Fic: Crisis
Title: Crisis
Author: tehangst
Pairing: B/B heavily implied
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None, I don't think.
Summary: Five years after the death of his partner, Booth reflects on how he lives.
Author's Note: First Bones fic. I am really really not sure about my writing here, so comments and criticism are appreciated like whoaa.
---
He's moved on.
Seeley Booth is not someone who dwells in the past. When he lost her so unexpectedly five years ago, he knew in the back of his mind that he was going to have to pull it together and learn to live without her. And he has--he's proud of himself for doing it. It was tough going for a while, but that's to be expected. He still misses her, five years later. But he's moved on.
He has his work. Not at the Jeffersonian, of course. He tried to go back, for his sake--for her sake--tried to return to the place where they'd done so much good together. But the reminders were everywhere. The circles under Angela's eyes, Zach's shaky new responsibility, Hodgins's sensitivity told a story that he didn't want to hear.
He would see flashes of her out of the corners of his eyes and had to stop himself from turning in expectation. He could feel her--her presence gathered in unexpected areas, swirling around him like dust clouds and leaving just as fast, reminding him of the absence that he was trying to forget. He requested a transfer after two days and hasn't been back since.
He likes his job now. It isn't as exciting as field work, but what is, really? Pushing administerial papers around all day doesn't satisfy him as much as cuffing a perp, but he's content. It's a more senior position, after all, and pays better. Hell, he's getting old--maybe it was time to cut back on the adrenaline bullshit.
He has Parker, who is a constant source of joy in his life--even now, on the brink of teenagerhood and middle-school, dealing with pimples and girls and realizing that his dad can be dangerously un-cool at points. He doesn't mind not being the hero so much any more. It's remarkable how many types of love he's found through his son--exasperated love, frustrated love, exhausted love, angry love. Love during the most boring PTA meetings of his life, love as he pays for the baseball-broken window of the neighbor's townhouse. Love during games of catch and eating hot dogs by the pound in July.
He wouldn't trade Parker for anything--wouldn't give up one moment with his son. But it's bittersweet, sometimes, because he thinks that Parker may be--probably is--his only chance at experiencing this whole crazy Dad thing.
He has a personal life. Or rather, as much as he ever did. Seeley Booth was never one to settle for second-best, and now, careening perilously towards forty and still not finding the best, well...he'd rather be alone. The possibility of never settling down with someone doesn't seem as unnatural as it used to. Maybe that picket-fence 2-kid marriage he'd always assumed he would have is just an illusion, after all. An illusion brought on by societal expectations and media-presented images that he's been fed since childhood.
Sometimes, his thoughts sound like her. He has to laugh at those. It's funny that it took him until after she was gone to realize what an effect she'd had on him.
Yes, he still thinks about her. Every day, really. But it's not as encompassing as it used to be. He's moved on from that--past the painful marvel at her pure physical absence in his life, past the vodka vodka vodka-whiskey alterations he'd tried to use as her substitute, past the shock of her sudden appearance in his sleep--her form outlined in his arms, in fantasy or memory or both, sometimes so real that he could feel her weight on the sheets and he wonders if any of the moments they had together were as truly wonderful as he wishes that they were--before she disappears in a snap and he's alone again.
He's past the hours spent on his knees in church praying for...something. He's not sure what he'd been asking God. To give her back? No...he'd realized early on that that was impossible. Contact, he thinks now, is what he wanted. An assurance that she was at peace, that she was fine, accompanied by an eyeroll--if there was anything he'd learnt with her, it's that she knew she could take care of herself, on Earth or in a second life.
He remembers his grandfather's death--remembers his fourteen-year-old self in church at the funeral being suddenly filled with an absolute light and understanding that his tough old role model was at rest. That, while Grandpa's cancer-ravaged body was up there in the open casket, his soul was with God. That was the day when Catholicism had really started to mean something other than Sunday school and snacking on wafers and wine. He'd felt the sad tension evaporate from his chest, felt the beauty of the light streaming through the stained glass, felt the true presence of God and his grandfather and Heaven.
He'd assumed--expected--that it would be the same with her. Surely God guarantees these things--that when someone like her passes on, he gets an automatic update. He'd been strangely calm during her funeral, just waiting for that light to come.
He'd felt nothing. No light, no angels, no sense of God--just an empty ache that got hollower with each passing second.
First he'd thought that the message didn't parse through. God had made a mistake--for the first time in the history of the world, certainly, but there's a first for everything. He deserved to be at peace with her. That was simply how these things worked. Then he'd thought that she was holding out on him, that her stubborn insistence that God didn't exist had somehow transferred to her life in Heaven. It would be like her to not reach out to him just to spite his beliefs. He'd laughed at that--dazedly in the church at 3 a.m. the morning after her funeral, he'd laughed.
But the hours turned into days and the days into weeks and the ache didn't dissipate. The weeks turned into months and he was in church every night at Vespers, burning the image of the wood crucifix into his eyes and asking for any sign of her presence. The months turned into years and he suddenly found that God had taken his faith from him when He'd taken his partner.
Crisis of faith, the priest had said at his last confession three years ago. It's natural after a death. Remember your loved one fondly, keep faith in the Lord, and come back tomorrow for Mass.
Seeley Booth is not normally one to give up. But he hadn't come back for Mass. Hasn't been to a Mass, or inside a church at all, for three years. He's given up on God because God gave up on him.
The cellophane around the flowers crinkles as he sets them down. Daisies. He always brings daisies. He gave them to her once and she'd kept them in the vase on her table until they fell completely apart and he'd bought her new ones. It's funny, now, that he's doing this, after her lectures on the futility of visiting her mother's grave and his newfound awareness of life without a sense of a higher power. He knows now that she's gone forever, but he comes back here anyway.
The sun is bathing the hill in orange light. It's late and he's overstayed his welcome. This kind of place was always much more her style, anyway. He glances at his watch and sighs. He needs to get back to the office and finish some paperwork before he can MapQuest directions to that new Italian restaurant. He's got a blind date; it won't go anywhere, but it was nice of his coworker to try and set something up for him.
He turns on his heel and shifts through the autumn leaves back to his car, resisting the urge to throw one last glance at her name, as if that will bring her back or give him peace or make sense of this life that he now lives without purpose.
He likes to think that he's moved on.
Author: tehangst
Pairing: B/B heavily implied
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None, I don't think.
Summary: Five years after the death of his partner, Booth reflects on how he lives.
Author's Note: First Bones fic. I am really really not sure about my writing here, so comments and criticism are appreciated like whoaa.
---
He's moved on.
Seeley Booth is not someone who dwells in the past. When he lost her so unexpectedly five years ago, he knew in the back of his mind that he was going to have to pull it together and learn to live without her. And he has--he's proud of himself for doing it. It was tough going for a while, but that's to be expected. He still misses her, five years later. But he's moved on.
He has his work. Not at the Jeffersonian, of course. He tried to go back, for his sake--for her sake--tried to return to the place where they'd done so much good together. But the reminders were everywhere. The circles under Angela's eyes, Zach's shaky new responsibility, Hodgins's sensitivity told a story that he didn't want to hear.
He would see flashes of her out of the corners of his eyes and had to stop himself from turning in expectation. He could feel her--her presence gathered in unexpected areas, swirling around him like dust clouds and leaving just as fast, reminding him of the absence that he was trying to forget. He requested a transfer after two days and hasn't been back since.
He likes his job now. It isn't as exciting as field work, but what is, really? Pushing administerial papers around all day doesn't satisfy him as much as cuffing a perp, but he's content. It's a more senior position, after all, and pays better. Hell, he's getting old--maybe it was time to cut back on the adrenaline bullshit.
He has Parker, who is a constant source of joy in his life--even now, on the brink of teenagerhood and middle-school, dealing with pimples and girls and realizing that his dad can be dangerously un-cool at points. He doesn't mind not being the hero so much any more. It's remarkable how many types of love he's found through his son--exasperated love, frustrated love, exhausted love, angry love. Love during the most boring PTA meetings of his life, love as he pays for the baseball-broken window of the neighbor's townhouse. Love during games of catch and eating hot dogs by the pound in July.
He wouldn't trade Parker for anything--wouldn't give up one moment with his son. But it's bittersweet, sometimes, because he thinks that Parker may be--probably is--his only chance at experiencing this whole crazy Dad thing.
He has a personal life. Or rather, as much as he ever did. Seeley Booth was never one to settle for second-best, and now, careening perilously towards forty and still not finding the best, well...he'd rather be alone. The possibility of never settling down with someone doesn't seem as unnatural as it used to. Maybe that picket-fence 2-kid marriage he'd always assumed he would have is just an illusion, after all. An illusion brought on by societal expectations and media-presented images that he's been fed since childhood.
Sometimes, his thoughts sound like her. He has to laugh at those. It's funny that it took him until after she was gone to realize what an effect she'd had on him.
Yes, he still thinks about her. Every day, really. But it's not as encompassing as it used to be. He's moved on from that--past the painful marvel at her pure physical absence in his life, past the vodka vodka vodka-whiskey alterations he'd tried to use as her substitute, past the shock of her sudden appearance in his sleep--her form outlined in his arms, in fantasy or memory or both, sometimes so real that he could feel her weight on the sheets and he wonders if any of the moments they had together were as truly wonderful as he wishes that they were--before she disappears in a snap and he's alone again.
He's past the hours spent on his knees in church praying for...something. He's not sure what he'd been asking God. To give her back? No...he'd realized early on that that was impossible. Contact, he thinks now, is what he wanted. An assurance that she was at peace, that she was fine, accompanied by an eyeroll--if there was anything he'd learnt with her, it's that she knew she could take care of herself, on Earth or in a second life.
He remembers his grandfather's death--remembers his fourteen-year-old self in church at the funeral being suddenly filled with an absolute light and understanding that his tough old role model was at rest. That, while Grandpa's cancer-ravaged body was up there in the open casket, his soul was with God. That was the day when Catholicism had really started to mean something other than Sunday school and snacking on wafers and wine. He'd felt the sad tension evaporate from his chest, felt the beauty of the light streaming through the stained glass, felt the true presence of God and his grandfather and Heaven.
He'd assumed--expected--that it would be the same with her. Surely God guarantees these things--that when someone like her passes on, he gets an automatic update. He'd been strangely calm during her funeral, just waiting for that light to come.
He'd felt nothing. No light, no angels, no sense of God--just an empty ache that got hollower with each passing second.
First he'd thought that the message didn't parse through. God had made a mistake--for the first time in the history of the world, certainly, but there's a first for everything. He deserved to be at peace with her. That was simply how these things worked. Then he'd thought that she was holding out on him, that her stubborn insistence that God didn't exist had somehow transferred to her life in Heaven. It would be like her to not reach out to him just to spite his beliefs. He'd laughed at that--dazedly in the church at 3 a.m. the morning after her funeral, he'd laughed.
But the hours turned into days and the days into weeks and the ache didn't dissipate. The weeks turned into months and he was in church every night at Vespers, burning the image of the wood crucifix into his eyes and asking for any sign of her presence. The months turned into years and he suddenly found that God had taken his faith from him when He'd taken his partner.
Crisis of faith, the priest had said at his last confession three years ago. It's natural after a death. Remember your loved one fondly, keep faith in the Lord, and come back tomorrow for Mass.
Seeley Booth is not normally one to give up. But he hadn't come back for Mass. Hasn't been to a Mass, or inside a church at all, for three years. He's given up on God because God gave up on him.
The cellophane around the flowers crinkles as he sets them down. Daisies. He always brings daisies. He gave them to her once and she'd kept them in the vase on her table until they fell completely apart and he'd bought her new ones. It's funny, now, that he's doing this, after her lectures on the futility of visiting her mother's grave and his newfound awareness of life without a sense of a higher power. He knows now that she's gone forever, but he comes back here anyway.
The sun is bathing the hill in orange light. It's late and he's overstayed his welcome. This kind of place was always much more her style, anyway. He glances at his watch and sighs. He needs to get back to the office and finish some paperwork before he can MapQuest directions to that new Italian restaurant. He's got a blind date; it won't go anywhere, but it was nice of his coworker to try and set something up for him.
He turns on his heel and shifts through the autumn leaves back to his car, resisting the urge to throw one last glance at her name, as if that will bring her back or give him peace or make sense of this life that he now lives without purpose.
He likes to think that he's moved on.