AN: I honestly didn't think that there would be an update today, but sometimes, the Muse just walks up and goes Bam! Here's a story. I've has this song planned since almost the beginning for this episode and a loose outline, but the details (specifically, the more middle portion) burst out yesterday.
Like with last week's song (which I love, but is admittedly tame for Def Leppard), this song seems not-so-Boothy (it was originally another song for this chapter on first outline, but was quickly changed), but like Caves, the reasons are here.
Tag To: The Daredevil In The Mold
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, alas, nor do I own the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.
Iris (Goo Goo Dolls)
He doesn't know how long he's been at the bar, and he's lost count of the number of shots he's had – "too many" is probably a safe answer, although "not enough" would also suffice – but he guesses it's been at least half an hour. That's how long it would take Bones to drive from her apartment to the bar, give or take ten minutes of traffic, to be standing here beside him.
He can't decide whether he wants her to stay or not. Half of him desperately needs her rationality, her way of seeing through his evasive language to the truth that he will not voice aloud. The other half of him sees another reminder of how unwanted he is, how worthless of a man he is in the eyes of every goddamn woman he's ever loved or even cared for. The latter half is a vocal bastard, one fueled by scotch, which is how he comes to spitting out far more honesty than he'd typically dare reveal.
"I mean, you like evidence. Alright, Bones, well, here's the evidence. The evidence is that there's something wrong here. Now, I – I fell in love with a woman. I had a kid. She doesn't want to marry me. And – the next woman, she's..."
"Me."
"Yeah! And now – I mean, what is it with women who don't want what I'm offering here?"
"Booth..."
He cuts her off, no longer interested in the explanations and apologies of anyone. "No. Just, you know what – drink. Drink," he urges, even as he senses he's encroaching dangerously into the rage territory of his father. "I'm just really – I'm just mad. I'm just really mad at all of you. I'm just mad, okay? So you want to know how this is going to work? Okay, this is how this is going to work. Me and you are partners. That's what we do. Me and you, we're partners. And I love that. I think that's great. And we're good people that catch bad people, right?"
It just keeps spilling forth, the truth, and she remains silent, allowing him to continue to ram his angry foot down his stupid, proposing throat.
"And – and we argue. We go back and forth. We're partners and sometimes after we solve the case, we come here and celebrate. That's what we do, we celebrate. So as far as I can see, that's what happens next. Are you okay with that?"
He gives her maybe all of two seconds before his angry heart keeps talking.
"Great, 'cause you know, if you are, you stay here and you have a drink with me, alright? Maybe we have a little small talk, a little chit chat. If not, well, you can leave, there's the door. And tomorrow, uh, I'll find you another FBI guy."
Even he can't believe that statement, although his brain's been screaming at him for the past year, asking him why he felt the need to stay with her even after she'd rejected him outright, refused to even try to be what everyone told him they already were, minus the sex. She'd kept everything and he'd been forced to live with the torment of her presence, unable to touch, to show her the love that consumed his thoughts. But maybe the booze is right. Maybe he needs to be free of her, free of the entire lab.
"Those are my only choices?" she asks quietly.
"Yeah. Those are your only choices."
Or maybe you just need to believe that someone wants you around. Needs you, even.
"Then I'll have a drink," she says at last, signaling the bartender.
They go six rounds in silence, the clunk of each shot glass meeting the bar the only sound. Other patrons come and go, but Booth doesn't give a damn about them. It's a Wednesday night, so the traffic's the usual suspects, the ones who probably know him and Bones. They can judge all they like. He doesn't give a damn. He truly doesn't.
In the back of his mind, this terrifies him. He's seen what not giving a damn looks like, and it's not a pretty picture. It's Jared being pulled over for a DUI. It's his father reaching for a glass and shattering it against the wall beside his head. It's his father driving drunk to the store, nearly running over the little girl down the street. He starts to feel sick. Worthless, too – even more than he already does. And so the cycle goes: he requests two more shots from the bartender, whose features are hazy at best.
"Those are the last ones," Bones says quietly.
"I'm not done," he snaps, knocking back the first shot.
"I'm fairly certain from the bartender's body language that he's served you well beyond his usual limits out of familiarity with us and your badge, but even he is about to cut you off," she explains calmly. "Let's get a cab and get you home."
"I can't go home," he protests. "It hasn't been long enough. I can't see her."
He finishes the second shot, looking to her expectantly. With a sigh, she flags the bartender and knocks back two shots herself in quick succession.
"Then come to my place. Take the guest room. I have a little scotch and you can drink it. But we're leaving the bar now."
Her voice leaves no room for argument and as pissed as he is at her for her recent admission of love after rejecting him and running halfway around the world to escape him, she does have booze at home. The bartender's face also suggests she's right about him being cut off and considering the ten grand he pitched into the Reflecting Pool, maybe calling it a night is a good idea. He fumbles inside his pocket for his wallet, but the bartender's shaking his head.
"It's taken care of," he says.
"Huh? How?"
She's gone and he rises to his feet, grabbing the bar as his vision spins. Where'd she go? Who took care of what?
"I don't understand," he mumbles.
"And that's why I have to cut you off for the night, Agent Booth. She's outside flagging a cab," the bartender explains.
He staggers to the door, slowly putting together that she's paid the bill for him, and he's even more pissed now, because who asked her? Who asked her rich author ass to bail him out? Not him. He didn't ask.
She moves to enter as he pulls the door open to exit. Her hand reaches out for his shoulder, gripping it firmly. It shouldn't affect him the way it does, but there it is: instant hard-on.
"Come on, Booth; the cab's waiting."
He follows her to the waiting car, his coat draped over his arm in a messy loop. She holds the door open for him and he grumbles, waving her away.
This is a bad idea. The night will not end well for either of them.
They've gone maybe a mile when he turns to her and says, "I'll pay you back when I'm sober."
"No, you won't," she replies.
"You're not paying for my drinking binge."
"Booth, I have more money than you, a greater income level – "
"Yeah, we all know you're rich, Bones!"
"Hannah said the ring looked very expensive," she murmurs. "She said you threw it in the water."
He sighs, thumping his head against the seat behind him. "I don't need your goddamn charity, Bones."
"Then call it your early birthday gift and shut the hell up, Booth," she snaps.
He folds his arms across his chest, staring out the window. Maybe taking his chances with Hannah would have been a better plan. All he's doing is pissing her off, and that's just more evidence of how unappealing he is to every woman in his life. They all get angry with him. They all push him away.
Something is wrong with him. But no one will tell him what is so wrong!
He closes his eyes for what seems like a few seconds and they are at her apartment. She pays for the cab and steps outside, offering him no assistance this time. His anger is biting him in the ass because the alcohol he slammed back just before their departure has obliterated his coordination. It's also washing away his rage. In its place, oblivion.
"I need help," he slurs.
She extends her hand into the cab and he allows her to pull him to his feet. "Can you walk?" she asks.
"Probably."
She shuts the cab door and threads her arm through his. "Let's go, Booth."
The doorman greets them with a nod as they pass, likely sensing from the way Booth zigs and zags that it's best not to start a conversation tonight. By the time they've entered the apartment, he's leaning against her wall to find his way to the living room.
"I love your place," he says with a wistful sigh.
She's changed up some of the décor – one of her old vases is missing; there's a new statue of some kind on a pedestal – but the general minimalism and stack of scientific books on the side table is intact. She retreats to the kitchen, opening the fridge. He is suddenly hit with a memory and staggers forward, waving his arms.
"You can't just go opening fridges like that!" he shouts.
"Why not?"
"Because... Bombs, that's why!"
She winces, averting her eyes. "I'm sorry. You haven't said anything in so long... I..."
"S'okay. Where's the scotch?"
"A bottle of water first, then it's all yours," she replies, handing him one of two she's retrieved.
He rolls his eyes and follows her into the living room, where he notices the stereo system. His mind rewinds again to that night five years ago as he stumbles towards it.
"Remember when we listened to music for the first time?" he asks.
"Of course. I remember everything."
He flips the power on, studying the empty cases on top of the speaker. "God, I wanted you that night."
"I don't understand."
She's lying, but he indulges her.
"You were so sexy, dancing and singing," his mouth continues, ignoring all mental warning signals. "I was thinking, 'Maybe I should say something'. But then, BOOM! Whatcha got in here?"
He hits play before she can reply, her mouth opening silently and closing again in defeat. He takes a gulp of water from the bottle, a dribble escaping down his chin. He is so very drunk and it is relief. Mercy, really.
"And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now..."
"Booth, my neighbours – "
"You keep bragging about your soundproofing, Bones," he counters playfully. "Hey, you like this song?"
She shrugs noncommittally. "Angela made me a mix."
"Everyone gives you a mix. Everyone but me," he mumbles.
"It was a gift. To help... I'm not explaining it. I'm turning it off," she snaps, crossing the room briskly.
He cuts in front of her, shaking his head. "Don't explain. Explaining is words. Thinking. I don't want to think tonight."
"And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
And sooner or later, it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight..."
She shudders slightly as his hand grazes hers and he wonders whether it's indicative of disgust or desire. Once upon a time, they had a language all their own: touches, smiles and smirks. A subtle glance conveyed so much. But lately... Well, lately, Hannah. One word, a thousand complications.
"No thinking?' she asks softly.
"No. Just... drinking."
"Because that's what partners do," she says.
He nods, licking his lips nervously. "Yeah. Are we still partners?"
She laughs, one single, short blast, before shaking her head. "Like I have a choice," she murmurs.
The rage begins to rise anew. "You have a choice. No one's making you be near me."
"No," she says sadly. "I don't have a choice. Not about this... Not about you."
She turns away as her shoulders slump in a manner he's scarcely ever seen and it is then that it clicks, beneath the murky haze of alcohol, then that he understands what he's done. He's presented her with her very own Hoover, her very own impossible decision. Because he's already rejected her, already crushed the hopeful glint in her eyes.
At what point did turnabout become anything but fair play?
"And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you'd bleed just to know you're alive..."
"Bones?"
She won't look at him and this worries him, because as angry as he is, he's angriest with himself. And if he's hurt her on top of fucking everything up with Hannah... Fuck. Fuck!
"Bones," he tries again. "Bones, I'm really drunk. Shitfaced drunk. I'm sorry if I've... Look, maybe I should go home."
"No, you can stay. I'm just exhausted."
"I'm just so tired of not being enough," he confesses as he steps closer.
She turns around slowly, her expression pained. "I cannot speak for anyone else, but being 'enough', as you put it, was never an issue. Isn't an issue. But I don't wish to think, as you mentioned."
"Yeah..."
His mouth is dry and not even the rest of the water is able to quench his sudden thirst. He sets the bottle down on the table gingerly. Maybe this is where he should call it a night. It probably is where he should end it. But the stupid asshole in him has other ideas.
"Dance with me?" he asks.
"Booth, no – "
"I was horrible last time. Just... let me dance with you. To thank you for being with me tonight, even though I've given you no reason to stick around as a partner lately."
Her body sways back and forth slowly for several long moments, finally coming to rest against his. His right hand finds the small of her back, his left clasping her right as they begin to sway. Her head rests against his scar, the one where the bullet pierced him as he chose her life over his own. He's noticed how often she somehow finds a way to connect with that scar. He knows she's acutely aware of it. He can only assume it's intentional.
"And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand..."
"I hate myself when I'm this drunk," he whispers in her ear.
"Why?"
"Because I come too close to being my father."
She glances upwards. "You could never be your father, Booth. Your heart muscle is too large."
"You don't understand – "
"You're not your father, Booth," she insists. The song finishes and she steps back, stifling a yawn. "We should sleep."
Booth nods. He'd come here craving more booze, but he's realizing he's had more than enough. He needs to sleep it off, sleep through the misery and start a new day alone. It's hardly a novel state of being for him. No big deal.
But you're not alone. She's still here.
She has every right to shove him back, to cut him off, to find a better FBI agent to work with. And yet, she's here, leading him down the hall to the guest room. She's let him make cruel ultimatums, come onto her, blame her, God knows what else – and why?
She turns down the blankets, fluffing the pillows absently. "I'm calling you out of work tomorrow."
"Bones – "
"We don't have a case. You can do paperwork at home. Now come on, lie down."
He kicks off his shoes and strips to his boxers, his normal inhibitions locked away beneath the growing guilt he feels for his behaviour. Reluctantly, he slides into the bed, drawing the blankets close. A part of him wants her to stay, but he doesn't dare ask. He doesn't deserve to ask her. Not after what he's done.
"Goodnight, Booth," she says, heading for the door.
"Bones?"
She turns around, a silhouette in the door frame. "Yes?"
"Thank you... I mean, you didn't have to come. Or stay. Or bring me here... Why? Why am I here? Why haven't you kicked my ass for acting the way I have, like this... bastard?"
After a long silence, she returns to the bedside. Leaning down, she gently kisses his forehead. It's a flutter of a kiss, a ghostly touch. He shivers at the feel of her warm breath against his skin.
"It's okay," she says warmly. "I know who you are."
He is speechless as she walks away, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.
"When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am..."
I was watching The Bikini In The Soup, studying the exchanges between Booth and Brennan. He seems so nervous and tentative, like he's unsure of what to say to her, while she seems to be trying hard not to step in a landmine even as she's still his partner, through and through. I wanted to analyze what might have happened to leave things so unsteady. I also wanted to echo that sweet moment from season one...
What episodes have we not gone to yet that you'd like to see? Review and let me know what you're hoping for! It'll probably be two weeks until we meet again.
To keep you busy, there's my brand spanking-new story, The Hand You're Dealt. Loosely based on the film Shuffle, Covalent Bond sums it up best: it's the best elements of The Mixed Tape with a mystery story.
You can also look forward to an update very soon for The Ring In The Reflecting Pool, my new case story. You've been asking about the identity of the body; that answer is coming soon!