Author's Note: I like a good hint of darkness every now and then. I always have to have a happy ending, though, so I promise it's happy. I'm also worried about what you think. But, I promise the next word is... Well, you're just going to have to find out. Definitely makes for an interesting chapter, in a comical way. Let's go with that.
IMPORTANT: I did say in the beginning, and in the summary, that this would vary in genre. BUT, I know that angst isn't everyone's cup of tea, so I started a new story called "The Outtake in the Adjective," which is a series of, well, outtakes from this series! I posted a second 'J' chapter there. I currently have three outtakes I plan on posting after this one, with the possibility of more, so if you're interested, check it out!
Setting: All that's really important is that this is a while after "Aliens in a Spaceship" (S2E9) in a non-cannon-universe where Booth and Brennan are close friends, like they are in the later seasons.
Warning: Involves minor torture.
Last Thing: Italic font = narration of a dream.
Jaded
Worn out; wearied; cynically callous.
The end result of having a steady flow of negative experiences, disappointment, and unfulfillment fed into a person which leads to a breaking point; emotional bankruptcy.
Sometimes, memories haunt us.
It was 2:30 in the morning and she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, even just for a second, images from her past floated under her eyelids. Her skin was clammy with nightmares, hair stuck to her forehead and chin. The dark, which she normally found a soothing place to decompress, filled her with unease. She couldn't face the bedroom door, but she didn't want to turn her back to it, either. She feared being surprised, yet feared seeing what was coming.
She compromised by laying flat on her back, arms tucked into her side. She decided to try to sleep again and closed her eyes, only for her mind to wander back to what had woken her up.
It all started with Christmas. Her nightmares always started with the image of a tree with ornaments and lights, with tinsel and strands of popcorn. There were presents underneath the branches wrapped in bright green, red, silver, and gold paper, adorned with frivolous bows and ribbons. She had always loved making elaborate bows out of thick ribbon with her mother. She would make the biggest bow for her father who loved everything about the holiday.
When she saw the familiar colors and shapes under the tree, her spirits lifted. She bounded down the rest of the stairs in search of her parents who she believed had returned home.
Instead of finding four Christmas mugs, two filled with coffee and two with hot cocoa, she found an old mug from the day her parents disappeared. She hadn't found the courage to touch it. The fireplace wasn't lit and her father's old record of Christmas music wasn't playing. Everything was wrong.
Before that time, Temperance Brennan hadn't experienced heartbreak. She didn't know what true pain was like, didn't know what it felt like to be alone.
In attempt to stop her mind from retreating back into her nightmare, she peeled the sheets from where they covered parts of her body and left the bed. She walked over to her dresser to choose clothing for her day. Her hands ran over the soft cotton of a black tank top and her thoughts floated back to a time when she wore something similar.
Her memory of her first experience with the Foster System is what frustrates her the most about the system. Russ had handed her off to her new caseworker, an older woman who pretended to care at Brennan's family home, but never truly did in the privacy of her office. Her hair was so white it was almost translucent, and she always smelled heavily of baby powder. The scent always overwhelmed Brennan.
Dolores Rivers was a woman well past her prime and well past a time where she felt bad for the children she was helping. Children from broken homes or children orphaned by parents long ago stopped disturbing her. She let Brennan pack a few suitcases of clothing and books, but once they were leaving, Dolores only allowed one bag. Brennan chose the bag with a lot of books and a few items of clothing.
In it she mostly only had pajamas. A baggy t-shirt, drawstring pants, some socks, jeans, and her favorite black tank top her mom had recently given her. It still smelled like the jasmine tea her mom drank intermittently through the day.
She had been wearing that tank top when her first Foster Father touched her in a way that made her uncomfortable. Her own parents had pushed the hair out of her face before, but this man had a sickening smile on his face when he did it. Even as innocent and naïve as she was, Brennan knew there was something different when his fingers ghosted over her cheeks.
Later that night as she was lying sleepless in bed with her back to the door, he joined her in her bed. He smelled of alcohol and whispered mostly incoherent phrases. The smell of bourbon erased the last shred of her mother's scent.
Brennan, who hadn't moved since the day-dream-memory begun, put the tank down and walked to her closet for a blouse and dress pants. After laying them on the bed, she shred herself of her clothing and started a warm shower.
It was bright in the bathroom, and she hoped the bright lights and hot water would help her wake up and provide her with a distraction from her dark thoughts.
Steam surrounded her, hot water burned her body, and she once more was brought back to the livid memory of her nightmare's progression.
The water is hot. The soap's suds coat her hands, overpowering her skin's normal friction. Her hands burn from the scalding water and extensive scrubbing.
Her foster parents surprise her, and as she turns to face them she drops one of the dishes she was working on. It shatters at her feet. Her wet, soapy hands burn, but not as much as her lungs do after they lock her in the trunk of their car as punishment. The inside of the trunk is humid and the air is musty. Each breath burns her throat and hurts her lungs because of the heat.
At times, it felt like she was going to die. She couldn't be certain she would be let out. Her mouth is dry and she ached for water and cooler air. Night came, but a reprieve didn't. The air stayed warm and her clothes remained damp with sweat.
Her fingernails were broken and caked in blood. The palms of her hands were raw and bruised by her attempts to push the trunk open. One of her shoes ripped when it caught onto something metal as she tried to kick her way out.
Eventually, she gave up. She rolled herself into a ball and stopped crying or trying to escape. She welcomed the hot air with deep, long breaths.
When she was finally let out after two days, she vowed that she would never give up again. The next time she was locked in a hot car, buried alive with her associate, she never gave up. She did everything in her power to get out because, this time, she had a life to live and friends waiting for her.
She tightened the towel around her body and shivered. Her breath came out in panicked gulps. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, she opened the bathroom door to let the steam out. As she toweled her hair, she stepped back into her bedroom.
Today, after her mostly sleepless night, she didn't care about appearances. She threw her hair in a messy bun and quickly put on her clothes before she rushed out of the apartment.
She arrived at the lab in the dark of early morning. Ten minutes later, a little before four am, and she was in the bone room examining remains from limbo. Here, her past couldn't haunt her. Here, she felt safe. Distractions came in sets of two hundred and six, sometimes less depending on what had been found. Here, in the bright lights and brisk air-conditioned lab, nobody could harm her.
A tad after six am, she felt lonely, but when Booth strode into the lab with a smile just for her around 7:30, all else was forgotten. It was like somehow he knew.
It was early, that much he knew. He was used to restless nights, but for entirely different reasons. A case, sometimes, kept him up. His mind would run over details and possible motives. Sometimes his best results came from those nights. Other nights, sleep is hard to come by because of his training. He was trained to wake at the drop of a pin.
Tonight, it's nightmares. Not about clowns or therapy sessions, but about his past. About his father. About being tortured. About life's what-ifs.
Laying flat on his back, he closed his eyes and willed the nightmares away and the sleep to come.
Alcohol started everything. His father always got violent when he had alcohol, and he always consumed the strong stuff. One drink, he would get silly. Two drinks, he'd be irritable. Three, and he would yell. Four drinks, and someone was bound to get hurt.
At first, it was his mother. His mom, the carefree woman who wrote jingles for commercials, was a good woman. She kept her children safe, took blows until she bled and his father got bored. Seeing her bloody face gave him nightmares as a child. Once she was gone, he bore the beatings to protect his baby brother.
A child should find a routine reassuring and comfortable. You wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to school, come home and do your homework before eating dinner, watch some TV, bathe, and go to bed. For Seeley Booth, watching TV meant being his dad's own personal punching bag. Even after he went to sleep, his dad would sometimes kick open his door and continue. A blow to the stomach, a punch to the jawline.
That fear of knowing what's going to happen next, that's what gets him. That's what he remembers and feels when he dreams about his father's punches.
He woke back up in a sweat.
Until his dad left, and he moved in with his Grandfather, he never had the normal childhood. He had school, and occasional outings with his dad, but whenever things were looking up, everything came crashing down around him.
He gritted his teeth.
Hoping purpose would dispel the memories, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of trousers. Walking to where he kept his belts and ties, he picked up his war-related belt buckle and rubbed his thumb over the engraving.
He was in a room with metal pipes, knives, guns, and paralyzing drugs all splayed before him. He and a few others were naked, gagged, and bound to metal rods above their heads. Pools of blood were around each four of the soldier's feet. That blood, mixed with urine, sweat, and their captor's cigarette smoke overwhelmed Booth's nostrils. He felt sick, but had to remain strong.
He stared straight ahead as the man to his right was beaten. The men hit his torso with the various rods and pipes, worsening the already purple and black bruises. Despite the man's agony, he remained silent.
They had no clothes, no contact, no shred of light. All they had was their ability to stay quiet and take the beatings.
He was always last. One by one, they beat the other three men until they slipped back into an unconscious state. Then, they started on him. The torture was no different. He only looked into the eyes of the man who was beating him once and he saw nothing; black, dark, and lifeless. What he assumed his own looked like.
Each blow, each cut, he braced until the last thing he remembered was tasting his own blood.
Pulling the belt through the loops of his pants, he looked in the mirror. There were heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes. He didn't know where he planned on going, but wherever it was, he needed to look human.
He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He tried to forget; to forget what always came next in his nightmares, and to forget what had happened. In the last, and worst, part of his nightmare, he had failed.
It is always cold. Goosebumps run up his arms and shivers rack his body. His lips are dry from the cold air.
As he paces, four sets of eyes watch him. He is certain they are blaming him, certain they are annoyed by the shuffling of his feet. Every few seconds, he looks up at the two doors that stop him. It is well past the point of him being able to do anything, but he can't stop moving.
He was supposed to save her. He was supposed to find her in time. Her people, they could do their thing, but he was supposed to simply know. He failed himself, he failed her friends, and he failed her. Brennan and Hodgins were the Gravedigger's two most recent victims because he couldn't find her.
He could have tried harder. He could have threatened more people. He should have broken down every door in the D.C. area to find her. He didn't. He was only a few hours late. Only a few hours.
The medical examiner pushed through the two doors and nodded for Booth to join him. He needed to officially identify her body. Angela joined him to identify Hodgins. When he sees her, her lips are cracked and bloody. He can still see the remnants of her injuries. He takes her cold hand, still covered in a layer of dirt and blood, and promises he will find her murderer. He promises to get him and make him pay.
He pushed their friends away. He cut off communication. He couldn't take it. If she couldn't live her life surrounded by those who loved her, why should he?
Sick, he rested his head against the tile of the bathroom. He had to leave, had to get out. Most importantly, he needed to know she was alive. He needed to feel her warmth himself.
He blasted the heater in the SUV so he wouldn't feel cold. He drove aimlessly for a few hours, stopping for coffee and a muffin, before he ended up in the parking garage of the lab. This wasn't his domain, but it was hers, and she was exactly what he needed right then.
When he saw her, he smiled. When he saw her eyes, he didn't question why she was there so early. He knew. Something inside of him just knew. He could recognize a sleepless, terror filled night. He understood. After all, he had just experienced one of his own.
Without any explanation, he pulled her into a hug. He breathed in her scent and engrained the feeling of her in his arms into his memory. "It's gonna be okay, Bones. Everything will be okay," he whispered.
She didn't want him to have to deal with her brokenness, but having someone who understood made her feel better better. The two jaded souls understood the other. In that, they found comfort. In each other, they found a much needed breath of life.