Cognitive Dissonance
By:
dharmamonkey & Lesera128
Rated: M
Disclaimer:
We still own nothing, obviously. And, no, we haven't left the sandbox that we crashed quite yet, and we haven't really decided if we're going to or not. We've grown rather fond of it, actually. In fact, we think we'll stay a while longer.


Unf alert: Yeah, you know...unf, the tingly stuff. Yeah, that kind. We're sure you'll all be terribly disappointed to hear that this chapter includes some serious unfage. You've been warned. (Sure—like any of you are going to stop reading now...)


Chapter 4 - The Thin Ice


After dropping Brennan off at her apartment, Booth felt far too agitated to go straight home.

Her words still rang in his head: Informal encounters...mutually beneficial...must concur with that assessment...an enjoyable interlude.

Fuck, Bones, Booth thought morosely. Fuck.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, Booth saw that it was still fairly early. He knew that if he went home in his current mindset, he would just end up scaling the walls of his apartment anyway. Another thought occurred to him. I need to go someplace where I can get her out of my fucking mind. Someplace I don't have to think—just get her out of my head. He knew he had a few choices. First, he could go grab a drink. Right, he told himself. We all know how well that turned out the last time I went with that one, so no. Second, he could go for a run—perhaps from the Capitol, along the National Mall, past the Washington Monument and the Reflecting Pool, past the Vietnam Veterans and Korean Veterans Memorials to the Lincoln Memorial and then down Ohio Drive through West Potomac Park, then back again to the Capitol. Booth briefly considered it, and then his mind was flooded with images of all the times he had spent with Brennan on the Mall. I need to get away from her, not run to her for fuck's sakeso, no. The third and final option—going to the one place where Brennan's influence was the least tangible because it was Booth's space alone—seemed to be the best, particularly when he thought about how his attempt to work out his frustration the night before had been a sound idea, but ultimately ineffective on account of the crappy equipment he had at home. But, the Hoover. Booth nodded silently. Yeah, he told himself. I'll go to the Hoover and hit the gym. He could almost feel his muscles burning and the beads of sweat dribbling down his arms just thinking about it. That'll work, Booth thought. His decision made, Booth drove in the direction of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and its well-equipped basement gym with a plan to work out until he was exhausted and then go home to collapse into a dreamless slumber.

Although it was well after five o'clock by the time he got there, it was still early enough that there were other people working out in the gym. So, after ducking into the men's locker room to change into black mesh shorts and a standard-issue grey FBI T-shirt, Booth made his way over to the free weights area.

The prior night's weight lifting session had been far too short and grossly inadequate to cause any significant strain to any of his muscle groups. While his other early morning activities had satisfied at least some of his cardio requirements for the day, Booth recalled with a smirk, he was glad to have someone else to lift with who could spot him so that he could lift enough to make this workout count for something. He casually greeted a few of the other off-duty agents before he found someone who had come in just after him. Without either man saying a word to the other, each merely giving the other a wordless upward jerk of his chin and a corresponding nod of his head, the two agreed to spot one another. After a quick warm-up set of ten reps at a lower weight of 100 pounds, Booth could safely lift his usual 285 pounds—a very respectable 150% of his body weight, which he was proud to say put him among the strongest agents in the D.C. office in terms of bench press. The burn in his chest, arms and shoulders felt good, and after reciprocating for the other agent who had spotted him, he headed over to the boxing set-up in the corner.

Booth reached into the duffel bag he had stashed in the corner of the gym and retrieved his hand-wraps. As he unrolled the wrapping tape, he glanced down at the bruise on his knuckles from the night before. The skin over his second knuckle was still red, raw and swollen, and the oozing split in the skin had started to scab over, a tangible reminder of all that had happened and exactly what—or, rather, who—Booth had come to the gym to put out of his mind for just a little while. His heart racing as he merely thought of her, he knew he was already losing the battle as he struggled to retain some type of control of the situation. Damn, Booth. Come on. Get a grip. Realizing that the first thing he needed to do was calm down, Booth remembered his sniper training and tried controlling his breathing by exhaling slowly through his nose as he sought to fend away the creeping tendrils of memories that nagged his mind. He wrapped the tape tightly around the wrist, thumb and knuckles of each hand in a measured and methodical pattern, then walked up to the punching bag.

Booth stared for several long moments at the heavy bag that hung from the ceiling on a thick, galvanized steel chain, trying to concentrate as much of his confusion, frustration, and anger into a single effort. He took a step back, dropped his shoulders, then, after a quick juke to the left and then the right—old Sloppy Joe Nolan's move—he cocked his arm back and began his assault, unloading on the punching bag. With a loud grunt, he slugged it with a hard right to the middle of the bag, followed by a left hook that connected on the upper half of the bag. Even with the wrap, it stung when his right hand, with its split knuckle, contacted the bag. But, Booth reminded himself, it was a good kind of pain, the kind that simultaneously reminded him of both his strength and his vulnerability. The sensations of pain kept his mind focused on the here and now—what he was doing in this moment that demanded he not dwell on what he had been doing before or with whom. He kept at it for fifteen, almost twenty minutes, pounding the bag with every ounce of force and energy he could muster in a mindless, repetitive motion.

The rhythm soothed Booth, and he didn't realize how tired he actually was until his sweat-soaked T-shirt stuck to his chest like a second skin and his arms hung from his shoulders like lead weights. Satisfied that he had achieved as grueling a workout as possible, he bent down to retrieve his duffel bag. He reached inside for a towel, and mopped up the sweat that was pouring down his forehead and off the back of his neck. Tossing the damp towel back into his bag, Booth retrieved a bottle of water. Sucking down half of its lukewarm contents in a few gulps, he immediately started to feel a bit better. He was tired, but in a satisfying way. Knowing he had done all he could and that he had burned off the twitchiness that had been troubling him just an hour earlier, he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and peeled the wraps off his hands as he walked back to the locker room to shower and change.

As Booth walked up the stairs to his apartment, he smiled as he noted that part of his plan was already working. He was exhausted. It was a good kind of exhaustion: the mind-numbing kind that left behind a low-hanging haze that he hoped would obscure the recent complexities of his life, even if it just for a little while—and, at least on the ride home, it had.

However, Booth's steady state of mental numbness fractured as soon as he arrived at the door of his apartment. His usually adroit fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as they refused to cooperate with the orders issued by his mind. In an unusual moment of clumsiness, Booth fumbled his keys as he tried to unlock the front door to his apartment. Losing his grasp on them, he watched in annoyance as they clattered to the floor and landed next to the gray decorative rock that stood outside his door. He bent to retrieve them with one swift grab and merely shook his head and pursed his lips in frustration as he recalled how the surreal encounter the night before had started after Brennan had launched her impromptu attack on his rock when she couldn't find his spare key. Makes you sorta wonder what she would've done if she'd found the key and caught me, he wondered. How long was she out there? Would she have come in and found me cursing at that goddamn TV show, Moonlighting? Or was she out there even longer? Was she there when I was in the shower? He cringed at the thought. Was she really that close when I was thinking about her, and if she had been, what would've happened if she'd found me doing what I was doing in the shower because of her? Booth sighed and ran his hand through his still-damp hair. Fuck me, he grumbled. This is nuts.

Pushing such maudlin thoughts out of his mind, Booth jammed the key into the deadbolt and turned it roughly as the lock opened with a clack. He didn't spare the rock—or Brennan—a second thought as he entered his apartment, dropped his duffel bag on a chair near the doorway and walked into the kitchen with a white plastic bag containing a six-pack of beer he had picked up on the way home. Popping the beer into the fridge, Booth trudged out of the kitchen and into his bathroom. He grabbed a towel, and absentmindedly rubbed his damp hair a bit more before going back into his bedroom. Booth look away from the messy and unmade bed, the sheets sweat-creased and tangled, his two pillows laying one in front of the other against the headboard where he'd leaned back that morning while—

No.

Booth squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to flush the memory from his mind. He refused to think of what he'd been being doing there and with whom only hours earlier. He wondered if he'd still be able to smell her scent lingering on the sheets if he concentrated really hard. Nope, he thought sullenly. You're not doing this, Booth. That's not a part of the plan, so cut it the fuck out. He glanced at the bed again, shook his head with a long sigh. Maybe I'll just crash on the couch and change the sheets in the morning. He considered whether his back would punish him for it in the morning, then shook off the thought.

Opening his dresser drawer, Booth pulled out the first pair of clean skivvies he could lay his hands on before he quickly stripped, tossing the towel and his casual clothes in a pile in the far corner of his bedroom. Not wanting to linger any longer than necessary—and quite annoyed at himself for suddenly becoming unwilling to stay in even his own bedroom...because of her—he quickly changed into boxer shorts and a comfortable black wife-beater t-shirt.

He didn't plan on staying awake all that long: he just wanted to take a few minutes to decompress and unwind, maybe just long enough to have a beer, check to see what was on the TV, and chill out a little before going to sleep. Stopping by the kitchen on his way back from the bedroom, Booth grabbed a cold bottle of Yuengling from the fridge and then walked to the living room where he plopped himself down on his couch.

Reaching for the remote, Booth turned on ESPN and was pleased with what he saw—the NHL game of the night was night was his team, the Flyers, playing their hated rivals, the New York Rangers. Maybe my luck's changing, Booth thought, as he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips. Though it might be said I got lucky last night and look how well that turned out, he noted grimly. He shook away the thought, drew a long pull from the bottle and winced slightly as the cold beer rolled across his teeth and over his tongue.

Savoring the refreshing flavor of the cold beer, Booth smiled as he realized that the beer tasted good enough that it wasn't as old as he feared it might have been when he bought it. Nope, Booth thought, taking another sip. Definitely not skunky. Excellent. The six-pack was one that he'd picked up on the way home from the Hoover, and he hadn't expected much from the gas station he had stopped at to purchase it—a classic example of an impulse buy. But, at the time, Booth decided that if anyone both needed and deserved a beer after the day he'd had, it was him. Leaning back against the soft cushions of his couch, he glanced at the TV and decided that he would only watch for a few minutes—to clear his mind, he told himself.

However, soon one period had turned into two. Before he knew what had happened, Booth spent the better part of forty-five minutes watching the Flyers build up a respectable lead only to start to blow it towards the end of the second period. The net effect of it all was that watching the game proved anything but relaxing for him. By the end of the second period of play, and Booth's third (and thankfully, non-skunky) Yuengling, the Flyers had managed to squander a 2-0 lead to fall behind 4-2 after the Rangers converted two power plays into goals. The Flyers not only failed to covert on any of their second period power plays, but managed to flub one of them so badly that they narrowly escaped a fifth, short-handed Ranger goal only on account of their goalie's quick reflexes. Starting to become depressed at the Flyers' pathetic performance, and deciding that his luck had indeed not begun to change, by the beginning of the third period, Booth's focus began to wane. As the middle of that period approached, he fell asleep as the droning hockey play-by-play and the hum of his window A/C unit lulled him into a hypnotic state that made drifting off quite easy given his earlier physical exertions.

His head leaning back into the couch's pillows, his mouth open, and the remote control balanced in the crook where his thigh and hip met, Booth slept…but, more dangerously, he also dreamed.

At first, Booth wasn't even sure that he was dreaming. For him, the scene in which he found himself was fairly normal—routine, even, given where he'd been only a couple of hours before. He found himself back at the gym at the Hoover, getting ready to work out on a weekday evening after a long day in the field. He didn't think he'd have enough energy to put in a decent workout given the bitch of a day he'd had in the field, but once he'd gotten back to the Hoover, every time he thought of his partner, a flash of energy spurred him on and renewed his focus.

Brennan had been in rare form that afternoon, rearing up against every male law enforcement officer within a half-mile radius. She'd spent hours lambasting their lack of training, skills, professionalism, and intelligence. Each insult she threw at the seemingly endless line of sergeants, lieutenants, troopers, deputies, sheriffs, detectives, and local officials was tallied on a large digital scoreboard in the background that made Booth wince once he realized that for each insult Brennan tossed out, he was the one who would have to spend two hours in the Hoover's penalty box sitting through a training seminar on "How to Maintain a Non-Hostile Working Environment." Brennan had seemed to reach the peak of her unprofessional and rabidly aggressive behavior when she went so far as to threaten several D.C. Metro officers. Booth finally had to step in when—after the four most obnoxious officers repeatedly told her she had a nice pair of tits and that she should them show off more often—she threatened to respond by either (1) filing multiple sexual harassment law suits or (2) kicking them all in the nuts. Thankfully, Booth managed to talk her down before she shot off any more flak that was going to, inevitably, rain down on his head.

In reality, Booth recalled with a grin, he hadn't really wanted to talk her down, because he'd actually agreed with the D.C. Metro cops—the new alterations to the Jeffersonian field jumpsuit were quite effective in showing off what Booth considered to be one of Brennan's most attractive physical attributes—but, it wasn't like Booth could just tell Brennan that she had a great pair of tits and he wouldn't mind getting a chance to see more of them more often. See, touch, rub, and generally be able to suck on, Booth thought with a smirk. I wonder what her cup size isa really full C, at least, right? He paused and considered what her chest looked like in profile. Or, maybe, a small set of Ds? Hmmmmm. He thought about all the times he'd stolen a glance down her blouse and wondered how much of that delicious, round cleavage was owed to her choice of bras and how much was Mother Nature's gift to, well, him. I think that's a question that needs to be answered, and though it'd be tough, I think I'd like to volunteer for any scientific study that's gonna find the answer to that question.

Then, suddenly, a louder voice popped up, one that sounded disturbingly like Sister Margaret Katherine from Booth's after-school CCD classes—a nun that had been older than dirt when his grandfather Hank had been a boy—chastising him in that nagging, slightly screechy voice of hers. Seeley Joseph Booth, what type of disrespectful and impure thoughts are these? He flexed his hand into a fist and winced as he felt his knuckles burn, the way they did every time he'd gotten his hands rapped by the Sister's ruler. He thought back to that one time the good Sister had caught him whispering in the back of the CCD class with Allison O'Malley, whose blue eyes and flaxen blonde hair had enthralled him even at the age of twelve. He'd been smitten with for weeks before he gave her the old Boothy grin and tried to talk her into taking a walk with him after class to the ballfield behind the church school. Sister Margaret Katherine had brought that ruler down on his hands with a fury, railing on him about how holding hands leads to one thing after another and before long he would end up with his soul in peril as he lusted after his female work partner. Temperance is your partner! the voice hissed at him. How can you ever expect to keep things professional (strictly professional, remember, young man?) if you're constantly fantasizing about her physical measurements? For shame, Seeley, for shame!

Flushing red, Booth realized that the second voice was right. What are you thinking, Booth? This is madness. She's your partner. You can't think of her like that. It's just not right. So, get your mind out of the gutter, keep your eyes off her chest, and do the right thingwhich isn't telling Bones she has a great pair of tits, by the way, just FYI. Yes, they were partners, Booth finally, albeit reluctantly, agreed, the luscious image of her breasts still lingering in his mind. Sadly pushing the image away, he nodded to himself. After all, partners just didn't do that sort of thing.

After he stepped in and broke up Brennan's skirmish with the D.C. Metro cops, it quickly became clear that in so doing he drew her fire, becoming himself the target of her fury. She then proceeded to rage against him as vociferously as she had against all of the other law enforcement officials she'd crossed paths with that day, tearing into him with a fierceness and a venom that he'd never heard come out of her mouth before. Eventually, after letting Brennan insult everything from his ability to do simple math to knowing how to spell his own name to verifying that, yes, he actually did know what a clitoris was, where it was found on the female anatomy, and what it was for, Booth had finally managed to get her calmed down and dropped her off at the Jeffersonian. Okay, it was really more like I got to ride in my car with her while she drove us back to the lab, but still, Booth thought, recalling how her final salvo, and his final surrender, was to hand her the keys to the Tahoe when she demanded them before they left the crime scene. Once Brennan had exited the SUV, she left the the keys in the ignition without even looking back to acknowledge Booth let alone say goodbye. No, Brennan had just left him sitting there by himself, and it was perhaps that casual dismissal that stung him the most. Eventually, gathering his wits about him as he walked around and climbed into the driver's seat, Booth had managed to make it back to the Hoover with enough energy and motivation to get a good workout in before calling it a night.

As Booth moved over to his preferred weight bench, he frowned when he looked around and saw the gym was empty. Knowing he wouldn't have anyone to spot him, he reluctantly settled for doing a few sets at a lower weight level even though it wasn't really what he wanted to do. Then, again, Booth, come on. You should be used to this by now. Since when do you ever really get what you want? As he laid down on the weight bench, he began to do bench presses, lifting a mere 160 pounds—considerably less than his usual 285 pounds because there is no one to spot him—as he tried to get into a good workout rhythm.

He tried to make the lifts count for something by doing them slower, trying to isolate the muscle groups by using yielding isometric movements, then doing a higher number of reps. Booth's pectorals, triceps, and deltoids twitched in response to his efforts, but the burn he felt was slight. In truth, he knew it was inadequate for the type of workout he knew he really needed, and instantly, his frustration mounted as he felt insufficiently challenged by the workout. He wanted desperately to be able to lift more weight, to feel a deeper, more intense burn, but because the gym was empty and there no one to spot him, Booth knew bench-pressing more weight under such circumstances would be unsafe and downright stupid. While he knew he could be foolish in certain emotional aspects of his life—particularly where his partner was concerned—he knew better than to do something idiotic like lift more weight than he should without the proper backup. So, Booth tried to content himself with what he could do, even if wasn't really what he wanted to do at that exact moment.

As Booth slowly lifted the barbell from his chest, and prepared to hold it a few inches above it with his arms bent halfway, he suddenly realized that the barbell had become much, much heavier than it should been—too heavy, really—and he felt his arms slipping as the bar sunk down closer to his chest. He struggled to lift the barbell away from his chest, and a wave of panic washed over him as he wondered if he had somehow managed to do something foolish without meaning to do so. Wouldn't be the first time, Booth thought. And, probably won't be the last. But, what the fuck did I just do? I don't even understand itwhat's happening, how I did it, or what the hell I should do next.

As his brain struggled to figure out how to fix the problem, Booth suddenly realized that someone was standing behind the bench as a shadow fell across his field of vision. The form leaned over the uprights and watched him with a mischievous grin on her familiar face.

"Well, well, well," she said. "This looks rather interesting. What's happening here?" Her eyes alight with amusement, Brennan tilted her head as she asked, "Need any help there, Booth?" Her familiar, husky voice then laughed a low, throaty laugh that almost would be considered a giggle had it come out of any other woman's mouth. She looked at him with a critical eye. "I would've expected that a man in your superior physical condition would have possessed the strength, stamina, and determination to manage a bit more weight than your current regimen seems to indicate you're capable of lifting, Booth."

"I just knew if I was going to have a problem tonight, it was going to involve you in some way, Bones," Booth told her in a gasping voice, his arms trembling as he struggled to keep the barbell from pressing into his heaving chest. "I thought you had shit to do at the lab..."

"I got bored," Brennan shrugged. "There was nothing there for me to play with, so I decided to see if I might be able to arrange a more enjoyable interlude here." She stopped, glanced around the gym, and then pointed at him. "Seeing as how you're the only one here with whom I might be able to initiate some type of informal encounter, Booth, it seems like you're the best option available at the moment, so I'm all yours—that is, if you want some help."

"Don't do me any fucking favors, Bones," Booth grunted.

"So, is that your way of telling me you don't need me?" Brennan asked, pouting a bit as she stuck out her puffy bottom lip. "That you want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that," he retorted. "Quit putting fucking words in my mouth. Stay if you want to stay. You always do as you goddamn well please, anyway," Booth told her.

She cocked her head and said, "And, if I want to stay, what would you want me to do, Booth?"

Booth narrowed his eyes at her before he grunted, "Fine. If you're gonna stay and help me, then stay and help me, Bones."

Shrugging, Brennan reached down to assist him as he requested. Booth felt immediate relief from the tearing sensation in his chest as she helped him bring the barbell over his head to rest on the uprights as he continued to wonder how the barbell had gotten as heavy as it had without him realizing it. Seriously, what in the hell is going on here? He then glanced at Brennan. None of this makes any goddamn sense.

Taking a deep breath, Booth nodded at her and addressed her earlier comment. "And, by the way," he said to her, "my strength and stamina are just fine, Bones, thanks." He rolled his right shoulder—the one that crapped out his freshman year and ended his college football career—in a backwards, circular motion to try and soothe the lingering burn brought on by the sudden increase in the weight his deltoids were forced to move.

"I'm not so sure about that, Booth," Brennan said doubtfully. She eyed him as he moved to sit up, but suddenly found himself unable to move as she walked around to the side of the bench. It was then that Booth noticed that she was still wearing the new Jeffersonian field jumpsuit she'd been wearing earlier at the crime scene. As compared to the old version of the field suit, it was still dark navy in color, still made of a shiny and smooth ballistic nylon material, and was still emblazoned with the usual white, red, and yellow Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab insignia patch. However, the cut of the jumpsuit was more form-fitting than the old one, clinging to every single curve of Brennan's body and accentuating the sway of her hips and swell of her ass in a very pleasing way. It reminded Booth of the skin-tight bodysuits that Diana Rigg used to wear in that 1960s British TV show The Avengers. The sleeves had been eliminated from this version of the jumpsuit, revealing the creaminess of Brennan's long arms. The bright silver zipper pull bounced against her chest, wiggling with each breath she took as her the smooth, almost satiny material strained to cover the fullness of her tits that Booth had so appreciatively recalled before her sudden appearance in the gym. Lastly, the standard gumboots had been replaced with a pair of three-inch black peep-toe stiletto heels that defined the term 'fuck-me pumps' as Booth found his mind racing with thoughts of how those heels would feel digging into the flesh of his lower back as he—

Brennan knew he was looking at her, and she said with a sensuous nod of her head, "I just don't know if I'm convinced, Booth," she said.

"Oh, really, Bones?" he said. "And, I suppose you have some ways that I might be able to 'convince' you, right?"

"Of your strength and stamina?" she asked as she reached for the zipper and very slowly began to pull it down her chest. Booth's eyes followed her hand, his throat going dry as he swallowed once, watching greedily as each inch of the zipper revealed more and more of her creamy skin and her enthralling breasts. Brennan held his gaze for a few seconds as she slowly pulled the zipper down the middle of her chest, and then, she suddenly sped up her movements as the zipper dipped between her breasts and approached her navel.

Booth's mouth opened to protest, but he didn't even have the chance to get a word out before she had quickly unfastened the jumpsuit completely and stepped out of it. Letting it fall into a crumple at her feet, she quickly stepped out of it, and lifting one of her long, lean legs over his muscular thighs, straddled him.

As Booth watched her, he suddenly realized that she was now clad in nothing but a very sheer pair of dark blue lace and mesh panties that were embroidered with a darker blue decorative thread. On her chest, a matching lace demi-cup bra—one that seemed to his eye to be at least one cup size too small—barely contained the soft flesh of the top of her breasts as they spilled over the edge of the fabric. Damn, he smiled to himself, they look even better up close. He couldn't help himself as he marveled at his closeness to the objects that had seemed to mesmerize him as if Brennan had hypnotized him with some sort of spell. Squirming a bit as he started to feel the first tell-tale signs of an erection, Booth wiggled on the bench before he suddenly realized that he had undergone a transformation of sorts himself at some point. No longer clad in his normal workout attire, he wondered how he had become barefoot and shirtless, clad only in a pair of red plaid jersey-knit boxer shorts. It as if some magic wand had been waved at him and granted a wish—although whose wish was being granted by such an arrangement, Booth couldn't quite say.

Brennan looked down at him, tightening her thighs as she pressed her legs against his in an appreciative movement as she asserted a pleasurable amount of friction against his lower body. The look she gave him sent a shiver down Booth's spine, as did her next words: "I think if you're going to convince me of the truth of your prior assertions, Booth, we're going to need to see some proof to substantiate them."

"Get off of me," he heard himself growl, not quite certain when the aggression now evident in his voice had appeared. "Get off of me," he grunted, "and I'll be happy to show you how good my strength and stamina are, Bones. I'll show you just how damn determined I can really be when I really need to be—"

"Is that so?" Brennan said, tilting her head as if considering his offer. "Really, Booth? Is that so?"

"Yeah, Bones," he growled again. "If you let me up, Bones, I think it'll take all of fifteen seconds before I have you pressed up against that wall over there, legs spread wide before I take you from behind and show you how fucking fantastic another 'informal encounter' between us can really be—"

Considering for a moment the image he painted, Brennan threw her head back with a hearty laugh. She then slowly shook her head as she looked down at him and said sternly, "No, I don't think so." She paused, then added, "As tempting as that particular scenario sounds, it'll have to wait for another time—especially since I know how skilled you can be when you're pounding into me from behind. But, that's not the protocol we'll be using for this experiment, Booth."

Booth's anger flared as he shook his head at her description. "Experiment? Are we back to that again, Bones? Is that all this is, all I am to you? A goddamn science experiment?"

"You sound as if you're offended by that notion for some reason," Brennan remarked casually.

"You bet your sweet ass I am," he grunted. "We both know that I'm not a goddamn experiment. What we did, Bones, what happened between us, was more than that—much more. So, don't you dare try to fucking squintify it or to squintify me."

At this, Brennan laughed again, and her laughter infuriated Booth further. He struggled to sit up, summoning all of his rage and indignation as he tried to wrench himself free, but her grip around his torso was like a steel vice. He continued to struggle in futility.

Looking down at him, Brennan clucked her tongue at him. "Stop that, Booth. Stop that right now."

"No—"

"Yes," Brennan said, pressing her knees against him and emphasizing exactly who was in control at the current moment—and it wasn't Booth.

"Goddamn it, Bones. Let me up!"

"No," Brennan repeated. "Why should I, Booth? Give me one good reason why I should, and I will."

"Because I said so—"

"Not good enough," Brennan replied simply with a small shake of her head, cutting him off. "Try again."

"Fine, then how about this?" He held his jaw tight as he considered his words. "Because I'm not an experiment, and I deserve better than to be treated like one," he said to her, his voice catching in his throat as she shifted her weight, brushing her thigh gently against his growing erection.

"No, you're not. But, you need to take a moment and think about why you'd think that I would ever—"

"Why do you think you can boss me around like—?"

Brennan responded, a touch of reassurance in her voice as her lips pouted slightly when she sensed his frustrated annoyance quickly growing into anger. Taking her hand, she lifted a finger and placed it on his lips to cut off his tirade. "Now, stop that," she said quietly. Booth, perhaps more focused on her words than her gesture, stopped talking. She nodded and slowly lifted her finger from his lips.

When she did so, Booth spoke again, this time his tone not quite so hostile. "Stop what?"

"Stop taking things so personally," she chided him. "You're not the experiment, Booth. You never were. You never could be. And, deep down, I think you know that. You're just doing what you always do, and let yourself think the worst of things because you always take things so personally." Brennan stopped and then shook her head as she looked at him.

"And, by the way, that's why I was laughing earlier," she explained. " I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at how far off you are on things." She stopped and shook her head again. "How could you ever think that you're just an experiment to me, Booth? You know that you mean more to me than that." She pursed her lips as their eyes locked for a moment. "You always have, and you always will. You've just got to stop thinking the worst of me. If you stop it, and maybe, just maybe give me a little credit, I might surprise you—"

"I don't mean to think the worst of you," he admitted, "but I can't help it." He sighed. "I don't want—" Booth's voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard.

"What?" Brennan pressed.

"I know I'm already fighting a losing battle," he said, his voice dark and sad, "and I know that if I'm not careful, if I'm not careful about us, then the damage that could be done—"

"Stop that," Brennan chided him again. "Give me some credit, huh? You know I'm a genius, so give me some credit, and let me surprise you."

"I do," Booth told her. "And, you do—every damn day, Bones—but I worry..."

Shaking her head, Brennan said, "No. You have to stop trying to take the burden of it completely on yourself, Booth. No wonder you always take things so personally. This—us—if it's ever going to work, you've got to believe that I can do what I need to do for us. I may need a little help from you here and there, but in the end, you know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Give me a chance to show you I can do it. Have a little faith in me, Booth."

At that particular statement, Booth snorted.

Brennan shrugged with a grin, "Ironic statement, given who it's coming from, I know—"

"Just a bit," he admitted with a chuckle.

"Even still. You've got to do it. And, you've got to stop taking it personally, and enjoy it for what it can be, for what we can be, Booth. Because—" Brennan stopped, a deliciously evil gleam coming into her eye. "You're not the experiment here, Booth. We're the experiment, and, as I seem to recall, you didn't have a problem with that before when it was so damn fun—"

Suddenly surprised to find that he was able to move his hands and arms, Booth lifted his right hand to wipe the sweat from his brow before he narrowed his eyes and he looked at her face again, intensely studying every lovely and deliciously familiar aspect of it. Her cheeks, slender neck, and creamy shoulders were deeply flushed and her pale green eyes seemed to him to have darkened to the color of the ocean surf as her pupils dilated with desire.

"Fine," Booth conceded. "So, we're the experiment?"

"Yes," Brennan admitted.

"So, what kind of experiment is this, then, Bones?" he asked, noticing how the timbre of his own voice had dropped half an octave from his usual speaking voice the more he continued to talk. "Are you trying to see if we can break the laws of physics?" He paused momentarily to gauge her reaction.

Lifting her eyes, Brennan playfully shook her head. "No, I believe that has been overdone, don't you think, Booth? As a matter a fact, I believe the idea of attempting to break unbreakable laws borders on the trite as far as we're concerned at this point in our relationship."

"Relationship?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her. "What happened to 'informal encounter?'"

"Potato, potahto," she said. "Same damn difference, Booth."

"Right," Booth said. "So, about that idea of breaking unbreakable laws—"

"And, as I said, Booth, it's trite. You know what this is between us even if it's not spelled out in three-foot neon lights. So, why not go for something a bit more...interesting?" She eyed him for a minute and then said, "Besides, Booth, we both know that I can make science very fun and very exciting for you if I'm of a mind to do so." She glanced down at the erection straining against the flap of his boxers and said, "Of course, it seems like you might not need my help on the excitement part, at this point—"

"Maybe," Booth agreed with a sheepish grin. "But, still, it might be fun to try," he said with a confident waggle of his eyebrows.

Brennan chuckled at his response. She slowly shook her head as she reached up and pulled free the elastic that held her hair back in a rather homely and nondescript ponytail. Pulling it free, she tossed the elastic aside, and shook out her hair. Her auburn hair flared in a mass of shiny waves, almost transforming her face. Booth inhaled deeply as he caught a whiff of her shampoo—a type of fruity coconut and citrus concoction that made him want to bury his nose in the mass of her soft hair and inhale as if his life were dependent on it. As her hair fell about her shoulders, Brennan said, "This, Booth, is not an experiment in physics—it's an experiment in chemistry. Orgasmic chemistry, to be precise."

"Wait," he said, interrupting her with a chuckle. "Isn't that supposed to be 'organic' chemistry, Bones?"

She laughed at him again, and again, Booth felt his groin tighten at the sweet sound of her laugh. Leaning forward, Brennan whispered in his ear, "Not in this instance." Pushing her chest tightly against his naked, sweat-slicked chest, she gently pressed her lips to the skin just below his Adam's apple. He groaned at that moment, and spurred on by the sound her simple movement had elicited from him, she stood up without a further word and reached for the waistband of his boxer shorts. She tugged at them impatiently until he relented, giving in to help her just this once as he lifted his ass off the weight bench high enough to allow her to pull the shorts off his hips. Her movements grazed his cock in the process, which caused him to inhale sharply at the sudden sensation of it. Her evil grin widened as she slid the boxers down his thighs and over his knees before finally letting them fall to his ankles. With an awkward wiggle, Booth kicked them off his feet and carelessly to the side.

Booth was now completely nude, his cock hard and standing proud over the patch of crisp brown curls at its root. Brennan looked down, eyeing his arousal with a speculative look and then, almost as if she had decided to bestow her approval, she nodded and purred, "You have a magnificently-formed cock, Booth." He wasn't sure how to reply to that verbally, although the slight twitch of his cock in her direction seemed to say all he needed to in response to the compliment. He felt further absolved from having to respond verbally when Brennan straddled him again, this time grinding herself against him in such a way that he could feel how warm and slick she was through the crotch of her sheer, nearly translucent, dark blue satin panties. Since when did Bones start coordinating her bra and panties to match the field jump suit? Booth wondered in appreciation. Does she do this often? He stopped and then grinned. Either way, I like it. That's hot. So fucking hot

Sufficiently encouraged, Booth grinned again but remained quiet. He decided to let his actions speak louder than anything his words could possibly say to Brennan. Lifting one of his hands, he reached up to slide one of the straps of her bra off her creamy white shoulder, his palm brushing across her erect nipple as it moved up her chest.

Brennan seemed tempted to let Booth have a bit of input into the flow of events between them. Her eyes closed, just for a second, and she started to moan as her back arched at the touch of his callused right palm on her nipple. Then, suddenly, as if her own moan had snapped her back to reality, her eyes shot open, and she shook her head quickly. "No," she snapped, pushing his hand away roughly. "This isn't your experiment, Booth." Glowering down at him, her lips pursed tightly, Brennan again shook her head in firm instance of her claim. "Do you understand that? Because we absolutely cannot afford any misunderstandings about this point. Not anymore. It's too important, right?"

Booth nodded slowly.

"So, you understand?" Brennan asked, punctuating her points with a twist of her hips as she repeated the crucial word. "Mine, Booth. All of it. It's mine. You understand? Mine. Everything. All of it. Mine. All mine."

Booth swallowed once and then nodded obediently, a part of him puzzled as he uncharacteristically agreed without so much as even a token protest. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice already growing hoarse.

"Not 'yeah'," Brennan corrected him lightly as she wagged her finger at him in disapproval. "'Yes.'"

"Fuck the grammar lesson, Bones," Booth groaned. She eyed him critically, insisting, and finally he relented with a grunted, "Yes."

"Yes, what?" Brennan prompted impatiently. "Come on, Booth. Just say what I want to hear, and it'll be worth it." Her eyes narrowed and twitched as she stared into his deep brown eyes. "I promise."

He met her stare and held it for another second and then grunted, "Yours." If the only thing he had been rewarded with was her smile at that single word, it probably would've been enough—more than enough. As it was, when Brennan rewarded him with a sharp twist of her body, Booth felt his whole body start to build with a wonderful and wondrous ache. "Oh, God," he hissed. "It's yours, Bones."

"What's mine?" she prompted again.

"Everything," he muttered. "Fuck, Bones. All of it. Everything. Whenever, wherever. All of it, all of me. I'm yours. Everything's yours. Always has been, always will be, right, Bones?. Everything—it's yours."

Pleased with his words, Brennan nodded and raised her body once more, tearing off the delicate sheer panties in a swift, hard movement that took Booth completely by surprise. Now clad only in her too-small brassiere, she reached beneath her and grabbed his thick, stiff cock, stroking it once in her hand, then once more before positioning it just so. He clenched his eyes shut as he felt the wonderful friction of her slender fingers encase his cock, and it was everything he could do to restrain himself from thrusting into her hand.

"Eyes up here, Booth," Brennan murmured. "I know you love looking at my tits, but right now, I really need your eyes up here." She emphasized her command with a slight grasp of her hand. Booth moaned, but complied as his eyes opened and brown eyes met greenish-blue. "Good," she said triumphantly. Deciding to reward him—and herself, too, if Booth had to guess—once again, she held his cock steady in her fist as she slowly lowered herself onto it, her hot, wet folds enveloping him as she took every inch of him into her, sucking in a loud, hissing breath as she felt his hard thickness take up every bit of space she had to give. "Oh, God, Booth—"

"Bones," he moaned. He felt her start to move up and down in a dominant way in which Booth knew he had never experienced with her. He reveled in how this particular sexual position seemed to empower Brennan in a way that he had never imagined and found more fucking sexy than he could have ever thought possible. Suddenly, needing to convey his approval and encouragement to her, Booth moaned, "Oh, yeah, Bones. Fuck. Keep moving. Oh, God, that feels good. Keep going, baby—"

"Oh, my God," Brennan groaned, not bothering to correct him about the use of such a infantile term applied to her person, an action that yet again reinforced the difference between Temperance Brennan of the real world and the dream-Brennan of this reality. No, this wasn't the real Brennan, a small voice dared to remind Booth, and one which was promptly told to shut the hell up in a vicious snarl from the other side of his mind. No, real-Brennan wouldn't have tolerated him calling her 'baby' for a split second while the dream-Brennan seemed all too happy to be rewarded with such an endearment used in reference to her.

"Oh, fuck, Booth…I'm so close."

She pressed herself down onto his rigid length once more, letting a gasp escape her lips as Booth felt her tighten around him in a wonderful sensation that was, in turn, driving him forward towards his own wonderfully welcome release.

"Booth," she whispered. "Oh, God—Booo-thhh."

And, suddenly, Brennan's velvety voice and warm folds suddenly disappeared as Booth's eyes snapped open. It took him several seconds to catch his breath and realize where he was. The post-game hockey show was blaring in the background, a replay of the game-winning goal apparently having been what jolted him awake, but all he could hear was the sound of blood roaring in his ears and his heavy, panting breath. He looked down and saw that he was completely hard and that somehow, apparently in his sleep, he'd pulled his cock out of his shorts where it now stood, erect and twitching in his hand.

Merely staring at it, blinking mindlessly as a part of his brain wondered where Brennan had gone and who he had to kill to get her back to the exact spot where she had been just a few seconds before, Booth had to stop another part of his mind from howling in anguish and frustration. He was close, so close, and now he wasn't. He was far, so far away, and it was driving him insane. He stopped. He couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't think. It was killing him.

Realizing he had little choice in the matter even if he didn't really, really want to do it anyway, a single thought echoed in Booth's mind—much as it had approximately twenty-four hours before as he had been standing in his shower: Fuck it.

Letting his head fall back again onto the couch's soft cushions, Booth allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he wrapped his fingers around his erect cock and began to stroke. He spread his legs and visualized Brennan lowering herself onto him, her eyes shut but her mouth open as a long, low groan escaped from her lips as she took him into her, her wet folds coming to rest at last in the nest of crisp curls at the base of his cock. Booth held himself in a tight fist, dragging the skin up and down over his shaft as he thought of the way she felt, so hot, wet and tight, and as he remembered the sounds she made the night before as he pumped in and out of her, he felt himself get even harder. He stroked his thumb across the tip and his middle finger along the sensitive spot just underneath the tip, and his hips jerked at the sensation. "God, Bones—" he moaned, echoing his earlier, pleading groans of pleasure.

He saw her raising and lowering herself onto him, her hands on his shoulders, and as his hand worked his flesh, he imagined putting each of his hands on her hips, his fingertips curling around to rest on the smooth curve at the base of her spine, pushing her down harder on each of her downstrokes. As if he could almost hear her breathless moans, he imagined hearing his name fall from her lips. "Booth—"

His hips jerked again as the sensations grew more and more intense, and Booth saw himself thrusting up to meet each of Brennan's downstrokes, burying himself as deeply as he could inside of her. He wanted to bury himself so deep in her that he would never find his way out again. Grunting savagely, he felt his release coiling tightly in his belly as his mind filled with the image of her full breasts, bouncing with each movement and barely contained in the sheer fabric of dark blue that did nothing to hide her dark color or pebbled texture of her erect nipples. As he jerked himself harder and faster, Booth saw himself reach up and unhook her bra as the fabric fell away from her magnificent tits. He cupped them, one in each hand and felt the hard points of her nipples press against his palms. "Oh, God, Bones. Fuck—"

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, clenched his teeth and grunted as his hips jerked forward one last time as he came, ropey strands of cum splattering on his belly as he called out her name one last time before he leaned back against the couch, spent and satiated.

Several more minutes passed before Booth felt some rationality return to his mind. Cracking open an eye, he looked down at the mess he had made of himself. He stood up, holding his hand against his sticky belly as he headed towards his bathroom to take his second shower of the evening. Fuck, Booth! he chastised himself. What am I doing? the voice in the back of his head asked.

God, what's she done to me? It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet, and look what she's done to me.

He paused and glanced at the clock, a look of disgust on his face as he shook his head slowly.

This is madness.


Oh, dear. That was naughty, very naughty.
And you enjoyed every minute of reading it.

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