Just a little ditty for the Dancing Challenge. I'm working on another one-shot about dancing, but I need more time to flesh it out so... (points at this one-shot) lol

Thanks Jemb for the beta job.



Two Left Feet

"Hey Tom, another round for the gang!"

"Coming right up, buddy!"

Minutes later seven bottles of beer were pushed across the bar towards a rather loud group of men. Under bursts of whistles and laughter the beer bottles were handed out. Among the men was Booth sitting comfortably on his bar stool, loosely clutching a beer and an elbow resting on the bar. It was a regular Friday night. Instead of spending a quiet evening at home or dragging Brennan to the diner, he had opted for a night out with a couple of colleagues. It certainly was a change, this "guy's night out". Booth chuckled, shook his head, and breathed in the sharp smell of cigarettes and beer. Oh yeah, this was something he had missed. A night full of comradely slaps on the back, of bragging about recent accomplishments, and of sharing stories about times they had scored with the ladies was something he needed. Booth chuckled again as he envisioned how the squints would react if he tried this kind of night out with them. Hodgins would probably never stop slapping his shoulder or nudging him, Brennan would drag anthropological mumbo jumbo into their conversation when the bragging began, and Zach...Well, the kid would probably dig up a notebook if Booth dared to bring up women. An evening at a bar down town with like-minded people---men who risked their lives for justice every day like he did---was exactly what Gordon Gordon would prescribe.

The man that had ordered a new round of drinks---a tall blonde haired blue eyed guy named John---raised his bottle for a toast. In a slightly slurring voice, he announced, "I think we deserve a pat on the back guys. The seven of us...We're great, you know. We locked no more than twenty criminals up this week. Are we good or are we good?" Another burst of whistles as the men all joined John in raising their beer bottles high. "And we did it all on our own!"

Dave---another fellow agent---shook his head. "We didn't all do it on our own, John." With a half crooked smile he gestured at Booth. "Booth here needs a squint to do the dirty work for him."

Booth's smile faded away. "What was that, Dave?"

"You heard me." Dave casually leaned against the bar and took a swig from his beer. "You've got a squint for a partner who collects all the evidence, kicks ass from time to time, and basically solves the whole case for you. Like I said, she does your dirty work. What happened to good old police work, man?"

"Still very much alive, pal." Booth narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits. "Bones doesn't do everything."

Not at all impressed by Booth's glaring, Dave grinned. "Did you hear that? Bones doesn't do all the work. His squint has got a nickname!"

"Dave..." Booth warned.

"What's up with that weird nickname anyway? Last time I saw her she still had some flesh over those pretty bones of hers." Dave chuckled at his own joke which was, in Booth's opinion, lame beyond words. "Come on Booth, from FBI buddy to FBI buddy...Why is she your partner? Are you a science junkie all of a sudden?"

"For your information, Dave..." Booth sent him a glare as he slowly articulated his name. "Science is not that bad. Some cases would have been closed without us having caught the killer if it wasn't for evidence provided by science."

Dave stared at him before letting out a bark of laughter. "Just listen to yourself, Booth! You're turning into a squint yourself!"

"Whatever Dave," Booth grumbled, turning away from the man so he could go back to nursing his beer without feeling the urge to throw it in Dave's face. "I'm just saying that you should give science a chance."

"Sure Booth, sure." Dave leaned in to ask another question. "Be honest Booth. What else besides squinting at gross bones can she do?" He waited for Booth to answer, but when no response came, Dave went on, "Can she cook? Can she clean? Can she change diapers?"

Booth rolled his eyes. He was beginning to understand Brennan's point about 99 percent of the male race being solely interested in finding someone to look after their needs and offspring. "She writes," he curtly replied.

"She writes...That's nice." Pause. "Like Paris Hilton writes, I'm sure."

Paris Hilton? They were comparing Brennan---renowned forensic author---to Paris Hilton who had hired someone to write her biography? Besides insulting his gut instincts and hard work when it came to investigating a murder Dave was now drawing parallels between Brennan and a long-legged air-instead-of-brains blonde bimbo! That was it. That was just the final straw. Booth got up to his feet and was about to use every inch of his broad frame to threaten Dave into sneering about Brennan again so he'd have an excuse to follow his alcohol and testosterone hazy instincts when John let out a low catcall.

"Speaking of the redheaded fury...there she comes."

Both Booth and Dave turned to see a slender woman appear at the other side of the room. She scanned the area and as soon as her gaze landed on Booth standing at the bar she began weaving her way through the dancers shuffling to a slow song on the small dance floor. Waving billows of smoke away with the folder she had with her, she rounded one or two tables before coming to a stop at the bar, at Booth's side.

"I need you to sign this," she immediately began.

Booth, used to her skipping greetings, grabbed the file from her grasp and began leafing through it. "What case is this, Bones?"

"The Morrison case. Remember? Fractured ulna..."

"Dislocated scapula," Booth finished. "Yeah, I remember. I'll quickly look through these."

"Dislocated scapula...My, my, aren't we using big squinty words there, Booth?" Dave joked. Booth cursed him as he searched his pockets for a pen. He thankfully glanced at Brennan when she slid one over the bar. The partners quietly flipped through the file until Dave decided to butt in again. "Say Dr. B..." Brennan raised her eyebrows at the unfamiliar nickname given by someone she had only seen once at the Hoover building. "Can you sow?"

Her eyebrows shot up even higher. "Yes, I can. Can you?"

"Dave..." Booth threw at his colleague, pen up in the air ready to sign whatever needed to be signed and give Dave a few painful pokes with it afterwards. "Leave her be. She just needs my signature and then she'll be on her way."

"Ah come on Booth. I was just asking about what she can and can't do. The only things you let go about her are that she's good at science and writing. I mean, what else can she do? I bet she can't even dance properly!"

Booth threw pen and file down and was in front of Dave in no time. Glaring down at him, Booth purposely invaded the man's personal space. "Are you saying Bones has got two left feet?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Dave threatened back while he straightened to his full height. The entire group, including Brennan, fell silent as they watched Booth and Dave scowl at each other.

Booth snorted and without breaking eye contact with Dave he reached for Brennan's wrist. "Let's prove the man wrong, Bones." Without another word he dragged his sputtering partner off to the dance floor. Once they were in the middle of the small crowd, he firmly grabbed her hand and planted his hand in the crook of her back. "Just shut up and dance, Bones." On the upbeat tones of cheesy love songs he guided her across the floor, carefully watching out for other dancers. Tackling another couple was not exactly something he wanted to do in front of his co-workers.

"Booth..." Booth whirled her away and pulled her back. Brennan ended up flush against him. Staring at him, she queried, "What has gotten into you?"

"I'm defending your honour." He turned around two times, tightly holding on to Brennan. Upon seeing her blank look he explained, "Dave accused you of not being a good dancer."

"I know. I overheard your conversation." Brennan cocked her head. "You've got some strange friends, Booth."

As he whirled her so far away that only their fingertips were touching, Booth glanced at his colleagues who were talking among themselves, already having completely forgotten about the incident and at the moment very busy with throwing peanuts at the bartender. He mumbled, "You can say that again." With a short pull he sent Brennan twirling back to him. Since Dave and the rest of his colleagues, who had the attention span of a gnat as soon as they had had more than three beers, weren't eyeing them anymore, Booth loosened up. When the final note of the song died away, Booth sighed and let go of Brennan. "Let's get out of here, Bones. I've had enough male bonding for tonight."

Brennan shrugged and followed him back to the bar where she gathered the file while Booth grabbed his jacket and paid for his drinks. He didn't bother bidding his fellow agents goodbye since they were all caught up in teasing Albert, whose partner's hair looked like she shoved her fingers in the plug-socket every morning. Pushing their way through the crowd to the exit, Booth shook his head and asked himself what had ever given him the idea that his colleagues were like-minded people. The reasons why he kept himself distanced from a lot of his co-workers had been shoved up his nose tonight. He'd happily sit through one of Hodgins' conspiracy theories and would explain thousands of pop culture references to Brennan without complaining if that meant he didn't have to listen to the rambles of intoxicated smug FBI-agents. Heck, he'd even teach Zach one of his pick up lines as long as he could hang out with them because despite the difference in job titles they were truly his kind of people.