Note: On Thursday, I thought "It's a long weekend, maybe I'll get two chapters done." That didn't come close to happening.

A follow-up to "A Second Too Late".

What if: Brennan had faked her death?

AU? Yes

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He couldn't sit still.

He paced the dreary waiting room – 12 steps, turn, 12 steps, turn – in a futile quest to feel like he was doing something. Angela was stretched across three plastic chairs, her head in Hodgins's lap, pretending to doze. Cam was sitting up, her head back and leaning against the wall behind her. Sweets leaned forward, his forearms on his legs, still looking shell-shocked. Max, who had arrived and, after charming the triage nurse, promptly gone to the cafeteria to pick up coffee for everyone, was the only one who seemed to feel as tense, as anxious to be anywhere else, as he was.

He couldn't leave, so he was pacing.

As he had been for the past … he found the clock on the wall, did the math … six hours.

"Shouldn't she be out of surgery by now?"

His voice cracked, rusty from disuse, and Cam lifted her head, stared at the same clock he'd just consulted. She met his eyes, and he saw her square her shoulders. "It depends on what they found, Seeley."

"In your medical opinion, Camille", he rephrased, "Wouldn't we have heard by now if she was out of surgery?"

"I would have thought so, yes", she answered. "But ..."

The door to the room opened, and a tired-looking woman in scrubs consulted the chart in her hand. "Max Keenan?"

They turned en masse to look at her. "Coffee!", Sweets exclaimed.

Hodgins shot him a glare. "He's gone to get coffee", he explained. "But we're all here for Temperance Brennan as well."

The woman nodded at the triage nurse. "When Mr. Keenan returns, can you have Joanne page Dr. Schmidt? Thank you."

Booth took two steps and wrapped his hand around her wrist. "Is she OK? When can we see her?"

The doctor's face was sympathetic as she pried his hand from her wrist. "Just tell Mr. Keenan to page me."

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Were those birds deliberately trying to piss him off?

Booth cracked open his eyes, only to shut them immediately. The blinding light through the crack in the blinds made his head throb even more. He pushed himself into a seated position, trying not to vomit.

There was a soft knock at the door, and he growled, "What?"

Cam walked in and handed him a glass of water, shook two painkillers into his hand. "Here."

He stared at her, feeling dread pool in his gut. "Why are you here?"

She sat down beside him on the bed and placed her hand over his. "I drove you home from the hospital, and when you decided to crawl into the bottle of scotch I didn't think it was safe to leave you alone."

At her words, it all came crashing back – Max, sagging into a chair, Angela sobbing, Sweets muttering "no"; the nurse, saying "Sorry sir, family only", as she led Max deeper into the hospital to see Bones; Cam, confiscating his weapon and manhandling him into the car.

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The second time she woke, she heard low voices, not far away.

"Booth?", she whispered, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Booth?"

Her father walked back into the room, a huge smile on his face. "Honey! I'm so glad you're all right."

Brennan peered around him, expecting – needing – to see Booth. "Where's Booth? Is he OK?"

Max sat down, patted her hand. "He's fine. You're the one we've been worried about."

She tried to sit up, only to slump back down when her muscles didn't want to work the way they should. As she steeled herself for a second attempt, she asked, "Why isn't Booth here?"

"I'm sure he's on his way", Max answered, pressing the button that released the pain medication. "Now rest, Tempe. You won't get better if you over-do it."

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He didn't go to work. He couldn't face the hushed silences, the stilted sympathy, so he called in sick.

It wasn't a lie – he'd never felt worse in his life.

Why had they wasted so much time?

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She woke again.

Max was slumped over in a chair, and Booth was still not there.

She pressed the call button. When the nurse came in, she said, "I need to talk to the Assistant Director of the FBI."

The nurse popped a thermometer in her ear, replying, "Mmm hmm."

Brennan pulled her head away and turned her head to meet the nurse's eye. "You can tell the Assistant Director of the FBI that if he's not in my room in one hour, I will have my agent release a statement to the press."

The nurse turned and bustled out of the room, her rubber-soled shoe squeaking on the vinyl floor.

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Booth's cell phone rang.

Again.

He'd called in sick, there was no reason for his boss to be trying to reach him over and over again. He turned up the volume on the TV, pretending he cared about the rerun of the most boring golf game ever played.

When there was a knock at the door, he wished he had his weapon back. At the second knock, he threw the remote down and stomped to the door, slammed it open.

"What?"

His boss stood there, with his boss standing silently behind him.

"Agent Booth? You need to come with us."

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If I'd started this on Thursday – or Friday – you'd be getting part three by now.