"Two days. It had been two days."
Her eyes widen involuntarily, and he can see the panic setting in.
Immediately regrets disclosing this particular fact.
It sounds crazy spoken out loud.
She eyes him carefully.
Wonders if…
No, surely not.
That would be… completely irrational.
She almost doesn't want to know the answer.
"Did you decide to stop gambling for me?" She manages to choke out.
"No." He says quickly.
There's something unnerving in the haste of his response.
Rehearsed.
Like he's convincing himself.
"Not like that." He says, shaking his head furiously. "I mean, maybe a small part of it was that at first. But it wasn't… meant like that. It wasn't for you, as much as it was because of you, if that makes any sense."
"Not really."
She doesn't look any less spooked, and he can feel his own panic rising exponentially in response.
"Something about how you were… who you were, it broke through all the shit. Gave me a glimpse of something good, you know, something real? Maybe it was just the right time."
"Serendipitous?" She asks.
He nods. Shrugs.
"Maybe. Look, I didn't stop gambling based on some crazy idea that you'd fall in love with me. I stopped gambling because I needed to stop… had needed to for a long time. But I'm not going to pretend that you didn't play a massive part in it."
She looks away sharply.
He charges ahead, desperately trying to explain something that to him, had always felt like the most fortuitous moment of fate.
"There was something about you that brought it all into focus. Something in the way we were with each other. I can't explain it any better than that. All I know is, I met you and something in me changed." He says forcefully, placing his right hand over his heart. "Something in here."
"Changes to levels of dopamine and serotonin happen in a person's brain." She states flatly. "It takes more than two days to resolve impulse control issues."
Facts.
Predictable.
"Okay, then something changed in my brain."
The look she shoots him betrays her attempt at shutting down.
"You can call it what you want, Bones. It doesn't change the fact that you lit the fuse for it to happen."
He's bolstered by the simple knowledge that she's still sitting there.
Bolstered in a bravery that's been missing for a long time.
"I'm very aware that it takes more than two days." He says. "I was still a complete mess, whether I could see that or not. I thought you knew I was a mess. I thought… until today, I thought that was why you'd turned me down."
He pauses, at a loss for how to put this into the words that will terrify her less.
In the silence, both are still.
Paused, staring into the vastness of the unsaid.
"I didn't think you were a mess." She says quietly. "I thought you were irresponsible in jumping to conclusions about the case, but you're not the first FBI agent to want a quick result."
She frowns, recalling their exchange on the sidewalk.
"Perhaps I should have asked you to be more specific in detailing how you had the gambling under control."
The suggestion rhetorical. Bitten back the acerbic undertone, and measured.
"I had no reason not to believe you. You were convincingly charming."
She chances a glance at him.
The same features, somehow sharper. Same eyes, more intense. The same man, somehow… different. Lifted out of context; the same Booth, but…
He feels off kilter. Like he's unwittingly taken a misstep at some point and is struggling to catch up.
"I'm sorry, Bones." He breathes. "This just proves why it's a good thing that we didn't go home together. It was week one of me actually wanting to get myself fixed. It wouldn't have been a healthy place to start anything meaningful. Or anything at all, really. That would have turned into me stopping gambling for you."
Her gaze is focused on the couch cushion, a good foot past his leg. Regulated breaths. Control.
"I know that would have been a disaster." He continues. "Maybe we would have gotten a few good months out of it, like you said. But I sure as hell know that we'd not have made it here. Wouldn't have been… this… us."
She's silent, and he can tell that she's trying her hardest to appear fine.
A heavy sigh.
And he's doubting himself again.
She excuses herself to the bathroom abruptly, leaving him sat on the couch clutching an empty beer bottle and an even emptier feeling in his chest.
He's asked himself the same question hundreds of times. Wondered whether or not he would have quit gambling when he did. Or would it have been a few more months? Years maybe? Would he still be gambling now? A high-functioning addict maybe, managing to uphold a status quo of some sort? Or…
He's terrified to fully consider the impact.
He knows deep down that Bec would have never eased up on his visitation rights. In the midst of rejection, he'd turned his love for her into visceral hatred. He hadn't been capable of seeing it from her perspective. The addicted son of an addicted father. Angry with the world, and angry with her. Sleep deprived and barely coping, and sure as hell, not there. Not present in the ways that mattered. For all her faults, she'd been doing her best to protect their son.
Fleetingly, he considers his own childhood. A Mother who should have protected him better. The Grandfather who did.
Had the serendipitous nature of meeting Bones when he had, ultimately saved him from becoming his Father?
Had he taken the experience of what was essentially a failed hookup and weaved his own romanticized version of events?
He feels nauseous.
Maybe she wasn't actually interested in him… maybe… maybe he'd imagined every single aspect of their partnership to be more than it was.
Because of one kiss.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it.
No.
No, she'd said it herself, that their partnership wasn't 'normal'. Her openness with him wasn't something he'd imagined. Their constant need to check in with each other. The innumerable meals shared, and all the times they'd shown up on each other's doorstep with a poorly prepared excuse for being there. That spark between them wasn't a figment of his imagination. The countless times one of them had been the 'sensible' one and had reluctantly pulled away. Preserving. Protecting. Scared.
By the time she returns, he's wondering whether anything he's said this evening has been a good idea.
"Bones, I'm so sorry." He says hastily, standing up to face her across the coffee table. "I didn't mean to… the last thing I wanted to do was scare you with this."
She's had a moment to collect herself. A moment to regroup.
"Booth, I…"
"I just don't want you to think it was ever something creepy." He says, cutting her off. "And I wasn't trying to be dishonest when I said I was sorting it out."
She opens her mouth to speak. Her barely regained composure faltering immediately. Drowning in his desperation.
"I thought that I was doing the right thing to tell you that the problem existed, before we went home together. It was the closest I'd come to really doing anything about it. In that moment, it felt like it was that easy, to just stop. So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for misleading you. I'm sorry for how I behaved after. I'm sorry for how this sounds… all of it."
He draws a shaky breath.
"Booth." She says again, more decisively. "Can you please stop apologizing to me."
He catches himself, stopping before he can apologize for apologizing.
Hands on his hips, he hangs his head to stare directly down at his own feet.
Takes a deep breath.
His brightly striped socks suddenly look comically out of place.
"I feel like I'm fucking everything up, Bones."
She's rounded the coffee table before she knows what she's doing. Can't help but reach out to him. Feels him fall into the familiar embrace easily. The weight of his head on her shoulder. His warm breath gently ruffling her hair.
"You're not fucking anything up." She says firmly. "At least no more than I am."
He's silent, but grips her tighter.
"I need you to believe me." She says.
She feels unguarded for the first time in months. Strangely brittle, as if she could illogically snap in two.
There's something in the vulnerability of Booth, on the rare occasion that he allows her to see it. Something that slices at her. Renders her less able to sensor her words. To temper her emotional response.
"I hate seeing you upset." She breathes.
"I'm…" He trails off, about to apologize again. "Are you okay?"
His concern rumbles through her.
This thing of theirs; the confessions, they adjust it. They don't erase.
It doesn't change the unmatched feeling of safety when she's with him. The undeniable knowledge that she's at her most uninhibited in his presence. The most frustrated. The most irrational.
"I think so." She says, sounding less than sure.
He peels back to look at her. See her face.
Unconvinced.
"I think I need some time to absorb this. To work out what it means in the context of… everything. I can't form a logical conclusion right now. It's just… It feels…"
"Overwhelming?"
"Somewhat, yes." She admits. "It's a contextual framework that adheres closely to a… a mindset… a set of parameters that I didn't previously know existed. I require time to align my thoughts."
He nods.
Squeezes her upper arm in reassurance.
"That's fine, Bones. No pressure from me, ok. It's a lot of emotional upheaval for one evening."
Concern.
Understanding.
Concern for her.
Apology for himself.
Unwavering concern for her.
"Not just for me."
He brushes past her comment.
"Do you want me to run you home?"
She shakes her head.
"I called a cab from the bathroom. You've been drinking anyway."
"Right, yes of course. Stupid suggestion." He says in a rush, avoiding eye contact.
Self-denigrating.
She watches him carefully.
The lines forming beside his eyes.
Proof of laughter.
The deep furrow to his brow.
The instinct to smooth it away is all consuming.
"Booth?"
He stops.
Looks at her.
Breathes.
"Will you be okay?"
"I'll be fine, Bones. Don't worry about me."
Her dawning realization, that he doesn't fully understand. Doesn't see it.
"I'm afraid we've missed the ship on that one." She says softly. "I already spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about you."
The simplicity of her statement calms him.
Reminds him.
This is them.
He takes her hand.
Runs his thumb over her knuckles.
"I'll be fine." He says more firmly.
A tentative smile.
"Do you still want to come over for leftovers tomorrow?"
She pauses, weighing her answer.
"I don't think I'll have drawn any definitive conclusions by tomorrow evening."
She feels his thumb worry the head of her forth metacarpal.
Watches his face.
"We can still eat dinner."
"You'd be okay with that?"
Nodding firmly.
"More than okay."
A shared smile, cut short by the ringing of her cell phone.
Having determined that her cab is waiting, they soon find themselves descending the last few steps into the worn looking lobby of his building.
"Text me that you're home safely."
She doesn't try to hide the roll of her eyes this time.
They've had this argument far too often.
"Just, humour me?" he asks, looking altogether more concerned than usual.
She holds her tongue for once.
Nods acquiescence.
Stepping down towards the sidewalk, she suddenly has a strong sense of deja-vu.
There's something about the idling cab. The unresolved nature of their parting claws at her.
So much still unsaid.
She needs to tell him.
He needs to know.
She's back on the doorstep in a blink. Before she can talk herself out of it.
"What's…" he begins, trailing off at the look in her eye.
"Booth, I…"
She knows what she's trying to tell him. Can't seem to form the sentence.
Staring up at him, framed against the dimly lit 1930's décor.
Stepping up the final step, and back into the hallway.
He doesn't move. But the furrow is back. His concern palpable.
Needing to be eased. Assuaged.
A miniscule step closer.
Hesitation.
She presses her lips to his.
Momentarily panicked that she's done the wrong thing.
Until she feels him move.
Tentative.
Restrained.
Cautious.
She needed to do this.
Vaguely she hears the cabby beep his horn impatiently.
Taking charge, she deepens the kiss, giving everything she can't quite vocalize.
Relief when he responds in kind.
It's everything she remembers, but… more. More them.
Heady and electrifying and…
She grips his t-shirt for leverage.
To draw him closer.
Out of breath, but not caring.
Breaking away reluctantly, she keeps her eyes closed. Savoring.
She's aware of his ragged breathing. Can feel him watching her.
Opening her eyes, she smooths out the twisted fabric of his t-shirt. His chest solid and steady.
"I realized that I didn't kiss you back properly earlier. I need you to know that it's not because I didn't want to. Because I did. I do. I'm certain of that."
He nods, his mind swimming. No less confused, but feeling indescribably lighter.
"Thanks for telling me." He says, a smile spreading. Transforming.
Her wide smile matching his.
She'd forgotten just how exhilarating a lack of control could be.
"I'll see you tomorrow evening." She tells him, backing away slightly.
"Tomorrow." He repeats.
He doesn't move from the doorframe.
Watches her swift descent of his front steps.
The small wave as she pulls the car door closed.
Watches the cab draw away from the curb.
A single deep breath.
He feels less trepidation at her departure.
Believes that she might choose to stay. Choose not to run.
The tail lights of the cab merge with the smattering of evening traffic. Still too early for the bulk of Friday night revelers to be making their way home. Late enough that it was sensible of her to leave.
He clicks the door firmly in place.
In his bedroom, her discarded dress hangs neatly on the outside of the closet, tights looped strangely over one shoulder. Another reminder that these habitual maneuvers of theirs have been over the line for far longer than either of them will admit.
I hope this longer chapter was worth the wait! The more I play with these characters, the more I appreciate how rounded, how flawed the show runners made them. Human facets that often cease to exist in TV land. I'm enjoying the opportunity to harness this, and explore the damage created by past events for both characters.
Reviews are always appreciated!