Even though she'll probably never read it (she doesn't do ff), this little two-parter is dedicated to Sarah (Seels) because I love her Bones blog and I know she likes a certain sweater...
Note: This story takes place in the universe of the extended kiss scene; a bit of the dialogue in the upcoming Part II was taken directly from the episode.
What on earth was she doing? Was she really walking into a giant home-goods store, her first well, ever, on Christmas Eve of all days to buy what most likely would never pass for anything but a bad vinyl replica of the parasitic viscum album, otherwise known as mistletoe? If she'd been given even a few more days to do things properly she could have had a live specimen shipped to the Jeffersonian from one of her science specialty stores, in keeping with her strict adherence-to-the-truth standards. But now, there simply was no time.
Even worse than the actual experience of entering the ridiculously packed store, already brimming with desperate Christmas shoppers, was having to fight her way to a salesclerk in order to request the offending article only to be subjected to a knowing look and an inappropriate comment in return. "Somebody wants to get kissed for Christmas, huh?" the middle-aged, Santa-hatted woman asked with a saccharine smile. "It's for your boyfriend, isn't it sweetheart? Or maybe someone you want to be your boyfriend. Good for you-us ladies got to take the lead sometimes. Why should we always be the ones waitin' around for the guys to come to us?" The woman took a step back and eyed her assessingly. "Although it's kind of a shame sweetie; you look too young and pretty to be having to do the asking'" she said shaking her head, looking perhaps a little sorry about her customer's apparent no-man predicament. "Well, don't you worry about being too pushy, honey-you go for it. Good luck to you." The thought that someone could possibly think that she had to force herself on a man to get kissed was beyond absurd. "I'm not in need of any luck, I assure you" she answered more than a bit miffed. About to elaborate further she decided against it, in case it brought forth even more ingratiating terms of endearment from the overly-familiar salesperson. But something else she felt absolutely compelled to rectify. "And he's not my boyfriend; he's just a co-worker. And there's nothing remotely romantic about the arrangement. It's actually extortion…" The clerk gave her a curious look, like maybe all was not right inside the pretty young woman's head. "Whatever you say, sugar. Still, good luck to you and, Merry Christmas!" and with an enthusiastic little wave the woman was gone, leaving her adrift in a sea of pushy consumers with the sorry impostor resting limply in her hands. It barely even resembled mistletoe. What did she expect? Naturally, they wouldn't carry the real thing in such a place; the plant itself was highly toxic and could expose the store to legal liability were it to be accidentally or otherwise ingested. Which begged the question, why would anyone who didn't have a secret death-wish want to get kissed under it at all? And what did luck have to do with it, anyway?
There was yet another question nagging her. What if, after all this aggravation, he said no? Maybe she should have asked before going on the foolish, time-depleting errand. But asking gave him a choice, and what was he supposed to say? Sure Bones, no problem, just come over here and pucker up?" No; the perennial boy scout in him would insist on talking to Caroline, getting her to either switch the request or do away with it altogether. But the rules had been clear-no kiss, no trailer, and she was certain that no amount of haggling would do. And besides, it was undignified to have Booth fighting her battles for her. Caroline would never make any more concessions to her if she used Booth as her secret weapon, because both women knew that Caroline Julian was unreasonably fond of Seeley Booth and would be hard-pressed to deny him anything. And she was sure the prosecutor wouldn't change her mind. So no asking and no giving him the chance to back out.
She would just set up the plastic abomination in her office, well away from the door and away from prying eyes. All she needed was Cam, Angela-or heaven-forbid-one of the interns, witnessing her kissing Booth in the office. On the lips. For five steamboats. If there were only a more private, non-professional setting to do this at, but she couldn't think of one. Either of their apartments seemed way too intimate, and how was she supposed to get everyone there?
Of course she would have to tell him about it eventually, even if it was only at the last minute. Because otherwise she was running the risk that he might misinterpret the gesture, taking it beyond what was absolutely necessary. After all, they had kissed before, so another real one wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.
Still, what if he said no? But why would he say no? He already knew that she was a highly skilled kisser, neither too forceful nor too meek, and definitely not sloppy. She herself had been forced to admit that the tequila-infused kiss they shared years ago was good-excellent in fact; he was no slouch in the osculation department himself. Perhaps he could have been more assertive, but she had learned that when it came to women Booth was practically a choir boy, an inveterate gentleman who would never press for more than he felt was proper or wanted. In spite of his archaic good manners, she discerned from certain solid, incontrovertible physical evidence that even he was game for more at the time. She had certainly been willing and able to go much, much further than a single kiss on that rain-soaked night. That was, right until he spoiled it all by telling her about his issues and the fact that he felt that "this was going somewhere." The gambling was not what dampened her ardor-whatever his problems with poker, she was convinced they wouldn't affect his sexual performance. But the other part, the part that sounded a lot like expectation and a future, had scared her right into the nearest cab-alone. She didn't want "somewhere;" she wanted tonight-and only tonight-and maybe just a little tomorrow morning too. Beyond that, there were undiscovered Indian tribes in the Amazon and mummies in the Atacama Desert and a whole world out there waiting for Dr. Temperance Brennan, a happily unburdened forensic anthropologist with a firm commitment only to her profession. Why did he have to ruin what was almost guaranteed to be a perfectly good night of recreational sex with the possibility of a sentimental attachment?
Speaking of choir boys, she'd been caught off-guard by his attire this morning. The crisp white dress shirt he typically wore to work was almost entirely hidden by a grey wool sweater, out of which peeked an appropriately festive scarlet tie. The whole look was…incongruous; she supposed that would be the correct word. The tough, masculine, no-frills sniper, his hair neatly combed, looking almost like a little boy all set for Sunday school. Appropriate, she thought, given the childlike joy he took in all things Christmas. When she had asked about his appearance he had gotten defensive; maybe there was just a tiny hint of unintended satire in her comment. "What? What about what I'm wearing? It's just a sweater, Bones. I wanted to look nice-I'm going to Midnight Mass and I didn't know if I'd make it home in time to change. You got a problem with that?" Touchy, so touchy today. But she forgave him, because she knew he wasn't getting Parker and it was Christmas Eve and a dead (literally) ringer for Santa Claus had just arrived at the Jeffersonian via the morgue truck. Although she herself had no love for the holiday, she could understand why he would be more irritable today than usual.
At first she made mental fun of the sweater, chalking it up to another one of his idiosyncrasies like the striped socks and the blatantly provocative belt-buckle; but if she had to be honest, the look was growing on her. Giving her thoughts permission to wander unchecked as he drove while talking on the phone, she took silent inventory of just how many items of clothing he had put on this morning in addition to the unexpected garment, and of how many he would be taking off tonight-and in what order. First, the jacket being shimmied off broad shoulders before most likely being tossed over a chair, followed by the motion of two strong forearms crossing at the stomach as hands grabbed the hem of the soft grey sweater and pulled it over his head. Next, fingers undoing the tie; was it coaxed out of its knot just a little, enough to free it from the collar, or all the way and hung back properly on the tie-rack? She supposed it would depend on just how tired he was after mass. And then the fingers once again, probably starting at the top, one button at a time, until the white dress shirt was open all the way revealing a sliver of strong, smooth pectoral muscle along with the cocky belt buckle and the wool tweed of his slacks. She wondered idly if he was wearing the belt right now, as it seemed slightly inappropriate for church. She personally wouldn't have cared about something like that but she was sure he would never feel comfortable wearing it there, assuming he'd given any thought to the matter when he put it on. She might ask; hopefully, the question wouldn't precipitate another wave of sullen offense.
The car stopped at a light and she casually glanced at him again; still on the phone. Her thoughts ambled right back to the shirt now sliding off his shoulders, no need to undo the cuffs because he never fastened them, exposing the whole of his well-defined torso. Then the removal of the aforementioned belt, until his fingers reached the last of the buttons, the one on the pants. Finally, or maybe not quite so finally yet, a zipper being deftly guided down its course as far as it would go. Her eyes flew open at the realization of what she was doing. And for the second time today she had to ask herself, just what on earth was she doing? There was really no delicate way of putting it: at the moment she was wantonly fantasizing in vivid, spine-tingling detail about undressing her co-worker right down to his underwear-and given one more second-beyond even that. She might not personally be doing the undressing, but he was still being made to take it all off in front of her. Stripping down to nothing. One piece at a time. And she was as good as there in the room with him, lurking silently in the corner like some common peeping-tom. It certainly felt that way. And even more galling was not having to imagine what he looked like without a stitch of clothing on because, courtesy of a certain bathtub incident, she already knew-and approved of-what was underneath. Which despite the (admittedly) late call of conscience, is exactly the image she involuntarily ended up with. As she forced the whole thing to come to a screeching halt she noticed him staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, prompting a fit of violent flushing that made her cheeks burn. "Bones? Earth to Bones? Are you okay?" The sight of the grey sweater and the shirt collar above, both primly back in their proper place, left her temporarily speechless and suitably mortified.
"I, um, yes, I'm fine. Just thinking-sorry."
"About what?" If he noticed her red face he had the good sense not to ask.
"Oh, you know…" She was fighting for anything, anything that didn't involve male apparel. "My dad. Peru. Kris Kringle." It wasn't the first time today that someone looked at her as if she needed some serious psychological counseling.
"Okay" he drew out slowly, because he knew her too well to ask for more and he was just perhaps a bit distracted himself by his own problems.
Being as her dignity had already been left behind somewhere two blocks ago, she decided to go for the golden hoop. "Booth, will you come by my office later today, maybe around 4:00? I need to…ah, show you some…evidence. Evidence about the case. And since I'm leaving tonight and I'll be gone for three weeks, I need to show it to you today. It's for Caroline. She's going to be there too, and you need to…approve it."
He studied her a little more carefully now, as if truly becoming concerned about her mental stability. "What evidence? And why do I need to see it? Can't you just deal with Caroline yourself?"
"No. I need you there-to approve the uh, evidence." Finally a light came on, maybe because the overwhelming whoosh of shame had subsided enough, and her voice became more confident. "You have to sign off on the preliminary evidentiary report that the Jeffersonian is giving to the prosecution on Kris Kringle's case; since you were the arresting officer, Caroline wants a statement regarding your role in the collection of evidence." Not great, but not terrible given the time constraints.
"Really?" he seemed perplexed. "I don't remember ever doing that before."
Stop arguing, Booth. "It's new. A new procedure. And I'm leaving, so it has to be done today. Please just come-it will only take a second." Or five.
It was truly shameless, but she swallowed her pride and batted her eyelashes at him, her most pleading, doe-eyed look while simultaneously gracing him with a little smile-every good and underhanded as one of his "charm" ones. She knew that would do it, and it did.
He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing in submission. "Alright. Only because you asked so nicely" he said, wagging a finger in her direction. "But it won't take long will it? I have to go and visit Pops before church."
"Only a few minutes, I promise." At least that was one thing she could be truthful about.