Bones and Booth arrive at the crime scene, bickering as always about some unimportant facet of Christine's day at school. Some of the team is already there: Hodgins hunches over the victim, pulling maggots out of eye sockets with a pair of tweezers, and Cam is getting blood samples. Other FBI agents hover around the body, all in the Jeffersonian-issued navy medical suits.

That's why the two strangers stand out to Booth – they're dressed like he is, in formal suits and ties. As Bones makes a beeline for the body, he marches over to them.

Almost on instinct, the taller of the men pulls out his identification. "Special Agent Sam Yorke," he says.

"Dean Greenwood," says the other, flashing his own ID.

"Like Radiohead." Booth smiles, leaning in to examine the IDs. They look authentic, but he can't understand why the FBI would call more agents to the scene. "I've got this case covered, gentlemen."

Agent Greenwood scoffs. "Damn bureaucracy. Must have been a misunderstanding in the paperwork. But, since we're here… Mind filling us in?"

"I just got here myself. But Bones over there, she's probably already IDed the victim." He nods to her.

Greenwood nudges his partner towards the crime scene. Agent Yorke crosses to the body, lowering himself to the level of the scientists.

"Bones?" asks Greenwood skeptically.

Booth coughs. "Dr. Brennan, I mean. That's just a nickname. It's 'cause she, you know, works with bones. Sorry, but which sect did you say you were from?"

"Washington."

Booth raises an eyebrow. He's sure as hell never seen these two around headquarters. "No, you're not."

Greenwood meets his eyes, then swallows slowly. They stand perfectly at eye level with one another. "Washington, the state, I meant. Seattle, specifically. Did you think I meant D.C.?" He laughs uncomfortably.

"Given that we're twenty miles from the capital, yes, yes I did. What the hell are you doing out here?"

"It's a, um, very special case. We were in the neighborhood." The agent shoots him a simpering smile and then goes to his brother's side. He hisses, "Sammy! Sam!"

Yorke raises his head, and the two exchange words in hushed tones. Then he stands abruptly, glances at Booth, and walks away from the scene. His partner follows in suit.

Booth approaches Bones. "Any information on our victim?"

"She played basketball," says Bones absently. "Who- who were they, those men who just left?"

"FBI agents… I think. Weird ones. I don't know what Caroline was thinking, sending them down." Booth shakes his head, clearing Agents Yorke and Greenwood from his mind, and focuses on the case at hand. Hopefully, he'll never see either of them again.

He sees them but two days later, when he's at his favorite diner, enjoying a nice slice of apple pie. Two customers enter behind him and approach the counter.

In a low, husky voice, one says, "Come on, Sammy, just one slice of pie. We can afford it. Then we'll be off this coast for good."

"I hate big cities," the other grumbles.

Booth is sure he's heard those voices before. He turns, and sure enough, there stand Special Agents Yorke and Greenwood. They don't see him, so instead he leans over and says, "I recommend the apple pie."

They turn to him, both with matching expressions of utter surprise. There's something else there too, something he can't put his finger on – fear? But they immediately compose themselves, and Agent Greenwood smiles.

He extends a hand. "I remember you, Agent-"

"Booth. Seeley Booth." He shakes it. "Sit with me, will you?"

The agents exchange a look he can't quite decipher, but they join him at the counter. Greenwood orders a slice of apple pie, while Yorke just takes coffee.

He remembers their names clearly, but still asks, "Remind me again. You're…"

"Greenwood, and Yorke."

"Right. Well, you see, I found the lists of registered agents for both the DC and Seattle divisions, and there seem to be no agents under those names."

Yorke – or whatever his name really is – pales considerably.

"I'm not going to turn you in, guys," Booth says. This has happened a few times in the past – idiots who just want to see a real dead body and all – but never with such convincing IDs. "We found our killer, and you two didn't interfere at all. Sure, you impersonated federal officers, but no harm done. I appreciate that, by the way. You got out of my way."

Yorke laughs. "This case wasn't really our… division."

Greenwood smirks at that, as if there's some inside joke Booth doesn't quite understand.

Both are plainclothes now, Greenwood in a leather jacket, Yorke in jeans and a button-down. In these clothes, they look less like FBI agents and more like truck drivers.

"Thank you, Agent Booth." Yorke smiles in genuine gratitude.

"Listen, I know a vet when I see one." Booth nods at Greenwood. That was the quality he couldn't quite put his finger on, about these two. They'd both seen horrors. Both jumped at the slightest noise in the restaurant, and Greenwood always looked like he was keeping up an act. Well, obviously he was, pretending to be a federal officer, but even underneath that. Booth remember the feeling distinctly, after coming home from the war.

Yorke starts to say something, but Greenwood interrupts. "Let us treat you, in thanks. One, uh, veteran to another."

Booth is never one to turn down free pie. "Thanks, Greenwood."

Greenwood laughs. "Dean's fine. You may have noticed our surnames were a little… Too good to be true."

"You've got good taste in music; I'll give you that."

"It was Sam's choice this time-" Dean abruptly stops talking, as if he's let something slip. "I mean, uh…"

Booth laughs. "I don't know what you two are up to, and honestly, I don't want to. If I were on duty..."

"We'll be out of town tonight."

"You got what you needed, then? From our crime scene." He laughs at the absurdity of it all, these two men walking onto a crime scene like professionals.

"We were just poking around," Sam says. "Actually, we didn't find what we wanted."

"If we had, you would've had a helluva harder time finding your perp."

Booth isn't sure what to make of these two. They've got the attitude of soldiers, but the intelligence and the wit of, well, criminals. He's not sure whether to arrest them or thank them. And if the latter, he's not sure what for. Just… something about them. He thought his life was hard, but seeing these two, pulling out the last of their cash for a slice of pie… It makes him grateful he has Bones and Christine. A home, a job, a family. He's glad he's safe at home. He's glad he made it out of the war.

He's not sure these two have.