What He Offered
Chapter 27: Crushed
Well, Bones reflected, the false Tim / Tempe relationship was bound to happen; for narrative purposes, it was necessary to balance the false Vic / Jay relationship previously posited. The question was: apart from establishing a pleasing structural symmetry, did this latest wrinkle have any meaning? She knew she really shouldn't squander precious time on the matter, but she always had difficulty resisting a good puzzle. She eventually decided that Booth meant the following: even if he had not been committed to Hannah on that crazy night, he would not have agreed to give the two of them a chance. He had finally seen the truth of her declaration that he needed, not to protect her, but to protect himself from her, at least until she was strong enough to love him as he deserved. Yes, she thought, satisfied, that was the answer. She returned to the screen.
A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd
Eight months into his living arrangement with Hannah, Vic still had only a divided heart to offer her. He loved her, as how could he not? She was vivacious, provocative, lusty, dynamic and endlessly inventive between the sheets. If he had wanted nothing more than a fun-loving playmate as a life companion, she would have fit the bill exactly. The problem was, he wanted more than mere excitement, more than thrills and good times, however spectacular; he wanted a woman with staying-power, with unsounded depths of feeling and an unselfish soul, a woman to whom he could entrust his heart in perfect security. Hannah Burley was not that woman.
Temperance Brennan was the complete package — beautiful and brainy, engaging and kindhearted — but he had missed the boat there; he'd let her get away. But, not clean away, perhaps… While she was, by all accounts, still involved with her mystery suitor, Vic was encouraged by the very fact that he remained a mystery: if she was serious about him, he reasoned, she would certainly have introduced him to her friends and colleagues by now. Her faceless dancing-master extraordinaire might be only the latest passing fancy in a long line of such men. Vic thought he might stand a chance with Brennan yet.
And so it went: two beloved women, and Vic in the middle, pulled now in one direction, now in the other. Hannah was his, for the moment, with no guarantee of a future; Brennan was another man's, but maybe only temporarily, and his, forever, if she would only allow herself to be caught. The tension was irresolvable, a source of constant stress.
In the past, when Vic had needed guidance, he'd sought out Gordon Gordon Wyatt, but the chef's popularity had reached such heights that he hardly had a moment for himself, never mind for former advisees. In addition to running his successful gourmet restaurant, he had been prevailed upon to present a cooking show on the local public access channel. Half-pastiche, half-homage to Julia Child, the thirty-minute program entitled "The English Chef" had attracted such a large and faithful following that there was talk of its being picked up by one of the large networks. Gordon Gordon, with his urbanity, posh British accent, and entrancing patter, was on the verge of becoming a media star, and his sign-off message of "may you be born aloft on the trembling wings of giggling angels," a household phrase.
Vic had often gone to his twin for advice as well, but Tim had, for all intents and purposes, dropped off the face of the earth. He had left the Army, of that Vic was certain, but where he had gone after Afghanistan and what he was currently up to, Vic had not the least clue. It infuriated him that Tim communicated regularly with Brennan, but ignored all the email Vic sent him. Not only that, but he had, apparently, changed his phone number as well. Brennan was considerate enough to assure him that Tim was doing fine, but when pressed for more, she would only say she was not at liberty to enlarge on that intelligence. As for Jay, she had informed him once that she couldn't "be of assistance on that matter, Agent Booth," and he had not asked again.
With his first and second choices unavailable to him, Vic was reduced to consulting now and again with Baby Shrink, aka Dr. Sweets. Vic had routinely disparaged his counsel before, but Sweets was all he now had, and so he gave him a listen when needed, and reserved judgment on his pronouncements. It was on this account that Vic found himself on a bar stool next to Sweets at the Founding Fathers one evening, both of them better than half-way down the path to inebriation. His twenty-four-year-old colleague had been drunkenly declaring his undying love for the irritating Daisy Wick for some time, with the result that, finally, he had talked himself into proposing to her. "I don't want to be your age and wind up like you, never married," Sweets said, tactless with drink.
Vic couldn't believe his ears: Sweets was implying his FBI superior was old, unenviable, and without prospects. He could hear the suave Gordon Gordon in his mind: the inestimable Dr. Sweets is in his cups, and thus to be disregarded entirely. Vic, however, was stung, and, as was his sorry habit, reacted impulsively. "Yeah, well, I'm going to ask Hannah to marry me. I've been planning it for a while now."
Had Tim been present, he would have called Vic on his crap immediately: Since when is a "while" less than five seconds? Sweets, in contrast, was ebullient in his enthusiasm, clapping Vic on the back, and congratulating him loudly. At that moment, Vic remembered it was Sweets' goading that had prompted Tim's catastrophic decision to offer himself to Jay, and he was beset with serious second thoughts. He cautioned Sweets, "Keep it to yourself for now. I don't want to hear everyone's opinion."
Vic could easily anticipate what the general view of a marriage proposal to Hannah would be: he was an imbecile, asking for trouble, looking to rock a perfectly stable boat, and go down with the ship, all of which were very likely valid assessments. Hannah had made no secret of her opposition to marriage, not as an institution but for herself. She gave every indication of loving him, but none of wanting to settle down. You will pardon me, Gordon Gordon drawled in that Oxbridge don manner of his, if I find it extremely curious that you are resolved upon a course of action which you foresee, from the outset, will end in total disaster. It rather puts me in mind of what military men call "a forlorn hope." As a soldier yourself, you'll no doubt be familiar with the concept. Vic closed his eyes, put metaphorical fingers in his ears, and repeated his mantra of faint heart never won fair lady until Gordon Gordon finally got the message, and decamped from his mind.
When it came to purchasing the engagement ring, Vic cast a cursory glance over the jeweler's selection with an eye to picking out not the stone and setting he thought would most appeal to Hannah, but the biggest, showiest diamond in the tray. Brilliant strategy, Tim sneered. Dazzle her with this monstrosity of a sparkler, and maybe she'll be so impressed by its excess, she'll overlook the fact that you are showing no respect for her frequently-stated feelings. Nothing, after all, says 'I'm desperate for you to accept me' better than the largest, most expensive ring in the case. Vic tuned out his snarky brother, and listened instead to the admiring saleswoman who gazed at him in unalloyed approbation, and called him "a wonderful man."
The evening of his proposal, Vic was first to arrive at the rendezvous at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. By dint of having been obliged, repeatedly, to defend his position against the dissenting voices of Tim and Gordon Gordon whispering non-stop in his head, he had practically convinced himself that he had a very good shot of hearing Hannah say the word "yes." He was prey to a delicious excitement, walking the tight rope between success and failure, both, to his mind, equally possible. He had never understood his twin's gambling addiction before, but now, as his gut trembled and his heart raced in anticipation, he appreciated just how thrilling a wager could be. All or nothing: his hand closed on the jeweler's box in his pocket, and he breathed in the night air, feeling at his most alive in some time.
"Hey, soldier!" He turned to see Hannah strutting toward him, confident in her beauty, in her desirability. "Looking for a good time?" Her smile was both teasing and impudent: siren as sexpot.
The last time Vic had been so nervous with a woman, he'd been a callow teen. He tried to recall the debonair speech he'd worked out, but the carefully-prepared words had all fled. He had to fall back on tentative, disjointed phrases. "Hannah, I wanted… I meant to wait… it's maybe too soon…" He was so entangled in his clumsy proposal he didn't notice the smile beginning to fade from her face. He brought out the jeweler's box, and tipped back the lid, revealing the magnificent gemstone inside. "Hannah, I love you. Marry me. Be my wife."
The twinkle in Hannah's lovely eyes dimmed with tears, and the rosy glow faded from her cheeks. "Oh, Seeley," she said, in genuine sorrow. "I love you, I really do, but I… can't. I'm not the marrying kind."
This is the outcome you predicted, after all. You can hardly be surprised, Gordon Gordon admonished gently. You're the one to blame in all this, Tim joined in. Don't make her out to be the bad guy. She was always upfront with you. Vic turned away from the desolation in her face, and, leaning against the baluster, stared, stone-faced, out over the water, focused on concealing all signs of the heartache and devastation he felt. Hannah came to stand beside him, apologized, pleaded to start the evening over, asked what the future held for them, and at last, understood what his complete withdrawal signified. It was only when she volunteered to remove her belongings from his apartment that he acknowledged her. "How long do you need?"
She was reluctant to leave him, thinking perhaps he would relent, but in this, she was mistaken: the moment she walked away, Vic relegated her to the past. She was a nomad at heart, a perpetual flight risk; Vic had known from the start she was not a serious candidate for happily-even-after. He did not hold her restlessness against her. What he could not forgive was her counter-proposal: turn back the clock, replay the evening from her opening line, pretend the proposal had never happened. How could she? How could she be so insensitive, so selfish as to suggest such a thing, and moreover, what was the point? Did she imagine he would continue to play house with her after she'd rejected him? In a fit of temper and disgust, he took a firm grip on the jeweler's box that contained the glittery symbol of a future life with Hannah, and threw it as far away from himself as his strength permitted.
He then stuffed his fists in his pants' pockets, and set out for the Founding Fathers and what consolation many tumblers of Scotch could supply.