This is a Secret Santa fic for cathexes. To say that her prompts were dark is like saying, "Watch your step, it's a little steep," before you shove someone into the Grand Canyon.
This prompt: Booth drinks too much and accidentally hurts Brennan. There must be some discussion about Booth's father that occurs in the aftermath of Brennan's injury. No fluff or Sweets.
Fine. No fluff.
This is an ugly, ugly story. There are trigger warnings in the summary for a reason. Pay attention to them.
This story exists in a vacuum. Despite the use of characters that appear elsewhere in my Bones-verse, nothing I've written here will ever be repeated or used again. In the tiny corner of Hart Hanson's sandbox that I call my own, where my fanfiction lives and plays and where all of my characters wander in and out of my other stories at will, this one will stay hidden behind a 50-foot brick wall, behind a crocodile-filled moat, behind a herd of dragons and ankle-biting bunnies and anything else I can think of.
Also, fyi, as much as I am flattered and very appreciative when other writers use my Roots and Wings world or characters, this story is off limits. This is my Anne Rice moment. Don't touch this one. Don't build from it. It will piss me off.
It is an ugly, ugly story and I hate every fucking word of it.
Disclaimer: Despite events depicted herein (and despite the fact that I'm so over the "Booth is a good man" meme that gets shoved down our throats every week), in no way, shape, manner or form do I believe that he would ever ever ever EVER, under any circumstances – deliberate, accidental, drunk, whatthefuckEVER – hurt Brennan physically. Barring the occasional slap on the ass during sex, which is totally different. Nor do I think that spousal abuse and assault make good fodder for fucking entertainment and I hate that I wrote this.
I hate every word of it. It doesn't have a happy ending. Nothing in this story ends well. Nothing. There you go! I ruined the ending so now you can skip it altogether. There are dozens of other Secret Santa fics. I've seen the tweets with links, some great writers participated and I'm sure the stories are all awesome. I can't wait to go read them. You should skip this and read one of those. Or re-read them all. Not even kidding. Skip this. My feelings won't be hurt at all.
Cathexes, none of this rant is directed at you personally. I don't know you but I'm sure you're a lovely person. Come to Nashville, I'll buy you a drink. I hope you like country music.
This story pisses me off. I may have mentioned that.
And I'm rambling in the longest author's note ever. I'm aware. Because I don't want to hit publish and I don't want to be known as the person who wrote this story. I hate this fucking story.
I'm sorry. Forgive me.
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Spikes of razor sharp light stabbing into the tender skin of his eyelids finally roused Booth to consciousness. He rolled to his back, and winced as stiff muscles pinched protesting nerves along the length of his spine. His eyes opened to narrow slits; one blurry look was all it took to let him know he was lying on the tile floor of the downstairs bathroom, with his head near the pedestal base of the commode and his legs stretched across the threshold and into the hallway.
What the hell . . .
He struggled to sit up - and immediately gave up and fell prone again when his head began to spin dizzyingly. He laid a forearm across his eyes, hoping to block out most of the painful light shining in from the window set high above the mirror. His face contorted in a grimace when the foul taste that filled his mouth registered.
What the hell am I doing in here?
.
.
Earlier, in the dark hours after midnight . . .
.
The pounding on the door was followed by the persistent melodic peal of the doorbell.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Dancing, chiming notes.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Dancing, chiming notes.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
They were there before the next verse began, hastily belted robes thrown over sleep-rumbled pajamas. A baseball bat hanging loose in his hand, Hodgins peered through the peephole. His head swung around in surprise.
"It's Brennan." He keyed in the code on the alarm pad set into the wall and opened the door quickly. "Dr. B., what's . . ." His question was lost behind Angela's loud exclamation when her friend stepped inside.
"Sweetie, what happened?"
Buttoned tightly into a stiff khaki trench coat, an oblivious Christine sleeping on her shoulder, the oversized sunglasses Brennan wore despite the late hour couldn't completely hide the discolored swelling on one cheek or the dried blood along the cut on her lip . . . or the traces left behind from the river of tears she'd already cried.
She hesitated briefly, then her free hand lifted and slowly lowered, taking the sunglasses with it.
Angela's fingers flew up to cover her own face. "Oh, my God." Her shock leached volume from the exclamation. "Honey, what happened?" she asked again. "Were you in accident? Were you mugged? Where's Booth -"
Brennan's gaze slid away, an unspoken revelation that was immediately understood.
Horrified, Angela took an involuntary step back.
"No."
.
.
.
He slept on, still lying on the bathroom floor, and when he woke well into the afternoon hours, he was at last able to move without the dizzying nausea that had forced him to abort his earlier attempt. Head pounding, Booth struggled to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen. He stood at the sink and clutched at the counter for support as he drained one large glass of water, and then a second.
The stillness in the silent house finally registered. Blinking in the bright light shining through the airy windows, still slightly fuzzy and unfocused, he shuffled into the empty living room.
A lone wineglass sat on the low table in front of the sofa, a scant inch of crimson liquid pooled inside.
The refrigerator hummed to life behind him.
He turned toward the kitchen again, and passed blearily through it on his way to Brennan's office.
He found it empty, too.
His head began to clear somewhat, and with the slowly returning clarity came a growing sense of unease at the feeling of absolute solitude surrounding him. The house didn't just seem empty - it felt abandoned.
Leaden steps carried him past Brennan's office to the small room he'd carved out of the garage . . . the room he laughingly referred to as his 'man cave' . . . the room that was still mostly bare and unfinished, furnished only with the old leather sofa from his apartment, a narrow coffee table and a battered dresser on which rested a flat screen TV that looked almost obscenely large in the tiny space.
His heart began to race, thudding in hard, painful beats in his chest. Hesitantly . . . a roiling knot of dread burning in his gut . . . he peered inside.
The coffee table was shoved out of place, away from the sofa, and lay on its side at a crooked angle to the TV.
Shattered glass sparkled in a puddle of liquid at the base of the wall opposite the door, below an uneven stain that marked a still-damp splash on the drywall. The acrid, faintly sweet smell of alcohol filled in the details of the contents.
Fear turned the blood in his veins to ice. He grabbed for the door frame in a desperate attempt to remain standing as shreds of memory returned and began to weave themselves into a vague, shadowy outline of the events of the previous evening.
His knees buckled.
"No. Oh, God. No."
.
.
.
Silent messages passed between Angela and Hodgins; he nodded once and transferred Christine's limp form to his own shoulder.
"I'll put her down with Michael Vincent."
Angela acknowledged his quiet voice with a dip of her head, her attention already on Brennan's unresisting form as she led the other woman into the kitchen and pushed her into a seat.
"We keep a first aid kit in here . . ." Her hands shook as she shoved up the sleeves of her dressing gown and opened a cabinet to retrieve the square white box. She set it down carefully on the table and opened it in the same manner, deliberately trying to make as little noise as possible.
She pulled out gauze and cotton balls and packages of ointment and alcohol and crouched down so that she was looking up at Brennan.
The women flinched together at the first touch of the alcohol-infused swab against the bleeding wound along the ridge of Brennan's cheekbone.
"Honey," Angela's gentle whisper brought more tears to her friend's eyes than the pain of the cleansing. "What happened?"
A moment passed in silence.
"The . . . in Arlington . . . the hostage situation . . ." Brennan's voice was a fractured murmur, little more than barely audible bits of sound. "It didn't . . . the little boy . . ."
Angela squeezed ointment out of a small package and spread it lightly over a scrape on Brennan's temple. "I saw something about that on the news." She glanced up quickly. "Booth was there?"
Brennan nodded, a movement so faint it was almost unnoticeable. "He was . . . upset . . . I thought . . . I left him alone, I thought he needed time . . ." Her eyes closed, squeezing out moisture that trailed across her bruised flesh in glittering silver ribbons.
Angela halted her ministrations and covered Brennan's hands with hers. Her expression was one of fearful anticipation as she asked the question. "Did he hurt you, Brennan?"
Throat convulsing, Brennan struggled for control. She couldn't look at Angela directly. "He was . . . I've never seen him drink like that . . ."
Angela fought her own battle for composure before she could speak again. Her artist's eye catalogued the fragile, tragic beauty beneath the bruises and swelling and anger simmered hot.
"Sweetie," she began hesitantly. "We have to report this."
Their eyes met briefly before Brennan's chin lowered, her head shaking in denial. "It's Booth," she whispered.
"Brennan . . ."
"He didn't mean it." Brennan's head shook from side to side. "He was drinking . . . he's never -"
"Well, now he has!" Temper sharpened Angela's voice; the edge drew Brennan's undivided attention at last. "There's always a first time," she continued harshly. "And then there's a second time and a third time and . . ."
"It's Booth." The words came as more tears escaped. "He wouldn't -"
"How many times have you stood over the bones of a woman who said the same thing?" Angela's fingers tightened over the shaking hands she held. "He loves me. He didn't mean it. He would never hurt me." Brennan's tears dripped onto their hands and every drop fed Angela's fury. "Well, he did! He hurt you, Brennan! I don't care why he did it! I don't care that he was drunk! I don't care about anything except that he hurt you! You have to go to the police!"
Brennan's shoulders hunched as she began to sob. "Stop . . . please . . ."
Immediately contrite, Angela rose up to her knees and hugged her close. "Alright. Alright. Shhhh." She rubbed comforting circles into the other woman's back and rocked back and forth in an easy sway. "I'm sorry. Shhhh. Shhhh. I'm sorry. It's okay. It's going to be okay, I promise."
They stayed like that for several minutes, holding each other, offering and accepting comfort they both knew was at best a temporary, insufficient balm. When Brennan's tears began to slow, Angela hesitated only a moment before she pulled back and spoke again.
"We at least have to take pictures." Her voice firmed as she continued to speak. "We have to document this." When the auburn head began to shake again, Angela's face grew hard. "No, sweetie. I'm not taking no for an answer this time. We have to. It's . . . we have to." Without waiting for a response, she stood up and tugged until Brennan, too, was on her feet. "We'll go in the guest room. It won't take long - I'll get my camera and find you something to sleep in and you can get into bed when we're done."
Brennan allowed herself to be led down the hallway, her feet dragging as if weighed down with bricks and mortar. She barely noticed when she was left alone and then Angela was back, folded garments under one arm, a digital camera in her hand. She closed the door.
The pajamas were tossed haphazardly to the top of a dresser before Angela moved her to a spot beneath the overhead light. She swallowed as the harsh glare highlighted her friend's injuries. "You don't have to do anything," she said softly. "Just stand there . . . just two or three pictures and . . ."
She blinked rapidly to clear her vision of moisture before the image on the camera's screen became clear.
Three quick snaps and it was over.
Except that it wasn't.
"Wait."
The faintly spoken word came as Angela lowered the camera.
"There's more." Eyes closed, Brennan's fingers shook visibly as she fumbled with the fastenings of her coat. She let it fall away . . . and stood there trembling in a blouse with a torn collar, held closed by a single button left hanging on one thread.
Appalled, Angela's choking sob was one last, desperate cry of denial.
Brennan's knees buckled.
Angela reached her in time to fall with her to the floor.
They huddled there . . . clinging to each other . . . and wept.
.
.
.
"No. No. No. No. No. No."
Scraps of memory returned.
Arlington. An average townhouse in a neighborhood of average town-homes.
A woman weeping. "He's got my son!"
Panicked, Booth raced frantically through the empty house. The heavy thud of his footsteps and his panting, shallow breaths were all that he heard as he flew from silent room to silent room.
The large figure of a man. Dirty. Unkempt. Strung out.
A gun brandished.
A little boy, crying. Beaten. Face bruised.
"No. No. No."
Christine's favorite pink bunny was gone, as was the cheerful yellow blanket Caroline had given her.
Brennan's purse was gone, and her keys and her phone . . .
Her phone.
He raced back downstairs in a distraught hunt for his before he found it, lying innocently and obviously on the counter in the kitchen.
The roaring of his pounding heartbeat filled his ears as he waited for the call to connect.
It went straight to voicemail.
No. No. No. No.
Take the shot. One chance. Take the shot.
"Don't, Daddy. I'll be good!"
He hung up without leaving a message and dialed again, with the same result.
The procedure was repeated for a third time.
No. No.
A second's hesitation. Frozen, for one fraction of an instant.
A gunshot.
The small body falling.
His head spun. Where could she . . .
He dialed Angela's number. The ring echoed loud in his ear.
My fault.
My fault.
She answered on the third ring.
Her voice was terse and clipped.
"She doesn't want to talk to you." The phone went dead.
No. No. No.
He hit redial immediately. The line rang once before it switched to the cheerful tones of her greeting.
When he called a third time, it went straight to voicemail.
No.
He clutched at his hair, pulling at it in great tufts.
"Booth?" Brennan. Standing in the doorway of his man cave.
The bitter burn of alcohol.
So much anger.
So much anger.
My fault.
Terrified, he found his keys and left without locking the door behind him. He rocked back and forth as he drove, both hands gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather cut a pattern of ridges into his palms.
He was standing at their door before he knew he'd arrived.
Angela opened it, her face closed and hard.
"She doesn't want to see you."
No.
"Angela . . ." His panic and fear were obvious in his drawn, unshaven white features. "It's me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Stay right there," she hissed. The door shut and reopened bare minutes later.
She stuffed a camera into his hands and tapped on the screen.
He glanced at the image . . . and tasted bile.
"No."
She scrolled through one photo after another . . . destroying him with each new revelation.
"No. No."
When she'd shown him everything, Angela snatched the camera from his unresisting fingers and looked on his broken, hunched figure without pity.
"That's you," she snarled. "That's who you are." She took one step back, deeper into her home. "Don't come back."
The door slammed in his face.
Booth stumbled back to the elevator and . . . somehow . . . managed to get outside the building before he crumpled against the wall and vomited into the flowerbeds.
.
.
He went home.
He had no where else to go.
He was numb. Cold.
He sat in the living room, on the sofa, and stared at that almost empty solitary glass of wine. Every blink of his eyes revealed her face . . .
Smiling at him . . .
Laughing with him . . .
Making love with him . . .
Every image morphed into one of the photos Angela had shown him, burning into his gut with a sharp stab of agonizing fire.
He almost welcomed the pain.
He'd hurt her.
The realization left him breathless and panting as it sank in.
He'd hurt her.
He fought with his memories, with flashes of scenes that unraveled like bits of video . . .
What was real?
What was conjured by the worst possibilities of his tortured imagination?
What had he done?
And why?
Why?
. . . Why.
He sat there for hours, unmoving, haunted by a nightmare he couldn't escape.
The afternoon grew dark.
The night became morning.
The sun was fully up, the day far advanced when he finally moved, with one destination in mind.
Cullen looked up in surprise when Booth appeared in the doorway of his office. His eyes narrowed as he registered the normally fastidious agent's disheveled, tormented appearance.
"Agent Booth." He laid the pen in his hand down carefully. "What can I do for you?"
Silently, Booth placed his badge on the corner of the desk. His gun followed.
"I'm resigning." He couldn't meet the Assistant Director's direct gaze.
Cullen sighed as he folded his hands together on top of his blotter. "Is this about Arlington, son? Sometimes we just can't -"
"It's Bones." Booth stared at a knot in the wood of the front of the desk. "I . . . I was drinking and . . . I think I . . . I . . ."
Shoulders stiff, Cullen's face hardened. "You think you what?"
His jaw worked soundlessly. He couldn't speak.
"Did you assault Dr. Brennan?"
Booth flinched at the bald words; his face whitened as blood fled from his face.
"I . . . don't . . ." He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Angela showed me pictures . . ." His whole body began to tremble violently.
Cullen stared at him for a moment longer and then slid the gun and badge into a drawer at his right hand.
"I don't accept your resignation. As of today, you're suspended indefinitely," he continued, "conditioned upon you getting some help - and not the kid," he added acerbically. "I want weekly reports on my desk." He picked up his pen and turned back to the work that had been interrupted. "Dismissed."
"Sir -"
Cullen speared him with a sharp glance. "Get out of my office, Booth."
He left the keys to the SUV with the assistant and walked out of the Hoover on foot.
And kept walking.
The afternoon was sunny and warm but nothing banished the chill in which he existed. The noisy traffic of the roads and the congestion of the busy District sidewalks registered only peripherally as he wrestled with his memories and his imagination. He stopped at intersections when the crowd around him stopped and crossed when they crossed.
And fought to remember.
Arlington.
The estranged husband and father attacking his wife and her guests. The hostages released one by one throughout the day, all telling the same story of threats and danger and beatings behind closed doors. The wife escaping finally. A man with nothing to lose and a terrified little boy at the mercy of his father.
And one chance to end it all, lost because of an echo from his own childhood heard in the cry of a small voice.
Don't, Daddy. I'll be good!
One frozen microsecond.
One chance.
His hesitation had cost the life of a child.
My fault.
That much he remembered. That much he knew to be true. To be fact and not fiction spun from his worst fears.
He'd gone home.
After the debriefing. After the post-mortem. After the pats on the back and the it's not your fault and the we can't save everyone and the platitudes and the condolences and the goddamn understanding of people who didn't know what the hell they were talking about . . .
My fault.
He went home.
He was angry.
He just wanted to be alone . . . to drink until he forgot, at least for a little while . . . until he didn't hear in his head the sound of the little boy crying . . . or Jared. Or himself.
But the alcohol only fed his helplessness . . .
And the helplessness fed his rage.
My fault.
And then . . .
He wasn't sure after that what was real.
She'd come to check on him.
Booth?
And he was so angry.
Fear might have saved her, might have made her wary and cautious. But she didn't know.
She'd seen him angry. She knew the flashes of violence he was capable of, the simmering rage that sometimes bubbled up under circumstances she understood. She'd seen him fight for control and struggle to rein in his temper.
She didn't know those reins had snapped beneath the weight of a child's whimpering cry.
He was so angry.
He lashed out. He wanted to cause hurt . . . to dominate and control. He wanted to inflict pain until he could forget his own.
She didn't know until it was too late . . . and when she fought back her struggles only fed the seething crimson tide of fury that boiled over.
He didn't know who she was.
He didn't know who he was.
It was too late for both of them.
He wasn't sure what was real.
Fragments of brutal images persecuted his thoughts, punctuated by her tears and cries for help that didn't come.
He was terrified at the suspicion that the images might be real.
He found himself standing on a curb in the dark, in a neighborhood he didn't recognize. He kept walking until a passing cab slowed at his waving gesture.
And when he opened the door of the house that was to be their home . . . the house that should have been empty . . . he wasn't surprised when a shadow detached from the wall.
A light he hadn't touched flicked on.
His hands fell limp at his sides.
"I expected Max."
"We drew straws," Harland drawled. "I cheat."
Booth stared into the frigid grey eyes that promised no mercy and accepted his fate.
"Go ahead," he said, weary to the very marrow of his bones. "I'm not going to stop you."
Arms crossed over his chest, Harland studied him silently for several minutes.
And then he laughed. Shortly and without humour.
"That's what you want, isn't it?" His mouth curled with derision. "A bullet in your brain and your problems are over. You don't have to think about what you did." He looked Booth up and down, disgust carved into his face. "Figures," he sneered. "Only a coward hits a woman. Makes sense you're coward enough to run away from it, too."
Booth said nothing.
Harland reached for the gun tucked against the small of his back and smiled coldly when Booth closed his eyes. He waited until they opened again then deliberately placed the weapon on the coffee table.
"Here's what's going to happen," he began, his tone soft and malevolent. "You have a choice to make, Seeley. You can pick this up, swallow the barrel and die like the worthless excuse for a human being you are." He stepped closer until the two men were toe-to-toe. "Or you can be a man," he whispered viciously. "Face what you did. You can wake up every morning and your first thought will be what you lost. You can pay for what you did," he snarled, "every day for the rest of whatever pathetic life you have." He shrugged disdainfully and stepped back. "Frankly, I don't think you've got the guts to live with it."
Regret and shame filled Booth's face. "I can't remember what happened," he whispered brokenly. "I can't remember."
Harland showed him no pity. "Lucky you."
He left Booth standing there, staring at the sinister black pistol that gleamed dully in the glow from the lamp.
"One last thing." At the door, Harland turned back. "Go near Tempe again," he promised evenly, "and you won't have a choice about that bullet."
Booth stood there, unmoving, for several long minutes before he sank to the couch.
Then he reached for the gun.
With three sharp clicks, he removed the magazine and the bullet in the chamber.
He tossed them all back to the table, buried his face in his hands and wept.
.
.
He would have believed it impossible but at some point during the night he fell into a fitful sleep, sitting on the sofa, lost in the abyss of misery his life had become.
When he woke, the gun and the magazine were gone.
The single bullet was left in the center of the table.
Be a man.
The words played over and over in his head like a broken vinyl record. They became his mantra and catalyst.
He didn't know if she would ever forgive him and he wasn't sure he was worthy of such generosity.
He knew he would never forgive himself but acts of contrition were all he had.
He went through the house in a whirlwind of activity, gathering every ounce of alcohol and wine and beer he could find and dumped it all.
Within days, news spread. Friends called and sent messages and emails, including Sweets with a list of recommended therapists. He chose one at random and forced himself to keep appointments, and once there, forced himself to discuss all of the private secrets and fear he'd always kept locked away.
He wasn't his father. He couldn't be his father.
Cam ignored his requests to be left alone and showed up announced. She cried with him and he shed tears of his own but whenever he asked about Brennan, she had no answers.
Every day, he knocked on the door of Jack and Angela's apartment.
And every day, the answer was the same. "She doesn't want to see you."
Until the day the words were, "They're gone."
Stunned, he stared at Angela. "What do you mean? Where did she go?"
She shrugged, her face expressionless. They were no longer friends; her loyalty to Brennan was absolute. "She didn't say."
"Angela . . ." He wasn't ashamed to beg.
"I wouldn't tell you if I knew," she acknowledged, "but she didn't tell me."
He read the truth in her eyes and, suddenly, he appeared smaller. Lost.
"If you hear from her," he asked, hesitant and broken, "would you . . ."
"No, I won't. You should leave her alone."
The door closed with a soft, definite click.
At the end of the fourth month, he resigned from the FBI again and this time, it was accepted.
He appeared the next morning at a homeless shelter run by his local parish.
"I need a job."
Father Jeffries eyed him sadly. "Are you going to pay this penance forever, Seeley?"
"Forever isn't long enough."
.
.
.
She came back, eventually, but only for brief visits and only to allow him to spend time with Christine - time that was always spent in the company of others, supervised visitation that went unacknowledged as such.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, that he could no longer be trusted with their child.
He waited, dreading and fearful of the day he would find an envelope from her attorneys in the mail. It never came, and the fact that she never initiated divorce proceedings kept a spark of hope alive.
It was a hope never realized. He watched her grow old from afar, in photos shared by their daughter.
He followed Harland's malicious instructions until the day he died.
Every day, he woke up and thought about what he'd lost.
.
.
.
.
Many, many, many thanks for looking this over for me, Linda. Yes, I definitely owe you some serious fluff.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my world. Back where fairy tales come true, where two people meet and fall in love, where they argue and bicker and laugh and make love, where they build a home and a future with children they cherish.
And where they become legendary, one ordinary day at a time.