A/N: Yeah... This doesn't reflect my mood at the time I wrote this, but I really felt like getting Booth some good ol', hot, spicy lovin'. This is what should happen for them to get together. Am I right? ;) Do you think Hart would approve?
Disclaimer: I don't own these two. If I did, this would be a very strange world in which we live in, and most importantly, Angela and Hodgins would not have broken up. Yes, there. I said it.
Note: This has been crossposted to the community abhorrentlies where I post my art.
It almost seems like there's an omnipresent beat surrounding him. Enveloping, engulfing him whole, subjecting his needs and desires to a fire that burns him raw. It gives him a fever, his pulse beats through his chest and he can hear hear it clearly through his ears - his pulse, and the beating.
It filters onto him like glitter. It sticks to him, he can't get it off, and he hardly notices it's there apart from when it impairs his vision with a fog that he can't see through, a fog made of lust and love, and all things inadequate for a father to feel.
He feels like he's been pushed up hard against a wall, his cheek scraping against the hard bricks and mortar, and he also feels like pushing her up against a wall. And maybe then, the beat will stop thundering through his ears - because he hasn't got a doubt at all that this is all because of her.
Attraction is a silly thing to call it - it's much, much deeper than that. It leaves a scar, a line where deep obsession and mental capacity and function cross paths. He knows this will ruin him - he'll either get what he wants, his partner in bed, and a whole part of her for him to keep, or he'll get caught out. Both are bad.
He sees the accusations in other people's eyes. Wondering why the two of them are so close; why she isn't peturbed by the simple touching, the smiling, the...
Screw it. I can't go on like this. The finality of the thought echoes through his mind, and he slams down the daily edition of the newspaper on the diner table-top. He grabs his keys, drinks a last swill of his coffee, drops a ten dollar note on the bench, and hurries out the door, straightening his tie. The beating in his ears gets louder.
"Hey Bones." It's with a dull monotone he says the words - this is the usual greeting. She doesn't look up from the numerous sheets of paper that are splayed out on her office desk, scanning them over with a pen and her analytical mind in hand, though she does bristle with a strange nervousness - Booth's greetings either end with another large file being slammed down on her desk from a new case, or the invitation to hop into the SUV with him to go do some casework.
This time, there was neither. She wonders what he wants. He doesn't know what he wants from her - well, he does. It's just a bit too immoral to even state in his head, let alone say it. He coughs, raising his hand up to scrunch over his mouth.
"Got anything more on the case? Cullen needs this for next week - this is a senator we're talking about." The art of small talk. Genius, that Booth is. She just glares at him, scanning through the files a little bit more, underlining certain sections, as if to make him wait; make him learn that she's not just there at his every beck and call.
He watches her gracefully carry herself across the room, flitting over to the shelves on the opposite side to where he is standing; and maybe he's exaggerating her prominent feminine features a little bit too much; but in terms of her anthropological view, she is a perfect specimen of the well formed, female human.
The type of female that makes the boys go on over-drive. Especially this boy. Her curves long to be touched, embraced, arms wrapped around them. Her well-formed mouth longs to be kissed again, and his lips tingle and his lapel feels a bit heavier as soon as he remembers their Christmas Kiss. He coughs again. He thanks God that she can't hear his thoughts.
"Here's what we've got, Booth." He barely notices her passing a rather heavy file into his arms, he's too busy pretending that it's her in his arms, and too busy going under to the beat. It's almost like a heart-beat, the one that you hear when you've had way too much to drink and you're about to throw up.
But it's like a drum-beat too, the things they have in ceremonies of the native American kind, where they have a large wooden drum with the skin of some animal drawn taut over it, banging it ever faster and faster as they get closer and closer.
He licks the bottom fold of his lip; it's getting hard to concentrate, their proximity is close. He sounds like a scientist with all these calculations of their body space.
And it all happens in a drum-beat, a heart-beat. Before the glitter falls to the ground, the file's on the floor, the paper's skewed off in awkward directions, straining the staples, and she's in his arms. Her fingers are grasping the side of his suit very tightly, and his arms are hugging her hips, like they're both afraid of each-other, and afraid to let go, too.
"Booth.." She says hesitantly, like she knows this is the wrong thing to do. But she's not pulling away - she's restraining herself from pulling his tie. He gulps; it's hard to breathe for him, the drumbeat's not stopping, one fluid motion of sound.
And he goes in for the kill. His lips on hers, the sound of a shattering drum, a shattering heart. His body on hers, her fingers running through his hair and knotting at the top, as he forces her down onto the red sofa in the corner of her office, that's only for show.
Technically, they shouldn't be doing this. They've crossed the line - but they're too far gone to feel any type of remorse. The only thing they feel is passion, a fire, a flame. Being burnt at the stake; like they're dying for their beliefs, except she's not a religious person, and they're nothing like dying; they're flying.
And the beating has stopped - the only beating he can hear, is the acceleration of his heart, and hers. But naturally, the raw passion is still there.
Did ya like it? Hate it? Tell me! I'll send you a chocolate covered Booth sprinkled with coconut sprinkles and a dainty little red bow tied around his ears like a headband in the mail, but only if you review! Come on, you know you want to.