times before when they've been working cases, and they've had people go after them separately, too. How do you know this wouldn't have happened if they hadn't had that fight?"
"She wouldn't have been alone."
"You know that's not necessarily true." She shook her head, looking down at the floor instead of me. "Angie, they're adults, with separate lives, and no matter what happened yesterday, they're not together 24-7. There's just no way to know that this wouldn't have happened anyway."
In a small voice, she said, "If they were together, it might not have happened."
"Ange." She finally turned and looked at me. "We're together, but don't you do things separately from me?"
She nodded, eyes full of tears. "Then even if they were together it still could have happened. And you and I have fights all the time—you stayed at Dr. B's place last month, remember?"
She clenched her jaw, and then nodded again. "That doesn't change what happened yesterday, though."
I sighed. "No, it doesn't. But look at him, Ange. It's not like he doesn't know what he did. He's going to do what he can to fix it, and we all know Booth's a very capable guy."
"Can you forgive him, though?"
"I already have." She jerked, her eyes widening in shock. "Watch him when he comes back in the room, Angela. He's not just guilty—he's heartbroken. My staying angry at him serves no purpose. And we all say horrible things to each other every once in a while—I'm not going to hold him to some impossible standard. He's just a man, Ange, not some superhero."
She leant into my shoulder then, sighing, so I shifted and put my arm around her. Poor Angela. Poor Dr. B. Poor all of us.
- - -
I'd just re-entered the waiting room when the surgeon appeared. "Agent Booth," he began.
"How is she?"
"She's stable. She's in recovery, you can head up in a moment. We removed the bullet—but it fractured her scapula and we've had to put in a small plate. It should heal well, it was fairly uncomplicated. She lost a fair amount of blood, as you know, and it will be a few days before we're willing to discharge her, but there seem to be no other complications at this time. I'll send a nurse down to bring you upstairs?"
"Please. There are, uh, some other folks here who would like to see her too…"
The doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, not until she's in her own room. The recovery area is only semi-private, we just can't have too many people up there. She'll be out of recovery in an hour or two."
"Thank you." He nodded and walked off, so I turned to Hodgins and Angela, who'd been sitting, listening.
"I'll … uh … come down as soon as they take her up to get you. I still haven't heard back from Max or Russ, I'll try them again so I can …"
Jack shook his head. "No, I mean, they should come, but that doesn't mean you should leave."
What? Angela made clear I wasn't welcome as soon as she was out of the woods, and no surprise.
I just stood there, dumbstruck, when Jack moved his arm from around Angela's shoulder, and stood up to grasp me by the arm, and look me in the eye.
"It could have happened any time, not just because of what happened yesterday." Oh, God. I break her heart and everyone else's and she gets shot and he's forgiving me? I just can't have this conversation right now.
"Thanks, Jack." Not, I believe you, or you're right, because I don't think you are, but at least I can thank him for being so blind to what a bastard I am that he's willing to be nice to me. But further words were beyond me, and I had to get upstairs, the nurse had just come in.
"I'll … be back later." He nodded, squeezed my arm again, and let go. I had to get upstairs, had to see her, had to know.
- - -
"He didn't believe you." Ange's voice was cracked and low, more tears pooling in her eyes as we watched him leave the room, moving like an old man when he didn't think he was being watched.
"I know. I'll just have to keep saying it until he believes it."
- - -