Chapter 4:
.
"Hey Chris, do you know the answer to number six?"
"Not yet."
Michael and Christine are sitting on the catwalk at the Jeffersonian. They usually do their homework in the furnished area that overlooks the lab space. The couches and chairs are surprisingly comfortable, and a room full of vending machines is thankfully close-by.
Below the catwalk, Hodgins, Brennan, and Cam evaluate the body of the petite, twenty-two year old Caucasian woman who was brought to the lab early that morning. Booth is leaning against the railing of the lab area, watching the scientists work and taking notes in a small notepad. Angela is in her office, trying to find the name of the young woman, who was found without her wallet or any form of identification.
Christine and Michael, who are trying to finish on their anatomy homework for their summer class, can easily drown out the voices of the scientists working below.
Christine sighs loudly from the chair opposite Michael, "Why did we think taking a summer class was a good idea?"
Michael shrugs in response and takes a drink of his water bottle, "In retrospect, taking anatomy over the summer wasn't a good idea."
"Clearly," Christine rolls her eyes, "But taking it over the summer in six weeks sure as hell beats taking it at school in three months.
"It will be good to get it over with," Michael agrees with a nod and focuses his attention back down at the textbook in his hands. He can't help but feel like their conversation feels almost…robotic. They aren't teasing or playful or flirty like they used to be. They're almost emotionless with their conversation, something he isn't used to between them.
But things have changed.
He clears his throat, "So do you have the answer for six yet?"
Christine looks down to her textbook to a picture of a bone on the open page, "I'm pretty positive…it's an ulna."
Michael squints at the picture, "I think it looks like a humerus, actually."
"No way," Christine looks up from the book to meet Michael's eyes, "The bone in that picture is too small to be a humerus. It has to be a forearm bone. Ulna or radius."
Michael shakes his head to disagree, "But the ends of the bone make it look like a humerus. See where it should connect to the joints on both ends?"
Christine sighs, "Well, it would be a million times easier to do this assignment if these pictures were more defined," she scowls down at the offending book in her lap, "How old are these books anyway?"
"The picture is pretty hard to see," Michael agrees.
Christine looks up to Michael with a smirk on her face, "You know, we are currently sitting in a lab…"
Michael matches her smirk with one of his own as he finishes her sentence, "…One that's filled with bones. A whole basement of bones, actually."
Christine stands up and places her book on the coffee table in front of her, "Do you think our parents would mind if we drop into Limbo to look at some arm bones?" She slips her sandals back on her feet and stretches her arms above her head.
"Doubt it," Michael stands and picks up his book to take with them down to the basement, "But we should probably ask on our way down."
Christine nods, "Good idea."
"The picture is clearly a humerus."
"No way," Christine smirks and twirls the arm bone in her gloved right hand, "The picture looks exactly like this bone. And this is an ulna."
"I want to look for myself," Michael crosses his arms over his chest, "You've had it long enough. I should have gone first, I'm older."
"Oh, please!" Christine rolls her eyes, "Are you really playing that game?"
"Hell yeah I am," Michael grins, "I'm older, so I should look at it first."
"By like nine months!"
"Still counts!"
The smile that widens on Michael's face is a little too…evil, Christine's brain decides.
Considering the speed at which Michael's arms move, the fact that Christine is able to stop him from snatching the bone away from her hand on the first try is a flat-out miracle, but somehow she is able to keep the bone out of his grasp not once, not twice, but three times.
She squeals and giggles each time he misses the bone.
And suddenly they are normal again. They are teasing and playful and best friends again. Like they always have been. For a moment, Michael remembers how things used to be. For a moment, the awkward feelings between them disappear.
"You can't win, I will prevail!" he bellows as they circle each other like two boxers in the ring.
Michael raises his knee to jab Christine playfully in the stomach. Her feet shuffle backwards as she sticks her butt out to narrowly dodge his playful attack.
When she straightens, her back collides with the cold, stone wall.
A new smile spreads on Michael's face – this one even more sinister than his first. It shows Christine know that she's cornered like an animal about to become a hunter's prey.
A flash of mixed emotions flows through her in the one second it takes her best friend to produce that smile.
And she instinctively reacts before she even has a chance to seriously consider what her actions may cause.
She raises her right leg to playfully kick the side of his stomach. She almost makes contact with his side, but his hand catches her ankle.
His hand doesn't let go.
She flicks her leg to try and break free from his grasp, but all she manages to do is kick off her sandal.
Almost in slow motion, Michael and Christine watch the sandal fall to the floor with a soft thud. They both stare at the sandal for the length of time it takes for them both to continue breathing.
Forever, it seems.
Michael is suddenly very aware of how smooth Christine's skin is in his hand. His thumb absentmindedly caresses the curve of her Achilles' tendon. He looks up to Christine's face, and sees her still staring at the sandal.
Christine cannot peel her eyes from her sandal. She is almost in shock as to how it ended up on the floor. Which is strange, she reminds herself, since she is the one who accidently kicked it off onto the floor.
She can feel his eyes on her face, watching her for a reaction. She is sure Michael is wondering why she hasn't looked up from the shoe. More time passes, and Christine can't help but try to figure out what the hell caused her to try and kick Michael in the side. What the hell kind of flawed impulse caused her to try and kick him?
He had me trapped, she reasons with herself, If I didn't try to get away…If I didn't try to distract him, he would've—
I would've—
We might've—
Christine doesn't look up at Michael's face while she tries to figure out the thoughts running in circles in her head. She doesn't want to know how long she has been staring at her sandal on the stone floor.
"Maybe we should put that humerus back into the drawer sometime this century, eh Stapes?"
Christine's eyes flick up, lock magnetically onto Michael's as he finishes his sentence with a chuckle.
"It's…"
Her brain can barely form a word, much less a sentence, but it doesn't matter; the air between them is completely still.
Michael is smirking at her now, "What did you say?"
"It's…an ulna."
Their movements are almost simultaneous.
He pulls on her ankle to crash her hips against his, and she reaches her arms around his neck like a hook. She drags his head down with more strength than he thought she had. Michael's hand (the one that isn't holding on to Christine's ankle) wraps around her waist and up the back of her shirt. His hand ghosts a touch against the small of her back. He can feel her shiver; it moves through her entire body.
He feels her shiver on her lips as he easily works to open them with his own.
Michael fights against the need to pull her hips closer, although they are already pressed flush against his. But this isn't close enough.
Nothing is ever going to be close enough for him.
Christine runs her left hand through Michael's hair. Her right hand is slung over his neck; the arm bone is tight in her grasp.
Michael releases his hold on Christine's ankle and moves his free hand to tangle into her curly hair, to pull her into a deeper kiss. Christine lowers her leg back to the ground. She shivers as her bare foot makes contact with the cold floor.
Just as Michael pushes his hips back against Christine's, his brain reminds him of what he is doing.
They are ruining everything.
He hesitates and jerks away slightly, his teeth knocking awkwardly against hers as he mutters, "Damn, Chris... Sorry."
He chuckles a quick laugh against the side of her nose.
"No..." she gives a soft moan of protest.
She leans her body back against his and gasps past his teeth, "Shut up. Don't Stop. Touch me."
And suddenly, before his brain has the chance to protest, his hands are everywhere.
His hands run through her hair, along her jaw, neck, collarbone. They rush across her skin, shaking and hurried. Arms, shoulders, back. She moans against his lips when one of his hands runs down the back of her shirt to her butt.
And all she can think is yes. Touch me.
Neither one of them realizes that they are completely out in the open. Anyone –an intern or god-forbid their parents –could walk down the stairs and see them right now. Neither one of them realizes they are slowly and painfully destroying their friendship each and every time they do this. And they tell themselves every time they won't do it again, and they somehow end up back in each other's arms. They don't realize until it's over, and by then it's too late.
But neither one of them realizes it yet.
Their lips dance franticly against each other. They only part only to gasp a breath, and even then only for the briefest of moments.
"W-what—" Michael grunts into Christine's mouth. His voice is so deep it sounds bottomless as it bounces off the inner walls of her mouth. She softly gasps in the millisecond her lips aren't covered by his.
"Wh—" and again Michael doesn't get to finish his sentence, because Christine's tongue gets in the way. She moans into him, a feminine, breathy sound.
She pulls her lips off of his and leads a burning trail of kisses along his jaw. She buries her nose in the dip behind his ear, where his hairline meets his jawbone, simultaneously basking in and choking on his scent. His hips dig into hers and he presses her body harder against the cold wall.
"Cameras…" he groans out with a shudder as Christine's hot breath tickles the hairs on the back of his neck.
She doesn't so much hear his groan as she feels the noise's vibration in her bones.
"But what about the…" his breath catches, "...cameras?"
The end of his sentence gets lost somewhere behind her back molars.
"I ch-checked," she answers between frenzied kisses, "This is one…of three blind spots—" she gasps when his hand snakes up her shirt, "—I've found that the cameras…d-don't cover."
Michael separates their mouths so he can leave a trail of kisses across her jaw, to her ear, and down her neck. He pauses at her collarbone to mumble, "Wait, how the heck did you figure that out?", against her neck. He brings his head back up to look shoot a curious glance at her.
"Dad's a cop, Mom's a genius, and Grandpa's a criminal," she shrugs, "I guess you could say it's in my blood."
"You sure do enjoy bending the rules, Christine," he gasps as her hands find their way up the back his shirt, "I wonder if that's something you inherited from Max."
Christine rolls her eyes, "Mikey, we're about to sneak a quicky in limbo, now isn't exactly the time to bring up my grandpa."
"I believe you brought him up first," Michael replies as he leans down to plant light kisses along her collarbone."
Christine gasps, "Oh, shut up," and pulls his head up to kiss his lips.
It's impossible to even think about stopping, although Michael knows how this must look. Their parents could walk down any second.
Christine fights an internal battle in her brain. Her rational side knows they have to stop this. They have to stop having sex; it's ruining their friendship. And they have to stop making out, because they could very easily get caught. But the rest of her, the other 99.9% of her, can't stand that there is so much of her skin he hasn't touched yet with his large, shaking hands.
She moans into his mouth again as one of his wandering hands happens to find her left breast. It presses gently, desperately, eagerly. The thin material of her sweatshirt gathers between his knuckles.
Christine's kisses abruptly stop when the fingertips of Michael's other hand dip below the waistband of her black yoga pants.
She finally realizes what they are doing.
"Wait."
"Wait?" Michael parrots with a laugh, "Quickies are supposed to be quick, Chris. That's why they're called 'quickies'."
He leans in to kiss her again, while his left index finger traces along the top of her lace panties.
"I said wait, Michael," Christine's voice is calm, "Stop."
His hands freeze.
Concern washes over his face, and he removes his hands from her body, "What's wrong?"
Christine looks back down to her forgotten sandal on the floor, "I just…I don't think this is a good idea."
Michael's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "But, Chris, this was your idea."
Christine shakes her head to disagree, "You leaned in first."
"No," Michael shakes his head, "I thought you did."
"Either way," Christine raises her gaze from the sandal on the floor to Michael's confused face, "I just don't think we should do this right now."
"You're right," Michael is frustrated with himself as he looks over to the nearby staircase, "Someone could come down."
Christine nods and moves to slide her sandal back on her foot, "Exactly."
Michael suddenly feels dirty. His hands feel greasy and they won't stop shaking. He can't quite figure out what overcame him. He didn't want to do that.
He looks over at Christine, who is placing the arm bone back in the drawer.
Stupid Christine.
She is driving him crazy, making him lose his mind, and keeping him awake at night. He wants her. All of her. But he doesn't want her like that. He cares about her and has feelings for her; he doesn't want to fuck her in Limbo like some slut. He doesn't want that.
And he was being rational. Part of him tried to stop before they went too far. But she asked for him to touch her. Something overcame him, and all is rational thoughts vanished. His brain shut off.
He is disgusted at himself for treating her that way.
Christine is placing the arm bone back in the drawer. She isn't sure why, but she suddenly feels used. Which is confusing, since the whole friends-with-benefits thing was her idea in the first place. Right?
But why did he change his mind?
She remembers that first time, when they were on the couch watching The Big Bang Theory. It had been weeks since that day in his bedroom when she brought up her plan and he shot it down. But he was the one who muted the television, leaned over, and kissed her. He is the one whose kisses grew more and more passionate. He took off her shirt, held himself over her.
He started it. He changed his mind.
But why did he change his mind?
Christine sighs. There is such a tension between them lately. She can feel it in the air. It's like an awkwardness that won't go away. Things between them feel so uncomfortable, and Christine has never felt uncomfortable around her best friend before.
She glances over at Michael out of the corner of her eye. He has a grimace on his face as he looks at her. She doesn't understand why he is looking at her that way, but he looks almost disgusted.
And Christine doesn't realize it, but she has a grimace on her face too.