Title: Kaleidoscope (1/1)
Characters: Booth, Brennan
Rating: T or PG-13
Spoilers: Through 5x12: The Proof in the Pudding (if you squint really hard or can read my mind.) Otherwise, the time is undetermined.
Notes: Written for a prompt by klutzy_girl at the bitesize_bones comment fic meme.
Prompt: Booth/Brennan, dancing Disclaimer: Bones and its characters belong to FOX, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: To lurkers and commenters alike, thank you.
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"We are going out tonight. All of us. There's this new club -- fabulous music--"
"Angela," she says, cutting her off with an impatient sigh, "I have too much to do. My editor has requested numerous revisions for my manuscript. I haven't even started on them."
"Your revisions can wait. Your life can't."
"My life certainly does not rest on my frequenting whatever establishment you're referring to."
One syllable; her name, spoken on a quiet breath. But the edge (of what? fear? grief?) makes her glance up from the report and look at her friend. "What is it, Ange?"
"Nothing." Her gaze skitters away, but her hand flutters to her waist, where it tugs on a slender chain belt that flashes silver. "I just... I need this, OK?"
The moment drifts on the low hum of her computer. She moors it with a slow nod. "All right," she says, regretting her earlier impatience, "if that's what you need." Pushing her chair back from her desk, she stands.
"It is." An emotion Brennan can't identify flickers near Angela's eyes and then vanishes. "Thank you."
Booth hadn't wanted to go out tonight, but Angela could be damned persuasive when she wanted to be. He'd almost regretted it when Brennan walked in, wearing a dress that had clearly been designed by God -- to test him.
Now he's feeling pretty good. When's the last time he just let go? Scratching his head, he realizes he can't remember. Had to be sometime before the tumor and the surgery and shit, he doesn't want to think about any of that stuff right now.
He knows the second he throws back his last JD that this is the drink that's going to tip him out of buzzed and solidly into drunk. Sweet burn down, down, down into his gut. The empty glass sits on the bar with a satisfying thunk. A hand settles on Booth's arm, turns him around. "What the...?"
"Booth, I would like to dance with you."
It doesn't sound like a request. More like a command. S'ok. He's used to her trying to boss him around. Hell, he kinda sorta maybe even likes it. Only a little. Damn, he's a whipped dog, he thinks, unable to muster up much disgust. Too bad they're not together. At least then there'd be some benefits. But friends, yes; benefits, no, sadly.
He should probably say no. He should probably get the hell out of this place and go home to sleep it off. He should, he should, he should... "OK, Bones," he says, and lets her drag him onto the dance floor, "since you asked so nicely."
They're in an ocean, a tide of people carrying them along, pushing his partner into him. He can't help it if his hands find her hips and then her back. It wouldn't be good to just let her fall.
The tall, black heels she's wearing put her at exactly his height. She exhales, her breath warm against his cheek and ear. He can't help it: he shivers. Brennan laughs and slides her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, around his neck.
The bass shakes the floor under Booth's feet and travels up through his legs, stomach, and chest, until his body is just one big vibration. Until he can barely remember he's a person, let alone that there's a fucking line.
What she's doing isn't dancing; it's hell on earth.
Their entire bodies press together, and she grinds against him until he's so hard he's afraid she knows it. "Bones..."
Her only answer is to grab his hand and try to force it higher on her back. Just above the small of her back, his fingers meet skin. Hot and damp just like... Booth groans and tries to pull away. ThisiswrongThisiswrongThisiswrong
Brennan touches his jaw, forcing him to look at her. Lights flash through the darkness of the club, haloing her hair and illuminating her face for a split-second. Not long; just long enough. Those eyes; bluegreengray. His girl has kaleidoscope eyes...
She's not his girl.
"Take me home, Booth."