Booth sighed and leaned back against his kitchen counter, feeling cold and numb under the sickly yellow glow coming from the ceiling light. He sipped his cheap beer and his eyes absently roamed his cramped apartment, none of the lights were on and he preffered it that way.
When the moment came, as he knew it would, he took a second, to talk himself into staying. To recite to himself over and over that he couldn't pick up and go, sell everything he had and get out. To shake his head at the very idea of just pointing down the road and seeing how far he got. That it was absurd, and juvinile and impossible. And yet...the feeling remained.
Recently, he'd found his reasons to stay dwindling and his need to go growing. It was both liberating and terrifying. He tried every night to talk himself out of it, that he simply couldn't run out on his life…but that nagging little voice was inevitably there, taunting him with the words he didn't dare say.
What life?
He hated that question. Not because it was patronizing and self depreciating, though it was both those things. Mostly he hated it...because he couldn't answer it.
He used to love his job. Loved the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the catch. He never cared about all the rules and regulations, the mounds of paperwork or the crappy pay. He'd never liked any of it, but he didn't really mind. He hadn't really ever been overly fond of being chewed out by his boss, sort of like he had been today, but ... he'd always had her to run home to afterward. Someone to nurse his bruised ego and tease him back into normalcy. A box of Thai and a smile and he was set for the night because she was always there.
But these days…
With a satisfied sigh he finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the garbage, wincing as it clinked loudly against the other empties inside. He folded his arms and stared at the floor, his mind pounded as he forced himself not to fidget, his blood itching at his veins.
That old, familiar restless feeling was gnawing at him, whispering to the outer reaches of his conscious like a fly that refused to be shooed. It was as if he wanted to go everywhere at once, but couldn't quite make himself move. Caught between the urge to run and the duty-bound need to stay. He'd always gotten this feeling, 'itchy feet' his father had called it, the need to move on to bigger and better things. To never settle and never rest.
Itchy feet was what had pushed him to join the Army when the rest of the family said he was nuts. It was what wouldn't allow him to settle for anything less than the elite Rangers Infantry, when everyone else said he'd never make it.
And when he joined the FBI, he had to be the best, had to take as many cases as possible and he'd go to any lengths to solve them. Itchy feet.
And then he met her. He saw the same fire in that woman that burned slow and hot in himself. He could feel his dedication and determination, matched and surpassed by hers. And he'd allowed himself to fall for her. Hard and fast. Of cours he'd known she was damaged, that she had built up walls of concrete and steel over time to protect her heart, but he'd convinced himself he could handle it, that he could be her knight. Only, somehow, he hadn't managed to convince her.
Booth tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, to trace for the thousandth time that line of cracked plaster that ran from his stove to the refrigerator where it met the large brown spot of water damage from where a pipe had exploded last year.
He closed his eyes.
When she told him she was leaving, he'd pleaded with her to stay. When she'd remained stubborn and resolute, he'd shouted at her to listen. When she shut the door in his face, he'd gone to the gym and punched the body bag for hours on end, until all his knuckles were bleeding and his wrists were stiff and swollen. When he got home to find all her things gone, he'd drank himself to sleep. And the next morning, when he awoke to find it hadn't all been a dream, he'd cried. Now she was gone and he finally knew the truth. Now that it was too late to change anything.
She'd never wanted children, but he could live with that. Understand it even. And maybe he could have forgiven her for what she'd done...but she never gave him the chance. She'd made that decision for him and there was nothing he could do about it. Then or now.
Booth rolled his shoulders and rubbed his face. The air in the apartment was warm, hot even, but his skin was cool to the touch and he shivered involuntarily. He hated this numb feeling that had seeped into everyday. He hated the concerned looks laced with pity that were so casually thrown in his direction. He wanted his life back. And if he couldn't have that, then he wanted some life, something more than what he had now.And he needed to find it quick, because she'd been gone for nearly a month now, and that restless feeling she always chased away was back and stronger than before.
Booth straightened and took a long, deep breath. Crossing the room, he switched off the kitchen light and made his way blindly down the hall to his bedroom.
He winced as he pulled his shirt over his head and cursed to the empty apartment. His muscles were sore from too many long hours spent behind a desk. He opened his drawer and his eyes landed on the light reflecting off black metal. His spare .45, resting peacefully atop a pair of blue and red socks.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, half his face bathed in shadow, the other half a pale yellow, lit from the streetlight outside.
Unbidden, the memory of a short conversation he'd had almost a year and a half before flashed in his mind.
Guy like you must be going crazy in the FBI
He narrowed his eyes at his reflection, as if daring himself to think it. To do it. His attention drifted back to the gun, cold steel molded perfectly against his steady hand.
Take a walk on the wild side. I have more fun, fewer rules and a lot of money
Back at the diner that day Miller's offer had been hardly tempting. He' had his job, his son... he'd had Bones.
The operative word in all three cases being 'had'.
His job seemed to aggravate him more and more by the day. He and bureaucracy had never really gotten along and he was much more useful with a gun and a car than with a pen and phone, but that was what he'd been reduced to. A desk jockey.
He'd had Parker then too, but these days he was lucky to see his son once every few months. It killed him every single day and there was nothing he could do about it. Rebecca had seen to that.
And Bones. Temperance. After she left she'd avoided him for three weeks. Then, when they got, worked, and nearly fumbled their first case, she requested a new liaison. When that didn't help, she'd accepted the offer to help on some six-month archeological dig in Africa.
Well, if she gets to run…
He turned the gun over in his hand, his fingers automatically shaping themselves around it and his forefinger rested against the trigger. He sat on his bed in nothing but jeans and watched the shadows from the tree outside dance across the wall. He contemplated his options for a minute in the clarity only the silence of night can bring.
…a lot more fun…
Minutes turned to hours.
…a lot fewer rules…
Before he knew it, it was 2am.
…and a lot of money…
It was the image of her 1965 Ford Mustang that finally got to him. He always was a sucker for classic cars.
After that, the decision was simple and painless. He smiled as if he knew a secret and he buried his new wounds beneath the old ones, hoping to never think of her face again. He crawled under the covers, asleep in moments.
The next morning at 6am Booth made a quick call to the FBI and showed great restraint at not leaving a detailed message for Marx, Cullen's replacement as of two months ago, as to where exactly he could shove his 'following protocol' speech. Instead he simply told them not to expect him in that day, or any day that might follow.
When he dressed, he skipped the dress shoes and went with sturdy black boots. Instead of one expensive gray suit, he put on a pair of dark jeans and a thick black belt Angela had given him and paired it with his Led Zeppelin shirt, one that stretched across his broad chest and biceps. He opted out of the flashy tie and replaced it with his old leather holster and pushed his .45 snugly inside it. He strapped the .22 from his closet to his ankle, shoved the .38 from his bedside table into the waistband of his jeans and after a deep breath, topped it all off with his brown leather jacket.
After a quick bout with gel for his hair, he slipped his dog tags around his neck, grabbed a few essentials from around his bedroom and bathroom and tossed them inside a black duffel. His face was set in a cool determination as he pulled out his cell, pushed in his wallet, gathered his bag, sunglasses and keys and headed for the kitchen.
He dialed the number on an age worn business card from his pocket and waited for the phone to be answered.
"Valeska, they let you out already?" He began with false cheer, "Yeah, the McNulty case…Listen, is that offer still good?"
A slow, cocky grin spread across his face and he quickly agreed to the time and place she set.
When he hung up, he pulled his badge and gun from the side pocket of his duffel and laid them on the table to be found whenever someone came looking.
He took a deep breath, his heart surging with adrenalin and apprehension as he turned and faced his life, his old life, one last time. He shook his head at emotions too deep to conquer as they welled up in his chest and pushed the last of the bad memories out of his head.
With a swift turn, he headed for the door, hesitating only a moment before reaching for the knob. He was about to say 'goodbye' to everything he'd ever known, but it wouldn't be the first time and now, he knew it wouldn't be the last.
The door shut behind him, hopefully for the last time. His boots echoed in the empty hallway as he clomped down the stairs. And just before the heavy metal door to the building slammed shut, the emptiness thought it heard laughter. Booth was a man who liked action, liked control and liked to keep the cosmic balance sheet even.
He could still catch criminals, pay penance to society. He could still make this world safer for the son he never saw, protect a woman he would never stop loving.
But now, he'd would have fun doing it.
Okay, I know. Not my best work by any means, but I did try to make it as good as possible. I would have just left it to die on my hard drive...but I couldn't resist the urge to dress Booth up like a bounty hunter...admit it. Angry, scary I-have-lots-of-guns and wear a leather jacket Booth is hot. Dead stone cold ballin sexy, really. lol.