Spoilers: Um, kind of, but not really… Oh, and I don't think I've ever written anything in the present tense before, either. Interesting.

Disclaimer: I've only seen up to the Skull in the Sculpture, so yeah.

Author's Note: Oops. I didn't mean to take this fic as far as I did. In at least three different way. Oh well. Enjoy. It's the first Bones-related burst of inspiration I've had in like a month.


The dreams had started out normal. Frustrating, a little dangerous, but normal. She was attractive, no arguing with that. A spitfire temper, blatant disregard for anything she didn't want, freaking computer of an intellect. And that body… well, he'd worry about a man who didn't want it.

His first dream was during their first case together, after he'd gotten over the initial shock of everything that was Doctor Temperance Brennan. He remembers black lace – shameful how typically male those dreams were – covering too much pale skin, scalding kisses, battles for dominance. Emotionless, cliché smut: all garters and harsh breath and rough hands.

It was the same dream for almost a month, on the rare occasions that he got sufficient amounts of sleep. That dream was pure sex, everything physical and nothing considered. It was lust, not romance, and he knew that well enough not to care. He was a man, she was a damningly attractive woman; that was all there was to it.

Then they'd had the case with the boy Charlie. He still remembers the weight of Brennan's admission of her time in foster care. His dreams wouldn't let him forget. The lace was gone, garters all but forgotten, and there was a quieter respect in the sex. Because it still was; sex. The lust was still there, every time he saw that flame in her eyes, watched her jaw tighten with anger.

These were the dreams that still started in the bedroom, that included sighs and whispers alongside the screaming, softer hands caressing, instead of groping mindlessly. Trails of clothing from the bedroom door to the bed covers as opposed to now-unidentifiable strips of what used to be lace and satin.

It had made things harder, because these dreams made things a little awkward in the real world – the daylight world. They weren't so much fantasy as they were want. He wanted her, yes, but with a twisted kind of respect.

By the time he'd revealed to her his past in the army, there was yet another shift in his dreams. Somehow, for reasons he only ever guessed at, they still always ended the same way: sex. Only now, he'd begun – however consciously – to refer to it as love-making. This scared him in the waking hours, but at night, it was only logical.

These dreams never began with touch, always with words, or loaded looks. But once the physicality of the dream became the main focus, it was silence. Total, absolute silence, like someone had muted out even breath.

He still can't remember the first time she smiled in his dream. Not the wicked, teasing grin of the lace-Brennan, but an honest, open smile; the one he'd seen only a few times. Despite not knowing the timing, he does remember the dream.

Soft caresses, whispered words – real words, now, not meaningless utterances like before – and looks that he could still see when he woke up every morning. He remembers the feeling of her fingers over his shifting muscles, knowing exactly where to touch, how to make him get so close to the edge. His eyes would open, meet her own, and she would smile. Then he was undone.

Then he had the dream that changed; morphed continuously unlike any other dream he'd had before; went from one scenario to the next with frightening clarity and distinguishable moments. Dreams that still started with desperation or hushed words, and still ended in screams or absolute silence.

But these were the nightmares. He didn't sleep when the Gravedigger had her – couldn't for so many reasons – but for the dreams he had afterwards, he may as well have. The Gravedigger became Howard Epps; Howard Epps became someone else. It was a dream thrown amongst the others when there was a case that was particularly close.

When the cases were mellower, he found his nicer dreams changing yet again. The first that hadn't ended in sex had given him pause. He had physically paused, half way through getting out of bed the next morning. These dreams were not normal, not as far as he knew. Not as far as he had ever experienced. He thinks they began when Sully appeared.

Each time, these dreams were different, but ended similarly. These dreams were all about words and touch together. One never happened without the other, anymore. Kisses, and caresses and words a singular thing. The remnants of these dreams were harder, in the real world, to ignore than the remnants of the others. So possible, so easy while he slept, yet still so possible while he was awake. And it all seemed so easy.

Their kiss at Christmas turned this dream into something even more real. That night had been about sex again. The feel of her, the tension between them finally breaking. About letting go, instead of giving in. And it was all about desperation, neither lust nor love. He knew the weight of her, the feel of her lips on his. Only his imagination exaggerated the feeling to extend everywhere; lips on his neck, his chest, his stomach.

Little Andy had gotten rid of this dream, and he still doesn't know whether he's happy about that. Their little guy. The idea of Brennan with a child had occurred to his conscious mind before, but this was new. He had never envisioned her with a child and happy; comfortable.

Now he woke probably three days a week with the image of a baby boy in his head. Of his baby boy. Of Brennan's. Of her holding the baby, reciting God-knows-what into his ear, calming him as he squirmed, eyes brimming with something unnamable but to a mother as she looked at the tiny thing. And every time, he'd smile as he watched.

After about a fortnight, Andy faded again, leaving only himself and Brennan and inexplicably simple dreams. Touches again, full of something close to reverence as his hands glided over her skin. Each and all ended differently, some with an uttered word, some with a kiss, some with names cried in ecstasy.

But his dreams aren't about him, anymore, he realizes. Not about his own pleasure – about getting what he craves so much of the time – but about hers. He doesn't call it love, because it is more than that, and he realizes with a slight start that his dreams now are simply more defined echoes of the waking world. Exaggerations of what he does give to her, and of what she offers to him. Without question and without pause.

His dreams are essentially what already exists.


So what do y'all think? Love me?

Giorgia