As she watched him make two the of figurines move in synchronized movements., a snippet of their conversation filtered through her brain.
"…and a dance."
When she'd said that she didn't know what 'happiness' meant (although that had been somewhat of a falsehood; happiness was the result of a number of chemicals, chief amongst them serotonin or endorphins, being secreted by the brain in response to external stimuli above the fulfilling of basic anthropological needs) he'd rattled off some equation. And ended it with 'a dance.'
Now he was arranging them in a circle and calling it a coven.
A dance?
They had danced—once upon a time in that tiny bar in the middle of a very rural area. But they had also danced at her reunion. And if pressed, she would surmise that dance was closer to what Booth meant.
A dance, then, done. What was next on the list? Purpose, was it? That was easy enough: this, here, the catching of murderers. That was purpose. As was identifying older remains, and that definitely could be classified as an activity that increased her serotonin levels.
Her mind once again rewound the evening's conversation. There had been five items, she recalled. Human beings tended to think in groups of three, but five was also common—five fingers, five toes, five senses.
Friendship. Another check mark. They were friends. She was certain of that by now. Besides, friends, partners, it was all more or less the same. The hallmarks of both were rather similar.
Laughter came bubbling out of her as a reflex when Booth's attempt to not burn his finger ended with him tumbling out of his stool, making a scene that caused nearby patrons to stare. She didn't mean to laugh at his misery, of course. He was smiling, too. That was a clear sign that she was laughing with him, not at him.
But then that was four, and the last one he'd said was love.
The look on his face—the tears—the eyes—she was no expert but the look on his face was…
"Please don't look so sad."
He had no evidentiary support for his claim but she couldn't so easily dismiss his definition.
"Bones? Are you…okay, okay, I'll stop with the witchy voodoo dolls."
She blinked once, twice, trying to register. She must have been distracted from their conversation, perhaps looking a little puzzled. She felt a little puzzled, definitely too distracted to point out, again, that he was mixing the practices of Wicca with those of voodoo.
He paid and stood to leave. "Coming?"
She nodded, following him through the diner and out the door in silence. For once, he didn't attempt to fill it with idle chatter, and…
Well.
Maybe not fully happiness, but for now it would do.