Part Two

"How are you holding up, Sweetie?"

Brennan looked around Booth's dining room and sighed. "I'm fine," she replied, an automatic response.

"Good," Angela said, her voice slightly tinny over the cordless phone. "Now, really, how are you?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Really, Angela, I'm fine. I'm not the one who had brain surgery eighteen days ago." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

"Bren."

"Angela, I really don't want to talk about this right now." She was only half listening to her friend. One ear was honed in on the sounds coming from the bathroom where Booth was taking a shower.

"I'm worried about you, hon. You've hardly taken a moment for yourself since Booth's surgery."

"That's not true, Angela. I take plenty of moments for myself. Besides, Booth needs me." She looked at the vase on the table and noticed that the water was sloshing. It was then that she realized that her leg was bouncing, causing the table to shake. She quickly stopped, refusing to acknowledge the nervous tic for what it was . . . a nervous tic.

"How did his appointment go?"

Brennan paused for a second, momentarily disoriented by the quick subject change. "He's making incredible progress," she said, warming to the subject. "At this rate he should be back to 100% in just a few weeks."

"That's fantastic," Angela enthused. "So you'll be moving out?"

"Um, yeah, I guess." Brennan picked at the edge of a napkin. "We haven't really discussed it."

"Hmmm."

Brennan opened her mouth to ward off whatever Angela was about to say when a loud crash sounded from the bathroom. Brennan was on her feet in a second, the phone call forgotten. "Booth!"

She hit the bedroom and skidded to a stop at the bathroom door; grabbing the knob and whipping open the door without a second thought.

"Bones!" Booth was naked, save for a towel tied around his waist. "What the hell?"

Brennan's heart was hammering in her chest, a thousand scenarios running through her head, all of them ending with Booth lying on the floor, unconscious. "I heard a crash," she answered as soon as she was able to catch her breath. "I . . . I heard a crash."

Booth shook the can of shaving cream he held in his hand. "I knocked the shaving cream into the sink," he explained. "What did you think happened?"

"I don't know," she hedged. "It startled me, that's all." As the adrenalin left her system, she started to feel shaky and a little nauseated.

"You're pale," Booth remarked. He put the shaving cream down and turned her around, leading her toward the bed. "Sit down," he ordered. "Put your head between your knees and breathe."

"I know how to keep myself from passing out, Booth," she grumbled, feeling more than a little embarrassed. He was, after all, standing in front of her in nothing more than a towel.

"I know you do, but you're scaring me, so humor me, okay?"

She took in a few shaky breaths and concentrated on controlling her heartbeat. She felt the bed shift as he sat next to her, and then his hand was on her back, rubbing light circles. "I'm okay," she insisted. "Please, you can finish getting dressed. I'm fine."

"You're exhausted," he argued.

So many things were running through her mind. Angela was right, she had to admit. She'd not spared a thought for anyone but Booth ever since she'd first thought there was something wrong with him. Since then, her life had been a roller coaster of fears and insecurities. "I should go," she said.

"You don't have to leave," Booth said. "Just lie down for a little bit. I can close the bathroom door. You won't bother me."

"No," she argued, sitting up slowly, "I mean I should go home."

"Why?"

She turned to look at him and found that she couldn't read his expression, at all. "Booth, you heard the doctor today. You're going to be fine. You don't need me here hovering over you twenty-four hours a day."

His lip quirked at that, and he looked around the room before settling back on her. "Maybe I like you hovering over me twenty-four hours a day. Did that ever occur to you?"

Brennan snorted. "Right."

"Look," Booth said, placing his hand over hers. "It's late. Why don't you stay one more night, and we'll worry about this tomorrow. It's been a long day and you're tired."

She nodded. She was tired, and it had been a long day. "Okay," she agreed. "I can do that."

"I'm done in here," he continued. "Why don't you take a shower, relax, and put on something comfortable. I'll order a pizza. Okay?"

Everything he was suggesting sounded wonderful, and she wondered how they'd gone from her taking care of him to the exact opposite in mere seconds.

Booth had dressed while Brennan collected her toiletries and something to wear from her suitcase in the guest room. He made her promise to not lock the bathroom door. She rolled her eyes and promised. Honestly, how much trouble did he think she could get into in his bathroom?

She looked at herself in the mirror, still slightly foggy from Booth's shower, and really examined herself. She did look tired but no more so than she usually looked after a few days with a difficult case. She appreciated her friends, but sometimes they could overreact.

She turned on the faucet and undressed while the water warmed; testing it a couple of times before finding the right balance between comfortable and scalding. She stepped under the spray and let the water soak her hair, imagining that it was rinsing away all of her doubts and fears.

Rationally, she knew that was impossible, but she didn't care. In her mind's eye, all of her concerns were washing down the drain. She tried to turn off her mind and make all of her thoughts go away, too, just for little while, but she kept coming back to the terror she'd felt when Booth had dropped the shaving cream.

She laughed at her foolishness and wondered what he must think of her. Still, images of him, laying on the floor or, worse, twisted at odd angles in the tub, gnawed at the corners of her mind. Statistics on accidents in the home tumbled through her thoughts, playing on an endless loop. She shook them off and reached for her shampoo only to realize that she'd left it on the counter.

"Damn," she muttered, then looked around. Booth, of course, had shampoo, and she figured he wouldn't mind too much if she used just a little. She picked up the bottle and squeezed a dollop into her hand then started working it into her hair.

As she worked up a lather, the scent filled her senses; a scent that was undeniably Booth. Her breath caught in her chest and, suddenly, she started to cry.

She couldn't explain it. It was as if all the fear, confusion, and pain that she'd boxed up while he was in the hospital had finally broken free.

She cried for him. She cried for the look on his face, scared but so brave, before they sedated him. She cried for the black pit of fear that had rested in her belly during the surgery and then during those endless days before he woke up.

She cried for the thoughts she had refused to acknowledge like, "what if he doesn't make it?" and "what if I hadn't caught it when I did?" and "why didn't I catch this sooner?" She cried for how scared Parker had been and how relieved he'd been when she told him that his dad would be okay.

Most of all, she cried for how much she cared about him and how scared she was to leave. She didn't want to admit it to anyone, much less to herself, but she was terrified that something would happen to him, and she wouldn't be there to help him when it did.

She rinsed her hair and shut off the water, tears still falling as she grabbed a towel and tried to dry off. She was just starting to calm down when she heard a tap at the door.

"Bones? Are you okay?"

And the floodgates opened again.

Booth had ordered the pizza and was just settling back to watch a little television when he first heard it. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Bones was crying. Concerned, he got up and walked to his bedroom. The closer he got, the more he was certain. She wasn't crying; she was breaking down.

He hesitated at the door. It felt like he was intruding on something very private; something that Bones wouldn't want anyone to know about. But he was worried about her. She'd been by his side since before his surgery, and he knew that she wasn't quite right. He had thought that she was just tired, but now . . .

The crying seemed to quiet, and the water shut off, so he waited, wondering, still, if he should go back out to the living room and pretend he hadn't heard a thing. Then he thought back to what Sweets had told him earlier in the week.

"What you two have goes so much deeper than a partnership or a friendship. You have a connection. A deep connection."

Booth knew he couldn't ignore this, so he took a deep breath and tapped on the door, "Bones? Are you okay?"

At his words, she began crying again, in earnest. "Shit," he whispered, kicking himself for upsetting her further. "Bones, I need to know that you're okay."

He waited a minute, listening while she got herself under control. Finally, she said, "I'm fine."

He shook his head and then rested it on the door. "No, Bones. You're not fine. Obviously there's something wrong. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Then a sniffle. "I don't."

He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should let it go and accept her answer or if he should press her. He thought back to all that she had done for him and made up his mind.

"I'm coming in," he announced. He waited a beat to see if she was going to jump up and lock the door. There was some shuffling from inside the bathroom but the door remained unlocked. When he was certain he'd given her enough time to stop him if she wanted to, he opened the door.

His robe engulfed her and he almost cracked a smile at how small and fragile she looked, except he knew she'd kick his ass for even thinking the thought, much less giving it voice. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked pitiful. He knew that it had cost her something to let him see her like this.

She broke his heart.

Softly, he said, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Bones, I think you need to talk to someone. If not me, then what about Sweets?" At that her head shot up, and she glared at him, which he considered an improvement over the tears. "Okay, then it's me," he said and he leaned on the counter, looking down at her.

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of his robe and said, "I don't want to talk about it, at all, thank you."

"Then why did you let me in?" he asked. "You could have locked the door."

She sniffed and said, "You just would have kicked in the door, and that much physical exertion isn't advisable at this stage in your recovery."

"Oh, for the love . . ." he swiped a hand down his face and counted to ten. "Look, obviously something has upset you. What kind of friend would I be if I ignored that?"

She looked down at her lap and smoothed the robe over her knees. "I'm okay, Booth. Really. I am. I think I just needed to let it out, that's all."

"Let what out?" he asked, though he had an idea what she meant. He still wanted to hear her say it.

She refused to meet his eyes. "Are you going to let this drop? Because the pizza is going to get here soon, and I prefer my pizza hot, not cold."

"No," he said, probably a bit louder than he should have, though when her head snapped up in surprise, it was gratifying to know that he'd gotten her attention. "I'm not going to let it drop. Do you want to know why?" She just stared so he continued. "Because you wouldn't let it drop if the shoe was on the other foot, and you damn well know it."

Her face crumpled at that, and a fresh tear ran down her cheek. She swiped at it, angrily. "You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you."

"Good," he practically shouted.

"I'm scared," she said, coolly and calmly, her voice maddeningly steady though more tears flowed. "I'm terrified that something is going to happen to you, and I'm not going to be able to stop it. You work, every day, with people who wouldn't think twice about killing you in cold blood, and I understand that's what you do - it's who you are."

"Bones," he started, but she held up a hand, silencing him.

"And I know that's why you've drawn this line, this . . . boundary that we're not supposed to cross. But it's getting harder and harder for me to stay on my side of the line, Booth. Your surgery wasn't because of a bullet this time. This wasn't job related, and it still could have killed you. I could die tomorrow."

"Don't say that," he growled, but she continued on, undeterred.

"I could get hit by a bus, or fall down the stairs, and I never would have had the chance to tell you how much I care for you, because of that damn line we're not supposed to cross. You want to know why I ran in here earlier? I thought you'd slipped. I thought I was going to open this door and find you unconscious, or worse. And that scares the hell out of me, Booth. Because I don't want to care this much, but I can't stop."

It was never his intention to hurt her. And, yet, she was sitting on the edge of the tub, his bathrobe consuming her small frame, tears cascading down her cheeks. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, unsure of what to do next. His instincts screamed for him to reach out to her, but he was afraid that would only scare her away.

He didn't know how to fix this.