Thanks so much for the positive response! Seriously, after a fairly awful start to college, to come back to that was really nice, so cheers.
Like I said though, a bad day made me angsty so I popped this out. I really hope you like it and I don't disappoint you after you gave me such kind reviews.
Just a reminder, updates probably won't be this frequent usually, but I was in a bad mood and needed to write.
Enjoy!
Chapter Two
The rain was incessant. It beat down like bullets the size of a needle, each one shooting into his skin like a lethal injection.
How fitting.
Everyone was there. The cemetery was filled with a sea of black-clad mourners. An ocean of despair that seemed to flow from the centre. Angela, Zach, Hodgins, Cam, Max, Russ, Amy, Sweets, Caroline; the sea swelled further. Countless faces stared across the cemetery. Some he didn't know, but many he did. He recognized so many of them, people whose lives she had changed, saved, left an impact on. The adoptive parents of baby Andy. Cleo Eller's parents. Kelly Morris. Ambassador Olivos. Margaret Sanders. Ivy Gillespie. Jose Vargas and his wife. The list seemed endless. If it were still beating properly, his heart would've sung.
They were gathered around the grave where her coffin lay, the mud pooling around the shiny polished wood, already tarnishing it as if nature couldn't wait to claim it back. Looking down on it, Booth had the sudden urge to leap down that short, six foot fall and wipe away the dirt. Throw off the mud, drain away the water that wouldn't stop trickling down the side of the coffin, do anything, anything, to keep it pure, keep it whole. He could use this worthless black suit jacket to smear away the soil that had turned black in the rain. Stop it from consuming her coffin. Clean away the bad. Make it shine again.
But he didn't. Instead he stood stoic and unmoving, his head bent against the rain, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Brain dead.
The mourners started to slowly, gradually, move away as the service finished. He remained motionless.
"Hard to believe she's gone."
Booth tensed. He hadn't noticed his brother standing next to him. He hadn't really noticed anything except her. He didn't respond to Jared's meaningless words, keeping his gaze fixed on the hole where his heart lay.
"She really was something special, you know." He carried on regardless.
"Someone." Booth all but growled. "Someone special."
"Yeah." His voice was dismissive, "She was. Look at all these people. I didn't expect to see this many people here." Out of the corner of his eye, Booth saw his brother shrug. "Lot of book fans, I guess."
A shiver of something sinister crawled down Booths spine at his words. His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed to slits against the onslaught of rain.
"I always meant to ask her if she based that book guy on you, you know. Guess I won't have the chance now." A stray thought struck him and he turned his head to Booth. "Hey, did you ever ask her? Is that Andy guy meant to be you?"
Booth stared at the grave in silence.
Jared blew out a cool, sighing whistle. "Nah. Probably not. Although, you'll never know now. You should have asked her. Missed opportunities and all that." He paused, reflecting on it. Then he said absently, "Too bad she's dead."
Booth's fist came out of nowhere. The first punch shot into Jared's ribs and he buckled over in shock and pain. Barely a second later Booth's left fist collided with his brother's jaw with an audible crunch, and Jared went spinning to the ground like he'd been shot out of a cannon.
Everything happened in the space of a few adrenaline rushed seconds.
There was a shout behind him and suddenly someone grabbed Booth from behind, pulling on his upper arms in an effort to drag him away from the bloodied man sprawled on the floor. In a reaction born from years surviving a drunken father and honed to deadly perfection in the Rangers, Booth shot his elbow into the ribs of the person behind him, then grabbed his wrist and spun it over his head in a swift, vicious dance step, the only music the fierce snapping of Hodgins arm.
Hodgins screamed and staggered backwards.
There were more shouts coming from the gathering behind him, and in the corner of his eye, near the funeral door, Booth could see Max making a b-line for him from across the other side of the cemetery. All he could hear though, was the sound of Jared, rolling onto his back and propping up on his elbows, laughing bitterly in pain. That was all it took for Booth to lose it altogether.
In the split second it took for Booth to turn his head to look at him, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun, and aimed it directly at Jared's head.
Everyone froze. The people running over stopped in their tracks, and he heard Angela gasp through tears.
Booth stood side on, about two meters from Jared, his right arm raised, his finger on the trigger. The rain had plastered his hair to his head and his suit was dripping wet. He must have been freezing cold, but he didn't shake. His hand and his stance was rock steady, and didn't even move when the wind whipped his black tie around his neck like a noose. He could have been a statue.
At least then, his eyes might've been more alive.
Jared stared up at him. The wet mud was soaking into his back and legs, and his jaw throbbed so badly his eyes watered.
The silence stretched.
After a moment, Jared found his voice somewhere amongst the blood he could taste on his tongue. He spotted Booths teeth-shredded knuckles and realised it must be his. "You- you brought a gun to the funeral." He managed to stammer.
Almost a full minute passed before Booth answered, his voice barely audible above the quiet pummeling of the rain. It was entirely without emotion, only his rigid stance giving any indication of the pain he was suffering.
"I didn't bring it for you."
Jared's eyes widened at the clear meaning behind his statement.
If Bones was here, it would only have taken a gentle hand touching his arm, or a few spoken words and he would have relaxed, his body and soul falling to her like her touch was morphine.
All he felt was the rain. And so his grip tightened on the gun, even if he had no intention of shooting the person it was currently aimed at.
Slowly, his wrist began to turn upwards.
"Booth!" hollered a voice, saturated in pain, but still strong enough to be fierce.
Booth didn't turn to look at the voice, or make any indication that he'd heard it, but his wrist stopped moving.
"Don't do this to my daughter."
The cemetery was silent.
Silently, a tear escaped from the mask and slid down his cheek, burning its way through the rain on his face.
So quiet it was barely audible, Booth whispered, "She did it to me."
Without another word, he lowered his arm and let the gun slip out of his fingers.
Leaving his brother on the ground, he turned his back on the horrified expressions of the funeral gathering and walked to the edge of the cemetery, to the road where his SUV was parked. He yanked open the door, climbed in, and drove away.
*
Um, so… was that okay? I was kind of worried about writing Booth in this scene because the emotion was so deep and pretty ineffable. Oh and I hope Booths last remark didn't make you think Brennan committed suicide, cause she didn't; but she did leave him when she got shot. Just to clarify if there's any confusion. Thanks for reading though. :)
