Fic: Abandon
Nov. 29th, 2011 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rachg82Title: Abandon
Fandom: Bones
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rachg82
Rating: A squeaky-clean PG
Characters/Pairings: Booth + Papa Booth (not to be confused with Papa Smurf or Papa Doc)
Word Count: 718
Spoilers: Nada (unless you count "The Blackout in the Blizzard," which: c'mon, that was last season.)
Disclaimer: I don't own this show, nor do I own Booth & his daddy issues.
Summary: Game Six of the World Series -- one perfect day in the eyes of a man who never truly got to be a child.
P.S. I knocked this ficlet out over the last couple days, as usual without a beta, so I apologize in advance for any possible craptasticness.
Additional Writer's Note: (because I never stop rambling) The quote you just saw in the lj-cut is courtesy of Wislawa Szymborska. For once, however, there are no direct quotes in the fic itself. I know, miracle.
I will still include a song to set the ~mood~ though, 'cause y'all know that's how I roll:
And…GO.
---
When Booth was very young,
he knew how to stand at attention,
knew when it was time to lay low, how to creep along walls
and crawl through the wreckage of a broken man's dreams.
(The shag carpeting is still there, albeit wavy & blurred now; far away -- a tattered white flag at the bottom of a bottle. If you close one eye, you can almost see it.)
He knew without thinking
that when none of the above was enough,
it would still be his fault.
It was his job
to keep the shades drawn
and his mouth shut,
clearing a caged path for the fallen.
As the unofficial man of the house, he took it in stride.
He had to. There was no use tripping over the facts.
There was normal -- and then there was Normal.
It was easy to read between the lines.
(Everyone told him what a good boy he was.)
The following morning, he'd bury his bruises beneath the bed,
no longer afraid of monsters.
But then, now & again, his dad would lift him up and place him in a red barber's chair--
torn vinyl & duct tape around the edges, old men stitched together
with aces & jacks & a tall tale or two,
that long black cape circling his neck like a superhero--
and he would let him spin,
stopping him with two big hands across the shoulders
like he had it all under control.
And they would watch as their reflection in the mirror stared back
at them, knowingly, one generation to the next,
and for some reason then it was enough.
For one split second, he was right there with him.
When he sat Seeley down later, told him how things
were going to be different now,
his son believed him.
He had no reason not to.
He'd been praying, lighting candles,
dropping pennies into wells.
Surely, this was the reward he'd been waiting for--
the climax of the story,
his inevitable happy ending;
the meek, at long last, inheriting the Earth.
(Surely, God doesn't lie)
For two straight weeks,
he lurked behind corners,
hypnotized & wondering.
Was this how it was going to be?
His father, eyes clear
and close enough to touch,
making breakfast in the kitchen,
energetic like a puppy.
He had so much to make up for.
There was no time to waste.
You won't believe where we're going tonight…
Two tickets clutched in a shaking hand;
if you looked, really looked, you could see the effort it took
just for this man to stand.
His children could climb him like a mighty sequoia,
swinging from his arms like rowdy lumberjacks,
but he'd never felt closer to the ground.
(He'd kept a flask hidden in the cellar -- just in case. It was still there, waiting for him.)
When they got to the stadium,
Seeley held on to his father's sleeve,
tailing him like an eager hawk, afraid to blink.
There was no more than a thin kite string bonding them together,
and his father had been slipping away for years.
Eventually, he would lose sight of him completely.
Deep down, he knew this
and always had,
and so he held on tighter.
Decades later, after the proverbial dust had settled,
he would prefer to remember only the simplest of things:
the blue seats, the hot dogs, Pete Rose,
& The Wave.
October 21st, 1980. 11:29 pm. Game Six.
He would remember how it was past his bedtime when the Phillies won;
how quickly he fell asleep in the car, & how he said
he wasn't even tired;
the way no one cared
when he spilled hot mustard down the front of his shirt;
and how it felt to merge with the crowd,
thousands strong, standing as one,
with just him & his dad at the center--
instead of the other way around.
He was nine years old,
and this was his one
perfect day.
Just that;
just them.
Now, as a father himself,
no longer so very young,
Booth still whispers prayers, still lights candles,
and still drops pennies into wells.
Not for the man he struggles to be, or the one he's becoming,
but for the one that almost was,
and the one he still wishes
he could forgive.
---
Fin
As always, thanks for reading & much love!
Fandom: Bones
Author:
rachg82Rating: A squeaky-clean PG
Characters/Pairings: Booth + Papa Booth (not to be confused with Papa Smurf or Papa Doc)
Word Count: 718
Spoilers: Nada (unless you count "The Blackout in the Blizzard," which: c'mon, that was last season.)
Disclaimer: I don't own this show, nor do I own Booth & his daddy issues.
Summary: Game Six of the World Series -- one perfect day in the eyes of a man who never truly got to be a child.
P.S. I knocked this ficlet out over the last couple days, as usual without a beta, so I apologize in advance for any possible craptasticness.
Additional Writer's Note: (because I never stop rambling) The quote you just saw in the lj-cut is courtesy of Wislawa Szymborska. For once, however, there are no direct quotes in the fic itself. I know, miracle.
I will still include a song to set the ~mood~ though, 'cause y'all know that's how I roll:
And…GO.
---
When Booth was very young,
he knew how to stand at attention,
knew when it was time to lay low, how to creep along walls
and crawl through the wreckage of a broken man's dreams.
(The shag carpeting is still there, albeit wavy & blurred now; far away -- a tattered white flag at the bottom of a bottle. If you close one eye, you can almost see it.)
He knew without thinking
that when none of the above was enough,
it would still be his fault.
It was his job
to keep the shades drawn
and his mouth shut,
clearing a caged path for the fallen.
As the unofficial man of the house, he took it in stride.
He had to. There was no use tripping over the facts.
There was normal -- and then there was Normal.
It was easy to read between the lines.
(Everyone told him what a good boy he was.)
The following morning, he'd bury his bruises beneath the bed,
no longer afraid of monsters.
But then, now & again, his dad would lift him up and place him in a red barber's chair--
torn vinyl & duct tape around the edges, old men stitched together
with aces & jacks & a tall tale or two,
that long black cape circling his neck like a superhero--
and he would let him spin,
stopping him with two big hands across the shoulders
like he had it all under control.
And they would watch as their reflection in the mirror stared back
at them, knowingly, one generation to the next,
and for some reason then it was enough.
For one split second, he was right there with him.
When he sat Seeley down later, told him how things
were going to be different now,
his son believed him.
He had no reason not to.
He'd been praying, lighting candles,
dropping pennies into wells.
Surely, this was the reward he'd been waiting for--
the climax of the story,
his inevitable happy ending;
the meek, at long last, inheriting the Earth.
(Surely, God doesn't lie)
For two straight weeks,
he lurked behind corners,
hypnotized & wondering.
Was this how it was going to be?
His father, eyes clear
and close enough to touch,
making breakfast in the kitchen,
energetic like a puppy.
He had so much to make up for.
There was no time to waste.
You won't believe where we're going tonight…
Two tickets clutched in a shaking hand;
if you looked, really looked, you could see the effort it took
just for this man to stand.
His children could climb him like a mighty sequoia,
swinging from his arms like rowdy lumberjacks,
but he'd never felt closer to the ground.
(He'd kept a flask hidden in the cellar -- just in case. It was still there, waiting for him.)
When they got to the stadium,
Seeley held on to his father's sleeve,
tailing him like an eager hawk, afraid to blink.
There was no more than a thin kite string bonding them together,
and his father had been slipping away for years.
Eventually, he would lose sight of him completely.
Deep down, he knew this
and always had,
and so he held on tighter.
Decades later, after the proverbial dust had settled,
he would prefer to remember only the simplest of things:
the blue seats, the hot dogs, Pete Rose,
& The Wave.
October 21st, 1980. 11:29 pm. Game Six.
He would remember how it was past his bedtime when the Phillies won;
how quickly he fell asleep in the car, & how he said
he wasn't even tired;
the way no one cared
when he spilled hot mustard down the front of his shirt;
and how it felt to merge with the crowd,
thousands strong, standing as one,
with just him & his dad at the center--
instead of the other way around.
He was nine years old,
and this was his one
perfect day.
Just that;
just them.
Now, as a father himself,
no longer so very young,
Booth still whispers prayers, still lights candles,
and still drops pennies into wells.
Not for the man he struggles to be, or the one he's becoming,
but for the one that almost was,
and the one he still wishes
he could forgive.
---
Fin
As always, thanks for reading & much love!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-30 11:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 05:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-30 01:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 05:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-30 02:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 05:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-30 04:52 pm (UTC)XOXO,
Jen
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 05:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-11-30 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 05:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-01 12:28 am (UTC)What really stands out to me is how you make Booth's father, despite all his faults that have been hinted at on the show, into a real person and not a one dimensional caricature and how these lines are heartbreaking, spot on and capture the complexity of Booth in an ingeniously simple way:
his son believed him.
He had no reason not to.
He'd been praying, lighting candles,
dropping pennies into wells.
Beautiful and poetic, as usual and great choice of poem. Am insanely jealous of my brother who one day decided to lean Polish and can now read the Szymborska's poetry in the original language.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-03 06:02 am (UTC)This was important to me, so thank you!
The "dropping pennies into wells" was actually a personal thing for me--I did it for my own alcoholic father as a child--but more importantly I also believed it fit Booth really well, so it was kind of a win/win getting to throw that in.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-05 05:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-06 03:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-06 03:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-06 03:19 am (UTC)