Title: Doesn't Matter Now
Author: Insane Elven Pirate
Rating: T- for swearing.
Summary: Hodgins goes to Zack's flat to pick up some things and ends up staying longer than he planned. Friendship/Angst
Author's note: Due to the fact that I seem to have no time for anything lately, I think I'm going to just write one-shots for now. Oh, and I tend to give my writing theme songs. This is is 'Hang'- Matchbox Twenty.
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Jack Hodgins slowly climbed the stairs that led to the flat above his garage, counting the steps as he went. There turned out to be thirty-four and Hodgins briefly wondered why they didn't just make it an even thirty-five.
Walking slowly to the door that was the entrance to Zack's small home, he pulled the heavy key ring from his pocket. He flipped slowly through his keys, trying each one in the lock, even though he already knew which one was supposed to open the door. When he finally found the key, the last one he could have possibly tried, he slid it into the lock. Turning the key, he listened for the small click the bolt made as it slid into the door, allowing him entry.
He grabbed the handle tightly with one hand and hesitated. Did he really want to be here? But Zack had asked him to take some things to him at the asylum and he hadn't wanted to say no, so he turned the handle and pushed the door open.
It was dark inside. Hodgins blindly felt along the wall until he found the switch and flipped it on. The flat looked just as it always did. Crumbs on the floor, dishes on the coffee table, food on the counter. It almost felt like Zack was still there.
Hodgins sighed and made his way to Zack's bedroom, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket as he did so. Zack had been very specific about the items he wanted and Jack made sure that he wrote all of them down. Stepping into Zack's room, he stopped dead in his tracks. "You've gotta be kidding me," he moaned when he saw the overflowing laundry basket in the corner. For a moment he considered leaving it, but in the end, he ended up hoisting the basket into his arms while shaking his head.
I'd better just do it, now that he's- well, he's not going to be able to.
He made his way out of the apartment, turning sideways through the doorways so the the rectangular basket would fit through. Slowly, he climbed down the thirty-two steps and stopped outside the door to the garage. Balancing the basket between his leg and the wall of the building, he groped in his pocket for his keys. When he found them, he pulled them out, flipped to the correct one, and unlocked the door.
Inside the garage, away from the small collection of collectible/expensive cars, was a small alcove that housed the washer and dryer for the small rooms above. Letting the basket fall to the floor with a loud thwump, Hodgins opened the lid to the washer and began loading the laundry, not bothering to separate the darks from the lights. Once the machine was full he started the wash and dumped in a capful of soap as the machine began to fill with water before shutting the lid.
Making to leave, he stopped when something in the corner caught his eye. Looking out of place amidst the shiny cars and washing appliances, an old broom, mop, bucket and cheap vacuum cleaner lay clustered in the back of the garage. Fine cobwebs stretched among them, abandoned by their creators and undisturbed since. Zack had clearly never used them, even though Hodgins had put them there specifically for that purpose.
Acting on impulse, not giving the idea much thought, Hodgins gathered the broom, mop and bucket and carried them up to the living space above. Making a return trip for the vacuum, he slowly wheeled it backwards up the stairs before depositing it in the entryway with the mop, bucket, and broom.
He took a moment to survey the apartment, wondering where to start first. Finally he decided and began gathering the used dishes and loading them into the dish washer. The dishes made sharp clinks whenever they bumped together and Hodgins found the noise to be strangely calming. It helped to distract him from how empty the rooms felt without their usual occupant.
Once all the dishes had been picked up and the dishwasher was full, he put it on a timer so that it would start late in the night, long after he intended to be gone. With that done, he went back into the living room, and grabbed the vacuum from the entry way. While he unwound the cord from the back, he scanned the walls looking for an outlet. Bingo. There it was, right beside the TV. He plugged the appliance in and hung the extra cord off his arm, then he used his foot to press the 'on' switch and the vacuum whirred to life. As he pushed the small machine back and forth on the rug, he wondered how someone who was so obsessively organized at work could be so outrageously messy at home. It seemed odd. But then again, everything about the guy was.
As he slowly made his way around the house, he let his mind go blank. Just push the vacuum. Backwards, forwards. Listen to the crackling sound it made as it sucked up crumbs. When the sound stopped, that piece of the floor was clean. Move on. Repeat. It was so simple. It didn't require concentration. It didn't require him to think. It was a relief.
Once the vacuuming was finished, he wound up the cord and returned the vacuum to the entryway. He gave the mop a look over before deciding there was too much dust and cobwebs covering it for it to be of any use in cleaning. Then he grabbed the bucket. Inside was a bottle of soap and a big yellow sponge. He went to the kitchen and placed the bucket it in the sink, added a small amount of water, swirled it to clean the dust, and dumped the dirty water before setting the bucket in the sink and letting it fill. He added the soap under the running water and watched as it began to foam. When the bucket was about half full, he hauled it out of the sink and set it on the floor. Dropping the sponge in, he let it fill with water before pulling it back out without bothering to squeeze it.
The excess water drained from the sponge, and spilled onto the floor. Hodgins didn't notice the puddle slowly spreading towards him until he felt wetness at his knee. Looking down, he saw that the right pant-leg of his three-hundred-dollar, dry-clean-only pants had become thoroughly soaked with dirty, soapy water.
"Ah, shit," he mumbled softly, standing to inspect the damage. When he did, he found several other stains that he could only assume had come from the earlier chores.
Oh, well, he thought. It doesn't matter now. I'll take them to the dry-cleaner later.
He returned to his kneeling position on the floor and began scrubbing the floor, moving the sponge in small quick circles. Every now and then he'd dunk the sponge, reloading it with fresh soap and water. Like the vacuuming, this task was calming. He could let his mind go blank without having to worry about the stress of recent events. There was no one to interrupt him. No bugs to try and identify. No puzzles to try and solve. It was just him and the dirty apartment.
He finished scrubbing all the hard floors in the flat in what seemed like no time at all. As he cleaned the bucket and sponge, he remembered the laundry in the garage below. He hurried down the steps, and rushed into the garage. Pulling a few shirts out of the machine, he inspected them for wrinkles. Fortunately, they didn't look too bad. Relieved, he transferred the load to the dryer, started it, and started a new wash with the remaining clothes in the basket.
Wondering what he could do next, he climbed back up the stairs. The apartment was beginning to look pretty clean, but there was more work to be done. He walked over to the nearest bookshelf and swiped a finger along it surface. Just as he expected. Dusty. He began hunting for a rag.
He found it in the kitchen, in the cupboard under the sink. Putting it under the faucet, he got it slightly damp and then set out to dust every surface in the apartment.
It was as he was dusting the shelves in Zack's closet that he remembered the scarp of paper in his pocket. He checked his watch. Visiting hours at the asylum were over. It was too late to bring Zack his things.
It doesn't matter now. I'll take them to him tomorrow. He'll understand.
He resumed dusting.
He spent the evening cleaning, constantly moving from one chore to another. From dusting, to folding the laundry, to organizing the bookshelves. He needed to be working. It was his drug and the distraction the work provided was his high.
At one point, as evening was turning into night, he became obsessed with organizing the contents of Zack's kitchen cupboards. He organized foods, tallest items in the back, shortest in the fronts. Dishes he organized by shape, type, and size. Then, he opened the cupboard to the pots and pans.
"Zack said he thought the mandible had been boiled."
He shut the cupboard.
Just when he had done all that he thought could possibly be done, the dishwasher hummed to life. Hurrying over to it, he opened the door to stop the wash. He pulled out the bottom rack and began unloading the dishes to the counter. Plugging the drain and filling half the sink with water, he began to wash the dishes by hand.
He worked systematically, starting with the plates and bowls, then moving on to the glasses.
The second glass slipped from his wet soapy hands. It fell, hitting the wall that divided one half of the sink from the other and shattered, scattering broken bits of glass around the metal basin.
"Shit!" Hodgins cried, shaking water off his hands. Heaving a deep sigh, he began to pick up the larger pieces of glass.
Great! he thought angrily. Now when Zack comes back I'll have to explain why one of his glasses is gone.
Then the realization hit him, cold and hard.
It doesn't matter anymore.
Zack wasn't coming back. He wouldn't notice the missing glass.
Hodgins numbly let the pieces he had gathered fall from his hands and turned around so he was facing away from the sink. Then, he pressed his back against the cabinet doors and slowly lid to the floor.
There he sat, just staring into space. Flooded with emotions. Too overwhelmed to do anything.
His friend wasn't coming home. And he had just cleaned away every last trace of him. Why? Did he think it would ease the pain. It didn't. All it did was delay it.
A coldness gripped his chest and he succumbed to loud, tearless sobs as seemingly disjointed thoughts and memories flowed through his head.
Days spent rambling on about secret societies to Zack. Thinking he wasn't listening. He couldn't help but believe that that was why this had happened. The guilt was unbearable.
Was it his fault Zack had betrayed them?
Betrayal. Try as he might, there was no way around it. Zack had betrayed him. Zack had betrayed them all. They trusted him and he turned his back on them. It stung.
Anger coursed through him then, red and hot. Anger at Zack. Anger at himself. Anger at the broken dish in the sink.
And on top of all that, on top of the guilt, betrayal and anger, he also missed his best friend. Experiments at the lab. Drinks shared in the evening. All that was gone.
It seemed an eternity before the sobs subsided. He took deep breaths to steady his breathing. Slowly he stood. He cleaned up the mess in the sink, put the clean dishes away, and reloaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Then he carried the bucket, broom, mop, and vacuum cleaner down the stairs and put them back in their place in the garage.
Upon returning to the apartment he pulled the list of items Zack had requested from his pocket. It didn't take long to grab the items and stuff them into a paper bag.
Finally, he had done what he had originally come to do. He opened the front door. Pausing, he turned back to take one last look at the apartment. It looked quite different that it had when he had entered. Not just cleaner, but somehow... more lonely.
"Goodnight ol' buddy," he murmured to the still air.
Then he stepped out into the cold night air and let the door close slowly on the empty apartment behind him.
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End.