He Shouldn't Have Done That

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: I own nothing... Obviously. Just playing in someone else's sandbox for a bit.

Summary: Brennan ends her partnership with Booth after she considers his confession to Hannah about her the ultimate betrayal. AU.

Chapter 10 – Ten Months After

I love Angela, I do... and I know, for her, they acted. They came. Hodgins, Sully, my dad. They liked her, they respected her enough to act on her behalf for me. And, I know she means well. I'm still not sure why she cares about me as much as she does. She's always been a better friend to me than I've ever been to her. But, Angela... she's loyal like that. So, I know she's trying because she loves me for some illogical and inexplicable reason.

And, because she's worried, they're worried. For some reason they seem to think I'm worth worrying about... and they mean well. But, they didn't really understand. I *didn't* want to talk about it. What part of that is so difficult to understand, comprehend? I didn't want to talk about Wendall, the accident, our relationship, how I was feeling, or how I was doing. I was coping. They should have been able to see that if nothing else.

I was still getting up each morning, I came to work, I attempted to be as professional and amiable as I possibly could be under the circumstances. I was trying to do what I thought Wendall had asked me to do. I was trying to live. I worked hard to maintain some semblance of a normal schedule. I knew as soon as I bolted to the sets of remains in limbo that Angela would immediately call some type of counsel to stage an intervention. I really, really just wanted to be left alone. I knew that wouldn't happen, so I settled for the next best thing - I didn't want to talk about. I was doing the best I could... and, it still didn't seem to be good enough for anyone... anyone but the one person who had the least amount of reasons to stay, but did - anyone but the last person I expected to understand, but did. Booth. Ironic isn't it?

I don't know at what point I regained the ability to refer to him in all places and contexts by his name, but there it was. Booth. And, as time went on, he was the one person I was able to use to pacify Angela with in an attempt to alleviate some of the distress my current emotional state had caused her. After all, that's what I did, wasn't it? I was a user. That's the reason, I had ultimately decided, that explained why they kept leaving. I was a user. I took, I kept taking... and I rarely gave anything substantial back in return. That was it. That was the reason. So, I deserved it, in a way... I deserved it... and that's why it kept happening.

With Michael, I was there. He saw something he could use in me, and I used him when I was at Northwestern. The parade of random men over the years fulfilled their purposes as far as biological imperatives were concerned. Then... well, then there was Booth. I used him, too. I thought, for a time, that it might be something more. But, really... what else did I do but merely use him as a partner and as a teacher to learn what I could of emotions? Then... like always, I didn't seek him out, but Wendall found me. And, I used him, too. I used him to distract myself from things that had happened with Booth... and to pass the time. I used him as a diversion, despite what he had told me in the dream. So, I was a user... I took... and now... what did it matter if Booth was there? He was there, he wanted a drink, it was a bar. Angela didn't want me to be alone. With him there, I wasn't. So, what did it matter if he stayed?

I didn't really have to think about that one before I made the decision... whether to let him stay or not. Or, rather, to leave myself if he insisted on staying. But, overall, staying there while he stayed there did have its benefits. One, as I said, it made Angela seem just a little bit more anxious. And, two, again, it distracted me. It might be odd to think that after all that had happened as far as my emotions with Booth were concerned that he could distract me in anyway, particularly when my reaction to him earlier this year had been so vitriolic. But, logically, when faced with two sources of pain, the one that's more recent, more fresh in your memory can overwhelm you. Time and space make you have to chose which one you are going to do battle with... so, I had a choice. I could either chose to renew my anger at Booth - which, to be honest, I hadn't really felt in some time, anyway - or to continue fighting against my anger against everything that had happened with Wendall. He left me. Booth was here. I still didn't know why, but he was. And, the reasons why I had felt so much strong emotion towards him... they had faded. So, if I could only chose one to rail against - it had to be the pain I felt because of Wendall. So, if he wanted to... Booth could stay, and I did too. And, so he did... and so did I.

Each Thursday at 7pm promptly, I went to the English pub. Each Thursday, I preceded to imbibe my normal pattern of a couple pints of Guinness, a couple of Black-and-Blue pints, and finished the evening with several Irish Carbombs. Each night, usually by about 12:30am, I would be completely intoxicated. I would look to Charlie to close out my tab and call me a cab. Booth would then follow me out, get in the cab with me, ride with me to my apartment, and watch as I collapsed into bed. At some point in the pattern, a number of towels, bottles of water, a bottle of aspirin, and a plastic bucket appeared at my bedside (and were mysteriously restocked each week). Sometimes I was sick, sometimes I wasn't. And, when I awoke the next morning, I finally had what I wanted – I was alone. A small part of me was curious to know why he was doing what he was doing. After all, who was I to him anymore? No one. I was no one. His actions were akin to helping a stranger, I reasoned. But, still he did it, and each week, at some point, each night, he left, and by the time the sun rose in all its bright and fiery glory, for just a few hours before the pain of the hangover dominated the rest of my Friday, I *finally* was alone. I spent the rest of the weekend recuperating in order to be ready to greet the new week on Monday. And, on the following Monday of each week, the pattern started all over again.

After approximately one month, or, on my fifth Thursday evening, I started to feel something that I hadn't felt in quite a long time – confusion. The pattern I had been holding to throughout the week helped me get from one point in time to the next. Each Thursday, I knew I had someplace to be, something to do. It marked the passage of time for me, helped me to have one more point to reach, gave me something that I conceptualized as a way to do what I had to do to make it to the next Thursday. But, after about a month, I started to realize how much energy it was taking to keep up that schedule and the mindset that such a schedule demanded. I started to get bored with the monotony of having to go over the same exact thoughts, same exact feelings, and same exact fact patterns in my head. It was boring and monotonous. And, for the first time in a long time, I started to think that maybe I needed to make some changes in the stagnant pattern that my life had fallen into over the past few weeks.

In the larger scale, I had gotten tired of doing the same thing over and over again. I was tired of the monotony of my life. And, in a way, I was tired of the monotony of the emotions I kept feeling. From a certain perspective, I had reverted to the exact same emotional cluster-fuck that I had found myself in last November. Between November and January, I had wallowed in a pool of loneliness, desperation, grief, self-pity, anger, and regret. Now, here I was again, and exactly where I had been not even a year ago. It was the end of September, and I felt a need to fight for change. Somehow, though I didn't expect it, I thought all the fight had gone out of me that day at the cemetery, I felt the overwhelming urge to rebel against the current state of things. I couldn't stand the idea of being constrained, confined, controlled. I had to rebel against it. I needed to change things, somehow. I just wasn't sure where to start, but for opening my mouth, and, at last... to begin talking.

In a way, that was why I started talking. It began with a small gesture that was simple enough. I motioned to Charlie, who, upon seeing my arrival, had moved to pour a pint of Guinness for me to begin tonight's ritual. I shook my head at him as I took my seat and quietly ordered a bottle of tequila and a shot glass. Charlie brought them without question, poured the first shot in front of me, and then left the bottle next to the shot. I downed the first one quickly, welcoming the variation of the burning down my throat. It had been almost a year, no... more than a year since I had let a drop of tequila pass through my lips. I shook my head in satisfaction, as I reached for a slice of lime from a bowl that Charlie had unobtrusively left for me next to a saltshaker and sucked it dry. Nodding, I reached for the second shot and quickly swallowed it.

By 7:30pm, like clockwork, he entered the bar and sat down next to me. Glancing at the tequila bottle and the shot glass, Booth gave me a strange look, but said nothing. Instead, his look said it all - 'what's this?' It was a fair question. And, so, for the first time in weeks, since the first night that he had found me, I opened my mouth and spoke.

Brennan stared at him, before she nodded and said, "For five weeks, I've put up with the fact that you've only kept half of the ground rules I set."

"I haven't mentioned his name once," Booth replied.

"No," I said. "You haven't. That was the half of the rules that you've been following."

"And, so the problem here is?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Reaching for the tequila bottle, I poured a new shot in the glass and slid it across the counter. I nodded and said, "You were supposed to have a drink."

Booth stared at it for a moment, then back at her, saying nothing. They communicated with their eyes:

Why are you still here?

Why do you keep coming here?

I'm hurt. I'm in pain. I don't know what else to do to stop feeling the pain.

You're scaring the people who love you.

That explains Angela and my dad and the rest. It doesn't explain why you're here.

Like I said, curiosity.

No, you're hiding something.

Okay, then how about for old time's sake? I don't like seeing you like this. I don't like seeing you self-destructing when you came so damn close to finishing off the job last time.

So, guilt?

Maybe.

What do you have to be guilty about?

A lot.

"Either drink the drink, or go," Brennan said simply. "That was the deal."

He stared at her hard for a moment, looked back at the shot glass, then grabbed it and downed its contents in one hard and fast movement.

Brennan nodded her approval. "I don't know why you just did that, but, fine. You can stay. I still don't know *why* you want to stay, but, if you want to, I guess, you can stay."

Reaching for the bottle, she refilled a shot glass that had materialized in front of her... and Booth's.

"You only said I had to have 'a' drink… as in singular," Booth said with an arched eyebrow.

Turning to him, she nodded. "Only the first one was mandatory. Any others are optional."

And, so, for several hours that night, they didn't talk. Not verbally. But, she did look at him. This time, for the first time in months, she really *did* look at him… and, in her alcohol-clouded, drunken-induced haze, for the first time in a long, long time… she stopped thinking about herself and looked at him.

Booth had changed in the time since she had cut him out of her life. Not anything dramatic… but, when a person spends six years staring at a person on a regular basis, one does get to know the face quite well. There were more lines, tiny ones, at the edge of his eyes than she remembered being there. And, the two lines in his forehead that creased whenever he frowned or was puzzled or worried about something… those two lines seemed deeper, more prominent than she had remembered them being. If she wasn't mistaken, she also thought that for the first time ever, she could see the flash of silver just above his ear. Not anything overt or numerous, but yes, if she looked hard enough Brennan thought she might have seen one or two grey hairs.

While Brennan sat staring at Booth in-between downing her shots of tequila, Booth stared at her. What he saw pleased him in no way anymore than it had each of the past Thursday nights that he had been coming to sit next to her in the bar for the past month. The woman who sat before him seemed a far cry from the individual who had come blazing into his office the afternoon she dissolved their partnership. That strong, angry woman had been lost at some point. At some point over the past year, that woman had been lost along the way, as Brennan went down the path she had been traveling without him. In her place sat a very different person. This Brennan who sat in front of him, yes, she was still angry… angry at some many things for so many different reasons… and the anger had started to eat her alive. This woman… this Brennan – she was paler, more dull than the one he remembered. It was obvious that she had lost weight. Not a tremendous amount, but just enough so that he could see a difference. She was harder... different in some many small ways. But, perhaps the most drastic change was the lack of vitality he saw in this woman who sat before him. She seemed more fragile… almost to the point of being brittle. Older, she definitely was older than had ever recalled her seeming to him… much older than her actual thirty-five years.

And, all of that being said, he didn't know what to do to help her… wasn't even certain why he was still here after Angela had pleaded with him to go to her, just once. After dealing with his own problems for months... he had initially gone to see her... for two reasons... one, he wanted the distraction, and two, he was curious. So, here he was sitting next to his ex-partner, his ex-best friend… and the only thing Booth did eventually realize that first night was that he was watching Brennan go through the earliest stages of what could only be legitimately described as self-destruction. It gnawed at him, as he began to wonder how this had happened in such a short period of time. Brennan was about to crash and burn in a spectacular ball of fire... and... and, it was perhaps that thought that depressed him the most – the sheer waste of it, what she was doing… the waste of it all. Brennan had remarkable potential, and yet here she was, throwing it all away, throwing her *life* away with both hands… and, on pure principle, that thought made Booth sad. It depressed him… and if nothing else had happened over the past year to occupy his thoughts, that would have been enough to merit having another drink. But, then there was also the other feeling that had started to eat at him... guilt. Had he helped contribute to this? If so... how? Yes, perhaps it had started that day with Hannah... but... had he made it worse that night? Had they both made it worse? For a while after, they both had seemed to be doing better... but, now... he started to feel guilty... and so started to come and sit with her each night as some sort of self-imposed penance.

So, all these thoughts rattling in his mind, Booth slowly reached for the shot glass she had left in front of him, fingering the rim for a minute. Pulling it toward him with one hand, he reached for the salt shaker with his other hand. Decision made, Booth quickly downed the shot and reached for a piece of lime afterwards. Brennan watched him curiously, saying nothing, and merely nodded her silent approval.

A couple of hours after that, mellowed by the tequila, Brennan finally said what she really had been wanting to say all night. Or, not say, necessarily. But, ask. Yes, she had a question to ask, and her inhibitions lowered by the Tequila, she was going to ask it. So, she did.

"Why do you keep coming here? Every Thursday night. Like clockwork... 7:30pm rolls around, and there you are. You haven't even been late... not once. Surely, you've got to have better things to do with your time than babysitting your drunken ex-partner. So, I'll ask again. Why do you keep doing this?" Brennan inquired.

Booth, also mellowed by the tequila, shrugged. "The beer and liquor are cheap."

"Tonight's the first night you've had a drink in over a month here. Try again," Brennan said.

He nodded. "Okay. Then, it's like I told you originally - morbid curiosity."

Shaking her head, Brennan said, "No, I don't think so. Not good enough. Maybe for the first Thursday. It doesn't explain the other four. So, try again."

"Okay, you seem to have an idea of why I'm here, so why don't you tell me," Booth asked.

Brennan looked and said, "I think that you're doing it because you feel guilty about something."

"Guilty?" Booth said, slightly surprised. at her response. No, he was more than *slightly* surprised. How did she know that? How could she know him that well when she was so mired in such an overwhelming puddle of self-involved self-destruction. Booth thought about it for a second and then decided... no, she couldn't know... it was a guess. Had to be. Nodding, he played it off as he asked, "What do I have to feel guilty about?"

There were a thousand things that Brennan could have offered at the opening that Booth had given her to explain what he might have had to feel guilt over. A thousand things came to Brennan's mind... from when he broke her trust by telling Hannah about their conversation to... a lot of other things. But, in the end, she shook her head.

"I don't know. But, I do think you feel guilty about something... and you're doing this... as some type of penance," Brennan said.

Booth again hid his surprise. *How* could she know that? He was quiet for a moment before he said, "And if I did? What does that matter?"

"Because," Brennan said. "I'm not your responsibility. I'm not your charity case. You don't even know me anymore."

"You're right," Booth conceded. "And you don't know me."

"No," she agreed after a moment. "You're right. I don't. It's like we're even less familiar with each other than the day you walked into my lecture hall that day at American."

"Time passes, things happen, people change," Booth observed. "Life keeps going on."

"Yes," Brennan said after a moment. "It's painful, but it does."

He stared at her for a moment, and then said, "It's surprising you would admit that."

"Why?" Brennan asked. "It's a logical observation I've made on based on... too *many* first-hand experiences."

"I sort of got the impression," Booth said, "That you might've given up on that whole 'gaining first-hand experiences' thing from the past few weeks."

Quiet for a moment, Brennan shook her head. "I can't. Logically, I can't do that. I may have tried to do it for a while as I looked to adjust my metaphorical grasp on things that have occurred in my life. But, I can't give up. Life happens, as you said, and unless I were to commit suicide, which is something that in no way is appealing to me or desirous in any way, then I must accept that fact... and 'deal' as Angela says. My life... it is still important. The things I do... my work... my writing... they still have value. So, I... I have come to the conclusion I must keep going forward... and 'deal'."

Booth was surprised by her admission... and, upon closer examination, Brennan seemed to be as well. As long as she wasn't directly confronted with things emotional... she almost seemed to display a flicker of the Brennan of old. It was disconcerting to Booth to say the least.

"So that's why you're still here?" he asked. "It's how you're coping with 'dealing' for the times when you're not?"

Sighing, Brennan said. "I... before tonight, I might have answered 'yes' to that question... now... I don't know why I'm here. It's... it's better than being back at my apartment... alone... with nothing but sad memories and sad dreams."

Nodding, Booth began to absentmindedly caress the rim of his shot glass again. Nodding, Brennan said, "So that's why I'm still here. What about you? Why are you still here?"

Booth nodded. "I just... am."

Sighing at this, Brennan said, "I don't know what to say in response to that."

"It doesn't matter, really, what you say, as long as you keep talking," Booth said finally. "Talking... it's a good thing, you know. Angela was right about that one. As long as you keep talking... it's just a good thing." Booth watched her consider the words for a moment and then said, "What?"

"It's just that I find myself debating as to whether I should accept the validity of your opinion on this matter since it is not based, in any way in which I can perceive, on any sets of facts. Since your prior statement is something that you have said that is subjective, and not of an objective nature, I find that I'm uncertain whether I should agree with your opinion or not."

At this, Booth shrugged. "You don't have to," he agreed. "Like I said, it's just an observation. You can take it for what you will," Booth's voice trailed off.

At last, Brennan completed the thought for him and simultaneously returned to her earlier assessment. "It's true that you've made some valid points in the past based on your subjective interpretation of things. Ergo, your previous pattern indicates that... usually... The evidence, that is, suggests that while some of your opinions had validity... even if some others didn't, overall you usually had the right of things in emotionally-related matters such as this."

Quiet for a moment, Booth said at last, "I'm not certain, but I think... did you just agree with me?"

"Not quite," Brennan admitted. "I did concede the point, however, that statistically, in emotional matters, your opinion seems to have some weight... and, as such, should be treated... at times, with agreement, even in subjective matters."

"Uhhh, thanks, I think," Booth said at last. He waited a few seconds before he said, "So, I have a question for you now."

"Yes?" Brennan responded.

"You said 'some' of my opinions had validity. Were you referencing any ones in particular?" Booth asked.

Brennan considered the question before she shrugged her shoulders. "Not any specific ones I care to speak of at the present moment aside from saying that some of your thoughts on human emotions were... valid."

"All right," Booth conceded. He took the shot glass, and considered it for a moment before setting it down and looking at her. He nodded. "Look, here's how I see this. You want to know why I'm here... let's just say I have my reasons, just like I'm sure you do. And, for now.. those reasons are each to his own. You don't know me anymore. I don't know you anymore. Time's passed, things have happened, and we've both changed. But... if you want... I've grown used to having drinks on Thursday nights," Booth said.

"I don't trust you," Brennan stated simply.

"And, I don't trust you," Booth said. "But, all we're doing here is getting a drink... and talking. Just talking. We don't have to trust each other to have a drink."

"That's it?" Brennan asked.

Booth was quiet for a moment before he said, "For now, yeah. We drink, we talk. That's it."

"Just talking... will lead to an increased familiarity. Talking is how you get to know someone," Brennan said. "To what purpose?"

Booth shrugged. "To pass the time?"

Brennan wasn't sure how to respond to that... as she considered her thoughts for a moment, and then nodded. "Okay." She stopped and then added, "We drink, we talk... and we pass the time." It wasn't like she had many better things to do... and, ironically, if there was one thing she seemed to have more than enough of now... it was time. So, she agreed... and so did Booth as he repeated her words.

"So... we drink, we talk, and, we'll pass the time."

-TBC-