Max sighed, "In 1971 there was a task force created to deal with the issue of the strong-arm crew we were apart of. But they went corrupt, started asking for bribes to keep their mouths shut. And it was a fair exchange—the crew provided a cut in exchange for the cops purposefully looking the other way until long after the members were in the clear. This happened for several years, and none of us were complaining."

"But everything changed in 1978," Ruth cut in.

He looked at her and nodded, "The group we were apart of was a band of miscreants and both them and the cops had developed some kind of issue with Marvin Beckett."

Brennan nodded. She knew the name from the case files.

"In any case, a massive stack of cash was planned to frame him as taking a political bribe. At that time, we knew we had to leave," her mother said.

"Problem was, there wasn't much of a way out. A few days after we had made the decision, Gus Harper was murdered."

Brennan said nothing.

Max continued, "This wouldn't have held much significance to us if it wasn't for the fact that we had overheard a conversation between Balboa and Magellan." That translated as Kent Genzlinger and Mathew Gallagher—two of the top men in the group, "Apparently," he lowered his voice, "Harper had been bothered by the Beckett set-up. His intention was to rat out the crew to the rest of the FBI in hopes of stopping it."

"Two days later, he turns up dead," Ruth said chillingly even though she visibly looked upset.

"There were a lot of arguments and yelling on the day we decided to leave. We just walked out and never returned..." his voice trailed off.

Unceremoniously, Brennan dropped another file in front of him—the report on the robbery of Ohio First Savings and Loan, merely days after Harper was killed.

With a questioning look, Ruth reached down and took it. After flipping through it, she stiffened and her eyes shot to meet her husband's.

Wordlessly, the old con got up and left the room, leaving silence in his wake. When he returned, he handed Brennan a notebook.

She flipped through it curiously, and with a start she realized she was looking at a journal. Gus Harper's journal. "Why?" she asked simply.

Max sighed again and leaned back into his couch, "There were major changes in the crew around that time, and the cops were starting to get edgy. Things looked as if they were about to break and there was no doubt that they would want to cover up Harper's death."

"But wasn't Beckett convicted?"

Ruth looked at her, "Even the FBI would have checked all possible avenues before arresting someone so prominent. The bank deposit box's contents would invariably be sought out and destroyed by both the crew and the cops."

"Why didn't you just give it to them back then?"

"If we had, they surely would've gone after us. As it was, we had already changed identities and states. Exposing ourselves would've meant doing it again."

Brennan shook her head, comprehending but not really understanding. "What happened to Delaney then?"

Another exchanged look.

"Garret Delaney was higher up on the food chain. Worked directly with some of the higher ups in the operation on the cops' side."

"He also did a lot of work with Vince McVicar," Ruth added hesitantly.

Both of them paused, another one of their silent moments.

Ruth continued, "He was the official hit man for the crew—not that anyone outside of our circle could prove it. But he was as famous with his 'tire iron' as Hugh Kennedy was for his icepick."

Brennan didn't ask whom the latter was.

"Rumors at the time were that Delaney wasn't quite satisfied with his position and that one of the higher ups had put out a hit on him."

"In any case, he was found with a bullet in his brain three weeks after we left."

She met each of their eyes, "Do you know who killed him?"

Ruth glanced at Max again before opening her mouth to speak, "Robert Kirby."

--

Seeley Booth listened as Temperance Brennan quickly and quietly relayed her information to him, her eyes roving the restaurant every few moments. Something had her jumpy, and the reason wasn't clear until she reached the end of her recounting.

"Robert Kirby?" he repeated in an equally hushed tone. "Deputy Director of the FBI Robert Kirby?" Even to him his voice sounded slightly squeaky.

She nodded.

"How sure were they of this?"

"Pretty sure," she said grimly, "And it's the only scenario that makes sense."

He stared at her incredulously.

In ten minutes, this woman had turned everything upside down and inside out. She had told him that a large group of federal agents and local cops were involved in a conspiracy to not only keep the criminals they were pursuing out, but frame a political activist who had been in jail for thirty years. Her addition of the belief that the now head-honcho of the FBI had not only participated, but ordered a hit on a fellow agent was almost unfathomable.

And she had provided evidence to support these insane claims.

"What do we do?" he asked, for he was at a loss.

"Shouldn't we confront the FBI? Give them the evidence?"

"No, Bones," he shook his head and continued before she could protest, "First, I would have to come up with the origin of this evidence, and if I point to you, both of us will be arrested immediately. As it is, I'm working this case off the books. And second, I will definitely get fired if I bring this stuff up."

"So what do we do?" she repeated his own question.

With a sigh, he realized, deep down in his heart of hearts, what he had to do. With a shaky breath, he reached down and touched his phone.

"I have to call Caroline." He said it like it was the end of the world and in a way, it very well could be.

--

"What you're saying is that we have two dead FBI agents and a falsely imprisoned man?" Caroline Julian asked with her eyes-a-glowin' as she paced around the J Edgar Hoover building's meeting room.

"Yes," Booth said meekly.

He had flown in that morning with his newly-made partner after making the call to the fiery AUSA, hoping that she would be able to help.

"This does not look good, cheri," she said before finally settling across from him and staring at the journal he had provided her with. "Where did you even get this bombshell?"

He ran through his possible excuses at warp speed. No way was he going to rat out Brennan now, but what to say? He settled on evasive, "Do you really want to know?"

She took the hint, knowing that she really wouldn't want to know the source, only that it was there. She had worked with him more than enough times to know that. "And now you're also telling me that the Deputy Director of the FBI is responsible for the deaths of at least one of these agents?"

"Yes."

"And you suspect he's responsible for the death of Delaney as well?"

"Yes."

"Cheri, this does not look good at all."

"I know."

But Caroline was one for justice, even for her demeanor and status, "I'll see what I can do, but we may need more evidence than this journal."

"Like what?"

She just stared at him.

"I have to bring the squints in on this?"

Her silence was answer enough.

With a sigh, he watched her leave to begin her own battle as he reached for his phone to start yet another.

"Dr. Saroyan," a voice answered crisply from the other side of the call.

"Cam, it's Booth. I need a favor."

Her voice sounded wary when it responded, "What, Booth?"

He explained the situation and waited for her final judgment. When it came he clicked off the phone and got up to stretch, his mind already formulating excuses for the judge.

As he departed from the room, all he could think was one thing: How could one person cause so much trouble in only a few short days?

Little did he know that it was only the beginning.

--

Dr. Camille Saroyan of the Jeffersonian Institution's Medico-Legal Lab sighed heavily as security called in to say that Seeley Booth, a consultant, and two bodies were coming into the lab. Her lab. Again.

This was just like the agent—handing her a highly inflammatory case with almost no notice. Goodman would have a fit when he found out. But luckily this was her department, not his.

Realizing her hostility level was rising—no doubt due to her late nights the past few days—she took a few deep breaths before stepping out of her autopsy room/office and meeting those at the entrance, stopping to wave the men with the bodies through first.

She stopped at the corner of the main lab entrance, studying those before her.

Seeley Booth, in his usual black suit and 'Cocky' belt buckle, stood with hands crossed, arguing quietly with his companion. His tie was long and red, matching the color of that insufferable belt buckle, but loosened only a little. The edge of his empty gun holster was peaking through the suit, and Cam figured he had probably been forced to abandon it when stepping into the high-security lab. Although he looked tired, he also looked good. Very good. Though he always did.

The pathologist refocused her attention onto the man's companion, conveniently blocking out other thoughts that threatened to infect her poise.

The woman stood in a relaxed sort of way, not straight and stiff but not slouched either. Her hands were positioned on her hips and her jaw muscles were shifting back and forth as she bunched and un-bunched them, no doubt irritated with the agent. Even from where she stood, Cam could see the fire in her eyes—due to anger and defiance. The strong lines of her face created rather deep shadows from the way the light was hitting her, revealing a very strong jaw and prominent neck muscles.

The two of them together appeared to be the very picture of professionalism—he in his suit and she in her white blouse and black blazer.

That is until one realized that the topic of their heated debate was, in fact, over dinner arrangements.

With a smile, Cam stepped forward.

"Camille," Booth said as way of greeting.

She cocked her head, "Nice to see you, Seeley."

He smiled, "Don't call me Seeley."

"Don't call me Camille."

It was their usual. A must whenever they saw each other after time apart.

Cam turned to the woman who was now watching them with a bemused expression on her face.

"Camille Saroyan," she introduced herself without the formal title.

"Temperance Brennan."

They shook, and their handshakes were equally strong.

Cam didn't bother to ask what her connection to Delaney and Harper was. Booth wouldn't bring anyone into this place if they weren't qualified...even if he was obviously seeing the person in question.

"So, how's this going to work?" the pathologist addressed them both. "Are you guys going to stay here while I perform the autopsy or what?"

Booth glanced at Brennan and they both appeared to be silently exchanging information.

With the slightest hint of a cringe, Booth looked back at Cam, "We'll watch."

She smiled, "Okay, then."

--

Both Temperance Brennan and Camille Saroyan smiled as Booth backed up in horror at the open body before him. "Ugh," he groaned.

"Feeling a little queasy there, Booth?" Cam asked wickedly.

Brennan laughed, although her own attention was riveted to the body. She was not a skittish person by nature, and there was not much in this world that could get her to react visibly. She'd been in enough dark and dank places to know what awful things smelled like, and she had seen enough of the underside of life to know what awful things looked like.

Although the chemicals in both agents' bodies had prevented complete decomp, they still both looked and smelled of something rancid. Brennan thanked her strong stomach for not reacting to that terrible scent as it had washed over the room.

"Just...continue," Booth said weakly.

With a nod, Cam complied and silence settled over the room like a cloak—only interrupted by the pathologist's words into a Dictaphone.

Brennan watched the proceedings quietly, occasionally shifting her footing or moving her hands, determined not to miss a moment. This was the stuff she liked; the things she had read about and thought about idly when she was tired; the things she had sketched out and taken notes on for nothing but her own personal enjoyment. It felt jarringly odd to suddenly be thrust into it first-hand, let alone because of something that had happened almost thirty years ago.

She glanced up from the open ribcage and physically had to stop herself from jumping.

Jack Hodgins was standing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes absorbing the scene before him as his hands played with a file tab. A long blue lab coat sloped down almost to his knees, and the clothing underneath appeared to be a simple brown shirt with khaki pants. A pink rubber-band was around his left wrist. A smile was lightly playing his lips as he regarded Booth.

Brennan hoped her eyes had revealed nothing. She had robbed this man only two months ago, and she was not about to get caught for it after all this time.

Despite what she was feeling, Hodgins had not noticed and he was regarding her curiously—probably wondering why she was there. Or who she was. Or that she was a criminal

"Dr. Hodgins," Cam said in a surprised tone, interrupting Brennan's deluded perceptions as they flowed through her mind, "Here about the Roberts case?"

He nodded and stepped forward, handing her the file, "Flies and puparial casings put time of death about three months ago."

She took it, "Thank you."

He nodded again and turned to Brennan, "And who is this?" He walked around the table to get to her.

"Temperance Brennan." She held out a hand to receive another firm handshake.

"Jack Hodgins. Pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well."

They smiled at each other and Brennan relaxed, realizing he didn't suspect her.

"Booth," Hodgins nodded in the agent's direction, albeit in a slightly patronizing tone.

"Hodgins," the agent replied.

"You up for seeing those maggots today?"

"Not on your life."

He smiled and glanced at Brennan with a playful expression in his eyes, "Would you?"

"What?" Booth said as Brennan heard herself say, "Sure."

The smile broadened. "Really? We have a taker?"

"Congratulations, Hodgins," Cam said dryly from her position over the open chest, "Your first one yet."

"I know." He was still smiling at Brennan, his eyes now shining.

She couldn't resist grinning at his comical joy. "So where are they?" she asked.

"This way," he gestured her out and she followed as Booth looked on helplessly.

"So you're an entomologist?" she asked as they navigated forward through many scientists in lab coats, an office with several easels directly across from them.

"Yeah; I handle all the bugs, slime, crud, and compost."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Oh, yeah," his grin was very broad. Obviously she really was one of the only people to have accepted his offer, and Brennan felt a twinge of sympathy, for she was familiar with the feeling of being interested in a topic that no one else was.

He led her past the large office and past several smaller ones, cubicles on the left which contained scientists working at their quarters. When they reached his own office, they took a sharp right and ended up standing in the middle of a room with a bunch of tables, tubs, jars, chemicals, and various lab equipment. Several large machines were in one corner, and there were about three computers on three different counter-tops.

Hodgins reached up to a nearby cupboard and took down a glass case filled with small yellow squirmy things. These were most definitely maggots, and she knew enough from her reading to follow the entomologist as he started rambling about their life cycles, habits, and the current species which was in his hand—Calliphoridae or the blow fly.

When he had finished his speech, he put the maggots away; although that action may have been prompted by the woman who walked into the room.

She was tall, almost at Brennan's height, and was dressed in the same lab coat that everyone else around here was. Around her neck was a long and thin brown necklace with a few turquoise beads, which accented the white she was wearing underneath the coat. A clipboard rested in her hands and grin lit her face when she saw Brennan.

"Oh, Hodgins," she reprimanded lightly, "You didn't drag another one into this did you?" Her brown eyes met the gray of Brennan's, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I should've been watching him."

"No, it's okay. I wanted to come."

"Really?" she waggled an eyebrow at Hodgins, "I hope I haven't been replaced."

"Replaced by what?" Brennan replied, confused.

A slight laugh escaped from her lips, "Oh, nothing, sweetie. What's your name?"

"Temperance Brennan."

"Angela Montenegro," she held out a hand and they shook. "I do facial reconstructions."

"I see," once again, Brennan found herself intrigued.

Angela continued to smile and addressed the bug man, "Have you shown your friend around?"

"No. Not yet."

"Wanna tour, sweetie?" her eyes went back to meet Brennan's.

"Sure," she said, overwhelmed by the artist's cheeriness.

"I'll see you later," Hodgins said and waved.

She waved back and sent her best smile with him as she left the office shoulder-to-shoulder with Angela.

"So what brings you to the Jeffersonian, Brennan?" the artist inquired.

She quickly recalled her cover, "I'm consulting for the Harper and Delaney cases."

"Really? I figured you had come from another lab on a consultation. So you're working with the hunky FBI agent?"

"You mean Booth?"

"Of course."

"Yes."

"Fun," she playfully poked her side with an elbow, "Doing anything outside of work?"

Brennan hesitated, and Angela pounced with a gasp. "Oh, sweetie!"

She laughed and already found herself liking this person.

"You've got to tell me things. That FBI boy doesn't come around here nearly as often as he should."

Brennan smiled and shook her head at the artist's bubbly attitude, which was starting to infect her own mood.

--

Booth groaned. Brennan had abandoned him for the squints, and he was forced to watch an autopsy on his own. And if he tried to leave, Cam would surely never let it go. He would be hearing about it until the end of time.

He realized with slight consternation that Brennan was no longer with Hodgins and was now chatting amicably with Angela Montenegro—a woman who was fully capable of entertaining entire audiences, let alone a moderately socially-challenged criminal whom he was currently dating. A blush colored his face as he realized that he could be the very topic of their conversation.

As if reading his mind, Cam spoke, "So, what's going on between you two?"

He blinked and swallowed, "Uh...She's...We're working together."

"Uh-huh," she said with a smile slowly spreading across her face as her tongs deftly maneuvered around—doing only God-knew-what because he sure as hell wasn't looking.

"Yeah."

She scoffed, "Oh come on, Booth. We've spent enough time together that I can read your signs. So...How did you meet?"

More quick thinking, "A case."

"She does consultation work a lot?"

"No," he shook his head and grabbed a hold of his voice, knowing that he needed to sound confident or there would be trouble. "She knows quite a bit about the circumstances surrounding the Harper and Delaney cases, so I called her in as a favor."

"She's a cop?"

"No," he answered quickly. He jumped onto the career he had chosen for her, "She's a PI."

"Really?"

"Um-hm."

"Well good for you."

He paused, "Yeah..." his voice trailed off, "Good for me."

--

"So do you live here, Brennan?" Angela asked from her couch.

Brennan sat directly across, "No...I sort of drift from place to place; never really stay anywhere for long."

"Restless?" she asked knowingly.

"Yeah," she nodded and wondered if that really could be part of the reason.

"I was like that for a while. But eventually I just settled here."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "It felt right. You ever get that feeling where something seems as if it should be wrong, but it never really was?"

"Yes," she nodded, and thought about Booth, "Yes, I have."

Angela studied her for a moment, "You ever think about settling?"

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off, "I have." And it was the truth; but she had lived a life of lies for so long that she wasn't even really sure what the truth was anymore.

A young man interrupted her thoughts; his hair was cropped short, and a tie hung loosely from his collar—partially obscured by a blue lab coat which proclaimed "Z. Addy" with small white letters. He looked preoccupied and his attention was still rooted to the object which he held in his hand. An object that immediately riveted Brennan's own attention.

It was a skull.

A human skull.

Animal bones were easy enough to get through warehouses and even garage sales, but real human bones were exceptionally difficult to come by, and often they were expensive and of low quality.

And here he was, carrying it around a if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Hey, Zack," Angela said casually, for she was obviously used to this sort of thing.

"Hey, Angela," he replied, "Need you to do a reconstruction."

"No problem."

Brennan watched as they filled out the necessary paperwork, traded a quick farewell, and parted—leaving the skull with the artist.

Angela turned to Brennan, "Don't mind him; he's usually too focused to notice the major things like 'it's midnight' or 'I need a haircut.' He's wasn't ignoring you."

"Oh," that hadn't even occurred to Brennan, so focused had she been on the bones, "It's okay."

She smiled, "Wanna see something cool?"

Brennan's interest was piqued. "Yes."

Her smile broadened, and she got up and walked behind the station where her computers were, approaching a massive box-like machine. She grabbed something and clicked, and light started to seep from the two open ends of the box like some sort of strange ventilation system. In moments an image had materialized inside of it and she watched, transfixed, as a yellow bird began flapping around within its confines, occasionally opening its beak in a silent chirp.

Angela set the skull on her desk near a blank sketch pad.

"What is it?" Brennan asked and stepped forward, warily approaching the machine as if afraid the bird would suddenly charge after her.

"The Angelator. It took a lot of work, but this baby has been with me for the past three years," Angela said proudly, "I was working on a little animation before you came."

"It's amazing," she stared at the bird, and its movements kept her eyes in a continuous motion.

"Thanks," the artist paused, "Jeez, it's almost six already."

"It is?" Brennan asked distractedly.

"Yeah. We were all going to go out to dinner tonight because we haven't done that in a while." She paused again, "Would you want to come?"

Brennan eyes snapped over to her, "What?"

"Well, we could invite Agent Booth too. You just seem to be enjoying yourself so much, I figured you might want to come."

"Really? I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, don't worry, sweetie. Jack already loves you. And besides, we all have to eat."

"It's no trouble?"

"None at all," she slipped off her lab coat and swapped it for her real one, "Let's go. May need to warn Cam that it's getting late."

Brennan nodded and followed her out, already looking forward to spending more time with the lab workers.

--

"Yeah," Cam said, exhaling as she stared at a file, "It looks like your source was correct. These bullet holes don't even come close to what was reported in the file."

"How do you know?" Booth asked, feeling immensely better now that the autopsy was over. "You don't even have the actual rounds."

"Don't need 'em. The two holes in the chest were made by something much larger than a .38," she paused, "And one look at Delaney tells me that he wasn't killed with a .38 slug either."

"Then what was he killed with?"

She looked at him, "A rifle."

Angela Montenegro chose that moment to enter the room, "Hey, Cam, it's almost six o'clock."

"Oh, right," the pathologist ripped off her gloves and threw them in a biohazard container, suddenly looking harried. "You wanna rally the others while I get ready?"

She nodded, "And I invited Brennan along to."

Cam smiled, "Hey, it'll be nice to have an extra party member."

The party member in question smiled back.

Angela turned her brown eyes mischievously to Booth's, "You wanna come to, Booth?"

The agent barely turned his own eyes from Brennan, "Yeah...Sure." He paused, "What?"

She grinned, "It'll be nice to have you, Seeley."

"What?" he asked desperately as she walked out, having completely failed to comprehend her words. "What did I just agree to?"

Brennan smiled at him, "We're having dinner with them."

He stared at her in complete disbelief. She had rubbed elbows with the squints and had—by all appearances—been indoctrinated. It was unfathomable. It had taken over a year just to get Hodgins to look at him, let alone be accepting of his presence.

'And yet,' he thought to himself as she took a deep inhale and glanced around herself, 'I've never seen her more at home.'

He watched her follow Angela out, and could almost see a blue lab coat painted over her clothes as she ducked out of sight.

--

"So..." Angela said, taking a sip of wine, "How long have you two been dating?"

Brennan glanced at Booth, who was blushing, mentally calculating how long they had actually spent together, "Over two months."

"Ah, newbies," Hodgins said with a chuckle, kissing Angela on the cheek.

"Oh, please don't start that here," Cam begged, "We're trying to eat."

The artist smiled sweetly as the entomologist leaned over and whispered something into her ear. She giggled.

Cam sighed.

"This is one of the those times when I have no idea what's going on," Zack Addy said, his fork still poised over his macaroni.

The pathologist patted his shoulder, "You're the lucky one, Zack."

"Why? What'd I do?"

She smiled, "Nothing."

He still looked confused, but pursued it no farther.

Brennan munched on her salad thoughtfully, watching as Angela, Hodgins, and Cam roared into laughter at some sort of comment about someone named Jim from the research department—Zack still hopelessly trying to catch up with their trains of thought. She really liked these people.

It was a foreign concept to her, this almost familial relationship between friends. She had only had a blood family her whole life—her meaningful friendships having lasted but a short time. In her line of work, betrayals could cost everything, so she kept to herself most of the time.

But the cheeriness of the group brought a painful sense of longing slamming into being. She flinched at a sudden pressure on her shoulder, and turned to see Booth staring at her with concern.

"You okay, sweetie?" came a voice to her right. Angela's.

"Yeah," she flashed a smile at Booth before looking at the artist, "I'm okay."

Angela studied her for a moment "You sure?"

"Yes," Brennan ventured a smile.

"Good," she smiled back, "Because no friend of mine should feel lonely any day of the week."

Brennan blinked. Friend?

Angela lifted a hand and ordered a fresh bottle of wine and a couple of beers for the table, which earned a cheer from Hodgins and Cam and a grin from Zack, Brennan, and Booth.

When the drinks arrived, the mood shifted. Case files were pulled and spread out over a table which had long been cleared of food. Quietly Brennan and Booth gave a quick summary of the incidents in the 1970s, excluding the source and Brennan's connection to the crew.

"So how was Delaney killed?" Angela asked, looking at Cam.

"Well, despite the coroner's report, he was killed by two rifle slugs to the chest—same as Harper."

"I hate to say it, but my peeps, I smell conspiracy," Hodgins interjected.

Nods were exchanged.

The pathologist looked at Brennan, "You said that Robert Kirby was a marine sniper?"

She nodded and took a sip of her wine.

"But didn't you say that there was another crew member who was still alive?" Zack asked. "Cabot?"

"Yeah."

"He disappeared," Booth said, "We can't find him."

"What's going to happen to Marvin Beckett?" Hodgins asked.

"He'll be released. Caroline's going to move for a dismissal first thing tomorrow."

"She's the prosecutor, right?" Cam.

"Yeah. AUSA."

"Of course." The pathologist paused and turned back to Brennan, "Did your sources know where Cabot is?"

She shrugged, "I didn't know to ask, but I'll be sure to do so later."

"And I have a few recovered pellets I'd like you to look at Hodgins," she said, looking at him, "I'll have them sent to your office."

He nodded, "I'll work on them first thing tomorrow."

"Zack," she turned her attention to the young doctor, "you'll get a few ribs."

He nodded.

"You'll call when you find something?" Booth asked.

Cam nodded, "The moment we have something, we'll call."

A wave of nods went around the table a feeling of finality washed over them. Purses and wallets were pulled out to finally take care of their bill, and drinks were nourished until emptiness.

They parted at the door, and Brennan and Booth watched as the scientists disappeared into the night, their laughter echoing into the quiet night.

"You guys were really hitting it off, huh?" Booth said as the two of them started the short walk to their car, "You're becoming a regular squint, Bones."

She rolled her eyes, for he was always calling her that. "Yes. We really were..." Her voice trailed off, though she hadn't meant it to.

He stopped her, "But you seemed a little withdrawn. You feeling alright?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"No, Booth. Really, I'm alright." She backed up her statement with a soft kiss, "You don't have to worry."

He grinned at her, though she could still see slight concern in his eyes, "Okay, Bones."

She laughed, "You and that name."

"It's endearing, Bones. Gotta learn to love it."

"You think so?"

"Yeah."

"I'll try," she nuzzled into his side and they began walking again with his arm around her shoulders.

"Glad to hear it, Bones."

She closed her eyes involuntarily, savoring the contact. Her heel ruined the moment—slipping on a piece of ice on the sidewalk.

She lost her footing and fell against a nearby car. Booth leaned over and hauled her up, smiling at her, "You know, that's the second time I've had to do that."

She glared at him. "Very funny."

"Eh, I don't mind, Bones."

She put her hands on her hips, "That doesn't surprise me."

He smiled.

"And if I didn't know better, then maybe I would suspect you were the one tripping me up."

His grin broadened, but any answer he may have given was cut off by the sound of several gunshots and the squeal of burning rubber as a car sped away into the night.