Title: The Rendezvous in the Reverie
Rating: M (some swearing, casual alcohol consumption, gambling, and sexual situations)
Summary: Coma!verse Bren and Booth are a happily married couple expecting their first child…However did they end up here?
Spoilers: Definitely for Season 4 finale, I'll be trying to weave in other bits and pieces including bits from the 100th, "The woman in the sand", and many, many others.
Disclaimer: Bones is not mine, the coma!verse is not mine. I have a tendency to steal names from other fictional worlds – I don't have a claim on those either.
AN: I'm ignorant: I don't know how to operate a nightclub, I've never applied for a small business loan, I'm clueless as to the military leave system, and I've never actually been in a casino. I have no desire to research for a fic that I write for my own pleasure and not profit. However, if a reviewer wants to educate (or beta) me, feel free.
Chapter the First
In which Seeley Booth either meets 'the one' or eats some bad seafood
Atlantic City:
He's on fire, winning like crazy and has been for the past seven hours. He's not sure how much he's up, but it's a lot. Winning is a good feeling, exhilarating without the coppery undertones that come from firing a gun or searching for rebels. He's placing bets based on that feeling he trusts in the field, the squeezing in his gut that tells him to duck, or the hard knot in his rib cage, when he knows it was his shot.
He looks up from the roulette wheel for inspiration, and finds it. There's a woman squeezing through with a couple of drinks, and she's a knock-out. He does what any man would do and hits on her. "When's your birthday?" he blurts out, a hand on her arm to get her attention.
"Excuse me?" she says as she turns into him in the crowded space.
"Just…when's your birthday?" he has a light grip on her wrist, as her hand has the stem of a wine glass in it.
"November twenty seventh," she answers, with a blue-gray, well-practiced stare urging him to drop her wrist. He does, as he places his bets on the eleven and twenty seven.
-X-
She takes the opportunity to escape to the black jack, where Nicole (call me Nikki for the weekend) is waiting for her screwdriver. Temperance sips her red wine slowly while watching Nikki, the crowd, and absently counting the cards. It's not really her fault; if she does it automatically is it? Her memory is excellent; her brother stopped playing Memory with her when she was five and strategy card games when she was seven – and he's six years older.
She read a few books on gambling strategy before coming to Atlantic City – being smart has never failed her before, and she doesn't want to empty her bank account because adrenaline is racing through her. She started the night with $200 dollars worth of chips; that's what she budgeted for a day of gambling. She's only been gambling for a couple hours, but she's up. She takes Nikki's place ten minutes later, and uses her knowledge of what's statistically likely to place the appropriate bets.
-X-
Seeley Booth is calling himself all kinds of a fool for letting a woman that stunning walk away before getting more than her birthday. He had just won on twenty seven, and excitedly turned to congratulate his new good luck charm, only to find her gone. His gut had done a very distinctive flop at the sight of November 27th, and he had to find her again. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, and hot body in a black dress are all he has to go on.
He carefully scans the casino floor, methodically searching. He's just beginning to worry that she left the casino - his chances of finding her if that's the case are practically zero, when he spots her sitting at a blackjack table, pile of chips at her elbow and absently swirling the glass of wine she was carrying earlier. He stands at the edge of the slots for nearly a minute, trying to compose himself before approaching her.
-X-
Temperance is aware of someone standing just behind her and to the right, the heat from his body obvious. After nearly two minutes with this person just standing there, staring, she turns and says, "I'm not planning on giving up my seat anytime soon."
"I don't want your seat." At her quizzical look he elaborates, "I want more than your birthday, I want your name and I want to buy you a drink," at her unconvinced look he continues, "I make it a point to meet my good luck charm."
"I think they have good luck charms for hire," she says so dryly that he has to laugh.
"Well allow me to be your good luck charm and drink fetcher while you play." She permits him to stay at her elbow and flirt while he waits for her to empty her wine glass.
-X-
Temperance is nursing her wine, partially because this man dancing attendance on her is hot, and she wants him to stay at her elbow, and partially because she's in a strange city in a thrift shop little black dress that's technically a size too small. ("You have to get it sweetie, it just screams 'looking for a good time' – and that is why you're going to Atlantic City," Angela had told her when she emerged from the dressing room at Elite Repeat.)
Her roommate, Debbie, emerging from the slots notices the hot man at her side and word spreads within the group. Just about everybody who loaded into cars for Atlantic City casually saunters past in a twenty minute period and either winks or gives her a 'thumbs up.' She tilts her head in acknowledgement, and he catches on surprisingly fast – giving his own winks back to her traveling companions. He asks their names, and she tells him in between her turns at blackjack.
Many of them are friends of friends, or more accurately, friends of Shelly, her other roommate who organized this - she knows little more than their names. She points out Debbie and Shelly, who share a three bedroom apartment with her in DC (thank God they're female is his main thought) and Angela, the friend that convinced her to wear the thrift shop little black dress and who adds a strange little celebratory dance to the wink and thumbs up when she spots them.
He shares that he's in the Army, on a short leave and he and some buddies decided to spend their four days in Atlantic City. ("Deuce said, 'Fuck Vegas – I've spent the last two years in a fuckin' desert – I'm not going to Vegas in August'" he imitated with a southern twang, making her laugh.)
-X-
Finally, finally they exchange names. "I can't call someone I met in Atlantic City Temperance – I'm afraid you'll have to be Bren as I don't know you well enough yet to come up with a clever nickname."
"Well if we're going by last names, I suppose I'll have to call you Booth."
"'S'alright with me – never much cared for Seeley," he answers with a grin. She's still nursing that glass of wine and winning at blackjack, and he's getting thirsty from talking, but is loath to break the moment by getting a drink for himself, all of which adds up to him snagging her wine glass and taking a sip. There's something surprisingly intimate about placing his lips on the rim of the glass were hers had been, tasting her choice of wine and the slightest hint of wax from her red lipstick.
She raises an eyebrow (how the hell is disapproval hot), but doesn't object. She plucks the wine from his fingers and takes her own sip and… oh man does it take a few cleansing breaths to remind his dick that now is not the time.
The man to her right leaves the table, probably tired of his hovering and their flirting, and he takes the seat. They continue to switch off with the wine.
-X-
His playing style frustrates her. She's pretty sure he's not counting cards, because some of his bets don't make logical sense, but he still manages to end up in the positive. His not touching also frustrates her. He stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him; his hands ghosted along her shoulders and sides as he flirted, but he's only touched her wrist and brushed her fingers as they exchange the wine glass, and damn it she wants more.
He drains the wine glass, and it sits between them, empty. Their forearms are resting on the felt table, less than an inch between them. (Should that make her breath catch?) She's losing interest in the game, and he notices this and says, "Let's get that drink;" they leave the table together to wander the floor.
He does buy her a drink – another red wine, but he takes the first sip before handing it to her. She doesn't mind the possessive gesture, and wonders if it's because she's acting like someone else in Atlantic City – wearing a little black dress and flirting with a stranger, or because it's this particular stranger.
-X-
They end up at a craps table, where they switch off throwing the dice, brushing against each other as they do. Seeley Booth's gut has been working overtime. It flips. It flops. It clenches. There are knots and butterflies; he wouldn't be surprised if a small creature came ripping out of his abdomen. Winning was exhilarating, but it could have just as easily been losing, and anyway money isn't of any real use when you're deployed. Winning a girl like Bren is much more interesting than winning money.
-X-
She's playing strategy, and he's paying attention to her – which is gratifying because his pile of chips is getting larger and larger and he's treating the chips as bits of plastic rather than the large sum of money they represent. After craps, they wander to the buffet to get food. They eat the seafood together; his army buddies and her traveling companions stop by to admire the fine specimen their friend has managed to find. She responds to his Army buddies with an arched eyebrow, he with a shit-eating grin. She rolls her eyes at her friends; he gives them the same grin.
She's the one who drags him up for dancing, happy that his damn hands will actually touch her rather than the back of her chair. They stay appropriately on her lower and mid-back, hers rest at his shoulders. When the band switches to a song that requires more than swaying she tries to sit down. He drags her to a corner of the dance floor and proceeds to teach her the very basic steps. It's a lot of fun, and she catches on very quickly. They dance together well, although he feels underdressed and scruffy next to Bren in her dress and smoky eye-makeup.
-X-
They wander across the floor, gambling for a while before moving on. He wins at roulette on her birthday again; she doesn't play (the worst odds in the house). They play a little slot, watch the poker. Eventually he's too tired to stand up, and they end up at blackjack, both unwilling to go to bed and end the evening. It's two am, and they're leaning against each other at the blackjack table, too exhausted to even sit up properly. "What are you doing tomorrow?" he asks.
"The Boardwalk," she answers with a yawn, "And you?"
"Following you until you kick my ass."
"I'm leaving by ten."
"I'll be in the lobby, waiting," he replies.
-X-
AN: I've staked out this little corner of the Bones sandbox, so come muck about with me. We will build much bigger sandcastles together – on that note, I need a beta. I shower all betas with cookies, gratitude, and electronic spankings (only if you want it…).
Please, please review – praise, criticism, what you had for breakfast… I don't care; I just want to see reviews in my inbox.