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.
"Sometimes I just keep falling -- there's no bottom, just... this rush and my heart beats so hard that I think I'm dying I wake up before I do. Sometimes my hands break the water and I roll down into this endless ocean that's blue and light and cold and so calm. Other times I hit black glass. like ice, you know? Hear it screaming past my ears. But I never see what comes next because I hit so hard I know I'm dead, and it scares the piss out of me and wakes me up.
"Cold sweat. Dread. You know the drill. Ever have the one where somebody you love is in the middle of the street and there's an 18-wheeler about to run them down? You're frozen, can't move, scream but no sound comes out..."
If I had that dream about her, I might... He pushed the thought out of his head with what he knew to be true. Just don't make the same mistake twice.
Jack put his glass on the table and stood up. He leaned over and squeezed Booth's shoulder, felt the damp chill of his skin clinging beneath the spun cotton of his tailored dress shirt.
"It's still pretty early," he said. "I'm gonna go see a man about a horse. Why don't you call your little guy and say goodnight."
With another tight squeeze, he turned without glancing back and headed out of the living room, down the hall, and kept switching lights on and off until finding the bathroom.
Jack closed the door and leaned against it, trying to quell the shaking in his hands and the butterflies in his stomach.
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.
Everything stratified and coded. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Jack liked that. Understood it. It was the one part of military life that he actually agreed with and found soothing. Order out of chaos. The illusion of control. That illusion of control saved him being caught and forced into the crisp template of his family's vision for him.
God, he needed that illusion now.
A week spinning out of control with little rest, less nourishment, and spent wired on the razor's edge of fury and sorrow and remorse had left little to grasp.
He finished washing up, dried his hands on the neatly folded towel and swung the door open.
Booth filled the doorway, chest open, head tipped back, exposing his long, pale throat and the line of beard shadow that stretched across his jaw and down his neck.
He could have been waiting for nails to be drilled through his hands and feet.
The sight startled Jack into a moment of stock-stillness. He knew the answer to the question, but asked it anyway as he took Booth's shirt cuff between his thumb and forefinginger.
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?"
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.
"Sometimes I just keep falling -- there's no bottom, just... this rush and my heart beats so hard that I think I'm dying I wake up before I do. Sometimes my hands break the water and I roll down into this endless ocean that's blue and light and cold and so calm. Other times I hit black glass. like ice, you know? Hear it screaming past my ears. But I never see what comes next because I hit so hard I know I'm dead, and it scares the piss out of me and wakes me up.
"Cold sweat. Dread. You know the drill. Ever have the one where somebody you love is in the middle of the street and there's an 18-wheeler about to run them down? You're frozen, can't move, scream but no sound comes out..."
If I had that dream about her, I might... He pushed the thought out of his head with what he knew to be true. Just don't make the same mistake twice.
Jack put his glass on the table and stood up. He leaned over and squeezed Booth's shoulder, felt the damp chill of his skin clinging beneath the spun cotton of his tailored dress shirt.
"It's still pretty early," he said. "I'm gonna go see a man about a horse. Why don't you call your little guy and say goodnight."
With another tight squeeze, he turned without glancing back and headed out of the living room, down the hall, and kept switching lights on and off until finding the bathroom.
Jack closed the door and leaned against it, trying to quell the shaking in his hands and the butterflies in his stomach.
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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.
Reply
Everything stratified and coded. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Jack liked that. Understood it. It was the one part of military life that he actually agreed with and found soothing. Order out of chaos. The illusion of control. That illusion of control saved him being caught and forced into the crisp template of his family's vision for him.
God, he needed that illusion now.
A week spinning out of control with little rest, less nourishment, and spent wired on the razor's edge of fury and sorrow and remorse had left little to grasp.
He finished washing up, dried his hands on the neatly folded towel and swung the door open.
Booth filled the doorway, chest open, head tipped back, exposing his long, pale throat and the line of beard shadow that stretched across his jaw and down his neck.
He could have been waiting for nails to be drilled through his hands and feet.
The sight startled Jack into a moment of stock-stillness. He knew the answer to the question, but asked it anyway as he took Booth's shirt cuff between his thumb and forefinginger.
"Dude...are you allright?"
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"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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