Title: Not very partner-like
Summary: You just chuckle, trace your thumb over her hip, and press a kiss into her stomach.
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Characters: Booth and Brennan
Spoilers: None

Author's Note: This wouldn't go away, so I wrote it. I'm kind of surprised, too. I thought my muse was only active when I was supposed to be studying. And I know absolutely nothing about abdominal stab wounds, so I made up everything I said she can or can't do. Call it poetic license. Also, I'm quite aware of the spelling mistakes I made in Brennan's dialogue.

And, as usual, a big thanks to my beta, SapphireDesire. She's awesome. Especially since I don't proofread my stories before sending them to her (in my defense, I'm generally super anal about spelling and grammar, so at least she doesn't have to worry too much about those!).



You can't sleep. Instead you lay on your back, listening to her rhythmic breathing coming from the other bed, and thinking about how you never can seem to get it right.

She'd gotten hurt. Again. That's why you're sharing a room this time.

The doctor had said that she wasn't allowed to sit herself up tomorrow morning, and that for the next few days it would be extremely difficult for her to do so on her own anyway. So you'd gotten a room with two beds that night, so that when she wanted to sit up you could help her. Or at least, that was the "official" reason. Mostly you just wanted to reassure yourself that she was alright.

She had immediately protested, refusing your help. It was only when you reminded her, rather forcefully, that first, she needed to sleep lying down that night and second, if she sat up on her own the next morning she risked tearing her stitches out, that she gave in. And, you had added, if she tore her stitches she'd be forced to take at least one day off and forced to stay in bed lest she tear them again. That last part had immediately registered, and she made no more mention of how unnecessary she felt the doctor's instructions were.

But now she's sleeping. And you're feeling guilty. You should have made her wait in the car. The one time she actually did what you said and didn't follow you into the building, she still got hurt. She kept assuring you that it wasn't your fault, that there was nothing you could have done, but it didn't help. Of course it was your fault, you stupid bastard! She was following your goddamn orders! The one time she decides your decision is worth shit, the stupid perp decides he's going to run. And, just your luck, he was pulling a knife out when he collided with her.

The fact that he was pulling it out, not stabbing, when they collided was his saving grace. That and the fact that she wasn't seriously injured. It was, for all intents and purposes, a "superficial" stab wound. As if stab wounds are ever superficial. A six-inch, diagonal slice on the left side of her abdomen from the 8th rib to just inside of her hip. It was deep enough to require stitches, but not deep enough to damage anything beyond the layer of muscle, with the exception of a couple of nicks on her ribs.

The perp felt so bad he started crying, not even bothering to fight as you roughly cuffed him and shoved him aside to evaluate the damage he had done. You called for backup and told them to "Hurry the fuck up!" so you could get her to the hospital. She wasn't in danger of bleeding out, but any time she's bleeding you go into panic mode. A knife wound is serious business and the sooner you got her checked out, the better, especially since you couldn't tell how deep it was at the time.

The fall had knocked the wind out of her, so she didn't fight when you pulled up her shirt to staunch the bleeding. Once she had recovered herself, she continued to let you touch her, checking for any other injuries with the hand that wasn't applying pressure. "How bad?" was her only question. You responded honestly, told her that you didn't know, but that even though she would need stitches it didn't seem to be too bad. You also told her that it wasn't bleeding as though it was especially deep, and the fact that she was talking to you and not deathly pale were both good signs.

Fuck it, you decide, getting up and crossing the room to her bed. You look at her sleeping form for a few moments before pulling back the covers and pushing her shirt up so it bunches underneath her breasts, exposing the white bandage. Sitting down and sighing, you lightly trace the skin around her bandage, wishing she hadn't gotten hurt again.

"S'not very partner-like," she mumbles sleepily.

"No," you agree. When she makes no move to stop your tracing, though, you tell her, "Go back to sleep, Bones."

"Mmm. Only 'f'you do," comes her barely intelligible reply. She still hasn't opened her eyes or made a move to stop your hand.

"Can't."

"'Course you can," she slurs. "Mmtired, Booth. 'Sst lie down soicn g'back t'sleep."

Just lie down? Not "Go back to your own bed and leave me the hell alone"? Rather than dwell, you take her up on the offer you think she's making. Leaving your hand on her hip, you lie down next to her and rest your head on her stomach.

She brings one hand to rest against your back, and the other to tangle in your hair. "Mmm," she hums, on her way back to sleep.

"You going to be cold, Bones?"

"Unh-unh. 'F'I do, I'll make y'move."

"And you're not going to kick my ass, either?" you're in slight shock that she's letting you do this.

"Might 'f'you don't shut up. 'Sides, you started it," with that, she shifts slightly and sleepily pokes you in the back.

Her feistiness, even when she's half awake and doped up on pain meds, assures you that, like always, things will go back to the way they were before she was stabbed. But this time, they'll be so much better. So you just chuckle, trace your thumb over her hip, and press a kiss into her stomach.