Spoilers: Minor ones for Santa in the Slush.
Characters: Booth, Brennan
Rating: PG-13 for a wee bit o' language.
Summary: Exactly what the title says.
Disclaimer: Bones and its characters belong to FOX, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thanks, once again, to okdeanna for the prompt.
OK, so this could probably continue indefinitely because I bet there are fifty or more places where Booth wants to kiss Brennan. ;) These have been fun for me to write, so if anyone would really like more, let me know. Because they're all separate one-shots, this would be easy to pick back up again. (I'd just have to change the title.) Otherwise, consider this complete. The poor guy needed a little relief. *g*
Oh, and by the way, there is a reference to another tv show in this part; let me know if you catch it. :)Click here for fic index.
Click to read Part I.
Click to read Part II.
Click to read Part III.
Click to read Part IV.
It started out just like any other day—only worse.
The first thing Booth noticed upon waking was the dull pain in his lower back as he sat up. Instead of falling asleep in his big, warm, comfortable bed, he'd passed out on the couch the night before, lulled into unconsciousness by the drone of SportsCenter. With a sigh, he turned off the tv. Clutching his back, he trudged into his kitchen in order to switch on his coffee maker, grumbling quietly to himself. He perked up briefly as he pulled open the pantry door and reached for the container that held his coffee beans. Make that should have held his coffee beans. Because as he peered into the familiar container, he realized there were no beans. Nary a one. A small whimper escaped him at this unwelcome discovery. Cursing his bad luck, he set the empty container back on the shelf with an audible thump and gave the pantry door a halfhearted kick. In the process, he stubbed his toe. Hopping up and down on one foot, Booth wished in vain for a syringe and a pot of coffee. When neither item materialized, he dragged his aching, decrepit body to the bathroom, trying to ignore the twin pains in his back and big toe. Could the day get any worse?
After a quick shower, Booth wrapped a towel around his waist and brushed his teeth, scrubbing his other hand over his face and feeling it catch on his stubble. Squinting at himself in the mirror, he turned his head back and forth, praying that his eyes deceived him. Yeah, it could get worse. Several tiny hairs on his chin glinted silver under the bathroom light. And here he'd been thinking he had at least a couple good years left.
When it came time to shave, Booth's last discovery led him to scrape his razor over his chin with more viciousness than was strictly necessary. "Holy mother of..." he yelled as the evil blades bit into his skin. The razor dropped from his hand and clattered into the sink. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath and then released it. When he opened them again, he picked up the razor and finished shaving. After he'd rinsed off the last remnants of shaving cream, he splashed on some aftershave, hissing when it hit the open cut. The alcohol stung like a motherfucker. Blood continued to well up, so he ripped off a small piece of toilet tissue and pressed it to the cut.
The call came just as he took the lid off his Dunkin' Donuts coffee and was about to take his first sip of heaven on earth. Putting the cup and lid down, he fumbled for his cell. "Booth," he answered. "Ok. Uh huh. Yeah. Got it. A skeleton in Sandy Point State Park."
Just as he moved to set his phone back down in the center console, the car in front of him braked hard. Booth slammed on his own brakes in response, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the other car. "You call that driving?" he shouted, pounding his fist against the steering wheel. Some people should not be issued a driver's license. Some people should not be allowed to leave their home. Some people should not be allowed to live.
The asshole in front of him eventually started moving again, and traffic smoothed out.
But when Booth reached for his coffee, he was met with another unpleasant surprise; he'd forgotten to put the lid back on. At least a third of the liquid gold had sloshed out of the cup and onto the console when he'd braked. "Serenity now," he muttered to himself, keeping one hand on the wheel while he used the other to put the lid back on and dab at the spill with a couple crumpled napkins.
By the time he pulled into the Jeffersonian parking lot, he had finished his coffee (Thank you, God) and felt almost human again. Almost. Smoothing a hand over his silk tie, he forced a pleasant smile onto his face. He was a professional, and professionals did not inflict their bad moods on their colleagues.
He stepped out of his car, locked it, and strode across the lot toward the building. As he felt the first drop on his forehead, he frowned. When he looked up, it was too late; the downpour had already begun. Thinking of his $1300 suit, he ran the rest of the way.
Ignoring the odd looks he was getting and the distinct sucking sound his wet shoes and socks made with each step he took, Booth stalked, head held high, toward the platform. He swiped his card and took the steps two at a time.
"Dude, did you just go for a swim?" Hodgins asked, glancing up from his monitor.
The voice made Booth grind his teeth. "Do not call me dude," he said, pointing his index finger in Hodgins' direction. "I have a gun," he said, flipping his jacket open. "You, on the other hand, do not. Do not call me dude."
"Whoa, easy there du..." Hodgins trailed off as Booth's hand moved to his hip.
As if sensing his mood, Brennan wisely left him alone for most of the drive. She thumbed through the manila folder in her lap and occasionally jotted something on her notepad, seemingly in her own world.
Which suited Booth just fine. A little of the tension in his shoulders eased as he listened to the rain pound the car and watched the windshield wipers swish back and forth.
But his luck didn't hold.
As they continued on 50 East, she spoke. "Booth, you need to take Exit 32."
"No, I don't." His shoulders tightened up again.
"Yes, you do," she replied, closing her file.
Feeling his blood pressure rise, he turned the volume up on the radio and pointedly ignored his partner.
Of course, she made that impossible. She tapped him on the shoulder.
"What?" he bit out.
"As your partner, I feel it is my duty to inform you that you have something stuck to your chin," she said, slanting him a quizzical look.
A glance in his rear-view mirror confirmed that he did indeed still have a piece of toilet paper on his face. He removed it and then firmly gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "I cut myself shaving," he said, wondering why he was even bothering with an explanation.
"You should be more careful."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious."
"You're welcome," she replied, lips twitching. She remained silent so long that he started to think maybe she'd actually listen to him for once. "It is also my duty to inform you that you need to take Exit 32."
So much for listening. "Do you see where you're sitting?" he asked, jerking his head in her direction.
"Good. It's called the passenger seat. Now, do you see where I'm sitting?"
"Ah ah," he said, cutting her off, "it's called the driver's seat. You"--he pointed at her--"are in the passenger seat, and I"--he pointed at himself--"am in the driver's seat. Ergo, I am the driver. I will get us where we need to go."
"Not this way you won't," she said, folding her arms over her chest. He was all too familiar with the mutinous expression that crossed her features. "Your male ego may not allow for the possibility that you are wrong, Booth, but that doesn't change the fact that you are. Wrong, that is."
"I know you think you're really smart, Bones, and you are. But this time, you're also just plain wrong."
"Don't condescend to me, Booth," she said, eyes flashing as she straightened in her seat. "I am aware of my intelligence. I don't need you to affirm it for me."
"Serenity now," he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the wheel.
"What did you just say?"
"I said, be quiet and let me drive."
"Booth, if you don't take Exit 32, we'll end up on Kent Island. I can assure you with 100 percent certainty that Sandy Point State Park is not on Kent Island."
"Could you please, in the name of all that's holy, just be quiet and let me drive?"
"No." Clearly, she had no sense of self-preservation. Any normal person would have sensed how rapidly his temper was fraying.
"Serenity now," he repeated, feeling anything but serene.
"Will you stop mumbling under your breath? If you have something to say, please say it directly to me."
"Bones," he pleaded, "I am having a really bad day. Please take pity on me and shut your mouth and let me drive."
"What does your having a bad day have to do with not taking the correct exit?"
"All right, that's it." After a quick glance over his shoulder and in the mirror, he yanked the steering wheel to the right and pulled off to the shoulder of the highway.
After yanking the gearshift into park and shutting off the engine, he twisted to face Brennan. Leaning in close, he wrapped his right hand around the back of her neck. Briefly, he considered strangling her. But only for a split-second.
Because then he was kissing her, and really, that was much, much nicer than strangling. Just as effective, too, since she wasn't talking anymore. No, she was doing other things with her mouth—like nibbling on his lip. Her hands flattened against his chest, only she didn't push him away. They curled into his shirt and clutched him closer. And was that her tongue? Oh yeah, definitely...tongue. Mm. "Serenity now," he murmured against her lips.
When he became aware of the ache in his back and the gearshift digging into him, he pulled back—but only far enough so he could see her face.
Eyes dancing, she flicked his tie. "Have you gone insane?"
"Only since I met you," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face as he noticed her flushed cheeks and pink mouth. "Please tell me that wasn't like kissing Russ."
"I should hope not," she said, chuckling.
Not wanting to push his admittedly bad luck, he started the car up again and pulled back onto the highway. He snuck glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but she didn't say anything, just looked out the window and smiled that Mona Lisa smile that made him want to... Better not go there again; if he got distracted, they might never make it to Sandy Point.
As he pulled onto the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, he started to get a bad feeling in his gut. When they pulled off, he saw a sign for Kent Island. He'd overshot. Groaning, he searched for an exit so he could turn back around.
"All right, go ahead and say it," he said with a sigh.
"I told you so," she said, smiling smugly.
Surprisingly, he didn't mind it so much—her being right. At least not this time. "Yeah, that you did, Bones. That you did."
Patting his shoulder soothingly, she said, "So tell me why your day has been so bad."
"Nah," he replied, flashing her a warm smile, "it's getting better already."
"Is that so?" she said, arching an eyebrow at him.
Funny how he couldn't quite remember exactly what had gotten his morning off to such a rotten start. "Yup. It definitely is." Turning his head, he caught Brennan's eye, and on her face he saw a smile that matched his.