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slashthedrabble Aug. 12th, 2006 09:11 pm)
lostakasha.livejournal.com posting in slashthedrabble Aug. 12th, 2006 09:11 pm)Author: Lostakasha
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 600
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
Lyrics: From Ship of Fools by the Grateful Dead.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashthedrabble hurt/comfort challenge. Sequel to In Nomine Patris
Set after Two Bodies In The Lab. Booth is recovering from his injuries, and Jack pays a uncomfortable call.
Twenty Questions
My arrival on his doorstep doesn’t surprise him as much as I thought it might, and he lets me in without protest. Might be the pain meds, but he doesn’t seem stoned.
“You always ring people’s doorbells at one thirty in the morning?”
Give him the once over and hand him my entry fee, a bottle of Herradura. “Still fully clad at this hour? Is that a Ranger thing? We’re always dressed and ready or something?”
“That’s three. You got seventeen more, so use them wisely,” Booth mutters. Virulent streaks of violet and stone bruise yellow mottle his wrist where ruptures still knit, and he struggles to crack the bottle seal. He blinks when I take the bottle back, aim myself for where I think the kitchen might be.
The Dead pours from the stereo, dope-soaked and mournful and strangely Booth-like. If his taste in music is any indication, at least he knows who he is.
Saw your first ship sink and drown
from rocking of the boat
and all that could not sink or swim
was just left there to float. . .
He knows. Doesn’t like it much, nor me particularly, but that doesn’t stop him from standing a little too close to me as I pour the drinks. The heat from his healing bruises is close enough to feel through my sleeve.
“How are you feeling?” Since this is my first visit since his release from the hospital it seems like the thing to ask.
“Like shit. You?”
I won't leave you drifting down
but whoa it makes me wild
with thirty years upon my head
to have you call me child.
The agave nectar slides hot and smooth down my throat, warms deep but not quite enough. Set the glass down on the counter a little too hard, catch his eyes as I move past. This little visit is clearly not the best idea I’ve ever had.
“Take it easy, man.”
Don’t know if he’s groaning because it hurts him to move or what, but my name tumbles out and I think he might’ve tried to reach for the hem of my jacket.
“Hodgins… you fucking show up here in the middle of the fucking night for a shot? What’s that about?”
The stretched-out collar of his sweatshirt shifts, revealing a blossom of thundercloud-dark flesh that seeps up the side of his neck from the greenstick fractures of his clavicle. The sight of it dries the spit in my mouth and makes my dick pulse and thicken, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” and it’s true enough.
This time his fingers connect, crab against my forearm and pinch my jacket sleeve and he squints as he pulls at the cloth.
“Of course I’m not okay,” he hisses, leaning down to close the space between us. “I’m not okay, you are not okay, and neither is this.”
He tastes like cactus needles and beer, laced with something corrosive. Profoundly medicinal. Oxycodone, probably, chased with a dose of soma or something like it. Lean deeper, swab out the first layer of the kiss, blend our distinct flavors into something more sweet than bitter until he turns his face away to draw a ragged breath.
“This can never be okay, understand?”
Link my thumb under the neck of his shirt. Obsidian eyes regard me from beneath lowered lids, but he doesn’t turn back to face me until I pull the fabric tight across his throat.
“That’s four. You’ve got sixteen left,” I tell him. “Use them wisely.”
Fandom: Bones
Pairing: Jack Hodgins/Seeley Booth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 600
Disclaimer: Don't own them. But you'd see this onscreen if I did.
Lyrics: From Ship of Fools by the Grateful Dead.
For
slashthedrabble hurt/comfort challenge. Sequel to In Nomine Patris Set after Two Bodies In The Lab. Booth is recovering from his injuries, and Jack pays a uncomfortable call.
Twenty Questions
My arrival on his doorstep doesn’t surprise him as much as I thought it might, and he lets me in without protest. Might be the pain meds, but he doesn’t seem stoned.
“You always ring people’s doorbells at one thirty in the morning?”
Give him the once over and hand him my entry fee, a bottle of Herradura. “Still fully clad at this hour? Is that a Ranger thing? We’re always dressed and ready or something?”
“That’s three. You got seventeen more, so use them wisely,” Booth mutters. Virulent streaks of violet and stone bruise yellow mottle his wrist where ruptures still knit, and he struggles to crack the bottle seal. He blinks when I take the bottle back, aim myself for where I think the kitchen might be.
The Dead pours from the stereo, dope-soaked and mournful and strangely Booth-like. If his taste in music is any indication, at least he knows who he is.
Saw your first ship sink and drown
from rocking of the boat
and all that could not sink or swim
was just left there to float. . .
He knows. Doesn’t like it much, nor me particularly, but that doesn’t stop him from standing a little too close to me as I pour the drinks. The heat from his healing bruises is close enough to feel through my sleeve.
“How are you feeling?” Since this is my first visit since his release from the hospital it seems like the thing to ask.
“Like shit. You?”
I won't leave you drifting down
but whoa it makes me wild
with thirty years upon my head
to have you call me child.
The agave nectar slides hot and smooth down my throat, warms deep but not quite enough. Set the glass down on the counter a little too hard, catch his eyes as I move past. This little visit is clearly not the best idea I’ve ever had.
“Take it easy, man.”
Don’t know if he’s groaning because it hurts him to move or what, but my name tumbles out and I think he might’ve tried to reach for the hem of my jacket.
“Hodgins… you fucking show up here in the middle of the fucking night for a shot? What’s that about?”
The stretched-out collar of his sweatshirt shifts, revealing a blossom of thundercloud-dark flesh that seeps up the side of his neck from the greenstick fractures of his clavicle. The sight of it dries the spit in my mouth and makes my dick pulse and thicken, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” and it’s true enough.
This time his fingers connect, crab against my forearm and pinch my jacket sleeve and he squints as he pulls at the cloth.
“Of course I’m not okay,” he hisses, leaning down to close the space between us. “I’m not okay, you are not okay, and neither is this.”
He tastes like cactus needles and beer, laced with something corrosive. Profoundly medicinal. Oxycodone, probably, chased with a dose of soma or something like it. Lean deeper, swab out the first layer of the kiss, blend our distinct flavors into something more sweet than bitter until he turns his face away to draw a ragged breath.
“This can never be okay, understand?”
Link my thumb under the neck of his shirt. Obsidian eyes regard me from beneath lowered lids, but he doesn’t turn back to face me until I pull the fabric tight across his throat.
“That’s four. You’ve got sixteen left,” I tell him. “Use them wisely.”
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From:
no subject
*swoons*
I do love the way you write, baby ... and the way you write Jack/Booth is infuckingcredible.
Lovely.
Thank you for sharing this.
*smooches*
From:
no subject
*languishes in the deep end of our mutual admiration society*
Thank you, sweets -- your feedback means so much!