What He Offered
Chapter 26: Crisis
It could not possibly be a coincidence, Bones thought in annoyance, that her phone pinged just when she least wanted an interruption. Incoming message from Booth: at the Thai Won Non. Take-out Tofu Curry or Peanut Noodles?
Her stomach growled. In her absorption, she'd missed her afternoon tea. No wonder she was famished. Both, she texted. Bon appétit.
See you in sixty.
Sixty…? Oh, minutes. Just an hour more? She quickly returned to the screen.
A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd
Brennan had been right: for reasons known only to herself, Jay had taken a taxi to Franklin Street, and was standing in the pouring rain, looking from the half-sheet of paper in her hand to the apartment building across from her. Tim, who had just turned the corner onto that stretch of the road, slipped into the shadow thrown by the building and watched her carefully, poised to intervene but only if absolutely necessary: she had come to this unsavory neighborhood for a purpose, and, provided pursuing it did not endanger her, he would not interfere.
Her attention suddenly caught by something in the center of the street, Jay moved to crouch down beside it: a bright gold reflective pavement marker. She ran her hand over its surface with all the narrow focus and intensity she usually reserved for bone, and was so engrossed in her examination, she was taken completely unaware by the car speeding round the corner toward her. The driver mashed the brakes, too late: the roadway was wet, the car couldn't stop, it fish-tailed but still would have crushed her, but for Tim who, the moment the car came into view, had run into the road. He snatched her up and dragged her out of harm's way, while the driver, having regained control of his vehicle, leaned angrily on his car horn, and sped away into the night.
From behind the rat-tail curtain of her dripping hair, Jay stared at him. "What… what are you doing here?"
Tim gripped her upper arms tightly, torn between rage at her recklessness and relief at her narrow escape. Relief won out. "Following you to a bad part of town to save your life, what else?"
She babbled something about having solved the mystery of the Eames' murder, but he could barely hear her above the rapid pounding of his heart. His only cogent thought was to get her out of the drenching rain before she caught her death. He made soothing noises: yes, yes, he believed her, Dr. Eames' death was an accident, it didn't matter that Jay couldn't prove it. All the while, an arm around her shoulder, he half-led, half-propelled her to his rental car.
Once inside, with Jay safely belted into the passenger seat, he spared a moment to phone Brennan. "I have her… Yes, she's fine. She says to tell you she solved the case… All right… Don't be ridiculous… Okay, later… You, too."
He started the car, and pulled out on the deserted road. Beside him, Jay shivered with cold and, no doubt, reaction as well; he turned on the heater, and when the air had warmed sufficiently, set the control on high and angled the vents to blow in her direction.
They had gone some little distance in silence, when Jay twisted in her seat and looked at him, uncertainly at first and then, with growing resolution. "I… I made a mistake — not about the case," she added, hurriedly. "It was the same mistake she made. Dr. Eames, I mean."
"What mistake was that?"
"She had someone in her life who loved her. A helicopter pilot. He saved her life one night, just as you saved mine tonight."
"What, did she have a habit of kneeling in front of oncoming traffic?"
"No." If she suspected he was teasing her, she gave no sign. "One time, she leaned out the open helicopter door, as if daring him to tip her out. He didn't, of course. He tipped her back in."
"That was the responsible thing to do," Tim said, neutrally.
"It wasn't that. He loved her. He offered himself to her, and she never gave him a chance." There was the throb of rising tears in her voice, a pleading look in her eyes. "That was her regret, Tim."
Perhaps she'd been right all those months ago, Tim thought despondently, seeing the despair writ large on her features: she couldn't change. She would always turn to him in sorrow; never in love, always in need: her weeping post. He tried to diffuse the situation. "Everybody has regrets, Jay."
"She died with her regrets, Tim. Dr. Eames and I, we're not the same person, I know that now, but her life has been a wake-up call for me, a signal from the universe. I don't want to have any regrets." She fixed him with a long, beseeching look, begging him to make the unspoken connections, to understand what she couldn't ask in so many words.
Those gentian-blue eyes… Tim loved her, he suspected he would always love her, and the urge to pull the car over to the side of the road and enfold her in his arms was almost too powerful to resist. His bleeding heart longed to tuck her head against his shoulder and take on all the grief she felt for the tragic Dr. Eames, her lovelorn pilot, and Jay herself. But, if he relented, if he succumbed, what then? Would they be a couple? Would she love him for the next thirty, forty, fifty years, or would he be relegated again to the thankless role of comforter, consolation-provider, human snot rag? Was she finally ready, finally strong enough to commit to a real-world relationship? He didn't know, and couldn't risk finding out. He had long practice sparing the feelings of others with a soothing lie; now, to protect himself, he would take refuge in one. "I'm with someone, Jay. I love her. She's not a consolation prize."
He braced himself for shock, even incredulity, but, unaccountably, Jay simply nodded. He'd expected her to ask for at least a name, if not other details, but she sat gazing through the windshield, the first tears streaming down her face. He looked away, picturing himself wearing blinkers, and concentrated on the road. "You and Tempe," she said at last. "I understand."
And now, so did he: that blasted unvarnished I love your sister he'd never found occasion to clarify. Jay had obviously misconstrued the affection Tim and Brennan felt for each other as something more, but under the present circumstances, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise. He did not disabuse her.
"I… I missed my chance," he heard her say. Her head fell forward, and she began to cry in full earnest, an awful sobbing that tore at Tim savagely. The sound was very far from musical, but it was as compelling as any siren song to him, and he had to imagine his ears, like those of Ulysses' hapless crewmen, stuffed full of wax and so, rendered deaf to the wrenching call. His hands grew white-knuckled on the wheel, and his teeth ached from his jaw being clamped so hard. When she calmed somewhat, he said, "The last thing I want is to hurt you…"
She wiped at her cheeks with shaking fingers, and nodded. Tim thought of the crisp linen handkerchief in his pocket, but made no move to retrieve it. "I can adjust," she assured him.
"I did." Two words that might have been either reproach or encouragement. Tim himself didn't know which he'd meant; maybe both.
She rested her head against the seat back, and stared out at the road. "Yes, you did."
When she said no more, he hazarded a quick glance at her. She seemed to have withdrawn into a world of quiet desolation. He was suddenly afraid for her. "Do you want me to call someone to be with you?"
She closed her eyes, retreating into herself. "No. I'm fine alone."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. He risked the occasional peek at her, and saw that, exhausted from lack of sleep and surfeit of emotion, she had dozed off, or at least, was giving a creditable impression on having done so. When he pulled up to her building, Brennan was waiting outside, sheltering under the main door's awning. As there were no spaces available curbside, Tim double-parked and would have gotten out, leaving the car running, but Brennan, helping her sister from the passenger seat, waved him off. "I can take it from here," she told him. "Thank you, Tim. Now, go. I'll call you tomorrow."
As he lay on his lumpy bed that night, tossing and turning, Jay's tearful admission and his discouraging response playing in an endless feedback loop in his mind, Tim found himself wondering if Brennan would indeed phone him once she learned what had transpired between him and Jay on the drive back from Woodland. But Brennan was, as ever, nothing but fair. "I blame the Lauren Eames case," she said, when she rang him the next day. "It unbalanced Jay. She wasn't herself. You were right not to indulge her hysteria."
Not only was she fair, but overly-generous, too. "So, how is Jay this morning?"
"She's sad. What's that expression? Sadder but wiser."
"And, that's so much better than dead, or even dead inside," Tim allowed.
Except when it wasn't, as Vic was to discover very soon.