Author's Note: I found this, half finished in a file of my stories. I decided to finish it. It's ]not the best I've written, but there are parts of it I like, so I thought I'd share.
This is my warning: It's definitely AU and possible OOC. It's full of angst, but does end happily, because that's the way it should be. But if angst isn't your thing, stop here.
For the purposes of my story, Sweets doesn't exist. This takes place immediately after Booth fakes his death and the months following.
I hope you enjoy, or at least keep reading. And if you don't, thanks for checking it out. There are lots of other great stories out there, so don't feel bad. Remember, I love happy endings. Sometimes it just takes a little bit to get there.
And I always get really nervous when I put new stories out there, so please, be kind.
He walked in darkness broken only by the light left on outside the room. Cool feet on the carpeted floor took him toward the window that overlooked the street below. His feet ached, as they always did, but it was nothing more than a footnote in the back of his mind. Pain was a part of him now. If it didn't come from his feet, it would come from someplace else.
His chest.
His head.
His heart.
He didn't know how much the body could hurt from wounds that were only emotional. There were no cuts to the skin, no recent injuries which to blame. Yet, he felt as if he bled from a thousand wounds that never healed, never scabbed over. They kept leaking, refusing to become a history he could leave behind.
Naked from the waist up, chills shivered across his skin, but he made no move to find a robe or a t-shirt to cover him. It wouldn't make any difference. The cold wasn't from outside, but within. He'd actually slept in pants that night, hoping it would make some sort of difference.
It hadn't and it wouldn't. Nothing would change what he felt.
It was impossible to escape, and even under the most glaring of sunlight, he was cold. At night, when there was nothing but moonlight to slide over his skin, there was no heat found at all.
He'd tried coffee, warmer clothes and blankets, but nothing made a difference. One afternoon, he spent an played basketball at the park. As his fellow players had walked away, despite the sweat sliding down his skin, he shook. He'd come to accept that it was a part of him now, much like the scars that dotted his skin were.
Imagination made it seem as if he could see his breath as it left his lungs. The cold invaded every part of him; even the very air he breathed. Illusions so real there were times he was no longer clear where reality ended and fantasy began.
The cold had begun to invade other parts of his psyche. His words to others were crisp, brittle, a reflection of the ice that was freezing him solid. Soon, it would be impossible to move, impossible to take a simple step, because he froze in place. Never able to move forward, but not able to go back and fix everything that he'd done.
It wasn't all his fault, he knew that. But guilt was a funny thing. And in his case, it wouldn't let him see past the things he should have done. He couldn't focus on what he had done, on the mistakes that weren't his. It wasn't going to change anything, so why bother?
No, it wasn't his fault. But it sure felt to him like it was.
Finally, the window was in reach, but he hesitated in front of it. In a darkened room, long after the witching hour, he could pretend. As soon as he reached out to open it, the flimsy shade would lose whatever protective power he gave it.
Outside that window was reality. In his darkened bedroom, it was easier to pretend.
Looking at the shade, he noted that it needed dusting, the slats covered with a film he could see even in the dim light. His housekeeping skills had become a little lax recently. A finger, run along the top of his dresser, left a visible trail, even in a room with little light.
Not that he did much in the apartment anymore, other than eat. Or sleep. Or clean himself up so he could leave again. The time alone, once an event he found comfort in, was nothing but torture now. And he tired of trying to find a way to escape it.
The sound of the shade, as it made its way toward the top of the window, was loud. He knew he needed to stop hiding. From himself. From the truth. From the need to finally take a step forward. But each step forward was one step further away from her.
Was he finally ready to admit that there was no fixing this? That to fix himself, he was going to have to do something he promised he'd never do?
Was he going to give up on her?
The streetlights were lit below, illuminating little patches of sidewalk. But it was the darkness between the light that drew his attention.
There were secrets there, shadows and nightmares hiding from the light. When that light came again and the shadows withdrew, did those secrets go where his did? Did they hide from the light, waiting for the darkness and nightmares before coming out to play again?
Because, his nightmares liked to play. They danced behind closed eyelids all hours of the night. So much so that he was often unable to close his eyes for more than minutes at a time. On nights like tonight, he managed a couple hours of sleep before they came out to play again.
Of course, some of them came when his eyes were open, too.
The street beyond the sidewalk was quiet. Solitary cars broke the darkness every minute or two. He watched them pass, wondering where the drivers were going. Hoping, as he did so often, that one of them would stop in front of his building and expel the person he was looking for.
He stared for several minutes, his hands resting on the sill as his shoulders slumped forward. The glass was cool against his forehead. He was a little surprised at the feeling. The cold he felt was not reflected in the temperature of his skin.
It had rained sometime during the night. The few droplets left on the glass ran down like tears. The water in those tracks made everything look warped, unreal, kind of like the last few months of his life.
Turning away from the window, he looked back toward the bed. The wrinkled covers were disheveled, as if the sleeper had lost a wrestling match with them. The side he hadn't slept on was empty, not that he expected anything else. It had been that way for a long time now, and he had no interest in filling it. The one he dreamed of being there had left long ago. He hadn't felt any interest in romance since then.
Not that he hadn't had opportunities. But each time someone tried, he found himself comparing the woman to the one who'd walked away from him. Or to be more accurate, the woman he'd forced away.
See, there was that guilt thing again. This whole mess was his fault.
His sleep had been restless, until the moment he snapped awake. It happened that way a lot; there was no time between sleep and wakefulness for him anymore. It was either one or the other. And most of the time, it wasn't sleep.
If he was honest with himself, he preferred sleep these days, no matter how difficult it was to achieve. Sleep was the only escape he had from the memories that haunted him.
At least until the nightmares came. Peace was something he could rarely find these days.
Returning to the bed, he sat down on the edge. Sighing, he reached in the drawer of the stand for the cigarettes, only to put them away again. She would remind him how unhealthy they were, how he'd picked up another habit to replace gambling.
She was right, of course. And he'd never actually smoked one. But, it was the only way he heard her voice now, in his head. So he did things he knew she wouldn't approve of, to hear her talk.
Instead, he reclined against the pillows with hands folded behind him. Staring at the ceiling, he waited for the images to appear. They always showed up when he woke in the middle of the night. Those pictures provided no comfort. His colleagues at work would avoid him in the morning, knowing demons were riding him that day.
The first was Bones laughing in that awkward way she had. He wondered if he had to explain the joke she was laughing at, or if she'd understood it the first time. She'd gotten better at that sort of thing, before she disappeared. Her laughter melted into a look of grim determination. It was the last thing he saw before losing consciousness the day Pam shot him.
Angela didn't always show up, but she was here with him tonight. Sometimes, he could still feel her hand making contact with his cheek. He'd deserved it, but at the time, he hadn't understood why. He did now.
Closing his eyes didn't stop the images, so Booth didn't try. He kept them open, staring at things only he could see. Memories of his time in the military had chased him for years, but these were different. Despite the truth, he would always believe he had no one to blame for this but himself.
There would be no more sleep for him this night. Booth rose from his reclined position and sat at the edge of the bed again. Leaning forward, he rested elbows on knees and his head in his hands. "Shit Bones," he muttered, rubbing at eyes that were dry, which surprised him. Often the haunting images brought him to tears.
Not that he believed she was dead. He knew she lived. Somewhere. In a place so well hidden, using a name he didn't recognize, he hadn't been able to locate her. But she was alive.
Too bad she didn't believe the same about him. That was the thing about truth. You only knew what you knew. Or what you believed. And until someone could show you the mistake, your truth wouldn't change.
Booth hadn't had a chance to show her the mistake.
He was starting to wonder if he ever would.
Pushing himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom. There were cases he could work on at the office. A place to hide, at least for a little while.
Before closing the door behind him, he prayed the same prayer he'd been saying for the last six months.
Please let today be the day I find her.