OOM: Man in the Mansion
Previously...
Now that Bones is busy with Sully every night of the week (or close enough that it doesn't matter, anyway), Booth needs a new late-night takeout friend. He's found one in Gordon Gordon Wyatt, his plummy-toned English therapist. Paper containers with red pagodas litter his desk at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, and it's clear he's much more comfortable with the other man than he was when they first met. You might even think Booth likes the guy.
"Hey doc, what we're doin' here, that be considered therapy?" Booth's tone is full of hope. The quicker he's done with this therapy thing, the better.
"Oh, absolutely, especially as I'm about to ask whether you've experienced any out bursts of temper since I requested you alter your dress code."
Booth looks down at his socks, dark and sad, and his tie, also dark and sad, then says, in a tone that, while not exactly dark, could pass for sad.
"Yeah, one of the, uh, squints, Hodgins, decided the uh, rules didn't apply to him, got entitled and jeopardized my murder case." The emphasis there is on 'entitled' and 'my.'
"Ah," Gordon Wyatt says knowingly. "And you confronted him physically?"
"Hey," Booth says, leaning back in his chair and looking smug. "Physical confrontation, that's my main skill." As if it's a given. Which, seriously, it should be.
Wyatt takes a deep breath, eyes closed, then releases it slowly. "Entitled, you said. Is he a wealthy man?"
"Yeah," Booth says around a mouthful of beef with broccoli. "Like the guy who got killed."
"The murder victim," Gordon says thoughtfully, as if a bit confused. "Who tried to...help a child and then died for it? And your...squint?"
"Yeah, squint," Booth says, his chopsticks hovering over a container of rice.
"Extraordinary," Gordon mutters, then goes on: "Your squint tried to help a friend. So they both endeavored to do good." He says that last as if it proves something.
"With no clue as to the way things are." Booth nods emphatically on each of the last three words, playing with the chopsticks again.
"The way things are as defined by a working-class lad from Pittsburgh," Gordon Gordon notes."
Booth puts down the rice, dusts off his hands and stands up. "That's right, Pittsburgh," he says, tapping his desk twice. "Where I'm from. From the streets, where you get a sense of how the world really is." The sentence is punctuated by a small fist pump and a grunt representing a punch, to illustrate fighting and toughness.
Booth circles around his desk as he talks, moving behind his desk separating himself from Gordon, who puts his hands in the air and says placatingly, "Yes, I'm sure that's true, but has it occurred to you that without the distortion of reality provided by a priveleged upbringing, there'd be no such thing as the Sistine Chapel, the Taj Mahal or -"
Gordon casts about for a second, then, struck by inspiration, continues: "Or Three Rivers Stadium, home of your beloved Steelers?"
Booth looks dubious. He points at Gordon. "Three Rivers Stadium was demolished in 2000." He then grins, and his tone changes. "But it was a great place, though. I mean, Ed Lambert -"
"No doubt," Gordon interrupts. "The point is, you rebel in your way, your friend rebels in his. We all have to overcome our upbringings, rich and poor alike." Gordon leans forward, inspired. He points at Booth, who regards him with suspicion. "You know what? I'm going to ask you to go back to your bilious socks and ostentatious ties and your provocative belt buckles."
"So, if I wear flashy socks, I'm going to forgive Hodgins?" Booth clearly has doubts about the accuracy of this idea.
Gordon chuckes. "Lord, I'm not sure I'm that good," he says, standing, then pauses. "Then again, perhaps I am. Hmmm."
On that ambiguous note, he turns to leave, but Booth stands and stops him. "Hey, doc, doc, uh -"
Gordon turns, and Booth asks quietly, "The belt buckle, uh, why is it provocative."
"Oh, it's a modern-day codpiece," Gordon replies, amused. "It forces the eye to the groin."
Booth swallows, nods, and Gordon Gordon leaves.
Booth's left to consider the now-empty containers of food, and his relationship with Hodgins.
Somewhere along the line, he started liking the guy, as weird as he is. For all the crazy conspiracy theories, the wacky paranoid beliefs that someone's out to get him, Hodgins is a good guy. Really much saner than someone hearing him spout off about aliens or Kennedy would ever assume. And much more down to Earth than anyone that rich really has a right to be.
The worst part is, Booth realizes as he picks up a Steeler's pen from his desk, he can understand why Hodgins concealed the truth. That parting shot, saying it was to get in the pants of his old girlfriend, was particularly cruel, not just because of Angela, not just because it was said in front of their colleagues and coworkers.
It was particularly cruel because it was completely untrue. Booth knew it as he said it, knows it now. It was because of Bancroft, not his wife, that Hodgins was less than honest. Hodgins had done nothing more than try to help a friend one last time.
It's a hard thing to live with injustice. Even though Hodgins was in the wrong, Booth understands his desire to see Bancroft's killer behind bars. And he had to live with the injustice of his final insult.