"Why Therapy Isn't the Right Word"
II
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"Bones?"
The anthropologist looks up from her fingernails. "What?"
"Hear that?"
She pauses.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"It's the light bulb." She flips her wrist and resumes admonishing her fingernails' uneven growth.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz...
Booth's leg begins to jiggle.
"Stop it." Her eyes don't so much as shift from her nails.
He stops.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz.
Zzzzzzzz...
Zzzzzzzz...
"You don't hear that?"
"Of course I hear it."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"No."
Silence.
Apparently satisfied with her nails, she pulls a large manila envelope from her purse and grabs it between her teeth before rummaging around for something else. Grabbing a pen, she clicks the top and holds it between her fingers as she drops the envelope into her hand and pulls out a thin, blue folder.
She flips it open and begins to read.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
He taps his fingers.
Her eyebrows scrunch and she scribbles something into the margin of the folder. Booth tries to look but she angles it away from him.
"Why can't I see?"
"Student papers. It would be unethical."
"But I'm bored."
"Then you should've brought a book."
He sighs.
She scribbles something else.
He checks his watch. "Where the hell is Sweets?"
She looks up, "When I was in college, there was a rule that if the instructor was fifteen minutes late, we could leave, no questions asked."
"We were waiting in the lobby for twenty."
"Doesn't count. Fifteen minutes over the start of class meant we could leave."
"Well, in that case it's been..." he checks his watch. "Nine."
"It happened a few times," she continues, ignoring him. "but I stayed anyway. Generally the prof never showed up in either case."
"Why wouldn't you just leave?"
She shrugs, "Nowhere else to go."
He exhales.
She returns to her binder.
Finger tapping.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Zzzzzzzzzzz...
Zzzzzzzzzzz...
Another watch check. "Ten."
Brennan flips a page, the pen in her mouth. She tucks loose bangs behind her ear.
Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
His foot jiggles again.
"Stop."
He doesn't.
Her eyes flick up.
He stops.
She looks back down.
He glances at his watch. "Eleven."
Her pen drops from her mouth and she catches it to scribble something.
He sighs and props his feet on the coffeetable, knocking all but one of the objects on it onto the floor. He grabs the remaining stress ball—a sumo wrestler—and begins to squeeze it.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
Crinkle.
Squuuuuueeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaa—
He jumps as Brennan suddenly flashes forward, automatically pulling outward. Her nails, instead of hitting the toy, tear painfully down his arm.
"Ow!"
He coddles it, and, in the moment of pause, she rips the thing from his hand and throws it across the room.
She returns to her paperwork as he gapes at the red lines on his arm, and the deeper scratch has loosened skin.
"Bones?" he breathes.
"You know that thing irritates me."
"But you scratched me!"
"I was aiming for the stress ball."
"It's a sumo wrestler."
"As if it matters."
"But you scratched me."
"Accidentally."
His arm hurts. He licks it.
Brennan ignores him.
Sighing, he leans back and checks his watch.
"Thirteen."
"You think counting down will make any difference?"
"Helps me."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Then how does it help?"
"It just does, alright? It does."
"Okay. No reason to get snippy."
"Snippy?"
She doesn't reply, flipping the page.
"Who says snippy?"
Silence on her end.
Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz...
Zzzzzzzz..
Zzzzzzzz...
He fishes around inside his suit and grabs his die.
Click. Click.
Click. Click.
Clickclickclickclick...
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz...
Click. Click.
Click. Click.
Click. Buzz.
Click. Buzz.
Watch check. "Fourteen."
Brennan underlines and writes something in the margin.
He cups his hand over the die and jiggles them around. "Ten," he says.
He releases them, and they fly onto the cofeetable.
Fisheyes.
Damnit.
He grabs them and jiggles them around some more.
"Six."
Clatter.
They land on the table.
Four and a five.
Damn.
Grab. Jiggle.
"Seven," Brennan mutters.
Clatter.
Two and a five.
Damn her.
"Lucky."
She's scribbling again, eyebrows scrunched.
He sighs. "Eight."
Two fours.
"Yes!"
She doesn't comment.
He checks his watch.
"Fifteen!" he shouts, jumping up. "Alright. I am outta—"
"Hey, guys, sorry I'm late," Sweets says, opening the door. He's holding two clipboards and a box of hats. "Traffic. Wouldn't believe it." He sets the box on his desk and opens a drawer.
"Bones?" Booth says, not turning his eyes from Sweets.
"Hm?" she still hasn't looked up from her folder.
"If the professor arrived, you know, exactly fifteen minutes late...?"
"People would generally leave right before then, just in case."
"So it was alright to leave?"
"Legally? Yes."
"Cool." He grabs his coat. "Bye, Sweets." He heads for the door.
"Wha—"
Brennan follows, tucking her report back into its envelope.
"This has been a fairly painless session," she says, pausing, "Though, of course, that's likely because there wasn't a session at all."
"What?" Sweets is staring at them.
Knowing she wouldn't appreciate him waiting for her to walk out first, Booth exits into the hall as the anthropologist shuts the door.
"Diner?" he asks.
"Sounds good." She shoves the envelope into her purse and they take off.
Back with Sweets...
"Guys?" he asks the door, wondering what had just happened. "Guys?"
No answer. Seconds before, they'd walked by the little glass windows in the direction of the elevator.
He looks back at his desk. "This sucks."
On the floor, jammed into the corner between two walls, is his sumo wrestler, and he sighs as he goes to pick it up.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
He plops into his usual seat.
Crinkle.
Squeak.
Crinkle.
Squeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak.
He taps his fingers.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz...
Crinkle.
Now what?
Never should've stopped for that coffee.
Squeeeeaaaaaaaak.
--
Review on your way out!
(and, yes, that fifteen minute rule does exist...at least here!)
:)