The Reality In The Hoax

A/N:- This is my 1st Bones fanfiction. I got into the show recently and was amazed that I'd never watched it before. Consequently, I've spent the last chunk of my summer watching all 4 seasons, and trying to convince those surrounding me of how bloody amazing the show really is!

Anyways, this fic started out as a line for a song… which turned into a Bones drabble (somehow!)… which couldn't stop writing itself, and became the moderate-length one-shot we have here. It's based on Brennan's state of mind, post-'Wannabe in the Weeds', and pre-'The Pain in the Heart', so excuse me for all the angst – it was somewhat required.

Disclaimer:- I don't own Bones. I don't own Booth or Brennan, or any of the other fabulously realistic characters that Hart Hanson has created. I wish I did - I'd write myself into an episode! But, you know, I don't… so that aint gonna happen. Ah well, a girl can dream! :)

You get your heart involved and it inevitably ends the same.

Despite the stubborn admissions spoken fervently in strangled tones.

You grasp illusions… and your hand falls – feels thin air.

A hoax, leaving nothing.

Erases your last place to hide.

Further time shall tell. That's the way they speak.

"We know what we're talking about, sweetie."

"It's okay to cry."

But somehow, they forget to mention numbness, loss of rationality, a sudden craving for Thai food.

Nor the detached sense of gratification that runs through your mind, each time you are forced to remember pulling that trigger.

You know that he always felt like an appalling human being – something that multiplied with every life he took. But there's a definite feeling of satisfaction pumping through your veins; fuelled by the admission that the woman got what she deserved.

And through your sudden bout of self-deprivation, you can't help but wonder if you're not a terrible person. Perhaps exactly the same as your Father. Except, from this point of view, 'exactly the same', doesn't sound all that bad.

He rang you, your Father did – right after the deaths were publicised across numerous news channels. Too many channels to count. It made you glad once again, that you have no television in your flat. No need for strangers to keep on shoving the knowledge down your throat.

You may be wrong, but surely they don't have the right!

Anyway, when you spoke, he was concerned – just like you'd expect. You told him you shot the woman. You told him you killed her. You told him you were fine, but that somehow you understood.

He knew better; he knew you were far from fine, and perhaps if you'd been in the same room, rather than miles and miles away, then you may have admitted a little more.

But he also knew better than to push you.

When you'd hung up you knew precisely what you were doing – bottling your emotions, locking your heart back away again in that impenetrable safety-deposit box, because unwittingly, you've made the same mistake over.

And just as you could've predicted, during all the years prior to meeting him, reality has returned to slap you in the face; mock you for thinking you could have any different; unceremoniously crushing you into infinitesimal pieces, and sweeping you swiftly back to where you belong.

Metaphorically, of course. But that still doesn't stop it form being true.

A stint in the comfortable bolster of trusting someone so implicitly; of allowing yourself to lean and be leant on; of deluding yourself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, we aren't all alone after all.

You can't help going to his apartment, taking the spare key out from underneath the fake rock beside his front door, and letting yourself in with shaking hands. All the whilst, marvelling at the sheer stupidity of a former military sniper – turned FBI Agent, whom still retained enough humility and trust in the human race to be able to leave a key out where any bastard could find it.

The place feels empty without him. You'd followed him in each time you'd been there previously, and now the echo of his teasing haunts you: a pitiful surrogate.

A lump forms in your throat at the sight of his familiar scrawl on the scrap of paper by the phone, reading something or other about an ice-hockey game that he was expected to take part in.

Despite the knowledge that you'd set it in motion only seconds before, you jump at the soft click of his front door, as it falls into place.

You've never been to any of his games.

Fleetingly, you get the notion that maybe you should root around for a number to call his ex on. You want to see his son; to see him smile in the same disarmingly cheeky way that he's inherited from his Father. It's selfish though. Terribly selfish of you. Would the little boy understand what had gone on?

How does one even explain to a five year old that his Daddy is dead?

You back away from the phone then, terror clutching at your chest, because you know that you are the catalyst. You are the reason that that adorable, selfless, loving child no longer has a Father.

You order in Thai for two, drink the beer you always shared, and sprawl comatose on his sofa, staring unseeingly at some generic reality television programme: Some crap excuse for entertainment. Something cobbled together as a fake representation of the real American culture. In terms of Anthropology: Absolute bullshit.

Somehow, and for the first time, you don't care. Not about the natural order of things, nor how the culture you are ensconced in expects you to behave. Definitely not about the sense of propriety that you've always fought to hold in place.

You leave the television flickering away mutely in the corner and find yourself crawling into the king-size in his room.

You're not even sure why.

Just know that you need it; need to feel close to him; need to fool yourself into thinking that he's still there.

You ignore the niggling rationale that if he were still there, then there was no way in hell you'd be lying in the foetal position in the middle of the man's bed, clutching his pyjama bottoms to your chest, and crying yourself to sleep.

Needless to say, your dreams aren't exactly peaceful, and each time you awake, you feel the pain afresh.

It resides as an instinct, you've come to realise - that split second when you wake up and remember the dream, and tell yourself that it isn't real. But then you realise where you are, and why you are there, and the sobs start again.

By the time the sun streams in beneath his blinds, you are laying there staring uselessly up at the ceiling.

You feel that by bathing the room in its fresh morning rays, the world is taunting you maliciously in the knowledge that life has to go on.

Rationally, you have to get up, leave his flat, and go to work.

You are all cried out; no tears left even if you want to.

You are no use to him now.

He took the bullet for you, and you have to get back to doing what you are supposed to do.

You have to get back to your purpose in life.

Have to make use of every single moment you've been given.

Have to live on borrowed time.

You take the pyjama bottoms with you.

A/N:- Okay, so for a 1st (and impromptu) attempt at writing a Bones fic, what's the verdict? Let me know either way, pretty please :)

Also, what do you make of my writing style in this? It's following the disjointed thought pattern of an emotional wreck and is written in second person, so it was never going to be traditionally sound, but still I'd love to know if it's coherent, because my written work has recently been slated to a rather horrifying degree. Not that anybody needed to know that.

Hmm, anyhoo thanks a million for reading, and as I said, I'd appreciate reviews greatly, whether constructive or congratulatory.