This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic. Bear with me, I promise I know where I'm going!

Disclaimer: They're not mine. Clearly I can't control them.

It's eerily quiet as he walks through the lab, but he's used to it these days. He's given up trying to make her leave earlier. After all, he's nearly as bad.

Her door is shut and he's taken aback. She rarely shuts it when she's alone. He thinks maybe she's gone to sleep in there and eases it open quietly, hoping not to disturb her. When he sees she isn't there, he frowns.

Not in the lab? It's only… He checks his watch. 2045.

He wonders if she told him she had plans and he conveniently ignored it. Sometimes he does that. Sometimes he just doesn't want to know.

"Bones!" he calls, wondering if she's simply elsewhere for a moment.

His voice echoes in the empty surroundings and he knows instinctively that he is alone, feeling slightly stupid for shouting. He checks his phone, even though he knows he would have heard it.

He wants to call her, but no excuse presents itself. Instead, his thumb moves rapidly as he sends a message.

Stopped by lab, where are you? Hungry? Will stop at diner on way home, text if joining me.

He hits send and stares at the screen as the animated envelope floats into oblivion. It's been four days since he last saw her and it seems like a longer time than it did three years ago. Two days ago she had responded to an enquiring text in her typically brief fashion. Busy. Glad you had good weekend. Will call later in week. He no longer finds her brevity dismissive.

In the car, he puts the phone on the seat next to him, wondering if she'll accept his invitation. He misses her. These days, he doesn't hide his attachment to her, although he often wants to forget its extent. The knowing look in Angela's eyes is all it takes to force denial to the surface. He doesn't want it ruined before it starts by a well-meaning but premature word.

By the time he reaches the diner, the screen remains unlit. He won't see her tonight. With a sigh, he locks the car and heads inside, wondering whether coffee and pie will be anywhere near an adequate substitute.

"Has Dr Brennan been in?" he asks, as Ramona pours his coffee. She is new, new enough to be learning the menu still, but already she knows them.

She frowns. "She came in yesterday morning, around eleven. Picked up a cheesecake."

He stares at her. "Cheesecake?"

"Yep, baked lemon. Must have been an advance order too, they aren't on the menu." She offers a mug.

Steam coils up from the surface as warmth tingles through his fingers. "She was on her own?"

Ramona looks at him, seeming confused. "Think so. She just came in and went again."

"Okay." He stares at the mug like he is surprised by the contents.

"I'll bring your pie over when it's hot," she says, her voice softening so much that he knows she thinks something is niggling him.

His eyes jerk up. "Yes… Thank you."

Idly stirring a spoon through his coffee, he wonders where she is. He tells himself that it's ridiculous to read anything into a cheesecake purchase, but he can't help it. In nearly four years, he isn't sure if he's seen her eat cheesecake, much less pre-order one.

It's dessert, moron. Stop brooding about dessert.

The supplementary voice in his head is getting ruthless these days, as it tries to quash unwanted jealous instincts. It needs to be ruthless to override his deep-seated impulses. He has never been a man to suppress anything and he would rather not consider why he has become one.

"Here you go." Ramona's cheerful voice breaks through the fog he has created. "Careful, it's really hot."

He thanks her and picks up his spoon. It remains poised as he watches the ice cream melt, sliding in slow caress over the pastry.

She's seeing someone. She must be. And that's why she's not answering. That's why she needs the cheesecake.

The spoon cracks the top crust viciously. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, his ruthless supplementary voice points out that cheesecake does not equal boyfriend does not equal not answering, but his primary conscience is quick to gag its compatriot.

The first mouthful of pie is too hot and his tongue stings. The slight sourness retained in the apple comforts him, not allowing the sugar to overpower with its unrelenting sweetness. He swallows and feels the burning slide down his throat.

I bet – stabs with the spoon – she thinks I'll go all – the pastry splits under his teeth – weird and shit on her. I bet she – an audible swallow of an ambitious mouthful – thinks I won't be supportive.

Supplementary voice reminds him that supportiveness is never the first thing on his mind when other men in her life are concerned. Primary voice tells supplementary to swivel.

The buzz of his phone breaks into his vicious pie-consumption.

Out with friend. Will phone tomorrow. Have a good night.

Now, her concision irritates him. Would it kill her to be a little more animated sometimes?

And friend? He spends enough time with her to know her friends. He spends enough time with her to know that she has far more acquaintances than real friends – and he doesn't let himself think about former partners. He spends enough time with her to know that if she isn't with him, she's most likely with Angela, who she would always reference by name. 'Friend' means man.

Supplementary voice reminds him that friend doesn't have to mean man and that man doesn't have to mean boyfriend. It goes on to add that her men never last long anyway. Primary voice gags supplementary without thought.

"Pie okay, honey?" Ramona slides his plate from before him.

He smiles at her, aware that it is automatic and not genuine. "Wonderful, thanks."

"More coffee?"

He hesitates. "Um… No thanks, I'll be on my way."

She smiles at him on her way to the kitchen, and he thinks he sees her understanding behind the everyday kindness.

He leaves money on the table and leaves, waving brightly at Ramona as he pushes through the door; outside, he makes no more effort and his face falls. He doesn't want to be this man, the man who expresses his hurt in snipes and failed humour. He wants to be the man who is happy when she is, simply because he knows that she has what is best for her at that moment. He wants to be the man who encourages her to live, despite knowing that he might not occupy the place in her life he desires.

It's what his mother would describe as a crisp night, which to everyone else would mean freezing. Ice is beginning to form on the sidewalks, even this early, and he suspects the roads will be treacherous tomorrow. Maybe he can offer to pick her up on his way in.

The buzz of his phone has him fumbling through his pockets.

Parker says goodnight. Still okay to pick him up after school?

Even the unexpected night with his son, arranged just yesterday, only dulls his self-created bitterness.

Still fine, will meet him at the gates. Say goodnight from me.

The car is cold and he turns the heater dial violently, well aware that he is taking his frustration out on equipment. His other option is one he refuses to contemplate. He knows he can't just turn up at her apartment, invading her life with no excuse.

Supplementary voice reminds him that he's her partner, not her possessor. Primary voice buries supplementary without ceremony.

Please forgive the odd Anglicisation if I've missed any - I only caught that I'd written pavements instead of sidewalks on my second read-through! Ah, the perils of Britishness...

My merry band of reviewers keep me going! I'd like to know if this is worth me continuing, quite happy to leave it as a one-shot if people think it works best that way.