Disclaimer: Because I'm not making any money off of this, I don't have enough cash to buy a TV show, and therefore, I don't own anything. That's the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose.
Notes: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! And major props to my two lovely reviewers who pointed out that a former-army-sniper FBI agent would probably know the difference between exit and entrance wounds. You guys helped me avoid making the same mistake again in this chapter. The moral of the story? You should all press that little button that says 'go' at the bottom of the screen and let me know what you think!

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The Jeffersonian's one and only forensic anthropologist was taking notes on a clipboard while peering intently at the remains in front of her. That's all they were, she had always told herself. Remains. The only thing this guy had left behind and the only thing that could clue them in to who he had been.

"Lay it on me." Agent Booth grinned up at her. He was sitting on an office chair with his legs propped up on a storage box, hands behind his head and a complacent grin on his face. Brennan decided that he looked the way her cat did after finding a beam of sunlight to stretch out in.

Not so cute on a grown man, in her opinion. Her lip twitched in annoyance before she spoke.

"A variety of things can happen when someone takes a bullet to the head. The skull is so with the brain and its fluids that there really isn't much room for anything else." She took a step towards Booth before she continued. "Many times, the bullet goes in one side, out the other. Two wounds, one bullet."

"Yes, Brennan. I know. They teach you these kinds of things in the army," he quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

"Then you'll also know that sometimes the bullet fails to escape, causing the pressure inside the skull to shoot up dramatically. When that happens, the whole skull shatters, and pieces of bone and cranial matter are sprayed everywhere. It is not pretty."

"You know, Bones, you should bring this stuff up at parties sometime. Just hearing you talk like that makes my mouth water for some shrimp and beer. But, in any case," he jabbed a finger at the body on the table, with the skull still mostly intact, "that doesn't look like it happened to our guy."

Brennan shook her head and put a hand on her hip. "No, Booth. It's what happened to the guy whose head arrived here today as bloody fragments of skull mixed in with his brain and face, and which has yet to be unpacked from the box you are using as a footstool."

The polished shoes dropped to the floor immediately.

"Would you care to fill me in on that victim, over there, on the table? The one with the intact head?" Booth resisted the urge to scoot away from the box. It's not that he wasn't used to carnage wreaked by gunshot wounds, but the idea of someone's fragmented head, turned into soupy gunk and bones and sitting in a box… Well, it wasn't pleasant.

Brennan gleefully noted that he sounded annoyed, and, figuring that Booth wouldn't try to use anyone else's decomposing remains as ottomans, she complied. "5'10, male, Caucasian, 35-39. He's been dead for about five days- the heat caused things to decay at a faster rate, but Hodgins collected enough insects to be fairly certain of the time of death. I did find a healed fracture in his right wrist, consistent with a fall from a low height. He was probably between age 5 and 7 when that happened."

"Guy didn't have a good track record with heights," observed Booth. "But this guy is going to be tough to identify. Five days isn't that long. It's possible that he hasn't even been reported missing yet."

But Brennan just smiled. "Actually, Booth, I've managed to make your life a hell of a lot easier."

"Really, Bones? Trying out some new experiences, making some positive life changes, broadening your horizons?"

Her eyes rolled. "You wish. But I'm thinking the earring I found in his left ear will narrow down the search a bit?"

Booth broke out into a grin. "I think I'm in love, Bones."

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An hour later, Booth slid a file folder across Brennan's desk. "Patrick Debrue, age 37, journalist. Didn't show up for a date with his girlfriend on Tuesday. And apparently thought the stud looked artistic."

Angela flung the door open and walked in, not bothering to knock. "I've finished, but it looks like it won't be needed." The corner of her mouth twitched wryly. Her fingers were smudged with graphite, when she rubbed her nose, it left a streak. Brennan resisted the urge to laugh.

"Couldn't hurt to take a look." Brennan laid Angela's drawing and the photo from the file next to each other on her desk.

The same man stared up at them twice, his oddly large eyes and narrow face making it obvious that this was their man.

"Damn, I'm good." Angela wiggled her fingers at the two as she left the office.

Brennan leaned back in her chair and sighed, her eyes meeting Booth's. "Who would want to knock off a journalist?"

The agent snorted. "Who wouldn't? The press pisses off a lot of people. Hell, even you can hardly talk to the press to promote your own book."

He was rewarded with a sharp glare. Brennan definitely did not want to be reminded of her writing- that new chapter still wasn't done, and her publisher was going to be annoyed at the lack of progress. She decided she would finish later, and put it as far into the back of her mind as it would go. "I suppose you've spoken with his girlfriend."

"Actually, I was just on my way," he admitted, and then gave her his most charming, boyish grin. "Wanna come?"

"Why are you suddenly so eager to have me along?" she asked skeptically.

"What, I'm not allowed to simply enjoy your company?" His reply was met with silence and an intense stare until he finally relented. "Okay, fine. The lady knows her boyfriend's been killed. Found out this morning. I'm thinking you can pull out some of that 'I'm here for ya, girl' stuff, make things go more smoothly." He looked up at her pleadingly with his best puppy dog eyes.

Brennan snorted in disbelief. "You, the man who constantly insinuates that I have all the social charm of a fifteenth-century cannibal warrior, are asking me to comfort a woman and show solidarity simply because we are both the same gender?"

"Yeah, Bones. That's the idea."

A long pause followed. Pale eyes held chocolate ones in a battle of wills, until finally, Brennan gave in. She had planned to all along, really- he was bringing her along, she couldn't complain. She stood up and grabbed her bag. "Let's go."
She was rewarded with a signature Seeley Booth cocky grin, and a mischievous glint flared up in the eyes she'd just been staring into. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You know, Bones, I always thought you were kind of charming."

"Shut up and get in the car."

The truth was, talking to those families and friends was tough. It was hard not to feel the anguish of a mother whose son has been murdered for heroin money. Hard to stay emotionally detached from the 23-year-old college student whose best friend has been caught in the crossfire of rival gangs. Or, in this case, the girlfriend of a 37-year-old journalist who'd been shot and dumped off a cliff.

These were the second-hand victims. The ones who had to go on living when someone they'd loved, and who had loved them, was suddenly gone. Not only gone, but had met a violent end.

It would be a little better today. They weren't delivering the news. Tara Edison, Debrue's girlfriend, had already been informed this morning. Now it was her turn to inform them. Still, Booth dreaded intruding on her grief… and for all Brennan's bluntness and social confusion, he knew she was good at reaching out to these victims. She'd been there.

In fact, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather have next to him at Tara Edison's door.

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AN: Reviews, comments, criticisms, flames, suggestions, reactions, notes threatening to kidnap my goldfish and hold him for ransom… look at all of the choices! Reviewers are loved!