It hurt. Everything hurt. He did not, could not, put words to anything. Did not allow himself to think. For the last day he had existed in a delusion, allowing himself to dwell on the good memories with an implicit belief that he would follow his memories no further.
But somewhere in the back of his mind he had been working his way to this. So when the questions started all he could think was that it was time. He needed to know now or he needed to forget for real and move on. He didn't even wonder why they had started this, the anger at Hodgins for casually mentioning… mentioning it… had slipped away, smothered by the looming reality that he could no longer live this way. He had spent the last few years as much in limbo as any of the skeletons Bones was so devoted to.
He understood these things without allowing them to form coherently even in his mind. The emotions were real and raw, but the thoughts to describe them would be deep, and he was not a man of deep thoughts.
He was a man of action, so he acted.
He drove home, entered his apartment and shut the front door so he could open the closet behind it. He quickly pulled miscellaneous winter gear off the shelf at the top of the closet, reaching to the back to pull out a plain worn out backpack. He did not allow himself to hesitate, but placed the bag gently on the floor, before striding purposefully to his bedroom. As he opened the top drawer of the small filing cabinet in the corner of the room his movements slowed, almost as if he was forcing himself to move through viscous oil. He persisted, not allowing his hands to tremble, to remove a plain shipping envelope from the back of the drawer and pushed the drawer closed. Once the drawer was closed, the envelope in his hand, he took a deep breath, not looking at the object in his hand. As he let out the breath he turned, moving quickly again, now perhaps more restless than purposeful.
Still not looking at the envelope in his hand, he scooped up the backpack and left his apartment.
He got in his car and, wanting something to occupy himself with until the evening, he headed for a more rural area where a friend lived.
Once on the road his mind wandered again, and he forgot to stop it.
………..
The first time they had been drunk and exhausted. It was the Wednesday of his first week back from surgery. He remembered it in vivid, mostly coherent flashes. Passion, warmth, and something akin to relief, grinning at each other at the inevitable little fumbles, dancing this oldest of dances together for the first time. It was easy not to think, to just go through the steps of a dance they both knew well, it was almost dreamlike.
When she pulled herself from her their shared warmth afterword to use her bathroom he tried to rouse himself enough to ask if he should leave, but he hadn't managed to move by the time she got back. He was indignant when she shoved him to the far side of the bed when she returned, but as she lay down she rubbed the top of one foot along his leg and let it settle there, and rested a hand warmly against his arm.
Exhausted and still telling himself he was drunk, he had felt a sort of shocked wonder at how perfect it felt at the time. Enough contact for a connection without the awkward maneuvering necessary to sleep in an embrace. When he felt her hand suddenly become hesitant and start to pull away he brought his own hand to her arm, staying sprawled mostly on his stomach. He fell asleep that way, with his hand on her arm and her leg against his, and slept so soundly that when he woke he would not have known time had passed except that it was no longer dark, and her stirring form was wrapped up with his still one.
It had been the most natural thing in the world, and in the weeks that followed, although he did not forget, it did not change them. It was not unheard of for either of them to sleep at the other's place during or more often at the end of a hard case. They had even on a few occasions fell asleep in proximity on a couch, but neither had ever slept in the other's bed before. When he first slept in her guest room he had made a point to ask his not so discrete partner not to mention it to anyone, to avoid misunderstandings, but other than that it was something they simply did not discuss. They had what he felt was a tacit understanding that (even though it meant nothing) it was private, and not to be mentioned. And neither was this.
The next time was just over two weeks later, on Saturday afternoon. A bout of silliness and he suddenly realized that he knew that bright wide eyed look of excitement on her face. It was an entirely different type of intoxication. Playful and enthusiastic, he could still hear the sound of her giggling and himself laughing along. The first time had been in a fog, but this time was in the light of day, carefree and open and so, so intimate.
The first time when she left he was left with a sense of peace, but the second time, once again in her bed, he had been left with a sense of disappointment he could not shake.
They had no open cases, and she left in the middle of the next week for some academic super scientist tour that had been planned awhile before.
Again they did not speak of it. The most time they spent together before she left was when he drove her to the airport. He did try to say something, but he didn't know what. His mind had turned to the request she had made to him before his surgery. He had done his part, but after the surgery and subsequent recovery she had not mentioned it again so he had put little thought to it until that week.
By then it had become routine for him to give her his Saint Christopher medallion when she traveled, and this time was no exception. She was quiet on the ride to the airport, friendly, but inclined to talk only about the colleagues and facilities she would be visiting and the talks she would be giving. In a gesture that only served to confuse him more, this time when he put his medallion in her hand once she had gathered her bags, she smiled that excited, proud smile that meant she thought she was doing something socially correct: she held her other hand out to him in return.
She had put her little silver ring, her own family heirloom, on a simple chain similar to the one his medallion hung on.
Her smile faltered a little, studying his face, but she must have found something there that satisfied her, because her smile came back.
She told him she would see him in a little over two weeks, and she left.
It had been hard to put it out of his mind while she was gone. He thought he had done well at going about his life and work as usual. It wasn't uncommon for her to travel, and when they did not have a case together his day to day life did not include her beyond phone calls and occasional lunches. They still talked briefly on the phone just about every day; general updates on goings on at the lab, progress of her trip, nothing particularly personal.
A week and a half into her trip things changed some. She told him that she would be leaving again almost as soon as she got back. She said there was an important project returning to an excavation she had been involved with, before they were working together, an d that she was obligated for professional, personal, and contractual reasons to return for the start of.
There had been something in her tone that had put him on edge. He knew her, and he knew something was wrong. But at the time he had been elated thinking that she was unhappy that she would be away (from him) for so long. It was one of the things that haunted him, knowing that if he had not made that arrogant assumption he could have and would have pressed her to find out what was wrong.
If only he had known…. What?
He tried to stop himself. The 'what ifs' were endless.
Her homecoming had not been what he wanted, and he was almost as certain it had been hard for her as well. She had been aloof, actually avoiding him, for most of the time. When they did finely talk it was one of the more spectacular arguments of their entire association, which was saying something, and it was not resolved before she left.
But that was not something he needed to share with the others. That fight would not provide any information about what had happened three weeks later, and it was not a memory he would ever willingly share. He pulled himself together as he reached his destination, mercilessly smothering the memories as well as he was able.
The morning after chapter should be mid may, which, by my timeline in this story, puts Critic in the Cabanet about the beguining of april.
Hopefully another Parker chapter by tonight.
Reviews always requested and appriciated, hope you enjoy regardless.