I decided to make this little Vignette a two-shot. Equal time, right?
So the official, standard disclaimer: I don't own them, probably never will. *weeps*
Seeley Booth has a lot of dreams, mostly inappropriate, about his partner. Even in the very beginning, when he would have told anyone who asked that he preferred leggy blondes, he'd had at least one naughty dream about Bones. Something about the gun range and her getting up into his face and…well, he can't remember the original details anymore--he's re-imagined it too often.
Over the years, he's been given lots of fuel for his dreams turned fantasies. He knows how she feels in his arms or under him, and even what she feels like pressed up against him. He's had a taste or three of how her lips feel on him, and he definitely wants more. He's seen her in almost every style of clothing from her lab coat and jumpsuit to formal to sexy to that little robe she answered the door in once.
He also has a good imagination and a talent for creating a whole picture from fragments. Hence a favorite fantasy of Bones in nothing but her lab coat, usually in her office or sometimes on the platform. Not that it was likely to happen in reality. But he has a really good picture of it, regardless.
When she falls asleep on him (unfortunately seldom literally), it simply allows him to add another level, more texture to his dreams.
He doesn't see her sleep often, however. She may have given him a key, but he rarely uses it, knowing how she reacts to surprises. And the handful of nights spent on her couch--well, he had slept too well to go wandering. Admittedly, there had been their two undercover operations, but he had been too keyed up to dwell on it. He has caught glimpses at other times--through the window that time in the desert, little naps on her office couch, and even more rarely, drifting off in the car--and they had fuelled a few lovely fantasies about kissing her awake and using that drowsy, not-quite-awake time to seduce her into a long, leisurely session of making love.
Which is part of the problem now, of course.
She's just back from a grueling book tour, with interviews scheduled right up until departure time. He had picked her up at the airport, at her request. (Her publishing house would have arranged a car, but she had refused. "I'll know I'm home, if you come," she had confided in a rare moment of openness. "You or Ange, anyway," she had added, eyes twinkling.) The usual banter and bickering had begun almost immediately. All familiar paths, made comfortable and reassuring by repetition.
She let him into her place, told him to have a beer if he liked, and disappeared into her bedroom to change, yawning every other word, she was so tired. He was a little disappointed--somehow that business-like white shirt and black skirt was more alluring than it should be. He can't blame her though--no woman has ever told him that nylons and heels were comfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But she doesn't come back and he goes looking for her. She's sprawled on her bed, as though she had sat down and simply fallen asleep. The sight makes him pause; his thoughts make him grimace.
This is not the time or place, he reprimands himself. Bad enough he entertains fantasies about his partner, but to be in the same room as his sleeping partner-slash-best friend and lust over her--! No, no. But his eyes linger at the top of her shirt. That very business-like, white, button-front blouse. A "librarian" shirt.
His fingers itch to unbutton it and see what lies below. White bra, probably; most women he had observed wore white under white for everyday. But would it be all practical and Bones? Or did she hide some lacy froth under the professional scientist/eco-warrior façade? Front or back clasp?
He swallows hard. There will be trouble if he keeps this up. On the other hand…
She's so deeply asleep even another explosion won't wake her; there is no one else in the condo besides them. Angela's been told to not come by tonight. What harm just to think about it?
He gives in to the fantasy then. He would gently unbutton her shirt, taking his time as much to keep her from waking too soon as to savor every new inch of skin thus revealed. His mind freezes on that image--open shirt, a vaguely defined bra just a few shades paler than her skin. He knows she has generous curves for a woman so slim, and can see them clearly enough in his mind's eye, framed by white cloth.
He sinks onto the bed next to her, still dreaming. If he still doesn't want to wake her, it might be difficult to get the blouse off. He glances at her skirt instead. What was under there? So many possibilities--thong, boy-cut, granny (though he would bet a week's pay that she doesn't own a pair of those), commando? Is she one of those women fanatic about matching bra and panties or does she simply grab whatever was on top and wear that? But she's lying on the zipper, and again, he's not ready to disturb her, even in fantasy. Could he push it up at all? Maybe a little, but the stockings could be a problem. For his little dream, he should change it to something a little easier to peel off.
I'm going to Hell, he decides and breathes deeply, trying to push down his arousal. It really isn't right of him to do this, even if no one would ever know in order to take him to task for it.
The deep breaths, calm thoughts, and eyes fixed on his shoes work, at least enough for him to move beyond the sexy and sensual and notice the basic awkwardness of her position. That can't be comfortable.
He gently pulls off her shoes and unhooks her earrings, remembering how she had lost one in that trailer and it had jabbed his hand when he sat on the bed the next morning. Feeling like he was putting Parker to bed, which should be enough anti-eroticism for anyone, he gently shifts her enough to pull the covers back. Unfortunately for his good intentions, the hem of her skirt shifts upwards as well, allowing him to see the top of the thigh high stockings she wore and a sliver of skin above. The desire he had pushed down surges back with a vengeance.
Oh, God. He steps back, panting.
She sighs and curls up on her side as he watched. Gritting his teeth, he leans far enough over her to unclasp her necklace, grateful that he's used to the punch of her scent; at least he's not going to drool all over her.
He steps back again, scanning her. Shoes, jewelry, hair was down already-- In light of the little (!) fantasy he had already indulged in, he doesn't think he should remove anything else. I don't know if my control's that good. Well, maybe the stockings. He debates that for a while; in his fantasy, he would without question, but this isn't a fantasy, this is real life, no matter what's he's been thinking.
Without conscious thought, his finger gently traces the line of her stocking; she makes a faint purring sound.
That decides it for him. He covers her chastely with the sheet, not allowing himself to take further advantage. He's garnered enough impressions for a long time, if he ever can get over the guilt of how he got them.
He yawns now himself, and can almost hear her voice in his ear--"If you're that tired, Booth, you shouldn't leave. Sleep here instead." She's said it before and he takes the memory for the offer and begins to unbutton his shirt and toe off his shoes. Too bad her flight had come in right after he got out of work; he was going to have to sleep in his dress pants. He hates that, but there's no way he's going to sleep in Bones' house just in boxers.
Carefully, he sets his things on the bedside table, phone on vibrate, gun angled just so in case of trouble.
He stretches out on the bed, on top of the covers. It's a nice bed, even better than his own, and he wriggles his shoulders to get more comfortable. It's one more liberty, but somehow, he doesn't mind taking this one.
Don't roll in your sleep, he cautions himself, like he used to tell himself what time to wake in the morning when he was a Ranger. Just don't. Bones will not appreciate it. He closes his eyes. It's enough to be right here, right now, without demanding more is his final thought before falling asleep himself.
*******************
Angela carefully unlocked her friend's door. Ten am; Bren should be up by now. But it was surprisingly quiet, and not even the faintest whiff of coffee hung in the air. Well, she got home, anyway. Her bags are here. Oh-ho-ho-ho, so is a certain G-Man's jacket. Did they get lucky? She grinned. Did I get lucky is the real question.
She tiptoed through the dim condo to the bedroom. The door was open, which she considered another stroke of luck, giving her just enough light for her to see who's there.
Her first reaction was disappointment--Booth was sleeping, lying on his side, on top of the covers, wearing slacks, wifebeater, and funky socks. She could just see some of his things draped over a chair and piled on the table. Bren was curled up under the sheets, an echo of Booth, and a judicious bit of craning showed she was still wearing street clothes.
But the basic charm of the scene soon appealed to Angela's artistic nature, and she rapidly took several shots of them with her phone for later inspiration before withdrawing.
Still moving quietly, she started the coffee and left the partners to their dreams.
