Title: Rooftops and Invitations

Rating: T for now, M for later chapters

Summary: You can't stop thinking about him, you can't stop looking at him. So do something about it.

A/N: Little something I came up with, definitely inspired by Dashboard Confessional's Rooftops and Invitations (link in my profile), though I hesitate to label this a song-fic. Looks to be at least three chapters, but I can't promise an update soon as I've been rather uninspired lately. Devilishly hoping that some good feedback and start of Season Four will turn that around for me! ;)

Thank you so much to Kate & Ali (sorry girls, I couldn't resist!) for the beta prowess – never could do it without ya! And to bertie's kitty… the Force, I am no match for it! :D

Disclaimer: Concept of Bones + Characters of Bones + Anything you recognize ARE NOT MINE.

Chapter One

He shuffled the stack of file folders and the bags of food he was carrying into one arm and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow before reaching out to knock upon the wood-paneled door. A heavy sigh escaped him as he redistributed the items and waited. Her approach was nearly silent; he could feel her presence on the other side of the door before he could hear her. Must be barefoot. Only logical… damn heat.

The door swung open to reveal his partner wearing less then he'd ever seen, and he could only hope he recovered well from that fact. His eyes scanned her head to toe, taking in the damp tendrils of hair falling from her loose ponytail, the thin white tank top clinging to her breasts, the fluid maroon skirt billowing around her ankles and yes, bare feet; but it was her eyes and the weariness that he found there that held his gaze. He knew his must reflect the same.

"Smells good," she softly smiled as she took the bags of food from him and moved towards the kitchen counter. It had been a long day, a long few weeks. Heated foot-chases in nearly 100 degree weather, along with tension-packed standoffs, didn't leave much time or thought for nourishment. So seeing a fresh-faced Seeley Booth at seven twenty in the evening, wearing worn-in jeans and a form-fitting tee, she attributed the watering in her mouth solely to the bags of aromatic goodness she now held in each hand. When he smiled at her and 'discreetly' took in the length and curves of her body, the moistness between her thighs couldn't be explained away nearly as easily.

He shifted the files again and stepped over the threshold, hoping to feel a significant temperature drop as he moved into the room. It was slight, at best. The air conditioning seemed to chug in Brennan's apartment, barely keeping up with the sweltering temperatures that had every weather man in the city dragging out their record books.

He walked to the sitting area and placed his batch of files next to her laptop, noting through the orderly stacks that she had started without him. What else is new?!

"Beer?" he heard her call from the kitchen.

"Sure," he answered, moving towards her across the room.

He helped her prepare the food and drinks in silence, the air heavily-laden with more than the heat and humidity. For possibly one of the first times it wasn't a tension caused by arguments or attraction between them, but an almost palpable stress surrounding them both like a cloud of persistent gnats.

They'd just wrapped one of the most intense cases of their partnership. Seven bodies recovered in three weeks; some of the worst, most gruesome remains the team had ever seen, a serial killer whose taunts and games rivaled and surpassed Howard Epps' wildest dreams. The toll this case had taken on everyone remained plainly etched on their faces. Unlike Epps, this scumbag had not directly threatened or attacked the team; no, his escalating sick pleasure and fear was taken out on his victims, each body tortured worse than the last. Each excruciating detail they uncovered made it that much harder to stay compartmentalized, focused. By the end, emotions usually kept in check were threadbare and raw.

They moved to the coffee table to eat and begin to sort through the hours of torturous federal triplicate. It was not either partner's desire to rehash the last few weeks. Therefore, even the usual comfort found in each other's presence seemed short-lived. Smiles were few, sighs were many. Words were exchanged only as necessary. And stolen glances revealed the raw nerves and knife-edged feelings, as evident as the snapshots scattered around the work area – seven bodies, contorted from fear and pain, their final screams ingrained and transferred to the psyches of those who had sought their justice.

--

Three hours later found the coffee table shoved to the side, littered with empty take-out containers, crumpled napkins and several beer bottles. Seemingly random piles of paper dotted the blood-red carpet; the organized chaos of the scene only evident to the room's dual occupants.

Soft sounds of classic rock faded into the background of the scratching of pen on paper, the random click of a mouse, the steady tapping of laptop keys. The inconspicuous whir of the overhead fan caused a ruffle of pages here and there, the room still thick with summer heat despite the slight breeze and persistent hum of the air conditioning.

"How can it still be this damn hot?" Booth shifted in his spot on the floor and rubbed one of his bare feet, trying to restore feeling to the tingling extremity. With an agitated sigh and a flourish of his pen on paper, he passed the FD-302 to his partner, seated above him at the end of the couch.

Brennan took the page and rolled her head around her shoulders, flexing her neck muscles in a futile attempt to ease the ache settling in. "I don't know. I've got the air as cool as it will go." She shifted her light-weight cotton skirt a little higher in her lap, not succeeding in making herself cooler in the least, but unknowingly giving her partner a nice view of a creamy expanse of thigh.

Unconsciously licking his lips, but ultimately averting his eyes respectfully and rising to his feet, Booth smoothed his shirt over his flat stomach, "Getting another beer. More wine?"

She lifted her empty glass from the side table. "Yes, please."

He took it and moved off to the kitchen. Her eyes never left his retreating form; watching his bare feet kiss her hardwood, his jeans slung low on his hips, and the tail-hem of his shirt bunched at the small of his back. His sun-kissed neck glowed even more bronze than usual, a souvenir from a rare moment of downtime used to re-connect with his son at the park. She remembered his return the next day, renewed and enthusiastic to "catch this bastard."

She felt a trickle of sweat gather and slide between her breasts. Damn, it's hot in here. She rose to her feet and met him as he rounded the kitchen counter. Taking the filled glass from his hand, she said, "I think we need a break," before taking a sip of the cold liquid and closing her eyes; not savoring the sweet flavor or woody aroma, but relishing the cool stream parting her lips, the radiating chill across her tongue, coating her throat on its way to settle coolly in her belly. She softly moaned her appreciation of the drink as she pulled the glass away.

"That good, huh?" Booth asked, a look in his eyes she couldn't quite define, yet still managed to send a shiver down her spine.

She turned toward the front door, not bothering with shoes, keys, anything but her refreshing beverage and her intended goal.

"Where are you going?"

"You'll see," without looking back to see if he would follow. Her invitation unspoken.

Feeling somewhat like a rubbernecker at the scene of a multi-car pile-up, helpless to resist, he passed the wet condensation of his beer bottle across his forehead as he followed her trail and shut the door behind them.

--

As she pushed open the heavy door at the top of the stairs, the white of her tank top contrasted with the inky sky, the dim light from inside the stairwell creating a perfect silhouette. He stopped mid-step and leaned against the railing, resting his beer bottle on his thigh – for just this moment, indulging. And then she was gone, disappearing into the blackness. Shaking his head to clear it and jar himself into motion, he quickly took the last few steps and caught the door just before it closed completely.

Stepping onto the rooftop, he prepared himself to feel a rough, pebbly grit on the soles of his bare feet… expected it to burn as the dark tar returned the day's heat. Instead, the surface was smooth, soothingly cool as light-colored sandstone tiles led in a path to a terrace garden. Maybe "garden" was a stretch, but the moonlight revealed a sitting area dotted with ornamental grasses in planters, low-rising brick walls – what he later realized were the fire walls demarcating the individual units - and several wooden Adirondack chairs.

However it wasn't the roof itself that demanded attention, but a panorama of the city that could literally take one's breath away. The view to the Northwest encompassed the dome of the Capitol building, the phallic spire of the Washington Monument, and unseen somewhere in between, their Jeffersonian Institute. Elsewhere, the ethereal glow of "big city" and a sea of twinkling lights stretched for miles in all directions.

"This is beautiful. I never even knew this was here."

"All the tenants of the building share this area. But I can honestly say I've never seen anyone up here."

"I can't understand why, it's amazing." After he spoke, he realized he could understand why she may have only ever been here alone – during the hours 'normal' people used this place, she was usually with him or in her lab, immersed in death.

They stood side-by-side for a while admiring the nearly birds-eye view.

In his line of work, it was too easy to look over this city - his city - and feel responsible, like a protector – a mini-God. Only he wasn't omniscient or omnipresent. All he could do was watch them scurry from up here, but his job was down there, in the thick of it and many times he felt like he was only cleaning up the messes left behind. Obviously, he wasn't omnipotent either.

Her words broke the silence and it was eerie to him how her voice echoed the one in his head. "It took us longer than it should have… that last victim… we were too slow."

As she spoke, she watched his profile; he never took his eyes from the distant view, but she saw his jaw clench and heard his sharp intake of breath. Upon his exhale, he faced her and his eyes flickered with emotion – at the surface, anger, on the verge of being unchecked; and just beneath, immense sadness and pain.

The hand not holding his beer came up to rub across his forehead and then clench into a fist at his side. "Clark's good, but he's no Zack." It was the first thing that popped in his head, but it wasn't what he meant to say. It wasn't what he meant.

She bristled and wrapped her free arm tightly around herself, half-full wine glass dangling from her fingertips. Obviously. But she thought she knew what he was getting at. They didn't often mention the more-than-apparent change in their team dynamic, but cases like this drove it home. The well-oiled machine they once were, all six of them, had hiccupped and coughed out one of its own. And replacing a hexagonal peg with a square one didn't often work.

She would give Clark credit though, he had worked his ass off on this case and eventually led them down the right path. That had to count for something. She was justified in hiring him.

Brennan silently turned to move towards a chair.

"That… that's not what I meant, Bones. It wasn't his…" Booth stopped to take a breath and collect his thoughts. Every time he thought of the way this case had unraveled, he wanted to punch something.

He turned towards her. "Bones, this guy was a sick, twisted fuck. I wish I could justify it to myself in any other way, but I can't. We did what we could with what we had. It took all of us. The same way it always has." It doesn't mean I still don't want to gut the guy. "And now the bastard is on his way to rot."

Brennan sat in one of the wooden chairs, hiking her skirt to her knees and extending her long legs. Taking a sip of her rapidly-warming wine, she said, "I know Booth."

He stared at her a few moments as the silence stretched between them. It wasn't personal between them, but they both felt so affected by this case, that it seemed that way. He watched her until she raised her eyes to meet his.

They were still a good team. This guy would never kill again.

Her soft smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's still hot."

There was a slight breeze in the night air, maybe a hint of summer rain in the carried aroma, floating above the typical city smell of exhaust and the heavy humidity.

Booth moved to the brick wall adjacent to her and sat, just as a flash of heat lightning lit up a corner of the ebony sky. "Maybe we'll get a bit of rain… some relief," he said, setting his bottle on the ground near his feet. Placing a hand on either side of him, he leaned back and looked up into the inky blackness, watching gray clouds temporarily obscure the moon and few brightest stars that the city lights couldn't dim.

She watched him extend and cross his long legs, openly admiring his feet in the shadows that prevailed over them. His large halluxes, the masculine arches - a flashback to gray-on-black film suddenly illuminated her mind, its revelations as clear to her as if she had been there herself or watched on some sadistic video reel. She had a sudden urge to hold them (him) in her hands, massaging the ache in his soles (soul). She found she wanted to see those feet buried in warm sand in relaxation, running through lapping waves at an ocean's edge, tangled in crisp white cotton sheets, morning's first light casting upon the golden brown dusting of hair.

She looked in her glass, as if the wine could be to blame for her meandering and bizarre thought processes. Inebriated after just two glasses? Maybe it was something else that had gotten inside her, impairing her mind and intoxicating her senses.

You can't stop thinking about him, you can't stop looking at him. So do something about it.

Thanks for reading! Feedback will be treated as any good lovey should: snuggled, drooled on and dragged around until it's faded and worn and in need of a good washing... the dirtier the better, I always say! ;)