This writing thing is addictive. Now they haunt me at work... Help...

Something different from me - not as intense as 'It is'!

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Clearly I can't control them.

Did you find it?

She puts her phone aside and tries to concentrate.


Haven't even got there yet, give me a chance!

Her fingers tap on the desk impatiently, even though she knows that 20 minutes isn't enough time.

If they don't have the red, could you see if there's another colour?

The response doesn't come instantly, and she suspects this is deliberate – although the excuse will no doubt be parking and crowds.


Another colour?! Crazy woman, red is only right colour.

She frowns. Well, red is traditional – but green might make a statement.


Not that colour will matter ;-) Orange??!!

She stares at the screen. Orange?! No!

I suspect orange doesn't suit my colouring.

This time, the response is unnaturally quick.


Kidding, sweetie! Orange looks silly on everyone.

"You're late."

She looks up, hurriedly hiding her phone. "Oh."

"That's all? 'Oh?' No excuse involving long words?" Booth winks at her as he perches on the edge of her desk.

"Um, no. I'm ready." She shoves her phone in her bag and stands, smiling cheerfully.

He raises his eyebrows. "Way to act suspicious, Bones. You're supposed to make me wait at least five minutes whilst you finish something. Then you have to tell me about it in scientific terms I have no hope of understanding. What's going on?"

She wonders if flirting will get her out of this.


Don't believe it, no red. How is purple?!

She bites her lip. Purple? Well, it's not orange…

Purple is fine.

"Purple?" Booth looks at her questioningly.

She realises she has voiced her reply. "Er… yes. Purple. For, um, paint."

"You decorating?"

"No. Shall we go?" She starts for the door, only to be yanked back by his hand catching the strap of her bag.

"Purple… lace?" he murmurs in her ear, chuckling as he feels the shiver run through her.

"You promised!" she hisses, pushing him away from her slightly.

"Did I?" He feigns innocence, trying to keep his face straight.

Then, before she has a chance to respond, he swaggers through the door, whistling to himself.

She's lost count of the number of times in the last week he has left her fighting desire with annoyance. She's never very sure which will win.

"Hey hey."

She looks up. "Did you get it?!" Oh dear, her enthusiasm is scaring herself.

Angela throws a bag at her. "Oh yes... And your boyfriend has one freaky fetish."

She peeks in the bag. "He's not my boyfriend. He's my… something." She knows the descriptor is feeble, but they're still working on that.

"I know he's something, sweetie." Angela laughs, giving what can only be called a dirty wink. "And I don't have to see him naked to know that."

"Ange!" It's not shock in her voice – because after all, she agrees. He is something. Something warm and solid and gentle and passionate and possessing that deep voice when…

"Earth to Brennan," Angela whispers in her ear, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Come out of fantasy land, it's not the time. Well, it's always the time, but you know…"

She shakes her head. It's only been a week, but already she can feel the walls crumbling. Not just with him. There's this new desire to share, to shout from the rooftops precisely why he wears that belt – and why she takes it off him.

"It's not an unreasonable manifestation of sexual desire," she starts, before Angela clamps a hand over her mouth.

"Oh no. You don't start anthropologising him. He's hunky. Just go with it."

"There's no verb 'to anthropologise'. And he's 'hunky', as you put it, because he spends time working on his muscle definition. Whilst I don't deny that this contributes to his appeal, we should consider…"

Angela's hand halts her lips once more. "Hunky. Sexy. Built for locking in the bedroom. These are acceptable definitions of that man. 'Muscle definition which contributes to his appeal' are not words I want to leave your mouth again. Got it?"

Brennan prises her friend's fingers away. "Got it," she concedes, wondering how he describes her.


Use your key, I'm cooking.

He's momentarily surprised – cooking? She only left work half an hour ago.

10 minutes, want me to bring anything?

He turns the key in the ignition, unable to stop the grin spreading over his face. It's the grin even he wants to slap himself for. This is them now, keys and cooking. He knows she doesn't realise it yet, but this isn't something she can label, despite their ten-minute telephone conversation earlier when she confused him thoroughly by wanting to discuss the definition of 'boyfriend'. He doesn't care what she calls him.


He makes himself wait until the traffic lights to check his phone. Two days ago, she sent a message that made his throat tighten, his body warm, his foot jerk and the car stall. Dangerous driving in 160 characters.

Just yourself. And your stamina.

He's almost disappointed by the lack of sauciness.

Somehow my stamina seems to improve around you.

He grins. This is worth the waiting. He knows now that he was right not to push it earlier, despite the severe test of his self-control. He feels like the proverbial teenager – except this time it's better because it's without the spots and the inarticulacy and with 20 years of acquired wisdom at creating that expression on her flushed face.


You wouldn't know it from Wednesday…

He stares at the phone, sitting in her car park. She promised not to bring that up.

Well, YOU sent me fifteen texts telling me what you were going to do to me! I'm only human!

He can visual her laughing and knows his indignation will just fuel her teasing.


I take it as a compliment – at least I did after you proved your tongue is good for more than speech.

He groans. Oh hell.

His key turns easily in the lock. He rarely uses it – he's trying to be considerate of her occasional edginess. A week for him has been a corroboration of the previous 3 years. For her, it is a foundation.

"Bones!" he calls, hanging his jacket on a peg and slipping his shoes off.

"In the kitchen!" comes the answering call. He can hear her singing along to the music as he makes his way to her.

She's singing Christmas carols? It's an odd coalition, but he thinks he can get used to it.

"I didn't know you-" He stops. And although he knows his mouth is open, he's pretty sure he doesn't have the control over his impulses to close it right now.

She's facing him, wearing only an apron that fails to cover a great deal.

And a purple Santa hat.

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