Spoilers: The Killer In The Concrete
Summary: she wanted to know every little bit of his story, of what happened to him and try to soothe it away
Discalimers: These characters do not belong to me. They're property of 20th Century Fox and Hart Hanson; no rights infringment intended.
"I'm sorry but I meant to say
many things along the way
so this ones for you
Have I told you I ache
Have I told you I ache
Have I told you I ache for you?"
(James Carrington – Ache)
She ran her hands over his legs, from the bottom to the top until she reached his thighs, fumbling with his underwear to remove them, throwing aside. He was lying restless on the bed, trying to keep still, to control himself and not quiver under her touch, but he didn't want to do it. He didn't want to resist the sensation her hands on his skin caused, he didn't want to fight the goosebumps and the warmth he was supressing from spreading throughout his body, starting at his groin.
She was watching him closely, the inner fight he was battling with his own body to not surrender to her touch, as if they were playing a game. Then she noticed it, the stripe-like mark on his skin, a burn scar that healed a long ago, but still tainted his beautiful thigh. Tentative fingertips circled it, measuring it, observing, analyzing along with curious eyes. She didn't have to ask what was it, she knew it from the moment she saw it, it all came to her mind: him, falling on the ground tied to a chair, the smell of burnt flesh in an old and dirty storage room, the noises, the confusion of criminals trying to scape and FBI agents trying to do their job. The only thing she thought at that moment was him; if he was hurt, in pain, alive. He had blood on his face and body, he had been tortured. Again. The hollow pain in her chest would haunt her everytime such memory came to her mind. She hated the thought of him being tortured, she hated the proof in his body of it.
Tender lips touched the skin of his thigh, pressing a wet and gentle kiss against his scar, while her hands held his leg for both leverage and reassurance. She brushed her lips against the warm skin, on and around the scar, eyes fluttering closed, her mind drifting back to that day, that moment, to the pain she felt when she saw him lying there.
His warm hand closed around her wrist, lightly tugging at it, forcing her attention back to the reality they were right now, naked in her bed, his semi-erect penis waiting for her attention.
For a moment he had her gaze locked in his, a soft smile curving his lips and the lazy expression of his face, inviting her to continue in the present with him, all that happened in the past wouldn't matter anymore, as long as he could have her there, aware of her feelings for him, as long as she could have him there, aware of his feelings for her.During the path her lips traveled up his body, softly kissing bits of skin, she found more scars, some of which she could remember, others she wasn't familiar with. For a moment she knew she didn't want to know about them, in fact she knew she didn't want to even acknowledge them, but deep down she couldn't help it; she wanted to know every little bit of his story, of what happened to him and try to soothe it away. She couldn't erase it, obviously, but it wouldn't stop her from trying.
When she finally reached his chest, lips brushing against a thin layer of hair, she felt his hand on her hair, fingers mingling in it, pressing her close. He stared into her eyes for a second before she met him for a kiss and he saw it. He could see in her huge bright eyes all the words she didn't verbalize to him, but desperately tried to tell him by other means. She tried to tell him how much she loved him and how unbearable the pain in her chest was sometimes, how powerless she felt every now and then and how scared she was of losing him.
And the urgency in her kiss, in her hands searching for his cheek, soft skin getting brazed by stubble, warm and tender lips now sothing her, not only the delicate skin of her face, but the ache inside her chest.
She parted the kiss to look at him, open–mouthed, trying to convey into words what she already knew in her heart and what her eyes already told him.
"Me too, Bones. Me too," he whispered against the fruity scent of her hair.