A/N: Well, the beginning chapter of this fic has been driving me crazy. I had been going through one of those...write...stop writing...write...stop writing... phases, where you get two lines done each time and then give up. My darling friend Mag has had to put up with me complaining about it, and for that I love her even more (if thats even possible ;) -hugs you-). Anyway, this one popped up and got me back on track, so full steam ahead :) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Do you think the Blessed-Fake-Bomb will attach itself to Booth's 'cocky' belt buckle and threaten to blow up the Jeffersonian if Booth doesnt spend 24/7 in THAT position with Brennan? No?? Then I dont own em! So stop asking.
The rain has set in and can be felt like an assembly of small lead pallets piercing your exterior. They provide a constant reminder that shelter may be even further than you hoped. A howling wind begins to gain momentum and creates an uneasy affiliation with the cold liquid droplets.
Your clothing is now saturated and you can no longer determine between the articles and your skin itself. The denim heavy, your ruby shirt now a gloomy shade, eerily like blood. Your limbs are beginning to tire and you can feel the length of the journey through the light throb of your leg muscles. Your usually lighter locks have become dark with saturation and stick to your face as they reflect your own portrayal of your surroundings.
You speak not to him as he places one determined step after the last. His thin shirt is plastered to his chest and your eyes skim over the hidden muscles which it defines. You gaze on; noticing how his taut physique wrinkles the attached material, leaving grooves which ripple with each step.
The impact of his stride is firm, warning you against any attempt at conversing that you may have planned. But it is foolish to believe such an action will discourage you from speaking your mind. You always do.
You begin to view each thud as an invitation for the words looking to break out from the cage they are detained in. A small stone finds itself in his warpath and he brings his foot toward the grey object, kicking it at full force across the pavement. The innocent object teamed with the movement is the final key to free the words that have been waiting patiently to be heard.
"Boo-"
"Nuh!"
He tries to silence you by raising his hand rapidly into the air, though he doesn't turn to look at you.
"But Bo-"
"What part of 'nuh' don't you understand, Bones?"
"But it was an accident Booth. You can't blame me! In fact, you're being very unreasonable".
You are slightly alarmed as his walk comes to a halt. He swings his head toward you in a single vigorous movement. You follow his lead and turn to face him; your eyes ready to dare him to accuse you of being wrong. However, you are not prepared for the frustration you see brimming in his eyes as he takes several large determined steps toward you. He halts once he has closed the distance between your torsos to no more that a few inches.
You immediately feel the warmth of his breath, brushing softly over your cheeks, like a warm breeze which arrives before a storm. His breathing deepens as he places two clenched fists on his hips. You immediately mirror his stance.
He uses the slight height difference between you to his advantage, leaning forward. You flinch slightly, not from his proximity but from a particular trail of moisture which is now traveling at a constant off the brim of his nose and flowing onto you. It mixes with the stream which travels down your own face, the two individual flows coming together and changing the course of the other, until uniting for they have an equal direction and purpose.
The action should have you blinking uncontrollably but you hold each others gaze. You know only your stubbornness could even triumph over your practicality.
He leans his head even closer to yours and addresses you through gritted teeth. His voice a low growl as it leaves his moist lips and travels into your ears, claiming them for its own shelter. You grapple with yourself to control your urge to quiver in response.
"Unreasonable? I'm being unreasonable, Bones?" He raises his eyebrows briefly, a look of infuriation crossing his features.
"Well….. yes."
As you answer, he coughs slightly, a cough of disbelief. Taking a deep, drawn out breath, he retaliates.
"Well, maybe if you weren't being unreasonable you wouldn't have succeeded at so gloriously pissing me off. Maybe then I wouldn't have had to pull over so that I could attempt to interrupt your insufferable lecture. Maybe if you had waited for the car to stop before bolting from it like some crackpot Olympic sprinter-"
"Booth, I hardly think that is an accurat-"
"A tree, Bones!" you watch incredulously as he removes his hands from his hips and waves them about vertically, emphasizing his point as though you don't understand the general concept.
"Booth, I know what a-"
"A tree, with leaves and branches and a whole collection of freaky little Hodgins bugs. That tree is now bursting forth from the hood of my car! And now we are stranded. We are walking from god knows where, to god knows where, in the middle of the night, and it is pouring with rain. Oh, and let me remind you that we have no food, no extra clothing and no cell phone reception. So please, why don't you enlighten me, without anymore of your scientific claptrap, and tell me which part of this I am being unreasonable about!" As the last word slips from his lips you watch as his jaw intuitively tightens and his eyes foolishly challenge your own.
The two of you stand still, the only movement your chests as they heave up and down. Two alone figures toe to toe on the edge of what has so far proven to be a particularly uninhabited side road.
As he stares you down with his piercing glare, you feel the restraints holding down your temper weaken. You instinctively feel your own jaw match the severity of his. Your eyes bore into his as your temper rises, escalating from within you, the eye to your very storm. You take your full height and feel your posture stiffen. You deepen your glare as you make sure he can feel the intensity of your being.
"Well Booth, maybe if you had not been so focused on regarding my opinion with such an ignorant attitude, or maybe if you had taken a moment to accept that I was not being callous, or cynical for that matter, or maybe if you had taken a step down from your tall-horse-"
"High-horse-"
"and abandoned your incessant need to take everything I say so personally. Maybe if you had approached me with a little more patience then I might not have considered it essential to get away from you. Maybe then you would have noticed the tree before you hit it!"
You realize your voice was escalating and had reached a yell by the end of your spiel. But you purposely didn't try to control it. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you desperately try to regain control of your breathing. You can tell that your eyes are continuing to smolder, but you loose your intended focus as you follow an outsized raindrop that is leisurely grazing its way down his features.
As it approaches his lips you feel your hands unclench and little by little fall to your sides. Flowing over the mound of his upper lip, the drop finds itself in the valley between. It covers the span as though it wants nothing more than to taste him for itself. A few moments later, it gets its wish. You watch, mesmerized, as it is slowly captured by the tip of his smooth tongue as it ducks out and effortlessly grazes his lips. It hovers momentarily, before gathering the last of the moisture and returning to the great unknown. You feel you heart rip and you hastily try to dismiss the reaction without too much thought – it is, after all, foolish to envy a raindrop.
You drag your focus to meet his own and are surprised but pleased to find him watching your own mouth. Though you still see his irritation in the dark pools of his eyes, you both know just how easily that can transform to lust. You hear his breath hitch as you bight down on you lower lip. He now watches you hungrily and you mull over dragging your lip further into your mouth as though it is the invisible switch to weaken the shackles and finally release your parallel desires.
His deportment softens, his breathing remains heavy. His right hand rediscovers its ability to move. As it leaves his hip you close your eyes, frightened to discover its intended destination. You don't have to wait long. You feel the delicate touch of two soft fingertips along the swell of your bottom lip. They dance to their own melodic tune of yearning. The servants to an exploration their owner has longed to embark on.
The tip of your tongue connects with the tip or his middle finger in one electrifying instant. Your eyes fly open. You are unsure whether the contact was a result of your tongue or his finger chasing its need. Surprised, he pulls back his finger slightly and contact is momentarily suspended.
You continue to watch his eyes, as they watch your mouth.
Longing still evident in his eyes, his fingers approach your wet skin again and this time the tips are daintily placed on your cheek. A fabulous sensation races through your every nerve, a commotion of hot and cold invading your senses. He briefly closes his eyes, as though the moment is too much for him to bear and he must surrender one of his senses in order to survive. You stare as several raindrops fasten themselves to his feathery eyelashes. You long to brush them away but your limbs deny you and remain welded by your sides.
His fingers timidly work their way up your cheek as his eyes flutter open to observe the wonder. He soon reaches the edge of your hairline and pauses, holding your cheek in the palm of his hand, his thumb ever so slightly stroking back and forth. You lean into his touch as your hand begins the journey to meet his, a magnet being pulled by a greater force. You place it over his, two of your fingers lacing themselves between his.
Now connected, your eyes spring back to find the others. And hold. Your mind knows from much experience how his soul will pierce your own through a single glance between light and dark prying centers, though you can't avoid. You feel him reading you, as he so often does. You don't fight it. The moment to abandon the fight for truth is lost.
Thumbs still stroking, as yours now coats his hand, you realize that each muscle that defines you is tense with anticipation. You have somehow inched a fraction closer, but still enough distance remains that you can see his dark circles overflow with a concoction of his inner perplexity. You look through the confusion and recognize what you expect to be ambition. It is the moment where you realize your ability to read him. His influence, you know.
The rain is still rushing down your respective faces though neither of you really notice. It washes away the uncertainty, it washes away the hesitation. You tangle your fingers deeper into his grasp and break the gaze, turning your face into his palm and placing a small tender kiss to its centre. You feel his body moan, you feel the remaining breath held by his lungs being pushed out in one movement.
Your eyes are closed as they hide in the security of his kind hand; you don't see him coming toward you until his cheek is pressed against your own as he buries himself in your hair, his forehead dragging ever so gently across your shoulder blade. You find yourself sighing, as he closes the remaining distance and pushes his body against yours, his free hand resting timidly on your waist. He releases a soft sound, a moan, a murmur, which your ears confirm was your beloved endearment, a whimpered "Bones".
His lips graze you ear, your jaw line, as he applies a slight pressure to turn your mouth to meet his. Inches remaining, you pause as your breathe mingles. A small moment to allow reality to nod its head, yes, this is happening.
Or at least, was happening.
The overhead clouds applaud you abruptly with their thunderous approval, but they are an impatient audience. Your bodies promptly react to the clatter which you weren't expecting; jumping apart you glare at the sky, scowling at its rude interruption.
When the rain begins to sting your eyes you admit defeat and lower your gaze. Suddenly, you are staring into his eyes. As usual, the intensity is overwhelming, but for once, it's too much to bear. You don't plan on denying what happened, no inclination to chase away those feelings. But now, as you look for answers from the other, you experience a new feeling, one that you have rarely ever associated with him; awkwardness.
You look away, as does he. You look everywhere, anywhere, but at him. Finally your settle on an old tin railing resting in the neighboring paddock. You clasp your hands together, unclasp, place them in your pockets, before bringing them back together again, your fingers playing with the edges of you sopping shirt. Your anxiety evident, you decide to break the silence, trying to sound nonchalant, jovial even.
"Was that God disapproving?"
You glance uncertainly at him out of the corners of your eyes, not yet secure enough to look him straight on. There he stands; 6'1 worth of all that is good and true, staring at you. But it's not with the look of apprehension you expected. Instead, you see disappointment etched across his features.
You are momentarily confused by the change, and repeat your words in your mind. What was meant to be a simple statement to break the tension, has become your tickets for a return trip, a ride back to the earlier conflict of the day. Another instance of your forgetting to think before you speak.
Sighing dejectedly, he clenches his eyes closed and slumps his head downwards. Wavering ever so slightly he moves his head from left to right, right to left, conveying his distress. His body seems to argue with its self, whether to convey hurt, frustration, or continue with to ride with his fleeing emotions.
Eventually, he brings his head back up but he does not look at you, rather past you, fixing on something in the background. You turn and follow his line of sight, notice the outline of what looks to be a small structure. An old, petite cabin perched on the top of a small hill. The lightning of the storm illuminates the hills behind it.
You look back toward your partner who is still staring off into the distance. You are not sure what to say, what to do. But before your mind can decide, he moves, brushing past you as he begins his journey toward the shelter. You remain still, the light touch causing a shiver to sweep it's way over your chilled skin, as your ears pick up his hushed command.
"Let's move".
A/N: As always, please let me know what you thought by clicking the pretty purple button :)