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Tired, Booth yawned, dropped a report he'd been looking at on his desk and rubbed his eyes. Raising his arms, he stretched and then lowered them when he felt a catch in his back. Sucking in his breath, he placed his arms on the desk.

"Booth, how would you like to go for a walk with me?" Standing in the doorway, Brennan smiled at her husband.

Eager to get some fresh air, Booth grabbed his crutches, stood up and moved across the room. "Oh man, you bet I would." Stopping next to his wife, Booth leaned over and kissed her. "You know I hate to sound like a horrible person, but we need a case or something. I wouldn't mind looking at a dead body if it'd get me out of here for awhile."

Amused, Brennan waited for Booth to exit into the hallway and then stepped quickly to stand next to him. "I do know what you mean. I don't want to wish anyone to be killed either, but if someone has already been murdered then I wouldn't mind being involved in the search for his or her killer."

Using his crutches, Booth navigated down the hallway. "So, what are you working on?"

Brennan made sure to keep pace with him. "I've just identified a body that was found in a field in north central Somme in France. He was a British soldier. He died in 1916."

"Sounds interesting." Stopping at the exit, Booth waited for the doors to slide open. "Why don't we walk over to the Diner? I'd like some pie."

A tear springing to her eye, Brennan reached up and brushed it away. "Yes, I could use a cup of coffee."

Surprised at her reaction, Booth reached up rubbed his thumb under her eye. "Are you alright?"

Filled with emotion, Brennan reached up and placed her hand on his wrist. "Yes . . . It's just . . . hearing you say you'd like some pie . . . Yes, I'm fine."

Shaking his head, Booth smiled at her. "I'm fine, Bones. We're fine. A few more weeks and I'll be out of this cast and everything will be back to normal."

Sadness flooding her, Brennan shook her head. "Things will never be normal for us, Booth, but we will be alright." Shaking her head, Brennan reigned in her emotions. "When we get to the diner, I want to show you an ad for a house we should look at."

Shifting his crutches more comfortably under his arms, Booth swung to the left and walked down the hallway, Brennan walking beside him. "That's great. I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."

Her eyes on her husband as he stopped at the main entrance and waited for the doors to glide open, Brennan waited beside him. "No, I didn't change my mind. We need a larger place so we can take your things out of storage. You need your things, Booth. I want you to have your things around you."

It had been awhile since he'd seen his things and it did miss them. Booth walked through the exit out on the sidewalk. "Yeah that would be nice, thanks."

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Slicing off a piece of pie with his fork, Booth noticed a stranger stop at their table. "Can I help you?"

An insincere smile gracing his face, the young man nodded his head. "Yeah, hey, my name is Bradley Collins. I'm a reporter for The Washington Examiner. You're Seeley Booth aren't you?"

Irritated that his privacy was being invaded, Booth shook his head. "No comment."

Amused, Bradley shook his head. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you."

"It doesn't matter." Pointing his pie filled fork at the young man, Booth repeated himself. "No comment."

Cocking his head to the side, Bradley decided to try for some information anyway. "Okay. I just thought you'd like to comment on the murder of the Gravedigger's accomplice, Doug Clary, that's all."

Shocked, Booth lowered his fork and rested it on his plate. "Doug Clary is dead? When did that happen?"

Staring at Booth and then Brennan, Bradley realized that no one had broke the news to the couple yet. Just to make sure no one was eavesdropping, he looked around the diner and then finally back at Booth. "I heard about it about thirty minutes ago. I have a friend that works at the prison. Clary was killed this morning during breakfast. Someone shoved a shank in one of his eyes and into his brain."

His hand clenching his fork, Booth shook his head. "You want a comment, here it is . . . good. He got what he deserved."

Thankful, Bradley saluted Booth. "Good enough."

Watching the young reporter walk away, Brennan waited until he'd left the building. "Do you think the Gravedigger had a hand in this?"

Not sure, Booth released his fork and picked up his cup of coffee. "I don't know and I don't care. I'm not a cop anymore. She's going to die soon enough for what she did. If she thinks getting rid of her accomplices is going to help get her out then she's mistaken. She was found guilty and she's been sentenced to die. Her appeals are not going to get her out of it, no way. That bitch is going to pay for what she did."

His agitation growing, Brennan moved her hand across the table and captured his free hand. "Booth, I understand."

His agitation barely contained, Booth took a deep breath and started to cough. Desperately, he placed his hands flat on the table in front of him and tried to control his breathing. Several patrons in the diner that were acquaintances of Booth became concerned and stood up. Unsure what to do, one of them called out and asked if Booth needed help.

Slowly shaking his head, Booth soon was breathing normally. Holding up one of his hands, Booth finally assured everyone. "No, I'm fine."

Sitting back down, his former co-workers kept a careful eye on Booth to make sure he really was okay.

Brennan waited until Booth's breathing returned to normal, reached out again and placed her hand on top of his hand. "You're right Booth. She doesn't have any legitimate grounds to overturn her conviction."

Nodding his head, Booth looked in to her concerned face. "We're just assuming Doug Clary was killed by someone attached to the Gravedigger, but we could be wrong. He was a cop and he may have been killed by someone he helped put away . . . or a relative of someone. I mean . . . Clary had an affair with the wife of a very powerful man. Maybe that's what got him killed. Let's just let the FBI do their job and let them figure out why he was killed. It isn't our problem."

Her husband's pallor now gone, Brennan removed her hand, picked up her coffee cup and sipped some of the sweet drink. "Yes, of course."

His eyes on his slice of pie, Booth commented, "So tell me about the house you want to look at."

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Rapping his knuckles against the door frame, Agent Harris leaned into Booth's office, "Hey man, got a sec."

Pleased to see his friend, Booth looked up from his monitor and turned to face his friend. "Yeah, come in. What's up?"

After he entered the room, Morris walked over to the chair facing Booth's desk and sat down. "I'm sure you heard about Clary."

Shrugging his shoulders, Booth leaned forward and placed his arms on his desk. "Yeah, a reporter told me this morning."

Angry, Harris shook his head. "Damn reporters . . . Yeah, so anyway, what you may not know is why he was murdered."

Curious, Booth frowned. "So tell me."

"The guy that killed him blamed him for his cousin dying in prison last year." Shaking his head, Harris continued, "Stewart White said when he saw Clary was in prison he planned out to murder him to revenge his cousin and when he had the chance he did it. White is a lifer so he said he didn't think he has anything to lose anyway. He was convicted of murdering a store owner in a holdup last year. He's a three time loser."

Relieved that it was simpler that he'd thought, Booth nodded his head. "So the Gravedigger had nothing to do with it."

Shaking his head, Harris replied, "Nah . . . So how'd you like to go to a game this weekend? I know you're still using your crutches, but I don't see why that would be a problem."

A twinkle in his eyes, Booth smiled at his friend. "Lester and I are already going. Do you want to go with us? It's not sold out. I have season tickets, but the're for two seats not three. We can just sit somewhere else."

Not willing to sit in the cheap seats, Harris grumbled. "No way, those seats are behind third base. Why don't you go with Lester Saturday and me on Sunday?"

Poking his tongue in his cheek, Booth thought about it. "I guess it would be okay. Bones said something about working on some new book, so she'd probably like me to be gone so she can have some peace and quiet . . . Sure, why not?"

Pleased, Harris clapped his hands together and grinned. "Alright, it's a date. I'll pick you up after church."

Holding up his hand, Booth grinned. "You and Lester are so transparent. Both of you want to see the Nationals beat the Phillies and that sure as hell is not going to happen. You two are going be mighty disappointed Saturday and Sunday. The Phillies are red hot."

"Huh . . . if you say so." Standing, Harris glanced at Booth's crutches. "We need to get there early enough so you don't have to deal with the crowds too much. You off your pain medicine yet?"

Puzzled, Booth nodded his head. "Yeah, what about it?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Harris placed his thumbs in his belt. "Because I don't want you to pout while I'm drinking beer."

His eyes boring into his friend, Booth growled. "I do not pout, you asshole."

Snorting, Harris corrected his friend. "Oh yeah you do you big kid."

Aware that Booth wasn't alone, Cam entered the office and decided to interrupt Harris. "Booth, Hodgins has his experiment set up and he said you wanted to look it over before he did it."

Grabbing his crutches, Booth advised his friend. "If I were you, I'd leave before Hodgins does his experiment."

Well aware of Hodgins experiments and the flashy mistakes he'd made in the past, Harris stood up and strode over to the door. "You got that right."

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