NB: The summary on the main page applies to the latest oneshot only.
A/N: This is me procrastinating. I have a ton of work, plus another unfinished fic, yet here I am, writing something new. This is only a one-shot, but could theoretically turn into a series of one-shots if I feel the urge to procrastinate again. It's short and fluffy - hope you enjoy.
Rated T for sexual references (I'm working my way up to attempting an M so any feedback would be welcome.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones. I also don't own the song "You're Lovely to Me" by Lucky Jim, the lyrics of which this and any future chapters will be based on. (There's a link on my profile if you want to listen to it.)
You're lovely to me, yes you are...
"You're irritating." No, don't write that.
"You're beautiful." That neither.
"You're smart." Insightful, Sherlock. Real insightful.
Seeley Booth's mind refused to dignify that suggestion with a response and the agent threw his pen down on the table in annoyance at his apparent writer's block.
He wasn't a natural writer at the best of times. Some might say that this was because he thrived on conversation and physical interaction, preferring to communicate via face to face discussion, where body language and tone of voice could be taken into account as well as the words that were said. Others might, more accurately, say that he was a crappy writer and had been since he first learned to form the alphabet with his jumbo crayon in first grade.
Not that he was by any means illiterate. He could easily fill in the paperwork associated with his cases (although whether he wanted to was a different matter) and he had no problems with helping his son learn to spell "Barney the Dinosaur", but when it came to putting his feelings down on paper, the words failed to materialise. Especially when those feelings concerned a certain forensic anthropologist.
Booth leaned back in his chair, wondering why he'd ever agreed to take part in this ridiculous exercise.
Because you can't stand seeing Bones miserable, his mind answered cheerily, with the deadly accuracy that only inner thoughts can possess.
He sighed, knowing that the statement was true, but cursing Angela Montenegro for guilting him into in nonetheless.
There had been lots of arguments at the Jeffersonian recently, and it seemed like every member of the team had been in conflict with everyone else at some point. Hodgins and Zach had been squabbling about who fed whose lunch to the flesh eating beetles. Zach and Cam had disagreed over the young man's new flashy tie collection. Booth himself had also joined in this disagreement when the two men had shown up to work wearing matching ties. Cam and Brennan had been engaged in their usual power struggle, but Angela had somehow been caught in the middle of the debate this time and had ended up shouting at both the anthropologist and the pathologist before storming off to shout at her boyfriend for his constant beetle talk.
All in all, it was a tense time between the squints. However, after a large bar of Hershey's finest and an even larger shot of Jack Daniels, Angela'd had an epiphany. It was this ephipany which had led her to Booth's office, brandishing five sheets of paper and a ruthless smile.
She had explained that everyone on the team had to write something nice about each of the others. The anonymous comments would then be collected and given to each person, with the aim of showing everyone how much they were valued and appreciated by their colleagues. Booth saw the reasoning behind her idea, but had protested that he wasn't technically a squint, and so his opinion wasn't really needed.
Angela had clearly thought otherwise and had all but tied him to his chair, ordering him to write something nice by the end of the morning. Never one to be pushed around, Booth had continued to argue, until the artist had played her trump card, telling him that everyone, including Brennan, was really unhappy and tense at the moment, and that he should do something to help with that problem.
Her ploy had worked. At the slightest mention of his partner in any kind of unhappiness, the overly chivalrous knight that resided somewhere in Booth's subconscious had instantly mounted his steed, ready to help the damsel in distress at any cost, and the agent had reluctantly agreed to write the notes.
Booth glanced over at the small pile of written papers with satisfaction. Despite his initial reservations, he'd managed to write something positive about each of the squints. Admittedly, his comments were mostly "x is good at their job" and "y has been a great help in many cases," but still, they were honest and would hopefully accomplish Angela's goals.
Writing about Temperance Brennan was more difficult, much like the woman herself. Booth stared at the heading again, waiting for inspiration to strike.
"What I think about Dr Temperance Brennan," he read aloud and was slightly disappointed when nothing helpful came to mind. He leaned back again, putting his feet on the desk with a sigh of defeat. He'd been a Ranger, he tackled dangerous criminals every day and now he was getting his ass kicked by a blank sheet of paper.
Okay, let's try again, the disciplined part of his mind instructed. Think of everything you'd like to write about Bones and just edit out the parts that would make her want to slap you. Go for it. Think of anything.
Booth closed his eyes, letting an image of his partner fill his head and almost smiling at the mere thought of her. She's beautiful, he thought again. Even when she's in that shiny blue spacesuit, knee deep in dead bodies, she's still gorgeous. Those eyes... God, I could stare at those eyes all day and still not see everything in them. His eyes travelled down the mental picture of Brennan. And her lips. Those perfectly full lips that I know would feel so good against mine...
Smiling again, he moved back up to her hair. She looks great when her hair's up, but I prefer it down, loose waves falling over her face and shoulders. She looks less controlled that way, less rigid. He smirked to himself. Less uptight. But either way, I like the way her hair contrasts with her pale skin. In fact, I like her skin in general. Smooth and delicate and as pale as porcelain. I see our hands out on the desk sometimes and I'm amazed at how dark mine seem next to hers. I can imagine my hands all over her body, my tan standing out against her pallor as I run my fingers along her arms, feeling her pulse race on the insides of her wrists.
He stretched back further, a smile now fixed firmly on his lips. And it's not just her arms. I want to feel all of her under my hands, my lips, my tongue... I want to trace every inch of her neck, her back, her legs, her breasts... He sighed, feeling himself drifting into a familiar day-dream as he continued on his imaginary course. Running my lips down her stomach and feeling her thrust towards me, my hands cupping her perfect ass while she moans for me to-
He was snapped out of his thoughts as the good Catholic part of his brain drew his attention back to the note he was supposed to be writing. Save the fantasies for later, it instructed him. Focus on non R-rated ways to describe what you think of your entirely professional partner.
Sighing, Booth sat upright again, running his hands through his hair tiredly. Mildly angry with himself for having agreed to do this, he tried again to think out loud. "She's annoying. Every argument, she has to have the last word. Plus, she has no social skills. I can't count the number of times that she's offended a suspect or family member, or been incredibly tactless with me about my son, or my past. And she doesn't seem to understand that she's a squint, not a cop. She always wants to go charging off with a gun, even though that's my job..."
Nice things, his mind prompted. The idea is to write nice things.
Irritated, Booth screwed up the piece of paper and lobbed it hard towards his trash can. His annoyance was only exacerbated when it completely missed its target, bouncing off the wall and tumbling under his coffee table. His head dropped down and he took several deep breaths to calm himself.
I'm never going to be able to do this, he thought despondently. My Bones-related thoughts always end with me wanting to strangle her or... He cut himself off, not wanting to recall the other hand-oriented activity that his thoughts so often resulted in. What in the name of God am I supposed to write?
Unresolved, he got to his feet and wandered over to the coffee table to retrieve the paper before dropping it into its intended goal. Meandering back to his seat, Booth could think of thousands of ways he could describe his partner and his feelings towards her, but couldn't find a single one of them that he wanted to disclose to her. He dropped back down in his seat, depressed, but leapt to his feet again when he saw Angela Montenegro standing in the doorway, an amused grin on her face.
"Writer's block?" she inquired sympathetically and Booth nodded.
"You could say that."
Sashaying across the room to his desk as he sat again, she suggested innocently, "Roses are red, violets are blue?"
He rolled his eyes, his voice rife with sarcasm as he replied, "Funny."
Angela just grinned before speaking more seriously, "I'm not asking for you to write War and Peace, Booth. Just tell her something that you like about her, or what you think of your partnership, or what she does well. She's your partner, you should at least have something to say."
His mouth suddenly curved up in a knowing smile and he scrawled something quickly on the corner of a sheet of paper, before ripping it off and handing it to Angela along with the rest of his notes. "Done."
The artist immediately started looking for the note in the small pile, but Booth protested, "Hey, hey, anonymous, remember? No reading."
Foiled, Angela stopped rummaging and looked back over at the agent, speaking reluctantly, "Fine. I'll go sort these out, looking at the names only, and you should get your squint-issued pick me up later today." She raised her eyebrows. "You curious to know what we all think of you?"
"The anticipation's killing me," Booth deadpanned but Angela's smile only widened.
"You love us really." She headed out of the office, clutching the notes and calling back, "Thanks, Booth."
"You're welcome," he yelled back, not entirely truthfully, before returning to his much more routine paperwork and wondering how far Angela would get before stopping to read the note.
To her credit, the artist at least made it to her car before flipping eagerly through the pile to find Booth's hastily written note. She pulled it out quickly, hoping it would contain some declaration of undying love or at least a request for a first date.
"We make a good team." Her brow furrowed as she read, getting a strange sense of déjà vu. Perplexed, she pulled out the rest of the notes that had come from the squints and scanned each one quickly, hoping to jog her memory.
Reaching the bottom of the pile, Angela laughed quietly to herself as she read Brennan's note to Booth aloud, guessing that her best friend had struggled to find the words just as much as the agent, "We have a very effective partnership."
Satisfied, she put the car in drive and headed back to the Jeffersonian, deciding that while her little exercise had managed to relieve some of the stress in the work place, it clearly hadn't managed to erase all the types of tension between the coworkers.
Good? Bad? Godawful? If I wrote more stories based (very loosely) on the lyrics to that song, would you read them or run screaming for the hills? Please share your opinions :)