Rating: T for language, and maybe more…? We'll see where this road takes us.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. I'm just a poor college kid with an overactive imagination. And the title's snagged from the Arctic Monkeys.

Author's Note: In my ideal world, this is what Brennan would be like drunk off her ass. Obviously, not at all what she's like sober, but isn't that the fun of it? No bones, no murders to solve, just some good old fashioned Booth/Bones banter and quality time. Enjoy.

D is for Delightful (And Try To Keep Your Trousers On)

1.

"Booth. Dance with me." There were forty minutes left in Brennan's birthday, and while she never understood the point in dedicating a day to commemorate someone's birth when the whole point of living was, in fact, to die, she was cornered and didn't have much of a choice in the matter. She was thirty three and apparently, according to Angela, it called for celebration. Brennan, however, thought otherwise. After spending the day contemplating this momentous milestone, she decided that 'sad' and 'old' seemed to be the best way to describe herself. Sad, old, and alone. A hag of a forensic anthropologist who spent more time with the dead than with the living. She might as well write that on her single's ad. Or better yet, crochet it into the sweaters she planned to knit for the eight cats she'd go adopt, because that's what sad, old spinsters do. They own too many cats and knit sweaters for them. Sure, a part of her knew that this logic was flawed, but the sheer volume of alcohol she had consumed in the past two hours made the scenario she'd drawn out remarkably real, and her judgment questionable, at best. About ten tequila shots ago, she had decided that lamenting the fact that she was destined to die alone could wait till tomorrow. Right now, however, she wanted to dance. With Booth.

"No." Booth replied almost automatically, knowing full well he was egging her on and what effect that two letter, one syllable word would have on her. He had laughed to himself as she stumbled towards him just moments before. He had never seen her quite this drunk before, and something told him he'd never see it again. So, of course, he was dead set on making the most of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"What?" Her exaggerated response told him she was taken aback; shocked and appalled, even. She shook her head of the thought of rejection. "My ears must be playing tricks on me," she laughed, reaching out and grabbing Booth's arm, "I could have sworn you just said no. Now get up and get your dancin' shoes on, Booth-ey Boy, because me and you have a have a spot waiting for us right over there!" Booth's arm didn't budge as he placed his drink back on the bar and turned his head toward his hyper partner.

"What part of 'no,'" he drew out the word jokingly, "do you not understand, Bones?"

"Oh, come on,don't give me this crap. You love to dance and I know it. So come on!"

"Isn't the guy supposed to ask the girl, not the other way around?" His head tilted to the side as he leaned his elbows on the bar and found it harder and harder to suppress his grin.

"Okay, fine, then ask me to dance."

He cleared his throat then turned back towards the bar. "No thanks. And I know you work with skeletons all day long, but you might want to work on your bedside manner, Bones. Bossy's not becoming." He smiled to himself, quietly bracing for the fury she'd undoubtedly unleash upon him.

A few moments later, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Booth?"

"Yes?" He replied casually, turning back towards her.

"Is it or is it not my birthday?"

"Yes, it—"

"And were you or were you not the one who said it's, and I quote, 'my day'?"

"Yes, I was, but—"

"And was it not you who convinced Angela to plan this whole—" she waved her hands above her head, not sure what would best describe where they were, what they were doing, and how laughably inebriated she may or may not have been, "—Whoop-dee-doo."

"Whoop-dee-do?"

"Yes, whoop-dee-do." She crossed her arms and raised her chin triumphantly. She was winning this battle, and there was no way that smug, amused look on his face could mock her into believing otherwise.

"Bones—"

"Answer!" She poked a warning finger in his face, "the question. Was it or was it not you—"

"Yes, okay, it was me!" She wasn't supposed to know that, but yeah, he was the one who cornered Angela during Brennan's lunch break a week ago and schemed this whole night into existence. And he couldn't help but feel particularly proud of himself as his usually straight-laced partner had chosen to throw her inhibitions to the wind in celebration.

"Okay then! So since it's my day and this is my party, then that means you have to do what I say. And I say…Dance with me, Booth."

"Whoa there, who died and made you supreme ruler of the world? Last time I checked, this is a free country."

"I cannot believe you!" Her arms were flailing again, but this time, it was rage she was directing at him. He couldn't fight a grin from crossing his lips as he felt like it was any other day back at the Jeffersonian. "It's only logical to assume that by proclaiming a day as the possession of a sole individual, that said individual would inherit all the rights and powers associated with such a role. Rights that would, in fact, supersede that of constitutional privileges normally awarded to the citizens of a democracy."

"Okay, first of all?" Booth pushed his stool out from under the bar, turned toward her, and clapped his hands theatrically. "The fact that you could put that many words together is incredible."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now second of all: for once, I actually understood what you just said. And I hate to break it to you, babe, but you made absolutely no sense." Brennan was never one much for trite pet names like 'babe' or 'doll.' She found them to be demeaning traces of woman's eternal struggle for acceptance and respect in a male-dominated society. Yet, somehow, when they rolled off of Booth's tongue they were considerably easier to stomach. Of course, were she in a bit more stable state of mind, she may have put up a decent fight, just for kicks. And to her credit, she tried, but somewhere between thoughts and speech, all rationality was lost in translation.

"Seeley Booth. You are like an endless…Spiraling…Hurricane. Of hate. And mockery and torment and frustration! You are like a big…hunk of metal that will not, by any means, budge." She shook her fists in frustration. "One dance! Just one dance!"

Booth grinned mischievously, and nodded his head. "…So you think I'm a hunk?" He asked, his voice oozing sarcastic arrogance.

"Wha—I never sai—"

"You may not have said it, but you were thinking it," Booth replied, raising his eyebrows smugly as he turned back to his drink.

"Ugh, fine. If I say yes will you just dance with me already? It's my birthday, you have to dance with me!"

"Says the person who I had to forcibly detain to get her to come to her own party."

"Booth."

"Okay, in all seriousness? I'm sorry, Bones, but…I've seen you dance. And you're not very good." He sipped his beer with a sly smile. He was really asking for it tonight.

Her jaw dropped and a rage he'd never seen before filled her eyes. "I am not a bad dancer. I'll have you know that I'm actually a really good dancer. Just ask Angela. And I find it shocking and disheartening that someone I work with – a colleague and peer,if you will –that I respect and admire, would stoop so low as to—"

"You," Booth laughing loudly as he leaned towards her like he was spilling a secret he had been desperately trying to keep all night, "are so smashed."

"What?! Am not!" She replied stubbornly, stumbling over her feet before grabbing onto the bar for support. Their faces were inches away and his mischievous smile was all she saw.

"Are too." His voice was quiet and were she not so close, she probably wouldn't have heard what he said between the noise of the club and his laughter. His eyes softened for a split second before...

"Am not, am not, am not!" She shouted, stomping her feet like a petulant child. He turned back to his drink once more, raising his eyebrows questioningly with a glint in his eye. Brennan's glare narrowed as she stared at her partner bitterly. "Okay, fine, maybe I am….Just a little. What are you gonna do about it? Arrest me? Wave your shiny, little FBI badge at me and haul me out? Well last time I checked, buddy, prohibition ended seventy four years ago!"

The smile on Booth's face grew wider as he bit his lower lip and shook his head. "You are so far gone."

Brennan stood with her arms crossed, once again staring contemptibly at her partner.

"Okay, that's it." Much to his surprise, she reached over and pulled him up off his barstool so they were facing each other. "You," she poked her finger into his chest, "and me," then pointed at herself, "are dancing. Now off we go!" It took all the power in him to not burst at the seams in laughter as she twirled him around and led him from behind to the dance floor. This wasn't the Bones he knew, and something told him that she would have absolutely no recollection of her drunken escapades come morning.

"You know, Bones, I never would have pegged you as the Dancing Queen type."