(no subject)

[fahye]

*looks at to-do list*

Oh, right, now my brain decides it wants to tell stories.

The day the availability of my writing ability lines up with the availability of my free time, I will throw a fucking parade.

Hmph.

The first ten people to leave drabble requests may get something written for them when I've listened to these lecture recordings and typed up notes. Fandoms I'm currently feeling creatively inclined towards are Bones, Avatar, Naruto and...probably Iron Man. You could try me with Doctor Who/Torchwood or BSG, but I'm massively behind on all of them. Or you could just throw a random prompt up there and then bat your eyes hopefully -- you know me, I'm not very good at turning down challenges.

Comments

[pirateygoodness.livejournal.com]

Bones! Booth/Brennan, he likes her hands.

(part 1/2)

[fahye.livejournal.com]

"I'm just saying that something can't be kind of unique, Booth. It's either the only thing of its type in existence, or it isn't. There isn't exactly a semantic grey area."

"All right, Bones, lesson learned, now can we please move on --"

"Fingerprints, for example, are unique."

She waves her hand in his face and he grabs it with one of his own, moving her plate sidewayswith the other so that her elbow isn't caught in a smear of ketchup.

"And palms," he says, seizing upon the opportunity to distract her from the argument about words by being deliberately unscientific. "Here, I bet I could read something about your future. This line here means --"

"Don't be ridiculous, Booth."

He likes her hands, the promise of efficiency in them, the elegant angles of the joints and the way she handles human bodies, dead or alive, as though they are miracles. He leans closer and looks at her, mockingly intent. "So you don't believe that personal information can be found in skin."

"Of course not."

"But you believe it can be found in bones."

A pause.

"Yes." She smiles at her own admission, comes close to laughing, and their faces are so near that the abruptness of her humour is almost palpable; like a splash of warm water, or a touch.

They have been like this so many times he's lost count. So many ends to so many days when everyone around them has left for their real lives, their not-work lives, the kind of life that Booth vaguely remembers having before this strange, wonderful, infuriating anthropologist came into the picture.

He thinks, I'm probably supposed to miss that. He probably is not meant to want to see her every day of the year, to hang out with her even when the working day is finished. He probably should not think that it wouldn't be a bad thing to see her even in the slim dark between-hours, and that he'd kind of like to wake up in a place where she is.

Nevertheless, that seems to be how he feels.

(part 2/2)

[fahye.livejournal.com]

"You -- you're unique," he says. "There is nobody else like you, Bones. Nobody anywhere."

So many times they have been like this, just this close; they have smiled and blurred the lines of work and friendship, and one of them has always, always been the first to lean back. Booth watches her lips and thinks about gravity and concrete and other heavy things, concentrates on keeping his feet flat on the floor so that he doesn't do something stupid like run his fingers underneath her necklace, or lift her hand and learn the shape of its joints with his lips and tongue. No; tonight it's her turn to play the responsible adult, her turn to reestablish the distance, because he's not budging.

"True," she says. She doesn't move. She looks at him, her eyes alert and unwavering -- Booth feels like he's being measured.

Her hand slides out of his, very slowly, but she never quite breaks contact, and after a moment she slides her fingers between his until they are tightly laced. Booth looks down to make sure he isn't imagining it, and when he looks up again her smile has an extra layer to it: the familiar precision of her intelligence, the sense that she has flown down a path of reasoning at speeds that most people could barely imagine, and has arrived at a decision.

"What?" he asks, feeling his mouth curve in response. "What?"

"I don't know --" she says, and looks down at their hands, and is quiet.

Booth lifts his other hand, oh-so-careful, like he's showing his empty palms to an armed junkie, and tilts her chin upwards. "-- what that means?" he suggests.

"Yes." Her hand tightens and he can't tell if it's affection or fear. "I'm used to -- this isn't what I -- yes. I don't know how to do this, Booth. I don't know."

Booth ignores the ache of effort that it takes to hold himself in his seat -- gravity, gravity, gravity -- and instead he kisses her index finger, halfway between the knuckles. There's probably a proper technical name for that. She has her language and he has his, and if he's learned anything from working with Temperance Brennan it's the power of a graceful compromise.

"Then we'll start with something you do know," he says, and smooths his thumb across her wrist, and follows the shiver of contact all the way up her arm and the line of her neck to the sudden smile of understanding that diffuses across her face.

"Bones of the wrist," she says, and teaches him.

Re: (part 2/2)

[pirateygoodness.livejournal.com]

Wiiiiiiin, oh my god. Clearly, you have exactly the same sexy scientist kinks as I do. I can't believe you wrote me Bones fic, yay!

Re: (part 2/2)

[fahye.livejournal.com]

<3!

Sorry for the insane number of edits. It got a bit too big for the comment box -- obviously -- and I got sloppy.