Author's Note: Sorry that it has taken so long to continue but I was having some trouble with writing this story. I had several narrative paths to choose from as far as how far to take the B/B dynamic. Once I made that decision, I then had to try to get the writing to come out the way I wanted it to. It's an ongoing process, but I think I at least have the basic outline down now, so I hope it won't be as long until the next chapter. I know it's a little shorter than usual, but I thought that was better than waiting a week or so longer. Thanks to all of you who are still with me. I'd appreciate your reviews, as always, assuming you haven't given up on me.
Brennan lay in the bunk, staring into the darkness. It was comfortable enough, but she couldn't sleep. She needed to figure out a way to get Booth to open up and talk about his nightmare. In doing her research about PTSD, she had read about how therapists worked in such cases, but she didn't know if she could emulate them. It was like reading another language where colloquial expressions were being used: you knew what the individual words meant, but the context did not make sense because you didn't know what the colloquial expressions meant. She hated being unable to do something to help Booth. He was her partner and her friend, and she cared about him.
Strange as it seemed, despite their obvious differences, she and Booth were a lot alike. They had both experienced great emotional trauma and loss at an early age—herself at 15 and Booth in combat when he was just a few years older. They were both extremely good at hiding that inner, sensitive core of themselves, but she had to admit that Booth was much better at it than she was. She might not know much about psychology, but given Booth's personality she knew it would be difficult to get him to cooperate. It had taken the threat of losing his job to get him to work with Wyatt. Booth was the typical alpha male—seemingly raised from childhood to always take charge and be in control, never admitting the need for help for fear of it being taken as a sign of inner weakness.
Booth had barely been able to admit to her that he suffered from nightmares, and even then had only done so as a last resort to convince her to sleep behind a locked door. She had to think of a way to convince him to talk to her. She sighed in frustration. Or maybe she should simply try to convince him to go back to DC and talk to Wyatt. That way, he would be assured of getting the right kind of help. But that made her feel so useless—she wanted to be able to do something, not just sit by and be supportive. That was doubtless how the friends and family of all PTSD victims felt. Maybe she should just put the problem into abeyance until morning. She hadn't slept much last night, and between the worry about Booth and the long drive, she felt exhausted. Rationally speaking, she should be able to think of a better plan tomorrow after getting some much-needed rest. After a while, her eyes finally began to feel heavy and she felt herself beginning to fall asleep.
Brennan had just dozed off when a noise made her sit bolt upright in bed. I had sounded like Booth's voice. Calling her. Suddenly it came again: "BONES!" It sounded like he was in agony. Jumbled thoughts of Booth somehow falling and breaking something went through her head. She got out of bed quickly and went to the door, listening. She had promised Booth not to come out, but what if he had fallen and was lying injured on the floor. She heard Booth moan, and that made her decision for her. She turned the lock and opened the door as quietly as she could, peering into the darkened room before her, trying to see where Booth was. It wouldn't do to fall over him and possibly cause further injury . . .
Booth was running. His legs ached and his lungs felt like they were bursting, but he had to keep going. He had to get there in time. He had to--or Bones would die and it would be his fault. After what seemed like miles, he finally got to the right spot and started digging frantically with his hands. She had to be there. He had seen the puff of dust rising from this spot. His desperation increased as he moved in ever-increasing circles around the spot, but found nothing. Still he kept digging, going deeper, fruitlessly searching for some sign of her. He dug until his lungs were choked with dust. He dug until his fingers bled, but she wasn't there. The tears ran down his face and left tracks in the dust. He couldn't find her. She wasn't here. God, he couldn't bear to live if he didn't find her because her death would be his fault. He had sworn that he would always protect her, and he had failed. He couldn't bear it. He dropped his face into his hands and wept. It was over. She had trusted him, and he had failed her.
"OH GOD! NO! BONES!"
"BONES!" he cried again, his voice hoarse and broken.
