“Look man, Bones has this … symposium in two weeks,” he begins, resignation written all over him.
“Yeah, ‘The Northern People and Landscapes in Times of Change’.”
“Yeah, well, it’s in freakin’ Iowa!”
“Yeah. So? She seems pretty psyched about it.”
“Except that … she doesn’t really want to go alone.”
“Ah, I see. So you have to go with her,” Hodgins hisses.
“When I’d rather be in Minneapolis with the guys at The Flyers versus The Wild game! The guys and I have been planning and looking forward to going to this game for months! I didn’t realize it was the same weekend. And I promised Bones …”
“Oh, and if you … stay here … tonight … you get to go with the guys?” It’s all coming together now.
“Exactly, and Bones will take an intern with her to the conference,” Booth gets up and splashes water on his own pathetic, downtrodden face, turning to Hodgins again, he leans back on the sink, not even caring if his pants get wet.
“Oh, just Brilliant!” cries Hodgins, exasperated. “What about me? What about your brother, here, Man?”
“You go. You have a drink.”
Hodgins paces nervously, chewing on his bottom lip, then his top, then his fingernail.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he scowls.
“Just go! Go! What are you waiting for?”
Hodgins pounds the white metal paper dispenser hanging next to the sink. The dispenser door flaps down, opening wide and spilling cheap, mulchy, brownish-gray paper towels all over the floor. Hodgins bends, grabs the pile of paper, and tosses it into the tall gray garbage can. He slams the dispenser door up to close it. It swings back down, almost hitting him in the head. He slams it again with a hollow smack. Flop, swing, swing. He tosses his hands up in the air and leaves it. Turning, he stares into the mirror, hands on hips, head shaking back and forth, eyes closed in defeat. Defeat over everything.
“Hodgins. Hodgins?” Booth stands square in front of Hodgins. Why isn’t he just going? “Why are you still here? Go. Go!”
Hodgins shakes his head slowly, biting his bottom lip. He exhales a sigh of mutual defeat.
“Oh.” Booth gets it. Hodgens bargained with Angela as well!
Hodgins hangs his head in shame. “Yeah,” he says.
“What did Ange promise you? Out with it, Ass Hat!”
“She promised to let me do that thing.”
“That thing? What thing?”
“That thing in Dr. Brennan’s book.”
He’s referring to the (as yet undisclosed to the Bones-viewing hoards) love-making technique that Angela told Brennan about which Brennan subsequently included in one of her Kathy Reich novels. It’s an innovative and highly respected technique. Not easy to accomplish, but well worth the effort. Hodgins, well, he created that technique. And perfected it.
“What? Oh … you mean, that thing on page …”
“Yeah … if I stay until the end of the show … Ange will let me do that thing,” he explains, biting his words as he spits them off.
Booth squinches his face up in confusion.
“Jack, that thing … is really for … for her. I don’t get it. How is that … what … where’s the benefit for you?”
“You mean, why didn’t I ask for something bigger? Like a weekend with the boys at some hockey arena?”
“Shhhh yeah! Man!”
“Well, we have a kid now. She won’t let me go anywhere for more than two hours in a row! Besides … ” he stops cold.
“Besides …?” Booth prompts him.
“Well, for twelve hours after … that thing … I can do no wrong.”
“Yeah? Huh?” Booth is taken aback, not sure what this means. “I’m not sure I …”
“It’s like I walk on water. For twelve hours. I. Can. Do. No. Wrong,” he says, enunciating every word as it drops from his lips, following it up with a smug grin.
“Twelve hours? Damn.”
“Yeah, right? I can sit around all day in my boxers, drink out of the milk carton, go play golf, sleep. WHatever the hell I want – no complaints. No requestes to go to the grocery store. No questions about the check book. It’s glorious man. And she’s happy, satisfied. That’s really why I do it,” he says, attempting to look sincere. They both crack up.