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Nov. 1st, 2008 08:47 pmBrennan had woken up alone in Hannah’s dorm room. Alone, but far from abandoned. Three bottles had been left out on the nightstand. Water, apple juice, and aspirin, all of which Brennan was grateful for. She could tell that she was dehydrated, her blood sugar had bottomed out hours ago, and her head was pounding.
There was also a note from Hannah—she and Hillary had gone on to their classes so that Brennan could sleep undisturbed, and Hannah would be in touch with her later.
Brennan was glad not to have to face Hannah for a while. She was, frankly, ashamed to. She had not meant for Hannah to have to assume the role of caretaker and comforter. Not at a time like this. That was supposed to have been Brennan’s job. It would seem that Brennan had underestimated the strength of her reaction to Booth’s death, and the lack of control she would have over it.
She had scribbled a note to Hannah on the other side of the paper, gathered her bag and the plastic bag containing her shirt and let herself out of the dorm room. The building was largely silent—the majority of the residents out at classes and activities. Brennan passed by a door to a trash shoot, and stopped long enough to shove her shirt inside before letting herself out of the dorm.
She checked her phone while she walked to her car. The number of missed calls was prodigious, as was the number of new voicemail messages, but Brennan put the phone away without checking.
The drive back to her apartment building was short as drives in DC go. Brennan let herself into her apartment—and was immediately grabbed and pulled into a tight hug.
“Honey, are you all right? I saw the news. And your friend, Angela, she called.” Max Keened sounded like he’d been up, pacing, all night. Judging by the circles under his eyes and his outfit (the same one he’d been wearing yesterday, Brennan notes) that was exactly what he had been doing.
She had forgotten about Max, she realized guiltily. Having her father as a permanent (and non-incarcerated) fixture in her life was still a very new development for Brennan. So new that he was still living in her guest room until he found a place of his own.
“I’m sorry.” Brennan’s voice is muffled by the flannel of her father’s shirt. “You worried. I should have called.”
That’s two people she’s caused to worry.
“Don’t apologize.” Her father’s arms tighten around her. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” One hand moves up to rest protectively on her head. “Honey, I’m so, so sorry about Booth. He was a good guy.” Max’s voice took on an awkward tone, typical when alpha-males verbally express strong emotions. “A really good guy. For a cop.”
Brennan doesn’t know why that strikes her as being so funny. There’s no rational reason for her to start laughing at a time like this. But she does, and she doesn’t seem to be able to stop. And she’s very glad that her dad is there to hold her up, because she’s not entirely sure that she could stand on her own at the moment.
As her father pats her shaking shoulders, Brennan is aware of growing pain in her throat and eyes, and that she’s having a hard time catching her breath. And the flannel under her cheek has become soaked through.
And she realizes that she’s not laughing at all.
There was also a note from Hannah—she and Hillary had gone on to their classes so that Brennan could sleep undisturbed, and Hannah would be in touch with her later.
Brennan was glad not to have to face Hannah for a while. She was, frankly, ashamed to. She had not meant for Hannah to have to assume the role of caretaker and comforter. Not at a time like this. That was supposed to have been Brennan’s job. It would seem that Brennan had underestimated the strength of her reaction to Booth’s death, and the lack of control she would have over it.
She had scribbled a note to Hannah on the other side of the paper, gathered her bag and the plastic bag containing her shirt and let herself out of the dorm room. The building was largely silent—the majority of the residents out at classes and activities. Brennan passed by a door to a trash shoot, and stopped long enough to shove her shirt inside before letting herself out of the dorm.
She checked her phone while she walked to her car. The number of missed calls was prodigious, as was the number of new voicemail messages, but Brennan put the phone away without checking.
The drive back to her apartment building was short as drives in DC go. Brennan let herself into her apartment—and was immediately grabbed and pulled into a tight hug.
“Honey, are you all right? I saw the news. And your friend, Angela, she called.” Max Keened sounded like he’d been up, pacing, all night. Judging by the circles under his eyes and his outfit (the same one he’d been wearing yesterday, Brennan notes) that was exactly what he had been doing.
She had forgotten about Max, she realized guiltily. Having her father as a permanent (and non-incarcerated) fixture in her life was still a very new development for Brennan. So new that he was still living in her guest room until he found a place of his own.
“I’m sorry.” Brennan’s voice is muffled by the flannel of her father’s shirt. “You worried. I should have called.”
That’s two people she’s caused to worry.
“Don’t apologize.” Her father’s arms tighten around her. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” One hand moves up to rest protectively on her head. “Honey, I’m so, so sorry about Booth. He was a good guy.” Max’s voice took on an awkward tone, typical when alpha-males verbally express strong emotions. “A really good guy. For a cop.”
Brennan doesn’t know why that strikes her as being so funny. There’s no rational reason for her to start laughing at a time like this. But she does, and she doesn’t seem to be able to stop. And she’s very glad that her dad is there to hold her up, because she’s not entirely sure that she could stand on her own at the moment.
As her father pats her shaking shoulders, Brennan is aware of growing pain in her throat and eyes, and that she’s having a hard time catching her breath. And the flannel under her cheek has become soaked through.
And she realizes that she’s not laughing at all.
