Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Spelling B.
They were very nearly to their turn-off when she hugged his arm closer to her and said, "It's curious to me —counterintuitive actually — that you ascribe negative connotations to 'being lucky.' Generally speaking, it's considered an excellent thing."
"Don't get me wrong: I appreciate good luck as much as the next guy, and as for 'getting lucky,' well…" He earned himself a complacent smile and puckish glance with that one; yeah, no explanation needed. "But, it eats away at your self-confidence always to be pointed out as 'that lucky so-and-so.' Let me give you an example. First, a question: how many times over the years have you been told that you're lucky to have me in your life, as a partner, boyfriend, husband, whatever?"
She gave the matter serious thought, tilting her head to one side and looking up at the sky as if the answer might be written there.
"You can't come up with a number," he told her as the silence lengthened, "because it's never happened. Zero times. Zilch. Nada."
"No, no, that's not right. It happened once, certainly… I was just trying to remember… I think it was Agent Perrotta. I couldn't swear to it in a court of law, but I think that's right. She said I was lucky to have you as my partner, and, of course, I agreed with her."
"So, okay, whoop-tee-do, one time. Now, ask yourself how many times I've been told I'm lucky to know you, work with you, be married to you? Got a number in mind? No? Well, neither do I, and know why? Because I've lost count." He had been going for light and humorous, but had finished up a little too vehement at the end there, because, rational or not, it galled him that people accepted as given that he wasn't good enough for her, wasn't her equal. And, the worst of all on the best day of his life was standing at the altar as that dazzling vision in white that was his Bones walked down the aisle toward him and to have Aldo, the man he'd chosen to officiate at the service, lean in and whisper in his ear, 'You're a lucky man, Booth.' On his freaking wedding day!
As if she was telepathic as well as brilliant, she said, "But, that's not a reflection on you, Booth: it's a culturally-conditioned comment, not a personal one. Angela explained it to me: it's customary in our society to congratulate men on their good fortune in having secured a mate, but considered offensive to make the same remark to their romantic partner, always providing she's a woman, of course. In the latter situation, the accepted practice is to offer best wishes. It's not a rational state of affairs, but social conventions are not required to satisfy the demands of logic."
As they were now only steps away from Chesterfield Road, he thought briefly of suggesting they extend their walk — there was still so much to say — but as it would hardly be considerate to leave Max hostage to two small children, however dear to him they might be, he held his piece. By unspoken agreement, they turned to the right at the intersection, and began the last stretch of their trek. "Let's say I grant you the 'romantic' aspect," he said, picking up where she'd left off. "That covers, at most, only half of the time."
"If you're referring now to our professional partnership, then it's objectively true that you're fortunate to be working with me. That's not a personal observation, either: most of the scientific community and all reputable law-enforcement agencies would jump at the chance to collaborate with me. And, before you object that you are likewise an outstanding partner and that it should be acknowledged by the public at large that I am equally fortunate, I will just point out that it is universally known that I have an extreme dislike for being told what is already abundantly obvious."
He let that sink in a moment, then, just to make sure, said, "Let me get this straight: no one tells you you're lucky to work with me because they know it would irritate you? You're really going to go with that?"
"Yes. Since my good fortune in this area goes without saying, pointing it out to me would be a waste of my valuable time. Whether it would, in addition, be a waste of breath would depend entirely on who was making the unsolicited observation."
"You know, Bones," he said, slipping his arm from her clasp so he could wrap it around her shoulder instead. "I think that may be one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."
She shot him a sideways glance, then, shook her head, and did her best to suppress a smile. "But you still have a few doubts, is that what you're claiming?"
"Well, it would be great if you could spell it out for me, just this once."
"If it makes you feel better." He jostled her shoulder by way of encouragement. "Okay, here goes." She proceeded to fire rapid bursts of alphabet at him, so quickly he nearly couldn't reconstitute the words.
He groaned out loud. "I asked for that."
"You certainly did." She slid her arm around his waist, and laughed up at him. "Funny, right?"
"Hilarious. At least… the joke was the way you said it, not what you said, right?"
She grabbed a belt loop on his jeans, the better to shake him. "You're shameless, you know that? You're not going to be satisfied until I say the actual words! All right, then: 'I am the luckiest woman in the world.' There! Happy?"
"Ecstatic." He grinned down at her. "Luckiest woman, meet the luckiest man."
With her free hand, she swatted him none-too-gently on the upper chest, and straightening up, released him. Taking the hint, he let her go, and they completed the rest of their walk side by side but not touching, the model of middle-aged propriety.