"Chase This Light" will be a series of stand-alone one-shots based around the FOX television show 'Bones' and its characters. Each "chapter" or one-shot will be based in part on the lyrics of the title song, Chase This Light by Jimmy Eat World.
(the lyrics and download link can be found in my profile).
Chase This Light #1
I'm a suspect, I'm a traitor…
Rating (this chapter): T/PG-13
Spoilers: 04x09: The Conman in the Meth Lab
Timeline: filler scene for 04x09: The Conman in the Meth Lab
Word Count: 1,027
Disclaimer: I do not own the show or the characters found on Bones– they are the property of FOX, Hart Hanson, Kathy Reichs and the respective actors who fill those roles. Similarly, I do not own the song "Chase This Light" or the band Jimmy Eat World. The music with which they inspire is courtesy of Interscope Records and themselves as songwriters and lyricists.
A/N: This one has been a long time brewing… inspired completely by DOC3's post-ep for CitML (Part I, Swallowing Razors). (www. fanfiction. net/ s/ 4660325/ 1/ Swallowing_Razors) The brilliant exchange between Booth & Cam at the end of the first chapter of that story can be held directly responsible for this, and I guess you could even say that the events of that story happened just prior to the events of this story. All credit for inspiration goes to DOC3 and I urge you to read her story prior to reading this one.
Many thanks to lizook for the thorough beta-work and the reassurance and cheerleading I needed to keep me going on this one.
This story is especially dedicated to my twin and BFF, TemperTemper – if memory serves, this is the only story she has not seen prior to post-time. Love you, hon – hope you like it. Happy Birthday!!
Early evening finds him sitting in the dark, the only illumination from the single bulb of the goose-neck lamp directly over his work surface. A cloth is spread over the coffee table tonight rather than laptops, paperwork or even a child's board game.
That it's just past sunset, the day of his birthday is of minor concern. He's just returned home, leaving his partner at the hospital with her boss and injuries that could have been… well, worse.
But he couldn't stay, duty called – debriefings, prelim reports, witness statements – all those things that surround a violent death in his line of work. But now, alone in his home, alone with his thoughts, guilt assuages him like an old friend, caresses him as a lover; oh, they've been pals for years now.
And he just couldn't stay.
The random screech of tires outside his drawn blinds fails to distract him as he pulls a bag from the pocket of his discarded suit coat and lays it on the cloth before him. Darkness – dark black metal, dark red stains – is thick and visible through the translucent plastic. Pulling apart the mangled evidence tape – (it had been cleared quickly, having not even been fired this time) – he pulls his gun from the bag.
His gun. Her blood.
His bare hands shake slightly and he balls them into tight fists after placing the pistol on the clean cloth.
Her blood.
It shines under the bright light of the lamp, the heaviest smudges along the left-hand grip and along the slide - he tilts the gun into the light for a better view - and yes, along the trigger. She had been more than ready to take care of the situation if he hadn't… couldn't. Even with her non-dominant hand, even injured, even not being a cop.
His already stone-black eyes harden even more and he shakes his head once, forcefully. What she's taken on and endured because of him, in spite of him… she hasn't been trained for this kind of work in this kind of world. Another layer to heave upon the existing thick blanket of culpability he's wrapped around his shoulders this evening.
His hands uncurl and begin to move surely, automatically disassembling the pistol into its basic parts.
Magazine.
She had essentially betrayed him today.
Slide.
Betrayed him, doubted him – to his own brother, no less – and she was the one who months ago had asked if he would betray her.
Frame.
How could he tell her then that he felt he already had, so many times? "No, I'm not going to betray you, Bones." Should we add fucking liar into the blanket's weave as well?
Barrel.
But she had… And could he blame her? Not really. It's easy for him to push aside, especially after his responsibility in the debacle of this afternoon that had almost gotten her…
Another forceful shake of his head and his lips set in a grim line; he picks up an old rag, dips it into the dish of cleaning solvent and begins to scrub at the dried blood on the frame, the rag coming away stained a dark crimson, almost black.
His thoughts flash back to the last time Bones had used his gun – he had bled then, center-stage. His blood had stained the gun that time, transferred by her hands – was she the one who had cleaned it? (He hadn't gotten it back until much later and someone had, though of course, he had re-done it and found dried remnants along the slide.)
This is worse.
Her blood.
His injury may have been the more medically serious, but the knowledge of what could have… it's nearly devastating.
Cam's words from the hospital echo in his head: "How long can you let her scare years off your life without owning up to your feelings?"
Another dip into the viscous fluid in the dish, another part of his weapon (the barrel) cleansed of her blood - an unnecessary reminder of his transgressions.
As a soldier you learn that if you want to live to fight another day (or just live another day) you keep a clean weapon. It's trained, ingrained – you don't eat, you don't sleep until that, at the very least, has been taken care of.
And peering into the barrel now, cleaning the inside thoroughly and by rote with the rod and patch – who on the front lines (military or law enforcement) hadn't thought of eating it at one point or another? Killers set free on technicalities. Never enough good, always more than enough evil. Feeling like any difference you make is just never enough.
Gordon Gordon had once asked him if he thought about suicide often, which he vehemently denied. But the truth is it had flickered there a time or two in his past… not lately though. Not really since his Pops had… and Parker and finally getting his "act" together. And never that he could pinpoint since Bones.
"As long as it takes."
"As long as it takes." The words keep repeating, the mantra in his head issuing from his lips as he attempts to scrub clean all traces of their day: her blood, a man dead by his hand, his partner at the hospital, a man's (reformed-alcoholic) father dead, his brother drinking and driving, his dreams dead.
Her blood.
He scrubs harder.
His cell buzzes on the edge of the table and the screen says 'Bones'. She's inviting him to a bar. "It's your birthday, Booth. Angela is picking up a cake."
But he barely hears the words, his mind focused solely on the sound of her… the alive sound. Her tone is strong, almost too vibrant, which only serves to increase his guilt. No thanks to me... she could have been…
He barely holds it together, quickly agreeing to meet them later - I could definitely use a drink - before disconnecting and burying his face in his hands, scrubbing his eyes as he clenches them tight enough to see bright colors flashing through the black. It gives him something else to focus on besides the guilt, the pain, the knowledge of what almost was.
fin.
Feedback is much appreciated.
