Introspection
By Ralkana

Disclaimer -- Bones is owned by Josephson Entertainment and Far Field Productions, in association with 20th Century Fox Television, based on the novels by Kathy Reichs. I own none of it, but if someone wants to give me Agent Booth for Christmas, I think I could be persuaded.

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Timeline -- Set after The Titan on the Tracks.

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Special Agent Seeley Booth watched as agents and administrators walked to and fro along the corridor outside his office, gathering into little knots and dispersing gradually, only to quickly bunch into new clusters. He itched to join them, literally, and he rubbed his palms together, trying to focus on the case report on his screen.

If he didn't know better, he'd say there must be a major case brewing. The concentration on everyone's faces, the vehement discussions and defenses -- to an outside observer, it would look as though serious investigation was going on. A string of grisly murders, maybe, or the discovery of a large drug ring.

But he knew better. The office fantasy draft was in two hours, at the popular bar down the street. Not that anyone had told him, of course -- the topic was avoided around him with all of the delicacy of a large bull in a very small china shop.

His problem seemed to be common knowledge, like Janice Winthrop's anger management issues, and Aaron Venlin's tendency to hit the bottle a little too hard after a tough case. Everyone knew about it, everyone claimed they had no idea where the information had come from, and no one knew how to handle it. Conversations stopped when he entered rooms, and in almost every exchange he was a part of, there were half-started sentences and flushing faces and gazes that slid guiltily from his. The other day, the kid from Firearms, what was his name -- Owens -- had said, "I bet it's going to rain," and then stammered for half a minute afterwards. Booth's fellow agents, on the subject of gambling, made Bones look subtle and tactful.

Come on, Booth... the part of you with the big gambling problem must love this idea!

He winced. Well, maybe they weren't quite as bad as she was. It was funny how such blunt words could slice so damn deeply.

Sighing, he sat back in his chair, abandoning the pretense of work altogether as he thought about her words.

They had hurt -- still did hurt -- because they were true. Almost every day, he took risks with his safety and his life, but that wasn't even the point here, wasn't what Bones had been talking about. The death defying he did, that was just a part of the job. Sure, it gave him a rush, but that was just adrenalin, wasn't it? It was normal, wasn't it?

But every day, he made bets with himself, gambled on the identities of victims, speculated on suspects and their motives and their next moves. The high it gave him -- there were no words. It made his heart race and the blood pound in his veins, made his hands shake with the euphoria of victory, or the despair of a complete miss. It went so much farther than simply making or breaking a case.

Getting Turco to confess had given him the same rush he got by going all in on a ten high hand, or beating the odds on a thirty point spread. Well, maybe not the same, nothing was the same, but comparable. The highs weren't as high, but the lows definitely weren't as low, and it was enough. And he didn't have to worry about how he was going to cover his electricity bill or replace Parker's college fund.

Was it cheating, having this job, doing the work he did, the work he loved? Every night, he thanked God for the strength and courage He had given Booth to go one more day without the destructive behavior that had nearly ruined him. But was he really? Wasn't he just pretending? Pretending to be straight and clean, when really, he was only playing with case files and terms of imprisonment instead of cards and the rent money?

The impromptu conferences continued outside his office, and he rubbed his hands together again, alarmed to see them shaking. He shot out of his chair and stalked to the door, shutting the blinds, shutting them out, shutting himself in.

With a deep breath, he returned to his desk. A new thought hit him, shaking him to his core, and he almost stumbled. When the time came -- and it always did, no one could be a field agent forever; the mind dulled, and the reflexes slowed -- what would he do then? When the new rush -- the replacement rush -- was gone, how would he survive? The lure would intensify, and God help him, he didn't know if he had the strength to resist it with nothing to replace it.

He dropped heavily back into his chair, Bones' words still ringing through his head. Why had he told her, anyway? She was likely to blurt it out in some staff meeting that had nothing to do with him, or, God forbid, in a news conference or press interview. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if Special Agent Andy Lister suddenly developed an affinity for poker.

That wasn't fair, though. He was pretty sure she knew how to respect a confidence; maybe she wouldn't have when he'd first met her, but things had changed a lot since then. That didn't mean it would stop her from casually using it against him while persuading him to strong-arm a murderer into a confession. Damn her, anyway. He'd been perfectly fine, he'd felt perfectly okay, well-adjusted and stable and now all of his carefully constructed scaffolding was crumbling down.

Sighing, Booth dropped his head into his trembling hands. Bones was an expert at shaking up everything in his world, and the truly hysterical part -- he had to laugh, or he'd cry -- was that she had no idea she was doing anything to him at all.

He leaned back in his chair, forcing his thoughts away from Bones, contemplating the idea of going to a meeting. His caseload had been so heavy lately that it had been a while since his last one. It was time -- when thoughts like these began to creep in, it was definitely time for one.

His cell phone rang, and a smile came to his lips, unbidden, when he saw the name of the caller.

"Booth."

"Zack analyzed the fracture pattern, and I think -- "

"Well, hello, Bones. It's nice to hear from you. I'm having a spectacular day, thank you for asking, and you?"

Her confused -- and annoyed -- silence made him grin, and he could feel himself relaxing, his pulse slowing, the panic dissipating. He refused to think deeply about what his response to her phone call implied, instead focusing on the information she was once again rapidly firing at him. He took in as much as he could -- about a third, that was pretty good, he thought -- and waited for the pause that told him she was done.

"So you think he fell down the stairs and hit his head on the railing."

"That's what I said."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't."

"This is ridiculous."

"You started it."

"I did not! You started it with your willfully ignorant and typically over-simplistic view of the evidence!"

"Thanks, Bones. Hey, you hungry?" He sat back and considered putting his feet up on his desk, smiling as he listened to her splutter and rant on about his inability to take her evidence seriously. Maybe they'd have time for dinner before his meeting. Then again, if she didn't shut up soon, he'd miss dinner and the meeting. Still smiling, he tucked his phone against his shoulder as he shut down his computer and began to gather his things.