The Project
It was the brain child of one Dr. Jack Hodgins of the Jeffersonian Institute. He had run out of unsolvable equations for Zack Addy to solve. Instead, to entertain his friend, he'd come up with the idea for the greatest betting pool of all time. At first Zack wondered aloud whether it would even be logical to try to predict something that would be the end result of so many variables, and then he wondered why anyone would want to risk losing so much money.
"For the glory, Zack-o," Hodgins had replied. "Wouldn't you want the bragging rights when it finally happens? To be able to say you'd been the one to predict the exact circumstances of one of the most unpredictable inevitabilities in the history of mankind?"
"I wouldn't describe it in terms of the history of mankind—"
"Are you going to help or not, Spock?"
"They're both such dangerous people…."
"Listen, Dr. B. would never hurt you, and although Booth might shoot you, I promise to take full blame for this, thereby accepting punishment, be it in the form of kung fu or flying projectile."
So Zack had agreed. He'd designed three different equations and a complex algorithm to go along with them. Hodgins decided that these equations were probably based on one of those million-dollar-prize math problems when Zack presented him with the sheet of paper covered edge to edge with numbers, variables, and arrows in Zack's miniscule handwriting.
Angela was a key component in the equation. Once Hodgins had convinced her of the "sheer awesomeness" of the idea, she'd designed a special computer program per Zack's instructions. Then, instead of buying in, it was her job to be the eyes and ears of the betting pool. If her keen observational skills went awry, a domino effect would cripple practically an entire branch of the federal government. Well, that's how Hodgins had described it, anyway.
Hodgins was the go-to man for the pool, codenamed "The Project." He collected the fifty-dollar buy-in from each gambler, then he plugged times, situations, places, and actions into the computer program as variables, each according to the bettor's hypotheses.
The first person to predict the place, manner, and time, if ever, in which Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan finally got together, would win the pot.
The Jeffersonian staff were in on it. Cam placed a bet (Booth would ask Brennan out on an official date three months hence). The other doctors and techs in the Medico-Legal Lab placed bets. The security guards, the secretaries, the museum tour guides, the researchers in the other departments placed bets. Max Keenan placed a bet (his daughter would make the first move, a kiss in the SUV at a crime scene). The interns, despite their fear of the wrath of Brennan, placed bets (Wendell thought it'd be Booth who would corner Brennan on the catwalk at the lab).
It seemed like the entire Hoover building was in on it. Caroline Julian placed a bet (a make-out session, sans mistletoe, begun simultaneously by both partners). The FBI forensics team all placed bets. Sweets had refused a buy-in, citing conflict of interest, but he had given Hodgins the number of the man who had organized a similar running bet in the Homicide division. The Project absorbed the FBI betting pool when it became clear that Zack Addy's equation could devour Charlie's simple spiral notebook for breakfast.
The majority of the D.C. restaurant industry was in on it. Every waitress at the diner placed a bet (they all agreed that it would happen in their establishment). The bartender from The Founding Fathers placed a bet. The delivery boys from half the Thai and Chinese places in the city placed bets. Hodgins wasn't even sure how they'd found out about The Project. At one point, he thought the sheer volume of interested parties had got a little out of hand, but he was on probation with Cam since his last experiment, and this was almost as much fun as blowing something up.
Interestingly, not a single person bet that Booth and Brennan wouldn't get together.
They had a mailing list. Angela's observations were emailed out once a week, sometimes more if a major event—such as handholding or a ten-second lingering stare—happened. The bettors were allowed to change their guesses unless and until Angela put a freeze on the changes if she thought a major hook-up was imminent. Daisy Wick was suspected of having inside information when she changed her bet the day after the partners had a session with Sweets.
With nearly one hundred people involved in The Project, Hodgins was certain it would be impossible to keep it a secret. Zack pointed out that Booth and Brennan had had the highest solve rate at the FBI for at least two years.
"Then we'll just have to make sure they don't get suspicious, won't we?" he'd replied.
It was easier said than done. Brennan might be totally oblivious to anything that wasn't a skeleton sometimes, but Booth was a skilled detective, with the eyes of a sniper, and he could read people just as well as Sweets and Angela could. Plus he was a scary, scary man when he was pissed. So Hodgins established some rules.
Rule Number One: If you must speak of it, call it The Project.
Rule Number Two: Do not speak of it if you even think Booth could be anywhere nearby.
Rule Number Three: If Booth looks suspicious, remain calm; he's often suspicious. If Booth begins to interrogate you, deny everything. If Booth makes you cry, at least try not to rat out everyone in the betting pool.
Despite strict adherence to these rules, Hodgins was beginning to suspect that Booth suspected something. And if Booth suspected something, it was likely, according to Zack's equation, that he'd tell Dr. B. about it. Hodgins wasn't sure before which partner he'd rather cower in fear.
One day, he'd taken a call at his workstation from Brennan's doorman, who'd wanted to change his bet. He'd made certain Dr. B. was in her office before answering, "Hey Harve."
Angela and Cam, nearby, cleared their throats loudly, and Hodgins turned to find the G-Man taking the steps up to the platform two at a time. The agent paused upon hearing the name and upon seeing the looks on the women's faces. Hodgins quickly made his conversation brief and vague. "Mhm," he mumbled, "the lobby in two weeks. Got it. Bye." He snapped the cell phone shut and launched into the findings that Booth had come to collect.
The agent didn't say anything outright, but he was looking at Hodgins in a strange combination of the Seeley Booth glare and the Temperance Brennan stare. It was frightening enough to be on the receiving end of these looks separately, but to have both directed at him from one person? Hodgins was utterly terrified. He was certain Booth could see right to his bones, and just as Hodgins was about to confess all, Booth took the manila folder from the scientist's hands and slowly turned toward his partner's office, but not before sweeping that appraising look across Cam and Angela as well.
When he was gone and the door to the office across the lab had clicked shut, Angela let out the breath she'd been holding. "Oh dear God," she breathed.
"That was a close call," Cam agreed. "Maybe he'll think it's a different Harve?"
"I'm not sticking around to find out. I'm steering clear before he makes me confess my deepest, darkest secrets," Angela said, and with that, she hurried off to her office.
*********
Booth, for his part, was on to them: the other agents at the office sometimes lowered their voices to whispers when he came near; the waitresses at the diner kept staring at him and Bones when they stopped in for dinner. At first he kept his observations to himself, lest he sound like a conspiracy nut like Hodgins, but even Hodgins was acting strange. Stranger than usual, that is.
"Bones," he said thoughtfully after he'd paid for their pizza one evening, "have you noticed anyone acting sort of strange around us lately?"
"You mean like everyone we know?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I thought I was going nuts. What is it with them?"
Bones's mouth turned up into what Booth recognized as her very knowing smirk. "They call it 'The Project,'" she said.
"What, is that like some sort of experiment?"
"Not so much an experiment as pure conjecture based on completely subjective reasoning. It's really very unscientific," she said with superiority.
"I don't get it. Are they keeping it from us? Why would they?"
"Because we're the subjects. Our knowledge of The Project could skew the outcome. Not that there would even be an outcome, of course," his partner replied.
Everything clicked into place for Booth. "It's a bet!" he said with a laugh. "What are they betting?" He had an idea. He wanted to know if Bones had the same idea.
"I believe each bettor is attempting to pinpoint the exact time, location, circumstance, and manner of our first…encounter."
"The manner of our first encounter?"
"Yes. You know, a kiss on the lips, sexual intercourse, a date. That sort of encounter."
Booth suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. He himself had attempted on several occasions to guess the circumstances and manner of their first encounter. He didn't say as much to Bones. Instead, he asked, "Just how did you become so knowledgeable about a secret betting pool?"
"I solve crime for a living, Booth." But she had that knowing smirk again. Bones relented under a playful version of the Seeley Booth glare with a laugh. "Zack told me about it weeks ago. He was apparently guilt-ridden over keeping his role in The Project a secret from me. And he asked me not to tell you because he thought you might shoot him. I must admit, it is a very impressive equation."
"So all our friends and acquaintances are trying to profit from our relationship?" Booth found it highly ironic that everyone was betting on a man with a gambling problem and a woman who could count cards.
"It appears to be so, yes. But no one is going to profit, of course, except a charity. That's where the bowl goes if no one wins." Bones handed Booth a plate and opened the pizza box.
"Pot. That's where the pot goes," Booth corrected her automatically as he accepted a slice from his partner. "No, Bones, I don't want your gross vegetarian pizza. That's why I ordered my half with pepperoni."
"Sorry," she said, somewhat absentmindedly.
"What's on your mind, Bones?" he asked as he traded his plate for her empty one and selected a far more delicious slice of pizza.
She leaned back into his couch and stared out into space. "I was just thinking…" she trailed off.
"When are you not?"
She took a deep breath. "I was just thinking about eventualities."
Booth paused mid-chew. "How do you mean?"
Her eyes finally found his, and he felt as though he'd been pinned to the couch by her gaze. "You make a lot of promises."
Booth swallowed. No, he fairly gulped. Her words had sounded like an accusation. But he drew himself up under her continued stare. There was no point in acting dumb with her anymore, for they both knew what she was talking about. "Yeah. I do."
"You always keep your promises." It wasn't a question, but Booth answered anyway.
"Always."
Bones's eyes finally unpinned him. She leaned forward to reach for the plate she'd set on the coffee table. When she leaned back, Booth slid an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him as Booth turned on the hockey game. "The pot's not going to go to charity, is it?" she asked.
Booth turned to her, surprised to hear the question and all its implications. But he knew the answer, and with a shake of his head and a little half-smile, he said, "No. Probably not, Bones."
Her lips quirked into a smile to match his own, and they both turned back to the television and to their pizza.
"Promise you won't shoot Zack?"
"We'll see."