Chapter Text
His hands rest upon the table, clad in black leather gloves. Doctor Zachary Uriah Addy, known as Zack, has just said goodbye to his best friend, Doctor Jonathan Steven Hodgins, known as Jack. Or, more commonly, as simply Hodgins. The two of them work together at the Medico-Legal Lab at the Jeffersonian Institute - or rather, Hodgins does. As of right now, Zack is still serving a thirteen-month sentence at the McKinley Psychiatric Hospital. He's about 10 months in. It's not so bad, and he's getting better.
He's going to miss Hodgins. The other doctor has gone up to Canada with fellow doctor and anthropologist Temperance Brennan - usually referred to as plainly Dr Brennan - to solve a series of curious murders in Trinity, Newfoundland. It would be hard, he had said, but at least nobody else would die. That is a definitive bonus. In this case, the bonus may be leaning more towards the Canadians in Trinity, Newfoundland, rather than Zack, but thinking that could be seen as narcissistic, and he’s already in a mental hospital.
He rises from his seat, and an orderly pushes the door open for him. He steps out into the hallway, and the only sound is the patter of his feet on the floorboards. Everyone is quiet. It is the evening, after all, and he was only allowed to see Hodgins because he’s leaving. He is escorted back to his room, and he lies down on his hard metal cot, counting up to 561,090 in his head to fall asleep.
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The sun wakes him up the next day, rays shining through the window and onto his face. A twisted, reverse pathetic fallacy, given he feels like absolute crap. He groans, pulling the threadbare blanket over his head and burying his head in the pillow. Unfortunately, his groggy calculations - which are, unsurprisingly for his frankly ridiculous IQ, accurate - approximate the time as 8:53. He is required to be awake by 9 according to the routine, not just his own but the one his new psychiatrist has put in place. Dr Sunny Ramirez is a lovely lady, caring and kind, but she's just not the same as… no, he shouldn't think of him. It hurts his head and his heart.
He rises. He stretches his long arms over his head, puts on a fresh pair of leather gloves, and changes into his standard wear. He misses his old clothes, longs for them even, but he can't. That is the price one pays for assisting a cannibalistic serial killer, he muses as he ties his shoes. He nods to Sandy, the guard, on his way out of his room. He rests his gloved left hand on the strap of his brown satchel, dodging his fellow psychopaths, sociopaths and generally mentally ill hospital inhabitants. He skids to a halt outside the dining hall, and looks at the clock. Precisely 9:05. He walks in and collects his assigned breakfast for a Tuesday morning, which is oatmeal with blueberries. He carries it over to his usual seat in the corner, alone as always. One might assume that he would've made friends in his 8-or-so years at the facility, but alas, he had not. He eats his oatmeal in silent solitude, observing the others around him. As ever, the rest of his day is mundane. At 10 AM - sit outside for the hour. 1:30 PM - lunch. 3:00 PM - group therapy. 4:15 PM - group TV time.
It is at 4:35 PM on an ordinary Tuesday that Zachary Addy's world is shattered. Andy Winter, a 15-year-old who has the wisdom of someone twice his age, always asks for the 4:30 news report to be played. Many others enjoy it, so the orderlies always put it on. The issue here is that the major news headline was a plane crash in Newfoundland, Canada. A crash on which most passengers' final destination was Trinity. Hodgins and Dr Brennan are going to - no, it can't be. It has to be. It matches their travel times perfectly. There's even the mangled remains of what could have been uniform for the Jeffersonian.
Zack feels his mouth open, and he hears the sound of a devastated scream. Is that him? Who cares anymore? His best friend and his mentor have both died horrendously. Angela and Booth never visit, Brennan rarely does, Sweets is dead, and now Hodgins is gone. He'll never see Hodgins again, never hear the squeak of his wheels, never race him around the visitor's room, he'll never fight for the title "King of the Lab". Nobody will ever call him "King of the Loony Bin", because that's their thing. It's always their thing. He senses the hot, salty tears pouring down his cheeks, and he can feel himself squeeze into a ball on the floor, howling like a wounded animal.
He feels hands on him, trying to calm him down, but they only make it worse.
Sweets would’ve understood.
He pushes them off, pulling his hands to his ears. He must look like a right freak, he figures, as the orderlies scoop him up. He flails in their grip, crying harder as they carry him right to Dr Ramirez's office.
After about 30 blurry minutes of exhausting himself, he finally stops and looks up in a moment of clarity. He remains stubbornly silent, but when she turns around to grab something, he does exactly what he did to Dr Sweets all those years ago. Swaps her exit card strip with the strip on his loony bin library card.
And, at about 11 PM that night, he leaves his room under the guise of being ready to speak to Dr Ramirez. In reality, he breaks into the storage room, locates his old clothes and changes into them. Now looking relatively ordinary, he escapes via the front door, climbing the fence with a surge of adrenaline, and simply running. He doesn't know whether Sweets can see him right now, but if he can, he knows he's disappointed. And proud, probably.
He runs, and runs, and runs, for what feels like hours. His feet pound against the pavement, skidding around the corners and leaping over obstacles. In his mind, he looks agile, elite even; but in reality, he looks like a 13 year old doing the beep test. His arms move jerkily, and his face is furrowed in what could be concentration, or determination, but appears to be disgruntledness.
He finds an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, deciding to rest there for the night. He falls down and passes out from exertion.
In the shadows, a young woman and a young man stare at him, draped in dark robes.
It is so quiet, anyone could hear the sound of a match striking.