Plumbing wheezes and pings, floorboards creak and a thick, foggy voice croaks a greeting from the kitchen.
Booth misses this. Misses the after-sex quiet, being the first person out of the bed, moving through the silent house, reliving touches that make him shiver to think about; feeling the imprint of teeth and nails in his skin still present after hours of sleep, and most of all, he misses a warm, perfect body next to his, over his, lost in dreams but reaching for him.
He’s never lacked for this bliss with the women in his life: Rebecca, Camille, Tessa, a few of the long list of satisfied women who craved his company and were happy to spend long days with him, filled with laughter and sex and lovemaking.
Those same moments are those he’s never allowed himself to have with another man. Not once, not ever. He’s never lain in bed after a night of lovemaking and refused to leave, collecting the body that made him lose consciousness in his arms and insisting that they spend the day with only room enough for breath between them.
Fuck, he’s never spent an entire night with a man. Not with Jason, and not with Scott; the Army conveniently took care of that.
“Wonderful thing about life, man. People change.”
“Nah, people don’t change. They like to think they do, but they don’t.”
And sometimes they’re dead wrong.
His breath catches in his throat as Hodgins shuffles past, rumpled and yawning and Booth knows his body is still hot from being wrapped in blankets. He’s never let Cam or Tessa or any other beautiful woman walk by him after a night like last night, and it makes no sense to let Jack pass, either.
Hodgins bounces into the cushions and takes a gulp of coffee, which Booth swiftly and carefully takes from his hand. Setting the cup on the coffee table next to his, he doesn't stop to think, to worry.
“Hey…”
Jack tastes like coffee and that hippie spearmint toothpaste he likes, and his beard smells like glycerin soap. Greedy hands rake Booth’s scalp and in mid-kiss he’s straddling his lap.
“Sleep good?” Booth asks, wiping a wild muddle of curls back from Jack's forehead.
“Dude,” Jack purrs. “Like the dead. You’re up early.” Long lashes flutter and the blue eyes close; a smile spreads, dawn-like, over his face. “Literal is good.” he sighs. "Literal is excellent."
(found this on my flash drive...homeless, and perhaps that is how it should remain!)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-02-25 08:50 pm (UTC)Plumbing wheezes and pings, floorboards creak and a thick, foggy voice croaks a greeting from the kitchen.
Booth misses this. Misses the after-sex quiet, being the first person out of the bed, moving through the silent house, reliving touches that make him shiver to think about; feeling the imprint of teeth and nails in his skin still present after hours of sleep, and most of all, he misses a warm, perfect body next to his, over his, lost in dreams but reaching for him.
He’s never lacked for this bliss with the women in his life: Rebecca, Camille, Tessa, a few of the long list of satisfied women who craved his company and were happy to spend long days with him, filled with laughter and sex and lovemaking.
Those same moments are those he’s never allowed himself to have with another man. Not once, not ever. He’s never lain in bed after a night of lovemaking and refused to leave, collecting the body that made him lose consciousness in his arms and insisting that they spend the day with only room enough for breath between them.
Fuck, he’s never spent an entire night with a man. Not with Jason, and not with Scott; the Army conveniently took care of that.
“Wonderful thing about life, man. People change.”
“Nah, people don’t change. They like to think they do, but they don’t.”
And sometimes they’re dead wrong.
His breath catches in his throat as Hodgins shuffles past, rumpled and yawning and Booth knows his body is still hot from being wrapped in blankets. He’s never let Cam or Tessa or any other beautiful woman walk by him after a night like last night, and it makes no sense to let Jack pass, either.
Hodgins bounces into the cushions and takes a gulp of coffee, which Booth swiftly and carefully takes from his hand. Setting the cup on the coffee table next to his, he doesn't stop to think, to worry.
“Hey…”
Jack tastes like coffee and that hippie spearmint toothpaste he likes, and his beard smells like glycerin soap. Greedy hands rake Booth’s scalp and in mid-kiss he’s straddling his lap.
“Sleep good?” Booth asks, wiping a wild muddle of curls back from Jack's forehead.
“Dude,” Jack purrs. “Like the dead. You’re up early.” Long lashes flutter and the blue eyes close; a smile spreads, dawn-like, over his face. “Literal is good.” he sighs. "Literal is excellent."
(found this on my flash drive...homeless, and perhaps that is how it should remain!)