Bones: Daydrinking
Title: Daydrinking
Author/Artist: darkmagic-luvr
Recipient: danniisupernova
Pairing: Hodgins/Brennan
Rating: T
Warnings: drinking, inappropriate language, abuse of nicknames and artistic freedom
Summary: Reminiscing about Aliens in a Spaceship and wherever it may lead.
Notes: Umm, I’m not quite sure what happened to the noninthecanon fic exchange, but I thought I would post this here, just in case by some crazy random happenstance you happen to see it. This is set just around the Trial of the Gravedigger. Yes, Trial has to be capitalized. I’ve never…actually written for this fandom before, and I truly hope I got Hodgins and Brennan right. Enjoy to all who care.
Disclaimer: I own not the characters of Bones. Title of the fic is from the song of the same name by Xiu Xiu Larsen.
The black leather of Sweets’ couch sticks to their skin, at least the little that’s showing. It’s a mystery to them why they’re in here of all places, but they chuckle a little about what Sweets would say if he found them; something like how it was a sanctuary, where they could feel safe. But that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t safe, it just wasn’t familiar. The two of them, they’d been locked in the office for hours, blinds drawn, smoke detector disassembled on the desk (she asked why after the curiosity became too much, even after agreeing to his deal of no questions, boss, let’s just freeze the moment, he‘d responded by pulling a pack of cigarettes from his lab coat and tossing them at her chest), and an open bottle of whisky on the coffee table at their feet.
Shoes were abandoned and kicked under chairs; her skirt was hiked up around her thighs, blouse unbuttoned and brown hair pinned back with a pencil she’d found on the desk that had the words ‘Drew Construction Inc. Perfection In Building Erection’ printed on it in green. He’d unbuttoned his shirt completely, letting it fall against his sides, his wife beater underneath standing out against tan skin. He had been more reluctant to take off his shoes, but when he finally caved, they both had a laugh at the Harry Potter themed socks Zack had gotten him once in a drunken burst of spontaneity. They both went quite after that story, pushing thoughts of Zack and teeth out of their minds.
But once memories of Zack came through, the proverbial flood gates opened, and no matter how much compartmentalizing they had between them, they were together, alone, in a hot, smoke filled office; leather against their backs and dry tongues sticky in their mouths.
Lightheaded from the smoke, Brennan stood, swaying lightly on her feet as she made her way around Sweets’ desk.
“What are you looking for, Doctor Brennan?” because formality was always an issue between the two of them. She ignored him, took a moment for herself to stare blankly at the desk before logic sputtered to life and she dropped to her knees on the ground. Jack frowned at her sudden disappearance, sitting up and craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of her, his partially forgotten cig sticking to the inside of his upper lip.
“Hah!” announced Brennan’s victory and she stood quickly with a bottle of whisky in her raised hand and a grin on her face. Her hair was falling in clumps out of its impromptu bun and her face was flushed from the sudden head rush, but Jack applauded her as she practically dance around the desk and dropped heavily next to him once again. He made a mental note to buy Sweets a Rolex and a pair of man-balls for his genius, promptly took the bottle from Tempy and unscrewed the lid before handing it back.
“Was that you trying to be a gentleman?”
Jack snorted at her, the cig in his mouth catching his attention, burning slowly in it’s stationary state and took a drag from it, wondering if Sweets had a stash of weed around here.
“I highly doubt Sweets smokes marijuana, Doctor Hodgins.” apparently his musings weren’t so internal.
“Yeah, but what fifteen year old doesn’t have weed?” Brennan chuckled low in her throat, her lips wrapped around the rim of the bottle. He flicks his ashes in her direction, amusement in his narrowed eyes. She took a swig of whisky in retaliation, settling back into the couch, her arm brushing against his as she adjusted.
“Have you talked to Angela?” she asked after an eternity and a half of silence, him with the smoking and she with the drinking. He offers her a cigarette and she trades it for the booze. Her foot brushes against his in the trade off and she takes a quick drag to forget it, burning her lungs.
“You never really talk to Angela,” muttered Hodgins against the glass, his mouth still thick with whisky. “You have sex with Angela and pretend it’s all better.”
“I haven’t have sex with Angela, so I’m not sure how accurate your theory is.”
“Fuck, it’s hot in here.” It was probably the alcohol, might have been the smoke, realistically it was because the A/C was busted in the J. Edgar Hoover and that’s why the building was empty. Brennan pushed hair away from her sweaty forehead; it stuck up and glistened with perspiration and made Jack smirk into the bottle before he tipped it back and swallowed. They both pretended she hadn’t spoken.
“I haven’t spoken to Booth,” shared Brennan, getting an odd look from him, while she just stared at her hands, cigarette burning between her fingers. The cherry fell out and onto her skirt, burning a hole into the cotton. They stared at her lap before she flicked the ash away and dropped her head against the back of the couch. “Booth would say that it’s better to talk about experiences with people you care about, but he knows what happened. He told me how worried he was about me, how angry he was at himself for letting something happen to me, which is just illogical. If it hadn’t happened to me it would have been someone far less intelligent who would have most likely died very painfully-”
“I know, Doctor Brennan,” interrupted Hodgins, laughing as the woman next to him prattled on. “It’s been years, months upon months since it happened. You’re talking about it like it happened yesterday.”
“I know when it happened,” scoffed Brennan, her voice colored in miff. “But because I’ve never talked to him about it, he assumes it still bothers me-”
“It bothers me!” laughed Hodgins, interrupting her Booth-bitch-fest. She looked at him sharply and the smile fades from his face. He turned back forward, cradling the bottle against his chest. He nods and repeats the statement in a whisper. “It bothers me.”
“Angela and Booth don’t understand. We understand.”
“I got your back.” the silence was filled once against by drinking. Brennan leaned forward, her hand brushing against the empty bottle she’d had in her purse from a ‘sleepover’ with Angela as she grabbed the pack of smokes, pulling one out and handing it to Jack.
“Sweets is gonna be pissed when he comes to work tomorrow.” mused Hodgins, taking the death stick and passing the whisky back to Brennan.
Zippo. Burn. Inhale. Release. Smoke ring. Lather, rinse, repeat. The sloshing of Brennan and her booze coupled with Hodgins’ breathing, together keeping up a steady stream of silence and increasing inhibition. Jack’s head lolled to the side suddenly and without warning, dropping heavily onto Brennan’s shoulder. She jerked in surprise, staring down at the top of his head, before her shoulders started to shake with laughter.
“You never told me what you wrote, before we blew up the car.” hardly an appropriate question with mirth still glittering in her eyes, but Hodgins sighed anyways, flicking ashes onto the carpet, leaving his cheek pressed against her shoulder.
“It wouldn’t make sense now.”
This time the silence was deafening. It wasn’t a phrase Hodgins liked to use, never really thought it an appropriate saying, but this was…appropriate. There was no sound but the shallow sound of their breathing, the occasional shift of the liquid contents in Brennan’s hand, maybe the sharp sound of nail on paper as Hodgins transferred ashes to the floor. There was a space just to the left of his navel that twisted metaphorically, painful with emotion or hunger or nausea. He could feel Temperance’s heart beat against his cheek, watched at it shook the fabric of her blouse. Her nails racked over the glass in her hands, catching on the paper plastered to it.
“How long have we been here?” asked Jack softly, closing his eyes as Tempy’s breath hitched in surprise at his voice, low as it was.
“Hours…probably. I haven’t found a clock yet.”
“Why the fuck doesn’t Sweets own a clock?”
“Probably to prevent us from watching the time. He has a logical, albeit, an unrealistic rule about clocks. Time doesn‘t fly when you try to watch it boil.”
Hodgins frowned and raised his head slightly to look at her, cheeks flushed. Oh yeah, she was plastered.
“How did we get here?”
“You wanted to do something interesting with your day off,” explained Brennan. “I believe it had to do with blowing up a popsicle.”
“Popsicle stand, and you came with booze.” corrected Hodgins, the latter part of his sentence sounding accusatory, like her bringing booze would have stopped their current quandary.
“If you knew the answer, why did you ask me if I knew how we got here?”
“A normal person would have made some sarcastic remark. I’m glad it’s you instead.”
“Thank you, Hodgins.”
“What do we do about all this unspoken trauma?” asked Hodgins lightly. “We would have been perfectly fine until-”
“The trial.” finished Brennan. “The fucking trial.”
“You don’t swear, Doctor Brennan.” said Hodgins, sounding impressed and amused, pulling away from Brennan and leaning his head next to hers on the couch.
“It seemed appropriate.”
“Where the Grave Digger is concerned, it’s always appropriate.” Brennan lifted her bottle in silent toast and Hodgins tapped his cigarette against the neck of it, watching sparks explode against the glass on contact.
“I’m dreading it,” admitted Hodgins. Brennan turned her head to look at him, her eyes bloodshot with unshed tears and stinging from the smoke. She was so close he could feel her breath against his face, feel the warmth of her skin radiating against his.
“So am I.” Hodgin’s closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of cigarettes and alcohol and Temperance and bleach.
“I can’t kiss you, Temerance,” breathed Hodgins, his nose brushing against hers even as he said it.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I think I need to.”
“It’s odd you know. I find this romantic.”
“Find…what? Breaking into our friends office, drinking his liquor and talking about defacing his couch?”
“No, no, just…talking about kissing me. I find the lack of brain to mouth filter in our current states amusing and romantic. Though I’m sure if I were sober this would not be my thought process.” the crooked smile (the one Brennan seemed to save only for Booth, but then, Booth wasn’t here) so close to his face did him in, his eyelids heavy from hours of mindlessly sitting on a couch in the heat, alcohol making quick work of his bloodstream, mouth dry from his cigarette but who the hell cared- leaning forward and pressing his lips against Brennan’s in a chaste, dry kiss that neither yielded to.
Hodgins wasn’t sure if he passed out in the middle of their kiss or if there was more staring afterwards, but before any time at all seemed to pass by he was being roused by someone calling him ‘dude’.
“Dude, Hodgins. What the hell did you do to my office? And where are your shoes?” Hodgins groaned, pushing Sweets away from his personal space as he sat up, blinking blearily around the room. The pounding against his eyes queued him in that it was Sweets office he was passed out in, and there were two bottles on the table in front of him, one empty, the other a quarter filled. Cigarette butts littered the ground at his feet, and Brennan was gone.
“Sorry, man,” growled Hodgins, clapping the younger man on the shoulder as he went to stand. “Just…needed to be somewhere else.”
“And why does my office count?”
Hodgins ignored him, blinking around, wondering why Brennan was gone, why, when their talk last night had been going so…so…so much drinking. He left Sweets standing in his office looking incredulous, but ultimately forgiving and headed back down to the parking lot, where his car was parked fairly crooked in a visitors spot.
There was a yellow post it note stuck to his windshield with nothing but the words ‘Thank you’ scribbled on it in pencil.
Author/Artist: darkmagic-luvr
Recipient: danniisupernova
Pairing: Hodgins/Brennan
Rating: T
Warnings: drinking, inappropriate language, abuse of nicknames and artistic freedom
Summary: Reminiscing about Aliens in a Spaceship and wherever it may lead.
Notes: Umm, I’m not quite sure what happened to the noninthecanon fic exchange, but I thought I would post this here, just in case by some crazy random happenstance you happen to see it. This is set just around the Trial of the Gravedigger. Yes, Trial has to be capitalized. I’ve never…actually written for this fandom before, and I truly hope I got Hodgins and Brennan right. Enjoy to all who care.
Disclaimer: I own not the characters of Bones. Title of the fic is from the song of the same name by Xiu Xiu Larsen.
The black leather of Sweets’ couch sticks to their skin, at least the little that’s showing. It’s a mystery to them why they’re in here of all places, but they chuckle a little about what Sweets would say if he found them; something like how it was a sanctuary, where they could feel safe. But that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t safe, it just wasn’t familiar. The two of them, they’d been locked in the office for hours, blinds drawn, smoke detector disassembled on the desk (she asked why after the curiosity became too much, even after agreeing to his deal of no questions, boss, let’s just freeze the moment, he‘d responded by pulling a pack of cigarettes from his lab coat and tossing them at her chest), and an open bottle of whisky on the coffee table at their feet.
Shoes were abandoned and kicked under chairs; her skirt was hiked up around her thighs, blouse unbuttoned and brown hair pinned back with a pencil she’d found on the desk that had the words ‘Drew Construction Inc. Perfection In Building Erection’ printed on it in green. He’d unbuttoned his shirt completely, letting it fall against his sides, his wife beater underneath standing out against tan skin. He had been more reluctant to take off his shoes, but when he finally caved, they both had a laugh at the Harry Potter themed socks Zack had gotten him once in a drunken burst of spontaneity. They both went quite after that story, pushing thoughts of Zack and teeth out of their minds.
But once memories of Zack came through, the proverbial flood gates opened, and no matter how much compartmentalizing they had between them, they were together, alone, in a hot, smoke filled office; leather against their backs and dry tongues sticky in their mouths.
Lightheaded from the smoke, Brennan stood, swaying lightly on her feet as she made her way around Sweets’ desk.
“What are you looking for, Doctor Brennan?” because formality was always an issue between the two of them. She ignored him, took a moment for herself to stare blankly at the desk before logic sputtered to life and she dropped to her knees on the ground. Jack frowned at her sudden disappearance, sitting up and craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of her, his partially forgotten cig sticking to the inside of his upper lip.
“Hah!” announced Brennan’s victory and she stood quickly with a bottle of whisky in her raised hand and a grin on her face. Her hair was falling in clumps out of its impromptu bun and her face was flushed from the sudden head rush, but Jack applauded her as she practically dance around the desk and dropped heavily next to him once again. He made a mental note to buy Sweets a Rolex and a pair of man-balls for his genius, promptly took the bottle from Tempy and unscrewed the lid before handing it back.
“Was that you trying to be a gentleman?”
Jack snorted at her, the cig in his mouth catching his attention, burning slowly in it’s stationary state and took a drag from it, wondering if Sweets had a stash of weed around here.
“I highly doubt Sweets smokes marijuana, Doctor Hodgins.” apparently his musings weren’t so internal.
“Yeah, but what fifteen year old doesn’t have weed?” Brennan chuckled low in her throat, her lips wrapped around the rim of the bottle. He flicks his ashes in her direction, amusement in his narrowed eyes. She took a swig of whisky in retaliation, settling back into the couch, her arm brushing against his as she adjusted.
“Have you talked to Angela?” she asked after an eternity and a half of silence, him with the smoking and she with the drinking. He offers her a cigarette and she trades it for the booze. Her foot brushes against his in the trade off and she takes a quick drag to forget it, burning her lungs.
“You never really talk to Angela,” muttered Hodgins against the glass, his mouth still thick with whisky. “You have sex with Angela and pretend it’s all better.”
“I haven’t have sex with Angela, so I’m not sure how accurate your theory is.”
“Fuck, it’s hot in here.” It was probably the alcohol, might have been the smoke, realistically it was because the A/C was busted in the J. Edgar Hoover and that’s why the building was empty. Brennan pushed hair away from her sweaty forehead; it stuck up and glistened with perspiration and made Jack smirk into the bottle before he tipped it back and swallowed. They both pretended she hadn’t spoken.
“I haven’t spoken to Booth,” shared Brennan, getting an odd look from him, while she just stared at her hands, cigarette burning between her fingers. The cherry fell out and onto her skirt, burning a hole into the cotton. They stared at her lap before she flicked the ash away and dropped her head against the back of the couch. “Booth would say that it’s better to talk about experiences with people you care about, but he knows what happened. He told me how worried he was about me, how angry he was at himself for letting something happen to me, which is just illogical. If it hadn’t happened to me it would have been someone far less intelligent who would have most likely died very painfully-”
“I know, Doctor Brennan,” interrupted Hodgins, laughing as the woman next to him prattled on. “It’s been years, months upon months since it happened. You’re talking about it like it happened yesterday.”
“I know when it happened,” scoffed Brennan, her voice colored in miff. “But because I’ve never talked to him about it, he assumes it still bothers me-”
“It bothers me!” laughed Hodgins, interrupting her Booth-bitch-fest. She looked at him sharply and the smile fades from his face. He turned back forward, cradling the bottle against his chest. He nods and repeats the statement in a whisper. “It bothers me.”
“Angela and Booth don’t understand. We understand.”
“I got your back.” the silence was filled once against by drinking. Brennan leaned forward, her hand brushing against the empty bottle she’d had in her purse from a ‘sleepover’ with Angela as she grabbed the pack of smokes, pulling one out and handing it to Jack.
“Sweets is gonna be pissed when he comes to work tomorrow.” mused Hodgins, taking the death stick and passing the whisky back to Brennan.
Zippo. Burn. Inhale. Release. Smoke ring. Lather, rinse, repeat. The sloshing of Brennan and her booze coupled with Hodgins’ breathing, together keeping up a steady stream of silence and increasing inhibition. Jack’s head lolled to the side suddenly and without warning, dropping heavily onto Brennan’s shoulder. She jerked in surprise, staring down at the top of his head, before her shoulders started to shake with laughter.
“You never told me what you wrote, before we blew up the car.” hardly an appropriate question with mirth still glittering in her eyes, but Hodgins sighed anyways, flicking ashes onto the carpet, leaving his cheek pressed against her shoulder.
“It wouldn’t make sense now.”
This time the silence was deafening. It wasn’t a phrase Hodgins liked to use, never really thought it an appropriate saying, but this was…appropriate. There was no sound but the shallow sound of their breathing, the occasional shift of the liquid contents in Brennan’s hand, maybe the sharp sound of nail on paper as Hodgins transferred ashes to the floor. There was a space just to the left of his navel that twisted metaphorically, painful with emotion or hunger or nausea. He could feel Temperance’s heart beat against his cheek, watched at it shook the fabric of her blouse. Her nails racked over the glass in her hands, catching on the paper plastered to it.
“How long have we been here?” asked Jack softly, closing his eyes as Tempy’s breath hitched in surprise at his voice, low as it was.
“Hours…probably. I haven’t found a clock yet.”
“Why the fuck doesn’t Sweets own a clock?”
“Probably to prevent us from watching the time. He has a logical, albeit, an unrealistic rule about clocks. Time doesn‘t fly when you try to watch it boil.”
Hodgins frowned and raised his head slightly to look at her, cheeks flushed. Oh yeah, she was plastered.
“How did we get here?”
“You wanted to do something interesting with your day off,” explained Brennan. “I believe it had to do with blowing up a popsicle.”
“Popsicle stand, and you came with booze.” corrected Hodgins, the latter part of his sentence sounding accusatory, like her bringing booze would have stopped their current quandary.
“If you knew the answer, why did you ask me if I knew how we got here?”
“A normal person would have made some sarcastic remark. I’m glad it’s you instead.”
“Thank you, Hodgins.”
“What do we do about all this unspoken trauma?” asked Hodgins lightly. “We would have been perfectly fine until-”
“The trial.” finished Brennan. “The fucking trial.”
“You don’t swear, Doctor Brennan.” said Hodgins, sounding impressed and amused, pulling away from Brennan and leaning his head next to hers on the couch.
“It seemed appropriate.”
“Where the Grave Digger is concerned, it’s always appropriate.” Brennan lifted her bottle in silent toast and Hodgins tapped his cigarette against the neck of it, watching sparks explode against the glass on contact.
“I’m dreading it,” admitted Hodgins. Brennan turned her head to look at him, her eyes bloodshot with unshed tears and stinging from the smoke. She was so close he could feel her breath against his face, feel the warmth of her skin radiating against his.
“So am I.” Hodgin’s closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of cigarettes and alcohol and Temperance and bleach.
“I can’t kiss you, Temerance,” breathed Hodgins, his nose brushing against hers even as he said it.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I think I need to.”
“It’s odd you know. I find this romantic.”
“Find…what? Breaking into our friends office, drinking his liquor and talking about defacing his couch?”
“No, no, just…talking about kissing me. I find the lack of brain to mouth filter in our current states amusing and romantic. Though I’m sure if I were sober this would not be my thought process.” the crooked smile (the one Brennan seemed to save only for Booth, but then, Booth wasn’t here) so close to his face did him in, his eyelids heavy from hours of mindlessly sitting on a couch in the heat, alcohol making quick work of his bloodstream, mouth dry from his cigarette but who the hell cared- leaning forward and pressing his lips against Brennan’s in a chaste, dry kiss that neither yielded to.
Hodgins wasn’t sure if he passed out in the middle of their kiss or if there was more staring afterwards, but before any time at all seemed to pass by he was being roused by someone calling him ‘dude’.
“Dude, Hodgins. What the hell did you do to my office? And where are your shoes?” Hodgins groaned, pushing Sweets away from his personal space as he sat up, blinking blearily around the room. The pounding against his eyes queued him in that it was Sweets office he was passed out in, and there were two bottles on the table in front of him, one empty, the other a quarter filled. Cigarette butts littered the ground at his feet, and Brennan was gone.
“Sorry, man,” growled Hodgins, clapping the younger man on the shoulder as he went to stand. “Just…needed to be somewhere else.”
“And why does my office count?”
Hodgins ignored him, blinking around, wondering why Brennan was gone, why, when their talk last night had been going so…so…so much drinking. He left Sweets standing in his office looking incredulous, but ultimately forgiving and headed back down to the parking lot, where his car was parked fairly crooked in a visitors spot.
There was a yellow post it note stuck to his windshield with nothing but the words ‘Thank you’ scribbled on it in pencil.