Author’s Note: I gotta get my fiction up on this site, even if it means doing it piecemeal. I do not own any of these characters. This is a fan fiction chapter. The When and the How: A Bone to Pick is my imagined alternative to how Brennan and Booth became a romantic couple while out of town working on a case together. Lots of interpersonal issues are addressed, most especially, the turmoil of seasons 5 & 6. The story in its entirety (so far) can be found here.
Chapter 185: Schedule Me In
Brennan and Booth stand in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast. Parker abandoned the Xbox and is engrossed in an episode of Johnny Quest.
“Hey, wanna grab a bite before we head over to the Hoover to see Sweets this afternoon?” Booth asks while rinsing off the dishes one by one before putting them into the dishwasher.
“What time are you thinking?” She asks, pulling her pda out of her bag and clicking through a couple of screens to access her schedule for the afternoon and tomorrow morning.
“Parker goes back to Rebecca’s at 2:30 after his soccer match. I could swing by after that. We’re meeting Hansen, Nathan, and Square Chicken afterwards. That’s a two minute drive or a ten minute walk from there.”
“Hm,” she grunts, looking at the pda display. “I might have to meet you at the Hoover. I have several items requiring my attention before we fly out tomorrow.” She scrolls through her to-do list.
“But you have to eat, right? I could bring something by the Jeffersonian and we could go to Sweets after that.”
“That won’t work. You will distract me, Booth. I need to focus,” she says, peering intently at her long list of the things she was hoping to have crossed off by now. “That’s why I’m going to the Jeffersonian, not staying here.”
“Okay. Wanna meet me at the diner for a quick bite right before Sweets? When are you planning to eat?” He asks, wiping down the counter top, then the bacon grease-splattered flat top range, which by now is finally cool enough to touch.
Brennan shakes her head, grimacing to herself, still staring into her pda. “I’m stopping at home before the Jeffersonian. I’ll grab a protein shake or yogurt, and some fruit. If I’m still hungry after that, I can raid my Tofurky stash at the office. Or I’ll just have something delivered.”
“If you don’t want to eat with me, Bones -”
“What? Don’t be absurd, Booth. I’m just … not accustomed to someone insinuating themselves into my schedule -”
“I’m not insinuating myself anywhere … I just thought it would be nice, you know, to eat together,” he says, closing the dishwasher door and walking toward her. He leans back against the counter top next to the fridge and crosses his arms.
“Well, I hadn’t left much time to accommodate modifications from what I already have planned,” she says in a slightly higher octave than her usual one. Brennan looks away from her pda for the first time since the conversation started. She notices the dejected look on his face. Booth shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ground.
“You’re upset,” she says, putting her pda in her pocket, and leaning against the aqua-blue Philco refrigerator door, crossing her arms. As she does so, several small Pin-up girlie magnets are knocked loose from the magnetic surface of the fridge. They hit the floor with a tiny smack.
“I’m not upset, Bones,” he says, bending over to recover the magnets, then returning them, but this time to the side of the fridge out of swiping range.
“You sound upset. Your voice has gone up two octaves, your shoulders are tense, you’ve got those little unhappy lines across your supraorbital ridge, and your hands are jammed in your pockets -” she says, watching him carefully, her voice insistent.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” says Booth, slightly annoyed, pulling his hands out of his pockets self-consciously, crossing his arms again. I was right about no more privacy. She’s gotten really good at reading me, he thinks.
“Really?” she asks, unconvinced. “You say it’s okay, but your tone and your posture continue to indicate that it’s anything but okay.” She pauses, watching his expression. “I don’t know what to do in a situation like this, Booth. This issue here is not personal,” she says shrugging. He has an expectation, an unmet expectation that we will eat together. Is he not even ware of it? She wonders.Maybe that’s why he’s upset? His body language says he wants me to know he’s upset, but his words say he doesn’t. Oh, for Pete’s sake! Why can’t he just say what he means? “What am I expected to do when your words say one thing, but your body language says the opposite, Booth?” She ‘s serious. And he realizes it.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says, relaxing his shoulders and uncrossing his arms, dropping them to his sides. He attempts to smile, attempts to hide his disappointment.
“Clearly I do, because -”
“Bones. I’ll be fine. Really,” he says, stepping forward and putting his arms around her. She still not convinced, even though he appears to have relaxed somewhat.
She leans back so she can look in his eyes. For a moment she says nothing, studying his face. “Can I trust that you really fine?” Despite his assurances, she questions if he’s really aware of how he really feels at this moment. He can’t hide what she can deduce from observing his behavior. She is a scientist, after all. An expert in examining minute and subtle details.
“Yes,” he says, nodding, kissing her on the cheek. “You can trust me on this. I promise.” He can see that she is trying to understand him. So what if her understanding comes from physical clues rather than cues from her gut, right? He thinks. The result is the same. She gets me. Or at least she’s trying to.
“Besides,” he says, “It takes time and practice to get used to coordinating two schedules, two sets of needs, two sets of responsibilities. When I have Parker, I’m constantly thinking about meals and snacks and possible activities. Actually, the planning starts way before I even pick him up. Sometimes a week or more ahead. I guess I’m just used to thinking ahead like that.” He shrugs.
“Hm. Interesting. I’ve never had to do that.”
“You’ll get that hang of it.”
“So, is that an expectation of yours, then? That I’ll learn how to integrate you into my schedule, my plans? It shouldn’t be that difficult, I would think -”
“Well, making relationships work like a well-oiled machine requires more than a little strategic thinking.”
“Hm,” she grunts.
“For example, eating takes time, right?” He brushes a couple of stray hairs off her forehead and tucks them behind her ear. “If we’re going to be together we might as well eat together rather than one of us having to eat because the other already did. Or we work it out so we both eat when we aren’t together.”
“I’ve never minded sitting with you while you eat, especially if we’re eating at either one of our places,” she says, smiling up at him.
“Or you could just do whatever you need to do … and I eat when I need to, but we should talk about these things.”
“Who knew this would require so much planning?” She asks, rhetorically.
“And we don’t even have a kid … imagine the forethought that goes into that life, huh? You’ve got feedings, and naps, and diapers to change. Life becomes a circus revolving around a tiny person. Believe me, it’s no walk in the park, Bones.”
She rears back a bit in his arms. “How did we go from planning a meal to having kids? I never would have thought of that.”
“That’s why you have me. You see? I can teach you lots of stuff.”
“You already teach me more than you know, Booth.” She puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. “I would certainly have planned to eat with you if I’d been thinking strategically,” she says, apologetically.
“It’s okay,” he says, assuring her. Besides, we’ll still have the evening with the guys at The Founding Fathers -”
“Wait a minute, Booth, I’m not going to The Founding Fathers tonight,” she says, nervously, pulling out of the hug and reaching for her pda.
“Yes, you are,” he says, chuckling confidently, his arms falling to his sides.
“Well, unless you have uncovered a time/space continuum that will allow me to exist on two planes at the exact same time,” she begins, shaking her head doubtfully and smirking at him, “I will not be at The Founding Fathers with you and the Square Chicken tonight.”
“Come on,” he says, frustrated. “Am I ever going to get to see you today? I already told them you’re coming,” he complains, irritated all over again.
“How is that my problem?” she asks flatly. “You’re seeing me now. You’ll see me with Sweets -”
“How is that your problem?” He repeats her question, irritation apparent in his voice. He turns away from her, running his hands through his hair, realizing he’s still annoyed at her unwillingness to make room for him in her schedule so they can eat together. He was looking forward to seeing more of her today after he drops Parker off. Starting tomorrow, they will be immersed in case work with no time to just be together. Until Tuesday night, that is.
“You should have told me, Booth,” she admonishes him, scrolling through her pda again.
“But, the guys just called yesterday afternoon. It was while you were at the Jeffersonian. I assumed -”
“You see? Assumptions and expectations have already started! You had an expectation that I’d be available whenever you want to parade me out in front of your FBI buddies.” She’s trying not to sound irritated, though she is. Her irritation is not about his assumptions, as much as over having to choose between going with him, and accomplishing several tasks that will make the next couple of days run smoothly. She takes a breath and blows it out, scratching her forehead, while looking at the floor.
He steals a glance at her. This isn’t going well, he thinks, shifting from foot to foot. They both know they need to take a moment and relax before this gets blown way out of proportion. Booth literally steps back, hands on his hips, and thinks for a moment. He concentrates on the waffle crumbs still hiding on the floor around the base of the island.
Stepping forward, he looks up, and puts a smile he doesn’t really feel, thinking, fake it till you make it right? The Holy Spirit gives Booth a silent thumbs up for his efforts. “Okay, let’s start this conversation over,” he says.
“Can we really do that?” She asks, shooting him a doubtful look. “We can’t un-say what’s been said, Booth. It can’t be done.”
“Ahh, but we can choose to ignore it,” he says, calmly. “It wasn’t going well anyway. Did you think it was going well?”
“Not particularly, no -”
“Okay then. I call do-over.”
“Wha- Is that a real thing?” She suspects this is a Boothism. She tilts her head to the side, suspicious, watching him from narrowed eyes.
“Yes, it is a real thing, Bones. And of course we can do it, okay? We can do whatever we want, as long as we’re both willing to play along. Just relax,” he says, taking her hands and wiggling her arms loosely side to side. “Take a couple of deep breaths, and follow my lead,” he says, taking two deep breaths himself.
She smirk-grins. “Mmm, Okay.” Her look says, I feel foolish.
“Hey, Bones,” he says, raising his head, looking her directly in the eyes. “I’ve been invited out for drinks with some friends from my grunt years. They want to meet this fabulous partner of mine. Care you join me?”
She looks at him, drops her hands to her sides, stares at him thinking. He smiles, wiggling his eyebrows at her. It’s the charming grin she’s come to know and love … or to ignore when it serves her purpose. She turns, puts her hands on the counter top, and stares blankly, contemplatively, toward the living room.
“Bones, you either want to or you don’t. Maybe … maybe you could just choose to make me happy,” he suggests, an impish, supplicant expression on his face.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” she says, slowly shaking her head at the living room.
“Why?” He doesn’t get it.
“Because!” She insists.
“Because why? There has to be a reason.” He touches her shoulder so she turns toward him.
“Because it’s not always about wanting to go, or not wanting to go, or about wanting to make you happy, Booth,” she explains. “I’m thinking about what I need to get done today. I’m considering options for rearranging my schedule to accommodate this new demand on my time.” It comes out quite a bit sharper than she’d intended, so she shoots him an apologetic smile after the words leave her lips.
“Wanna try that again, Bones?” Despite this suggestion, Booth is doing a fairly effective job of not getting irritated. His tone implies that trying again would be a good idea. Another do-over.
She looks at him, then down at her feet. She shrugs, and starts over.
“I may not always have a strong opinion about wanting to do something, but I will always want to make you happy. That’s not what’s at issue here,” she says. “You should have talked to me about this earlier,” she says softly, apologetically, tilting her head to the side.
“You’re right. I should have called,” he concedes, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his right hand, then pinching his eyebrows together between his thumb and his index finger before putting his hands on his hips.
“There are a lot of things that I do that you are unaware of,” she continues. “Here, and at the Jeffersonian. Meetings you are unaware of, organizations that I belong to which have expectations of me, then there’s my publisher with a set of demands on my time, whether or not I like it.”
“I forgot about that. We see each other all the time. You don’t usually mention those things.”
“Why would I? They aren’t germane to our work together, Booth. They weren’t germane to our relationship, either. But I am realizing that they will be germane to our life together now. Some of them are very important to me – others … others are simply required.”
“Well, how many things ARE you involved in?”
“Look, I’d be happy to provide you with a list … Don’t you have things that you do that I don’t know about?”
“I have a kid. That takes about 80% of my free time. You and I don’t have regular 40 hour a week jobs, so the free time that I do have, I spend with Parker, you know that.”
“That is the rational assumption that I have made, yes,” she nods.
“Other time I spend working on one of my cars at that garage over by Pops’ old place, or enjoying sports, or getting together with the guys. Or at the range. You know I’ve been training on the Barnett Revolution AVI Crossbow,” he says, cocking an invisible crossbow, and releasing the invisible arrow into the living room, assassinating a ceramic bust of J. Edgar Hoover on the bookshelf.
“Oh, yeah. How’s that going?” she asks.
“Pretty well. I test next week.”
“Want me to come?”
“No. Thanks for asking, though.” He looks up and smiles. “It’s about an hour of waiting around, then three minutes of shooting, then you’re done,” he says absently.
“Look, about tonight,” she says, searching his eyes, trying to gauge how disappointed he will be if she just can’t make it. “Don’t you want to make me happy too? I will have had a long day after a night which provided an insufficient number of rem cycles interrupted by a tiny person twisting and turning in a very small bed with me.”
“You could have kicked him out,” he insists, chuckling.
She looks at him, then grins sheepishly and shrugs.
“The truth is, he was quite snuggly and sweet. I found myself surprisingly pleased that he was there,” she admits, a half smile growing on her lips. “Anyway, I have six files to review prior to our meeting with Sweets. At home I have laundry to do, an overnight suitcase to pack, and a refrigerator filed with food that needs clearing out before another absence of indeterminate duration.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she continues, “At 8 a.m. I meet with Mr. Bray to examine the remains and review his hypotheses. Then I’d like to confer with Dr. Hodgins regarding the rogue phalanx. At 9:15 we both have our team meeting at the Jeffersonian. Then we catch a plane before 11:30. Which reminds me, we have to be at the Hudson Memorial Medical Annex at 7:15 tomorrow morning.”
“What?” Booth is surprised.
“Yeah, to get our rapid tests completed. HIV, HPV -”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Right, right, right,” he says, remembering now, though he hadn’t thought they’d set a time. “That’s fine. But how are we going to manage that?”
“We might as well ride together to work, or, to the medical annex first,” she suggests. “Do you have to make an appearance at the Hoover?”
He thinks for a moment. “No … You have the Rockefeller, right? I have everything here that I had with me in PA. I’ll have some phone calls to make … but I don’t need to physically be at the Hoover.”
“Then we’ll just ride together for everything tomorrow. Park at the airport.”
He nods, grimacing. “Hm. That’ll work -”
“So, knowing all I have to accomplish between now and tomorrow at approximately 11 o’clock, do you really want me to push all of that aside, the pushing aside of which will create a time constraint I’m not at all comfortable with,” she says, leaning the hand holding her pda on the counter top, putting her other fist on her hip. “I will feel ill-prepared if I don’t get some of these things done. Knowing all of this, do you still think I should come with you tonight?” She bats her eyes at him.
He looks at her, chewing on the inside of his lip, tilting his head back and forth, left to right, weighing the facts in his head.
“What do you have to do between now and our flight?” She asks him, seeing that he’s on the fence.
“Well, I have to pack my carry-on -” he pauses, staring blankly into his empty mental list of things to do. “And there, uh …” He searches for something else to mention. There’s got to be more I have to get done. Why can’t I come up with a list? I’ve got nothing! He thinks to himself.
“See my point?” she says, raising her eyebrows for emphasis.
“Wait … I have Parker with me. We’ve got lots of stuff to do. First, we have to clean up a bit here, hopefully get in a couple levels of Kingdom Hearts, the video game. Mass is at 10:30, lunch at noon in the park. Then his soccer game at one, then back to Rebecca’s at 2:30. When are we seeing Sweets?”
She tilts her head and grimaces at him. “Sweets is at 4:30, and, look, all of your activities are going to happen organically.”
“What does that even mean, organically?” he says.
“You and Parker will go from activity to activity, enjoying each other’s company. That’s going to happen no matter what. When he’s gone, you’ll still only have to pack your carry on. You could even pack while he’s here with you. How long can that take anyway? Fifteen minutes?”
“I get it, okay? You have a lot of important things to do – and I don’t,” he says, then “That came out a lot snarkier than I intended, but I really do get it, Bones” he says, irritated with himself for not remaining as cool as he had wanted. “Look, you shouldn’t come tonight unless there’s anything on your list that I can handle for you – something that would free up some time.”
“You would do that for me?” She asks, sweetly, surprise in her eyes. She takes a step toward him, still holding her pda.
“Well, sure,” he says, smiling sheepishly back at her. He takes a step toward her. “That’s just the kinda guy I am,” he says, gently lifting her chin with his fingers, planting a sweet little kiss on her lips, and staring dreamily into her eyes. He winks.
“You’re trying to melt me, aren’t you?” she narrows her eyes, feigning suspicion, and moving as close to him as she can without touching him, her lips right below his. She stares up into his chocolate browns.
“Whatever it takes, hot stuff,” he says back, teasingly. He leans toward her, almost kissing her again, then leans slowly away.
She cocks one eyebrow at him, narrowing her eyes again. She puckers her lips in thought, drops her gaze to his lips, those fabulous, chewable, soft, pouty lips. Uh uh um, she thinks. “You’re incorrigible,” she says with a throaty chuckle and a return wink that makes his stomach do a flip.
Without a word, she raises her arms on either side of him and rests her forearms on his trapezius muscles, between his neck and shoulders on each side.
“Something I could delegate, huh?” She asks, chewing on her lip in concentration, looking past him at the pda in her hand. She scrolls through the list again, still not touching him other than at her forearms. She sighs, slightly frustrated. “I’ve already delegated everything I can. I’m an expert delegator, Booth. How do you think I’m able to go out in the field with you, write two New York Bestselling Kathy Reich novels in eighteen months, and still have time to attend the occasional conference? It’s just that we have such a compressed time-frame between now and our flight.”
She thinks about the list, continuing to scroll. While she’s doing this, he admires her beautiful face, her soft skin, her fringe of eyelashes. “You are so … beautiful,” he says, genuine adoration in his voice, a goofy look on his face.
“Sh! Don’t distract me,” she insists, focusing on the back-lit screen of the technology that runs her life.
“Ah!” She blurts, chuckling. “Well, there is one thing on my list that involves you. We could skip that, and I’d have one free hour.”
“What is it?” he asks eagerly ready to be of assistance. “Wait, you scheduled something for me without checking with me first? Isn’t that interesting?” he says, raising an eyebrow, leveling an exaggerated the stink eye at her.
She slowly looks away from her pda and stares into his eyes, then grins.
“What is it?” His curiosity is getting the best of him.
“Make out with Booth. One hour,” she says, not looking away, a twinkle in her eye.
“What? It does not say that!” he says, stepping back. “You put that on a list?” He looks toward her pda.
She holds it out, the display screen facing him.
“If it’s important enough, it gets on the list,” she says, nonchalantly. “Shall I delete it? It would give me at least one hour to spend with your friends.” She’s pretending that it’s no big deal, but her amused smirk says otherwise.
He stares at her. “What time is it scheduled for?” He’s squinting, attempting to read the full entry on her time-line.
“No specific time,” she says, looking at it herself. “It’s flexible,” she tosses off, shrugging, grinning impishly.
“In that case, screw Hansen and the Square Chicken!” He grabs her by the wrist and heads toward the couch where he plops down, pulling her onto his lap. “You don’t have to go right this minute, do you?”
“No,” she says, chuckling. “But do you see all the things I have to consider?” She kisses him playfully on the nose. “I do have a lot of very important things on that list.”
“It’s good to prioritize,” he says agreeing, sinking his hands into her hair and pulling her lips close, then kissing her full on the mouth, creating a shiver that runs from her jaw, down her spine, and the rest of the way through her system.
“I thought you’d feel that way,” she says, putting her arms around his shoulders, her fingers up into his hair. Booth closes his eyes and sighs a sigh of contentment. “Ohhhh, will you marry me?” He says, enjoying the scalp massage.
“Ohhhhh, you can’t afford me, Love,” she coos in her best Katharine Hepburn as she usually does when he asks this. His eyes are still closed, but he can hear the smile in her voice and imagine the twinkle in her eye.
After about six minutes, Brennan stops massaging his scalp, kisses him on his scratchy chin, and rests her head on his shoulder, enjoying sitting on his lap, saying nothing, doing nothing, just being.
“I think we handled that argument fairly well, don’t you?” Booth opens his eyes without lift his head from the back of the couch.
“It wasn’t an argument, Booth,” she objects, quietly, a half smile playing on her lips. With her index finger she draws a feather-lite line along his silhouette from his hairline at the center of his forehead, down between his eyebrows, along his nasal ridge, then across his lips.
This whole time, Booth is watching her expression out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way down his features. He loves the way she looks at him, studies him. He loves how her dark eye lashes look like a plush fringe, hovering over her pale skin when she’s looking down at something. Even more when it’s part of him she’s looking at. It’s so … sweet, he thinks, sighing, smiling over at her. She returns his smile, stopping her invisible but very real line just below his chin. She turns his face toward hers and gives him a lingering, lip-only, smiling kiss that makes a smooching sound when she pulls away.
“What ever it was, I know I was feeling a little stressed,” he says, with a snort after a moment, closing his eyes again.
“Whatever,” she says, “And, yeah, I do think we handled it pretty well. Thanks to you and your ‘do-over’ business, which I still find hard to believe is a real thing,” she says, doubtfully.
“Oh, it’s real. Ask Angela,” he chuckles.
“I plan to,” she chuckles back giving him a mock stern look.
“I do think, sometimes, you could be a little more … flexible,” he says, carefully choosing his words and nodding slowly to soften the critique.
“And, you,” she says, tapping him on his lips gently, “You have to stop assuming the worst when it really isn’t personal.”
“You are right,” he conceds.
“And, I suppose, you are correct as well. About my inflexibility,” she says. “I’ve never been that good at spontaneity … unless it’s planned,” she says, a gleam in her eye.
“That was a joke, right?”
She smiles broadly at him. “Yes. You got it! See, I can be very humorous, Booth. You just have to be around to see it.” She passes her hand along his chest from pectoralis to pectoralis, grinning the whole time.
“I know that. Though I may be the only one who gets to see it,” he says with a droll smirk.
She pinches his cheek with a little too much gusto.
“Hey,” he says, “watch it! I need that cheek for the next sixty years. Don’t bruise the merchandise, baby!”
She shrugs. “You play with the cat, you’re gonna get mauled,” she says.
“You mean … ‘scratched.’ If you play with the cat … forget it,” he says. “We were both also wrong. Back there,” he says, nodding his head back toward the kitchen where they had their tense discussion.
Brennan ponders his comment for a moment. “We’re not wrong, Booth,” she says, pensively. “We’re just not perfect -”
“We’ll never be perfect -”
“Maybe you won’t -” she stops, watching his reaction. “It’s another joke, ha ha!”
Booth rolls his eyes.
“Anyway, I like us not perfect,” she says, shrugging, laying her head back on his shoulder.
“You know what, Bones?” He reaches around her and gives her a playful smack on the butt with his left hand, then run that hand up and down her right thigh, ending with a squeeze of her quadricep. He leaves his hand resting on her thigh, creating a nice warm patch of electricity. “I like us not perfect, too,” he smiles up into her eyes.
“We’re fun,” she says, nodding, grinning.
“Yeah. We’re a lot of fun,” he agrees, with an affirmative grimace, then a full-in smile.
“And we’re funny …” she adds.
“Well, at least I’m -” she cuts him off, reaching around his face and pinching his left cheek again.
“We’re really funny,” she says, feigning offense that he would infer otherwise.
“That is true. I laugh at us all the time,” he says.
“You do?” She lifts her head in surprise.
“Yeah,” he says, “Are you kidding me? What about that ice cream flying across the kitchen last night? I’ll be laughing about that for days!”
“How about that Risky Business dance this morning? Oh my God!” She’s giggling, deciding not to tell him yet about the incriminating photo she took of him in his tighty whities and shades. “That almost killed me, Booth,” she says, through giggles and hisses. “Well, not literally, of course, I’m not sure that’s even possible. Though -”
“I know!” He cuts her off. “I was a little worried about you. You could barely breathe for a little while there, you were laughing so hard.”
“That’s right,” she says, looking at him, pensively again as her giggling fades away. She figures he must know that the spectacle of the Booths gyrating to Bob Seger wasn’t completely to blame for her respiratory distress. She can see by the way he’s returning her gaze that he is well aware that it wasn’t all Seger … or the hysterical performance. He doesn’t bring it up, though, he simply smiles at her, a sweet acknowledgment in his eye.
“How about Parker last night, huh? Us freaking out when all he was upset about was you getting to sit on the counter top?” Booth grins at her, amused at the memory.
“I wasn’t freaking out, Booth. That was all you,” she counters. “You were the one who almost went into cardiac arrest!” She pokes him playfully in the chest. Then she rests her hand on the bicep attached to the hand he’s still resting on her thigh. She gives the pleasing firmness of his bicep a squeeze, and feels him flex in response. Oh my! She chuckles at the flip flop this causes in her chest. She hasn’t admitted this to him, but a firm bicep has the same affect on her as breasts do on him.
After a moment, Booth says, “I think the tension is just getting to me. I would really like for us have some time alone. Some time when we’re not both exhausted because it’s so late at night,” he says, grimacing. Putting his lips to her ear, he continues. “And we don’t have to worry about being interrupted,” he whispers. Parker in engrossed in the cartoon, but still.
“Is it really bothering you that much?” She whispers back after a moment. “Because it doesn’t show.”
“Are you kidding me?” He looks at her, baffled.
She shakes her head slowly, grimacing, her eyebrows raised. “I wouldn’t joke about that, Booth. So, you have been having as difficult of a time as I have?” She fans herself, widens her eyes and shakes her head.
“Are there two distinct muscles that make up the, uh, calf muscle?” he asks, teasingly.
She turns her head to the side and grins, amused. “Of course there are. Good one, Booth!”
“Now about this activity you have planned for us later today -”
“My place. Three o’clock. And make sure you’ve already eaten lunch -” she’s saying unabashedly when they both get interrupted by Booth number two.
“Shhh! Can’t you see I’m trying to watch this?” Parker turns around from his spot in front of the television to chastise the two on the couch before turning back around to face the television screen, shaking his head.
Read The When and the How: A Bone to Pick from the beginning, or skip right to the next chapter, ‘He Was Lovely’, about Brennan facing the loss of her favorite intern, Vincent Nigel Murray.
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