Doing Time
Title: Doing Time
Fandom: Bones
Author:
rachg82
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Booth, Brennan, Pops
Word Count: 1,234 words
Spoilers: Just prospective ones from promos for the premiere.
Disclaimer: I don't own this show, unfortunately. I just like to play with it sometimes.
Summary: How do you feel when your whole world's been turned inside-out?
Note: This is the first fic I've written since 2011, so be kind. I turned it out in one afternoon without a beta. I hope you enjoy it.
Four months.
He can't believe he's been gone so long. The only proof -- a hastily drawn calendar on the one pad of paper he's allowed. In the beginning, he carved his days into the walls surrounding him, his anger pushing time deeper & deeper, one jagged X after another pressed onto cold, unforgiving concrete. But all that resulted in was him being violently extracted and moved from one stripped-down cell to another. He's since learned to be more discrete, hiding his contraband photo of Bones & their baby inside his Bible, and memorizing the shift changes of the guards so as to mark some semblance of time. He can't say he's gotten used to the lack of clocks -- time seems to move in suspended animation here. It still remains so surreal. He knows it's just another measure of control over the inmates, another way to keep them on their toes. He's determined not to let it all get to him. He has to stay strong for his family. He'll be out before he knows it, he keeps reminding himself; he knows Bones will find justice. She always does. It's the only thing he's sure of anymore. But as firm as he stands, he can't help but feel the cracks opening wide, his insides tumbling out. This isn't the first time he's been held captive. He still wakes up in a cold sweat every night. His heart never stops pounding. He feels as if there's a grenade in his chest & he's just trying to hold himself together around it. Triggers long since buried are climbing up & out of their graves, their skeleton claws grasping onto his feet. He remembers the months of limping, of leaning on brothers in arms. He was strong then too. He had no choice.
They've kept him in protective custody thanks to his history in the FBI, but that's done nothing to keep his fellow inmates from showing him just what they think of his former authority & control. Here, it's all about control. Predator & prey, kings & pawns -- an inmate could lose his life over one measly bag of ramen noodles. It's the principle of the thing.
He's tried to keep his head down, to do his time & not let the time do him (as the old-timers would say), but he keeps getting pushed, both figuratively & literally. In line for chow, he's shoved back & forth by men with tears tattooed on their cheeks -- men who save their real tears for visits from babies they've never been allowed to touch. Babies who can't understand why their daddy won't just be good & come home. Can't they just say they're sorry & finish their time-outs?
The guards show him the least respect, viewing his former authority as corrupt & arrogant. In protective custody the inmates are allowed out of their cells only a few times per day -- for meals, and once more for one hour of shared recreation. When he's attacked in line twice in one day, they move him to administrative segregation, a jail within a jail, throwing him inside a cell even more barren than the ones before, no pillow or blankets during the day, dressing him only in a tear-proof smock for suicide prevention. He never threatened suicide of course; it's just another form of humiliation. Here he eats his food inside his cell--a vile loaf of all three meals combined--and throws it up before he can even finish. He's still allowed outside for one hour of exercise, but it's alone now. Just him in a cage with a flickering view of the sun through criss-crossed wires. He feels like a trapped animal. Nowhere to run.
The worst part of the SHU is the noise. All day, all night, the inmates shout from within their windowless cells. They shout to know they exist. They shout to pass the time. They flood their toilets and cackle as they're tackled to the sopping wet floor by men with armored suits. Booth's nerves are worn thin; a whispered voice through the vent in the wall is enough to make him jump. His neighbor has been here too long -- he expresses his rage now through gassing: flinging his feces & urine at the passing guards, mixing it with mustard & finger-painting with it all over the walls. The stench passes through the entire unit.
For six weeks, Booth is denied his visitation rights. Letters become lifelines, but are heavily redacted by the guards who have access to them first. Bones cleverly creates a code with which to fool them, and they manage to communicate again uncensored. He remembers again why she's a bestselling author. Each letter is worn thin from being reread repeatedly.
By the time Booth's allowed back into protective custody, he feels broken, but still tries not to let it show. He paces back & forth, fingers his family photo, and prays for a swift ending to this comedy of errors. He's only given one shower a week; he's sick of his own stench. He's sick of sleeping alone & wakes up reaching for his mate. There are no TVs outside general population; the only news he gets here is through newspapers & visitations. They show up one by one with clenched jaws & watery eyes. Bones appears every week like clockwork, her eyes unwavering. She too is trying to be strong. One day Caroline manages to get them a personal visitation, and the gratitude overwhelms him. They have to be fast, but they hold on longer than ever before. It's impossible to be close enough. It's inconceivable to let go. But eventually they do. It tears him apart.
He can't stop thinking, if I got put here, how many other innocent people has the FBI put away? His faith in the American system is punctured. The meaning in his work before Brennan questionable. He doesn't know how he's going to proceed once he's out. This uncertainty scares him. He's always been a man of purpose, a man of honor. How many men has he killed who didn't deserve it? Has he been a prideful fool all along? He punches the wall and stares at the blood trickling past his fingers. It's the first time he's felt alive since he held Brennan in his arms. Is she okay? Or is she just bleeding on the inside?
While he's locked up, his grandpa suddenly dies. He applies for a furlough, but it's predictably denied. Brennan attends the wake in his place, and it serves as a comfort. He knows Pops was always fond of her. But it's just another crack. Growing wider. His knuckles are becoming raw. His reflection in the steel mirror is warped; he's not sure who he is anymore. He never got to say goodbye.
Sweets shows up every week wanting to talk about PTSD. Booth angrily informs him he's interested only in getting out, not crawling inside his brain even deeper. Sweets nods, and Booth hates how understanding his eyes are.
He hates everything.
But he will get out eventually. If there's anything he'll still bet money on, it's the Jeffersonian. It's Bones. It's their family. And when he does, he's going to leave the FBI behind in a blaze of glory. The people who did this to his family are going to pay. That's no gamble. That's a promise.
Fin.
Citations:
-Some of the actions of the prisoners in this story (e.g. flooding their toilets, gassing, using mustard to write on the walls) were inspired by clips I've watched on MSNBC's show "Lockup." It's a great program if you're interested in seeing how people (whether guilty or not) survive what amounts, at times, to psychological torture.
Fandom: Bones
Author:
rachg82
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Booth, Brennan, Pops
Word Count: 1,234 words
Spoilers: Just prospective ones from promos for the premiere.
Disclaimer: I don't own this show, unfortunately. I just like to play with it sometimes.
Summary: How do you feel when your whole world's been turned inside-out?
Note: This is the first fic I've written since 2011, so be kind. I turned it out in one afternoon without a beta. I hope you enjoy it.
Four months.
He can't believe he's been gone so long. The only proof -- a hastily drawn calendar on the one pad of paper he's allowed. In the beginning, he carved his days into the walls surrounding him, his anger pushing time deeper & deeper, one jagged X after another pressed onto cold, unforgiving concrete. But all that resulted in was him being violently extracted and moved from one stripped-down cell to another. He's since learned to be more discrete, hiding his contraband photo of Bones & their baby inside his Bible, and memorizing the shift changes of the guards so as to mark some semblance of time. He can't say he's gotten used to the lack of clocks -- time seems to move in suspended animation here. It still remains so surreal. He knows it's just another measure of control over the inmates, another way to keep them on their toes. He's determined not to let it all get to him. He has to stay strong for his family. He'll be out before he knows it, he keeps reminding himself; he knows Bones will find justice. She always does. It's the only thing he's sure of anymore. But as firm as he stands, he can't help but feel the cracks opening wide, his insides tumbling out. This isn't the first time he's been held captive. He still wakes up in a cold sweat every night. His heart never stops pounding. He feels as if there's a grenade in his chest & he's just trying to hold himself together around it. Triggers long since buried are climbing up & out of their graves, their skeleton claws grasping onto his feet. He remembers the months of limping, of leaning on brothers in arms. He was strong then too. He had no choice.
They've kept him in protective custody thanks to his history in the FBI, but that's done nothing to keep his fellow inmates from showing him just what they think of his former authority & control. Here, it's all about control. Predator & prey, kings & pawns -- an inmate could lose his life over one measly bag of ramen noodles. It's the principle of the thing.
He's tried to keep his head down, to do his time & not let the time do him (as the old-timers would say), but he keeps getting pushed, both figuratively & literally. In line for chow, he's shoved back & forth by men with tears tattooed on their cheeks -- men who save their real tears for visits from babies they've never been allowed to touch. Babies who can't understand why their daddy won't just be good & come home. Can't they just say they're sorry & finish their time-outs?
The guards show him the least respect, viewing his former authority as corrupt & arrogant. In protective custody the inmates are allowed out of their cells only a few times per day -- for meals, and once more for one hour of shared recreation. When he's attacked in line twice in one day, they move him to administrative segregation, a jail within a jail, throwing him inside a cell even more barren than the ones before, no pillow or blankets during the day, dressing him only in a tear-proof smock for suicide prevention. He never threatened suicide of course; it's just another form of humiliation. Here he eats his food inside his cell--a vile loaf of all three meals combined--and throws it up before he can even finish. He's still allowed outside for one hour of exercise, but it's alone now. Just him in a cage with a flickering view of the sun through criss-crossed wires. He feels like a trapped animal. Nowhere to run.
The worst part of the SHU is the noise. All day, all night, the inmates shout from within their windowless cells. They shout to know they exist. They shout to pass the time. They flood their toilets and cackle as they're tackled to the sopping wet floor by men with armored suits. Booth's nerves are worn thin; a whispered voice through the vent in the wall is enough to make him jump. His neighbor has been here too long -- he expresses his rage now through gassing: flinging his feces & urine at the passing guards, mixing it with mustard & finger-painting with it all over the walls. The stench passes through the entire unit.
For six weeks, Booth is denied his visitation rights. Letters become lifelines, but are heavily redacted by the guards who have access to them first. Bones cleverly creates a code with which to fool them, and they manage to communicate again uncensored. He remembers again why she's a bestselling author. Each letter is worn thin from being reread repeatedly.
By the time Booth's allowed back into protective custody, he feels broken, but still tries not to let it show. He paces back & forth, fingers his family photo, and prays for a swift ending to this comedy of errors. He's only given one shower a week; he's sick of his own stench. He's sick of sleeping alone & wakes up reaching for his mate. There are no TVs outside general population; the only news he gets here is through newspapers & visitations. They show up one by one with clenched jaws & watery eyes. Bones appears every week like clockwork, her eyes unwavering. She too is trying to be strong. One day Caroline manages to get them a personal visitation, and the gratitude overwhelms him. They have to be fast, but they hold on longer than ever before. It's impossible to be close enough. It's inconceivable to let go. But eventually they do. It tears him apart.
He can't stop thinking, if I got put here, how many other innocent people has the FBI put away? His faith in the American system is punctured. The meaning in his work before Brennan questionable. He doesn't know how he's going to proceed once he's out. This uncertainty scares him. He's always been a man of purpose, a man of honor. How many men has he killed who didn't deserve it? Has he been a prideful fool all along? He punches the wall and stares at the blood trickling past his fingers. It's the first time he's felt alive since he held Brennan in his arms. Is she okay? Or is she just bleeding on the inside?
While he's locked up, his grandpa suddenly dies. He applies for a furlough, but it's predictably denied. Brennan attends the wake in his place, and it serves as a comfort. He knows Pops was always fond of her. But it's just another crack. Growing wider. His knuckles are becoming raw. His reflection in the steel mirror is warped; he's not sure who he is anymore. He never got to say goodbye.
Sweets shows up every week wanting to talk about PTSD. Booth angrily informs him he's interested only in getting out, not crawling inside his brain even deeper. Sweets nods, and Booth hates how understanding his eyes are.
He hates everything.
But he will get out eventually. If there's anything he'll still bet money on, it's the Jeffersonian. It's Bones. It's their family. And when he does, he's going to leave the FBI behind in a blaze of glory. The people who did this to his family are going to pay. That's no gamble. That's a promise.
Fin.
Citations:
-Some of the actions of the prisoners in this story (e.g. flooding their toilets, gassing, using mustard to write on the walls) were inspired by clips I've watched on MSNBC's show "Lockup." It's a great program if you're interested in seeing how people (whether guilty or not) survive what amounts, at times, to psychological torture.