Disclaimer: I wish I owned Bones and their Couples Counseling sessions, but I don't. (sigh) Therefore, I claim no ownership to either. Bones and its related paraphernalia are copyright to FOX.

A/N: Yay! This is my very first fanfiction, a fluffy one-shot based off of the Couples Counseling. I'm really just continuing the series. (-: Please read and review. I appreciate all constructive criticism that will help me to improve, so if you have some suggestions or even some harsh words, please don't hold back! I hope you all enjoy this.

Dedicated to all of us Bones fanatics, and the people who cared to read this passage.

Outside of a certain psychologist's office, a two certain, rather sullen people were sitting on a plush sofa in anticipation of their imminent appointment. The man, whose deep brown eyes seemed troubled, was skimming over his latest case report again and again. His female partner leaned heavily on his shoulder, groggily staring at imaginary patterns in the wallpaper. She found it rather difficult to stay awake; once again a yawn escaped her lips.

"Y'know, Bones," the man grumbled, trying his best to sound stern, "there's this funny thing called 'coffee' that people drink when they're in need of a boost."

"I don't like coffee," his friend replied, slurring her every word. "Besides, the energizing effect of caffeine wears off sooner or later, and all you're left with is an addiction that over time can be detrimental to your health. You should know that, Booth. It's common knowledge."

He rolled his eyes and stowed the document he'd incessantly perused for some time in its proper place, a folder labeled with the FBI seal. "It's not like alcoholism," Booth retorted defensively. "It's not as bad, and it's a lot easier to quit."

"But it's still an addiction," Dr. Temperance Brennan insisted. She turned up her face and gave her associate a firm blue stare. Sure, he was an alpha male, but she was the genius. "Just admit that you're wrong. I'm the rational one, remember?"

"You also happen to be the one with a fried brain," Booth teased, flashing a charming smile. He knew that Brennan was immune to his charms, but from the perspective of most women, he was too gorgeous to argue with for long.

"It's only temporary. Besides, it's impossible to fry your brain individually without first removing it from the body."

"Well, what about our victim? His brains were scrambled, and then fried."

"Just because he was burn severely post-mortem doesn't mean his brain was fried," Brennan articulated, as though Booth was incompetent. "But yes, his brains were scrambled. After that, I don't think I could ever eat eggs again."

The FBI agent laughed wickedly. "Scarred for life."

"If you keep cracking jokes about cooking brains like eggs, then yes, I will be."

Booth indicated with an outstretched hand to the door with their psychologist's name painted on the opaque glass window. "I'm sure Sweets could help you with your—what do you call it?—oh, right. 'Irrational fear.'"

"It's not a fear, and it's perfectly rational for people to be disturbed by the morbidity of the subject."

"So handling dead bodies with maggots feasting on their flesh doesn't bother you at all, but the thought of eating brains does?"

"Correct."

Brennan yawned again, then grabbed at Booth's wrist and held it level with her face, trying to make out what it said. Her attempt failed, all thanks to blurry vision, and she shoved the thing in her partner's face for him to read. "What time is it?"

"Eight in the AM."

"I hate mornings."

"I thought you were an early bird."

"Since when did I ever resemble any member of the avian class?"

"Jesus, Bones, it's an expression!" Booth exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air.

"Oh."

Then silence. Brennan drifted off into a light oblivion, and though her full weight bore down on him uncomfortably, Booth let her be. He simply chuckled at her awkwardness and kicked back until the shrink called the team in for their scheduled counseling.

When the door swung open and Sweets emerged, his eyebrows shot up in questioning, demanding an explanation from Booth.

"All-nighter," he told the younger man, a hint of pride twined in his deep vocals. "She's a very dedicated author, you know."

"Right. Just come in."

Booth nodded, and then returned his attention to Brennan. "C'mon, eggs-for-brains. Sweets is waiting on you."

When she didn't respond, he lifted her to her feet with a single jerk. Alarmed, she jumped back. "What—"

"You could use a hearty breakfast, Bones. Now, would you like your brains scrambled or fried?"

A/N: Kudos to my friend A. M., who inspired the punch line/title. Now she goes around asking people if they want their brains scrambled or fried… I'm sorry, I'm rambling.