AN: Well, looks like season two won by a small margin, which is kind of great since I've really been looking forward to writing this chapter.

Before we get to the good stuff, I'd like to tip my hat to Some1tookmyname, the amazing author of the one-shot 2AM. I'd always had a vision of something happening during this particular episode and 2AM captures it beautifully. The internal struggle and such. I've taken my own path with the concept - this is my head canon for the episode and has been for a while - but I didn't want anyone to think I'd copied, nor did I want any of you to miss out on the other story, because it's one of my faves.

This is my last fic update of 2012. Holy crap! I really hope you enjoy it, because it's come out just as I'd hoped.

Tag To: The Woman In the Sand; dialogue borrowed from The Truth In The Lye as well. This chapter's a T.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Just my own creative contortions of our couple.

She's So High (Tal Bachman)

"No."

"No? Bones – "

"Is this one of our cases?" she asked angrily.

"Well, no, but – "

"Then absolutely not!"

Booth juggled his phone to his other ear as he tugged on his boxers and tried another tack. "C'mon Bones, there are bones out in the desert with your name on them. Prosecutor bones, possibly. This case will go down in the history books and be ripped off by CSI next year!"

He heard her yawn loudly. "I don't know what that means. And I don't care to. I'm your anthropologist."

Booth winced. Please don't shoot the messenger, please do NOT shoot the messenger. "Technically, you're the FBI's anthropologist."

A pause, then a huff, loud and clear over the phone line. "I don't have a choice in the matter, do I?"

"Cullen sort of told me to kidnap you if necessary."

"Booth!"

"And to say he'll never bring up any of the people you've beaten up or shot on our cases ever again," Booth lied quickly.

It was the least he figured Cullen owed him for this crap. Flying her out to the scene of a recovery for an ID and flight straight back home? Total bullshit and he knew it, but the Bureau was freaking out about Roberts and determined to do everything perfectly. When you wanted a perfect identification and determination of death with decomposed remains, you wanted Dr. Temperance Brennan.

"There and back today?"

"Yes. Your ticket's waiting at the airport under your name – "

"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "My ticket? What about yours?"

Booth frowned. "They only need you, Bones. I'm not going."

"Then neither am I!"

"What?"

"I'm hanging up, Booth."

"Bones, wait! Just explain why you're saying no," Booth pleaded.

"I do not feel I owe any explanations to the FBI as to why I would prefer to do my actual assigned work, as opposed to using my valuable time and skills to shield the Las Vegas office from admitting their inferior selection of forensic scientists."

She was pissed! He'd almost had her, though. What gives, Bones?

"I really need to keep my job, Bones," he pleaded.

A rustling sound, perhaps sheets, came across the line, along with an incoherent grumbling. "In confidence?"

"Bones, I gotta tell them something that won't get me canned."

"I'll tell them something different. I wish to tell you the truth."

He smiled in spite of himself. "Okay, tell me. Between us."

In a quiet voice, his partner said, "Most Federal officers are hostile or make derogatory remarks towards me. I don't care to deal with that, particularly not now."

"No one treats you like that here," he offered gently.

"Because I work with you, and you are an intimidating alpha male with a gun," she countered. "Booth, I have remains awaiting me at the lab from a recent dig in Indonesia that I've been looking forward to examining. I do not, however, wish to jeopardize your career. If Cullen sends you with me, I will go. Otherwise, he can go sit and twirl."

Booth stifled a chuckle. "Sit and spin, Bones. I doubt he'll listen to me, but I'll try."

"You're willing to come with me?"

"Of course. You're my partner."

"I'll call you back in five minutes. Begin packing."

The line went dead and Booth hung up. He stared at his cell phone for a solid minute, contemplating their exchange. Bones believes I protect her. Her recognition of his support – that he had her back, no matter what came their way – meant a great deal to him. It was a hard-earned trust, one he wouldn't take lightly. Sure, he'd known she trusted him to keep her physically safe, but emotionally safe? Her walls seemed solid all on their own.

Then again, he'd come to realize that beneath the scientific veneer lay a woman with a great deal of emotion and insecurity as to her worthiness in the eyes of those whom she didn't call colleagues.

The agents around his office showed her respect, and while many did respect her, if only for her incredible ability to assist with murder investigations, some had been brought in line with a stern warning from Booth and pointed glares. Some of the guys had cracked off about him being whipped by a Squint, but this confession of hers made it all worthwhile.

He'd only just thrown a change of underwear and socks into his bag before the phone rang again. Checking the display, he smiled.

"Hi, Bones!"

"You're coming with me. Will you be driving me to the airport or shall I call a cab?"

"How'd you pull it off?"

"It's not important," she replied evasively. "I'll see you in an hour?"

"One hour, Bones. I'll bring coffee."

"Thanks, Booth."

He hung up and quickly finished packing his overnight bag. It was a day trip, but he'd learned long ago how quickly such plans could go to shit and leave you stranded in a terminal overnight, or unexpectedly driving a car hundreds of miles to make your son's birthday party.

Be prepared for anything. It was a driving principle in his life.

"She's blood, flesh and bone
No tucks or silicone
She's touch, smell, sight, taste and sound..."

He wasn't prepared for Vegas.

He'd deluded himself into believing he was. He was prepared at the airport. He was prepared on the flight from D.C. to Vegas. He was prepared as they claimed their rental car at McCarran International. Once on the road, however, everything went to shit. The Strip called with its lights and buzz and he could feel his fingers twitch against the steering wheel, craving a quick detour. Just one game, it began in the back of his skull. Just a few pulls of a lever. No big deal.

It was a very big deal, and he absolutely refused to walk down that dangerous road back to addiction. The poker chip in his pocket burned against his leg, a talisman and trigger simultaneously.

Just a few hours and we fly back, he told himself. Bones is here. I can be strong for her.

Las Vegas has long been known to cast a spell on people. Foolish, impulsive marriages, lost money, owing the wrong people and meeting a dark end... all par for the course. Las Vegas could find your weaknesses in a split second and it would torture you with them, smiling and ringing its bells.

Their weakness was murder, and fucked if they didn't discover a fresh body not belonging to Roberts out at Mile Marker 15.

"Bureau rules," Zhang said with a smirk. "This one's all yours, pal."

"You're perfectly capable of handling a goddamn murder investigation," Booth snapped.

"I do organized crime. Besides, those remains need the Dr. Brennan treatment anyway. Might as well work together."

Of course, his partner wanted him to handle the case. Her find, her remains, her partner in charge. How could he explain to her why he desperately needed to hit the road and get the hell on the first plane to Washington and never look back? How could he confess the growing dread in his gut? His last gambling confession had cost them... well, whatever they could have been that night, standing in the rain.

She wanted to fly home with the remains. Leave him here in the desert, a starved man in an All-You-Can-Gamble buffet. He'd demanded she stay, fumbled the "maybe there's another body or two" card. His eyes glanced briefly at the laptop screen, where Cam looked concerned. She knew how he'd once been. She knew why he needed an ally, and she gave the final push.

Relief quickly turned to panic as he called Cullen and advised him that they were in the midst of an active investigation and would be remaining in Las Vegas for an indefinite period. We didn't book you a room, he was told. Do you know how hard it is to get a decent hotel last-minute? It's tourist season.

Without warning, she seized his phone, taking over his call. "I will handle Agent Booth's accommodations," she advised Cullen casually before ending the call.

"What are you doing?"

She waved her phone at him. "My publisher was able to locate a room. It's taken care of."

"Your publisher found a room?" Booth contemplated her wording carefully. "A room? As in single?"

"Yes, Booth. It was exceedingly difficult to locate any room in a suitable facility for tonight and the next several days. My agent is aware that you are with me and I'm certain there will be two beds. It will be fine."

Ha. As they checked into their hotel (featuring a casino, of course, right downstairs), his partner was perplexed at the "King Suite" description provided by the concierge.

"There must be some mistake. I was assured there would be accommodations for both myself and my partner," she stated.

"I'm sure you'll both fit in the bed, Dr. Brennan," the concierge replied.

Booth felt himself flush at the thought. A bed shared with Bones. This can't be happening. I can't let it happen!

"We're not a couple. Why do people believe that?" she asked Booth, frowning.

"We'll make it work, Bones," Booth mumbled.

Booth already knew damn well how they'd make it work: he'd sleep on the floor and solve this case as fast as possible. There was no way he could even begin to consider sharing a bed with her. Absolutely not. His mind drifted back to that strange conversation weeks ago, when he'd put an end to his bedroom acrobatics with Rebecca.

"I'm sure Rebecca's not your only option for satisfying biological urges."

Mind, meet gutter. Every single time he pictured it. But she hadn't meant anything by it. It was merely a scientific fact. He knew his partner considered him attractive and thus, assumed he could rather easily find a mate.

No sharing a bed. No gambling. Two easy steps to surviving this clusterscrew.

"But somehow I can't believe
That anything should happen
I know where I belong
And nothing's gonna happen..."

He was sharing a bed with his partner. He'd agreed to it. Why the hell had he agreed to it? Oh, right: she'd carefully presented a list of rational reasons why his intentions of taking the floor or the chairs in their sitting area (Their room had a goddamn sitting area and kitchen! How the fuck was he going to expense this?) and then, for good measure, threatened to fly home and leave the room to him, should he persist in his arguments.

"How are you going to remain in optimal physical condition for this case if you're going to risk aggravating your back condition?" she'd asked. "Do I get a gun, in case you're unable to protect me in the field, as is your preference?" She'd even measured the damn bed and concluded that they could maintain 3.8 inches minimum between their bodies, thus ensuring comfort and propriety "for the sake of your Catholic beliefs."

Goddamn her brain. It was sexy and incredible and had wrangled him into a potentially disastrous situation.

Her same logic whammy had conned him into allowing her to buy him extra clothing. Some sort of nonsense about how he could expense the clothes in lieu of accommodations and break even, so what did it matter if she paid now? He'd restrained her to a couple t-shirts and pairs of jeans, although he'd indicated that they'd need different clothing for their undercover gig, which was being picked up in the morning.

Another thing she'd talked him into, against his instincts.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She wasn't wrong: there was a good six inches between them right now. This is nothing. It's just two friends sharing a bed. No big deal. She'd chosen silk pants and a tank top for sleepwear on their shopping trip, a fairly modest ensemble except that the silk clung to her curves and made him acutely aware of how stunning she truly was.

His own words replayed in his mind: "It may be all anthropology to you, but there are certain people you just can't sleep with. I mean, you can pretend that it's just sex. You can lie to yourself, and you can say that it's all good, but there's just too many strings and too much at stake, you know? Too much to lose."

She was far too much to lose. Her friendship, her understanding of him, the real him, was of immeasurable importance to him. Even today, when they'd stepped onto the casino floor and the reality of the call, the need in his skull, came crashing down, she'd known why without a single word of explanation.

"Talk? You can barely breathe!"

"I'm fine. Just trust me."

She'd known better, her hand reflexively smacking his as his reflexively reached for the Keno goods. No condemnation, no judgment – just a voice of reason, helping him remain in check. It was what he'd desperately sensed he'd need when she suggested flying home with the remains.

His head turned slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his sleeping partner. She'd curled up on her side, facing away from him, but her tousled hair and the pale skin of her back soothed his frazzled nerves. No more bells. No more cards shuffling. He would close his eyes and sleep. Here. Beside her.

She'd saved him from this addiction before. She'd do it again.

"'Cause she's so high
High above me, she's so lovely
She's so high
Like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite
She's so high
High above me..."

What the hell was he thinking?

It was the question that echoed on the entire drive to Noland's gym the next morning. Beside him, his partner sat in a little black dress that pushed her cleavage up and hugged her hips and basically could make a grown man fall to his knees and weep. The little black dress his dumb ass had chosen for her.

Her hair fell in loose curls, grazing her cheeks lightly. He envied it. She was his partner and he'd never jeopardize that, but in this moment, he ached to touch her. But not yet. Not without their intended audience to justify it.

She stumbled slightly in her heels as she slipped out of the car, a faint curse escaping her lips. She adjusted the hem of her dress in back, which only drew Booth's attention to the view from the rear. That lab coat did not do her justice!

Do not grope your partner. Do not grope your partner...

"You ready, Roxie?"

She smiled anxiously. "Sure, Tony."

He moved up beside her, an arm wrapped around her shoulder as he held open the door. The scent of sweat and the faint iron twinge of blood assailed his nose as his partner stepped inside. She wobbled slightly on her heels – she hadn't yet processed that she couldn't take her usual long strides in these shoes – and leaned slightly into him for support.

"How does anyone actually walk in these things?" she complained.

Showtime. Slipping into character, he did the first thing he knew any almost-fiance of Roxie's would do.

"Well, you know, them boots, they ain't made for walkin', sweetheart!" he teased, punctuating it with a playful slap of her ass.

Oh dear God, she feels amazing. Get a grip, Booth! Wait, no, no more grip, Booth!

"Okay, that was completely over the top," she cautioned him.

Defense time. "Oh, you know, you play your part and I'll play mine."

And she played it. She slipped into that seductive moll persona and it clung to her like that damn dress. When Noland challenged his physical shape, she immediately ran a territorial hand down his chest and wrapped herself around him.

"Oh yeah, my man's in great shape, believe me."

Great shape and struggling to fight off a hard on in front of several macho guys itching for reasons to tear him down. She was perfectly in character, not a trace of anthropologist in sight.

"Easy there, honey," he muttered quietly. Tony doesn't want to throw you up against a wall in front of these fine criminals.

"Well, let's see it, Army. Show us those moves that made you so famous," Nick goaded.

"Yeah, go ahead, Tiger. Show these clowns!"

She slapped his ass. Slapped. His. Ass. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.

Fighting his primal urges, he showed off for Noland and Nick. Just enough to prove himself, pave the way a little for their real reason for visiting. Joe seemed neither impressed nor unimpressed, but he believed. Even Booth could tell his initial hesitation about sharing the details on the fights was more for show.

Booth balked at the price Noland tossed out, but his partner floored him again. With a shimmy in her hips, she approached the boxing legend and pulled a roll of bills from her cleavage.

How the hell am I going to sleep next to her tonight?

Number in hand, they slipped out into the sunshine, where Bones ran her fingers through her curls, lifting them off the nape of her neck. The heat was brutal and the fedora was beginning to gather a ring of sweat inside. It looked damn cool, though, and besides, they were surely being watched from within. With a grin, he held open the passenger car door for his partner; she, in turn, kissed his cheek and ran a finger along his jaw before settling into her seat.

Clara Bow, she explained. Booth made a note to buy several films upon their return home.

"First class and fancy free
She's high society
She's got the best of everything

What could a guy like me
Ever really offer?
She's perfect as she can be
Why should I even bother?"

That night, he nearly broke.

The tension of sharing a room with her – the image of her in that damn dress burned into his mind – and the siren's song of the rolling dice and the whistles of slots had taken its toll. After an hour of worrying his poker chip beside his sleeping partner, he gave in.

Just one game. Normal people can gamble and walk away. No big deal.

In his mind, he rationalized it like he did his drinking. His father had been a violent, shitbag alcoholic, and he knew that genetics insisted he was at high risk of falling prey to the same sickness that drove fists into his childhood face. He had a temper if he drank too much, although it usually turned inwards, resulting in a pity parade and hammering headache the next morning. But he still drank, and he could be responsible about it. Why couldn't gambling be the same? He'd been clear for over two years now.

The monster, it talked a good game. It always had.

He slipped out from beneath the covers, already having concocted a lie for her. Thirsty. Need ice. Need a drink. Easy lies, ones he could sleepily mutter. In the back of his head, the monster whispered. One game. One roll. Prove you're in control by controlling the game.

Jeans on. Key card in pocket. He pulled forty dollars from his wallet and left the rest behind. Because he was in control, right? An addict wouldn't leave his bank card behind.

He made it to the elevator bank before his rational brain joined the argument.

What the hell are you doing? Do you really think you can have the equivalent of "one drink" and walk away unscathed?

The smell of cigar smoke filled his nostrils. Maybe he was having a seizure. Could addiction cause seizures?

Why do you even want to go back there? Back to that life?

It had been a lousy existence. Being broke; bouncing his rent check; losing visitation time with Parker when he missed his support payments – that was the world of Gambler Booth. And yet, he'd clung to it desperately, because to admit addiction was to admit facing an enemy and losing the war.

Until she came along.

Booth slumped against the wall, staring at the shining elevator lobby doors. Work the program. Work the urge. Why do you want to gamble? What's really going on, beneath the chatter? He closed his eyes and he could hear it all. The cheers; the busker-dealers, seeking fresh blood; cards flicked by a trained wrist. The heartbeat of the casino.

I miss the feeling of winning.

The moment he thought it, he knew it was the truth. His professional life was pretty fantastic these days: they had the best solve rate the Bureau had ever seen, and he was getting a pay hike, or so the rumor mill assured him. His son was incredible, and they had a fantastic bond. But his personal life... It was a series of failures, wasn't it? Rebecca had rejected his proposal and although the sex was still great years later, the love was long gone. Things with Tessa had gone to shit. No other prospects had come forward, no matter what Bones believed his alpha male self was capable of. Hell, she'd rejected him!

What about Cam?

What about her? She was a dear friend of many years, a past flame he'd parted amicably from when he'd headed to Washington and she'd gone to New York. She was his lover again, and while they shared an intimacy beyond mere friends with benefits, he ultimately sensed things would fall apart again down the line. Cam was just... easy. She liked him. She enjoyed his company. He enjoyed hers. She valued her career as much as he did.

He didn't love her. Not like that. Not anymore.

Maybe being an addict is a part of why no one wants you. Ice clinked in a glass somewhere and the monster whispered. Why bother resisting if it won't make a difference? When will you be in Vegas again? Have a little fun. What's forty dollars?

The bills were burning a hole in his back pocket now and Booth stepped outside of himself, or so it seemed, because his finger pressed the Down button, but he couldn't feel it. His foot tapped against the tiles, but he couldn't make it take a step backwards. Get it together, Booth. This isn't about a game. This is about emotional needy bullshit that dice can't solve.

The elevator chimed, the right-hand door's indicator flashing. Flashing lights. Bells. So close. The doors opened, beckoning him into the empty vessel. Straight down to hell, Booth. Come, join us.

Her face came to mind and he stopped just outside of the door. Bones. She would be so disappointed in him. She'd hide it, of course, but she spoke often of his strength of character, of his determination. Caving after two days in Vegas seemed pitiful somehow.

And you wonder why you can't find or keep a decent woman. Look at yourself.

Hadn't that been the crux of his decision to recover? Hadn't he wanted to be a good enough man for her?

I'm still not good enough for her. I never will be.

It was defeatist and pitying, but it was palpable, a knot in his stomach that he pressed his palm against, urging the pain to relent.

Go back to her.

The monster was angry. Rational Booth was winning.

A door opened down the hall and Booth edged back towards the wall. Pressing his eyes shut, he thought of Parker, of Pops, of Bones. He couldn't let them all down, not again. He had to end this, once and for all.

"Booth?"

.

"She comes to speak to me
I freeze immediately
'Cause what she says sounds so unreal..."

.

His eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. Her hair was messy, her feet bare. It was as if she'd walked straight from bed to his side.

"You should be sleeping, Bones."

A step closer. She rubbed her left eye.

"So should you."

"I know."

They remained silently in the lobby. Booth noticed that her tank top had slid up slightly on the left side, revealing a thin line of her stomach between the blue satin layers. Without considering his action, his hand moved to tug the shirt down and preserve her modesty. Her body shuddered slightly beneath his touch.

"Why are you dressed?" she asked.

"I shouldn't be."

She nodded slightly, studying his disheveled t-shirt and yesterday's jeans. Booth wondered if she could see through him, see to his bones. Were they good bones, solid, strong? Were they gelatinous, pitted and devoid of marrow? Who was he? If she knew, she wasn't telling.

Her hand reached out for his, and it was only then that he realized he had clenched them both into fists.

"Come back to bed, Booth."

He accepted her hand and she led him back down the hall, past seven doors and a fire hose cabinet to their room. She halted at the door, shaking her head.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I left without my card," she explained.

He pulled his from his pocket, swiping the reader for her. "That's not like you. Forgetting things, I mean."

As he shut the door behind himself and threw the bolt back on, he heard her sigh.

"You were gone," she said quietly.

She offered no further explanation and he demanded none. He was too weary to be strong.

She turned her back, affording him time to change into the shorts he'd chosen for sleeping. As he pulled the covers down, she joined him, lightly tapping the touch lamp beside her and plunging the room back into darkness. The two of them stared at the ceiling, arms folded identically upon their chests. It was almost comical, except that Booth wasn't amused with himself. He was ashamed.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Her question caught him off guard. "Huh?"

"You had the urge to gamble. Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't – "

"Booth, please don't lie to me. You left your wallet, but took the cash."

He sighed. "I don't ask for help. It's never... I just don't."

Silence.

"I don't either," she whispered at last. "But you help me."

"You're my partner."

"You're my partner," she echoed.

Double standards. She pointed them out frequently. He waited for her to do so again, but she surprised him.

"I'm not going to judge you," she told him. "If you ask."

Silence. He was a coward. He wanted to ask, wanted her to tell him he would be okay, that he would pull through this damn case and make it back to Washington still in control. But he couldn't. Once bitten...

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask a favour?"

"Sure, Bones."

She rolled onto her side, facing him and he tilted his head to meet her gaze. She was worried. She shouldn't have to worry about him.

"I would feel better if I could hold your hand while sleeping," she told him.

"Hold your hand?"

"I didn't like waking up and finding you gone. I'd rather know you were departing."

There was a vulnerability in her voice, but more than that, a kindness. She was asking for him. She knew he couldn't. It was an out.

"I'm sorry, Bones. I didn't mean to upset you."

He turned over onto his side, facing her now. Across the space between them, she extended her right hand. His left hand took hers, fingers interlacing loosely. She squeezed it lightly, nestling her head into her pillow. A large curl tumbled across her face, sweeping over one eye.

"Goodnight, Booth."

With his free hand, he brushed the hair back lovingly. "'Night, Bones."

The monster was silent.

"But somehow I can't believe
That anything should happen
I know where I belong
And nothing's gonna happen..."

The red dress was worse than the black one.

This time, she'd chosen her evening wear, and it was a vast improvement over her pick the day before. The red silk hung cloyingly over her breasts, beckoning a wandering eye. The only thing restraining him was his gratitude for her intervention the night before. He'd woken up to find her hand pulling lightly from his, a sheepish smile on her face.

"Shower," she murmured.

He'd reluctantly allowed her to slip from his grasp, pressing his palm to his face as she closed the bathroom door. He could smell her hand cream on his skin. It was comforting.

They'd talked him onto the card for the night, as planned with Walt. He should have anticipated the switch-up last minute. Squash the nosy newcomer. Test him. Break him. And they would have, without her genius skills. She'd saved him once again.

She'd also bet on him. To flush Nick out, she'd claimed for her first reason. She'd remained silent about the second one. It lingered in the back of his mind that final night in Vegas, along with the sight of her breasts half-falling out of her dress during the fight. Oh, yeah: once that adrenaline ground to a halt in his body, his brain reminded him of that still frame.

His entire body hurt the next morning, the showering doing little to loosen the knots in every muscle. He was a mess of bruises, his nose thankfully not broken. She'd checked the night before and he'd cursed up a storm before settling into bed, her hand seeking his and holding fast through the night.

Nothing had been said. There was so much he wished he could tell her. But he did have one thing he could speak about. An answer he needed to have.

"So what was the second reason?"

"What?"

"You never told me the second reason you bet on me," he elaborated.

She looked uncomfortable as she finished packing her bag. Booth couldn't understand why it was such a troubling question.

"Yeah," she said at last. "It was... silly."

He kept his voice light, hoping to reassure her. "Aw come on, you know, try me."

Her answer was definitely not what he expected, and yet, he should have expected it from her.

"Beginner's luck. I haven't lost at anything since I've been here, so..." A hesitation. "Well, I..." She sighed, a brief exhalation laced with fear and sadness. "I figured if I bet on you then..."

"Then I couldn't lose," he finished.

"Sounds silly, right?"

"Sounds familiar. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

There was electricity in the air, the crackle of an impending storm. Impossible within the walls of this room, but the spark was there. Her heart was so big, so kind and yet, she never comprehended the magnitude of her gestures. To her, it was simply what was done. It made her overtures all the more meaningful. No ego, no need for recognition. Bones simply was beautiful, inside and out.

She was in a class all her own.

"You ready?" she asked.

Stop torturing yourself, Booth. That ship sailed long ago. Stop looking for it on the horizon.

"Yeah, let's go."

"'Cause she's so high

High above me..."

Well, what did you think? I've always had a lot of questions about this episode. Season two is a hell of a lot of fun to pick apart scenes from, and this episode is loaded. As you can see, I'm Team One Room Theory on this. I also don't believe we saw the full extent of how difficult being in Vegas would be for him, especially after seeing Frankie.

You've been quiet, dear readers. I assume the holidays have everyone rushing in and out of FF. Call me needy, but I would truly love it if you would take a moment to leave a review. Writing is a difficult thing, but the reward is knowing people are enjoying the hard work (plus you can keep me on track and spank me for writing lousy stuff). As an extra incentive, when the reviews hit 101, no matter when that is, I'm posting a bonus chapter as a thank you. It's a song we know well. ;)

Happy New Year! I'll catch you on the flipside of the calendar with a Bard update and see you here next week (or perhaps sooner). Next up: season five!