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Reactance: In psychology, an emotional reaction to pressure or persuasion that results in the strengthening or adoption of a contrary belief. Used in reverse psychology. Also, an opposition to flow of alternating current (electrical reactance).
Reactance
"I think this was a date."
She informs him of this matter-of-factly, as if appraising him of the sex and age of their latest victim.
He nearly chokes on his own saliva and coughs profusely.
"I'm gonna kill Angela," he finally manages.
"She merely pointed out what I would have logically deduced," she counters, clearly annoyed at the correct assumption that the observation was not hers.
"It wasn't a date!" The reply is an octave higher than normal.
She arches an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"We are both dressed in formal evening wear. You arrived at my apartment and escorted me to a fundraising event for the Jeffersonian. We shared several glasses of wine and made sarcastic remarks about others at the event. We danced. You did not leave my side for more than fifteen minutes the entire evening, and now you are in my apartment after having brought me home. By anyone's standard, these are the social indicators of a date, Booth."
He can't argue with her logic, but there's no way he'd ever let her know that.
"So all of a sudden you're an expert on social indicators? Come on, Bones. You asked me to come so you wouldn't be bored and nice guy that I am, I said yes. I drove so you wouldn't mess up those fancy heels. We had a nice time poking fun at all the rich snobs. End of story."
He hopes that was convincing. Truth is, there's no way the story ends like that. Not if he has anything to say about it.
She tilts her head, considering him. He feels like she just stuck him under one of her expensive microscopes. Her eyes light up in that way when she has just uncovered a previously hidden avenue of inquiry, and he really should have known better than to think she would let it go.
"You brought flowers."
She's got him there; no excuse for that one. He shrugs, strives for nonchalance.
"I thought you'd like them."
"I did. Very much."
She still has him pinned like a bug under that gaze, and he doesn't know why he's wriggling so hard to be free. There's something akin to disappointment etched into the flawless contours of her face.
"Did you want it to be a date, Bones?"
She laughs, but there's a nervousness to it that he only hears because he knows her so well.
"You really have quite the ego, Booth."
"You didn't answer the question."
"Because it was a ridiculous question that did not bear answering."
"I wasn't the one who brought up the date thing. Maybe your subconscious is telling you something."
"My subconscious is not a physical entity and therefore cannot tell me anything. Leave the psychology to Sweets."
Their faces are inches away, separated only by the impasse between them. She eyes him warily. He grins. For all her denials and physiological justifications, she can feel this. He knows she can feel this. And, for that very reason, they don't need to classify their evening, just as they haven't needed to classify the last four years.
Her voice is soft when it cuts through the stillness, and he knows she can hear all the words he hasn't said.
"So, not a date then."
His breath ghosts over her face and makes her shiver.
"No, Bones. Definitely not a date."
Fin.
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