A/N: Much like Kathy/Andy has pieces of Brennan and Booth; I, like Bones, can't seem to write a story without at least some pieces of me slipping through. I really wanted this to be about Booth, I'm never sure how I did. Life is such a wonderful thing, and there's friends where you least expect. I guess I'll close by pointing out that anger might be better than cold, and my house has 14 steps...
To anyone else in the world, it was a Friday, just like any other. Alarm clocks rang; people woke up and went about their days. Go to school, sit through chem-lab, and smile with all the popular kids. After all, it's easy to get them to like you, if you know what they're feeling. They want to be happy, to see happy. Just like any other Friday. Go home. But your house is different than the others on the block. Because it's the last Friday before payday, and money is tight, and the liquor is gone. It's the last Friday before payday, and what little patience there might be is long gone.
In two days the family will go to Mass, and you'll be explaining how you fell from a tree again on Saturday. Or maybe you slipped on that same magazine down the stairs, you're not yet sure. Today is Friday, the last one before payday. You try to be good, to do what's right. Later on tonight, you'll watch carefully. And if, but who are you kidding? Rather, when it's time, you'll provoke the monster yourself. Keep his attention on you. Because as much as it hurts, you know you're strong enough to take it. Sometimes you fail, passing out from the pain too fast, before his temper bleeds off from the blows. Sometimes you've left your mother and Jared to the pain, because you were too weak. Today is Friday, and it's ok, because if Christ could endure a cross to save the world on a Friday, you can endure your father to save your mother. Just three more years, and you'll be a man. Just three more years, and you'll go to war. And when you come back, he'll be too afraid of you to beat your brother and hit your mother.
But there's still three more years, and today is Friday. And Jesus only had one Friday to suffer. His Father never said, "Seeley, you're weak, and a coward." Or "Seeley, Daddy wouldn't have gotten so angry if you hadn't spilled your water." Was never scared for his mother, hearing, "Seeley, go to your room, Daddy has to teach Mommy not to cook the wrong fucking dinner."
Today is Friday, and there's eleven narrow stairs to the upstairs hall. And there's your father's old service revolver, and you know it's loaded. He likes to threaten you with it on Tuesdays – not many people get haircuts that day. And the bar near his shop has a special.
Today is Friday, and it's getting closer to a quarter till six. He takes half an hour to close up shop, then fifteen minutes to come home. And the gun is in your hand; it's heavier than you thought. But the barrel is so smooth. And you're afraid of the pain, and the lies you'll tell next week. You don't want to see the look of disgust at your weakness on his face – the last thing you'll see tonight– as your world fades to black again. You can't bear to look at your mother the next day, as she helps you cover up and hide the bruises and cuts, or worse, needs your help to cover up hers as well. You can't watch your brother's eyes, as he learns how to act from his father. And your mind is made up, and you go to your room. Your fingers start to feel numb, and there's a sort of quiet peace as you shut down. You think about begging the Holy Mother to protect your mother tonight, but you know all too well the cost of what you're about to do. You hear footsteps on the stairs, and the tread is familiar. They're coming towards your room, and the fear moves you to action. The barrel pressed tightly to your temple, your finger on the trigger, pulling in the slack. But nothing happens. You look at the gun, and see another finger holding the trigger in place. Strong hands pull the gun away, and set it on the desk. Strong arms pick you up, and you tense in their grasp. Eyes so much like yours look down at you, from a face that is so very similar.
Today is Friday, but that's alright. You hear the front door slam, but your hand is safe in that grip. Only now do you notice your room is empty. Only now does it sink in that if your father is downstairs (and who else slams the door?), he can't be up here with you. You walk down the stairs, following the man that saved you. There is a pause, as three sets of identical eyes take each other in. You're used to thinking of your father as the strongest man in the world, but you see now that isn't true. You used to think the scariest man in the room would always be him, but that isn't so. There is more anger and rage in the silent stare of the man beside you, more danger, than you've ever felt before. The threat of violence has never been more palpable, even at the height of your father's yells and blows. But somehow, you can tell it's not for you. Tonight, a different Booth backs away in fear. Tonight, a different son fears his father.
Later, you'll put the pieces together. Later you'll realize your mother packed everything and left with your brother, only to be welcomed into Grandma Booth's arms. Later you'll discover that Friday's aren't so bad after all, even if they're the last Friday before payday. Later you'll find love and understanding for all the pain you've gone through in the arms of a woman who hears the dead. But today, all you see is sorrow and understanding and pride reflected back to you from your own eyes set in a weathered face. Today, all you know is that you're driving down the road, amazed you feel safe with someone terrible enough to scare your father. Today you saw first-hand the deadly will that commands the elite 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Your father left the army ten years ago; Colonel Booth never left. The rest of the drive, it's almost like you're a kid again – carefree. The brown eyes watching the road and you with equal care are as warmly reassuring now as they were cold earlier, the kind eyes of your Grandfather.