What He Offered
Chapter 28: Company
As Bones and Booth had never again spoken of Hannah, much of what she'd read was news to her: the size and expense of the ring, the site of the proposal, Hannah's counter-proposal, the tossing of the jeweler's box and its ill-fated contents into the reflecting pool. What an awful waste that was! Had she been moved to dispose of the beef jerky she'd brought along when she proposed to Booth, it would, at least, have been biodegradable!
She was shocked, too, at Hannah's suggestion that they simply put the rejection behind them and go on as before, but, was it really so different than her asking that they remain professional partners after she'd turned Booth down outside the Hoover? Did his agreeing to continue working with her but refusing to keep living with Hannah mean that, of the two of them, he'd loved her more? She chose to think so.
A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd
Vic sat alone at the bar, nursing his Scotch and his sense of the ill-usage he had suffered at the hands of the women in his life. The bartender had his instructions to keep the shots coming, and he drank them down one after the other, angrily saluting first the mother who'd deserted him, second, his baby-mama, third, his will-o'-the-wisp partner, and, lastly, the flighty live-in lover who was, even now, clearing out of her most recent pied-à-terre. While She-would-no-longer-be-named would not require a great deal of time for the purpose, he planned to allow her far more than enough: he would remain fixed at the bar until either it closed, or he was thrown out, whichever came first.
When the woman stopped at his elbow, he felt a jolt of rage, thinking it might be… the journalist… come in a last ditch effort to plead her case, but it was Brennan. If he hadn't been so plastered, he would have recognized her fragrance: a clean, spicy scent, redolent of vanilla with just a hint of cinnamon.
"Are you drunk?" she asked. She settled gingerly on the next stool over, as if expecting, at any moment, to be forced into flight.
And, she was right to be wary, Vic acknowledged darkly: he was as sore as a grizzly with a huge thorn in his paw, and feeling twice as mean. He refused to look at her. "Drunker'n usual, yeah, but not a drunk."
"Hannah called me."
Another flare of choler shot through him, but he managed to tamp it down. "I don't want to talk about that. I'm over it. I'm done. Okay?"
She had a good enough sense of self-preservation to give him time to collect himself, but not enough to hold her peace altogether. "So, what happens now?"
He huffed with bitter laughter. The effrontery of her! But, wasn't that Brennan all over? So ballsy, whether intentionally or out of cluelessness, it was hard to tell. Did she honestly think the minute he was unattached, she could dump her toy boy, and they could take up where they left off? He shook his head, incredulous. "You and me," he told her, making no effort to temper the hard edge in his voice, "we're partners. We're the good guys, we take down the bad guys. That's what we do, and I love that, I think that's great. So, here's what happens now."
He turned his head and looked at her for the first time that evening. Her eyes, so blue, perennially enchanting, were wide with anxiety, her face drawn with concern. He hardened his heart, and continued, "You stay here, partner, and you have a drink with me. Maybe we share some small talk, some chit chat… or, you can leave. There's the door, and tomorrow, I'll find you a new FBI guy." He addressed himself single-mindedly to his Scotch; no way was he going to let her see the tears pricking at his eyes.
He could not see her sadness, but it was there in her voice. "Are those my only choices?"
"Those are your only choices," he confirmed.
Had he imagined she would agree to stay with alacrity? If so, he had misjudged her. She kept him waiting so long, he had to entertain the real possibility of her sliding off her stool and heading toward the exit, leaving him behind as his mother, and Rebecca and… the reporter… had done. Women leave, he had just time to think before she said, resignedly, "Then, I'll have a drink," and his world, for that instant, became less bleak.
Except for the occasional remark, or exchange with the bartender, they drank in silence; Brennan did not try to keep pace with him, and Vic was rapidly far more intoxicated than she. When closing time was nearly upon them, Brennan reached for her phone.
"Who're you calling? A cab?" Vic asked, unable to enunciate as clearly as he'd like. "You don't have your car?"
Brennan ignored the question, and tapped out a quick text message. "In case you haven't noticed, you're in no shape to walk any distance unaided."
Vic indicated the barkeep. "Brad, here, can lend me a shoulder as far as your Prius."
"Brad has better things to do. And, besides, who's going to help you up two fights of stairs to your apartment? I'm not a hundred pound weakling, but I'm not up to your weight, either."
Vic propped his elbows on the counter, and supported his spinning head with both hands. "Call Sweets, then," he grumbled. "This mess is mostly his fault."
"Ah! I should have guessed. Sweets may well be a prodigy, Vic, but he's got his own agenda, and can't be trusted."
"Not even to hold me up while I climb a few stairs?"
"Not even then. And anyway, he's probably been tucked up in his bed for hours, like a good boy."
"With that annoying Daisy Wick. So, who'd you…?" A terrible suspicion caused Vic to straighten up in outrage. "You didn't, Brennan! Seriously? The dance instructor?"
Brennan narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been listening to rumors, I see. I wonder: why didn't you go with CIA operative, or undercover D.C. cop? Those are the most prevalent guesses."
"Because I…" He was thoroughly smashed, but native cunning saved him from admitting he'd followed her that one evening. "Never mind why. Are you denying he's a dance teacher?"
"No, why should I? But, as it happens, that only scratches the surface. He's a well-educated man, with an MA and ABD in psychology…"
"An ABD? What's that?"
"It stands for 'all but dissertation.' He'll have his PhD before long. He's also served — with distinction — in the armed forces, not once but twice. He's a highly-respectable professional in a public-service career. Shall I go on?"
"No, I get the picture: he's a paradox of manly virtues…"
"Paragon. A paragon of manly virtues."
Vic threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why do you always have to correct me!"
"In the eternal hope of helping you evolve," she said tightly.
"Yeah, right. So… getting back to you and what's-his-name…" He paused, but Brennan did not oblige him by filling in the blank. "If he's so perfect, how come the two of you are sneaking around? He got some flaw, Brennan? Something to hide?"
She drew herself up on her stool, and lifting her chin, favored him with her most forbidding look. "Not at all. He's a very private person. We both are."
"What, you don't like it when the tables are turned? You're the only one who gets to poke her nose into other people's sex lives?" Vic regarded her closely, saw her stiffness and the prim set of her lips. She was so uptight… "Oh-ho! I see what it is: there is no sex life. What, is he gay, Brennan, or just a pantywaist?"
Brennan's breathing quickened, nostrils flaring. "You're either too drunk to know what you're saying, or you're being deliberately offensive. If this is your way of trying to pick a fight, you can just save your breath. I will not indulge you."
"All right, have it your way. Just answer me one last question. No beating round the bush, straight-up: do you love this guy?"
"Yes," she said, defiantly. "Very much." And then, doubtless because Brennan could not abide dishonesty, she added with much less vehemence, "Like a brother."
He vaguely remembered she had said something about a brother that day at the diner, too. Then, as now, it made no sense. "Russ is your brother."
"I don't need you to tell me who Russ is," she snapped. "I said: like a brother."
"So… what, then? The two of you are just… friends with no benefits?"
She opened her mouth, to ream him out he suspected, but a movement by the entrance caught her eye, and the expression on her face transformed in a wink from irritation to relief. "Oh, thank heaven," she muttered. Vic swiveled on his stool, too late; the man was passing behind him and then, when he swung back, he was standing, his back to Vic, between him and Brennan. "There you are!" she said, gratefully. "What in the world took you so long?"
Once again, the guy was dressed like darkness walking, this time in a voluminous black duster, black jeans and cowboy boots. He sported a black Stetson with a rawhide band over his dark hair, and a black and white bandana tied round his neck. Who did the poseur think he was, Johnny Cash? "I stopped by the apartment, just to check."
"And?"
"The coast is clear."
Vic did not like what he was able to make of this exchange: much too chummy. They sounded like co-conspirators. He slapped the interloper on the upper arm with the back of his hand, not hard, just enough to get his attention. "Hey, buddy!"
"I can take it from here," Vic heard the stranger say. That voice… He must be going as bonkers as Jay: it sounded like his own. "Thanks for holding the fort, Brennan. Now, go. I'll call you tomorrow."
"If you're sure…" When he nodded and stepped back, she made to slip off the stool.
Vic was incensed. "Oh, no! Hell, no! Stop right there, Brennan! You are not going to leave me alone with a guy I don't know from Adam."
"You'll be in good hands," she said. "Don't worry." She stood, placed a few bills on the counter, then risked clapping him once, gently, on the shoulder. "I wouldn't want to be you tomorrow morning, partner."
"Yeah? Well, I don't want to me right now, so there." Brennan merely smiled thinly and headed toward the door.
Her friend took the seat she'd just vacated, and motioned to the bartender. "A quick one for the road, but no more for my pal here." He doffed his Stetson, and, twisting to the side, set it on an empty stool.
"Oh, yeah?" Vic spat angrily. "Who are you to…?" The man turned to him, then, and Vic had his answer. His hair was nearly black and overlong, and his sideburns could stand to be trimmed, but the face was the one Vic saw in the mirror every day of his life. "My God," he breathed, astonished. "Tim! Is it really you?" He grabbed his twin's forearm where it rested on the counter, afraid he might be hallucinating.
"Never doubt it, bro. I got a signal from the universe, saying you needed me. So, here I am."
"But… I don't understand. All this time, it was you on the town with Brennan? And, she loves you…"
"Like a brother," Tim said, with a nod. He drank down his shot in one go, and set the glass back on the counter.
"But… you're not her brother. You're mine, Tim. My twin. I'm your brother."
"I know who you are, Vic. I know. C'mon." Tim helped Vic off his stool, held him steady while he found his feet, and then slipped his shoulder under his brother's. "Let's you and me go home, bro, where we belong: together."
