Fic: Blind Situation (Part 2)

Dec 04, 2008 14:06



It’s not fair.  I know this before the words leave my mouth, but I can’t stop them.

“I think we should wear our rings,” I say.

Brennan opens her eyes and tries to focus.  I’m sure the three fingers I have buried between her legs are making the process increasingly difficult.

“What are you...?” A moan swallows the end of the question as I switch positions and slow my rhythm.  She likes to be teased.  It was a sexy surprise; so antithetical to the woman she is outside of this bedroom.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, world-renowned forensic anthropologist loves it when I take my time and make her scream the name of a deity she doesn’t even believe in.

If these past two months have taught me anything it’s that I love giving Brennan what she wants.  In the bedroom.  In the shower.  On her desk at work.

“I think we should wear our rings,” I repeat, but this time I kiss her before she can say anything.  I use my thigh to give my hand more leverage as I slide my fingers in and out.

“God,” she groans, pulling her lips away from mine. Her nails dig into my back.

“Say yes,” I whisper.  Again, I know it’s not fair, but it’s the best option I have.  I’m smart, smarter than most actually, but not smarter than her.  On any given day she can outthink me.  She can come up with logical reasons why we shouldn’t work.  She can explain the intense attraction that makes me want to throw her up against a wall every time I see her with a dissertation on the mating habits of the Australian bowerbird.  When she’s riding my hand like some kind of devil is chasing her, that’s when I know her brain isn’t getting in our way.

“I... I’m not... why?”  She finishes breathless. She’s close.

“Because we can’t be really married if no one knows about it.” I bite the pulse at her throat and then smooth the spot with my tongue.

“I think... I think it...” her words come in fits and starts and gasps until they stop altogether.

Her tongue licks her bottom lip before her teeth bite down on it.  Her skin flushes red from her cheeks all the way down to the sweet spot between her neck and shoulders.  She pulls me down into a kiss and screams her orgasm down my throat and into my chest until it follows a path to the part of me where her name is written in heat.

We stay like that, with my hand inside her and her lips grazing my neck, for longer than we probably should considering we have jobs to go to.  Eventually she opens her eyes and I can feel her smile against my skin.

“Don’t say it.” I pout.  “My logic is not flawed.”

“I think it’s cute,” she says with a laugh hiding in her voice.

“So my logic is cute?” My pout turns into a smile.

“Among other things,” she adds.

“Like what?” I ask.

Brennan grins before flipping our positions.  Suddenly I am on my back and her thigh is between my legs.

“Let me show you,” she says right before her lips close around my nipple.

I realize she just avoided the question with a skill that should probably receive some type of award, but I can’t find the brainpower to care.

**)(**

“This is the third time you’ve been late this week,” Angela says as I walk into my office.

I stop in my tracks because I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be saying things like that, but more so because it seems Angela is apparently keeping tabs on me.  I take a quick glance at my watch.

“It’s 8 o’clock.  I’m right on time,” I say skeptically.

“Exactly.” Angela gets out of my seat as I come closer.  “You are always here before everyone else,” she continues.

I sit at my desk, still unsure as to what dimension I’ve walked into.  Granted, I have been coming in on time instead of an hour early for the past few weeks, but it is completely not my fault that Brennan prefers to use sex instead of coffee to prepare her for the day.  Granted, it might be my fault that I apparently have no will power, but I contend that even that is debatable.

“I’m sorry, why are we having this conversation?” I ask.

“You know who else has been coming in late?”

My stomach does a little flip at the question.  Actually, it does a big flip.  This moment is like a backwards answer to everything I want and yet it’s causing fear to spark off of me like a fireworks display.

Among mortals second thoughts are wisest.  The phrase jumps into my head and for what seems like the one-hundredth time, I reconsider the supposed wisdom of Zen.  Evidently the best I can do in times of stress is quoting cartoons or sounding like a fortune cookie.

I don’t have second thoughts about being married to Brennan.

I don’t think I have second thoughts about being married to Brennan.

Shit.

“This is too easy,” Angela says as I try to figure out the meaning of life, the meaning of my life, anyway.

“What?” I ask.

“You just told me everything I needed to know.” Angela smiles in disbelief.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, honey, you said plenty.” She looks at me indulgently.  “I’ve got one more stop to make.  I’ll see you in a few.”  Angela disappears from my office before I have a chance to defend or redeem myself.

**)(**

I walk into the lab to a waiting audience. I approach with some trepidation as Angela beams a smile at me.

Hodgins eyes Sweets warily as the psychologist follows him around refusing to break eye contact.  Booth juggles an early 15th Century Mayan artifact like a circus ball.  And Brennan bends over Jane Doe number four, inspecting the throat for the requisite clue.

I carefully catch the artifact mid toss and place it back down on the table. Booth looks at me like I’m the grinch who stole Christmas.  I stop next to Brennan, but take a small step back when Angela’s smile becomes a lopsided grin.

“What do we have?” I ask.

“We’re looking for a sick bastard that I can’t wait to introduce myself to,” Booth offers.

“Right.” I squint at the FBI Agent.  “What do we have that is actually pertinent to the case?” I clarify.

“If the precedent holds, I will find a small piece of paper lodged within the victim's esophagus.   On it, will be a printed number ranging between 115 and 144.”  Brennan speaks without looking up.

“The paper will have been doused with a catalyzed intumescent flame retardant,” Hodgins continues.  “And once I take a closer look at the body, I bet I’ll find she was burned with an increasingly difficult to decode explosive compound.”

“Which brings us right back to sick bastard and introduction.” Booth seethes as he looks at the charred body.

Brennan finally pulls the paper out of its hiding place.  This time, none of us gather around to find out what it says.  I never thought we would be four bodies into this case and unless we figure out the killer’s angle, four bodies won’t be all.   Bearing the responsibility for this kind of justice has given me six migraines in the past two months.

“135,” Brennan pronounces as she hands the paper over to Hodgins.

“This is probably a terrible thing to say,” Angela starts, “actually, this is definitely a terrible thing to say, but if he continues on this trend, it will really narrow our list of possible future victims.”

That truth sinks into the room.

“She’s right,” Sweets offers.

“We know,” Booth and I say at the same time, our voices louder than necessary.  We gaze at each other uncomfortably.  A tense silence stretches between us and I see a cloudy question in his eyes.

“Victim number one,” Hodgins begins.  He walks to the board and looks at a picture of the victim from before she was nothing but blackened skin and bone.

“Marcie Davidson,” Angela adds.

“Marcie Davidson,” he says the name softly, acknowledging Angela’s need to grasp at humanity amid the horrific display before us.  “19 years old, burned with silver nitrate, a simple chemical that turns into a powerful explosive when exposed to heat.”

“The note found in her esophagus correlated to her IQ.  She suffered from severe mental retardation,” Brennan finishes.  She walks back over to Jane Doe number four and studies what’s left of the body.  “Subsequent victims have been denoted by an increase in their particular IQ.”

“So since the number you just found is 135 that means the next victim will be a woman with an IQ between 145 and 175,” Sweets says like he’s uncovered a great mystery.  “She should be pretty easy to find.  I mean how many women in DC are that smart.”

His words thud out of his mouth and punch me in the gut.  It’s been the elephant in the room for quite some time and if the situation were different I’d commend our dexterity at avoiding it.

“Five,” I say. “Five within what seems to be the killer’s geographical range.”

I can feel Brennan’s gaze burning its way over to me, but I can’t look.  If I did, everyone would see the fear that is blazing an acidic trail through my veins.

“What am I missing?” Sweets ask.

“I have an IQ of 167,” Brennan fills the silence.

“Oh,” the psychologist offers. “Well, there’s an 80 % chance that you won’t be the next victim.”

My fear is immediately replaced by rage.  I want to strangle him.  I want to commit actual physical violence against Sweets.  I don’t realize I’ve taken a step in his direction until Brennan easily steps in front of me, effectively blocking my path.

“Mathematically, the odds are certainly in my favor,” Brennan says the words like the situation we’ve found ourselves in is no more complex than fifth grade math.

“Mathematically?” Booth barks the word at Brennan.  “Mathematically?” He shakes his head in disbelief.  “We are dealing with a serial killer here, Bones. You know, the kind that kills people for fun. Math has nothing to do with it.”

“This killer chooses victims based on where they fall on a scale that measures one’s intelligent quotient.  Concluding that math is irrelevant to this case is unwise,” Brennan says like Booth should know better by now.

“So there’s a 20% chance you could get murdered within the next two weeks.” Hodgins refers the statement to Brennan.

“Yes,” she answers. Brennan turns to me; her lips curve into a frown.

“So what are we going to do about that?” Angela asks.

**)(**

I knock on Brennan’s door and wonder why I haven’t talked or kissed my way into garnering a key.  It is suddenly obvious where I went wrong.  I should have asked for the key first and worked my way up to the rings.

“I think I should have a key,” the last word falls limply from my mouth as Booth stands on the others side of the door.

“That’s a little extreme, Cam.” Booth smiles. He opens the door wider.  “Come on in.”

Booth invites me into my wife’s apartment and I nearly choke on all the words that bang against my clenched teeth.

“It’s really nice of you to stop by, but I’ve got it covered.” Booth adds.  He follows me into the living room and makes himself at home on Brennan’s couch.  “Bones is in the shower,” he chuckles.

“The shower?” My voice is flat and humorless. I clutch the strap of the bag slung over my shoulder.

“For some reason, she decided to bake an apple pie.” Booth’s laughter spills into the room and after fifteen years of knowing him, I suddenly don’t like the sound.  “You should have seen her. The kitchen looks like a science experiment gone really, really wrong. Science fiction wrong.”

“It was not my fault.”  Brennan walks into the room freshly showered wearing simple jeans, a simple sweater and looking simply beautiful. “The recipe was fundamentally flawed,” she adds.

Booth erupts into another round of laughter. “OK, Bones. If that makes you feel better.”

“You can leave now.” Brennan says, slightly annoyed.

Booth’s laughter dies down when he realizes Brennan is serious.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, immediately standing up. “No more pie jokes, I get it.  I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” Brennan responds like her words have no ramifications beyond there empirical meaning.

The crash of silence is deafening in its abrupt arrival.  Booth’s gaze travels between Brennan and myself, desperately trying to figure this situation out.   He looks off into the distance, probably replaying the last two months in his head.  When he turns back and his eyes land on me, they are glazed over with something hard and unreadable.

“Cam, what’s going on?”

A part of me wants to be confused.  He could be asking me that question as a cop who likes to know all the facts, maybe even as a former lover who didn’t see this coming.

“You know what’s going on, Seeley.” I answer with the honesty of a friend who knows how insufficient ‘I’m sorry’ can be.

He swallows and clears his throat.  He does everything instead of look at Brennan.

“Well, I’m the one with the gun, so...” He touches his sidearm.

I tap my bag, “I’m always prepared.  You know me,” I say with a small smile.

“No, Cam, I obviously don’t.”  His point made with unerring accuracy, Booth walks out of the apartment without a backwards glance.  I breathe a sigh of guilty relief at being the one still here.

“He is upset,” Brennan observes in his absence.

“Yes, he is.” I turn to Brennan, smiling because I know what comes next.

“But he shouldn’t be upset.”

“Of course he should be, just like I would be if you had asked me to leave.” I say.

“But that’s different,” she says. I grasp Brennan’s hands and pull her closer to me.  I wrap my arms around her waist.

“Why is it different?” I ask, softly.

“Because he doesn’t...” Brennan pauses; a flash of indecision tints her eyes.  She leans in until her lips graze mine. The kiss tingles with intent, but she pulls away before I can ask for more.  She looks at me, her gaze steady and soft.  “Because he doesn’t love me,” she whispers.

Goose bumps break out over my entire body and I start to shiver.  My body runs hot and cold then hot again.

“So you’re saying I love you?” I ask.

“To be accurate, I’m saying you love me.” Brennan smiles.

I stare at her until I can get my brain and my heart to run at the same speed again.

“Don’t you?” She asks with a small fraction of uncertainty.

“Why did you try to bake an apple pie?” I ask.

“What?” Brennan gives me a confused stare.

I let the question sink in.

“I didn’t bake one, exactly.  There were apples and there was pie crust but the recipe contained defective--”

My kiss cuts off her clarification.  “Why did you bake it?” I ask quietly as I pull away.

“Because it’s your favorite,” she starts, “and you were extremely upset about the possibility of me becoming a murder victim.  I wanted to make you feel better,” she finishes with a small, beautiful smile.

I like her because she smiles at me and means it.  I don’t know who that quote belongs to, but I’m grateful to them.

“I’m moving in.” I say as I slowly bring our lips closer together.

“OK,” Brennan whispers.  Her breath tickles my mouth.

“I’m going to keep you safe.”  I study her face and wait for the requisite explanation of the implicit absurdity of my statement.  I wait to hear about how I’ve reverted to the traditional male archetypes with my promise of protection.  I expect to be informed about the human psyche and its inability to understand what it cannot control.

“OK,” Brennan whispers again without placation or condescension.

This is a new reality for us.  It catches me unawares, still mired in the all the things in which I am not and she is.  Her trust is unexpected and terrifying.  Failure has never scared me before, but now its bitter fragments burn through my lungs.

“OK.”  On my lips the word sounds like a prayer.

Brennan leans in and kisses me before I can doubt myself.  She kisses me until the prayer becomes a promise and the promise becomes sacred.  Not sacred like the God I believe in, but sacred like I’m a newly discovered fact that only she has the privilege to know.

She kisses me all the way to her bedroom and onto the bed that we now share.  I look up at her as she straddles my legs.  She settles her heat onto mine and slowly removes her sweater.  It slides over her head and when it tumbles to the floor the only thing left is a beautifully crooked grin.

“I’m still not wearing the ring.”

I laugh for the first time today.  I grab her by the shoulders and shift our body weight.  The air rushes out of her mouth as her back hits the mattress.

“It’s an antiquated method in which human beings can show ownership and--” I trap the rest of her words between our mouths and curl the letters around my tongue.  The moan I get in response tells me that convincing her to wear my ring might be difficult, but certainly not impossible.

“We’ll see,” I challenge while I unclasp her bra and squeeze her nipples between my fingers.  Luckily for us, I’m willing to spend the rest of the night pleading my case.

The End...?

bones, fic: blind situation, brennan/cam

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