Fic: Iceland (1/1)
Title: Iceland
Rating: R
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Word Count: 732
Summary: He’s a DJ, she’s a Waitress, and he’d give anything for just a shot at her. For sopranozone, who requested “Booth/Brennan - Something from the Lab!World from season 4 finale” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers 4.26 - The End in the Beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I LOVE Lab!world, so I hope this... pre-Lab-world snippet is to your liking :D
Iceland
He watches her from behind his equipment; he spins Duran Duran, and she shakes her ass to the beat like clockwork, and he grins to himself, loves the way her skirt comes up, brushes the backs of her thighs. He gets a good look down her halter here and there, her breasts pushed up impossibly high and he just wants a taste, wants to shove his tongue between and slick them, knead her skin beneath his hands.
He switches to some house beats, and she doesn’t move as quick, as smooth; goes back to getting orders and bringing drinks, letting her hips swing low for the good tippers, and fuck, he’d cough up his whole week’s pay to have a shot at that, just one shot.
And it’s not just the physical attraction, either -- though, admittedly, it’s mostly that, because she’s only been working a week -- but he’s got depth, he’s not just about a smokin’ body and a pretty face. But they’ve crossed paths once or twice when he’s breaking down his set, when she’s clearing tables after close: she likes hair metal, which he can definitely appreciate -- has a thing for the Crüe, which of course wins her a billion points in his book; when she dropped her bag on the way out at the beginning of the week, and he stopped to help her pick everything up, he noticed her ID for the local community college, and a book by Immanuel Kant; and a beauty with brains is basically his dream girl on a silver platter.
And maybe she’s a little cold, a little unapproachable -- or so they say, he doesn’t see it: maybe, but he thinks she’s probably like Iceland -- comes on strong, untouchable, but then you go there, you push past, and it’s basically the best fucking place in the world.
The night winds down quick, too quick; he’s got a good distraction, granted, but still -- he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to go home alone, and it’s a Friday night, or Saturday morning, and he’s wired on the lights and the beats, and as The Lab empties out into the streets come three a.m., he’s ready for the world to come at him; he’ll take it.
She’s flagging down a cab, and he’s ready to take his shot.
“Bren,” because that’s what they’re all calling her; it takes her a moment to turn, and she smiles at him -- she doesn’t smile enough, he decides right then, and he’s gonna make it his life’s work, he’s gonna make it his goal in every single second to get a grin on that face, as often as he can.
“Booth,” she nods in his direction, moves away from the curb and comes toward him, and he feels like the night’s getting lighter -- it’s maybe just the sunrise, but then maybe, it’s not. “Turning in for the night?”
“That depends,” he says, and her eyes are gorgeous up close, sparkling technicolor in the fluorescents that line the club.
“Does it?” she asks, and thank God, she doesn’t play coy, just smirks at him and eyes him up, and suddenly he wishes he had more muscle on him, more height, more bulk, more something -- anything to keep himself from feeling so fucking naked when she looks at him, when she stops on his face and just stares, and he swallows, and she stares, and maybe she’s not like Iceland, maybe she’s like Siberia and it’s all prickly snow and hypothermia, all the way through, and maybe this was a terrible idea, because the rush of the evening, the beats and the contact-high of the club, it’s all falling to the wayside now and he’s just a lanky college dropout who DJs, for fucks sake, and-
“I live alone,” she says finally, her eyebrow arched, and he doesn’t think he hears her right at first, not until she’s flagging down that cab again, and thank fuck he snaps-to quick enough to open the door for her and get her settled on the far side before he slides in close and checks his pocket, makes sure he’s got enough cash to cover the fare.
Like he said, Iceland; best place on Planet Earth.
Fucking score.
Rating: R
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Word Count: 732
Summary: He’s a DJ, she’s a Waitress, and he’d give anything for just a shot at her. For sopranozone, who requested “Booth/Brennan - Something from the Lab!World from season 4 finale” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers 4.26 - The End in the Beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I LOVE Lab!world, so I hope this... pre-Lab-world snippet is to your liking :D
Iceland
He watches her from behind his equipment; he spins Duran Duran, and she shakes her ass to the beat like clockwork, and he grins to himself, loves the way her skirt comes up, brushes the backs of her thighs. He gets a good look down her halter here and there, her breasts pushed up impossibly high and he just wants a taste, wants to shove his tongue between and slick them, knead her skin beneath his hands.
He switches to some house beats, and she doesn’t move as quick, as smooth; goes back to getting orders and bringing drinks, letting her hips swing low for the good tippers, and fuck, he’d cough up his whole week’s pay to have a shot at that, just one shot.
And it’s not just the physical attraction, either -- though, admittedly, it’s mostly that, because she’s only been working a week -- but he’s got depth, he’s not just about a smokin’ body and a pretty face. But they’ve crossed paths once or twice when he’s breaking down his set, when she’s clearing tables after close: she likes hair metal, which he can definitely appreciate -- has a thing for the Crüe, which of course wins her a billion points in his book; when she dropped her bag on the way out at the beginning of the week, and he stopped to help her pick everything up, he noticed her ID for the local community college, and a book by Immanuel Kant; and a beauty with brains is basically his dream girl on a silver platter.
And maybe she’s a little cold, a little unapproachable -- or so they say, he doesn’t see it: maybe, but he thinks she’s probably like Iceland -- comes on strong, untouchable, but then you go there, you push past, and it’s basically the best fucking place in the world.
The night winds down quick, too quick; he’s got a good distraction, granted, but still -- he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to go home alone, and it’s a Friday night, or Saturday morning, and he’s wired on the lights and the beats, and as The Lab empties out into the streets come three a.m., he’s ready for the world to come at him; he’ll take it.
She’s flagging down a cab, and he’s ready to take his shot.
“Bren,” because that’s what they’re all calling her; it takes her a moment to turn, and she smiles at him -- she doesn’t smile enough, he decides right then, and he’s gonna make it his life’s work, he’s gonna make it his goal in every single second to get a grin on that face, as often as he can.
“Booth,” she nods in his direction, moves away from the curb and comes toward him, and he feels like the night’s getting lighter -- it’s maybe just the sunrise, but then maybe, it’s not. “Turning in for the night?”
“That depends,” he says, and her eyes are gorgeous up close, sparkling technicolor in the fluorescents that line the club.
“Does it?” she asks, and thank God, she doesn’t play coy, just smirks at him and eyes him up, and suddenly he wishes he had more muscle on him, more height, more bulk, more something -- anything to keep himself from feeling so fucking naked when she looks at him, when she stops on his face and just stares, and he swallows, and she stares, and maybe she’s not like Iceland, maybe she’s like Siberia and it’s all prickly snow and hypothermia, all the way through, and maybe this was a terrible idea, because the rush of the evening, the beats and the contact-high of the club, it’s all falling to the wayside now and he’s just a lanky college dropout who DJs, for fucks sake, and-
“I live alone,” she says finally, her eyebrow arched, and he doesn’t think he hears her right at first, not until she’s flagging down that cab again, and thank fuck he snaps-to quick enough to open the door for her and get her settled on the far side before he slides in close and checks his pocket, makes sure he’s got enough cash to cover the fare.
Like he said, Iceland; best place on Planet Earth.
Fucking score.