This little oneshot is in response to Lerdo's challenge to write a piece inspired by The Police song, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." This story could even be read as preceding the other oneshot I just wrote, Fiona. Preceding by quite a bit, but whatever.
I love challenges and prompts, and since I have so little time for finding inspiration, if anyone wants to send something along for me to write about, I'll give it a shot. For the record, I don't do well with one-word prompts.
Thanks to FauxMaven for checking this over despite having a very hectic life herself. I don't know what I'd do without her.
Oh, and one more thing.. I mention something called a CSA in here. It stands for Community Supported Agriculture. Basically, you pay for a share of a farm's harvest. Sometimes you can go and harvest your own share rather than just picking up a box of produce each week, and this is called a CSA workshare.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones or anything to do with it, I just like to play with the characters.
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Rows of tall leafy plants hedged Booth in, two walls of green leading down a hillside and stretching into the distance. The plants were dense, full of dark green, multi-pointed leaves and scattered with clusters of ripe pink Brandywine tomatoes. Staked a few feet apart, the fragrant plants left gaps here and there through which he could see Brennan in the adjacent row. She wore a dark blue tank top; the long sleeve shirt she had worn earlier was now tied around her waist. She swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, mopping sweat from her brow. He watched her until she stepped behind the next plant, and then he continued his work.
He didn't know why or how he had agreed to this. All he knew was that Brennan had been talking animatedly about the CSA workshare she had joined at some farm in Maryland, about how she would go and harvest her own share of what the farm produced—and she looked so damn excited, her eyes glinting with a vivacious light, her hands moving enthusiastically. Before he knew it, he had agreed to spend a good chunk of his Saturday helping her toil in the fields when he could be at home in bed, or maybe on a beach somewhere working on his tan.
And he hated to admit it, but it was actually a little bit fun. Not picking tomatoes (though he liked the fact that somehow the tomato plants smelled just like his mother's cooking, even the basil and oregano), nor constantly stooping to wrest strawberries from plants that grew only six inches off the ground—but getting to spend time with Brennan. He got to watch the way her shoulder blades moved under the material of her tank top and the way the few strands of hair that escaped from her ponytail clung to the back of her neck, damp with perspiration. The times that she accidentally dropped a piece of fruit were especially good—he always made sure he hung back so he'd have a good view of that. The way she carried the basket on her hip was even appealing, somehow.
But more than that, the whole activity seemed domestic. He could almost pretend that they were working their own land—not that he ever aspired to be a farmer, but this was really something that married couples did, right? They owned a house, grew some tomatoes in pots on their patio, and maybe had a few blueberry bushes in the side yard. He'd already hinted about the house Brennan should build, and even insinuated himself into that fantasy. But he'd never even asked her on a date, much less talked marriage (well, Tony and Roxie didn't count). But that was definitely what he wanted from her, though he had never had the courage to admit it to anyone else.
Brennan had moved quite a bit further ahead, so he hastily pulled a few firm, pink tomatoes off the vines and dropped them into his basket. He caught up and while pretending to busy himself with picking fruit, he watched the way her slender fingers delicately grasped a tomato and turned it just so, with a gentle tug downwards. How could she make being a field hand look so sexy, so magical?
His stillness must have lasted a touch longer than was reasonable; he must not have been discrete enough with his daydreaming about her deft fingers on his body, because she had to say his name twice before getting his attention.
"Booth, what are you doing?" she asked, a hint of exasperated amusement in her voice.
He coughed, stalling for a second. "I was just thinking of my mother's marinara." He had been earlier anyway.
She smiled briefly, and resumed her work. He watched her for another moment, thinking that maybe he should tell her something more truthful—not necessarily about his lewd fantasies, but something to do with domesticity, comforts and hearths, for as long as we both shall live.
"Hey, Bones, do you ever…" he trailed off as she looked up at him, his courage waning like the sun flees before the moon.
She quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "Yes?"
"Never mind," he muttered.
Someday.