Seeley took a bite of the stew, examining the flavors with his tongue and teeth and taste buds. Like he always did with his food, whether he cooked it or not. Finding each spice and each ingredient. Labeling them, catagorizing them. Indexes in his head, imaginary cabinets full of recipes. Some yellowed with age, some stained with memories. Some spattered with blood.
"My mother, first. Being in the kitchen with her was the only time I could find her alone and if you weren't helping out, you'd better get out.
"The army, second. MREs are nothing but base food. You can eat them, but when you're stuck out in the desert and that's all you've got, you learn to improvise. You have to. I got pretty good at making meals out of packs."
Another bite and Seeley closed his eyes. For a second he wasn't in his living room, he wasn't in his house. He wasn't in the great United States of America. He was in the sand again, under a sky that he couldn't stop looking at. Stars and black, the smell of smoke from burning oil wells so strong that it seemed he'd never get it off his skin. Never get it out of his nose or off his lips.
Seeley glanced over and watched Jack eat his stew. Seeley's fingers tightened on the knife he held in his hand and butter dripped. It ran down the palm of his hand to his wrist. Warm, melted tears.
The simple, quiet question filled him, threading cold spools of anguish through the warmth in his belly brought by the wonderful meal. Jack's breath stilled in his chest and he held it for the barest fleeting second and let it go.
Menace. Pain. Desperation.
He felt it as if it was his own, felt the weight of galaxies on his back but held his gaze on the bowl of comfort food. Let the crackling fire respond, spitting and sparking, consuming oxygen, ravenous and begging to be fed.
Jack placed his bowl on the table and stood. Walked over to the log holder, grabbed a few pieces of wood, opened the curtain and tossed them on the pile. Blue-orange flames licked and curled beneath the intrusion, and Jack watched it catch and brighten, then took his place on the couch next to his host.
The infinite blackness in Seeley's eyes could show him nothing but a dare, or everything in the world.
So he stared into them, as would have with Lucille. It was against every instinct, but he kept his hands loose in his lap, to himself.
"No," he said softly. "Not like you mean. And..."
He swallowed and sat back, not letting his eyes leave Booth's.
"I understand that I can never understand," he said, "but I have blood on my hands. I'm soaking in it. It's my legacy."
If he was strong enough not to reach over and trace the pale rivulet of butter that fled like blood from a rip in Booth's palm, stong enough not to reach and sweep the salty remnants over the indigo ink embedded in the tender flesh of his wrist and bring it back to his mouth just to taste him. If he could recognize traces of the blood he shed, of the lives he ended, of the lovers he touched...
If he was strong enough to resist, Jack knew he'd be strong enough to find the answers to questions he'd never dared voice. If he could think past the hammering of his pulse in his ears...
What the hell am I doing? What the fuck is wrong with me?
There was more than he could bear to see in the shadows carved in Booth's face, but Jack didn't turn away.
Seeley absentmindedly wiped his hand with a napkin, bit into the soft, flaky croissant and took a drink from his beer.
He leaned back and watched as Jack got up, fed the fire and returned. Seeley could feel the tension pour from the scientist, the anguish. And a kind of heat that intrigued Booth. Attracted him like a magnet. Desire. Need.
Beautiful blue eyes. Soft lips that were wet from teeth and tongue. Seeley found himself wondering what tastes he would find in Jack's mouth. Or on the skin of his body.
"That's exactly what I mean, Hodgins." Booth tipped up the bottle, took another swallow.
"Who in your family is capable of actual, physical murder?"
The laugh bubbled up, unbidden, breaking Jack's tense concentration.
He shook his head and reached for his bowl.
"There's a list. And it's about as long as you'd think," he said, turning the attention he wanted to give to Booth to the matter of eating dinner. Answering the question.
"A good start would be my maternal family. You know, the wannabees and poseurs. My mother's family is less...principled than my father's."
Jack smiled and turned his attention to the sheen of butter on Seeley's lower lip and the tiny crumb of flaky pastry that clung to the curve of his mouth. With an audible swallow, he stared into the bowl as though it held the secrets of the universe.
"My mother is the youngest of seven. Her maiden name is Lindgren. Lindgren Energy," he sighed, scraping the last of the liquid from his dish with a morsel of bread. "Right there's enough merderous intent to keep you busy for weeks."
"So now we simply need to figure out what Lucille might have seen or overheard or ... participated in?"
Booth threw that last part out there to guage Jack's reaction. To perhaps pull the other man out of these depressive memories and spark something that would help.
"Who would've been out on the coast in autumn? Is there a log we can check? People we should be talking to?"
Seeley twirled his empty bottle of beer on the coffee table between his fingers.
"My mother, first. Being in the kitchen with her was the only time I could find her alone and if you weren't helping out, you'd better get out.
"The army, second. MREs are nothing but base food. You can eat them, but when you're stuck out in the desert and that's all you've got, you learn to improvise. You have to. I got pretty good at making meals out of packs."
Another bite and Seeley closed his eyes. For a second he wasn't in his living room, he wasn't in his house. He wasn't in the great United States of America. He was in the sand again, under a sky that he couldn't stop looking at. Stars and black, the smell of smoke from burning oil wells so strong that it seemed he'd never get it off his skin. Never get it out of his nose or off his lips.
Seeley glanced over and watched Jack eat his stew. Seeley's fingers tightened on the knife he held in his hand and butter dripped. It ran down the palm of his hand to his wrist. Warm, melted tears.
"Ever killed anyone, Hodgins?"
Reply
Menace. Pain. Desperation.
He felt it as if it was his own, felt the weight of galaxies on his back but held his gaze on the bowl of comfort food. Let the crackling fire respond, spitting and sparking, consuming oxygen, ravenous and begging to be fed.
Jack placed his bowl on the table and stood. Walked over to the log holder, grabbed a few pieces of wood, opened the curtain and tossed them on the pile. Blue-orange flames licked and curled beneath the intrusion, and Jack watched it catch and brighten, then took his place on the couch next to his host.
The infinite blackness in Seeley's eyes could show him nothing but a dare, or everything in the world.
So he stared into them, as would have with Lucille. It was against every instinct, but he kept his hands loose in his lap, to himself.
"No," he said softly. "Not like you mean. And..."
He swallowed and sat back, not letting his eyes leave Booth's.
"I understand that I can never understand," he said, "but I have blood on my hands. I'm soaking in it. It's my legacy."
If he was strong enough not to reach over and trace the pale rivulet of butter that fled like blood from a rip in Booth's palm, stong enough not to reach and sweep the salty remnants over the indigo ink embedded in the tender flesh of his wrist and bring it back to his mouth just to taste him. If he could recognize traces of the blood he shed, of the lives he ended, of the lovers he touched...
If he was strong enough to resist, Jack knew he'd be strong enough to find the answers to questions he'd never dared voice. If he could think past the hammering of his pulse in his ears...
What the hell am I doing? What the fuck is wrong with me?
There was more than he could bear to see in the shadows carved in Booth's face, but Jack didn't turn away.
Reply
He leaned back and watched as Jack got up, fed the fire and returned. Seeley could feel the tension pour from the scientist, the anguish. And a kind of heat that intrigued Booth. Attracted him like a magnet. Desire. Need.
Beautiful blue eyes. Soft lips that were wet from teeth and tongue. Seeley found himself wondering what tastes he would find in Jack's mouth. Or on the skin of his body.
"That's exactly what I mean, Hodgins." Booth tipped up the bottle, took another swallow.
"Who in your family is capable of actual, physical murder?"
Reply
He shook his head and reached for his bowl.
"There's a list. And it's about as long as you'd think," he said, turning the attention he wanted to give to Booth to the matter of eating dinner. Answering the question.
"A good start would be my maternal family. You know, the wannabees and poseurs. My mother's family is less...principled than my father's."
Jack smiled and turned his attention to the sheen of butter on Seeley's lower lip and the tiny crumb of flaky pastry that clung to the curve of his mouth. With an audible swallow, he stared into the bowl as though it held the secrets of the universe.
"My mother is the youngest of seven. Her maiden name is Lindgren. Lindgren Energy," he sighed, scraping the last of the liquid from his dish with a morsel of bread. "Right there's enough merderous intent to keep you busy for weeks."
Reply
Booth threw that last part out there to guage Jack's reaction. To perhaps pull the other man out of these depressive memories and spark something that would help.
"Who would've been out on the coast in autumn? Is there a log we can check? People we should be talking to?"
Seeley twirled his empty bottle of beer on the coffee table between his fingers.
"Tell me what you're thinking, Hodgins."
Reply
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