Jack had reenacted his conversations with Cam dozens of times in the two days since what was left of Lucille had arrived in the lab. She’d come by to say goodnight hours ago, chipper and breezy, ready to go off pounding brews and playing poker with her friends, or pounding her friends, or whatever the hell she’d said. It didn’t matter what she’d said, really, Lucille’s case was over and done as far as Cam was concerned, and she’d only poked her head in his room to underscore the point
( ... )
Booth drifted into the small room. He moved closer to where Jack sat without seeming to notice that's what he was doing. For over a week now, he'd been picking up on some very strange vibes from the bug-man. And that was saying something.
Very strange.
Seeley was suddenly intensely curious to know what was going on behind those too-pretty blue eyes. What new/old/redone conspiracy theory was stretching Jack to the very limits of exhaustion.
Booth told himself that it would be something to laugh to himself about while he was watching his son ride the tea-cups for the fifty-thousandth time. Amusement only. Nothing more.
Right.
"Not much. Dropped off some files for Bones to look at, on my way out."
By the time Seeley finished talking he was standing next to Jack. He looked down, glancing over the slides and files and reports. Casual. Interested.
It wasn’t that surprising that Booth was roaming around the lab; none of the lab crew held what anyone would call typical hours. It wasn’t that surprising that he was standing close enough to Jack to radiate heat; Jack noticed that he tended to step into personal spaces and justified it by categorizing it as a fed thing.
When in doubt, Jack categorizes. It’s the curse of being the bug and slime guy: everything has a phylum, a strata, a place. Everything.
Everyone.
Jack squinted up at Booth, shrugging.
“I’m just …” What am I doing? “Doing a little extra legwork on the Desjardins case. Just... trying to close some gaps, despite the fact that I've been told repeatedly that there are no gaps to close."
He's angry enough to let the rough side show, despite what he knows about Booth and Cam. Tongue bitten to keep from slamming his boss and Booth's ... whatever ... by saying more, Jack stretched out his upper back and changed the subject.
"Don't you have something better to do than hang here on a Friday night?"
Seeley watched as Jack spoke. Watched Jack's eyes slide away from meeting his. Watched Jack's lips close tightly after each word, after each sentence. Despite the nice stretch at the end of Jack's little speech ... Booth was not convinced. In point of fact, he was even more curious
( ... )
Between the cold Bass and the fire snapping in the hearth, Jack could feel himself relaxing more than he had in days. His breath was still catching on his ribs as though they were broken, disjointed, but sitting there in the warmly-lit room at least he could inhale and feel it make a difference.
Leaning his head back into the sofa cushion, Jack looked to the ceiling. Aware that every question Booth would ask could help him find a reason and a killer, Jack used the pale expanse of plaster over their heads to order the facts in his mind before putting words to them.
“Lucille’s parents were physicians in Haiti, where she was born. Her father was killed by the Ton Ton Macoute when she was eight. She got out of the country with her mother a few years later - they settled in Cuba but …” Jack stops to consider his phrasing, editing out his feelings about Lucille’s emigration, knowing that a political diatribe isn’t going to be any help to Booth. The facts, he thought. Stick to the process.“Her mother and she came to the States on the
( ... )
Seeley watched as Jack spoke. He listened, of course, he listened to every word spoken and to the ones that were not. But he watched.
He watched Jack's head fall back. He watched his eyes close. He watched the curve of his lips and the dip of his throat *just a kiss there* when he swallowed and he was startled by the sharp, clear blue that finally met his own in the golden glow of his living room.
"Yeah. I've met that person. Someone so different. Someone so unlikely ..."
Booth shook his head and stood. He picked up his empty bottle and started walking to the kitchen.
"Why would anyone want to kill your family's maid, Hodgins?"
Jack could see it in the way Booth looked at Brennan; of course he knew the feeling.
Of course.Whatever ease he'd allowed himself to feel coiled inaward, taut and hard. Jack drained the last of his beer and pushed the thought out of his mind, but it was replaced instead by something he'd heard, a poem or a song, something about the heart's metallurgy, something about the inability to silver to gold, no matter how desperately you want it
( ... )
Seeley grabbed another beer from the fridge, opened it with a twist of his wrist, tossed the cap into the trash and took a drink before setting it on the counter. He picked up a towel covered bowl from the top of the stove, flicked off the material and dusted a thick, wooden cutting board with flour. He scooped the dough out of the bowl and started flattening it with automatic movements, his mind busy with the information that Jack was slowly feeding him.
"What would someone in your family have done that is worth killing for? And when did you guys pin-point this murder? Last summer? Fall?"
Biting back a bitter laugh, Jack stood and collected his plate and cutlery.
"Yeah, you don't want to know what I'm thinking," he said reflexively. No sooner was it out of his mouth than he regretted it. There was nothing he could do but shrug and force himself to make eye contact with a smile, so he did, picked up his empty beer bottle and deposited them in the kitchen.
You'd better straighten out, man. This is too sloppy, even for you, he chided himself, taking a moment to focus, struggling to move past the slow, seeping ache in his sternum that kept him distracted and reckless.
"As for participation in something that Lucille was into that could have put her in danger?" The idea rankled him. "Forget it. Name whatever it is you think it is, but you won't find it. She is... she was... blessedly free of bullshit. Hated games. She had no love for the Lindgrens or the Hodginses
( ... )
Booth picked up his dishes and the basket of rolls. Not much left, but enough he thought, to add to his breakfast. He followed Jack to the kitchen and started rinsing, putting the plates and silverware in the dishwasher. Habit. Ritual. It calmed him, kept him from snapping at Jack's comment.
When Seeley was done, he poured them both cups of coffee and leaned against the counter once more. Held his mug up and took a careful drink. Kept his eyes on Jack.
"If I didn't want to know what you thought, I wouldn't have asked."
So much you're not telling me.
"We should go out there, then. I've got a couple weeks, do you have any time you can take off?"
The idea stunned him momentarily, but as logic kicked in Jack understood Booth's assumption as purely common sense. Without an investigator he was only gathering clouds; together, they had a chance, however wispy, of finding the truth.
"Jack took a deep breath and let the coffee soothe him. "I have some time accrued, and I'm caught up."
It didn't matter that Jack already had planned to head for the Cape that next morning; knowing Booth was aboard was all that mattered.
"My place in Chatham is a fucking egregious display of conspicuous consumption, but there's plenty of room. It's still closed up for the winter, but that might come in handy." What the fuck did that mean? "It's quiet, so we can work." he corrected.
He silenced himself with another mouthful of coffee and tried to read the furrows in Booth's brow.
"The place will speak to us. Tell us what happened."
Seeley finished his coffee, set the mug in the sink.
"I've gotta call my son." He rubbed temples, finally let the ache of the day and the week, fuck, the month work up through him. "Tell him that I love him."
Seeley pushed himself away from the countertop and smiled at Jack.
"I'll pick you up at six. Is there a golf course nearby? It is my vacation, you know."
He'd seen it at MIT and Caltech. It was different, Jack knew, but there were elements of the way it presented that he could see clearly in Booth: the sheen of sweat on his face, the ghastly pallor of his skin, the tight, sharp set of his jaw.
The brightest people in the world would fall so hard from grace, tumble down and shatter over the oddest things -- brains too big for their souls, minds too complex and nuanced for their conscience to bear, hearts too full and hopeful for the unvarnished truth.
They should call this shit what it is, Jack thought, staring into his glass. Shell shock. Not PTSD, not delayed trauma, shell shock. Maybe then they'd...Jack rolled his neck and looked into the fire
( ... )
Seeley picked up his phone, but he couldn't make his fingers dial the number. There was no calling anyone when he was in this, there was no casual chit chat, no simulated kisses, no made up bedtime stories to be had in his brain.
There was only darkness that Seeley needed distraction from.
Seeley stood up, the bottle of Jack in his hand as he walked down the hallway. Not seeing the pictures on the wall, not seeing the personal touches. He could be anywhere, a hotel, another home, anywhere. Nothing was clear and nothing mattered and the edges on the picture frames cut his eyes as he took step after step.
He took a drink from the bottle and spread his arms, leaned his hands against the wooden frame of the of the bathroom. Waited for Jack to open the door.
Looking past his reflection in the bathroom mirror as if to stare into a Magic Eye puzzle for its hidden image, Jack let his peripheral vision do the work of seeing Seeley's bathroom. Clean, ordered, cheerful, mirroring the facade booth brought into the lab for most of his interactions
( ... )
Seeley didn't know that he was holding his breath until the door opened and Jack looked at him. He didn't know he had a death grip on the wooden frame until he followed the reach of Jack's arm up to his wrist.
"No."
The air he took in seemed thin and devoid of oxygen.
"No. I'm not."
Booth leaned forward, swayed forward. His mouth just an inch from the skin of Jack's face. Here the atmosphere was thick and hot and it made Seeley want more. More than he should.
Blood rushed past Seeley's eardrums. It pounded in his brain and the only thing that kept him from seeing what he didn't want to see, what he knew he would if he looked anywhere but the blue of Jack's eyes. Close to Jack he couldn't smell the burning oil wells. Close to Jack he couldn't smell copper and salt and death. He couldn't hear the screams, feel the recoil of the rifle in his shoulder. See the body fall.
"I asked if you'd ever killed anyone, Hodgins ... have you ever kissed ... would you ... kiss me?"
Comments 49
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Very strange.
Seeley was suddenly intensely curious to know what was going on behind those too-pretty blue eyes. What new/old/redone conspiracy theory was stretching Jack to the very limits of exhaustion.
Booth told himself that it would be something to laugh to himself about while he was watching his son ride the tea-cups for the fifty-thousandth time. Amusement only. Nothing more.
Right.
"Not much. Dropped off some files for Bones to look at, on my way out."
By the time Seeley finished talking he was standing next to Jack. He looked down, glancing over the slides and files and reports. Casual. Interested.
"What has got you putting in overtime?"
Reply
When in doubt, Jack categorizes. It’s the curse of being the bug and slime guy: everything has a phylum, a strata, a place. Everything.
Everyone.
Jack squinted up at Booth, shrugging.
“I’m just …” What am I doing? “Doing a little extra legwork on the Desjardins case. Just... trying to close some gaps, despite the fact that I've been told repeatedly that there are no gaps to close."
He's angry enough to let the rough side show, despite what he knows about Booth and Cam. Tongue bitten to keep from slamming his boss and Booth's ... whatever ... by saying more, Jack stretched out his upper back and changed the subject.
"Don't you have something better to do than hang here on a Friday night?"
Reply
Reply
Leaning his head back into the sofa cushion, Jack looked to the ceiling. Aware that every question Booth would ask could help him find a reason and a killer, Jack used the pale expanse of plaster over their heads to order the facts in his mind before putting words to them.
“Lucille’s parents were physicians in Haiti, where she was born. Her father was killed by the Ton Ton Macoute when she was eight. She got out of the country with her mother a few years later - they settled in Cuba but …” Jack stops to consider his phrasing, editing out his feelings about Lucille’s emigration, knowing that a political diatribe isn’t going to be any help to Booth. The facts, he thought. Stick to the process.“Her mother and she came to the States on the ( ... )
Reply
He watched Jack's head fall back. He watched his eyes close. He watched the curve of his lips and the dip of his throat *just a kiss there* when he swallowed and he was startled by the sharp, clear blue that finally met his own in the golden glow of his living room.
"Yeah. I've met that person. Someone so different. Someone so unlikely ..."
Booth shook his head and stood. He picked up his empty bottle and started walking to the kitchen.
"Why would anyone want to kill your family's maid, Hodgins?"
Reply
Of course.Whatever ease he'd allowed himself to feel coiled inaward, taut and hard. Jack drained the last of his beer and pushed the thought out of his mind, but it was replaced instead by something he'd heard, a poem or a song, something about the heart's metallurgy, something about the inability to silver to gold, no matter how desperately you want it ( ... )
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"What would someone in your family have done that is worth killing for? And when did you guys pin-point this murder? Last summer? Fall?"
Reply
"Yeah, you don't want to know what I'm thinking," he said reflexively. No sooner was it out of his mouth than he regretted it. There was nothing he could do but shrug and force himself to make eye contact with a smile, so he did, picked up his empty beer bottle and deposited them in the kitchen.
You'd better straighten out, man. This is too sloppy, even for you, he chided himself, taking a moment to focus, struggling to move past the slow, seeping ache in his sternum that kept him distracted and reckless.
"As for participation in something that Lucille was into that could have put her in danger?" The idea rankled him. "Forget it. Name whatever it is you think it is, but you won't find it. She is... she was... blessedly free of bullshit. Hated games. She had no love for the Lindgrens or the Hodginses ( ... )
Reply
When Seeley was done, he poured them both cups of coffee and leaned against the counter once more. Held his mug up and took a careful drink. Kept his eyes on Jack.
"If I didn't want to know what you thought, I wouldn't have asked."
So much you're not telling me.
"We should go out there, then. I've got a couple weeks, do you have any time you can take off?"
Reply
The idea stunned him momentarily, but as logic kicked in Jack understood Booth's assumption as purely common sense. Without an investigator he was only gathering clouds; together, they had a chance, however wispy, of finding the truth.
"Jack took a deep breath and let the coffee soothe him. "I have some time accrued, and I'm caught up."
It didn't matter that Jack already had planned to head for the Cape that next morning; knowing Booth was aboard was all that mattered.
"My place in Chatham is a fucking egregious display of conspicuous consumption, but there's plenty of room. It's still closed up for the winter, but that might come in handy." What the fuck did that mean? "It's quiet, so we can work." he corrected.
He silenced himself with another mouthful of coffee and tried to read the furrows in Booth's brow.
Reply
Seeley finished his coffee, set the mug in the sink.
"I've gotta call my son." He rubbed temples, finally let the ache of the day and the week, fuck, the month work up through him. "Tell him that I love him."
Seeley pushed himself away from the countertop and smiled at Jack.
"I'll pick you up at six. Is there a golf course nearby? It is my vacation, you know."
Reply
The brightest people in the world would fall so hard from grace, tumble down and shatter over the oddest things -- brains too big for their souls, minds too complex and nuanced for their conscience to bear, hearts too full and hopeful for the unvarnished truth.
They should call this shit what it is, Jack thought, staring into his glass. Shell shock. Not PTSD, not delayed trauma, shell shock. Maybe then they'd...Jack rolled his neck and looked into the fire ( ... )
Reply
There was only darkness that Seeley needed distraction from.
Seeley stood up, the bottle of Jack in his hand as he walked down the hallway. Not seeing the pictures on the wall, not seeing the personal touches. He could be anywhere, a hotel, another home, anywhere. Nothing was clear and nothing mattered and the edges on the picture frames cut his eyes as he took step after step.
He took a drink from the bottle and spread his arms, leaned his hands against the wooden frame of the of the bathroom. Waited for Jack to open the door.
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Reply
"No."
The air he took in seemed thin and devoid of oxygen.
"No. I'm not."
Booth leaned forward, swayed forward. His mouth just an inch from the skin of Jack's face. Here the atmosphere was thick and hot and it made Seeley want more. More than he should.
Blood rushed past Seeley's eardrums. It pounded in his brain and the only thing that kept him from seeing what he didn't want to see, what he knew he would if he looked anywhere but the blue of Jack's eyes. Close to Jack he couldn't smell the burning oil wells. Close to Jack he couldn't smell copper and salt and death. He couldn't hear the screams, feel the recoil of the rifle in his shoulder. See the body fall.
"I asked if you'd ever killed anyone, Hodgins ... have you ever kissed ... would you ... kiss me?"
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