Seconds ticked by loudly on Booth's old wall-mounted clock, a noise that seemed to be getting stronger with every passing quarter hour. For a minute, she experienced the entirely irrational thought that morning would never come. That the world had stopped turning and she would be left forever in darkness. First 12:00, 12:50, 1:30; on and on it had continued until it was now 2:45 with sleep stubbornly refusing to make an appearance and little hope of its arrival anytime soon.
Really, the darkness in her partner's apartment was not all that oppressive. Despite the drawn shades, rays of light from streetlamps below were still making their way into his living room, throwing objects into strange perspective and allowing her eyes the opportunity to explore. She had been in his apartment dozens if not hundreds of times, but never at this time and under such circumstances. Items that had been glossed over before were brought into sharp prominence and she let her mind observe them without judgment, hoping that sleep would catch her on her purposeless journey.
3:00 am. She was glad for the light, subdued as it was. Dr. Temperance Brennan would never have admitted that she was afraid of the dark, not as an adult. It seemed like such a childish fear, one that should have been long left behind. And she had; no longer needing even an inconspicuous night-light in her room, she slept quite well on most nights. It had been a hard-earned accomplishment. Not so with closet doors left ajar; these were always carefully closed even if it meant having to get up from soft, warm sheets into the surrounding cold air to perform the task. Even when her bare feet would pay the price from the icy floors. It was a ritual rooted in a different, far-away life. And this was the first memory to surface; because it seemed fairly innocuous, she let herself to take just a peek in order to pass the time.
Seven, she was sure she had been seven. An ordinary night where her mother had tucked her in and said goodnight with a kiss. Ordinary but for the fact that at some point, she had woken up in complete darkness within a space so confined she found she could barely move her legs. Disoriented, she tried summoning her burgeoning powers of reason to figure out what had happened but seconds slipped by and all she knew was that she was no longer in the safety of her bed but somewhere dark and muffled instead. She was trapped.
This was when she had first encountered that mystifying sensation: panic. A fear so deep that no thought could banish or control it. Crying now and with the sound of blood thumping wildly in her ears, her fingers felt around her to find objects both alien and vaguely familiar-books, shoes and what could have been clothes. But no exit, and no light.
"Mom, mom!" She was calling, screaming, hoping that someone would hear her, that something that was not her mother wouldn't answer her plea. She was sure there were things in there with her-monsters, terrible and shapeless.
"Tempe, honey, your mom's asleep. Where are you?"
"Daddy, help me!"
A door was opened and an overhead light hit her eyes. She was weeping almost hysterically now, reaching out to Max.
"Honey, you must have slept-walked into your closet. It's okay, sweetheart. See, it's just your closet; everything's fine now. Daddy's right here. Let's put you back to bed. Hey, what if I read you a story until you calm down a little?"
Her reaction that night had embarrassed her the following day; Russ teased her over it and she felt it was his revenge because she was so much smarter than he was. Even though he was four years older, she could already read books that were at his level, solve math problems that were too difficult for him and beat him at just every board game they played. So Russ had called her a baby to get even, and she decide from that moment on never to take anything at face value or to lose control that way again.
She would watch and listen and she would never be scared by make-believe things in the future. Weren't her mom and dad always telling her that you could solve any puzzle if you put your mind to it? She hadn't been trapped in a horrible cave and there had been no monsters there; only a perfectly run-of-the-mill closet filled with childhood items. This had been an important lesson; once you used your smarts, scary things went away, just like when her dad had turned on the light. There were no such things as monsters, no magic, no fairies. Just common, everyday things and occurrences that could be explained away with a little bit of effort.
But just in case, and because despite a lifetime of self-discipline she had been unable to banish every last irrational thought, the closet door had been duly shut ever since.
3:30 am. That harmless little memory brought scarier friends along. Closing her eyes, she once again tried finding sleep, knowing she would be of little use at the lab tomorrow without it. But the ticking clock whisked her away to what appeared to be the inside of a car, the smell of blood filling her nostrils with its sharp metallic tang. No longer seven, she managed to keep her panic in check and found a light. Beyond the windshield was nothing; just a shapeless dark mass. And in the back seat? Hodgins, unconscious, and probably bleeding to death.
Clarity and control became her mantra throughout the abduction and interment because without these, there was no hope of success. Honesty required the admission that, yes, there had been moments of doubt and even despair; but secure in the knowledge that Hodgins and she were the best in their fields and that her partner would never give up on them, it had been possible to remain focused and relatively calm. Afterwards, she experienced a true feeling of pride because she and Hodgins had managed, against the odds, to find a solution to their predicament. Logic had triumphed predictably over fear, even if the bathroom light had been left on for weeks after the ordeal was over.
4:00 am. Too late, too late she understood what was happening. She had let her guard down and an awful genie had been released. Her blood was literally running cold as a torrent of secret, grisly images made its way into her conscious mind, now rendered useless by exhaustion. Her personal Pandora's box, filled to the brim with a veritable treasure trove of horrors and impossible now to shut back up because the receptacle itself had been shattered by the same bullet that had severed Mr. Nigel-Murray's aorta.
A box she used to open only to put more terrible things into, after which it was diligently shoved far back into the most inaccessible recesses of her brain. It had all been carefully kept and catalogued inside-every victim, every crime; the women, the young girls, the children, the denizens of countless mass graves, their hands tied behind their backs and their meager possessions scattered in the soil. Skulls, bones, flesh, blood. And Booth, drowning in one corner, being shot through the heart in another.
But the broken box was saving one special item for her, one she had only revisited once recently in an attempt to help a friend. Sixteen; she was sixteen now, at yet another foster home. Her foster parents-the word parent had never so been misused-made it clear from the start she wasn't welcome, only the cherished income that came with her through the state. The chores were endless. Imaginary delays were accompanied by harsh words, lack of food and imprisonment in her room, even when there was school to attend. Such awful, petty-minded people who never ceased calling her strange and crazy, telling her it was no wonder that her parents and her brother had left.
The particular task on a warm November afternoon? Washing and putting away the dishes sitting at the bottom of a filthy sink. Water was quickly rising to the top, water so hot that steam was now clinging to the window above. Too hot; the water was scalding but it didn't matter. She had been forced to reach in regardless and retrieve a plate even as she winced from the heat. The soapy plate had slipped from her burning hands and crashed next to her feet, scattering into a hundred shards on the sticky kitchen floor.
Lying on Booth's sofa, she covered her ears in a desperate attempt to keep out the shrill voice of her foster mom, screaming that she was useless, clumsy, and that she had broken one of her best plates. The punishment for the terrible offense? Being walked outside by the woman and her husband and forced to get into the trunk of their car. "You stay in there and think about all the trouble you are. I don't want you anywhere near our stuff for a good long while. You think you're so smart, how come you can't even do the dishes right? You're worthless." She hadn't been too afraid then, merely mortified. One day, she thought, she would do everything in her power to learn to protect herself and then she'd never become a victim again.
But for now the car was hot from being in the sun and she found she had difficulty breathing. Moving some items around, she discovered several holes at the bottom of the trunk and pushed some of the rust through with her fingers in order to give her more access to air. How long would this go on? Surely they wouldn't keep her in here the rest of the day. But minutes became hours and as every muscle began to cramp, she noticed that the heat had begun to dissipate along with daylight. It was raining now-she could hear the soft plinking sound of raindrops, accompanied by the occasional slap of wet leaves hitting the body of the car. It was cold, and hunger was beginning to gnaw at her insides.
The final humiliation though, was yet to come. She needed to go to the bathroom, had needed to go for a while, and felt she couldn't hold it anymore. It was clearly late now; they weren't coming to get her. So she had relieved herself, soaking her pants in the process. What would her classmates say now? Look at that weird, pathetic Brennan girl, wetting herself like a little kid. The teasing would be endless if if they ever found out.
After all she had already gone through in her life, this was the one moment when she finally felt herself breaking. Together they had broken her: her parents, her brother, the foster homes, her peers, and she didn't know if she could ever be put back together again in just the right way. Temperance Brennan might survive the night, but things would change irrevocably after this. They had to, if her psyche had any chance of staying intact. The last remaining vestiges of childhood innocence had been ripped away from her today and she wept frantically, understanding the gravity of that loss.
Some part of her rational mind was still working, telling her that crying would only speed up dehydration, but the voice was faint and the tears continued to fall. What if they never came for her, what if they simply dumped the old car off in some ravine and she died alone and unmissed? An almost cliched fate for the orphan who had no one to fight on her behalf, to seek her out, to mourn for her after she was gone. No one; absolutely no one would care if she died today.
They came back the next day and at least spared her comments about the state of the trunk or the smell on her clothes. Maybe they were afraid that somehow they had gone too far, that trouble with the authorities would follow, or maybe someone had heard something and called. Whatever the case, she had not lasted there much longer. After a few weeks of being almost completely ignored by her foster parents, she had been shipped off to another home with people who were at least less prone to psychotic behavior.
Sobbing. She was sobbing uncontrollably into the pillow that Booth had given her; heaving as she tried to gasp for air. Sobbing with the same intensity as she had in the trunk of that car when her prospects had appeared so dim. And feeling like she might just throw up as the final specter of the night made its appearance alongside the others.
Poor Mr. Nigel-Murray, his blood seeping effortlessly through Booth's hands and making what eerily looked like a halo around his prone body. Vincent, who was young and silly and easy to dismiss. Who had often irritated her with his non-sequitors and his endless love of trivia. Poor Vincent, who had died asking her not to send him away, not to make him leave the lab. How could he have reached that conclusion? She had never said anything to indicate that she thought him inadequate to the task or that she had any intention of replacing him. So if it hadn't been her words, then maybe it was something in her demeanor. Something about the way she presented herself that made her unapproachable and intimidating.
Why hadn't he ever asked her how she felt about him, about the work he was doing? She could have told him that he was doing fine and then he wouldn't have been worried. But it wasn't his problem-it was hers, or specifically, her that was the problem. Booth had often said that he wanted others to see her like he did, that maybe she should soften her image a little so that her appearance could match what he thought he could see in her heart. She hadn't done it, not enough, and now she would forever pay for that omission with the memory of Vincent's pleading eyes. It was a vision that would never fit into that little secret box of hers assuming she could even find a way to put it back together again.
Did she truly come across as that unfeeling, as that rigid? Just like those awful foster parents? Had she really made those final moments of his life that much more painful by the way she had unwittingly treated him? His last, terrified thoughts had been about her and she could no longer continue to dismiss the fact that regardless of intent, her actions impacted others around her in countless ways and she was entirely responsible for their consequences.
The impulse towards flight, a feeling she was well acquainted with, began to grow and get stronger as her thoughts pressed down on her chest with the weight of shovelfuls of earth. Run; run into the streets below, far away from everything. Wear yourself out until your legs give way and your lungs burn. Until your mind shuts down and you can no longer feel anything. But run to where? The only person who had ever managed to comfort her since the loss of her parents was sleeping not twenty feet away from where she stood. All she had to do was cross the threshold of his bedroom and he would be there, almost certainly willing to help her.
She wouldn't do it. He needed his sleep for tomorrow, for when he had to go on the hunt. But Booth had asked her to stay for a reason, a reason that seemed to have little to do with her actual physical safety, given the fact that their enemy could ostensibly see through walls. So maybe it was meant to serve an entirely different purpose, perhaps because he knew that something like this could happen and he didn't want her to be alone. It would be just like Booth to worry about her when it was his life on the line. Still, he needed his strength. Taking Broadsky down would require lightning-fast reflexes and deep concentration; skills that depended in great part on rest.
4:40 am. She thought of the phone, of how easily it could have been Booth holding it, of how easily it could have been Booth lying in the morgue of the Jeffersonian. It was terrible, horrible to admit that she was glad he was the one still alive. She grieved for Vincent and his family but Booth was her partner, her best friend; the man she had finally accepted she wanted, needed in her life under whatever guise he chose to be in it. Anything that he was willing to be for her she would take as long as he remained safe and at her side-even if it was only as a friend. And yet after today, there was the real possibility that she would never see him again. What if he found her asleep and didn't wake her before he left? If he didn't say goodbye?
This was the turning point-the moment when she finally accepted that she didn't want to be on her own anymore. A decision was made and she allowed her shaky fingers to turn the knob of his door, compelled by a need that was as irrational as it was overwhelming.