2- The Ghost of Christmas Past

December 24th, 1am

It had to be some allergic reaction to tylenol. Though she had never experienced anything like that. But she was not drunk, there had been no contamination of the lab and Miss Piggy had certainly been sitting there, talking to her, leaving behind a waft of flowery perfume. The clock at the bottom corner of the computer screen told her it was past midnight, her head and neck were throbbing painfully and not even the thought of the probability of examining Ramses II's first daughter's mummy consoled her. Miserably, she removed her lab coat and thought about stopping by Wong Foo's and grabbing some food before stopping by Booth's for a late dinner. The thought was on its way to make her feel better when she realized that she was mad at him and, given the way she had seen him, from the corner of her eye, storm out of the lab, he too was pretty worked up about their little fight. A sigh escaped her. She put on her her thick coat and headed home, the emptiness of it looming over her.

As soon as she walked into the apartment, the sound of it's usual silence crashed on her like a tone of bricks. She headed to the sound system and debated over the choices. She really wanted something silly and inconsequential, but, and because she was taking herself too seriously that night, she popped in some Tibetan Throat Singers. She remembered Booth making fun of that particular choice, so, more out defiance than gusto, she hit PLAY.

If only Sweets weren't so annoying, she would ask him to explain why Miss Piggy had just visited her in the lab. She had her own theory, obviously. She was tired and the tylenol was probably past its sell by date. She walked through the house trying to relax. It wasn't like she was going to see her again, she was wide awake now. There were no dark corners. She made sure of that, though she wouldn't necessarily admit to it. It wasn't like Miss Piggy was scary in herself. What was scary was the fact that she was seeing her outside a TV screen.

It took her a very long shower to feel more confident about walking from one room to the other without a cursory glance just to make sure.

She hunted down some food and found some rice crackers. She really needed to get herself to the market, she made a mental note and decided against going to bed. Her eyes were stinging and angry red from the day's aggravations, but her bed was cold and unwelcoming... lonely, really. So she switched on the TV- a brand new thing she had bought just for when Booth stopped by and there was game or other on.

The next thing she knew, Smurffette was pulling her hair and screeching hurry, wake up, don't have all night, you know? She was a grown woman, she did not shy away from holding dead bodies in her hands, in her arms if needs be. But the sight of the little blue dwarf like fingers made Brennan jump out of her skin. She wanted to wake up, desperately, and she tried everything in her power: she pinched and scratched herself, took deep breaths of air, had a sip of her long forgotten and past cold tea, but Smurffette was still there, her blond mane of hair billowing in some imaginary wind, her little white booted foot stamping impatiently on the oak floor.

"You are awake enough for what we need. Now just please follow me. It's getting late. It's getting very late and you still need to entertain two more visitors tonight." Instinctively, Brennan curled up in her sofa. She needed rescue. And that was annoying as hell as she never needed any rescuing. But right there and then, she only wanted to call Booth, get him to beat the crap out of Smurffette who was giving her an exasperated look.

"It's Christmas, you know. I had to leave all the preparations for the feast! I will be very upset with you if I'm my stew burns, do you understand?" Oh, it was like being three years old again and fear the monster under her bed. Except now she was quite certain that Smurffette would not hesitate in punishing her. So, she followed the little blue white-clad figure into her walk in closet. They walked past the casual weekend clothes, smart dark work suits with Smurffette tututing at the hanging pieces. The blue girl finally relaxed by the time they got to the party dresses, smoothing the fine materials with her little blue fingers:
"These are actually not bad, you know? Nice materials, nice designs..."

"Oh, glad I have your approval..." was the sarcastic reply.

"Are you sassing me, little one?"

"Little one? Are you joking? You're joking right?" Brennan looked at the little blue girl that reached, at the most, her knees, trying to illustrate her point. Smurffette did not seem to notice.

"I don't like your attitude! Just because you have nice dresses it doesn't mean you get to be sarcastic. Or mean. In fact, I think Miss Piggy was right and you are quite rude. And all these lovely dresses...." The tirade against her manners went on for a while. Brennan was starting to think that Booth as quite right about Smurffette being a little annoying thing, with hardly any brains. Smurffette took offense at that particular thought though Brennan had not dared to utter it.

"Oh, so you think you're so smart, do you? Then how come you need me here, huh? How come you need us to come and help you?" Brennan was preparing to interrupt yet another tirade which really upset the Smurf. The little blue girl raised her blue, white booted foot, swung and hit Brennan squarely in the shin. It did hurt. For a dream, it did hurt a lot. Maybe she should look out for a flock of birds circling her head. And, Brennan was sure, it would leave quite a bruise. And it smarted as hell, too. Shocked, Brennan followed Smurffette who had moved on, getting past the final stretch of the wardrobe, a section devoted to all the bad purchase choices, some of them her own responsibility, others, totally Angela's fault.

They walked into a warm living room, the lights of a Christmas tree lighting blue, red, green and yellow hues into the otherwise dark space. There were Christmas presents lovingly wrapped under the tree, a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the mantle piece. It looked straight out of a children's book. It felt lived in, warm, reassuring and incredibly familiar. And then she spotted the little girl hiding behind an armchair. She couldn't be more than three years old, wrapped in a an old comfort blanket, barefoot and with vivid blue eyes. She wanted to reach around the chair and look closer at the child but though she walked, she did did not manage to get to the little girl. There was no barrier there, at least physical, but she just couldn't get there. It startled her when a man came down the stairs, blond, blue eyes, a jovial smile in his handsome face, clearly trying not to make any noise. He moved into the room and smirking, had a bite of the cookie and drank half the milk. The little girl moved from behind the chair and stood behind the man, hands propped at her waist, stomping her foot in disapproval at the man's antics. When he turned around, he saw her there and was momentarily stumped for a way out, having been caught in the act. The man smiled at the girl, trying to appease her.

"I'm sorry, baby girl, daddy had Santa's cookies..." and he tried to hold her in his arms. She skidded away, tears in her eyes.

"There is no Santa Claus! You are just pretending. I saw you put the presents and I saw you eating the cookies! There is no Santa Claus!" And the tears now flowed freely.

"Tempe, you're too smart for your own good, honey!" He held the girl and hugged her to him, soothing her mane of tousled auburn hair. "There is no Santa, you're right. But daddy really loves you..."

"But you lied..." He was a grown man, but no reply came.

Smurffette was busy looking at a grown Brennan with glistening eyes.

"Shame you getting to that conclusion so early. You were what? Three?" There was understanding in the Smurff's eyes, but there was something else. There was probing. Brennan turned her eyes back to the scene where the father was still trying to console his daughter only to be pushed away by the little hands. She child ran upstairs and the man was left staring at the Christmas tree, the smile gone from his eyes.

"Well, better that than believing a myth. Myths are just anthropological ways to instigate certain acceptable behaviors in the individual and..."

"Oh, shut up! Were you less than good after this? You weren't! And you lost faith here, faith in something beyond yourself. It must be very lonely being you!" Brennan sulked. What else could she do, anyway? The Smurff refused to leave her alone, she did not manage to wake up, so she just sulked. Didn't do her any good either, because Smurffette just pressed on.

"Well, come on, then! Do you think I have all day? Still lots to see..."

"WHY?"

"Oh, you're smart. You'll figure that out... eventually. I just hope it's sooner, rather than later..." Brennan concentrated on the look in Smurffette's eyes. For a cartoon, she was very expressive. She wondered briefly what would Sweets make of her little night time adventure. Not that she'd tell him. In fact, she wasn't even sure she'd tell herself... she might just think that self commitment was in order. No, she thought, once the dream was over, she would forget about it. She'd make a point of it. She was very good at compartmentalizing after all. And when she looked around, it was like sitting at the window of a high speed train, looking at the landscape: she looked to the right and there were brief flashes of her mother holding a plate of cookies, of Christmas dinners, of Russ opening a present, of the family dog scoffing down the chocolate decorations on the Christmas tree, of the complicity looks exchanged between her mother and father, kissing under the mistletoe. As the flashes slowed down, always out of reach, she saw herself curled up on the sofa, watching "It's a wonderful life" with her father. She remembered watching that film every year on Christmas day, a huge bowl of pop corn sitting between them. It was their own special moment, their own little ritual.

It was strange looking to her left and not recognizing the scene: the living room was unfamiliar, the man yelling, tall, menacing, towering over two boys, one of them standing as a shield in front of the smaller one. There was a woman on the floor, crying, helpless. And again, she could reach none of them. It was like watching a silent movie, she could see the faces, she could see the crying and the yelling, but she couldn't hear any sound. But she could see the older boy's eyes, the defiance and sorrow mixed in them, the Christmas tree at a corner, twinkling incongruently cheery tones in the background against the ugly scene going on center stage. She could see the hand of the man raising in anger to strike the boy with the brown eyes, lowering in slow motion to hit the boy in its violence. She rushed forward. She needed to stop it, stand between them but when she moved, the scene was gone and there was only an empty old kitchen, cold and dark and her 16 year old self sitting at the table, holding a pen-knife to write at the bottom of her shoe yet one more name. Watson. It spelt one more failure, it broke one more piece of her heart. The social worked walked into the room, clearly displeased at having to work on Christmas Eve. The brisk movements towards the teenager told of impatience, and that old "couldn't care less" young Temperance had seen too many times in the last year. It was her fault, she knew. She had wanted to go back home. It had been a year to the day since her parents had been missing and she'd hoped they might have gone back, looking for her.

Her foster parents hadn't been pleased. They were never pleased, it appeared. They made her pack her belongings while they called the social worker. Once again her clothes would smell like the plastic of the garbage bags foster children were given to pack, there would be a new school, even if no new friends, and new house to learn the rules of. What there wouldn't be was her family. Or warmth. Her heart had frozen over, refusing to beat for fear of the pain. And there wouldn't be any tears. Her first foster family had made sure of that.

When the social worker had dragged young Temperance into the car and the "family" had seen them off with relief, the kitchen was, once more, silent, dark and empty. Smurffette sat on the kitchen table, studying her manicure and waiting for Brennan. She waited for the incipient tears to dry, for the knot on Brennan's throat to dissolve.

"You know, little one, they didn't make you. What you are- what you and him are- you are despite them."

"I'm sorry, Smurffette, can we go home, now?" She fully expected the blue girl to throw a tantrum. But instead, there was nod of agreement. Smurffette nodded and her blond hair billowed once more in some imaginary wind.

"My thoughts exactly. I think we're done here."