What He Offered

Chapter 17: Catastrophe, prelude

It was a good thing the Booth house was set far back from the road on a well-wooded lot, or the neighbors might have mistaken the scream emanating from that direction for a dire emergency and phoned 911. As it was, Bones' outburst merely vented the worst of her frustration without ill effect. She had a strong impulse to grab up the pile of pages she had stacked so neatly, and toss it high in the air, but she could visualize the mess that would inevitably result, and restrained herself in time.

Ooooh, grossly unfair! Inexcusable! How long until the Zoo Brigade could be expected to return? She glanced at the wall clock: two hours at least. No, she would not stand for it. She picked up her phone, only to set it down again. What could she say? If the story wasn't done, railing about it wouldn't change matters. She would have to — what was that phrase that kept recurring? — be patient and endure. Never her forte.

Sighing, she decided to make the best of a bad situation and brew herself some Earl Grey tea. And a small snack wouldn't come amiss, either. She was on her way into the kitchen, her mind busy weighing the choice between cookies and biscuits, when she spied it, left out carelessly on the breakfast bar counter: the family laptop. Dr. Cameron had mentioned a copy of the tale was stored on Booth's laptop; not his office laptop, surely? She lifted the lid, and crowed with glee to discover he hadn't signed out; she had full access. Documents… documents… what title would he have given it? Nothing leapt out at her, until there! A folder called "TOTBs." That could be it. It was! And, what was more, there were two separate files named: Part One and Part Two. Yes!

She double-clicked on Part Two, and, all thoughts of afternoon tea flown, took up her reading.

PART TWO: A Tale of Twin Booths

The Booths, Brennan and the Jeffersonian team had been collaborating, now, for over four years. Theirs was an astoundingly successful association, with a rate of conviction unmatched not only in the D.C. office but around the country. Even Miss Caroline Julian, the prosecutor for the U. S. Attorney's office with whom they worked most closely and who was notoriously difficult to please, praised them as an extraordinary ensemble, the very best in the business. Their various talents and skills meshed like the finely-calibrated gears of a well-oiled machine, a machine that needed very little maintenance and showed no signs of running down.

Equally indisputable to Miss Julian and to everyone who worked at the lab and in the Hoover Building was that Vic and Brennan on the one hand and Tim and Jay on the other were established couples, any appearance to the contrary notwithstanding. The principles might deny it up and down and six ways to Sunday but they convinced no one: it was taken for granted that Brennan and Jay were spoken for, and Vic and Tim no longer looking. If, as rumor had it, their relationships had no sexual component, that was admittedly bizarre, but surely not unprecedented, and, in any case, did not belie their obvious emotional commitment. They might as well have been long-married as far as friends, family and colleagues were concerned.

But, the fact was, they were not married, and the long game was beginning to wear on Vic and Tim. In the ordinary way of things, the twins, teammates in the game, turned to one another for encouragement, support and advice, but from time to time, a second, more impartial perspective was needed, and in those instances, Vic sought the advice of the head chef at the gourmet restaurant La Coupole, Gordon Gordon Wyatt. When they first met, Gordon Gordon was employed at the FBI as a psychologist, and had drawn Vic as a patient when Vic ill-advisedly discharged his gun in public. Gordon Gordon had proven himself then and in subsequent troubles an excellent counselor and life guide, and he was the person to whom Vic turned when, finally, the pressure of patiently enduring had taken a terrible toll.

"As I have no expertise whatsoever in marksmanship, Vic," Gordon Gordon said, when he had heard the ostensible reason for Vic's sudden appearance in his kitchen, "I am forced to conclude that your requesting I 'help you fire your gun' is a metaphor — and a fairly standard one, at that — for an entirely different kind of problem. At a guess, I would hazard that you are experiencing difficulties — how shall I put this? — operating your manly apparatus."

An uncharacteristic flush stained Vic's cheeks. "That's one way to put it, yeah."

"Come, come, Vic, there's no need to be embarrassed! It's a much more common occurrence than you might think. Most men at one time or another fall a little short, if you'll excuse the expression."

"Yeah? Well, it's never happened to me, and… ah…" Vic shifted in his chair, but failed to find a more comfortable position. He continued in a low voice, "That's not even the worst of it."

Gordon Gordon brightened. "Ah! Now you intrigue me. How so?"

"It's not so much a matter of 'can't' so much as 'don't want to'."

"I see. You're saying your libido has gone missing in action, so to say."

"Action!" Vic snorted. "That's just it: I'm not getting any action."

"But, from what you've just confided in me, it would appear to be a matter of choice, rather than lack of opportunity."

Vic breathed out heavily. "Here's the thing, Doc… er, Chef," he amended, when Gordon Gordon raised an eyebrow at him. "I was feeling the need for a little… distraction the other night, so I went down to my old buddy Aldo's bar, and there I was, drinking my Scotch, shooting the breeze about the bad old days, when this hot blonde takes the stool next to me. When I say 'hot,' I'm talking smokin' : long, wavy hair down to her.. ah, waist, big brown eyes, fantastic smile, standing-room only in the balcony, and legs… whoa, baby!"

"Yes, I catch your drift, as you Americans like to say: an ideal prospect for amorous calisthenics."

"In a nutshell." Vin grimaced at his choice of words. "So, anyway, we get to chit-chatting, and, long story short, she asks me back to her place for a night cap. I stand up, throw a few bills on the counter, start to follow her out, and — bam! — it hits me like a ton of bricks: I don't want what she's offering."

"Ah!" Gordon Gordon tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his lips. "I can see how a lady-killing powerhouse such as yourself might find that a trifle disturbing. But, if it was just the one isolated incident…" Vic's growl derailed that line of thinking. "I see: a somewhat more habitual occurrence, then. Am I to understand that your sex drive has shifted permanently into neutral?"

Vic shot Gordon Gordon a quick look, but could not otherwise meet his eyes.

"You… do experience desire…" Gordon Gordon was feeling his way, watching Vic for clues as if he were playing charades with a not-especially-talented partner. "…but not for women you run across casually, so… a particular woman, then?" When Vic looked up at him, heartache plain in his eyes, Gordon Gordon made the connection. "Temperance Brennan!"

His only answer was the spasm of pain that crossed Vic's face.

"But, it makes perfect sense that you're not attracted to other females! You're in love with her. You're building a world around her, a family!"

Vic shook his head. "She doesn't love me, Chef. I'd know if she loved me."

Gordon Gordon leaned in toward his suffering friend. "You have shown enormous patience with her, Vic. Superhuman patience, really. May I counsel you be patient with her a while longer? Hope, Vic, that's my advice to you. Hope and patience." He clapped his former patient cordially on the shoulder. "Now, let's get some food into you. I have a new menu item, cerveau d'agneau à la Wyatt, I insist you try…"

Across town, Tim was dining out in the company of Lance Sweets, a fellow psychologist and junior colleague. Something of a boy wonder, Sweets was making a name for himself both as a profiler and dispenser of useful advice. In his off-hours, unbeknownst to his co-workers, acquaintances and even some close friends, he pursued a second passion: the writing of psychological fiction. Sweets had long been fascinated by the dynamics of the Booth & Brennan partnerships, and was clandestinely at work on a novel not-so-loosely based on the interactions he was able to witness. To gain insight into the working of their minds and the tumult of their feelings, he was not above plying Tim with personal questions when the opportunity presented itself, as it had this evening. It must be said, in Sweets' defense, that Tim was one of the few who had been let in on his carefully-guarded secret, and Tim did not object to serving as a primary source of material, always provided that what he revealed would be so reworked in the process of novelization as to be unrecognizable by the time the story appeared in print.

"Tell me again," Sweet was saying now, as he pushed his empty dish away, and reached into his suit coat for a miniature tape-recorder. He waggled the device for Tim to acknowledge, and, receiving permission, placed it down on the table and set it going. "Why does your brother oppose your relationship to Jay?"

Tim downed the last of his ale, and wiped the foam mustache away with his napkin. "Vic thinks she's manipulative. In his view, she can't stand not to be the center of attention, so she creates problems or manufactures sadness so she can milk my soft-hearted sympathy, and keep me dangling."

"In short, he feels she's leading you on, cynically taking the comfort you offer without the least intention of reciprocating." The younger man leaned back in his chair, shoulders loose, hands relaxed in his lap; a pose meant to inspire confidences, as Tim knew very well. "But, you don't see her that way."

"As I believe I've told you, Jay has issues with self-esteem. She's aware of these issues, and she's worked very hard to gain confidence in herself. Professionally, she's done quite well on that score, but, personally, she's not quite there yet."

"And, these improvements you say she's making, she was inspired to undertake them in order to be deserving of a particular 'good' man's attention."

Tim might employ the lean-back maneuver, but he drew the line at crooking his fingers. "She said so explicitly, yes."

"And though, from that day to this, she has never named the individual in question, you believe she means you."

Tim squirmed in his chair; Lance was beginning to sound more like an interrogator than a dinner companion. "I don't eliminate the possibility that it's me." He didn't say, I have lived for years in the hope she means me.

"But, that's what's kept you going all this time." Lance nodded, pleased with his evaluation. He considered Tim narrowly. "Look," he said at last, "you didn't ask my advice, and I could be totally out of line here, but what I'm seeing before me is a stalemate. You've been in a holding pattern for years, and unless somebody makes a move, you're going to be stuck going round in circles forever. You!" He raised his hand, and pointed his finger meaningfully at Tim. "You're the gambler. It has to be you!"

Tim watched as Lance sank back in his chair once again and crossed his arms over his chest, a smile on his boyish face. There was something of smugness, of self-congratulation in the pose that Tim could not quite like. It smacked of challenge, of a gauntlet thrown down, but why? How did Lance stand to profit by prodding him to act? But, even if Lance had some personal stake in the matter that Tim could not identify, did that make his advice bad? Was it finally time, indeed, to call Jay's bluff and put all his cards on the table?

When Vic returned to the apartment with a container of sautéed lamb's brains that Chef Wyatt had put up especially for Tim, he found his brother in the living room staring into space. "Hey," he said, snapping his fingers in Tim's face. "What's up? You okay? You look like you've been hypnotized or something."

"Huh? Oh." Tim had not heard the door slam or Vic's heavy footfalls. "Fine, I'm fine. Just… er, thinking."

"Yeah? 'Cause I thought for a moment there you might be catalytic."

Tim smiled despite himself. "I think you might mean 'catatonic'."

"Yeah, whatever." Vic set the brown paper bag on the coffee table, and dropped bonelessly into his recliner. "So, how'd it go tonight with Baby Shrink?"

"He… ah… gave me the benefit of his expertise. On the long game. He thinks it's time I go for it."

"What?" Vic was up and out of his chair in a moment. "No, no! No way! Gordon Gordon was very specific on the subject: patience. Patience and hope."

"I don't know, Vic." Tim shook his head. "I just don't know what's best anymore. You want to go on like this forever, you and me chasing, Jay and Brennan always just beyond reach, like passengers frozen in place on an endless carousel ride?"

"No, of course not. But, who're you going to trust on this, Tim? Some smart-ass kid still wet behind the ears, or Gordon Gordon Wyatt? He's got an English accent, for God's sake!"

Tim got to his feet wearily. "I'm going to have to sleep on this, Vic. We'll hash it over in the morning, okay?"

"Just don't do anything before you talk to me," Vic called after his retreating form. He lowered himself into his recliner, and sighed. He had a bad feeling about this.