Title: Season for Giving
Rating: I'll give it an R.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Bah!
Note: Hey it's really been awhile huh? Well, this IS the season for giving so I thought I'd gift you with a little Christmas smut. Review because remember how very much this girlie likes her reviews!
"Hodgins has a really nice house," Booth said as he parked his SUV in the gravelled driveway. "Check out the fountain." Brennan craned her neck, peering at the snow capped cherub, whose bow and arrow glinted prettily under the yellow glow of the security light. The water had frozen in the basin, a layer of snowy ice. "This guy is rich."
"Hadn't we already established that?" Brennan asked, adjusting her gold tinsel halo atop her newly curled hair. "Wealth beyond imagination, I've heard. What are you?" Booth looked down at his outfit, indignant.
"What do you mean 'what are you?'? I'm a shepherd! Bringing myrrh to the Baby Jesus." Brennan groaned. "What are you? Like a tooth-fairy or something?" Her white chiffon dress, laced with gold, finished off with flat, patent leather shoes made her feel like a damned fairy.
"I'm supposed to be an angel," she said. Her halo bobbed, suspended over her head by a fine strip of metal. In the dark, it would appear to float of its own freewill above her. "Whose idea was this Christmas party?" Booth fished in the back seat for his staff. Brennan thought he looked like a monk, and as they climbed out of his SUV, the thought amused her greatly.
"Angela is dating a millionaire with a massive house, whose idea do you think it was?" From inside the house, festive music boomed and they paused for a moment to offer mutual glances of hopeless despair. Cries of drunken delight filled the air, and in the ballroom, whose windows overlooked acres of snowy land, heavy curtains shifted and Angela Montenegro's face was pressed against the glass. Her cleavage appeared too, boosted by the corseted Mrs Santa costume she wore. She waved maniacally and skipped off to open the door.
A blast of warm cinnamon tempted their nostrils when the door opened and Angela, in her ruby red outfit posed, her equally red lips curving in delight. When she shimmied, luxurious white fur fluttered around the edges of the velvet. Booth noticed that she wore red and white stripped stockings to her thighs and stilettos of dizzying height. She embraced them both with cheerful enthusiasm.
"Come in! Come in!" The foyer radiated Christmas warmth; pine garlands hung from the banisters that climbed to the first level, dotted with shiny holly and berries. Pine cones sprayed with artificial snow were placed periodically and a huge Christmas tree, the biggest Brennan or Booth had ever seen indoors, stretched towards the ceiling with festive pride. An angel that bared an uncanny resemblance to Temperance, perched prettily at the top. Beneath, oversized presents in varying colours with shiny paper covered in Santas and reindeers and were stacked temptingly, provoking curiosity in everyone who stepped beyond the threshold. From the antique chandelier, a sprig of mistletoe dangled. "Like what I've done with the place?" Angela asked, planting her hands on her hips and surveying her own handiwork.
"It's beautiful," Brennan said, despite her reluctance to indulge in even the slightest Christmas cheer. Booth nodded mutely.
"I guess we know what Hodgins is dressed as," he said resting on the hooked staff she carried. Angela smoothed her hands over her dress, the hem of which barely reached the tops of her thighs.
"You'd be surprised," she said, as bells tinkled and Jack, in an elves outfit slipped from the ballroom, a glass of punch in one hand. His green hat was askew and his curly dark hair peeked out from beneath. "Mrs Santa is having an affair this year," Angela giggled, filled with mischief and Brennan torn between amusement and embarrassment, averted her gaze when Hodgins blatantly caressed the top of her thigh and offered her a drunken kiss. "What are you?" Angela asked Booth, who stomped the staff on the marble tiles and grunted.
"I'm a shepherd! Does anyone remember the story of Christmas?" Brennan rolled her eyes.
"If we wanted fairytales, Booth, we'd have read a copy of Grimm's," she said, stretching an innocent smile across her face. She looked positively angelic and the irritation Booth felt, melted marginally. Not enough that he'd ignore her anti-religious statement.
"Not everyone thinks it's a fairytale," he insisted. "Some of us actually think of Christmas as a celebration of the birth of-"
"Okay you two!" Angela said, clapping her hands. "Knock it off. It's a party not a debate. Come inside."
The ballroom was host to a hundred of so invited guests. Drunk and merry, jokes and laughter, mixed with occasional bursts of song, flittered from circle to circle. There were quite a few Mrs Santas and elves, although none were as provocative as Angela. Brennan noticed that no one was dressed as an angel or a shepherd. Booth noticed this too, and commented on their originality.
"Why didn't Zach dress up?" Brennan asked. "Look, he's wearing jeans! And you say I've no festive spirit?" Sitting in the corner, as if intentionally secluding himself, Zach watched the crowd with wide-eyed fascination. He nursed a glass of fruity punch, and someone had placed a Santa hat haphazardly on his head. When he saw them, he straightened and grinned sheepishly.
"I don't like dressing up, Dr Brennan," he said by way of apologetic explanation. Brennan pulled at the gold belt around her waist, and wished she'd defied Angela's dressing up rule, too. "Look at Dr Saroyan..." Camille danced solo, her head tilted back as she spun in a circle, eyes closed. "I think she's drunk." Green boots discarded, she danced barefoot and sang a song that was totally different to the one playing.
Brennan slumped into the seat next to Zach, dropping her chin into the curve of her palm. "Everyone's already drunk... we're too late to even get drunk, Booth. Now we have to watch everyone else enjoy themselves."
"It's never too late to get drunk," Booth replied, spooning great ladlefuls of punch into a glass. His heavy wooden staff had already been set aside, propped against the wall. He really did look like a monk now, Brennan reflected, silently accepting the glass he offered her. "Hey! Camille!" She opened her eyes and levelled a bleary-eyed gaze on him, straining to see through the murky half-light. Fairy lights twinkled with relentless optimism around the room, but there was little else to illuminate the opulent room. "Another?"
Brennan noticed a couple of snowmen groping through white foam padding by the window and her depression set deeper still. There'd been some flirting between Booth and Camille these days, and she felt a prickle of anxiety as she wondered if perhaps, in the spirit of the season and all round loneliness, they might entertain each other again. Cam shook her head. "Bed..." she whispered in a half-lucid slur before collapsing into Booth's hapless embrace.
"Hey, Hodgins!" Booth hissed, tearing Jack away from a smooching kiss with Angela. "Do you have a bed I can put Cam in?" A thousand suggestions rose in Jack's throat, but the glare thrown at him by Brennan silenced his retorts and he directed Booth to the first floor.
"You can take your pick," he said, shrugging easily, drawn back into Angela's arms. Booth sighed, scooping Camille's unconscious body into his arms, gazing with longing despair at the glass of fruity punch on the table. Brennan stood, seemingly filled with steely resolve.
"I'll help you," she said, emptying her glass. It seemed at first as though he might refuse her assistance, but when it became apparent how difficult it would be to open the doors, and navigate through the labyrinth that was Hodgins' house, he nodded in stiff agreement. "I'll lead," Brennan said, pushing into the foyer.
There were too many stairs – sweeping and curving, leading to the first-floor landing. The hallway was dark, and Brennan fumbled for a light switch. "We need lights!" Booth complained noisily.
"I'm trying!" Brennan hissed back, her fingertips fluttering along the wall. "I can't find one!" Booth groaned deep in his chest, striding on. "We're certain to find a bedroom eventually," Brennan said, her hand running along the wall as they moved along the seemingly endless corridor. "I found a door!" she said, deeply triumphant. Locating the knob, the door creaked open. "And a light switch!" The room housed a bed and clean French-style furniture. The air smelt of clean cotton and something homely and warm.
Booth wasted no time in admiring the surroundings. He eased Camille unto the mattress and exhaled deeply, shaking his head. "Something's up with her," he whispered as she turned into the pillow. "I've never known Cam to get so drunk..." Brennan folded her arms beneath her breasts, suppressing the sigh that almost choked her.
Whether it was the strength of Angela's punch, or the deep frustration that she felt, Brennan snapped. "Are you ever going to make a move on me or are you going to turn to Cam every time you're seeking gratification?" Booth gaped, peering at her through the warm golden glow of the overhead light. She looked mad, he thought, with her bobbing curls and pouting lips. Her cheeks were rosy either from the heat inside or the annoyance she felt. She tapped one foot, like a mother demanding an explanation while, he noticed, the dip in her throat reflected the erratic pounding of her heart inside her chest.
"Bones..." he said, frowning a little. "I don't turn to Cam for gratification..."
"Oh yeah!" Brennan scoffed, dropping her arms. She turned on her heel and strode petulantly from the room. Having a physical relationship with Camille hadn't affected his working relation with her and yet he wasn't willing to take the same risks with her. It infuriated her – his double standards. Innuendos ran amok, playing with her emotions.
"Brennan!" he called, storming into the darkened corridor after her. "Come on! Where are you?" She stopped dead and he rammed into her, almost knocking her over. "Omph!"
She tilted her chin, clenching her jaw. He held her upright and she sensed that he was struggling to see her through the dark. "I don't turn to her for gratification..." he insisted with a whisper. When he spoke his breath caressed her skin and she knew that their faces were close. "Honestly..." He hadn't once thought about Camille since they'd ended their affair – he called it an affair because sex was really the only thing that transpired between them.
"Well you don't-"
His lips glided over hers, such an unexpressed caress that she drew a shuddering breath into her mouth. Whether this filled him with confidence or not, Brennan didn't know, but his arm slid around her and drew the length of her towards him. They staggered against the wall, mouths opening under the insistent, hot ministrations of the other's tongue. Heat flooded her, the sensation of his kiss so satisfying. A lust-filled yearning raged through her and she arched her hips, striving to perfectly align herself with him.
Booth held her firmly against the wall, rolling his hips against hers – the extent of his arousal pressed to her stomach. His fingers sank into her hair, tugging on the silken curls, submerging themselves in its luxurious softness.
"Are you guys up there?" Angela called from the foot of the stairs. Booth slammed his hand against the wall in frustration, hitting the light switch and bathing the hallway in harsh, bright light. His eyes met hers, wide and filled with surprise and satisfaction and longing. He dropped a final, hard kiss to her mouth.
"We'll be right down!" he called towards the stairs.
"Hurry! We're playing games!"
"Hurrah," Booth sighed under his breath, rolling his eyes. Against the wall, Brennan's chest rose and fell, her breasts almost spilling from the top of her dress. "We should go down," he whispered, noting how her nipples strained against the chiffon. Her lips glistened brightly.
"Please tell me we get to finish this...?" she groaned.
"We will," Booth promised, before chuckling. "Your halo is crooked," he told her, straightening the golden ring. She glanced up as if expecting to see it drooping over her forehead.
"Oh well," she said, slipping from his arms, "I'm no angel anyway." A guttural moan escaped his mouth.
"God..." he said. "Promise?"
Descending the stairs in a flurry of wispy material, she laughed. "Promise!" she called over her shoulder.