A/N: Just a head's up, this fic isn't ever going to get normal attention. I just add a chapter whenever the muse strikes, and that's only been about twice a year. Still, I hope you enjoy!

OOOOO~BOOTH~OOOOO

"It was such a weird dream." Booth's only thought escaped his lips as he tried to open his eyes. His entire body felt heavy, leaded somehow. His eyes refused to stay completely open as he heard someone say his name.

"Booth. Booth?" He felt the soft hand in his before he could get his neck to turn towards the sound. "You're awake." A woman's laughter hit his ears as she finally came into focus.

Bren.

Maybe she hadn't been a dream after all.

"So real." He murmured, trying to get her to understand, but she didn't listen. She just kept talking.

"Your operation was a success but you reacted poorly to the anesthesia."

Operation? He fought through the haze to recall. For his…brain, he finally remembered.

"You've been in a coma for four days."

A coma? Comas were bad, right? He thought so anyway.

"It took you so long to wake up." She choked.

Booth wanted to reply but he was too distracted by her apparent emotion for him. Her eyes were teary, her voice shook, and the look on her face made something within him clench tighter. He wanted to touch her cheek but instead he just tried to weakly squeeze her hand. He wasn't sure she noticed.

"It felt so real." He repeated again, unable to get past the thought.

"It wasn't real." She looked and sounded… guilty? If it wasn't real, then why was she sitting at his bedside holding his hand? Wasn't she his wife? Wasn't she the woman that he would do anything to protect? He looked at her in confusion.

"Who are you?" He asked.

OOOOO~BRENNAN~OOOOO

Brennan sat in her chair and watched Booth's chest moving up and down. She took her own deep, slow breath, trying to match his. She reassured herself yet again that he was breathing, even if he was still unconscious. Even so, she wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and lay her head on his chest and listen to his breathing. She knew that wasn't a plausible option so instead she did what she always did when she felt emotionally overwhelmed: she opened her briefcase and pulled out her laptop.

It was no surprise that Brennan's new story opened with the lead character climbing into bed with her husband. Brennan read the first page out loud quietly to herself before looking up at Booth. She felt better, even just getting the words on the screen. It was cathartic to be able to imagine all of the things she wanted to do in that moment. She stared at Booth once more as an idea began to take shape. She would write him a story. After all, if she was going to use writing as her release, she might as well make it a story that Booth would want to listen to. Maybe it would give him a reason to wake up.

She already had her opening scene but it was generic, so she closed her eyes and contemplated a world where Booth would love to live. Perhaps another time period, like the forties or fifties. Booth would be a nightclub owner, like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. She smiled at the mental image of Booth in a fedora. Still, her publisher would never allow such an antiquated plot device. A modern night club would have to do, with the characters of a more retro time. A murder mystery of course (she was Temperance Brennan after all) with a strong detective thread running throughout to give Booth's mind something to investigate while he was sleeping.

Once she had her location, the rest of the story came easily, as if Booth was mentally feeding her ideas as she fast as she could type them. His favorite things wound up hidden within the pages: chicken wings, Mötley Crüe, she even wrote him a three piece suit. As she finished a section, she would edit it and then read it out loud to him. She observed his every breath for some sign that he understood, that he knew she was there, but nothing came. She paused only for checkups from hospital staff and to eat and sleep, but the next day, she was always right back in that chair, writing their story.

After three days, her short story was finally ready to end. She paused and thought back to her opening scene. It was only natural that a baby would follow for a successful and happy husband and wife. And possibly, although she would never admit it, Brennan wanted to take her chance to imagine a shared life between them. After all, what could be more imaginary than the two of them being happily married with a baby on the way?

However, once the last words were typed, Brennan felt differently about the liberties she had taken with the fantasy. She could see now that it was too much to ask for. It felt greedy to write such a ridiculously alternate world for them. Wasn't her current life with Booth enough? Wasn't she perfectly happy solving crimes with her best friend? It was ridiculous to wish for things that would never come true. Wishing only pointed out what you could never have.

Wishing was cruel.

Brennan's finger hovered over the delete key before she finally committed and erased the story in its entirety. She had learned her lesson.

A movement from the bed stirred her from her thoughts and she glanced up. Booth's eyes were flickering open and he was muttering something about a strange dream.

"Booth. Booth?" She rushed up to his bedside. "You're awake." She laughed in relief.

"So real." He whispered. Brennan saw the bewildered expression on his face so she began to quietly explain what had happened, hoping to lessen his confusion.

"Your operation was a success but you reacted poorly to the anesthesia. You've been in a coma for four days. It took you so long to wake up." Her voice quivered as it betrayed the rationality she had hoped for.

"It felt so real." He murmured and somehow, she knew what he meant.

"It wasn't real." She assured him as she touched his arm. He looked at her in confusion, as if her statement didn't register with what he knew to be true.

"Who are you?" He asked. Brennan froze as his quiet question reverberated throughout the room. She finally exhaled sharply, feeling like she had been kicked in the stomach.

Yes, wishing was absolutely cruel.