Sunday Afternoon

A/N: This will be a collection of Bones one-shots and drabbles. Even though it is titled Kitchen Sink Dramas, not all of them will be particularly dramatic and none will be literal 'Kitchen Sink Dramas'. I mean it in more of an 'everything but the kitchen sink' sort of way, as there will be a whole bunch of genres and characters I will probably end up writing in and about.

Anyway, this one-shot is a season finale speculation!fic. Brennan & Booth in a bedroom after all of Booth's hallucination drama. Ready, set, go!


Booth's bed takes up nearly half the room, so there's no doubt whatsoever that what he does is sleep here. Brennan's propped against his door, hand still on the handle, and silent as he splashes water on his face.

There's the question of if she should go, then whether to sit or stand; she settles for sitting at the foot of his bed, half-watching his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaves and half-pretending she finds the backs of her hands a more interesting sight. He smiles at his reflection, or maybe at her. She isn't sure.

She has never actually been in his bedroom before; it's practical, not stuffy, but warm. It's nearly summer outside, and she thinks air conditioning would not make them feel this quite so much.

Booth throws his face towel onto the counter, his biceps contracting and tightening under his shirt with the movement. He's still smiling as he walks over to her. A few years ago she wouldn't have been at Booth's apartment, in his bedroom at all, and she wouldn't have felt so strangely sorry for things she can't control: his health, her questions, his family. Despite all of Booth's promises, this smacks strongly of change. Theoretically, it is something she wants. She wants to feel that stagnancy, and suspension, and just partners is really as flat-out unsustainable as everyone says. But it's not. It's really, really, really…not.

Her hand comes up to touch his cheek, and he smells clean, not like a hospital or that pudding that kept ending up right there on his chin. She feels sentimental and dizzy; there was that time he was in the hospital, when he botched an interrogation and ended up in intensive care. But that time was days ago. Not now.

"You're not gonna turn out to be a hallucination are you?" he asks, joining her on the bed.

"No." Her hand drops from his face, away from the strong, symmetrical features that could be her child's. "No. Of course not. Does this not seem real?"

He rubs at his forehead and chuckles. "I don't know. No cartoon characters yet."

Her nails dig into his comforter a little at that, and she wants so badly for him to stop joking about this. For once. "I don't find that amusing."

"Of course," he says wryly, frowning right back at her. "Listen, I'm sick, not dying, Bones. Not even sick, not even…didn't you see the medication the doctor gave me? I'm fine."

"I'm sure that the doctor told you he was nearly certain his diagnosis was correct."

"What, you think he was wrong?"

"I don't know if he was wrong or not. I'm not a medical doctor."

He swivels to face her completely now, the blanket underneath him twisting with the sudden movement. "You know, Bones, just a moment ago, the whole hallucination thing? I was joking. I was only joking, got it?"

She doesn't turn to look at him, but she can see him in the corner of her eye, almost feel him—irritated and staring.

"Yes, I knew that," she says simply.

She shifts on his bed; their shadows on the wall are still and her face feels hot because Booth needs to get air conditioning, and he needs to not get upset when she's honest, and he needs to be resting, not whispering in her face.

"I can't be sure that your sperm is viable anymore," she finds herself saying quietly to the wall, not to him. The message comes across all the same, but for just a moment it remains quiet, still, just like before. Then he stands up and gives her this look, this look that makes her bite her lip, hard, because he's looking at her like he would hate her if he could. He walks toward the door and she stands, turning him around and holding onto his shoulder.

"If the doctors can be certain that whatever's wrong with you isn't autosomal dominant then I'd still want to use your sperm, whatever the risk of…what, Booth?"

"Either be quiet about this or leave," he murmurs in her face, pushing her hand away.

Brennan blinks, confused for a moment; he had been so open to this discussion a week ago.

Her neurons seem to short circuit and trip over themselves as her feet make a straight line toward the door, and she can't manage to think what she's feeling or comprehend just what she's doing. Mostly, she doesn't know what else to do, what else to say, so her fingers slip around the knob, turning until the door gets slammed shut again before it's even opened, shaking on its hinges under Booth's hand.

She can feel him against her back. He still smells like shaving cream, and she gets a strong whiff as she turns to face him, reddening a little when she remembers how just a moment ago she reached out to touch his face.

"You were really going to leave?" he asks before she can get a word out, his features screwed in concentration as he watches her, hand still pushed against the wood behind her head. He sighs and she merely blinks at the warm puff of air in her face. "Nevermind. Of course you were."

"You were clearly angry with me. You are clearly angry with me."

Booth says nothing, his hand flexing behind her as she starts to speak again, quickly, and logically, and with all of the big words she knows make him frustrated, that she knows will make her feel in control again. "Booth, we're beyond that juncture in history when male fitness is determined solely by the number of progeny a…"

Booth closes the few inches between the two of them, bracing himself against the door as he blatantly drops his eyes to her moving mouth and muffles her next word, leaning down and pressing his lips firmly to hers. Mmpph is all that emerges from the back of her throat, and her eyes open wide then close again as he kisses her, his lips warm and insistent against her own—insistent, then demanding, then back again, because when is it ever just simple and unchanging with Booth? This isn't…this isn't good, but it is and she's standing stock still; if she were kissing him back, if she were smart enough or stupid enough or hungry enough to tug at his collar like last time…

But this isn't a Christmas dare so she pushes him gently away, wiping at her mouth. "…beyond that juncture in history when male fitness, male and female fitness actually, was determined by the number of…the number of progeny resulting and—"

"God, just be quiet," he mutters, running a shaky hand through his hair.

She presses her lips together then opens them again, raising a brow. "Why did you do that?"

"I did that because I wanted to. I'm sure you know what that's like, Bones, doing whatever the hell you want without caring about the consequences."

His voice is mocking and it makes her avert her eyes to the ground—his words seem applicable to so many things she has done, so many things she has done wrong, that she finds herself at a loss for a retort. She shifts, raising her eyes to meet his.

"Do you think I'm selfish?"

The words hang there and she's almost sure she sees his mouth fall open as though he's about to answer. But no, he is silent, just like her—though she's the only one who can feel tears pricking at the sides of her eyes. Booth had been dying in front of her every day for months and she hadn't even noticed; she'd been blithe, so unaware and constantly, constantly pressuring him into giving her what she wanted: a child to pass on her heritable, oh-so-important intelligence. She had thought that was all that mattered.

She wants Booth to answer her question, and she wants him to be angry or upset or to kiss her again if that's what he wants. A part of her wants that to be what he wants.

Brennan swallows and walks up to him. He's quiet still, staring her in the eye as she reaches for his face, pressing her fingers to his cheek and then her lips to his. She kisses him, slowly, though she's never been good at slow, never felt a need for it. She does listen when he talks, despite what he may think, so she knows by now that this is what he likes. Booth doesn't hesitate in kissing her back, though he's slow as well, too slow and teasing with his tongue against her lips, and his fingers spreading out in her hair. She feels him groan into her mouth and she pushes against the length of his body, wanting more of him than she's ever let herself want before.

His request for her to stop comes as unexpected and is ultimately ignored. She pauses then leans in again anyway because he's the one who wanted this. The evidence is right there in his pants that he wants this.

"I don't think you're selfish, okay," he says, pushing her away, his breathing heavy but his words intelligible enough to come as a relief. "Sometimes you forget you have to do more than just think, and you come across as less caring than you are. That's all. So let's just forget about all of this, alright?"

"I don't know what you mean by this."

"Yeah, you do."

And she does. There's something new, fulfilling almost, in being able to participate in conversation this cryptic. She knows she wants his lips on hers again and that he wants the same, but this must be where his line comes in. "That's not what you want—to forget about all of this."

"Sometimes it doesn't matter what I want," he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Sometimes it should." She pauses, smiling a little to herself. "That night in the hospital, you asked me a question about how long ago visiting hours had ended. I'm thinking we almost kissed afterwards. We were about to. I think that I am correct in thinking that." She flattens her back against the door again, at a loss for what to say to someone who won't say anything back. "I wanted you not to die. Sometimes we each should get exactly what we want."

Her own words make no logical sense to her, there's no reason or coherency there and she's sure there's no overarching fairness in the world, but she wants things to be even between them again. Even—she likes the sound of that and kisses the corner of his mouth.

Her hands grope for the belt of his jeans, unbuckling until he grabs her wrists. "Dammit, that's enough." He squeezes just a little and she yanks her hands away immediately. "I don't want your pity," he says lowly, angrily in her face.

"When you're upset like this, your heart rate increases, adrenaline surges through your body, and your blood flows to your hands. I know that this could all be redirected in a way that would be more satisfying for the both of us," she murmurs, her words hitting right against his neck, close to his ear but just far enough away that Booth leans forward, almost on instinct.

"I hate to be the voice of rationality here…"

"Then don't." She pulls back, wetting her bottom lip. "Why isn't this rational?"

He looks away, shaking his head; there's no argument, he has none. When he looks at her again his eyes are dark, hot, and there's not a moments hesitation when he invades her space again, insinuating himself against her, his hand pressed to the wood behind her waist, his leg working itself deftly between hers. She pushes her hips against his, and when his hands move to still her, "You know, I— " is all he manages to get out.

She's not sure what he was about to say, not sure that she cares; she finds herself interested in only his lips on hers. Insistent, demanding—so much more than before; that's what she wants. Selfish, maybe, she thinks as kisses him hard; still, it's clearly what he wants too. His tongue runs along her lips and he grabs her wrists, again, when she reaches for the buckle on his pants, pushing her back against the door.

"Slow down," he whispers on a short breath, pulling away as his thumbs run across the pulse points at her wrists, almost making her shiver, almost making her glad he's holding her there. But there's something unsettling about that suggestion, and she pushes her lips against his again, this time opening her mouth to him, then pulling his bottom lip between her teeth because she could really wrench her hands away from his grasp so, so easily, but she doesn't, she isn't even trying, and she needs someone to take that fact out on.

He moans, letting go of her hands and pressing himself flush against her. He's the one escalating this now. Her hands slip under his shirt, alternately working to pull it off and letting it bunch over her fists. Everything is hot; his skin, his room, his hands, his mouth.

His fingers work slowly then quickly, at intervals just like that; unbuttoning her shirt, then twisting into her hair, then running from her breasts to her hips. He rips one of the buttons off of her top and she knows it's an accident because he pauses a second—just enough to provoke a response from her.

"Yes, just like that. It makes me wonder what you would do if you weren't…" she breathes, a small moan escaping as his lips make their way to her neck, "…if you weren't…ah…such a prude when it comes to sex."

She laughs a little and she thinks that's what sets him off. He lays a long, punishing kiss to the side of her neck, sucking at her skin until she's sure he's left a mark. She doesn't stop him, she doesn't want to stop the way his mouth is moving down her chest, pulling at any piece of clothing, yanking at any piece of jewelry that obstructs his angle on her body. But she wants his shirt off, and if there were any buttons she'd want all of those gone as well.

She pulls at the hem of his shirt, and they both stumble a little until she's back against the door, tugging his shirt over his head, quickly, until the top of his body is bare against hers. And maybe it's worth noting that even though she's seen him without a shirt a number of times before there was never a way of knowing that his body would feel like this, like this, against hers. She kisses down his chest, his hands snaking into her hair as she moves smoothly down to his abdomen. "I want…" he lets out on a strangled sort of sigh, his hands fisting bunches of her hair.

Before she can go further, his palms clasp her shoulders, urging her to stand up.

"Booth, I-"

He halts her words with his thumb to her lips, his other hand grabbing for one of hers. She nearly flinches when he presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Somewhere, somehow, maybe a long time ago, everything's become clouded and confused and not even—she's not sure who's leading who.

He pulls away, still breathing hard as he stares at her. "I want you to look at me. That's what I want. Can you do that?"



The first thing she says, the first full sentence she manages to form after she comes is: "The thread count of your sheets is very high. I can tell."

He gives her a lazy smile, brushing a piece of hair away from where it's stuck to her mouth. "Thanks for the compliment."

"See, I do compliment you sometimes."

"You complimented my sheets."

She turns her eyes up toward the ceiling, a slow smirk working its way across her face. "My orgasm was very powerful. You have more energy and stamina than anyone I've—"

He laughs, then: "Okay, that's enough."

She turns onto her elbow to face him, her eyes falling on the pieces of clothing at his door. There's the door and there's Booth, brushing her too-red cheeks, which have been this way since she came in here. He's tentative with every movement, as though at any moment she'll walk away. All of this is tentative.

"Really, though. That was…" she trails off as his finger flattens itself to the still-light mark on her neck. He frowns a little at the broken capillaries there, and looks up at her.

"That was…" he presses, waiting for her finish.

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, what is there to say? That was something I'd like to do every time we're frustrated with one another? Somehow she's sure that won't cut it with Booth.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I hope that I was effective in conveying that."

"You're sorry."

"For spending nearly every day with you and not recognizing you were sick. For putting so much pressure on you when it came to my wanting a baby, yes."

"So this?"

She doesn't know. Maybe he had it right before when he said this wasn't rational. There was no real impetus, no action for her reaction—was it his hand on the door, his kiss…but he's kissed her before, his implication that she didn't care? For the first time she just doesn't know.

"It was what you wanted, right?"

He gives her a good long look.


"God," he says, kicking his legs off to the side of the bed and pushing the heels of his hands to his forehead. He gives a bitter sort of laugh, turning back to look at her. "This, this, Bones, is exactly what I didn't want."