People! Do you know how many reviews that last chapter had? A lot! Look what you did - now, obviously, I'm terrified I'm going to fuck up the rest of this story! So what I need is for all of you to turn around and not look at me for the next three chapters, mmmmkay? That would be great, thanks.
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His world shrunk to the confines of a room 305 square feet in size.
Outside that space, Booth knew that life moved on. Inside, he ruthlessly divided everything that tried to lay claim to his attention into two categories.
Now was Brennan, lying broken and fragile and unmoving. Now was what he could do for her, what he could ensure others did for her. Now was what directly affected her care. Now was worry and fear lodged deep in his bones and now was the hard grit of determination and perseverance and above all, now was faith. He believed. No matter how many days turned to night or how many nights ended in yet another morning, how many sad faces turned his way or how many not-so-subtle suggestions were made . . . he believed. He believed. That was now.
After was everything else. Everything else could be dealt with after.
He learned the rhythms of life in a hospital. Without looking at his watch he knew when a nurse would appear at Brennan's side. He knew when shifts changed, when personnel changed, which staff were careful and sensitive in their care of her and who was less so and he made sure those in the latter group weren't allowed near her again.
He slept in blocks of two or three hours, his rest interrupted by the normal routine of work that never ended. No matter how quiet or how careful they all tried to be, he was awake and alert the instant anyone appeared, regardless of the hour.
He questioned everything, insisting on explanations for every test and blood draw and he kept asking until he understood the answers. He was annoying and intrusive and relentless and within just a few days, half of the staff hated him and the rest were falling in love with him. Dog-eared copies of Brennan's books circulated behind the nurses' station and when they realized "the real Andy" was among them, his all-consuming devotion to Brennan reached legendary status.
Food appeared before he knew he was hungry, warm plates and casseroles and bowls of soup brought to him with laughing excuses about too many leftovers and kids who wouldn't eat what was good for them and husbands with allergies. When special occasions were celebrated - and there was always a baby shower or birthday or retirement to be acknowledged - there was always something put aside for him.
His unwavering belief in Brennan's ultimate recovery became their own goal.
He was as constant and unchanging as the woman he watched over.
For everyone else, life returned to a variation of normal. Russ went home during the week and came back every weekend. Max came and went regularly, acknowledging without comment Booth's precedence in taking control of Brennan's care. Except for Angela, who had to be forced to leave each night, everyone visited regularly, clucked sympathetically, and then left.
Absolutely sure she would wake and determined to be beside her when she did, Booth stayed . . . and waited.
Occasionally life outside her room intruded, forced on him by friends and people who loved him, people who weren't afraid - much - of his bark and growl.
When Sweets showed up alone at the end of the first week, a thin folder in one hand, Booth was instantly suspicious. The psychologist's immediate inquiries as to Brennan's health and condition didn't soften the hard brown eyes that focused on him.
"What do you want, Sweets?"
The hesitation was brief but noticeable. "There's . . . something we need to discuss."
Booth turned his back immediately. "Go away. I don't need you shrinking me." He needlessly straightened the corner of one of the bed's waffle-weave blankets.
Sweets silently disagreed with that statement but made sure the thought wasn't reflected in his expression when Booth turned around. "That's not why I'm here." He held out the manilla folder. "I need your signature."
Booth stared at the file as if it were a snake about to strike. "On what?"
With a lift of his chin, Sweets metaphorically girded his loins and pushed on. "You're on an indefinite leave of absence. I took the liberty of presenting a psychological profile to Assistant Director Hacker qualifying your mental distress based on your relationship with Dr. Brennan. Because of her present condition . . ." He sighed and shrugged and waved a hand over his words. "I said a lot of shrinky stuff, the report was 11 pages long and he only read the first three paragraphs. But the result is," he lifted the file higher, "you're approved for a leave of absence and right now, it's covered by the sick leave you've accrued. And by the way," he added with a frown, "how did you manage to save that many hours? Do you know you have, like, six months of -"
"Gimme that." Booth jerked the file out of Sweets' hand. "And stay out of my personnel file." For the next few minutes, he carefully read over the forms. When he was done, he froze the other man in place with a glare. "I didn't ask you to do this."
Sweets refused to look away. "No, you didn't."
The staring contest lasted only a few seconds before Booth nodded. "Thank you," he acknowledged quietly. Pulling a pen from a Sudoku book, he scrawled his signature at the spots marked by bright green flags and handed the file back.
"You know," Sweets being Sweets couldn't stop there. "If you do want to talk we can always -"
"Make sure I get a copy of that." With a rough grip on the other man's shoulders, Booth spun him around and pushed him roughly toward the door. "Bye."
"I'm available whenever -"
"Yea, I'll call you."
"I think it's important that you -"
"I'll get right on it. See ya."
Sweets backed up one step just as the door closed in his face. "Booth? Agent Booth?"
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Cards and letters came in, a few at a time and then by the dozens and hundreds as word of the accident became widespread and reached Brennan's fans. Flowers were distributed throughout the hospital, balloons and stuffed animals were sent to the children's ward - except for one animatronic skeleton which danced and sang Dem Bones when a button under the foot was pressed. Angela insisted it would make Brennan laugh and so it stayed on the table beside her bed . . . waiting.
Angela handled the mail that came in. She carefully cataloged and dated every piece and then filled box after box after box, all stacked neatly in Brennan's office . . . waiting.
One afternoon, she hesitated in the doorway of the hospital room, that day's mail in a bag hanging from her wrist. She looked at Booth uncertainly. "I . . . I need to say something."
His shoulders dropped with disappointment. "You, too, Angela?" he asked sadly. It had been ten days and the chorus of well-meaning advice was beginning to get louder.
"No," she shook her head. "No, it's not about Brennan. I'm on your side, Booth," she insisted, "you know that. However long it takes." She bit her lip nervously. "It's just . . ."
"What?" He crossed his arms and stared at her.
"Well, it's the first of the month," she said. "I mean," she stammered uncomfortably, "it's a new month."
"I know what day it is," he retorted, his suspicion still obvious. "What do you want, Angela?"
She loosed a heavy sigh, then laid the bag of mail gently on the bed near Brennan's feet. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm not trying to get in your business, I promise," she told him, her hands thrown up palms out. "I'm not, but . . ." She paused briefly then finished in a rush of words. "Don't you have bills to pay?"
"What?" he asked again. His face registered confusion.
"Brennan has an accountant to handle the big stuff," Angela hurried to explain, "and I know she has a lot of things set up so they get paid automatically but I've been checking her mail anyway so if something does slip by I'll catch it . . ." Booth was staring at her as if she were speaking a language other than English. "It's not that you couldn't be that organized, too," she added quickly, "and maybe you are but if you aren't . . ." She shrugged. "I just thought you might be more, you know, old school about paying your bills and if you are, not that you couldn't be more organized than that, but if you are . . . well," she said again, "it's a new month."
Awkward now, and unsure of his reaction, she didn't give him a chance to respond. "It's just . . . I don't even know if you're thinking about it or if you have thought about it or . . . well, you're here with Brennan and . . . and you're here all the time, so . . . " She plucked at the fabric of the blanket next to the bag and avoided his gaze. "I just . . . I want to make sure you don't get evicted or anything because . . . you know, because you're here and . . . and you're not even thinking about . . . about your apartment . . . or anything . . ."
What she didn't say . . . what she didn't have to say . . . was that if Hannah were still in his apartment, she wouldn't have had to say anything at all.
Looking away from Angela, Booth's eyes fell on the black duffel bag and for a few seconds, the memory of Cam's cool recitation of Hannah's reaction to watching him with Brennan ran through his mind. He shook it off immediately and pushed the thought away. That was for after. He'd deal with that after Brennan woke up.
All too conscious of his silence, Angela babbled on. "I thought about, you know, just hacking into your account," she admitted, "and doing whatever I needed to do but I thought maybe I should ask first." She chanced a guarded look at him from beneath her lashes. "If you wanted to, you could make a list for me . . . anything I could take care of for you . . . I'd be happy to . . . If, you know, you wanted me to . . ."
He was touched beyond measure by her generosity and open heart. "Angela -"
"I need to do something, Booth!" The confession was pulled out of her and far from avoiding his eyes, she now looked at him with tears in her own. "I need to do something useful!" She waved a dismissive hand at the bag of mail. "That's just filing - I need to help!" She swiped in frustration at a tear that escaped. "You're taking care of Brennan and Jack is taking care of me . . . I feel like I'm surrounded by bubble wrap!" she exclaimed. "I need to help! She's my friend, too!" She looked at Booth as if she dared him to argue with her. "I love her as much as you do and if I . . . if I can't help her, I can help you! Please . . . let me help."
Booth pulled her into a hug. "Thank you for not hacking into my bank account," he whispered, laughing, into her hair while he patted her back in comfort.
She snorted once, weakly, before she laid her cheek against his chest and sobbed. "I feel so . . . overwhelmed!" she cried. "I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is check to see if you called in the middle of the night - and I don't know whether to be happy or relieved that you didn't." Her tears moistened his t-shirt. "I'm so afraid for her . . . all the time . . . and then I come here." She pulled back and looked at him. "And you're so strong and you're so sure and you just know . . . you just know," she repeated. "You just believe. And I feel better, because of you. I believe, because you do." She threw herself back into his arms. "I love you, Booth." She cupped his face in hers as she nodded repeatedly. "I do. As much as I love her."
"I love you, too, Ange." He blinked back his own tears and squeezed her again hard against his chest. "Keep believing, okay? She's going to be fine, I promise."
When she was composed again, he released her and reached for the notebook he used to document Brennan's care. Within minutes, he filled a blank page with his messy scrawl, ripped it free and handed it to her. "Buy yourself something pretty," he joked, as he added his bank card and a credit card.
"You better believe it, mister," she answered immediately, her mood brighter even if her face was still tear-stained.
After a moment's consideration, Booth removed a key from his fob and passed it to her as well. "The checkbook is in the kitchen, in the drawer beneath the microwave," he told her. "If you could make sure the fridge is empty, too, I'd appreciate it."
"Of course," she nodded. "Booth, I'm sorry about -"
He cut her off with a shake of his head. "The only thing that matters right now is Bones," he said. He gripped Brennan's fingers in his and stared down at her. "She's all that matters," he repeated.
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The days faded one into the next, and then the next.
He waited . . . and never wavered.
On the 23rd day, he sat by her bedside as was his habit, her hand held carefully in his as he read the newspaper out loud. He turned the page and had just begun an article about the NHL All-Star game due to be played in a few weeks when her fingers flexed against the palm of his hand.
He squeezed back gently, accustomed after all this time to those small spontaneous spasms of movement, and kept reading. His voice came to an abrupt halt when her fingers applied a faint but noticeable answering pressure.
Heart pounding, he swiveled around to stare at her.
Her fingers brushed against his a third time.
Her lashes fluttered . . . parted briefly . . . closed.
He held his breath, afraid to speak.
A tiny sliver of blue appeared and disappeared . . . once . . . twice . . .
His breath came in quick short pants.
His mouth went dry.
He squeezed her fingers.
Her eyes opened again . . . her head turned by a fraction of an inch toward him.
She looked at him.
The skin on her lips clung together until the tip of her tongue appeared and parted them.
One puff of air.
One breath.
Silent, but he heard it as clearly as if the word rang down from the mountain top.
"Booth."
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Thanks for reading!
