AN: This chapter takes us back before Porcelain... to the memories Booth has that reveal Brennan's pain. It may seem slightly OOC to you, but in chatting with readers (FaithInBones being one), I've come to feel that one of the best things about Brennan is she's full of surprises. Things come out of nowhere, like her listening to rap, for example. Angela's influences, Booth's influences... I feel she absorbs more than we are shown overtly on screen. I also come back to season five and her comments to Gordon about being willing to do anything to help Booth...
This one's been done for months, but I wanted to set the stage for it properly. I finally was able to slide the last puzzle piece into place last week. For those prone to tears, you may want to ready yourself.
Tag To: The Wannabe In The Weeds
Disclaimer: I continue to not own Bones, nor do I own the cryptic and haunting lyrics of "Everlong" by the Foo Fighters. I simply know that when I heard it, this piece came into my skull immediately and had to be written.
Everlong (Foo Fighters)
The first time I heard her sing, it was totally and utterly unexpected. Ever have someone completely turn your expectations on their head and do a Mexican hat dance around them? Ever know someone capable of doing it on a consistent basis? That's what it's like to be partners with Bones. Every time I feel I've got a read on her, she throws me for another loop.
Some people grow tired of her in short doses. Me? What can I say? I like a roller coaster. Too bad I'd blown my ass up grabbing a drink: I was looking forward to conning her into a slow dance to "I Wanna Know What Love Is". Just to see her blush.
The second time, it was equally unexpected but bittersweet. Her heart was heavy with the burden of family lost and found – sins of the father. I knew those well. A few bars exchanged over drinks, but it was good for her. She needed a touchstone in the madness.
Neither occasion was a happy one, though. So when Dr. Temperance Brennan, bestselling author and world-famous forensic anthropologist, announced that she also sang better than Cyndi Lauper, I filed that information away. We had a case to solve and I'd managed to pick up a bit of a stalker along the way. But with the perp behind bars, the usual celebratory drinks became a family affair, so to speak. I rallied the squinty troops because Bones needed to have fun. She needed to just let loose and give in to life.
She wore green that night, and I'll always remember the way my breath hitched at the sight of her. She's a beautiful woman on any day, but green and blue are her colours. She seemed confused by my choice of venue, then panicked as I cajoled her into singing. Even Sweets promised to join her in the hijinks and somehow, I suspect the thought of being outdone by a psychologist, coupled with me smiling at her in that way I knew she couldn't resist, sealed the deal.
I knew she could sing alright enough that she wouldn't embarrass herself. I never would have put her in the position otherwise. But when she threw down her jacket and grabbed the mic, something magical happened.
Bones can sing. She can. God, I had to give it to her, watching in awe: she could at least trade vocal blows with Cyndi. But more important than that, she was so happy up there. In that moment, I think she understood just how loved she is. She was somehow more beautiful than ever before, radiating her love in return.
And then... Fuck, I should have known. I should have known that she would follow me there. I should have listened to the kid and his profile. And when I finally heeded her hissed call and saw the gun, there was only one thought: Not her.
I drew my gun as I stepped into the line of fire, the words repeating: Not her. As I hit the ground, the fire spreading throughout my chest, another thought: I failed her.
But she didn't fail me. My vision began to haze, but I saw a flash of movement and heard a second shot. The look in her eyes as she pressed her hands to my wound told me all I needed to know: she'd killed for me. That's what partners do.
"Come on, Booth!" I heard her plead.
I wanted to hang on. I didn't want to let her down any further. But the pain, it was blinding, and between the screams and sobs and her desperate shouts, I could see Parker's face. My life in strobe-like memories. And I was cold. So cold. The pain as she pulled me into her arms, weeping into my jacket, it was erased by the warmth of her I so desperately needed. And then, blackness.
I come to in the ambulance, although my vision refuses to clear. Streaks of colour penetrate my pulsing head as the gurney jostles with every pothole on the road. She is there: I feel her hand, gripping mine as tightly as she ever had. It's raining. I feel it on my cheeks. But then the monitors beep and she curses and I know the rain is falling from her vibrant eyes. God, I want to see them. I will my eyes to see her, blinking furiously.
"Booth, please." A whisper, pained. "Please don't give up."
I squint and there she is: hazy, but there for me, as she always is. The sirens are suddenly roaring, waging a war with the pounding of my erratic heart in my ears. It isn't fair. I want to hear her. I want to tell her she sings better than Cyndi Lauper. I want to tell her how lucky I feel to be counted among her friends. But there is pain, there is cold. The Reaper is breathing down my neck.
I hear her, whispering over the din: "Booth believes in you, so help him. Help him, please..."
She is praying for me, in her own way. It's not working. I've faced death before, come precariously close to the precipice, and I am there again. Only now, I am older and weary and it's just too goddamn hard to breathe. I want to, but I don't know if I can, not even for her.
"I'll do anything, just hold on. Don't you leave me, Booth!"
If I'm going to die, I want that promised choir of heavenly angels. I think I deserve it. It takes me several tries but at last, at last she hears me. Her eyes widen and I groan in pain despite myself. Her hand, sticky with blood – my blood, not hers, thank God – cradles my cheek and she sobs just once, loudly. And then, she sings a different song, but one I know, all the same.
"Hello, I've waited here for you
Everlong
Tonight, I throw myself into
And out of the red
Out of her head, she sang
Come down
And waste away with me
Down with me
Slow how you wanted it to be
I'm over my head
Out of her head she sang..."
"ETA two minutes!" a man's voice calls out upfront.
Bones... she's always surprising me. Post-grunge. Huh. Never saw it coming. I've played this album several times in the car, but she's never once indicated any interest.
She presses her forehead to mine and sings louder, even as the rain continues to fall from the stormy orbs gazing into mine.
"And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again..."
Her face suddenly comes into sharp relief, and it is then I see just how desperate she is. Her grip on my hand is almost vicious, but I understand. I have to pay attention.
"The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when."
She kisses my head as the shifting beneath me stops and slips away. My best friend. My partner. I can't keep my eyes open, but I have to hang on. I have to promise not to stop.
I wake up, I am told, five hours later, in serious but stable condition. I wake up to Cullen, who's the last person I imagined would be here, and just about the last person I want to see. I ask for my partner and am told it's not possible.
The press has caught wind of the shooting. They're reporting I may be dead. It's given Cullen ideas.
If you've ever believed it possible to outrun your past, let me tell you that it's not fucking likely. My rough years of an average solve rate and gambling the nights away had been saved for a rainy day, and Cullen had come to collect. You're going to be dead to the world. We're going to pull that bastard out from under his rock.
"You can't put my son through that," I tell him.
"You can give us a list of people, but keep it to a bare minimum," Cullen says. "This is a matter of national security, Agent Booth."
"Easy," I reply, coughing and wincing. "Parker, Bones, Pops, Jared and Rebecca."
"Dr. Brennan?"
"Yes, Dr. fucking Brennan!" I snap. "Who rode in the ambulance with me?"
"Agent Booth – "
"She's family," I insist. "Or no deal."
Cullen reluctantly agrees and I am left to my own devices. They're going to hide me away in the cancer ward until I'm stable, under a fake name. He leaves to arrange it and I pass out. In my head, I can still hear her singing softly in my ear.
I hate safe houses. I hate being babysat. I hate eating crappy burgers every day and I hate not going for a run. I sulk and watch TV and generally am a pain in the goddamn ass to my caretakers, counting the days. They delay my funeral, just to make sure the bastard knows all about it. I miss my son desperately. I miss Bones. But no calls. No chances of detection. This is our only chance, or so everyone keeps telling me. I'm a lab rat in a cage, just spinning my wheel and hitting the bar, hoping for a crumb of cheese.
How's that for a squinty metaphor?
By chance, I flip the channel on day five and MTV is actually playing a music video. Better: they're playing the song haunting my dreams.
"Foo Fighters, Seeley?" one agent sneers.
"Go fuck yourself, Jackson," I snarl. "You blast Britney Spears from your shitmobile car. You have no room to talk."
"Breathe out, so I can breathe you in
Hold you in
And now I know you've always been
Out of your head
Out of my head, I sang..."
For four minutes, I can not only hear her, but smell her. The loneliness fades and I find myself singing along – not with the video, but with her.
"And I wonder
When I sing along with you
If everything could ever feel this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
The only thing I'll ever ask of you
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when, she sang..."
I'm suffocating in here and I know it's wrong to be thinking of her so often. I know it is. There's a line, for her own good. Pam only thought we were a couple and she nearly took Bones from me. The evidence is so very clear: I need to erase her touches. Concentrate on the respect I owe her, the gratitude for helping to save my life. It's the relief of surviving a brush with death blurring the lines, crossing the wires. That's all. Perfectly natural.
But for four minutes, I indulge in a world where she sings at my side. I don't regret a single second.
Oh, Booth... Always talking yourself out of a relationship with her, aren't you?
I love studying these episodes... in addition to Porcelain, I did a Brennan POV of being told Booth's died in the Bites series that for all intents and purposes, you can consider a companion to this story. Everlong-Fade To Red-Porcelain are a little trilogy of sorts.
Fade To Red (ugh, why can't FF just allow links already?): (you know what site you're on right now) /s/8339962/12/The-Bites-Of-The-Partnership-Pie
Speaking of Bites, while you wander over there, have a look at Even Heroes Need To Be Held. It will be relevant to a future chapter of The Mixed Tape.
Leave me some words, tell me what you think. Has your opinion of Porcelain shifted with the knowledge of Everlong (or even Fade To Red)? Also, where shall we go next? Pick a season, any season, including 8. Let's see what inspires me... Thank you, as always, for reading, reviewing and sharing this story. It means a lot to me.