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Fandom: BSD -Bungo Stray Dogs
Ship: Soukoku - Dazai x Chuuya
Prompt: “Come here. Sit with me.”
TW: none that I can think of.
A/N: Also posted on my ao3, the link is on my master list
It was a relatively slow day.
After everything with Fyodor and the Decay of Angels had settled, everyone had gotten a well-deserved few days off.
Their relationship had been slow to reach the point it was at now, what with Dazai’s disappearance from the Port Mafia and his 2-year absence before re-emerging in the Ada and then another 2 years before Chuuya and Dazai had actually run into each other.
What had been left of their relationship was smoldering coals. They still trusted each other, as Chuuya had hardly hesitated before using Corruption at Dazai’s request. But Dazai had treated Chuuya horribly, he had left without so much as a text explaining what he was doing. He had blown up his car.
He didn’t believe it was possible for someone as divine and beautiful as Chuuya to have any fraction of a good thought about him. Sure, he had patched up Dazai plenty of times when he was in the Port Mafia and he had stopped him from many attempts but it was only because he relied on Dazai to use Corruption,… right?
And yet, here he was, in Chuuya’s penthouse, with him, being taken care of. He and Chuuya had gotten closer, closer than they ever were. They had yet to put a label on it.
And while Dazai knew that it was only because of their clashing schedules, their different jobs. They worked on different sides now. Dazai knew that they simply hadn’t the time to truly talk about it. And then everything went to absolute shit with Fyodor and then they hardly had time to even relax on their own time.
But now everything was over. The dust had settled and they finally had time to talk and to sleep, to just be around each other. Chuuya was back to making sure Dazai ate three meals a day, even if his portions were small. But… they hadn’t talked about it yet.
Dazai tried to not let the sapling of doubt grow and bloom within, but his own self-deprecation was relentless in its ability to make him spiral in his thoughts. He was supposed to be relaxing but his brain couldn’t seem to shut itself up.
“Dazai?”
A voice snapped Dazai from his never-ending thoughts. The voice, Chuuya, his brain provided for him, sounded from the direction of the living room. Dazai was still sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. He had been doom-scrolling as his brain spiraled.
Deciding to finally stretch his legs, he stood up. He stretched until he heard his back pop, sighing as he dropped his shoulders, and relaxed. He sluggishly made his way toward the living room. The sleeves of the sweater he was wearing were rolled up to his elbows and his hands were in his pockets.
“Yes?” He stopped at the entrance of the living room, looking towards where Chuuya sat on the couch, the TV had some movie on that Dazai didn’t care to figure out.
Chuuya looked up towards Dazai, a small, pleasant smile adorned his face. “Come here. Sit with me.”
Dazai didn’t have the energy to whine about how the dog shouldn’t be the one giving out orders, the exhaustion showing itself as prominent bags under Dazai’s eyes, so he wordlessly listened. Walking languidly to the open spot next to Chuuya, who immediately brought his arm from the back of the couch to Dazai’s waist to pull him closer as soon as he was sat on the couch.
“So… you’ve been living with me for the last few months…” Chuuya trailed off as if he wasn’t sure how to continue or word his question.
Dazai stilled, though tried his best to hide it. So they were having that conversation. Had he done something over the last few months to annoy Chuuya to get him to kick him out? Of course, he had, what was he thinking? He couldn’t stop his destructive habit of annoying Chuuya till he retaliated, more often than not, physically and violently. He had done it when they first saw each other after 4 years. Surely Chuuya has realized how horrible Dazai is and is going to kick him out. He only wants to let him down gently…
_____________________________
Chuuya felt Dazai tense under his arm. Though he hid it exceptionally well, as expected of an executive, even if he no longer is one. Chuuya’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have even noticed had he not had his arm around him and his trained eyes on him.
It was hard to tell what was going through his mind, and he doubted it was easy to understand even if he could see it all happening in front of him. He imagines it would be too fast to comprehend most of it.
But while he can’t read his mind word for word, he does know Dazai better than anyone else. He was the brawn to Soukoku and Dazai was the brain. They had to be able to read each other to some degree to function as one. So Chuuya had an inkling of an idea what Dazai was thinking.
It was probably something self-deprecating, and probably something Chuuya would find stupid.
Truly, Dazai was the smartest dumbass he knew. A genius who wouldn’t know affection if it slapped him in the face ten times,… or punched him perhaps a few too many times that he had lost count.
Chuuya pulled himself from his thoughts. He needed to relax Dazai so he could get it through his thick genius skull how much he loved the lanky man sitting next to him. He let his hand on Dazai’s waist rub nonsense shapes into his sweater in a comforting manner.
“Relax, it’s nothing bad.” He spoke in what he hoped was a comforting tone. It seemed to work as Dazai minutely relaxed into his side, though traces of his overthinking mind still lingered.
“You’ve lived with me for the past few months… and now that all the dumb shit with Fyodor is done and over with, I… I want to take a step further if you are ready, or if you even want to…” Chuuya trailed off awkwardly. They didn’t often voice their emotions or thoughts to each other, not really seeing the need for it as they were typically adept at reading each other. If they weren’t capable of at least that then they wouldn’t have ever been such terrifyingly great partners.
But at last, it seems that neither of them is knowledgeable enough on the topic of affection and love with how blind they are to each other's feelings towards them. At least… Chuuya hoped that was the emotion in Dazai’s eyes that he couldn’t seem to read. He hoped it was a mutual feeling of love.
____________________________
Dazai’s mind was attempting to process a million thoughts that were running miles in seconds. He was so caught up in them that he hardly realized what Chuuya had said, so terrified of being rejected before he even had the chance to confess. He had to backtrack his thoughts to process what Chuuya had said and when he did…
How… How did Chuuya not hate him? How can someone he treated so horribly, like nothing more than a dog not hate him? Him. How could anyone ever feel anything other than disgust and loathing when thinking of someone like Dazai?
He vaguely felt something wet on his face, but his mind paid no attention to it in lieu of overworking its ever-present self-deprecating thought process.
____________________________
Chuuya could see, and feel, as Dazai stilled in his arms once again.
And then, as Chuuya looked at his face with slight worry, he saw it.
Tears.
Chuuya can’t recall a time he’s ever seen or heard Dazai cry during their 7, almost 8, years of knowing each other. As an ignorant teenager, he believed that someone such as Dazai couldn’t cry, but he knew better than that now. Dazai was as much a human as anyone else, and therefore capable of crying, of being sad, of feeling.
Dazai’s body trembling slightly pulled him from his thoughts. He now reached to rearrange Dazai to face him on the couch. Though Dazai didn’t fight it, he didn’t seem to respond to the movement at all, completely lost in his endless thoughts.
Chuuya reached out his hand to Dazai’s face, cupping his cheek gently. Dazai made no reaction.
“Dazai? Hey, you alright?”
Dazai blinked and suddenly he seemed to be present once again. He looked up at Chuuya with glass eyes.
Chuuya offered a small smile. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dazai responded, his tone flat as he looked at Chuuya.
Chuuya noted that Dazai probably wasn’t even aware he had cried.
“Dazai, you’re crying.” He let his thumb rub under Dazai’s left eye in a hopefully comforting way.
“Oh…” Dazai made no movement to wipe away the tears, rather, it seemed like the admittance of it brought down the last bit of Dazai’s barrier.
Dazai looked down and the tears once brimming his eyes fell down his face. Chuuya’s hand previously resting on Dazai’s cheek had moved down to the back of his neck when he looked down and now slightly tugged, prompting Dazai to cling to him.
Dazai’s voice was shaky when he spoke. “H-how…” His voice faltered but Chuuya let him work out his words.
“H-how could you possibly love me? Me? All I’ve ever done was treat you like shit…”
Chuuya sighed. He had a feeling that was the reason behind Dazai’s reaction.
“Yeah, you’ve treated me like shit plenty of times, as I have with you. But you also have saved my life so many times I’ve lost count. And you’ve reassured me I was human every time you noticed me doubting it, even if you often found a way to insult me while doing so. No matter how much we teased and annoyed each other when it came down to it, we had each other's backs. We have each other’s back. There’s no one I trust more than you.”
Dazai looked up at Chuuya in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“There’s no one I love more than you, Osamu.”
Dazai clung to Chuuya, burying his face into the crook of Chuuya’s neck. Though Chuuya couldn’t see the tears cascading down Dazai’s face, he could feel them soak into his shirt and he could hear Dazai’s choked back sobs.
Between Dazai’s sobs, Chuuya just barely caught his choked-out words.
“I love you too, Chuuya.”
Title: Hey Spaceman Creator: Anonymous Prompt: #342 Career Theme: Harry - Astronaut | Draco - Flight Control Rating: Teen Warnings/Content Notes: Mild language, Pining while on different planets, Getting Together, Fluff Summary: Harry is one of the worlds most well-known astrophysicists. When the UK announced they were joining the space race with their own mission to Mars, Harry knew he needed to follow his dream. He just didn’t expect to fall in love along the way. Word Count: 13,012 Creator’s Notes: Thank you so much Prolix for this amazing prompt. It was basically made for me, it was my one requirement for signing up for this fest, it had to be an astronaut prompt. I thoroughly enjoyed writing this story and watching these men fall in love before my eyes. There were many times they were ready to profess their love for each other before I was ready. I listened to The Killers a lot while writing this, specifically Spaceman and Dustland Fairytale. Finally, thank you so much to my alpha and beta, without them this story wouldn’t have gotten completed. ( Hey Spaceman )
I love Bellatrix and she’s perfectly in character
Title: Madness in the Manor Creator: Anonymous Prompt: #33 Career Theme: Draco - Property Owner | Harry - Ghost Hunter Rating: Teen Warnings/Content Notes: Language and suggestion Summary: When Narcissa Malfoy uses a spirit board, she unleashes a negative haunting in the Manor. Fortunately, the London Paranormal Research Team, headed by Harry Potter, is here to save the day. Word Count: 4,525 Creator’s Notes: Many thanks to robinellen for the smashing beta job! ( Madness in the Manor )
Draco and Harry are everything in this. Harry is gentle with Draco in a way that isn’t seen often. It’s the perfect amount of sweet.
Title: Safe As Houses Creator: Anonymous Prompt: #264 Career Theme: Draco - Magical Historian | Harry - Ward Builder Rating: Teen Warnings/Content Notes: Past Verbal/Emotional Abuse (not between Harry and Draco), Post-Hogwarts, Getting Together, Pining, Magical Theory, Pets, Magical Creatures, Epistolary (partial), Happy Ending, Protective Harry, Past Draco/Original Character Summary: After five years abroad, Harry’s thrilled to be home and working at the most prestigious ward-building firm in Britain. But everything gets turned upside down when he’s assigned to work for Draco Malfoy—who somehow grew up to be just the sort of sexy bastard Harry goes for. As if that isn’t enough, Malfoy seems strangely on edge, his wards are a mess, and Harry keeps feeling like he’s being watched in the garden. It’s going to take all of Harry’s ward-crafting skills—and self-restraint—to help Malfoy feel safe in his own home again. Word Count: 24,553 Creator’s Notes: For the loveliest @onbeinganangel, whose prompt provided the seed for this story. I hope you enjoy what grew from it. An excellent beta will make any fic better, and mine was no exception. Thank you, dear, for helping me smooth out the rough spots and untangle my convoluted sentences, and for lending me your particular expertise on a few things in the story. I’m very grateful for your friendship and support. And finally, three cheers for the wonderful mods who put on a smashing fest, year after year. ( Safe as Houses )
Pairing: Zack Addy/Seeley Booth
Summary: A rewrite based on 1x09 The Man in the Fallout Shelter where Zack finds it odd that he keeps bumping into Booth at every turn even though they're locked down in the lab. He discovers something about himself while observing him.
Part: 1/3
Word count: 4.5k
Song: Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol
My bones ache, my skin feels cold
And I’m getting so tired and so old
Zack winces as the needle pricks his buttock. He isn’t the biggest fan of getting shots but, if it means not dying of Valley fever, then he can set aside his feelings for the pointed instrument momentarily. He slides his pants back up, not that he had lowered them much, and glances awkwardly between his colleagues and the floor as they talk about what to do next now that they’re aware of side effects or symptoms they should look out for.
For now, they’re told to get some rest. Hal, the head of the hazmat team, bids them a good night and reasures them not to be too worried before packing up the equipment. Once they leave the medico-legal lab, it’s his team’s turn to complain about their ruined holiday plans. Well, everyone except for one person.
“You know what?” Booth says humorously. “I’ve never realized how pretty all this shiny stuff is.”
The others watch him with mixed feelings of awe and jealousy solely for the fact that Booth is the only one with the preferable side effects. There’s not much that they can do other than discuss how they should get some sleep and then regroup in the morning to examine the unidentified remains now that they have the time to do so. Once the sleeping bags are brought in, everyone grabs a sleeping bag before dispersing to their little nooks.
Hodgins claps the back of Zack’s shoulder. “I’m calling our workstation if you want to bunk with me.”
Zack doesn’t say anything but nods as he considers taking Hodgins’ offer, it’s the most logical seeing as they’re closer and more accustomed to each other’s presence. Plus, they’ve shared the same sleeping area before after having a few too many drinks while watching anticipated basketball games. There was no other reason as to why he shouldn’t.
He’s ready to follow Hodgins and grab a sleeping bag from the lone pile when his eyes latch on to the only other person who’s been quietly staring at the lab’s light fixtures. Booth turns away from the twinkling lights and locks eyes with him, the doltish smile still plastered across his face. Panic shoots up Zack’s chest and bubbles at the cusp of his throat as he looks for something to say.
Booth is acknowledging him, and although he might not be saying anything he’s maintaining eye contact, which is something he isn’t used to. He feels like he’s under some kind of spotlight.
“You see this?” Booth asks him as glances back at the lights, his eyes speckled with their reflection. “Wow, I mean these are… beautiful.”
Zack’s fingers twitch from where they hang uselessly by his side. His eyes flit from one side of the lab to the other in a last-ditch effort at shifting Booth’s attention from him onto something else. There’s no one else in the lab other than the two of them.
“Uh, Agent Booth?”
All he receives is a noncommittal, “Yeah?”
“Shouldn’t you be with Dr. Brennan?”
At the mention of the anthropologist’s name, Booth turns, his brown eyes on him once more.
“Bones?” he asks. Zack nods. “Should I be?”
“I suppose not, but you always accompany her wherever she goes.”
Booth lightly scoffs. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he refutes. He’s not sure where his sudden burst of dissent is coming from but it doesn’t burrow itself back down immediately. “You tend to seek her out whenever you’re assigned to a case that requires the Jeffersonian’s resources.”
“Because the FBI and the Jeffersonian have an agreement.”
Zack shakes his head. “Although that’s true you never seek the others. You always seek out Dr. Brennan specifically.”
Booth’s eyes shift and there’s an odd emotion in them Zack can’t quite identify (not that he can recognize most of the looks people give him anyway). All he knows is Booth would never give him this type of look during their regular, albeit limited, interactions.
“Yeah well,” Booth scratches at the corner of his mouth and sniffs, “Dr. Goodman assigned her as the leader of your squint team, she’s the most qualified to be in and out of the field when it comes to our joint forces… we work well together.”
“We as in?”
“The FBI and the Jeffersonian,” Booth says quickly with an awkward smile.
Zack doesn’t know what to make of that so he agrees. “Right.”
“Right.”
Booth goes back to staring at the lights. Zack sighs and makes up his mind to get the man’s attention again. He carefully makes his way over and lays a hand on Booth’s arm. It works and he earns a mildly confused Booth staring at the sudden touch.
“Let’s go find Dr.Brennan,” he says with much effort. Zack feels like his heart’s going to shoot out of his chest; he’s sure Booth would be able to pinpoint his location with the sound alone if he had a gun trained on him in a dark room. “She’ll know what to do with you and I’ll get to keep all of my fingers.”
“Why wouldn’t you keep all of your fingers?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Because I’m laying them on you?”
Booth’s eyes soften.“You know I don’t mean it when I threaten you and Hodgins, right? I’d never hurt you.”
Zack almost wishes the agent would threaten to shoot him and stuff his lanky body somewhere obscure where no one would find him. However, something inside of him grows fond of this side of Booth he’s never let him see and he learns why. It isn’t difficult to develop some kind of soft spot for him.
The corners of his lips twitch upward. “Of course I do.”
Booth returns his attention to look ahead of them, his eyes following the lights from time to time as they make their way to Brennan’s office. Zack’s sure he hears the FBI agent mutter some things under his breath but pays no attention to his hallucinogenic ramblings; he’s focused on getting Booth to Brennan in one piece and bruiseless… if only Booth could stop looking up at the lights every five seconds.
*
“Where are you going?”
“To the restroom,” Zack answers, showing Hodgins the packaged toothbrush and toothpaste they were provided with. “I just remembered that I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
Hodgins made a sound of acknowledgment before settling comfortably into his sleeping bag and tucking the fabric beneath his arms.
“If you find any eggnog that managed to survive the bone dust, bring it over.”
Zack gives a short laugh. “No promises.”
He can practically hear Hodgins roll his eyes and takes that as his cue to leave before he gets something thrown at the back of his head.
The bathroom’s empty like it typically is even in hours of service. Still, Zack waits a few seconds to see if anyone’s inside before walking over to a sink and running his toothbrush under the faucet. The bristles are harsh on his gums but he powers through it finding that he’ll find it considerably worse if he doesn’t brush at all.
He rests a palm on the cold counter and leans into it, humming to himself as he gets into every crevice that he can. Zack rolls his head onto his shoulder and eases into the peaceful quiet especially after the commotion where everyone had been so quick to point the finger at one another. The quiet felt duly needed and he’s grateful for it.
However, as if a testament to his dwindling luck, the door to the restroom opens and Zack looks up at the mirror to see a quiet and mild-tempered Booth waltzing in. Well, the mild-tempered part doesn’t last for long as the man’s entire demeanor changes the second he realizes he isn’t alone inside the men’s restroom. Zack almost finds it endearing actually. The sudden change in conduct reminds him of his sister’s golden retriever when he returns home for the holidays: bright, captivating eyes, perked ears, and a wagging tail that smacks him when she begs for pets.
No, he reminds himself. Booth isn’t a dog and he doesn’t have a tail — but if he did, it would definitely be wagging, he concludes.
“Zack,” the man breathes out a sigh of… relief?
Zack quickly looks away from the mirror to spit in the sink. “Booth, what are you doing here?”
“I was looking for —” he stops to look for the right words to say “— the restroom.”
Zack cups a hand of water and rinses out the toothpaste before using the sleeve of his graphic tee to wipe away the remaining water that clung to the corners of his mouth.
“Well, I just finished up here.” He finds that he can’t keep the eye contact Booth’s been so insistent on holding with him anymore and he looks down at the wet sink. “Restroom’s all yours.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not rushing you.”
He rinses his brush and taps it against the edge of the basin all the while stealing a glance at Booth; he finds it odd that the man hasn’t moved. Zack decides to crack a little joke with Booth and see where he is in terms of reality while putting his toiletries away. No one really knows how long it’ll take for the effects to wear off.
“So, did you finally wear Dr. Brennan’s patience down or did Angela kick you out?”
No response.
Okay, maybe Booth’s back to ignoring him. That’s fine with him, he knows what to do when Booth isn’t acknowledging him anyway. It’s clockwork.
“I’m sorry by the way,” he muses. “I didn’t mean to blame you for keeping us here at the lab, I was just annoyed that you brought something for Brennan to —”
The sound of footsteps causes him to look up at the mirror and see Booth approaching him. There’s something off about him, an indecipherable look in his eyes. It’s quick, like the snap of a rubber band tenfold, but noticeable all the same. Zack barely has any time to turn around and face him by the time Booth’s standing directly in front of him, the proximity of his broad chest making him take a step back until he’s met with the cold countertop digging into his lower back. His eyes snap up to meet Booth’s own, who are watching him curiously.
“Why do you keep bringing up Bones?”
Zack feels like prey being stared down by a predator, save for the fear that would usually be instilled in the prey, he feels small. There was something else deep within him. The sensation roiling in his abdomen wasn’t dread he knew that much, but it was disquieting nonetheless. He swallows anxiously and the motion triggers something in the man in front of him.
Booth leans in closer and Zack feels his chest press against his own. It’s warm unlike the room they’re in, the dichotomy between his warmth and the cold marble drove him crazy, like a circuit on the fritz. He quickly shot his hands up and put them between them to stop the sensation. His palms pressed against Booth’s shirt while the pads of his fingers connected with exposed skin just above the seams. The feeling crackles and burns his fingers like exposed wire.
It did nothing to calm the feeling.
“Dr. Brennan this. Dr. Brennan that.” Booth’s breath fans over his cheek as he leans down, his arms caging Zack in. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Zack finds it odd that Booth’s breath is fresh and minty. He assumed Booth had also forgotten to brush his teeth, like he had, and had therefore entered the restroom to do so but now he isn’t sure.
“I’m sorry,” he pushes through a single breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “I just thought that, since the two of you work together, you’d appreciate spending more time with her. I’m surprised you’ve even acknowledged me for this long.”
“I already spend enough time with her during work, Zack.” His body trembles at the way his name sounds coming from Booth’s lips. “Ever thought that maybe I felt intimidated by you? All that knowledge stored inside that pretty little head of yours and I don’t know what to say without making a fool out of myself in front of you?”
Zack blinks. Huh?
Before he can ask what he meant, ask for some type of clarification, Booth withdraws his arms and takes a step back. Zack feels his skin prickle at the cold that rushes over him and finds that he misses the warmth, the way his body felt pressed against Booth’s, he craves its comfort and pulls closer — he snaps himself out of his thoughts and looks up to see that Booth is still standing close, brown eyes dark and piercing. His body betrays him and he shivers.
They stand there, looking at each other for a few moments, when Zack finally gains the ability to speak.
“It’s late,” he whispers. Booth nods. “I told Hodgins I was only going to go brush my teeth. He’s probably taken my sleeping bag hostage by now.”
Booth blinks and his gaze softens. “You were getting ready for bed?”
Zack nods, not fully trusting his voice.
“Sorry for keeping you up.”
Heat rushes up Zack’s face, he’s unsure why. He wants to jump off of the Jeffersonian’s roof.
“It’s okay.”
*
“What’s he doing here?”
Hodgins is no longer inside his sleeping bag by the time the two of them get back to the shared sleeping space. It looks as though his friend had been ready to go looking for him if he hadn’t come back the moment he had… he isn’t even sure how he’d attempt to explain why Booth had pinned him against the bathroom counter if he had found them. In all honesty, he still isn’t sure how to explain it to himself.
Some sort of display of dominance? Zack’s already seen Booth do that on a few occasions but he’s proven his dominance over him on multiple occasions through a multitude of ways. This time it felt different.
Ugh, he really — really — wants to jump off of the Jeffersonian’s roof. Lucky, or rather unlucky for him, they’re in quarantine and he didn’t have access to it.
“He followed me here,” he whispers to Hodgins as he makes his way over to his sleeping bag.
“You know I’m just high, not deaf, right?”
“Shut it, Shrooms.” Hodgins points at him and then shoots a mildly annoyed look at Zack. “I can’t believe out of all of us he’s the one who gets to be blissfully stoned out of his mind.”
So far, from how he’s seen Booth act, Zack’s not sure he wants to be blissed out of his mind. He’d rather be in control of himself, thank you very much.
Booth walks over to a shelf stocked full of all sorts of equipment and pulls something out of its proper place. He turns it over in his hands, reading the label if it has one before putting it back to grab something else. If it doesn’t have a label he proceeds to ask Hodgins, who only has so much patience before he’s itching at the band on his wrist, what it is. Zack steps in and answers a few of Booth’s questions to diffuse the situation.
Booth grows quiet for a few moments… before moving onto the next shelf and pulling something else to examine. Zack goes to take it out of his hand and shush him before he can ask but he’s too late.
“So what does this –”
“Alright, out.” Hodgins shoots up into a seated position. “Both of you need to go find somewhere else to sleep.”
Zack scrunches his brow in confusion. “Both of us? C’mon —”
“Yes, both of you. You brought your little friend here and he’s worn my patience down enough.”
Zack groans and, not wanting to put up a fight, pulls both his sleeping bag and pillow off of the observation table. He doesn’t even attempt to roll it back up and lets it drag across the floor as he makes his way to the door. When he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, Zack turns to look at Booth and glares at him.
“You heard him.”
Booth falls into step with him. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to my office.”
“You have an office?”
“Kinf of… not really,” he says as he tries to find the right words to use. “I call it my office but it’s more of a workstation than an actual office. There’s a couch thrown in there by the Jeffersonian but it’s nothing like Dr. Brennan’s.”
“Huh. For some reason, I never entertained the idea that you'd have an office.”
Zack spares him a glance. “Not sure why you’d waste a second of your day wondering if I had an office or not.”
Booth hums as if reminding himself of something. “Right.”
Zack looks up to see him staring straight ahead, a pensive notch carved on his brow. He decides not to question what that look meant, it’s far too late and Booth’s been enough of a pain in the ass as of tonight. He just wants to sleep and hopes that somehow they will all be given the green light to go home when they wake in the morning.
Zack smiles at the sight of his ‘office’ door and pushes it. Thankfully, it’s a part of the quarantine zone and it opens without much resistance. Booth follows close behind and gives a quick look around, not that there’s much to look at.
He doesn’t have much in there, not many personal things at least. He keeps most of his belongings in his apartment, of course, but a few things are scattered throughout his workspace like his favorite books mixed in with research texts and trinkets from shows or comics he enjoys. Besides that, he has a throw pillow his little brother made him a few years back when he first moved out to DC. It was one of the first sewing projects he made in his art class that had sturdy enough stitches in it to have not fallen apart during the move. He makes his way over to the couch and fluffs the pillow before returning it to its rightful spot.
Right, they still need to figure sleeping arrangements out. There’s enough room for Booth to set up his sleeping bag parallel to the couch if he moves the cart of tools closer to the shelf. Zack turns to instruct him to do as such when he realizes a crucial detail.
“Where’s your sleeping bag?”
“My what?” Booth’s confusion only serves to raise Zack’s eyebrows… until he remembers and snaps his fingers. “Oh right, I left it with your boss.”
“You left it with Dr. Brennan?”
He shakes his head. “Your boss’ boss.”
Was that who Booth was with prior to finding him in the restroom? He hadn’t spoken much with the others after they had all gone their separate ways but it wasn’t too far of an assumption that Booth would’ve bunked with Dr. Goodman; Booth never did fit the type of person that likes being alone.
“If you left it with Dr. Goodman, then why aren’t you with him?”
“I – good question – I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Eh.”
Zack smacks a hand over his face. “Okay well you can either return to Goodman so you can sleep in your own sleeping bag, or –” he raises the sleeping bag “– you can stay here and take mine.”
The gesture surprises both him and Booth. He’s not sure why he’s giving Booth an option; knowing Booth, he would take the option to spend as little time with the socially awkward assistant anthropologist. But this new side of Booth? Zack isn’t sure what he’d do now… and he’s a little curious as to what he’ll do. Besides he would feel bad for kicking him out after Hodgins had done the same.
“You’re letting me bunk with you?”
Zack shrugs and furthers the man into making a decision by motioning Booth to take the lump of fabric in his hand. “I’m being nice and letting you take this rather than the cramped couch.”
Booth smiles in that dopey way he’s been doing since receiving the shot. Even his eyes have this odd attentiveness to Zack in a way he’s still not used to… he’s not quite sure what to make of it or how it’s related to the side effects of the shot.
“You are nice.”
Zack’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “That’s what I just said?”
“I –” Booth sighs and fails to continue his thought before taking the sleeping bag. “Never mind.”
Silence falls over them as they tend to their sleeping arrangements. Zack plops the pillow on one end before dropping himself onto the couch and hugging his brother’s throw pillow to his chest. He stares up at the ceiling and listens as Booth zips himself into the sleeping bag, the rustling fading as he settles into it.
“These are far more comfortable than the army–mandated ones we got in Kosovo.”
Zack stays quiet for a good second before something in him prompts him to blurt out: “Army–mandated?”
“Yeah —” he hears Booth take a deep breath “— we never got much sleep but when we did, and if we were lucky, we’d get a few hours of sleep in these really thin sleeping bags. We were extremely lucky to even get them sometimes.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It was terrible,” he chuckles quietly. “You wouldn’t believe the places we used to get some shut-eye.”
“Try me. I’ll listen,” Zack says quietly when he doesn’t say anything else. Booth looks up and they lock eyes, curious eyes chipping at his to find some answer. “Where else did you sleep?”
A faint smile graces Booth’s lips.
“Anywhere we could. We’d sleep inside our operation vehicles, sometimes on or under them. Depending on where we were, sometimes we’d dig a trench and bunk there. And sometimes, if you wanted some space away from the others, you would go look for an isolated spot in some shrubbery or other foliage.”
“What if you overslept? Wouldn’t you be left behind?”
“Yeah, well… it happened to me once.”
Zack turns on his side and peers over the edge with an alarmed look on his face. “What?”
Booth snorts, entertained by his outrage. “I mean yeah, but they found me not long after. I woke up to see the OV gone and none of my teammates there.”
“Weren’t you terrified?”
Booth’s eyes flit to the ceiling above them. “Of course I was. We were close to enemy territory and we had been very close to being spotted a few times but we toughed up, we pulled through. We were trained for those kinds of situations.”
“I’m assuming you found each other again.”
“Maybe half an hour later they realized I wasn’t in the vehicle and they hauled ass to turn around and find me.”
Zack feels the need to lighten up the mood a bit. He’s sure that what Booth just told him is something extremely personal that’s probably left him feeling vulnerable, so telling him a story from his own past might be helpful. From what Angela’s told him about interacting with other people, replicating conversation or body language is beneficial to forming a connection with someone. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot.
“One time when I was twelve, my brother thought it would be funny to prank me by taking me out of our shared tent and leaving me out on an open field in the middle of January.”
Booth does this sound like he doesn’t know if he should laugh but does anyway. “Older brother?”
“Third oldest, just by three years.”
“Sounds about right. Older brothers can be a pain in the ass like that.” The smile on Booth’s face turns mischievous. “So what happened?”
“Luckily we were only camping in the woods behind our house, but he pulled out the air mattress I was on and packed everything up just before breakfast was called,” he explains and stops for a second to brace himself. He’s not sure why he feels embarrassed telling him now and curls into the pillow. “I woke up buried in a pile of blankets and snow with a deer licking my face.”
Booth breaks out into a fit of laughter and Zack feels his face burn hot. He presses his face against the pillow in a poor attempt to hide it. Rarely does he see Booth this talkative and unabashedly open so hearing his boisterous laughter tugs at something in his chest.
“I just thought of the perfect nickname for you and it’s better than Mini Bones,” he says between gasps of air. “It’s perfect.”
Zack’s aware of that nickname, Booth’s called him as such before and he found no offense to it. If anything, it was an honor, he is her assistant after all. (Even if the name was at the expense of Dr. Brennan.) Still, he’s intrigued as to what Booth could’ve come up with so quickly.
“You did?”
Booth tilts his head away, stifling (poorly, may he add) more laughter. It’s an odd gesture to do, seeing as he’s already laughed a couple of times inside the enclosed space, but Zack says nothing and studies his features. The stretch of his neck, the slight crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, the lightly scarred tissue stretched over his knuckles and forearm as he hides his laughs behind his hand, the scrunching of his nose. He takes it all in.
He knows this won’t last. The effects of the shot will wear off by morning and everything will go back to normal. Booth will go back to ignoring him and Zack will go back to stealing little glances when they share the den during cases.
“You ready for it?” Booth regains enough breath and turns to look at him with teary eyes. “Bambi!”
Zack groans and rolls onto his back. He takes it back, he really hopes it goes back to normal after tonight so Booth wouldn’t have to call him that.
“Oh, c’mon it’s great!”
“I should’ve taken you back to Dr. Goodman. Let him deal with you.”
“Don’t be mean, Bambi.”
“Do not call me Bambi, it’s demeaning. I’m a Ph.D. student and deserve the utmost respect.”
“But you look just like him: lanky, fluffy hair, big brown eyes, long eyelashes… all the reason to call you Bambi,” he teases with a stupidly charming grin. “Y’know, you’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
Zack freezes, astounded by the comment, and unsure how to respond to something like that. Booth just said he’s cute — scratch that — he said he’s cute when he’s annoyed. He’s merely saying this to get a rise out of him. Zack opens his mouth to tell him just that but finds that Booth has already closed his eyes and is humming to himself, the notes later replaced with soft breathing within a matter of seconds.
“Booth?” Zack asks and receives a soft grunt. He can’t help but smile softly. You only have tonight, he reminds himself. And that’s fine. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Bambi.”
"But why is he here all the time," he whines to Robin. She doesn't like him much, but Scoops is empty, and what else is he supposed to do? Not speak to her at all?
"Why do you care what Eddie Munson is doing at the mall."
"I don't care." He scoffs, rolls his eyes. "He's just always here. Doesn't he have anything better to do?"
"Do you?"
"He doesn't work here."
"Haven't seen you doing a lot of work here, Steve."
"You spent forty minutes yesterday drawing on your sneakers."
She shakes her head, but doesn't say anything because he's right and she knows it.
He goes back to staring at Munson, sitting on the edge of the fountain. He's relaxed back, legs spread, looking like he owns the place. The way he's leaning, his t-shirt rides up, showing a tantalizing glimpse of pale skin and the lightest dusting of hair. He doesn't remember his mouth being so dry before.
"You're such an idiot." Robin smacks herself down beside him. "Eddie's a good guy. Is this just because he's the freak and you're King Steve?"
"No!" He says it too loud, a few people in the foodcourt turn to stare. "I'm not that guy anymore. That's all just--" he flaps his hand, can't find the words.
She makes a disbelieving noise, eyes narrow. "I'll never forgive you if you hurt him."
Robin stomps off to the backroom before he can stop her, tell her he doesn't want to hurt Munson.
One of Eddie's friends says something that has Eddie stretching back to hear, pulling his shirt higher, flashing the dark line of a tattoo, and that's too much, that has him slamming his eyes closed, rubbing at his brow but all he can think is--
cold cinder block at his back, hot mouths and fumbling hands and long, deft fingers; desperate, bitten off moans; hands fisted into long curls; the hot, bittersweet taste of him
It was only a handful of times, quick encounters in the locker room, once under the bleachers in the gym. And Steve, he'd never--it didn't mean anything, but it meant everything, and Eddie's been all he can think of for months.
A group of middle school girls comes in, then, and he forgets about Munson as he scoops ice cream and blends milkshakes. The next time he looks to the fountain, Eddie is gone
---
Steve cleans up the remnants of a dropped milkshake at the store entrance, and his shorts are a little too tight, okay, he can feel the way they pull around his hips when he bends too much, but he has to clean the tile before the rush starts and customers complain. There's one spot, though, it's already dried, has to really put his back into it.
The food court is crowded by the time he finishes, bustling with customers. He turns to grab the bucket, and stops dead in his tracks. Munson sits on one of the built-in planters directly behind him. He was staring at Steve's polyester clad ass, but now his eyes travel up Steve's body, getting darker with desire as they go.
He's trapped in place by the force of Eddie's gaze, by the want there. They stare at each other in silence, Steve's blood thumping a vigorous rhythm.
The moment breaks when Robin's voice, calling his name, catches his attention. He turns back to his work without a word, but inside he's reeling.
---
Steve's opening alone, comes out from the back, and there Eddie is, lounging on the fountain rim with a magazine in hand. It's been a couple of days since he's been around, not since the incident. He watches as Munson languidly flips through the pages, seeming not to have a care in the world, and he--
Well, he's never really had to wait around for something he wants.
He stalks over to the fountain, stops when the tips of his sneakers touch the toes of Eddie's boots. And, yeah, he's in his dorky sailor outfit, but Munson didn't seem to mind the other day. Steve thinks maybe he likes it.
"Munson," he says. His hands are on his hips.
Eddie looks up, slow, taking Steve in. He leans back further, crosses his legs at the ankle. "Harrington."
They stare at each other. Steve starts biting his lip. Not as a move--he's nervous, suddenly, that all of this is a waste and Eddie isn't interested--but Munson's gaze hooks on his mouth, lingers, like a warm caress.
Steve's never initiated things between them before, isn't sure if it's working. He takes the chance, though, starts walking away.
He crosses through the seating area, past the counter, into the back, doesn't know for sure if Eddie is following until the door doesn't close right away behind him.
There's a single beat of a second where they watch each other and neither moves, before Eddie is on him, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him into the wall.
"What the fuck is this, Harrington, huh?" They're close enough for their noses to touch. "You ignore me for months and now--"
"You're here all the fucking time," he snaps back. "Sitting in the same spot like you own the place."
"So, I'm not allowed to be at the mall now?" Eddie sneers. "God forbid I'm in sight of the king."
Steve tries to pull away. "That's not what this is, and you know it."
"Then what is it, Stevie? Spell it out for me real slow to make sure I understand." He leans in, a little, and Steve stops breathing.
Eddie's lips brush his, a gentle press that isn't quite a kiss, not yet. His knees go weak, the wall at his back the only thing holding him up, but the kiss doesn't deepen. Instead, Eddie steps back, laughs. "You think I'm this easy, sweetheart? That you can lure me with your little sailor costume and I'll come without a fight?"
"Am I wrong?"
Eddie scoffs, turns his head, and Steve thinks he overplayed it, that his misread everything.
"Fuck you, Harrington." Eddie grabs him, then, hands fisting into his sailor shirt. "Fuck you and this stupid, sexy outfit. Fuck you for knowing this would work on me."
His mouth presses against Steve's throat, and he moans, clinging to Eddie's jacket.
"Listen to you, sweetheart," Eddie murmurs. "Making all those desperate, pathetic sounds for me. Almost like you missed me or something."
"I did." He groans as Eddie's mouth moves along his jaw. "Missed you so much, haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
Eddie sinks his teeth into Steve's cheek, and he has to stifle his shout. He's harder than he can remember ever being before, thinks he could come just from the feel of Eddie's teeth in his skin.
"That's not what you told Billy," Eddie says. "When he almost caught us."
"I didn't want him to hurt you," he gasps. "I--I didn't want him to have a reason."
Eddie pulls away, Steve grasping after him. "I can handle Hargrove."
"He hit me in the head with a plate." Steve points to the small scar on his forehead. "That's how I got that concussion last year."
"Oh," Eddie blinks. He cards his fingers through Steve's hair, pulling it out of the way to see the scar better. "Sweetheart. I thought--" he swallows, throat working. "I--I keep coming here to see you. I wanted--"
His hand falls to Steve's neck, drawing him in. For a second, Steve thinks it's another tease, but Eddie does kiss him this time. It's deep, desperate, so thorough he thinks Eddie's memorizing the taste of him. He doesn't want it to ever stop, not for a second.
Outside, someone starts hammering on the counter bell, shouting for service.
They slip apart, Eddie still gently cradling the back of Steve's neck. "Come over tonight?" Eddie's eyes are so dark, wanting, he could drown in them.
"Yes." Because there is no other answer.
He lets Eddie out the back door just as Robin yells from the front, "Harrington! We have a customer! I haven't clocked in yet!"
"Be right there," he yells back, but not fast enough that she doesn't catch a glimpse of Eddie slipping out.
She whirls to him, brow in an angry furrow. "Steve! I told you not to hurt him!"
He can't stop his smile. "Buckley, I promise you, Munson can take care of himself."