The bar was just as smoky as he had remembered, and the stench made his nose scrunch in disgust as he tried to remember the last time he had been in this establishment. His eyes moved to the bar, two barstools sitting empty by the swinging door on the bar, and he turned his head from the memory. He walked to the opposite side of the bar, his eyes followed by the bartender, who smiled in a state of almost recognition. Booth wasn't sure if it was the same bartender as the last time he had been here, and it most likely wasn't, but he was eying him like he knew him. Perhaps he just knew his type.
He probably looked exhausted, the night of sleep that he had lost to his thoughts was not his first bad night of sleep lately, and with forgetting to shave that morning, he was fairly sure that he looked like he had lumberjack potential. He lifted his hand to his face, scratching the 5 o'clock shadow as he turned toward the bar, his glass of scotch already sitting in front of him. He didn't remember ordering it, but nodded to the bartender just the same as he sidled up to the bar. He sat on the barstool, his back to the pool tables as he listened to the hard thwack of the pool stick breaking the balls that had been set up, and the gentle thump as a couple of them landed in the pocket.
He closed his eyes as he sipped the scotch, trying to block out the sounds of the game behind him as one of the men celebrated his victory. Booth moved his hand against the glass, hoping that the coolness of the ice in it would soothe the itching, soothe that urge to turn around and participate in something that he had forsaken. His leg began to thump lightly as he took another sip of his drink, his eyes lightly raking over the different bottles of liquor behind the bar as he tried to block out the sound of another crack of the pool balls, and the sound of them rolling across the table, sliding into the pockets with a resounding clunk.
His hand moved to his pocket and he pulled his phone from it, wondering for a moment if he should turn it on. They were working on a case. He thought as he turned the phone on and stared at the screen for a moment. He sighed as he watched the screen, wondering if it would announce he had a voicemail, conflicted over whether he was happy or not that there wasn't one. He lifted his eyes and turned his head slightly, allowing himself a glance at the game behind him. The tall man at the pool table was cackling as the shorter man glared at him, hunkering down to take a shot. He watched as he lined up his shot, noting that it was the wrong angle as the man pulled the stick back and made solid contact with the ball, sending it rolling into the others, as no other balls were sunk. Booth flexed his hand again, feeling that itch as he turned back toward the bar, his other hand on his phone, flicking the tiny tab at the top, he felt the ringer turn on and off again as he listened to the taller man shout again as he won another game.
Booth brought his glass to his lips, noting that it was empty, he couldn't remember drinking the entire glass, but was more than willing to get a refill when he caught the eye of the bartender. He grabbed the glass off the bar and took a long swig of scotch, pinching his eyes closed as he set the glass down again.
"Are you alright, man?"
"Fine." Booth grunted as he nodded toward the glass, the bartender nodded and poured him another, stepping away as he tended to other customers. Booth tried to stop his leg from thumping, turning in the barstool, he found that twisting it in the leg of the stool was a good way to cease that. His eyes fell onto the game of the two men at the pool table, as they racked up again, preparing themselves for another round. His one hand was settled solidly on the glass, his other still flicking the ringer on his phone again and again as he watched the game progress. He watched the taller man take the shorter man's money ball for ball, as the cursing became a bit louder, and the frustration obvious.
Booth kept his eyes on the game, mesmerized as the taller man laughed loudly at the other man's misfortune, drinking beer as he laughed, and laughed louder at the other man's scowl. Just as the game ended, the last ball in the pocket, Booth couldn't hold in the need anymore. Just one game wouldn't hurt, if only to shut the winner up. Besides, he could use a little extra cash, one game wouldn't hurt. He put the glass back down on the bar, turning in the barstool just a little as he waved to the bartender that he was done. He opened pulled his wallet from his pocket, tugging out the money for the drinks as he flipped through a few bills to put down on his bet. He pulled out the money, placing the tab on the bar as he slid it toward the bartender, and wadded the rest up carefully as he started to turn in his chair.
Suddenly, his phone chirped in his hand, causing him to jump at the sudden loud sound of the siren like ring. He felt himself falling forward, his leg jammed in the leg of the barstool, he nearly tumbled as he caught himself on the bar, sending his phone smacking against the bar as he steadied himself. The bartender and several other patrons watched him as he angrily straightened himself up and glared, scooping the phone off the bar, he slammed his finger into the button to answer it. "What?" he growled angrily, waiting for a moment as he tried to compose himself, he felt the money poking into his hand as he glanced over at the pool table.
"Booth?"
He stopped, his eyes widening at the voice on the other end of the line. He suddenly felt heat rising up his neck to his ears as he felt the scotch burning the back of his throat, making it impossible for him to answer.
"Booth, are you alright?"
He coughed, clearing his throat as he sucked in a deep breath. "Bones?"
"Booth, are alright? What's going on? Are you okay?" Her voice seemed very concerned, and he was trying to catch his bearings as the flood of thoughts began to swirl in his mind.
"I'm fine, Bones." He said softly. "I'm fine." He said, his other hand aching painfully as he realized that he had been clenching the rolled up cash too tightly, he slammed it into his pocket and covered his ear with his hand as he walked toward the door to avoid the sound of the music playing overhead.
"Where are you? Are you drinking? Are things alright with Hannah? Did she arrive home safely?" She asked sincerely.
"I'm fine, Bones." He replied, ignoring her questions, he walked toward the door and pushed his way out into the February cold, immediately feeling the bite on his skin. "What do you need?" He asked, the harshness of his voice melting away as he walked toward the SUV, feeling the crunch of the snow beneath his feet.
"My bag is in your truck." She replied.
"Your bag?" He said, walking toward the vehicle, he pressed the button to unlock it.
"Yes. My field bag. My notes are in it."
"You're sure it's in the truck?" He asked, pressing the button on the back hatch, he opened it, and immediately noticed her brown bag, sitting against the box with her gumboots, and some other field supplies. "Nevermind, I see it." He said, taking a deep breath, he touched the bag, his hand resting on the canvas material as he lifted it out of the back. "Do you need me to bring it to the lab?"
"Not tonight." She said, pausing for a moment. "I am at home. I just wanted to know if you could bring it into the lab tomorrow when you get a chance, or I can have Wendell pick it up."
"Uh… no… no, it's alright, I'll bring it to the lab tomorrow. I can do that." He said, suddenly feeling nervous talking to her on the phone, as if doing so was something he wasn't supposed to be doing, yet it felt so natural.
"Thank you." She paused. "I'll… let you get back to whatever it is you were doing." She replied. "I'm sorry if I interrupted your evening."
"No." he said abruptly. "No, no… it's fine." He replied. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes." She replied. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Bones." He said softly as he pressed the button and pocketed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. He took a step forward and grabbed the hatch of the SUV. He then swung it closed, holding her bag securely under his arm as he walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and placed it on her seat, carefully ensuring that it was securely positioned as he took a step back and closed the door. He took a step back, flexing his hand as he walked around the truck, he glanced back to the doorway of the pool hall, noting that the itch in his hand was gone. He rubbed his fingertips together for a second as he rested his head on the driver side window for a moment, taking a second to let the scotch that had risen in his stomach to slide back down into its rightful place, as he felt a surge of frustration. Without thinking or the ability to stop himself, he reared his hand back, and slammed it full force into the side door of the SUV, feeling the cold skin of his hand cracking at the impact. He lifted his hand to his eyes as he rested his head on the window for a second, breathing heavily as he pulled his bloodied hand back, grabbed the door handle and climbed into the SUV.
He sat hard in the seat, his hands resting on the steering wheel as he watched the blood trickle down his hand for a moment, his head resting on the head rest, he tipped it back and closed his eyes. He yanked the keys from his pocket and shoved them into the ignition, and without thinking or caring about his obvious inebriation, he pulled his car into traffic, and carefully made his way home.
