Fic Post - Last Toast
Title: Last Toast
Fandom: Bones
Characters: Booth, Brennan
Rating: T for safety
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Once a year, Booth drinks to the guys who didn’t make it. One-shot.
A/N: I’m new to the Bones fandom, and I’m afraid this first ficlet is anything but happy.
Booth doesn’t drink to cope, as a rule. He drinks socially, or to take the edge off after a hard day, but he doesn’t drink to forget the army. He’s tried that, and it didn’t work.
Once a year, though, on February twenty-fifth, Booth drinks himself senseless, and remembers the army. Pulls out the old photo of himself and Danny Connelly and raises a glass to the guys who didn’t make it. Lists them, one by one, sip by sip. Connelly. Bartlett. Alvarez. Dobson. Baby-Face Petey Hayes, three weeks shy of twenty. Luca. Danny Connelly again.
The little Raddick boy, music still playing for his birthday and a hole in his daddy’s head. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid, Booth thinks, and laughs humorlessly to an empty living room. Luisa Ramos de Dominguez, killed as her husband’s bodyguards reacted too late to a shot they’d never heard coming. A girl around twelve and her brother maybe five, caught in crossfire on a muddy road somewhere outside Pristina. Christ, he hates listing the kids.
Booth pours himself another - his third now, or fourth? - and swipes his cuff across the coffee table to catch what missed the glass. “What the hell,” he mutters and drinks to Hank Lutrell’s legs. Twice. Once for each leg, he thinks, and this time laughs hysterically and drinks to Donetti’s three goddamn fingers.
Danny Connelly again, and the laugh is gone. Jesus, Dan. He takes another drink, because the burn in his throat pushes away Connelly’s bloodied face. Drinks to the good times with Dan and Frankie Daniels. Drinks to Frankie’s luck, wherever he’s trying it now.
The bottle is nearly empty, and he may as well finish it rather than put that little bit back in the cupboard, so he raises the bottle to his dad’s oldest brother, the one he never met. Uncle Al, whose dog tags came back from Vietnam without him and who had a plate set out for him every Thanksgiving and Christmas when Booth was a kid.
Booth closes his eyes and drains the bottle. Dan Connelly gets the last toast every year, on the anniversary of his death. Dan, who once said that when he died, he wanted the biggest, drunkest wake in the history of Irish wakes. I want ‘em all in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, man. That’s how I wanna go. Dan, who lost his weapon in the chaos of that ambush. Dan, who didn’t even last til the medic got there.
He runs his thumb over the photo one last time and sets it down on the coffee table. Leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He gets to this point every year. The point where he’s so deep in the memories that he can smell the smoke and blood, feel the sand in his eyes and in his mouth, hear the gunfire and the explosions and a scream that can’t possibly be Danny’s. Every year he tells himself it’s the last, that next year he’ll have one drink for everyone and call it a night. Every year he knows that he’ll go back, just one last time, because he can’t leave Danny alone in that hell, not yet.
A hand lands on his shoulder and Booth reacts without thinking. Grabs the wrist and twists, spinning to face his assailant. Takes a knee to the stomach and falls, dragging the Iraqi down with him and landing hard across Danny’s body.
Only one. There were four last time. Four of them against just Booth, and it was a month before he was rescued, another three months before he could walk. He’ll kill the bastard with his bare hands if he has to, maybe get killed himself, but they won’t get him alive this time.
Something explodes nearby and he takes advantage of the distraction to get a firm hold on the Iraqi’s wrists, pinning the man with one arm pressed hard to his throat. There’s a gleam of fear in the dark eyes and Booth presses harder.
“Booth,” the man gasps desperately, and Booth’s head starts to spin. The Iraqi struggles to breathe, her blue eyes wide, confused and terrified. He can’t remember the last time Bones was this scared. “Booth!” louder this time.
He stares around him at the sand and the burning M1, at his living room, at the weapon he twisted out of the Iraqi’s grasp, at his spare key and at a manila folder spilling papers across the floor. At Danny’s body, at his coffee table, at the shattered bottle. At the Iraqi soldier. At Bones, breathing hard, tears in her eyes. At his own arm, crushing and heavy across her throat.
He staggers to his feet and away from her, shaking his head, nausea churning in his stomach. Stumbles back until he can go no further. “Get out,” he whispers hoarsely, flattening his palms against the wall. “Get out of here, Bones.”
“Booth -“
“Just go,” he begs, closing his eyes so he won’t have to see her reddened wrists and split lip. “Please, Bones, go.”
Her cool hands touch his shoulders and he tears away from her, down the hall to the bathroom. No matter how much the whiskey burns on the way down, it’s always worse on the way back up. The desert. Danny. The prison. Bones. Jesus, no. This is what insanity is, not knowing anymore what’s real and what isn’t, attacking his partner because he can’t tell her apart from a memory. He can’t be losing his mind. He can’t. He grips his head between his hands as though physical force can hold in whatever sanity he has left.
A damp cloth is pressed to the back of his neck and Booth shivers at the cold. He lets her cool his sweaty forehead and rest a steadying hand on his back until the room stops tilting crazily around him.
“You should go,” he mutters, and Bones sighs.
“Yes,” she says frankly, still patting the cloth over his face. “I should.”
He can’t look at her. Can’t bear to imagine how she’ll look at him. He used to be a good man, in her eyes. “I’m not - not safe, Bones. For you.”
She doesn’t answer that, just hands him a glass of water. “You’re dehydrated, Booth. And you need to rest.”
He makes it to his bedroom with her help, lets her unbutton his shirt and unbuckle his belt because he knows he wouldn’t be able to do it himself. Stumbles into bed and hopes she’s gone when he wakes up, because he’s not sure he can face her. Wishes she’d never leave.
“I’ll put in for a transfer. Right away.” He’ll get himself sent to Arizona or New Mexico. Maybe Alaska. He’ll never see her again, never see Parker, and he doesn’t think he can live with that, but he can’t be around either of them, not anymore. The next time he finds himself in Kuwait, or in Kosovo, he might not come back in time. Christ, the Gulf. The ambush. The machine-gun fire and Danny screaming and there’s sand everywhere, so fucking much sand.
“That’s an extremely irrational thing to do while you’re drunk, Booth.”
No sand. No Danny, no guns, just soft sheets and the rough denim of Bones’ jeans against his cheek and the smell of her fabric softener. Another cold cloth on his forehead.
He grips her hand with everything he’s got. Next year, he promises, he’ll drink to her instead. To his son. To peace. To anything but Uncle Al and Baby-Face Hayes. To anyone but Danny Connelly.
Fandom: Bones
Characters: Booth, Brennan
Rating: T for safety
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Once a year, Booth drinks to the guys who didn’t make it. One-shot.
A/N: I’m new to the Bones fandom, and I’m afraid this first ficlet is anything but happy.
Booth doesn’t drink to cope, as a rule. He drinks socially, or to take the edge off after a hard day, but he doesn’t drink to forget the army. He’s tried that, and it didn’t work.
Once a year, though, on February twenty-fifth, Booth drinks himself senseless, and remembers the army. Pulls out the old photo of himself and Danny Connelly and raises a glass to the guys who didn’t make it. Lists them, one by one, sip by sip. Connelly. Bartlett. Alvarez. Dobson. Baby-Face Petey Hayes, three weeks shy of twenty. Luca. Danny Connelly again.
The little Raddick boy, music still playing for his birthday and a hole in his daddy’s head. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid, Booth thinks, and laughs humorlessly to an empty living room. Luisa Ramos de Dominguez, killed as her husband’s bodyguards reacted too late to a shot they’d never heard coming. A girl around twelve and her brother maybe five, caught in crossfire on a muddy road somewhere outside Pristina. Christ, he hates listing the kids.
Booth pours himself another - his third now, or fourth? - and swipes his cuff across the coffee table to catch what missed the glass. “What the hell,” he mutters and drinks to Hank Lutrell’s legs. Twice. Once for each leg, he thinks, and this time laughs hysterically and drinks to Donetti’s three goddamn fingers.
Danny Connelly again, and the laugh is gone. Jesus, Dan. He takes another drink, because the burn in his throat pushes away Connelly’s bloodied face. Drinks to the good times with Dan and Frankie Daniels. Drinks to Frankie’s luck, wherever he’s trying it now.
The bottle is nearly empty, and he may as well finish it rather than put that little bit back in the cupboard, so he raises the bottle to his dad’s oldest brother, the one he never met. Uncle Al, whose dog tags came back from Vietnam without him and who had a plate set out for him every Thanksgiving and Christmas when Booth was a kid.
Booth closes his eyes and drains the bottle. Dan Connelly gets the last toast every year, on the anniversary of his death. Dan, who once said that when he died, he wanted the biggest, drunkest wake in the history of Irish wakes. I want ‘em all in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, man. That’s how I wanna go. Dan, who lost his weapon in the chaos of that ambush. Dan, who didn’t even last til the medic got there.
He runs his thumb over the photo one last time and sets it down on the coffee table. Leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He gets to this point every year. The point where he’s so deep in the memories that he can smell the smoke and blood, feel the sand in his eyes and in his mouth, hear the gunfire and the explosions and a scream that can’t possibly be Danny’s. Every year he tells himself it’s the last, that next year he’ll have one drink for everyone and call it a night. Every year he knows that he’ll go back, just one last time, because he can’t leave Danny alone in that hell, not yet.
A hand lands on his shoulder and Booth reacts without thinking. Grabs the wrist and twists, spinning to face his assailant. Takes a knee to the stomach and falls, dragging the Iraqi down with him and landing hard across Danny’s body.
Only one. There were four last time. Four of them against just Booth, and it was a month before he was rescued, another three months before he could walk. He’ll kill the bastard with his bare hands if he has to, maybe get killed himself, but they won’t get him alive this time.
Something explodes nearby and he takes advantage of the distraction to get a firm hold on the Iraqi’s wrists, pinning the man with one arm pressed hard to his throat. There’s a gleam of fear in the dark eyes and Booth presses harder.
“Booth,” the man gasps desperately, and Booth’s head starts to spin. The Iraqi struggles to breathe, her blue eyes wide, confused and terrified. He can’t remember the last time Bones was this scared. “Booth!” louder this time.
He stares around him at the sand and the burning M1, at his living room, at the weapon he twisted out of the Iraqi’s grasp, at his spare key and at a manila folder spilling papers across the floor. At Danny’s body, at his coffee table, at the shattered bottle. At the Iraqi soldier. At Bones, breathing hard, tears in her eyes. At his own arm, crushing and heavy across her throat.
He staggers to his feet and away from her, shaking his head, nausea churning in his stomach. Stumbles back until he can go no further. “Get out,” he whispers hoarsely, flattening his palms against the wall. “Get out of here, Bones.”
“Booth -“
“Just go,” he begs, closing his eyes so he won’t have to see her reddened wrists and split lip. “Please, Bones, go.”
Her cool hands touch his shoulders and he tears away from her, down the hall to the bathroom. No matter how much the whiskey burns on the way down, it’s always worse on the way back up. The desert. Danny. The prison. Bones. Jesus, no. This is what insanity is, not knowing anymore what’s real and what isn’t, attacking his partner because he can’t tell her apart from a memory. He can’t be losing his mind. He can’t. He grips his head between his hands as though physical force can hold in whatever sanity he has left.
A damp cloth is pressed to the back of his neck and Booth shivers at the cold. He lets her cool his sweaty forehead and rest a steadying hand on his back until the room stops tilting crazily around him.
“You should go,” he mutters, and Bones sighs.
“Yes,” she says frankly, still patting the cloth over his face. “I should.”
He can’t look at her. Can’t bear to imagine how she’ll look at him. He used to be a good man, in her eyes. “I’m not - not safe, Bones. For you.”
She doesn’t answer that, just hands him a glass of water. “You’re dehydrated, Booth. And you need to rest.”
He makes it to his bedroom with her help, lets her unbutton his shirt and unbuckle his belt because he knows he wouldn’t be able to do it himself. Stumbles into bed and hopes she’s gone when he wakes up, because he’s not sure he can face her. Wishes she’d never leave.
“I’ll put in for a transfer. Right away.” He’ll get himself sent to Arizona or New Mexico. Maybe Alaska. He’ll never see her again, never see Parker, and he doesn’t think he can live with that, but he can’t be around either of them, not anymore. The next time he finds himself in Kuwait, or in Kosovo, he might not come back in time. Christ, the Gulf. The ambush. The machine-gun fire and Danny screaming and there’s sand everywhere, so fucking much sand.
“That’s an extremely irrational thing to do while you’re drunk, Booth.”
No sand. No Danny, no guns, just soft sheets and the rough denim of Bones’ jeans against his cheek and the smell of her fabric softener. Another cold cloth on his forehead.
He grips her hand with everything he’s got. Next year, he promises, he’ll drink to her instead. To his son. To peace. To anything but Uncle Al and Baby-Face Hayes. To anyone but Danny Connelly.