A/N: A few weeks ago, friends made sure I had the most amazing 50th birthday ever by gifting me with a whole bunch of really wonderful Bones stories. (They're posted here under the user name '50ShadesChallenge' - go, read them! They're brilliant.) The ring leader of this story fest was NatesMama, a dear friend. In honor of her birthday (today), I wanted to do something special back, and the following one shot is the result. While writing it, I was sort of thinking of the other 13 writers who participated in the The Best Birthday Ever (TM), as well, so while this is primarily for Jen, (and hopefully, er, written to her preferences), it's also for SueK, Mistleto77, Dispatch22705, Bailey80, jmbatt, Some1tookmyname, Laffers18, Dharmamonkey, thorteso, Squinttoyou, JMHaughey, Diko, and Phal1ange5. Thanks, guys. It really was awesome.

A/N2: The concluding chapter/s of Space and Time will be along by this weekend. I've been delayed not only by this little project, but also by some family stuff.


Brennan watched from the passenger seat of the SUV as Booth navigated a corner with a bit more speed than was wise. His hands, his big, strong, capable hands, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He was angry. No, the correct term was probably 'furious.' Or, 'livid,' perhaps. Maybe 'enraged'? She frowned, momentarily distracted by the choices.

Whatever her partner was, Brennan herself was definitely impaired. The narcotic they'd given her had been unnecessary. She'd told them that. The wound – barely a scratch – hadn't really hurt, even when they were stitching it up. But they'd insisted, and now, with her upper left arm numb from the local anesthesia and the chemicals intended to blunt residual pain affecting her, Brennan felt fine, indeed.

More than fine, actually.

With another sharp turn, he pulled into their driveway and parked. "Wait there."

The command would ordinarily have irritated her, but she was distracted by fumbling with her seat belt. Her small motor skill coordination – her hand - was fine, but the numbness in her upper arm threw her off enough that she gave up trying to release the latch with her left hand, but she couldn't seem to find it with her right one.

Then he was there, leaning across her to free her, and thoughts about her lack of coordination flew out the window. Or would have, if thoughts flew. He was just so male. Warm, powerful, smelling of sweat, the soap he'd used that morning and whatever the scent was that was just Booth. She leaned forward, sniffed at him. When he moved to pull away, she grabbed his shirt, pressed her face against his chest, a noise of approval coming from her throat.

All too easily, he moved her hand and stepped back, and Brennan frowned. Realizing he was waiting for her to get out, she did so, with the exaggerated care of someone who was inebriated.

He shut the door and guided her up the walk and into their home. Apart from the one command he'd issued, he still hadn't spoken, and annoyance was cutting through her euphoria. "I'm fine, Booth."

"Yeah, I can see that." He bit the words out as he tossed the keys on the counter. "Why let a stab wound slow you down?"

"Five stitches hardly constitute a stab wound. I merely received a shallow cut when I moved to intercept-"

"When you stepped between me and the crazy guy with the knife! What part of 'I'm the one with the gun' don't you get?"

It was old argument, but seeing him standing there, she couldn't remember if it was an important one or not. His hands were on his hips, his jacket pushed back to reveal the aforementioned gun, his legs slightly spread. Aggressive, angry male. A deep throbbing began between her legs, and she licked her lips.

She saw his eyes narrow and focus on her mouth, and knew he'd seen her response. Pleased that she didn't weave, she stalked toward him, shoved him back against the counter, and started undoing his tie. It took more concentration than it normally would have.

"Bones! What the hell?"

"If you have to ask, it appears I'm not the only one impaired." She pulled the tie off, and started on his buttons. They took more work, particularly when he halted her, his hands over hers.

"I'm not impaired, and we're not going to make love when you're high and in pain, especially not when I'm pissed at you."

"I'm not in pain." Though, admittedly, that might be because she was impaired. "And we're not going to make love. We're going to have sex." Precision was important. "And I'm pissed at you, too," she added, with a glower.

"Me? You're the one who stepped between my gun and a crazy guy with a knife!" He put her hands away from him and stepped away.

Brennan smirked, knowing full well why he'd moved. Then she glared at him, or tried to, given the difficulty she was having focusing. "I saved your life," she said, and stabbed her finger toward him. "He was moving too fast, so I knocked him out of the way."

"And got sliced for it! A few inches to the left and…shit." He shoved a pile of mail off the island and spun back around. "We have a daughter to think about!"

"I was thinking about our daughter. I was thinking about her having a father!"

"I had a gun! Gun trumps crazy man!" He took his holster off, moved to secure the weapon, then turned back toward her.

She'd followed him, and now stopped in front of him and poked him in the chest, pleased when he backed up. "So why are you always the one in the hospital?"

Frustrated on a number of levels, she gave up on the buttons and ripped his shirt open, then fumbled to shove it and his jacket off his shoulders.

"Fuck." He stared down at the ruined shirt. "I can't believe you did that."

"Yes," she agreed, and limited by her injured arm, she gave up on the jacket and tugged his undershirt out of his pants, so she could run her hands up under it to touch all that warm, hard flesh.

Booth yanked her to him and kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his hand coming up to anchor in her hair. It was fierce and hard, and she thought it was intended to punish her, but two could participate in that game. Damn it, she was mad at him. Or would be, when her cognitive abilities were fully functional again.

It was hard to remember why, though, when his other hand streaked down to press between her legs. She whimpered, and began fumbling with his belt.

Her shirt had already been ruined by the knife, so he did the same thing she'd done and simply ripped it open, scattering the buttons to join his on the floor. He didn't try to remove it, but just moved the pieces out of the way to open her bra and cup her breasts.

"When is Angela bringing Christine home?" she managed.

Booth scraped his thumb over her nipple. "An hour," he grunted, right before he followed his thumb with his teeth. Brennan arched against him, against the sharp pleasure in those little bites.

But she only let it distract her for a moment before she resumed her efforts to free his cock. She finally succeeded, and shoving his pants and briefs to the floor wrapped her hand around him, feathering her thumb over his tip. He jerked against her and swore, and then slid his hand back down her torso and beneath her clothes to press against her wet center.

Brennan left off torturing him long enough to push her pants down and then wiggle out of her panties. "Now, Booth!"

His hands beneath her ass, he lifted her, turned to the wall, and braced her against it. Brennan wrapped her legs around his hips, and, realizing her left arm couldn't reach high enough to go around his neck, anchored it in his suit jacket.

Clearly unable to wait any longer, he thrust up into her as his mouth crushed hers with a demanding kiss. She groaned as sensitized nerves reacted to the force and pressure, closing her eyes against the pleasurable sensation. With him fully seated inside her, they held there for a moment, then he shifted her higher, for better leverage, and began to move.

It was raw, gritty, and made the euphemism "screwing" particularly appropriate, she thought fuzzily, as it felt like he was literally trying to nail her to the wall. It was glorious, and suited her mood perfectly. Their positions shifted, and deprived of his mouth, Brennan gripped his hair with her right hand, then used her teeth on his shoulder. He made a noise that she thought was half laugh, half curse and reached between their bodies to flick her clit with his thumb.

On a groan, Brennan arched against him as the orgasm ripped through her, driving him deeper into her and triggering his own climax.

Shuddering with aftershocks, they leaned there until their heartbeats began to even out.

"You bit me."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"How's your arm?"

"Fine. The endorphins my body released during my orgasm appear to be assisting in pain management." Actually, her entire body was pleasantly numb.

His lips curved against her forehead in a smile and then he sobered as he pulled away a bit, and allowed her legs to drop, though his arms were still around her. "I'm still mad at you."

"I do not understand why you believe you love me more than I love you."

"What?"

"I do not find the idea of your death any less painful than you find the idea of mine."

"I don't think that."

"If you did not, you wouldn't be so unreasonable about my desire to protect you."

"I had a gun! It fires these little projectiles faster than a man with a knife can move!"

"You did not appear to see him coming."

"I pulled my weapon but couldn't fire because you were between me and him, getting stabbed!"

"When he started toward you, you were looking the other direction."

Booth sighed. "We're never going to agree on this, are we?"

"It does not appear so. But at least we've found a pleasurable way to release our frustration."

He looked down, at their ripped shirts, and his pants, still around his ankles. "Is that what this was?"

Brennan snorted, and winced. "Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"It appears that both the narcotics and the orgasm are wearing off."