Thank you for your support, as always. Kind of short, but a step in the right direction.

Disclaimer: Bones is...you guessed it. Not mine.

The Fight in the Food

"So the victim, Henry Tell, was killed by blunt force trauma to the back of his head," Brennan explains, pointing to the spot on her own head to demonstrate. "Hodgins determined that the weapon was a thin but strong metal pole of some sort. Maybe the pole of golf club or a metal rod. I was thinking that perhaps his college friends were involved, especially the ones involved in the university golf association—"

"Bones," Booth breaks in suddenly, "do we really have to talk about work?"

She swallows. Yes, because I don't think I can speak about anything else objectively. Aloud, she asks with forced confusion, "What else would we talk about?"

She's not so imperceptive that she misses the flash of pain in his eyes, there and gone in an instant. "We can talk about things outside of work, Bones," he says. "Like we used to."

There's something in the way he says like we used to that makes her think he misses those days with a fierce longing. Several times during their dinner, she's caught him with a gloomy expression, like something isn't turning out the way he wants it to. She's afraid, for a moment, that it's her. Maybe he hasn't spent time with her for so long that he doesn't enjoy her company anymore. Maybe he misses Hannah's company. When has she become a burden he must bear? The thought sends a pang of hurt through her, even though her theory is wholly unfounded. There's no real reason she should think that Booth doesn't enjoy her companionship. There's no indication that he wants to leave, and occasionally, a very real Booth smile spreads across his face. But these moments are few and far between, and Brennan wonders what broke between them that makes their interaction so stilted now. Longing rises in her too, longing for the good old days when things were so easy between them.

"How are you doing?" he asks after a long pause. "Are you sleeping okay?"

She nods. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's just…well, you used to get those nightmares, remember? Do you still get them?"

He remembers? He remembers the time she told him about the trouble she had sleeping after the Gravedigger case?

"Of course not," she says, even though she still does sometimes. "It's been a long time."

He looks down at the table and nods. "I still get nightmares sometimes, you know," he says quietly. "About everything. The Gravedigger. Sometimes it's Pam Nunan. Whatever it is, you always get hurt. I can never save you."

Dreams reflect reality, she thinks. What does that mean? That Booth is afraid of losing her? That he is losing her? She warms a little, knowing that Booth still values their relationship enough to fear losing it.

"That's to be expected," she says evenly. "We work in dangerous careers, Booth. Of course you're having nightmares."

He rolls his eyes and sticks a French fry in his mouth. "I don't think that's the point. It's normal to have nightmares since we have high-risk jobs, I know. But I can't save you, Bones. Ever." He manages a small smile, but his eyes are serious.

What on earth is she supposed to say? She shrugs and offers hesitantly, "You always save me in real life, Booth. When it counts."

He sighs. "I guess." He ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair nervously, and she wonders what he's nervous about. "Never mind. Let's talk about something else."

Gladly, she thinks. "Cam also ascertained that the victim had been drinking heavily before his death, so that supports the theory—"

"Bones." Booth sighs and looks at her almost pleadingly. "Please, can't we talk about something else?"

"Like what?"

"Anything. Something normal, something that has nothing to do with our jobs." He looks away from her for a moment before his eyes light up. "How are your nieces?"

Brennan frowns at the sudden change in subject but answers readily, "They're fine. They're both doing very well in school. Emma is apparently interested in biology."

Booth smiles briefly. "That's good. Following in your footsteps, huh?"

She opens her mouth automatically to reply that anthropology is unrelated to biology, but opts for a more oblivious approach. She wants to see that smile of his again. So, innocently, she answers, "No. She's never walked behind me."

His smile comes and stays longer this time. "You know what I meant."

"I don't think I do."

"Come on, Bones," he says, leaning back in his chair. "If there's one thing I've learned about you in all this time, it's that you usually aren't as clueless as you look."

"I'm…not sure if that's a compliment or an insult," she says slowly.

He laughs, a real laugh this time. "Compliment, Bones. I'd never insult you."

"Except for every time you remind me about my lack of social skills—"

"Which have improved, I admit—"

"—and the times you remind me about how I shot you—"

"Well, yeah, I think that deserves an insult or two. I mean, it hurt."

She frowns. "But that was years ago! I think it's extreme to hold a grudge over something so small for such a long time."

He stares at her. "Bones. You shot me. As in, there was a bullet in my leg."

"The bullet exited!"

"That's not the point!" He glares at her, but it's got an edge of humor to it. It's that look he gets in his eyes when he teases her. "The point is, it's not a small thing. I have every right to hold a grudge over it."

"It's all healed," she protests. "It's not even worth remembering."

"Getting shot by my own partner isn't worth remembering?" Booth repeats, his eyes going wide in mock-disbelief. "There's too much stuff to remember about that! Like how I was limping around for weeks, and how—"

She reaches across the table to his tray, picks up a handful of fries, and stuffs them in his mouth. She's always wanted to do that, shut someone up with food, and to her surprise and delight, it works. Booth stares at her, shocked, the fries effectively gagging him. He just looks so dumbfounded that she grins. And then giggles. And then full out laughs, laughs like she hasn't laughed with him in a long, long time. Laughs like she hasn't laughed with anyone in a long time. She laughs until her sides ache, until Booth suddenly unfreezes from his surprise and stuffs his own handful of fries into her mouth. It's her turn to stare in astonishment at him, and he snorts at her expression, choking on the fries in the process. He grabs his glass of water and chokes down the food, letting out a loud gasp as his mouth clears. She's still frozen, and he bursts out into loud laughter.

"Your expression," he gasps between laughs. Her indignant glare sets him off again, making him gasp for breath right up until the moment she picks up a fry and hurls it at him. Stopping mid-chuckle, he stares incredulously at her, like she's suddenly announced her decision to quit anthropology.

"Did you just throw a French fry at me?" he asks, eyes wide.

She looks at him challengingly, eyebrow raised. "So what if I did?"

In response, he grabs a handful of fries and flings them at her. With a surprised cry, she ducks and chucks ketchup packets in his direction. And then their table becomes a maelstrom of condiments and flying French fries. Brennan lets out a shriek of laughter as Booth upends the entire carton of fries over her, and he leaps back with an exclamation when she squirts the mustard bottle in his direction. Their drinks topple and spill onto the floor and onto Booth's lap, which makes him curse and look down. It gives her enough time to hurl a handful of pepper at him, making him sneeze violently. When they exhaust those resources, their eyes track back and forth hurriedly for new ammunition and they lunge simultaneously for the salt shaker.

She manages to grab the container first, but Booth's hand is on hers before she can use it. He's warm, warm, warm as he tries to wrestle the salt shaker out of her grip, but she stubbornly holds on, sticking her tongue out at him. His eyes dart immediately down her lips, and his grip slackens enough for her to yank the salt shaker back triumphantly.

"That's not fair!" he whines. "I was distracted!"

Laughing victoriously, she shakes out salt all over his suit, taking advantage of his surprise. He scrambles back with a curse, glaring at her, but his eyes are smiling, smiling, smiling in that way that has her laughing too. Laughing until she can't breathe, laughing until the waitress and the manager of the diner rush over and demand that they pay for the wasted food and leave immediately. Still chuckling, Booth and Brennan brush themselves off as best as they can, and Brennan quickly shoves fifty dollars at them to cover the costs, not caring that she's overpaying. Then, leaning on each other and laughing, they exit the diner.

"Whew," Booth says, once he's caught his breath. "I haven't had that much fun in a really long time."

"Me neither," Brennan agrees. Looking down at her shirt, which has ketchup stains and pepper sprinkles smeared down the front, she adds, "I guess it was worth it."

Booth looks down at his own suit, mustard-stained and rumpled, and chuckles. "I needed a new suit anyway. Come on. Let's walk a little."

They stroll down the street, shoulders touching, and Brennan marvels in how quickly the tension has dissolved between them. Somehow, they've fallen back into that easy partnership of earlier times, when Hannah and a thousand other things didn't exist. A week ago, they were barely speaking. Now, they walk down the street with quiet smiles, and every once in a while, one of them spots the stains on the other's shirt and breaks out into sniggers, which has them wiping tears of laughter from their eyes again. It feels so good to laugh. To be with Booth without worries, without thinking about anything more.

They spend the next hour walking and talking about nothing at all, and it feels like the greatest hour she's ever spent. Soon, it grows dark and cold, and when Booth sees her shiver slightly, he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it around her. Even though it smells of mustard, even though giving her his jacket is consistent with his alpha male tendencies rather than real affection or concern, she doesn't say anything. His gesture is so much of the Booth she remembers (of the Booth she thinks she loved) that she can't say anything. She can only grip his jacket warmly around herself and smile at him in thanks.

"So, Bones," Booth says, hands in his pants pockets as they walk. "You doing anything on Saturday?"

She pauses. "Yes. Some remains from Maluku should be arriving on Saturday, and I was hoping to spend the day going over them."

Booth shakes his head dismissively. "Those bones have been six feet under forever, Bones." She opens her mouth to correct him (the bones has not been buried six feet under, and forever was an extremely inaccurate term), but he raised his voice to speak over her. "You're not working this weekend. You're coming with me and Parker on a little trip."

A thrill shoots through her, at the firmness in his voice. It's almost like the old times again, when he used to forcibly drag her away from work regardless of any bones sitting on her forensic platform. She wants to agree immediately, since it's been so long since she and the Booth boys went anywhere together, but giving in so easily is out-of-character. So to preserve the feel of the old times, she protests, "I can't. I have work. History is in the making here, Booth."

But he must see that mischievous spark in her eyes, because he mock-glares at her and says, "You know, Bones, you work way too much. Seriously. If you don't come with us, I swear, I will drag you along if I have to handcuff you to the car door."

"That's hardly safe," she tells him. "There could be a fire, or a car accident, or any number of emergencies—"

"Oh, jeez, Bones, don't talk about stuff like that." He skips ahead a couple of steps and knocks on the nearest tree quickly.

She pauses. "Why did you do that?"

He stares at her. "Don't tell me you've never heard of that? You knock on wood to keep bad things from happening."

She snorts in disbelief. "That's one of the most absurd practices I've ever heard of. How could knocking on wood keep bad things from happening? Although traditionally, wood has been associated with magical powers in many cultures, it's mostly a pagan practice. I didn't think you'd believe in that, Booth."

"Wow." He stops walking and looks back at her. "Did you just turn my little charm against bad luck into a pagan belief?"

She looks back at him, confused. "What? I didn't turn anything into a pagan practice. I was just stating the facts."

He laughs quietly and shakes his head. "Okay, I take back my knock on the tree, if it makes you happy."

"Why would that make me happy? I was just—"

"Stating the facts. I know." He chuckles. "But when I get into a car accident, you're going to wish I did my little pagan belief thing on the tree."

She rolls her eyes. "I doubt it." But she smiles all the same because it's so familiar, teasing Booth and having him tease her back. It feels so…right. In a completely nonscientific, improvable way. But she can't deny the feeling, even if she can't find proof or reason for it.

"This is good," Booth says after a while, looking up at the stars as they walk. "Us like this, I mean. It's so normal, don't you think?"

"I'm glad," she agrees quietly. "I want it to be like before again, Booth. Before you went to Afghanistan and before I went to Maluku." Before, they had been aware of their attraction to each other—Booth had even taken a gamble on it—but they had found a reasonable balance between the professional partnership they had and the friendship they'd created. She wants it to be like that again, safely behind the line Booth drew once but still friends. Even if…even if she wanted more once, she's too guarded now to take the figurative leap. Maybe she never was prepared to take that leap, and maybe she'll never be. So she wants to be the friends and partners they were once. That's all.

He seems to be thinking along the same lines. "Why can't it be? Our partnership is what we make it, Bones. So why can't it be like before? If we want it that way…all we have to do is change it ourselves."

Change it ourselves.

He's right. He's completely right. It's not entirely their fault that their relationship ended up so strange, but they can change it now. They can make it like before, shape it again so it's familiar and right. What's stopping them?

Slowly, she smiles. "You're right. We should just be us again." It sounds so simple. She hopes it will be.

He grins happily. "Yeah. So you do your bones thing, I'll do the FBI thing, and we can be friends again like before. Lunch tomorrow?"

She smiles, a coil of excitement and warmth spreading through her. Normal. Like nothing ever happened to make them different. "Of course. Twelve-thirty like usual?"

"Like usual," he promises, grinning. He smiles quietly to her, then to himself. After a moment, he says, "So you're coming this Saturday, right?"

"Coming where?" she asks, walking so closely to him that their shoulders barely touch.

Booth shrugs. "Picnic? The zoo?"

"There's a new physics exhibit opening in the Jeffersonian," Brennan suggests brightly. "It has an interesting section on centripetal force and Kepler's laws of gravity."

He gives her a pained look. "No science, Bones."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're around science every day, that's why," he answers. "Let's get you out of Squintdom for at least a day. You know, normal world, normal things…"

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. "All right. I'll go. We can go where you want."

He beams at her (her heart skips a beat, but she ignores it) and says, "Great. Great." Then, after a moment of hesitation, he slings his arm around her shoulders. She flinches in surprise, and he starts to draw away, but she leans back into him before he releases her completely. He's so warm. This is one of the things she's missed the most: their physical closeness without awkwardness. If she needs a shoulder to literally lean on, Booth will lend it to her. It was like that before Maluku and Afghanistan, and she hopes it will be like that now.

It seems like they've already taken a step in the right direction.

"I think something's wrong with Brennan."

Sweets looks up in surprise to find Angela at the door, her expression worried. He actually has a ton of paperwork to finish, not to mention a patient coming in two minutes, but one look at her expression tells him it'd be better to listen. He isn't prepared—mentally or physically—to deal with Angela on a regular basis, never mind Angela on pregnancy hormones. So with a sigh, he pushes back the papers he'd been reviewing and sits back in his chair.

"Come in. Sit down."

She shuts the door behind herself and takes the seat across from him heavily. "I think something's wrong with Bren."

Sweets nods his head like he understands and says, "Please elaborate."

Angela sighs. "Well, she's been acting kind of off for a while, and yesterday, I caught her in her office looking like her dog had died."

"She doesn't have a—"

Angela waves her hand dismissively. "Well, let's say she had a dog. She looked like she watched someone run over her dog, then back up and run over it again."

Sweets stares at her. "That bad? She looked that bad? Was she crying?"

"No." Angela shakes her head. "It's Brennan we're talking about. She just looked a little teary-eyed."

"Oh." Well that wasn't nearly as bad or shocking as Doctor Brennan outright crying. But still, curious. "So what happened?"

"Well, she denied it, obviously. And then when I pressed her a little, she pretty much snapped at me. At me."

"At you," Sweets repeats uncomprehendingly. "Okay. So something's the matter with her. What?"

Angela shakes her head. "I don't know. But I am a hundred percent sure that it has something to do with Booth."

"Oh." He stops, runs a hand through his hair, and nods. "Of course." Something clicks in his head, and he exhales slowly. "Oh, that makes so much more sense."

Angela seems to sense his realization. "What? What makes so much sense?"

"They had a session with me last week," he explains quickly. "Everything was going like normal when Agent Booth asked Doctor Brennan if she was still mad at him. I assumed they'd had an argument, and if Doctor Brennan is acting off, something big must have happened."

By the time he reaches the last word, Angela's eyes are wide. "That's it: I have complete proof. There is nothing Bren can say to me now to stop me from digging out the truth. Something happened with Booth, and I intend to find out what."

"It might have something to do with Booth breaking up with Hannah," Sweets supplies helpfully. He still hasn't figured that one completely out. He's gone over and over their reactions and words in his head and can't figure out Booth's motives, or Brennan's feelings about it.

Freezing, Angela gapes at him, and he stares back, eyes wide. "What? You didn't know?"

"No." She shakes her head slowly, disbelievingly. "When?"

Sweets shrugs. "Sometime last week. Booth told Brennan in our session, and it didn't sound like Hannah had been gone very long. I got the feeling he expected Doctor Brennan to make a bigger deal about it, but she was very blasé about it all."

"Of course she was blasé!" Angela exclaims. "That's how she handles things!" She shakes her head agitatedly and harrumphs. "That's probably what happened between them. Booth told her and she reacted the wrong way. Oh, what an awful mess. I have to talk to her."

She stands quickly and then just as suddenly staggers back, her arm thrown out to catch the back of the couch. Alarmed, Sweets leaps out of his seat and grabs her other arm, helping her sit back down even as she tries to wave him off.

"Are you okay?" he asks anxiously. "Do I need to call a doctor?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "It's just the baby kicking," she answers after a moment. "Nothing big."

"Okay." He releases her and raises his arms to ward off any more killer glares. "No need to get all testy."

Angela rolls her eyes. "It's just that you're acting just like Jack. If I so much as breathe funny, he wants me to get into the helicopter and fly to the hospital. If I so much as breathe funny."

"Wow," Sweets says, because he isn't sure what else to say. He can hardly handle his own car, let alone a private helicopter on hand twenty-four seven. Jeez, life of the rich.

At that moment, his scheduled patient bursts into the room, eyes wild. "Doctor Sweets, I think the aliens are chewing through my—" He freezes mid-step at the sight of Angela on the couch and stammers, "Am I interrupting something?"

Sweets shakes his head hurriedly. "No, Amos, it's perfectly fine—"

"Oh my god, you're pregnant," Amos breathes, his eyes wide. "Did the aliens abduct you too?"

Angela stares blankly at him, and wide-eyed, Sweets mouths to her, "Play along," praying that the little encounter with Angela won't destroy the six months' work he's put into Amos.

Thankfully, she sighs dramatically and says, "Yes, actually. Last year."

Which has Sweets sighing in relief and gesturing for Amos to come closer. Which is the exact moment the door opens again to admit a hassled-looking Booth, followed by Doctor Brennan with her head buried in a file.

"Sweets!" Booth says, clapping his hands together. "Good, you're here. Come on, let's go."

He gapes at them for a moment before asking in confusion, "Did I forget we had a meeting?"

Booth shakes his head. "No, but we need you on the case. Come on."

Sweets stares at him, alternately outraged and flattered. Outraged that Booth seems to think he has no life beyond helping the two of them with their killers, flattered that Booth wants his help at all. And in between that, exasperated that they think they can just barge in here at any hour and yank him away from the rest of his professional life outside of them and their partner problems.

"I have a patient," he hisses, glaring at them.

As expected Booth glances at Amos dismissively and says, "Whatever it is, I'm sure his problem can wait. We have a guy down in holding right now that really can't wait."

"What can possibly be more important than—"

"Aha!"

Doctor Brennan's exclamation startles them all. She lowers the file with an excited gleam to her eye and explains, "All this time, we assumed that the blow entered from the torso and exited the back. However, if the killer struck the victim from behind, that would change the trajectory of the blow, making the killer approximately five foot four thrusting upward rather than six foot one thrusting downward."

Booth beams. "Genius, Bones. Okay, so that's perfect, 'cause the guy we got down in holding, I'm willing to bet he's not an inch over five four."

Sweets stares at them, trying to find that awkwardness in their relationship that has been there for months now. But he can't find it. If Doctor Brennan was ever flustered or a little off like Angela said, Sweets can't find a hint of it now. And he could have sworn something was wrong with them last week. He couldn't have just been imagining it, could he? Angela has seen something too, which means it—whatever it is—must be real.

But if it is, where is it? Scrutinizing them closely, Sweets is startled to find that he's looking at the partners who left Washington over a year back. There's no doubt about it—something has shifted between them again. Something that has made them them again.

Sweets shoots a confused look at Angela, and by the puzzled look in the artist's eyes, she can't see anything either. Booth and Brennan are acting…normal. More normal than they've been in months. No more awkward glances and averting of eyes, no more shifting feet. There's Booth, clearly interested and at ease with his partner, and Brennan, relaxed and smiling. Booth even reaches over to take one end of the open file, and their fingers brush. Neither flinches. Last week, when Booth had so much as looked near his partner, they both had moved away nervously. What has changed?

"Hey, sweetie," Angela puts in, turning from her seat on the couch.

Brennan looks at her in surprise, lowering the file in her hands. "Angela! What are you doing here?"

Sweets exchanges glances with the artist and, in a moment of mutual agreement, decides silently not to say a thing.

"Hodgins wants to paint the baby room green," Angela lies smoothly, "and I wanted to get Sweets' opinion on it. I mean, does that mean he's expecting a boy? Is it some psychological thing?"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Sweets answers quickly. "I'm sure it's a phase. He'll be painting the room purple next."

Brennan smiles and says, "I'll come over some time and help you with the painting."

"Yeah," Booth chimes in over her shoulder, "call me too. I still have some paint left over from Parker's last science experiment."

Brennan frowns and gives him a look. "Fresh paint is ideal, Booth. I'm sure Angela and Hodgins don't want their baby room colored with secondhand paint."

"It's not secondhand paint!" he protests. "It's just paint I haven't used yet."

"It's probably dry and faded."

"It's sealed in a can with a lid I hammered shut myself. Hammered shut. As in, sealed in so tight you'd have to get a crowbar to pry it open."

"Well, unless you created a vacuum inside the can—which is well-beyond your technological capabilities—chemical and natural processes will occur. The paint you have left will likely not be as fresh as you remember it."

Sweets shoots Angela a look, and she returns it. Their eyes reflect a shared, What the hell? It's like the two partners have changed overnight. Any and all tension between them has magically gone poof, and they seem as close as ever.

It makes him wonder: was there ever really a problem in the first place?

Thoughts welcome, as always.