Fic: Just There (1/1)
Title: Just There
Rating: PG
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Word Count: 229
Summary: Ice cream in the evening. For jenthegypsy, who requested “Booth, Brennan, root beer float” during wrisomifu 2009. General Series Spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Complete and utter unadulterated fluff.
Just There
"Bones." Booth’s voice is full of gentle humor, the kind of laughter that dances at the surface before bubbling over into joy; she feels her face start to burn, and she’s glad for the low lighting in his living room, for the space put between them by Parker where he lies sleeping, curled inside their warmth.
“What?” she asks, the heat flushing deeper against her cheeks, and she clutches the frosted glass closer, tighter in her hands, watching as the ice cream seems to melt on contact; she bites down on the straw between her teeth and sucks hard, trying to keep her mind off the attention her partner is directing her way over his son’s sleeping head.
“You’ve just,” and he leans over Parker, careful not to jar him, and Brennan goes still as the pad of his fingertip - calloused, but warm, and big, somehow, strong - brushes against the tip of her nose, drawing away with an innocent dollop of carbonated fuzz balanced precariously just above the ridge of his nail; the air pockets, the bubbles caught in the flickering glow of the television screen.
“There,” he declares softly before slipping his finger between his lips and sucking off the foam, cheeks hollowed and eyes crossed as he returns to his side of the sofa.
Brennan, she just sips all the more diligently at her root beer float.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Word Count: 229
Summary: Ice cream in the evening. For jenthegypsy, who requested “Booth, Brennan, root beer float” during wrisomifu 2009. General Series Spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Complete and utter unadulterated fluff.
Just There
"Bones." Booth’s voice is full of gentle humor, the kind of laughter that dances at the surface before bubbling over into joy; she feels her face start to burn, and she’s glad for the low lighting in his living room, for the space put between them by Parker where he lies sleeping, curled inside their warmth.
“What?” she asks, the heat flushing deeper against her cheeks, and she clutches the frosted glass closer, tighter in her hands, watching as the ice cream seems to melt on contact; she bites down on the straw between her teeth and sucks hard, trying to keep her mind off the attention her partner is directing her way over his son’s sleeping head.
“You’ve just,” and he leans over Parker, careful not to jar him, and Brennan goes still as the pad of his fingertip - calloused, but warm, and big, somehow, strong - brushes against the tip of her nose, drawing away with an innocent dollop of carbonated fuzz balanced precariously just above the ridge of his nail; the air pockets, the bubbles caught in the flickering glow of the television screen.
“There,” he declares softly before slipping his finger between his lips and sucking off the foam, cheeks hollowed and eyes crossed as he returns to his side of the sofa.
Brennan, she just sips all the more diligently at her root beer float.