Author's Note: So two apologies, one for not responding to reviews (again!). That's happened way too many times, but my week kind of went of the rails. Which brings me to apology number two. Sorry for posting this so late in the day (I like to get chapters up early). It was decided that a girls' night was the answer to my wonky week. Yeah, I got to bed at 4:00 AM. My usual bedtime? 9:30. So, yeah. As always, thanks for reading (and reviewing, those that do!) and thanks to Amilyn for betaing- you're the best.

Chapter 50: Without Warning.

"You know how it feels right before you have a complete breakdown? When, like, there's all this emotion building and building, but you're not quite ready to give in to it, so you start laughing too hard, or getting weepy at the slightest thing...like a build-up to the main event?"

"Yep," Cam took a sip from her wine glass and joined Angela in surveying the room.

"Don't you think that would be a pretty accurate description for the tone of this gathering?"

Cam took note of the way Brennan kept flying between the kitchen and her guests- taking coats, checking ovens, never stopping. She was the hostess, but it was clear Max was running the show. He was talking too loudly, making too many jokes- forcing a party. Booth was pretending to be engaged in conversation with Hodgins and Sweets, but was really shooting death glares at Max. Daisy, Amy and Michelle were fussing over Emma and Hayley, trying too hard to pretend none of this was weird. And Russ was standing alone by the kitchen door, trying to catch his sister's attention while avoiding Booth's scorn and his father's attempts at bonding.

"Yep."

Angela tilted her head. "Okay. Just making sure it wasn't just me."

"Oh, no," Cam spoke through a forced smile, "It's painful." She held up her glass to clink against Angela's sparkling cider. "Happy Thanksgiving."

oOo

She once again dismissed Amy's offer to help carry the food to the table, carefully placed Booth's rolls in a basket, then stepped back to take in her work. There was stuffing and cranberry sauce and brussels sprouts and green bean casserole. There was a turkey she had roasted perfectly, even though she'd always hated the taste of turkey- even before she'd given up meat altogether. It was dry and bland; why did everyone continue to pretend they enjoyed it? Why did they insist on building entire holidays around it? There was a pumpkin pie, even though she didn't like pie crust...even though she didn't like her fruit cooked. Though, she reminded herself, pumpkin wasn't a fruit. Everyone expected turkey and pumpkin pie. She had provided beautiful examples of both. It was perfect.

Her careful assessment of all her hard work was interrupted by her father calling everyone to the table. When he stepped up to carve the turkey, she stepped aside. When he gave a speech on blessings and expressed his gratitude that they were all safe and sound and together, she met his eyes, and she smiled, and she bit her tongue. Literally.

When Angela coughed to cover up saying something that sounded like "jackass" and Booth gripped his wine glass so hard she thought he might break it, she ignored them. When everyone began to eat and compliment her on a job well-done, she thanked them. That last part was sincere, and she wondered at how odd it felt to say something she actually meant on this day.

The last time she'd hosted a holiday meal, it had taken nearly two hours to get to dessert. Everyone had talked and laughed and snuck bites between conversation. This time, she felt as though she'd barely sat down before it was time to get up again, clear the plates away. This time, small bursts of conversation were snuck in between bites. She took no offense. A swift end to the day was a mercy she'd willingly accept.

Everyone wanted to help; she refused them all. The kitchen was hers alone, a refuge from the dining room. She embraced her task- removing serving dishes, replacing larger plates with smaller plates. She sliced the pie with great precision- no one would receive more or less than anyone else, not today. She carried it out, placed a pretty little piece on every miniature plate. It would have been perfect.

But he insisted on a toast.

While she had been serving up sweets, Max had followed behind, refilling wine glasses. She had planned to offer coffee with dessert. Everyone over twenty-one, with the exception of Angela, had already had at least three glasses of wine. Having this meal turn into some extended wait for a designated driver would be a punishment she did not feel she deserved.

But it was really his party, and he wanted the wine to flow, and he wanted a toast.

"...So everyone raise your glass to our host, the most important person in my world, Tempe." He turned to her, and she might have been able to handle his words so far- he had been drinking, after all. But then he winked at her, he winked at her, and said, "Baby, you know all I've ever done, I've done out of love for you. Love, and a desire to keep you safe."

Everything went a little fuzzy then, and she missed his "Here, Here!" and his attempts to find someone willing to clink his glass. The crack that had formed two days earlier at Parker's school grew until she was split right down the middle. She'd always found anger a safer place to land than despair, and it was a destination that typically served her well.

She couldn't really tell what anyone else thought about that toast, or whether Booth's wine glass had ultimately survived his grip. She was back on her feet, plastering on a perversion of a smile, making an excuse about whipped cream.

She grabbed a bowl, the cream, some sugar, and a whisk. People liked whipped cream on their pie, right? She began dumping in ingredients, whisking them as hard as she could into soft peaks, because her anger had to go somewhere, and she still hadn't worked out how to direct it towards its rightful target.

"Baby, you know all I've ever done, I've done out of love for you. Love, and a desire to keep you safe."

She remembered the exact moment, tied to that metal chair, behind that blinding spotlight, when she realized her father had lied. Again.

He had winked at her!

She remembered how it felt to realize that she had no answers to give, that whatever the price, she would have to pay it. Again.

The door to the kitchen swung open, and it was her brother, which caught her off-guard, because, while she had been sure there would be someone, she'd expected Angela. Maybe Booth. But it was Russ, and he surprised her, and she was already so angry. She spun the whisk too hard and sent the bowl flying. It was an accident.

Or maybe not.

The entire thing shattered, and she figured that meant everyone's pie wouldn't be perfect, but what was done was done. Russ reacted, but not quickly enough; she was already grabbing up glass before he'd registered what had happened. She'd already sliced her palm open before he was by her side. Another accident.

Or maybe not.

He let out a curse, and the rumblings in the next room signaled that they would not be alone for long. He wrapped a dishcloth around her hand, ushered her out of the kitchen.

He'd grabbed one of the decorative dishcloths. Everything good was being ruined.

As they passed through the dining room, the others' voices became urgent.

"I've got it." Russ silenced them, walked her to the bathroom, never let go of her hand.

"Tell me you have a first aid kit."

"Third shelf, in the closet."

He sat her on the ledge of the tub, left her to look for supplies. He returned quickly and began unwrapping the cloth from her hand. "Christ, Temp, this might need stitches."

She examined her hand with detachment. "No. It will be fine."

Her brother was skeptical, but he'd long since stopped fighting her. He pulled her up to hold her hand under running water. "There are little pieces of glass in there."

"Use the tweezers in the kit to pull them out, then close the wound with the butterfly bandages. It will be fine."

"Shit, that sounds painful."

"It's not your hand."

He gave her a look that let her know he thought she might be slightly crazy. "Yeah, I guess it's not."

Her brother took a breath to steel himself before attacking her palm with the tweezers. Her sharp intake of breath softened his eyes, painted pity on his features. He continued, gently. "When you were a little girl, I used to read to you. I'd read the Clifford books, because they'd been my favorite. Remember, 'I'm Emily Elizabeth from across the street' ?"

"I remember being very skeptical that a dog could grow that large or be that red...and that the girl across the street from us was named Lila."

Russ smiled, though he never looked up from her palm. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I remember you telling me at the time."

He pulled out another piece of glass, and it hurt. She yanked her hand away, and she was just so tired. And hurt. But mostly tired. She buried her face in her hands. Tears would have been a relief, but they wouldn't come. Relief was a luxury she continued to be denied.

"Tempe?"

She raised her face from her hands, and Russ looked horrified. She knew why; she could see her reflection in the mirror over the sink. The blood from her palm slashed and smeared angrily across her face. She didn't want to wash it away. It looked right.

Russ' expression changed from horror to concern. There was a question in there somewhere, and she shook her head in answer.

"I...I don't even like pie."

The concern on her big brother's face never wavered, and it would have been touching, except nothing could really touch her anymore.

"I don't like pie, but I made it, because it's Thanksgiving, and everyone wants pie."

"Tempe?"

"You lied to me, Russ." Her voice cracked, but the tears still wouldn't come, and that made her so angry. "You lied to me, and you left me, and I wish...I was fine before. I was fine."

"I'm sorry." She might have been moved by the brokenness in his simple apology, but nothing could really move her anymore.

"I didn't trust him, but everyone kept telling me that I should, because he did one really bad thing, but it was because he loved me. And I believed them, because I wanted to believe them, and they said I needed a family, and I thought that was probably true. So I let him back in; I was happy to have him back. Because, surely, after something so huge, nothing else bad could happen. That's what I believed. Can you believe that, Russ? I am smart. I am a scientist. I know better. I know about patterns. I know, but I ...ignored everything I know...and...and I just want him to go away. I want him to go away and leave me alone, so I can be fine- the way I was before. But I can't be alone, because that's not normal, and it's sad, so there are just no answers, and I have to host Thanksgiving and make pie and want my father in my life..."

Her brother was crying. Damn him. Those were supposed to be her tears.

She sighed. "There is no reason to cry, Russ. I was just talking. I'm just tired, and my hand hurts-"

But he was shaking his head, standing up, walking toward her, brushing her hair off her cheek. "Oh, Temp."

He sounded pitiful. He thought she was pitiful.

He grabbed a washcloth, began sponging off her face.

Just like the boy with the translucent eyes. The thought came without her permission, and it made her so weary, knowing that they would always come like that- without warning- and that she'd always have to be on guard.

Russ cleaned the blood off her face and once again took her hand in his. "Okay, I can fix this."

It should have comforted her, but it was too late- nothing could really fix her anymore.