Disclaimer: If I owned Bones, I'd hardly be posting stories on a fanfiction site. Or would I…? No, I wouldn't. Rats. I guess that means I don't own it.

A/N: Please indulge this unrealistic AU Season Six ficlet. It's fluffy and fuzzy and kept me warm when it was freezing outside… kind of like a scarf.


Chapter One: Suspicion

"Please remove all jewelry, belts, coats, shoes, and any items you might have in your pockets such as keys or loose change," the TSA personnel barked over the noise of the security checkpoint. "Liquids, gels, and aerosols are allowed in quantities of 3.4 ounces or less, placed in a clear, quart-size zip-top plastic bag. Each traveler is allowed one plastic bag. Remember to remove your laptop and place it in a separate tray…"

Jack Hodgins tuned out the rest of the recommendations and shifted back and forth on his feet, straining to see the end of the line. He, Agent Booth, and Dr. Brennan were almost up to the TSA representative who would check their tickets and passports before waving them through to the x-ray machines. Jack, for one, couldn't wait.

Their case was wrapped up, and finally, finally, they were on their way back home. He hadn't seen Angie in a week, and it was starting to wear on his nerves. He was pretty sure it was starting to wear on everyone else's nerves, too, if only because it made him cantankerous.

"Hey, bug man," Booth said, jostling him with an elbow, "pay attention."

Startled, Hodgins looked up to realize that the line had moved forward again. Hastily, he rolled his carry-on suitcase forward, and caught up to the remaining member of their small group.

"So, Dr. B.," he said cheerfully. "What are going to miss most about this trip? The luxurious accommodations?" (They'd been crammed into the world's smallest hotel rooms.) "The beautiful weather?" (It had been muggy the entire time.) "Our charming hosts?" (Who had been the most condescending, hypocritical bastards he'd worked with in a while… which was definitely saying something.)

Dr. Brennan looked confused and said, "But none of that is accurate."

Booth sent her a Look, and her eyes widened in comprehension.

"Oh," she said, "I understand. You were being sarcastic. It's amusing because our hosts were not charming, the weather was not pleasant, and our accommodations were decidedly not luxurious."

Hodgins nodded. "Right-o."

"Ah. In that case, I would say that I will miss our hosts the most," she said.

"You gotta admit that the 'gourmet' food comes a close second, though," Booth said, grimacing.

Hodgins winced in remembrance.

"Identification, please?"

He jerked his head up to see that they were right in front of the booth.

"Ah, right," he muttered, digging in his coat pocket to produce his passport.

The man did a cursory check, and handed him back his ID and ticket, before nodding him on.

"I mean, I've eaten some pretty disgusting stuff in my life," Booth continued. "But that food…"

"It was like the mystery meat in a school cafeteria," Hodgins agreed.

"I thought you went to some fancy-shmancy private school," Booth said, removing his suit jacket. "Didn't they serve you guys decent food?"

Hodgins shrugged. "Eh, it was OK. But before I got my position at the Jeffersonian, I did some teaching in the public school system. Got to taste their food plenty then."

Booth winced. "My sympathies."

"According to the Wayne-Johnson study conducted this year, the average cafeteria meal contains over 90% of the recommended daily allowance of fat, almost no fiber, and more preservatives and pesticides than you could hit with a stick," Dr. Brennan pronounced, taking her laptop out of her bag.

"I think you mean 'shake a stick at'," Hodgins corrected.

Dr. Brennan frowned. "It would make more sense to hit an object than to merely shake a stick at it. Besides, I dislike ending sentences with prepositions."

"It's an idiom, Bones," Booth said in fond exasperation. "It doesn't have to make sense."

"All idioms have logical, etymological roots," Brennan protested. "One merely needs to examine the idiom in the anthropological context of its era and culture."

Hodgins tuned out their bickering. Good to know that some things never changed.

He watched Booth go through the metal detector disinterestedly.

Ah, airport security…the sheer hypocrisy of government officials, the waste of resources… it never failed to piss him off a little bit. He'd learned not to comment on this around Booth by now, though; guy had some serious issues when it came to national security. 'Course, he also had some pretty sweet connections if what Dr. Brennan said was to be believed.

Shrugging it off, he stepped forward and walked through the detector. When – thank God – nothing set it off, he headed over to the X-ray conveyor belt where Booth was still waiting for his plastic bin to appear.

"I hate waiting on these things," Booth muttered.

"Tell me about it," Hodgins agreed. Eyes lighting up, he prepared to launch into his rant. Unfortunately, Booth was able to recognize the warning signs of one of his speeches a mile away, and cut him off.

"That wasn't an invitation for you to wax paranoid on me," the agent warned him.

"What you call paranoid, I call informed," Hodgins retorted good-naturedly.

Booth just shook his head.

When the conveyor belt finally regurgitated Booth's bin, the man reached eagerly for it.

"Wonder what the hold-up with Dr. B. is," Hodgins murmured, craning his neck to see the anthropologist waiting irritatedly by the metal detector.

"Knowing Bones?" Booth said, "Could be anything."

Snorting in agreement, Hodgins turned around just in time to see Booth tuck a ring on a chain under his shirt.

Normally he wouldn't intrude on what was clearly a personal part of the agent's life, but Hodgins' curiosity got the better of him for once.

"What's that?" he asked casually.

"What's what?" Booth asked.

"That ring, dude. It's new," Hodgins said.

"Oh, uh, that," Booth replied. A look of panic appeared briefly in his eyes before he quickly masked it. "Old family heirloom. Pops gave it to me a couple of months ago."

The man's tone was smooth, but it didn't quite ring true.

Still, it wasn't really his business, so Hodgins shrugged and said, "Nice."

"This is entirely ridiculous," Brennan fumed, marching over to join them. "There was no reason whatsoever to hold me back, but the security guard wanted an autograph for his wife."

"Aww, give the guy a little slack," Hodgins said. "Guys in love do stupid things."

Brennan snorted feelingly. "Be that as it may…"

"Hey, don't look at me!" Booth said, holding his hands up in the air. "I fully condemn the man for misusing his authority, OK?"

"Enough to arrest him?" Brennan asked hopefully.

"Not quite that much," Booth replied, smirking slightly.

Brennan looked at him pleadingly.

"Uh-uh, Bones," Booth protested. "That would be an abuse of my authority." Seeing her wide eyes, however, he sighed, and conceded, "I suppose I could have a word with him about not harassing travelers without due cause…"

Brennan smiled at him, and, groaning quietly, the agent set off in the direction of the TSA representative.

"So whipped," Hodgins muttered under his breath.

"What?" Brennan asked, turning back to face him.

"Oh, nothing," Hodgins said. "You might want to grab your stuff, Dr. B. It's causing a hold-up in the line."

Brennan nodded. "I am surprised that the U.S. has not come up with a more efficient system," she commented, reaching for the bin containing her belongings.

"I'm not," Hodgins snorted. "Government's never been known for its efficiency… it's a conspiracy, I tell you—"

He broke off in mid-sentence. Dr. Brennan was retrieving a necklace with a ring that looked very similar to the one Booth was wearing about his neck.

"Uh, that's a nice ring," Hodgins said awkwardly.

"Oh," Brennan said, jerking slightly in shock. "Thank you. I was unaware that you knew much about jewelry."

Waving a hand dismissively, he said, "I don't, really. But I looked at bunch of rings the first time Angela and I got engaged, so, uh, I've sort of got an eye for them now."

"Anthropologically speaking, men in our culture feel that a familiarity with jewelry emasculates them," Brennan remarked.

Used to the forensic anthropologist's seemingly disconnected statements, Hodgins waited for her to get to her point.

"The fact that you feel you must justify your knowledge of jewelry merely illustrates that cultural tendency."

"Right," Hodgins said, gesturing towards her ring, "So what's the story with it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Your jewelry always has stories associated with it," Hodgins continued. "Ange loves telling me how you got this-and-such piece from some random grateful tribe."

"They are not 'random' tribes," Brennan reproved. "But you are correct, I prefer for my adornments to have meaning beyond their obvious aesthetic value. I… happened to purchase this ring from a local vendor while I was in Maluku; the profits allowed him to support his family."

Hodgins nodded appreciatively and dropped the subject.

Why had she stammered, though? And why did her Malukian ring resemble Booth's family heirloom so strongly?

Eh, maybe Ange was right. Maybe he was "getting paranoid in his old age".

He kinda doubted it, though.

Still, it wasn't as though it was any of his business. Booth and Dr. B. deserved their privacy. And if what he suspected was true, he'd get the full story soon enough.