Title: Destination Unknown
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Series: Into the Fire
Series Summary: This is a series of oneshot 300-word ficlets about Booth and Brennan crossing the line over and over again.
Prompt: #8 (Tongue)
Prompt Table:Sex
Written for:drabble123
Word Count: 300
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: There's a reference to The Santa in the Slush.
Disclaimer: Bones and its characters belong to FOX, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback: is always appreciated. My sincere thanks to all those who read and/or comment; you really do make writing fanfic more fun than it already is. :)

Destination Unknown

Five vessels buffeted by winds dance on a storm-tossed sea: tectonic plates shift and collide beneath their feet. Continents break apart and realign, mountains crumbling and rising when Brennan feels the first glancing touch of her partner’s tongue – and discovers she’s lost the ability to speak as rational thought spins far, far away.

They argue; that’s just what they do. They comfort each other, too; that’s just who they’ve become. Five of her fingers rest on his forearm, one of his arms warms the sad curve of her shoulders: this, then, is how Booth counts the tragedies of their lives.

One day he finds her staring off into the distance, seeing things he can only guess at. But her eyes are liquid and as grey as a storm cloud (cumulonimbus, he remembers her telling Parker once, right before they were drenched by rain), and silver paints the familiar planes of her face.

It doesn’t matter why, it simply matters that it is so.

Before he can convince himself to stop, Booth sips the salt on her cheeks; it tastes like a prayer for which he’s forgotten the words. He feels her stop breathing, her gaze heavy on his face as he pulls back to look at her.

“What--?” she asks, before he presses a finger to her lips.

The words still (only temporarily, he knows), she blinks and tilts her head to the side, and her eyes remain open, watchful, as he crosses the last line between them.

Gallons of coffee consumed by them both, God knows how many miles logged in his SUV, too few victims given back their names and faces and this, then, is where it’s all brought them, to a place he swore to avoid: her mouth pressed against his, his breath mingled with hers.