#this isn't one of the bereavements everyone has to be nice to me about. he was 95. it's just that if i think about it literally at

[unopenablebox]

i wish it were easier to somehow block any and all notifications relating to my extremely recent family bereavement without also blocking my ability to receive any other notifications

[hyperionshipping]

So much bouncing in my head post s10 of Bones. Angst stuff under cut Bev don't look /srs you will cry

They REALLY fucking went hard on the casts feelings for Sweets. And you know what? My s/i wouldn't be left out from that.

When he hears the news his whole world just shatters. I don't know if he's near Hodgins at the time but if he isn't I think my s/i calmly says "oh. Okay." and goes back to work.

And he's fine. He's fine until Sweets shows back up in a body bag. And that's when my s/i just leaves. Hodgins goes after him but it's a nasty little fight. Hodgins goes to grab him and Wolfe flips out. Shoves him and says "don't you dare fucking touch me" and continues to say he can't be here anymore. He can't do this anymore.

He doesn't even care how hurt Hodgins looks. How worried. Hodgins still yells for Wolfe, begs him not to do anything stupid.

Wolfe shows up for the funeral. Barely. When they start to sing his song my s/i just bursts into tears all over again. A loud ugly sobbing as he turns away while they pour out Sweets' ashes. Someone comforts him, but I don't know who. No ones seen him cry like this.

Afterwards, he takes a long break from work. He tells Cam he needs bereavement leave or vacation, anything. Anything he has saved up. Of course, she lets him. She's worked with him for years. "It's no worry. Take all the time you need. You'll come back right?" and my s/i won't look at her but nods real slow.

He's gone for *a while*. Weeks at least. I think he's staying with Hodgins, Angela and Michael Vincent. Hodgins keeps waking up at night, hearing him cry in his sleep. And every night he comforts him till it stops, knowing it'll start back up in another hour or two.

When he comes back to work, Cam is only a little worried about how quickly he throws himself into work. But someone tells her to just let him. Keep him busy.

The first time Wolfe meets Aubrey it's... bad. Wolfe looks at him, and with a dead tone and cold eyes he just snarls out "YOU got my friend fucking killed. If it were up to me, you wouldn't be here. His recommendation or not. Watch your back." and Aubrey doesn't react much. Just nods and goes "I was told you're not super friendly first meeting. I'm taking you talking as a step in the right direction!"

The coldness stays, and at least once around others Wolfe lets it be known he thinks Aubrey is a shit replacement for Sweets. You won't ever get a new Sweets. Why has everyone just moved on?

It all comes full circle when Hodgins and Angela are discussing moving. Wolfe asks why they're leaving their friends, and he doesn't want to move, how will he see his friends? They can't just run away!! And Wolfe storms off when it isn't going how he needs it too.

He walks out of work and ends up back where they let Sweets go. He sits in the grass, and just screams before a whole new set of tears come out and he's begging to wake up. And thinking how no one should of let him go alone, he died cold, he wasn't held, this could've been stopped. And he's crying Sweets name, eyes closed knees hiked and hands in his buzzcut grabbing the slight growth.

The breeze is nice, it's warm and soft and the sun shines and for a brief moment while he cries for his friend, Wolfe swears he feels arms around him, and sees someone sit beside him and say "It's ok to cry Wolfe." and it sounds just like Sweets. And Wolfe looks up through his tears and it's a trick he knows it but he swears for a minute he saw Sweets beside him, a soft smile on his face and his eyes were still shining.

And as soon as he blinks, he's gone. He always was gone. And Wolfe just sobs again, coughing from how much he is. He stays in that spot till the sun starts to set. He's fully ready to stay there all night but he finally notices all the missed calls, the texts, and he remembers something Sweets told him. It feels so long ago. He should call everyone back.

But for just one last time, he calls Sweets' number to hear his voice. And then he sets his phone down, lays with his back against the grass and eyes to the sky and says "I'm really going to miss you Sweets. Listen to my voicemail okay? Send something back to let me know you're okay, okay? I just don't wanna worry."

[dissonancedance]

Worth Keeping Chapter 2

This attraction isn't part of him, it is an aberration, a mistake, this isn't what he is. In a few days, he’ll be far, far away from this problem.

CW: incest, rape fantasy, blood, underage

According to Harvey, the best thing about funerals is that no one expects the bereaved to sing along to the hymns or act like you’re praying if you look sad enough. The worst thing is that everyone else will still sing along to the hymns and act like they’re praying. Between each transition, which are long enough to prevent the elderly from feeling outpaced, Roscoe leans over to whisper to Harvey.

“She's got a heart of gold, that girl. Don't know where she gets it. Don't get me wrong – Jack and Nan were decent, God-fearing people, but, well, you know what I mean. And she’s nothing like her mother, that's for sure. You won’t ever have to worry about her turning out like that.”

Harvey considers pretending not to hear him, but knows that doing so would only make Roscoe repeat himself louder. “Are you talking about Tabitha?”

“Well I’m not talking about the fucking- the freaking first lady,” Roscoe grouses.

The new pastor– who has been there for eight years but the congregation still refers to as the new pastor– invites them all to join the choir as they sing We Praise You, O God, Our Redeemer. Harvey continues to stare at the angular, forlorn face of Christ depicted in the carving of the crucifix behind the pulpit, just as he had every Sunday for as far back as he could remember until he left for college at 17. It is, as Harvey has come to find out, despite avoiding houses of worship whenever possible, an odd thing for a Baptist church to display Jesus on the cross. It is one of many ways that Home is an alienated and alienating place. The figure itself is large, but certainly not life-sized. Actually, he can’t say that. This Jesus is about the same size as Tabitha and she’s considered life-sized, though only by the technicality of being alive.

Before the new pastor moves on to talk about the Lord’s game of giveth and taketh, Roscoe leans over again and whispers, “You know that Nan had her taking ballet lessons since she was a toddler, right? Extracurricular activity is vital for kids. It's important to keep that going.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nan never had a bad thing to say about raising Tabby. Sure, every kid makes trouble from time to time, but Tabby is a good girl. I don't see that changing either. Boys are gonna be a problem, though. She's gonna be a beauty when she's older.”

Harvey glances down at his niece seated at the other side of him. If she’s hearing what her godfather is saying, she gives no sign; all her attention is on the bullshit beginning to be shoveled on the pulpit. 

She’s already a beauty and it’s already a problem , he does not say.

When the new pastor asks that they turn their bibles to somewhere in the Philippians, Roscoe manages to fit in, “Something I've noticed about her is that she never wants to be a bother, which you’d think makes looking after her real easy, right? Wrong. Get this: I see her limping on Saturday night, and I had to get stern with her for her to tell me that she strained her knee pretty good when she was trying to help Nancy out of the tub. She didn't tell anyone, didn't want to make a fuss. Drives me nuts! You gotta be careful she's not hiding that she needs something.”

“Yeah.”

Harvey supposes that it’s nice that her godfather is excited about her. It’s a more interesting topic than baseball or the weather. The extra Xanax he took before entering the church helps him leave it at that. Then, remembering about the Xanax, he second guesses it all. Perhaps Roscoe has been talking about Tabitha because the old man noticed him looking at her so much. It wouldn’t be a far leap for anyone to guess why a child-hating bachelor would suddenly take an interest in his very pretty, very emotionally fragile, very naive niece. The old man hasn’t gotten there. Not yet. Harvey can’t let him.

The next time Roscoe leans over and starts whispering, he cuts him off by saying, “Please, Mr. Walsh, I’m trying to mourn.”

By some miracle, the old man buys it and shuts up.

Harvey escapes while the crowd is still shambling and shuffling in the pews. No one catches him glancing back at his niece as he steps out. She’s already being swarmed with sympathy, presently in the form of being crushed to Mrs. Johnson’s doughy bosom while a circle of mourners wait for their turn at the effectively orphaned child. She really is a good girl, doing her best to reach around Mrs. Johnson’s mass and pat her back as she struggles to breathe.

He stops a safe distance up the sidewalk and lights a cigarette, taking a shallow puff off it every few minutes to keep the flame alive as he watches so many familiar faces dribble out of the chapel and head towards the church hall for the reception. The Walshes eventually appear. Roscoe sees him and gestures for his wife to continue to the reception. Harvey takes a long, languid drag as the old man marches towards him.

“You don’t smoke indoors at home, do you?” Roscoe asks, grimacing in the sunlight.

“No.”

“Good. Secondhand smoke kills too.”

Harvey doesn’t comment on this non-sequitur. The old man will always take the opportunity to say something preachy whether it applies or not. 

“What day are you flying back to New York?”

“Tonight. 6:40.”

Roscoe’s grimace takes on an edge of disapproval. “Change that to Sunday night. Tabby needs more time and we need to get some stuff at Jack and Nan’s house.”

Harvey doesn’t feel the need to explain that he’s not someone Tabby should lean on for emotional support. It’s much more wise to continue avoiding discussing her at all.

“We’ll go to my parent’s house tomorrow and I’ll leave that night, then,” Harvey decides.

“You’re gonna have to start thinking about more than just what’s best for you, Harvey. Come on. Sunday.”

He drops the cigarette and stamps it out as he says, “I’m going to go back to the hotel in Omaha. What time do you need me to come over to talk about the will?”

The old man’s forehead scrunches into a deluge of folds as his eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You’re going to skip your own mother’s wake. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

Roscoe shakes his head and sighs. “Alright, that's your choice. You should let Tabby know.” 

“No, I'm just going to go.” 

“Really?” 

“Really. I'll be at your house later anyway.” 

“Fine. Okay, we’ll be finished here in two, three hours, I'll let you know. Do you remember my address?” 

“Text it to me.” 

“Sure. Alright, Harv. We’ll see you in a few.”

The suffocating, claustrophobic feeling of Home that has been eating at him since knowing he'd be coming back becomes overwhelming as he drives to Omaha. The flat terrain stretches on all sides in monotony, each mile ratcheting that horrid familiarity. The instinctive urge to escape nags at him even in the hotel room with the curtain drawn to block out the view. He tries to distract himself with work but he can't focus. Even the air feels wrong, too open, too dry. He lies flat on the floor, stares at the ceiling, but the ceiling is here . He shuts his eyes, tries to conjure his apartment, the clean lines and sharp edges, the high gloss modernity, looking out of the windows to the extravagance of lights and buildings. That almost works. He needs something more, something stronger to flood the feeling of Home out.

“Tabitha.”

Her name falls from his tongue like a hex he casts out onto the world. He can see her lying beneath him on his bed, those darling Bambi eyes glittering with those pretty jewel tears. A warm, comforting pressure sinks low in his body. That's it . He presses his palm against his erection, coaxes himself to slip further into this feeling. She's so afraid. She should be. She will be . He unfastens his slacks, spits on his hand before he pulls out his cock. The wet friction is harsh, a poor substitute for the soft, smooth flesh he craves.

“Tabitha.”

Her neck feels good under his hands, fragile and weak like the rest of her. That fearful whimpering is lovely, it's almost a shame to silence her. He squeezes his shaft as he squeezes her throat. Her mouth gapes, desperate to suck in more air through her narrowed trachea, and he licks inside to the soft meat of her tongue. He strokes himself faster, chasing this thrill deeper, outrunning the sickening shame. Her thin legs are spread wide as he forces himself between them and he makes her watch as he presses his tip against her little goody-two-shoes cunt. She screams when he tears her open. Too young, too small. Her blood coats him, spilling hot and fast from inside her as though it's as eager for him as he is to release it. The blood of his sister, the same blood as his, taken and reshaped to belong to him as his again. Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.

“ Tabitha .”

His hips jerk and a groan scrapes out of his throat with each deep pulse as he cums. The frenzied pleasure recedes, but the desire she invokes is clearer, louder than before. He doesn't have to worry, though. This attraction isn't part of him, it is an aberration, a mistake, this isn't what he is. In a few days, he’ll be far, far away from this problem.

Roscoe and Barbara Walsh’s home has changed from what Harvey remembers of all those frequent barbecues and holidays that his parents would drag him and his sister to. Roscoe in his semi-retirement and Barbara in her full retirement have been busy remodeling and trading out the deplorable farmhouse and dated fake Tuscan influences for a more defined and current coastal style. It's heartening to see change occurring to Home. Even though the memory will not die, knowing that a piece of it has been killed and replaced in reality is comforting. 

He's staring at an arrangement of teal glass balls in a driftwood basket on the coffee table when he catches something odd in Roscoe's rambling about the legal responsibilities in regards to Nancy's will.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Harvey says, leaning forward to listen carefully now. “What do you mean ‘once Tabby settles in with’ me?”

Roscoe waves him off. “You know, after you enroll her into whatever school is out there and get her a primary care doctor for the health assessment, the nuts and bolts stuff.”

Harvey’s gut clenches with a cold suspicion of something he's apprehensive to confirm. “But she's living with you. You're her godfather.”

Roscoe stares at him in bewilderment, the crows feet around his eyes deepening in a squint that widens when his confusion abruptly clears into shock.

“Nancy didn't tell you!”

A headache begins to coalesce in the back of Harvey's skull. “Didn't tell me what?”

The older man leans back in his chair, watching him in astonishment before asking, “Remember when your sister came back to the house a few months after your father died and robbed it?”

Harvey swallows his impatience with this man’s annoying non-sequiturs. “Yes. Katelynn has 16 years left to serve for that and the meth.”

Roscoe nods, then carefully continues, “After that, Nancy made some changes to her will. One of those changes was to remove Katelynn entirely. She gets nothing. Understandably so. Nancy also made some changes in regards to you and Tabby. I guess losing Jack and having her home broken into made her rethink the situation Tabby would be left in if something happened to her. I'm 70 years old. There's a strong chance that Barb and I might not even live to see her reach adulthood. She's already had three parents leave her, there can't be a fourth or fifth. Nancy wanted to make sure Tabby will be cared for, so… she named you as Tabby's guardian in the event that she becomes incapable of raising her. And that event happened.”

“But I can't…” Harvey starts, then takes a breath to calm himself. “I can't do that. I'm not… I don't have room in my life to do that. I decided to never have children, there's no way that can work.”

Roscoe nods again, a solemn disappointment etched into the deepened grooves of his face. “Well. That explains the conditions Nancy set around your inheritance.”

Harvey presses against the tension between his eyebrows. “Just tell me, Roscoe.”

“Before I do… I want you to tell me why you can't take Tabby in. Is it where you live? You have a room she can use.”

“It's not that.”

“Is it money? You won't have to worry about that, there's a trust to cover anything she wants or needs.”

“It's not about money.”

“If it's about not having time, Tabby is a very mature girl, she doesn't need 24-hour supervision. You can still work late, you can still go on business trips.”

“No, Roscoe, it's not-”

“Then what is it? What's stopping you? Out of the family she knows, you're all she has left. And she's all you have left. That kid loves you, she's crazy about you, are you really going to let her down? What is so fucking important that you'd turn away a little girl who only wants to be with you?”

“It's not that simple!” Harvey snaps louder than he meant to. He hadn't meant to snap at all. Roscoe only glares at him in disgust. Harvey buries his forehead in his hands and sighs. He doesn't need him to understand, but he explains anyway, “I'm not someone who should have her. I don't know how to care for a kid. I never had to know. I never want to know. I'm not good for her. If I had her, if I had Tabitha, I… I don't trust myself enough to have her.”

“You don't have to be good. You just have to be good enough. A roof over her head, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, family who gives a shit that she's alive… That's what she needs. That's good enough and that's what you can give her.”

“No. I have my life the way I want it.”

“The will explicitly states that you must adhere to your role as Tabby's guardian and have her reside with you until she comes of age or you get nothing.”

“I don't need any of it.”

Roscoe grits his teeth the same way Jack used to when he got angry. “Fine. If that's what you've decided, then you'll have to explain that to her. Go on and tell your niece that you're turning your back on her. Please leave when you're done.”

Harvey shoves down the urge to show his contempt for this judgemental interloper. He wants to remind him that he never agreed to this in the first place, but more than anything, he wants to leave. If this is the quickest way out the door, that'll do. It's better she hears this from him than from that vindictive asshole anyway. He pushes himself up from the couch and heads towards the kitchen where Tabitha and Barbara are preparing dinner, only to find Tabitha standing around the corner. The expression on her face is enough to tell him that she heard everything. That sad smile plastered over her pain.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “It's okay, uncle Harvey. I understand. It's not fair that you had this put on you. You never asked to take me.”

“Tabitha…”

No, she doesn't understand. He hates that this is what he's leaving her with. If she knew the whole truth, she would understand that this is what's best for both of them. If she knew the whole truth, she would run screaming from him. 

“I'm sorry too, kid,” he says, actually meaning an apology for once.

“No, no… it's okay, I…” Her brave facade crumbles before she can finish and she turns away, her voice breaking as she rasps, “Please excuse me.”

She hurries away, retreating with her heart broken and leaving him standing there. He lets out a sigh, runs his hand through his hair, and walks out of that house. There was no other way for this to go, really. Nancy had to have known that he would refuse; it was vile of her to harm an innocent in this final spiteful act towards him. No. He's the one who hurt Tabitha. He had to hurt her now to avoid hurting her far worse later by trying to be something he can't.

He sits in the rental car in front of the Walsh residence, the engine idling as he lights a cigarette. Fuck the cleaning fee. He leans back against the headrest and sighs out the first drag. Smoke curls and billows along the ceiling as he stares. If he leaves now, he can probably make that 6:40 flight. He lets the flame in the cigarette die, relights it to take another drag, lets it die again. If he rushes, he can still make it. He'll be back in his dark, silent apartment in a matter of hours. He’ll have a couple more days to piss away ignoring his fake girlfriend and jacking off to ignore this feeling. Maybe one of the masochists who still haven't blocked him will let him use them to take this feeling out on, or maybe Judith has something that will screw him up enough to take care of it. Then he'll go back to work until next weekend when he’ll make up with Rebecca. He’ll go to another BDSM party to play those safe and sane games with safe and sane people who only like to pretend with him until they're done. Then he’ll do it all over again. This is his life. This is the way he wants it. Unattached and unattainable, keeping everything and everyone far enough away to stay in control, never surprised, never at risk of being known. Always the same, always alone.

“Fucking bullshit,” he mutters.

He lights another cigarette. It's better this way. It's safe. Tabitha is safe from him. What he wants from her isn't something he's allowed to have. If he had agreed, if he had taken her away from this shit hole that will only ever reduce what she might become into another God-fearing sow, he would be taking her from all that she knows. He would have her isolated from any other influence but his, completely dependent on him, susceptible in her ignorance, vulnerable in her innocence. He would make her into his in a way that would be impossible to do to anyone else.

The cigarette is cold. It's too late to make that flight. He kills the engine, gets out of the car. He has to ring the doorbell three times before Roscoe answers.