Note: I know on some level that these long chapters with multiple scenes can seem rather cumbersome to read, but I think it's the better option than having 2 or 3x more chapters. I'm sorry if it does become sort of drawn-out.

Also, since we are getting into the plot now, I just want to say that I have no idea what I am talking about as far as facts are concerned. Expect inaccuracy because I do not know anything about how a thievery ring works—Just going off of my gut here. I apologize beforehand for any glaring errors or anthropological oversights that may be seen here, especially any having to do with geography because I have never actually been to DC.

And, because I forgot to mention it in the first chapter, the character of Faye is dedicated to my own cat, Nala, who has been sleeping on one corner of the bed, usually ignoring me, for over eight years now. Too many more years to come. As the proverbial glass-raze and toast, read on. :)

-Chapter Two-

Nolita's was typical of any stereotypical fancy Italian place that was not actually situated in Italy. It had plush red booths, a fireplace, and soft jazz music oozing from various speaker systems hidden throughout the restaurant—often times behind a fake plant. The food, however, was excellent and the prices did not leave one with a noticeable dent in her wallet. As an atmosphere, it was warm and cozy, and as a business, it was intelligent—making it a good place to eat either alone or with the company of another person. That had been Brennan's original rational behind choosing the place for her first "date" with Booth.

But now, sitting across from him in the low lighting as a fire crackled in the background, things were different. There were no lies or excuses. Though both of them had personal information that neither had any desire to know about the other, she was not just the vague "importer/exporter" and he was not the scary cop. Instead, she was the "ex" con and he was an FBI agent who didn't let his job, rightly or wrongly, interfere with her own.

Booth was dressed in his typical suit and tie, black on bright red, a black scarf tucked under it all. Two gloves were stuffed into his pocket, and somewhere in there was both a badge and a gun.

Brennan herself was wearing a deep violet blouse set off by a silver necklace and earrings, a black coat draped over her seat. Her gun was at home.

"Did you get anything more unpacked this morning?" he asked.

She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, an heirloom from her mother's side of the family, "Well, I had to retrieve Faye's scratching post. Apparently she can't go a day without it."

"I'm surprised she even uses it."

She grimaced, "Originally, she didn't."

"You got her to change?"

"Yes. Every time she went to the couch, I picked her up and put her on the post, no matter what I was doing."

"And it worked?"

"I explained to her very carefully that she couldn't use the couch to sharpen her claws."

"She listened?"

"That I'm still not sure about. But," she held up a finger, "Faye eventually came around to my point of view."

"Congratulations, Bones. I'm sure cat persons everywhere are cheering."

She forked a few leafs of salad, "I'm not sure they can hear me."

He rolled his eyes.

She grinned at him as he chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed.

"You know, Bones," he let his fork hover over the rest of his meat, "What, uh, ever happened to Hodgins' stolen property?"

Brennan paused, "How much of it?"

"Oh jeez, I forgot it wasn't just that statue."

"Well, no..." her voice trailed off as she started to recall the robbery, "There was that vase too. And a bunch of paintings. And this really neat antique sword that I—"

"Please," he held up a hand, "Do you know or not?"

"Yes. I do. At least, I'm pretty sure."

"Where?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious."

"You're not planning on arresting anyone are you?" she looked at him suspiciously.

"No."

"Well, to tell the truth, my fence sold all of them except the statue."

"And what happened to the statue?"

Her voice lowered, "I...returned it."

"To your fence?"

"No." She left him to fill in the blank.

"To Hodgins?" he whistled, "How'd you pull that off?"

"Well, I wiped it down, wore gloves, and deposited it on his stoop while he was at work."

"Little risky, Bones, don't you think?"

"Not particularly. He wasn't home."

"Did he get it?"

"I would assume so. It's not as if I am going to ask."

"Okay, Bones. Wow. That was nice of you."

She shrugged, "He's a friend and it wouldn't sell anyway. No sense in me keeping it."

"No sense at all."

She swallowed the last of her pasta and pointed at his empty plate, "You're done or should we order some sort of dessert?"

He thought about it for a moment before replying, "How about a slice of pie?"

"You can have that," she flipped to the back of the menu, "I have my eye on that chocolate soufflé."

"Why do you hate pie so much, Bones?"

She shrugged, "I don't hate it, I just don't like my fruit baked. Chocolate and cream pies are pretty good. I don't know why you never order those."

"I prefer fruit pies."

"That can be our one area of disagreement then." She raised her hand and caught the attention of one of the waiters, "Who's footing the bill this time?"

"I am. Remember, this was to celebrate your move here."

"Right, right. Any plans after this?"

He smiled, "Anything you wanna do, Bones."

She grinned back, "Alright then."

--

"So are you sure I can be down here?" Brennan asked Angela as they walked down the stairs to bone storage, "I mean, I'm not exactly authorized."

"Yes, sweetie, because I'm down here. It's a Friday night anyway. No one wants to be here. Hell, I don't want to be here," she gestured at her chest with a finger.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because my fiancée is," the artist leaned back against one of the lab stations, "And I am a nice person."

"You mean you have nothing else to do?" she guessed.

Angela sighed and sank into one of the chairs, "You got it."

"Mm-hm," she nodded and ran her hand along a few of the storage boxes in front of her before slowly pulling one out.

"So you volunteered to come here instead of spending the rest of the day with Booth?" her voice was incredulous.

"No," Brennan turned, her back hitting the shelving, "Originally we were going to head home but Charlie called, said he found something."

"I see." She gave a tired grin, though even in a weaker state it still looked slightly evil, "You two getting together later?"

"Yes," the final letter extended itself, hissing between her teeth as she gingerly set the box on one of the tables in front of her.

"Your place or his?"

"Mine. I have to feed Faye." She pulled out a femur.

"Excuses, excuses, honey. Isn't your place a wreck?"

"It's not that bad." Another femur.

She scowled, "You just moved. It has to be a wreck."

"Well, I unpacked about five boxes." Skull.

"Out of how many?"

"A few," her voice was evasive as she gently placed the jaw near the skull, "Are you sure you're not going to get into trouble?"

"It's fine. Don't change the subject. Seriously, sweetie, I think you need to learn a lesson in romance. Don't you have any nice dresses?"

"I'm pretty sure I do," she set down both humerii, "Somewhere."

"That doesn't sound very promising."

"Well, it's not as if I ever had a need for one. Especially not in my career."

"Private investigators don't need to seduce anyone?" she breathed out a mock frustrated sigh, "All of those movies have misled me so."

Brennan froze, a tibia gripped between two fingers, berating herself for forgetting that Angela didn't know about the thievery, "No. I don't need to seduce anyone," she forced her hand to move again.

"I see. Nonetheless, sweetie, I think you and I may need to go shopping."

"That's unnecessary." She set down the last of the bones.

The artist studied her for a few long moments as she organized stray phalanges, "Okay. But if you do decide you want to go shopping, we'll go together."

Brennan nodded.

There was silence until Angela formulated her next question, "Why do you even want to be down here, anyway?"

She shrugged, "I like bones."

"I figured that much. Isn't there another reason?"

She shrugged again, her finger tracing the curve of the nasal bones, "Not really."

Angela leaned forward, her arms still resting on the seat back, "Then why didn't you just become a bone lady? Like Zack?"

"I'm not sure," a sigh escaped from her lips as she picked up the skull, "I've been asked before."

"By Booth?"

"Yeah," her fingers slid over the zygomatic process and down to the teeth.

"Why does he call you 'Bones,' anyway?"

"I have no idea." She slowly set down the skull, "He says it's an endearment."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yeah," she paused and looked up at her, "I do."

"What else do you believe?" the artist's chin was tucked into her arms.

"About what?" she stared at a small butterfly fracture on the fibula in her hand.

"About Booth."

"Why do you ask?"

"Sometimes it's good to discuss things. Helps to organize your thoughts."

"My thoughts are pretty organized," she absently sketched out the fracture on a paper that had originally been destined to become fodder for a shredder.

"And maybe that's the problem," the chin lifted from her arms, "You're holding things back. Maybe you should speak from your heart once and while."

"What prompted this discussion?" she put down the page and clipboard.

She raised her eyebrows, "The fact that you are spending a Friday night at a medico-legal lab you don't even work at instead of hanging with your man. Sweetie, I don't know about you, but that seems...unorthodox."

Brennan shrugged, "He had to work, I didn't. It's as simple as that."

"You wouldn't have been here anyway?"

She didn't think of a response in time.

"See?" Angela pointed a finger at her, "You know what the problem with you and the rest of these squints is?"

She didn't.

"You lack whimsy. Fun. It's a genuine handicap."

"What do you suggest?"

She paused, "Have fun, Brennan. Just do something for the hell of it."

"So you're saying I should act impulsively?"

Her fingers snapped, "Yes. If we spend our lives caught up in logic, joy can fly by us. Have some fun. Do something enjoyable. Because I can guarantee you," she waited until Brennan met her eyes again, "enjoyment is not something you're going to find in a pile of bones."

"Then where does one find it?"

"That," she pointed a pen at her, "Is the question, now isn't it?"

"Yeah," she looked back down at the bones, "It is."

--

Sleet was coming down in torrents by the time Brennan left the Jeffersonian and its bones for her apartment. Coat drenched by the time she stepped through the entrance, her first thought was on a cup of hot chocolate and a bath, and it didn't matter in which order they came about. She got as far as pulling milk from the fridge and turning on the stove before she was interrupted.

"Myow," Faye grumbled from her perch atop the counter.

Brennan's shoulders slumped, "What is it?"

"Myow."

"I'm going to need more information than that, Faye."

"Myow."

"Myow," Brennan repeated.

"Myow."

"Myow?"

"Myow."

This wasn't going anywhere. She was about to try another 'myow' when Faye leaped off the counter to settle gracefully by the milk jug.

"Oh!" she slapped her forehead, "Right. That crap in a can you love so much."

"Myow."

"Quite talkative today, Faye," she told the cat as she walked to the cabinet to pull out a can of food, "What's gotten into you?"

The top popped off the can, releasing a pungent smell that only pet people know too well. With a grimace, Brennan tapped its contents into a paper plate and groaned in disgust at the sucking sound it made as it slipped out.

When she set it down, Faye went happily to eat the processed pig, cow, and chicken parts, as well as whatever other horrors the cat food contained. Shaking her head, Brennan went back to her hot chocolate preparation, secure with the knowledge that it was definitely more appetizing than pet food.

She was just mixing in the chocolate when she was interrupted again, this time in the form of a knock on her door.

Brennan sighed and looked down at her cat, "Is it too much to ask to just have a hot drink?"

Faye flicked her tail, which Brennan interpreted as something along the lines of a shrug. After an orbital roll, the ex-thief poured her drink into a nearby mug and walked over to the door. Once opened, it revealed Booth laden, once again, with groceries.

"I'm starting to think that you think that I can't take care of myself," she told him, stepping aside to allow him entry.

He smiled and gave her a quick peck before lugging the bags in, "Yeah, well, you're new here and I should bring the food. Besides, I'm just nice that way."

"Indeed."

"And I, fair Bones, even retrieved some fresh vegetables and pasta for us tonight. I am making you mac and cheese."

"I wasn't aware that you enjoyed cooking," she said, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

"Well, I don't really, but for you I will." Another Booth grin.

She raised a brow, "I can cook if you want. I wouldn't mind."

"Naw. It was my offer. Besides, you know, such strenuous activity should be reserved for manly men such as myself."

"Is that so?" her expression shifted to one of bemusement.

"Mm-hm," he grinned at her as he reached for a chopping block and a knife.

She shifted onto the bar stool near the counter, "Little cocky, aren't you?"

"It's all in the name, baby," he gestured at his belt buckle.

"You and your nicknames."

"Endearments, Bones," he placed a pan on the stove, "Gotta keep telling yourself that."

She shook her head, "I'll try."

He flashed her another smile before setting to work. Eventually, she took over the chopping portion of the prep while he cooked the pasta and transferred it to a dish as she took care of the cheese. With the macaroni and cheese in the oven, Brennan steamed the vegetables in a large pan while Booth took a load off opposite her.

"You're pretty good with those veggies," he commented as she tossed a few carrots over.

"Thanks," she speared a snap pea and took a bite. The shell was soft and hot, the seed pliable. She held the fork out, "Taste."

He did, "Good, Bones. Real good."

She smiled, "Amazing what garlic, salt, oil, and spices can do, isn't it?"

"Very," his grin suggested that he was thinking about more than the vegetables.

Turning off the stove, she lifted the pan and carefully poured the contents into a colander. The oven beeped as she forked a carrot, and Booth clambered off of his seat to take care of the pasta.

Conversation dwindled until the food was served and compliments were exchanged, only starting back up as Brennan reached for a second helping of the macaroni and cheese.

"You remember I said that Charlie had found something in Evan's house?" Booth asked.

Brennan dumped a large spoonful of the pasta onto her plate, "Vaguely. Charlie's your underling, right?"

"Technically. Though I recommend you never ever say that around the office, Bones."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind, though I doubt I'd ever see the inside of the Hoover building." She glanced up at him, her fork in the air, "Why?"

"Well, we found something unusual."

"Unusual like what?"

"Money."

Again, a synapse fired somewhere deep in her mind, but it was gone before she could make an interpretation. "How much?"

"A lot. And it's not just the average USA money either. I think there was moolah in there from other countries."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Bones, most normal guys only have cash from one country. Let alone more than two."

"Okay."

"And most normal people don't hide them under floorboards in their closets."

She chewed and swallowed a mouthful of carrots and mushrooms, "Again, why are you telling me this?"

"There's something dirty about this, Bones. It smells. I don't like it."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure," he got up and walked over to one of the bar stools, where his coat was hanging. Reaching in a pocket, he fished out a notepad and flipped through a few of the pages as he regained his seat opposite her. "But this guy, Paul Bishop, was on a sheet of paper in his desk."

Her subconscious itch intensified but remained just outside of her reach. Shaking her head, she replied, "I don't get the significance."

"He's got a record."

"For what?"

"Thievery. He's a fence."

She said nothing, her mental itch becoming more and more insistent.

"Do you know him?"

"I'm not sure."

It was his turn to remain silent.

"But I would still like to know why you're telling me this," she said as she got up, taking her plate with her.

He followed, "If we found something, would you be willing to do any investigative work?"

"What?" she placed both of their plates in the sink and turned on the water.

"You said you were a licensed PI."

"I am," her voice was cautious as she scrubbed off the dinnerware.

"I don't know for sure, but this guy, Evans, something reads off to me."

"You're an investigator. Why can't you investigate?"

"I will, Bones, but if this case goes in the direction I think it's going, I may need your...expertise."

"My expertise?" she repeated, abandoning the dishes and walking in the direction of her couch.

"Yeah. You know, you're good with these sort of people."

She settled onto the couch, tucking her feet beside her, "And what kind of people are you referring to?"

"Thieves. Fences."

"Booth, I told you, I can't turn in any of my former work partners. It's too risky."

"But you could talk to them?"

"I suppose so."

"Good. That's all I needed to know."

"So you're just going to remain evasive about what the point of that whole conversation was?"

"Until I know more, yes."

"Good to know."

He nodded.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the steady pounding of rain from outside. After a moment, Brennan got up and opened a window.

"What are you doing, Bones?" Booth's voice called from the couch.

She turned, shrugging, "I like the sound of rain. Just glad it stopped snowing."

"Why?"

"Can't hear snow fall," she sat next to him.

"I see."

"Mm hm." Her jaw settled onto his shoulder as she yawned.

"Getting tired, Bones?" he asked teasingly.

"Think the rain and the food are making me sleepy," she replied.

"And here I thought it was me."

She knocked her head against his in response.

"You're pretty violent for someone who's supposedly retired."

"PI work isn't much cleaner than thievery."

"I think you hold onto that like a persona."

"Eh," she shrugged and closed her eyes.

His arm slithered around her waist, "See?" he said into her hair, "You don't even have an argument."

"No. Besides," she took his hand in her own, "I don't have the energy to bicker about it right now."

"I see."

Brennan felt her hair stir with his every exhale, his chest expanding and contracting with the rhythm of his breath, and felt herself slip away at the same time. She opened her mouth for one final question, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"As long as you want, Bones," he replied gently.

"That's good," she murmured.

If he replied, she was unconscious before he said it.

--

The difference between night and day in a semi-conscious state was fuzzy at best. The rain was still pounding the windows, the sky was still dark, and it was still slightly crisp in the apartment. In fact, had Brennan not glanced at her clock she would've assumed it was still pre-dawn. The bright red digits, however, told her it was almost eight in the morning.

With a slight groan, Brennan slipped a hand from under her blanket and rubbed her eyes, forcing both open. It took almost a full minute to register that she was in bed and not the couch and, furthermore, that she was still dressed. Her fingers slid to her neck, but her necklace was not there. Glancing around, she realized it was on the nightstand.

Leaning back into the pillow, she wondered why this was wrong. A blush worked its way into her cheeks as she recalled falling asleep on Booth's shoulder. 'Like a love-struck teenager,' she thought to herself, deciding it was time to sit up lest she fall back asleep.

This proved to be more difficult than she had originally surmised. For one thing, she really didn't feel like getting up yet. Saturday mornings were for sleeping in. It had been like that in the Keenan house for years. Not even a meteor shower could get either of her parents out of bed any earlier than nine on the weekends. Breaking this sort of tradition didn't feel right to her.

The second, and by far the most important, reason she could not get up was due to the mass of fur laying directly on top of both the sheets—which she was under—and her right arm, which she was fast losing contact with.

"Faye," Brennan said quietly, "Faye? I think it's time you got up."

From her view of approximately two centimeters of the cat's back, there was no response.

"Faye? Faye, I can't feel my arm."

The tight ball that was Faye seemed to only grow tighter.

"Faye?" she tapped the small patch of fur with the index finger of her free arm, "Could you at least move over a little?"

The fur didn't so much as twitch.

"Please?"

Nothing.

Brennan sighed and slung her free arm over her forehead, wondering how long she would be trapped here. Almost involuntarily, her eyes drifted shut. 'Just a few minutes,' she said to herself, 'It's not as if I can go anywhere anyway.'

Moments later, she opened her eyes again and jumped, sending Faye into a nearby pillow with a phwump! Hands curled into a defensive posture, she attempted to regain control of both her heart-rate and her breathing.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said to Faye, who was now licking a paw with a fair amount of disdain. Her eyes blinked shut, but the image of two giant cat orbs remained burned into her eyelids. They flew back open. "Cats," she muttered with disgust, rolling out of bed, "Ugh."

Faye followed her as she padded out.

"What do you want?" Brennan asked grouchily, yanking open a cabinet and feeling thankful that three combined grocery runs between her and Booth produced enough food for a fast breakfast.

She received a yawn in response.

"Why do I even bother asking?" her voice trailed off as she noticed that Booth had left the piece of paper from his notepad on the counter. Picking it up, she rolled the names around in her head as she poured cereal into a bowl and reached for the milk.

"Paul Bishop...Where do I know that name from, Faye?"

The cat provided no answers.

"John Evans. Paul Bishop. I know I..." she stopped, eyes widening, "Oh no."

Faye looked up, perhaps noticing the sudden change in voice inflection.

"I do know this guy."

--

There were always at least two sides to the thieving community. On one, there was a small, albeit shaky, grounds for ethics. Of course, Robin Hoods were myths. Thieves served themselves, not the general good. The bottom-line was what was important, but there were a portion of the community that believed that no matter how rich the eighty year-old in the nursery was, stealing from her would be downright evil. In those circles, black hearts were the property of thugs and murderers rather then themselves.

On the other side, black hearts abounded. If the sweet ninety year-old had fifty bucks on her person, it was only a matter of guts to go in and take it. These were the types of robbers that everyone feared, because violence was not only a capability, it was on their purview.

These two general groups sometimes formed an unholy alliance, one that neither side wanted to truly acknowledge but benefited from nonetheless. Suppliers crossed lines, fences kept to their turfs. As long as balance was held, chaos did not ensue.

Brennan was of the former group. She was skilled, fast, and decisive. If a job needed to be done, she'd be hired for it. She had done her own share of freelancing, but for the most part her jobs were contracts. Moolah for goods. It worked. No one complained. If she made a little money off the side, people looked the other way. Her preference was the thieves within her own ethical group, but she had been around the darker side more than enough times to be familiar. She'd rubbed elbows with murderers and dined with thieves. Whether or not she liked it was irrelevant. Once legal lines were crossed, the lines between the various levels of morality and ethics became fuzzy.

The system survived and the black market kept running.

The Thirty-First Charade was a small cornerstone in DC's thievery ring. No one knew what the charade was, or why there was thirty-one, but the name had stuck and held for as long as anyone could remember. It was a bar, typical of most stereotypical Hollywood baselines for these sort of activities. Cops steered clear and only the most idiotic of normal people would mosey inside. It was the proverbial pink elephant in the room that everyone saw but none wanted to talk about.

Brennan stepped inside the bar to discover that there were only a few thieves going about their business in various positions around the room. Most looked like they were about to wrap it up, doing the typical dance before walking outside in opposite, albeit parallel, directions.

Her objective was the bar, and she did not even bother to slip into one of the grimy seats.

"Tom," she said, wrapping her knuckles against the old wood, "Paul Bishop wouldn't happen to be gracing the building with his presence, now would he?"

Tom looked up from the newspaper in his hands. Like the bar, no one knew anything about the owner. His last name was a mystery, his first name likely an alias. All he did was serve drinks and eavesdrop. People didn't notice him, people didn't care about him—until, of course, somebody needed information.

"Joy," he said, "Fishing for a job?"

"Not today," she tried to ignore the smell of stale beer and tobacco, "Is he here?"

"Around back," he gestured with his cigarette.

She nodded and passed through the curtain which separated the main bar from the back room. Although both areas were used for business ventures, something about the back room seemed more formal, thus the reason that high value transactions often occurred here.

Two men glanced up at her arrival. One was somewhere in his thirties with gray hair and grayer eyes. He was lightly built, muscles hinting at hidden strength. The other man was slightly older, though his hair retained its original dusty black coloring. Starting from his forehead to his left cheek was a long scar, earning him the nickname "Scar."

With a nod, the men separated, and Scar walked back around to the bar, leaving Brennan alone with Paul Bishop.

"Joy," he said as she took a seat across from him, "What's a matter? Couldn't last a month as a PI?"

"I see rumor spreads."

"It does," he took a long drag on his cigarette before rubbing it out. "So what brings you to these parts?"

"John Evans."

His eyebrows crimped, "I wasn't aware that he was in need of either of our services."

"He's not. He's dead."

This time, the gray eyebrows shot up, "Dead?"

She nodded.

"Then why are you asking about him? Don't imagine a dead man pays too well."

"It's a matter of interest."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not a cat then."

He laughed shortly, his eyes hard, "I see. Then what is it you want to know?"

"Why he was killed."

Bishop leaned back and sat silent for a long time. Just as she was about to prompt him, he opened his mouth, "You're opening quite the can of worms if you investigate this alone."

"I can take care of myself."

He gave her a hard look before shrugging, "Whatever you say."

"Then what can you tell me?"

"You're going to want to check out his financials. His investments. After that, maybe have a chat with Samantha Powell."

"Powell? What does she have to do with this?"

"That'll become apparent pretty fast."

"Is there a reason you're being so vague?"

"That'll become apparent pretty fast."

"Don't stonewall me, Paul."

"Get used to it, Joy. No one's going to want to talk about this."

"I see," she got up, "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

He shook his head.

As she made for the exit, Bishop's voice stopped her, "Joy?"

"Yes?" she turned.

"Be...careful."

"Touched by your concern, Paul," she replied, "But I'll be fine."

He nodded and she left the room.

--

Arguably, there are, like the thieving community, two sides to the proverbial coin. What was frustrating was when one needed both a heads and a tails on the same flip but possessed only one coin. That was the point where one chose a lesser evil, though Brennan had experienced times where there was no lesser evil, rather there was just a matter of kill-or-be-killed, fight or flight—either with lasting repercussions.

But Brennan had never once thought that her two-sided coin would include an FBI agent and a dead investment banker.

She had heard stories of others within her circle who had gotten involved with feds as an end result of trying to manipulate them—often ending up with the unfortunate thief rotting in a jail cell while the agent received pats on the back. Then there were the standoffs that sometimes erupted into gunshots and the metallic sent of blood, leaving someone to die alone in a back alley of a warehouse.

Initially, one or both of these scenarios plagued Brennan's mind at various times throughout her relationship with Booth. Nightmares of cops showing up at her door and Booth drawing his gun on her had kept her distant from the agent for a time. But eventually the images faded, whatever bond the two had formed banishing them to a far corner of her mind. For now, they were both content.

But this bond also meant that he cared for her. Normally this kind of thing was good. It was essentially the insurance that he wasn't going to betray her, and allowed her to reciprocate the same feelings toward him. But when it came to matters of business, there are times when one has to be allowed to carry out a plan without interference. If the plan just happens to hint at danger, then so be it. Brennan was used to this sort of thing anyway. In fact, she found it rather exhilarating.

However, Booth felt that she should not go out to question a bunch of thieves, thugs, and possible murderers alone. His take was that it was too dangerous and that she would need him—the FBI's own personal beefcake—to accompany her.

She did not feel this way, and had followed him as far as the J Edgar Hoover building to argue with him. Stepping into his office, she closed the door and sat in the seat across from his desk.

"I've been working with these people for almost half of my life, Booth," she said to him, "I know how to talk to them."

Booth sighed and took a seat in his own desk chair, "So do I. I'm an FBI agent."

"Yes," her voice grew dry, "And that is the problem."

"What's the problem? I've got a badge, a gun, and people skills. I've interrogated hundreds of suspects."

"I have a gun too, lest you forget. But that is not the issue," she reached across the desk and gave him a soft, albeit patronizing pat on the hand, "You, my dear, could be wearing a neon sign on your chest proclaiming 'COP' and you would be no less obvious then you are right now."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Normally no; it isn't. But when dealing with the underbelly of society, one must be apart of it."

"Bones, I—"

She held up a hand and he quieted, "I can tell you how this would play out if I let you come with me to talk to my associates. Everyone there would recognize you as a cop immediately, and then rumors would start to spread about me accompanying you—especially since we're investigating a murder. The assumption would be that either I was helping you by ratting on them or I was manipulating you for something.

"If anyone with a moderate degree of ranking believed it was the former, I'd be signing my own death warrant. If they thought it was the latter, I'd be signing your death warrant."

"I thought you said they were non-violent."

"Generally the people I deal with are. They're more the type to chlorofoam security rather than poison them. However, turning an entire community on its ear would cause hostilities even among placid people. Not to mention we don't even know for sure if this will involve more than just my group."

"You sound like an anthropologist," he groaned, "And how are they 'your group'? I thought you quit."

"I did," she said smugly, then stole a candy from the jar on his desk.

He exhaled, "You sure don't act like it."

"These careers stay with you forever, Booth," she unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth, "I mean, if you quit being an agent today would you stop acting like one tomorrow?"

He didn't reply.

"Exactly."

After a moment he reached over and retrieved a candy as well.

"These are good," Brennan said approvingly, "Butterscotch?"

"Yeah," he slowly unwrapped it.

"Oh, don't sulk. You wouldn't much like my people anyway."

" 'Your people' ?"

She ignored him, "Bit too rough for you. Though some of them aren't all bad."

"Oh God," he rubbed his face with his hands, "I don't want to know what that means."

"I haven't been involved with any of them, if that's what you're thinking. And besides, you were the one who asked me to talk to them in the first place."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

Brennan watched him chew on the butterscotch, "You're agitated."

Her only reply was the crunch of hard candy and a look of growing discomfort.

"Wait. You know something."

He said nothing.

"What is it?"

Booth took a wary glance out his glass office doors, speaking only after a few excruciating moments, "Our guy, Evans, he had some dirty money on him."

"Dirty money?" her eyebrows raised, "Where does an investment banker get..." she stopped. "Oh."

"Now you're the one who knows something."

"Yes. That explains something to me," she ignored the question on his face. "How do you know it was dirty?"

"He had money in a bunch of different banks, and a lot of foreign cash, not to mention a whole bunch of other things that you wouldn't really care about. We connected the dots. What do you know, Bones?"

"Well, I don't actually know anything, but I think I know what Bishop was alluding to."

"So you do know Bishop."

"Yeah," she got up, "So want to do dinner tonight?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he shot up and stepped between her and the door, "What's the rush? And you still haven't told me what you're thinking."

"I have to talk to someone," she said and tried to sidestep him.

"Who?"

"An old acquaintance."

"What kind of acquaintance?"

"A business acquaintance."

"The old import/export line?"

"The very same," she made to move past him again, trying to ignore the feeling of being trapped that was starting to uncurl in her gut.

"Bones," he held out a hand to quiet her, "No dangerous freelancing, right?"

"I'm not making any promises."

"You're not reassuring me here."

"Didn't we just have this conversation? Several times?"

"Yeah, and it went nowhere. Isn't there anyone you can go with?"

"No. And the arguments will continue to fail if you continue this line of questioning."

"Why so tense all of a sudden, Bones?" he studied her now.

"It suddenly occurred to me that I walked directly into the FBI office and you are in between me and my exit."

He quickly moved aside, "You still don't trust me?" he sounded hurt.

"I do," she gave him a quick kiss, but it lacked heart, "Just primal instincts."

He gently grabbed her wrist as she made to leave, "I hope it is, Bones." He released her.

"It is," she replied, "So dinner tonight?"

"Yeah. My place."

He nodded and she tossed him a quick wave before exiting.

Her car was hidden amongst three others of the same model, and by the time she finally got it onto the road and headed toward her destination, she did not notice as the large black SUV and FBI beefcake followed her out.