A/N: This probably would've ended up one of those fics that I finish and then get all shy about, worrying that no one would like it and never posting, if not for the lovely words of encouragement I've received from a few people on here in particular. I hope you all know who you are and you know that the nice things you've said probably mean more than you realise.

To pre-empt any confusion that may arise: the numbers at the start of each section represent the number of years since Booth and Brennan's first case, and subsequently the time frame for each section will be roughly near the beginning of the season with that number (with the exception of nine, owing to a recent plot development.) The stuff in brackets after the number is the traditional gift given for an anniversary of that many years.

An Arbitrarily Chosen Date On Which We Mark The Passing of Time.

From the Latin anniversarius, comes anniversary – the once yearly celebration of a previous event or occurrence.

The literal translation of its Latin parent means returning yearly. And that, in a sense is what they do; each year they return.

To something.

To somewhere.

And to each other.

Two. (Cotton)

(Sometimes paper, it depends who you're arguing with.)

"Okay, so ah, good night last night sweetie?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do."

"Honestly Ange, I don't."

"The flowers?"

"What flowers?"

"On your desk."

"There are flowers on my desk?"

"Uh, yes. Nice ones."

"Oh. Well, I'll look later."

"Later?"

"I want to finish my examination of the pitting that appears on the inside of the victim's skull before Booth gets back with the warrant. Zack's working on the parameters for the Angelator now, so we should be ready to run the scene later this afternoon."

"Sweetie. There are flowers. On your desk."

"You already mentioned that."

"You really don't want to know what they're for?"

"Traditionally flowers are given as a mark of admiration or congratulations; I'm highly regarded in a number of fields, and it would make sense that-"

"I don't think they're those kind of flowers."

"How can you tell?"

"Oh please, I have a gift for these things."

"It's not logically possible for you to be able to discern the origin of the flowers without further information. Information that I know you don't have, seeing as you're here pressing me for details."

"Come on, I know they're from a guy. It's a gift Bren, like you have a gift with bones. Except my talents are more specifically directed to the area of romantic overtures."

"My skills as an anthropologist were developed through years of study and extensive training."

"Yeah, I know sweetie. But, my original point?"

"And that was?"

"Did you, or did you not have a hot date last night?"

"Actually, I called Ethan and cancelled."

"Ethan, as in, tall, dark, handsome Ethan?"

"I believe that is a fitting description, yes. He also has a pleasing jaw line."

"Why did you cancel?"

"I wanted to confirm the identity of the victim."

"And I ask again; why did you cancel?"

"Dr Brennan, I think I may have found something on the-"

"Zack. Please. Me and Bren are having a discussion."

"No we're not."

"Yes we are. So Zack, please, run along. I'll come and get you when I'm ready to run the scenario, kay?"

"Bones! C'mon, I got the warrant!"

Safe to say, it all pretty much goes to hell from here.

Three and a half hours prior to this conversation, Special Agent Seeley Booth returns to his chair. People are clapping and smiling at him, and yeah, to be quite honest, he's feeling shit hot right about now.

Two years.

Two years.

These people, the ones that are clapping, a couple patting him on the arm as he walks by, he really likes them. These are the people that supported him, the ones that told him that he could do it and didn't judge him when he thought that maybe he couldn't.

They understand.

And these people, they think he's done something great. Words from someone else's mouth dance around in his head as he thinks about how he has been told he is someone to admire.

And right there, he thinks for the first time in a long time, that just maybe he is.

It's not to say in two years he hasn't thought about it. Hasn't thought about risk and the familiar thrill of coming out on top.

Because he was always a winner.

Even now, he is a winner. He has won at something.

(Funny that.)

What it comes down to, the part that matters above all else, is that one of the guys here said today that Seeley Booth was someone that they should look to and learn from. They may be a bunch of reformed gamblers in a dark hall with ratty curtains but it doesn't matter, that stuff's all details and this is the first time he's really been able to celebrate this remarkable achievement.

It's such a huge achievement. To him, to other people, in the scheme of the world.

And this is the very first time.

Somewhere in the ether of his mind, all the channels and pathways gummed up with giddy and pleased and whatever else, he remembers that only 8% of people that enter the Gamblers Anonymous program will actually make it through one year without returning to their habit.

There was of course a time when this information would've made him feel a bit... daunted. But now he's made it two and just for a moment he feels like the freaking king of the world.

Cause eight percent two times over isn't a lot.

("I don't understand why you were reluctant to discuss where you'd been with Angela before."

"Look, Bones, something are just... y'know, private, okay?"

"That's not what you say to me. You always make me tell you things."

"It's not the same."

"Yes it is!"

"It's not, and please, you should just leave it."

"So, I have to share everything with you in order to be your partner but the same doesn't apply for you? Or do you just not value our partnership as highly?"

"What? No, Bones, it's nothing like that."

"It seems like it."

"Don't you trust me when I tell you that it's really nothing that concerns you?"

But then he actually hears the way that sounds.

And he thinks about what it is exactly she's saying.

She's been listening.

"Look, there are some things you just don't talk about in casual work conversation, okay? ... I was at a GA meeting."

"Oh."

The air rushes out of her mouth on the short statement.

"Yeah."

And when she responds, finally breaking an almost-awkward silence it's with a small voice and an uncharacteristically careful tone. "How long?"

"Nearly two years."

Her mouth opens. And closes. Then opens again, "Only 8% of gamblers will even complete the first year of the Gamblers Anonymous program."

It's a statistic, it's clinical and detached but he thinks it might be her way of saying that he's beat some pretty staggering odds. That he's done something exceptional and she's actually kind of proud.

Or maybe it's just some semi-related factoid spouted by her genius brain amidst an awkward conversation.

He likes to pretend, most of the time, he doesn't hope for the former.)

But then people are asking for his attention, flitting a few more token comments in his direction before they all head for the door in a uniform fashion. An old friend pats him on the shoulder one last time before leaving also, his parting shot: "Good to see you man. Miss you in these things some days, y'know?"

Because these days, he doesn't come to the meetings quite as much.

In these last two years he's really done something with his life. Nowadays he's important, he's Special Agent Seeley Booth and his office has walls. With frames on them.

(And in those frames are pictures and certificates and medals and they're all these little things that say this person is a good guy. This guy has achieved things.)

He's Special Agent Seeley Booth who has to be at a crime scene or chasing down a bad guy or sometimes just making sure his partner eats breakfast.

So sometimes he doesn't come.

What's more important to him is that he doesn't need to.

Because he doesn't gamble any more.

He doesn't need to gamble anymore.

And now it's been two years.

(Sometimes all it takes is looking at those frames. The evidence that he's a somebody. That he's made an impact on the world.)

(Sometimes all it takes is looking at her.

But whoah. Whoah he's not going there.

Two years since that too.)

Yeah, two years since that too.

And this is where our story begins.

(Kind of.)

He is in a florist. A little boutiquey one he drives past on the way to the office (with the walls), a little plaque thing in the car he's think about putting in another frame.

(But he might not. How appropriate is it to broadcast your former gambling addiction? He's still not sure.)

Two years.

That deserves flowers, right?

Two years of being partners.

Well.

Two years since their first case.

The same thing, surely.

He's not sure how she'll react, after all – she doesn't seem one to be taken with such a gesture, but he's a nice guy and he's having a really good day. And besides, sometimes she surprises him.

(Actually, always she surprises him.)

And so, before the time of daffodil, daisy, Jupiter he buys her flowers.

"What's the occasion?" The question seems almost automatic.

"An anniversary."

"Sending them to your girlfriend?" The older woman behind the counter then throws him a fond smile.

"Ah, em, no. Not my girlfriend."

Yeah she sees it, the way it takes him a moment. The way, when his face finally sets, it's carefully devoid of that initial flicker of something, whatever it might have been.

"So you're sending flowers to someone, who's not your girlfriend, for an anniversary?"

"Yes."

She gives him a sidey-ways look, "What kind of anniversary?"

"We've been working together a while."

"And you're sending flowers."

"That's why I'm here."

"Oh. Okay. So a colleague, nothing lovey then?" She has this amused kind of smile and he begins to wonder if his request is by some means, rather odd.

It doesn't seem an odd thing to do.

(Does it?)

"Yeah, nothing lovey." And adds, "But nice. Something... nice, I suppose."

She thinks, quite seriously for a moment, until finally, "I think I understand."

And she does; she's good at this, run this little shop for years and years and her homey boutique wouldn't still be here in between the Starbucks and the Subway if she weren't.

As she begins to move off through the shop, he awkwardly finds his words, stopping her momentarily. "I ah... Do you have yellow ones? Flowers. Yellow flowers."

The florist looks down the bridge of her nose, over the top of her glasses at him. "Yellow?"

"Y'know, like daffodils? That kinda thing."

She nods slowly. "Over here."

Booth follows her through the space, around a pillar where they come to a stop in front of a quite obviously overfilled stand. Springtime right there in her little shop.

"Yeah. Like those. They're... nice."

When he sees them, he remembers.

It's almost a forceful thing, as the breath pushes out of his lungs, the sound almost audible. It's the color and the smell he couldn't even smell then, but he realises he always kind of imagined.

It's knowing all the things he knows now.

One hand in his pocket, he fiddles with his poker chip.

(Right here, all of this may not directly make sense.

And it's not meant to – not yet – except it might anyway, because this is what he does.

These are the things that make him Seeley Booth.

But still, it'll all come together. In time.)

The florist is unaware of his reaction as she fusses with the stand, picking out flowers enough for an arrangement.

An arrangement that Angela will find.

With a card that he will write himself.

Full of yellow flowers, like daffodils and daisies.

"Your card is wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Factually incorrect."

"Huh?"

"Your card. That says we've been partners for two years. We've not."

"Yes we have. I might not be great at math, but I'm confident in my ability to count to two Bones."

"We've been partners for a year."

"Our first case was the Arrington case, which was two years ago."

"But we didn't agree to be partners until a year later."

"But you'll admit that we first worked together two years ago?"

"Not as partners."

"I beg to differ."

"Well, you're wrong."

"We were partners! We did what we do now, the way we do it now."

"I don't believe that the circumstances for a partnership are limited to those alone."

"Then what else is there?"

"We made no formal agreement to enter into a partnership."

"Yet, when I use our partnership now as the yardstick of comparison, I'm coming back with a fairly some fairly convincing results."

"You can't look at it like that Booth. The two sets of data aren't independent, your comparisons aren't valid."

"Oh, this is not something you can talk squinty about."

"Booth, I'm a scientist. This is the way I look at things."

"And here I was, thinking I was being a nice guy sending you flowers. You know, most girls would be impressed I even remembered."

"... You fired me!"

"Caroline made me fire you. And I hired you back."

"Well I don't think that makes for the beginnings of a successful partnership."

"And yet, somehow, it did. Look at us now, working together, two years later."

"Having been partners for a year!"

"Why do you even care so much?"

"Because your facts are incorrect. As a scientist, I am uncomfortable when you work with faulty assumptions."

"And that's all it is then, just... science?"

"... Yes. I am concerned about your science"

"Cause you're a scientist?"

"Yes."

"And you just want to be comfortable with my assumptions regarding our partnership."

"Yes."

For just a moment, neither of them is entirely sure what it is they're talking about.

And only two (/one!) years into their partnership, they're not as expert at dealing with these moments as they're going to become. Not yet.

The flowers stay on her desk, and they don't talk about it for another year.

(Just to be clear:

She wasn't lying, Angela does have a gift.

After all, the flowers that Brennan will finally find on her desk when she gets back from the crime scene with Booth are from a guy.

No matter how hard he tried to make them yellow and not lovey the inevitable prick of Angela's spidey-senses wasn't entirely off the mark.

As for romantic overture, perhaps it's a bit early for that.

Perhaps.)

Three. (Leather)

(Reliable. Organic. Well worn and unfailing.)

"I'm not coming."

"But I need you there."

"No you don't. The FBI forensics team have managed just fine at the last three scenes."

"Yeah, you say that now. Wait til it's they compromised my remains or they failed to take adequate soil samples or I don't understand why it's so hard for these people to follow simple instructions."

"Yes, well, clearly my expectations for the standard of work of an FBI forensics team were far too high. I have adjusted them accordingly."

"Why do I feel like I'm being insulted when you say that?"

"My comments were with regard to the forensics team Booth, you shouldn't be so sensitive."

"You haven't attended a crime scene in weeks, Bones."

"You know my workload has increased since Zack left for Iraq. And I don't see how that has anything to do with what we're talking about."

"..."

"Booth?"

"Don't worry about it."

"You sighed."

"I said don't worry about it."

"If you're sure."

"Yup."

"Oh, and your card's wrong again."

"Excuse me?"

"With the flowers? The card, it's wrong. You said it was three years when we agreed last year that it's two."

"We agreed last year it was two. Meaning this year it's three."

"That's not what I meant."

"And it's not what you meant when you said we agreed either. I remember a distinct lack of agreement."

"Only because you were wrong."

"I don't see how celebrating our partnership from our very first case together can be considered wrong."

"Because we weren't in a partnership!"

"...We're barely in a partnership now!"

"..."

"I... I probably shouldn't have said that."

"No, no... it's fine. If that's how you feel."

"It's not Bones, look, that's n-"

"Are you making a point of celebrating it then because I didn't sleep with you that time?"

And for about ten seconds, the world stops moving.

Or something like that.

(Something scientifically possible.)

He wants to be happy. Logically, he understands this is a situation in which he is expected to experience feelings that are to be identified as joy.

(He remembers this time last year, he was elated.)

But he is not happy.

It's driving him nuts that logically speaking, he's got this entitlement – he feels like he's owed something and yet he's seeing none of it, and this all kind of sucks seeing because it seems as though everything has been a bit shitty lately.

(A set of circumstances including, but not limited to: Rebecca, a hockey-related back injury, his brother possibly up to no good, Bones.)

Then it just drives him nuts that he's thinking logically speaking.

Because today is three years. Eight more percent.

Instead he is sitting at his desk.

Quite delightfully, Assistant Director Mendez chose today to inform him that unless he got Temperance Brennan back out into the field, it would be his personal responsibility to tell her to shut her mouth and stop complaining about the standard of work from a now disgruntled band of FBI techs.

Which, to be frank about the matter, was a piece of information not relayed to him in a manner by any means delicate.

(Yes indeed, the word fuck may have been involved in several derivations.)

It's been four weeks, not that he's counting. Zack has been in Iraq for four weeks and Bones hasn't been in the field for as long.

And despite this, her opinion is apparently still heard loud and clear by the Assistant Director of the FBI. Which really, is just great.

He grabs his phone and dials. It rings out.

Also great.

He's trying to work out how to fix this – not just the really pissed off boss thing, but the whole nine yards; the part where he's a little bit mad all the time and they never see each other and everything is just... awkward.

He needs to fix it for the frightened FBI techs, for the squints who get to play middlemen and for the poor woman that brings him coffee in the morning who he's snapped at the last four days.

Yeah, it's definitely a selfless thing.

So for the sake of all these other people, it's been playing around in his mind the last few weeks, back and forth on what he should do. He thinks he has an idea.

(Of course he has an idea, he's Seeley Booth and he is the kind of man with a plan.)

He's not sure how much he likes it.

She remembers him.

Of course she remembers him, because you don't get to be that quirky little flower shop stuck in between the Starbucks and the Subway, right around the corner from the big department store without remembering things like the man with the nice smile and the no she's just my friend flowers.

She quite likes him.

He comes in, and she's pretty sure it's about a year since last time and she smiles.

He doesn't miss her knowing look when she gives him a nod and asks, "Still with the yellow?"

So let's try this again:

She would categorically identify the reaction Booth experiences when he hears her voice over the phone (finally) as the physiological and hormonal representations of... well, something along the lines of happiness. But this fact is not helping his already pissy mood.

Then again, neither is the part where she says, "I'm not coming."

Because they have a case. Another case, after the other two they have attempted to close with her very limited participation and yet again, she is not interested in leaving the lab.

"But I need you there."

Cause that didn't sound desperate at all.

"No you don't. The FBI forensics team have managed just fine at the last three scenes."

There is a pause while he compares her take to Mendez's. Needless to say, there are some inconsistencies.

Oh joy.

Still, he keeps it light, "Yeah, you say that now. Wait til it's they compromised my remains or they failed to take adequate soil samples or I don't understand why it's so hard for these people to follow simple instructions."

(He can imagine, if he removes the swearing and improves the overall level of intellect displayed in the statement, that this would be an accurate representation of the various issues his boss feels she is concerned about.)

"Yes, well, clearly my expectations for the standard of work of an FBI forensics team were far too high. I have adjusted them accordingly."

Her cool tone and offhand manner rankle around the edges of his already slightly annoyed state.

"Why do I feel like I'm being insulted when you say that?"

"My comments were with regard to the forensics team Booth, you shouldn't be so sensitive."

Yet there is a part of her analytical mind that knew he would take it personally.

She's not sure why she said it like that.

"You haven't attended a crime scene in weeks, Bones."

He's not sure why he said it like that.

That edge, the first time in a long time he's shown an emotion other than well, I'm kind of pissed off right now in one of their exchanges.

He almost sounds just a little bit hurt.

"You know my workload has increased since Zack left for Iraq. And I don't see how that has anything to do with what we're talking about."

He knows this.

He sees the cause and effect. Zack leaves, Bones stops coming out into the field.

He recognises that her argument, to an extent, is a valid one. It's natural that her workload would increase without an assistant. This just feels more personal than that.

It's a gut thing.

So he's trying to work out what it is.

He's trying to work out why he's the one being punish-

Oh.

Well.

Because, it's been three years since they started working together and he's beginning to understand the way Temperance Brennan works.

Zack left.

He left.

A few things begin slotting into place.

What this means. How he might be involved.

Kind of.

"Booth?"

He can't explain it on the phone.

Right now, he can hardly explain it to himself.

"Don't worry about it."

"You sighed."

"I said don't worry about it."

"If you're sure."

(He's not sure about anything right now.)

"Yup."

And then, like it is of little importance, "Oh, and your card's wrong again."

It's not just what she's saying, but the way she's saying it that gets at him. Like it's some passing remark.

It's the first time the whole conversation he really reacts.

"Excuse me?"

But if she hears his annoyance, she doesn't show it. "With the flowers? The card, it's wrong. You said it was three years when we agreed last year that it's two."

He wonders, just for a split second, if the frightening gradient of Temperance Brennan's learning curve has gone so far as to conquer how exactly to be devious, right along with conversational entrapment.

And then he decides that she's just really stubborn.

"We agreed last year it was two. Meaning this year it's three."

"That's not what I meant."

"And it's not what you meant when you said we agreed either. I remember a distinct lack of agreement."

"Only because you were wrong."

"I don't see how celebrating our partnership from our very first case together can be considered wrong."

"Because we weren't in a partnership!"

He can't help it. He really, really can't

It's been building and building and today has just not been a good day and this week has just not been a good week.

It's automatic.

It slips out.

"We're barely in a partnership now!"

And then nothing.

"I... I probably shouldn't have said that."

The fight has dampened somewhat in her voice. "No, no... it's fine. If that's how you feel."

It's not.

Of course it's not.

Except it's kind of true.

"It's not Bones, look, that's n-"

But she interrupts him.

She's the same, you see.

Maybe she doesn't express it quite the same way, but she's dealing with frustrations of her own.

(Zack left. He left.

And Booth didn't stop him.

She thought... maybe... that he could.

He fixes these things.

There might also be an awkward... wedding/altar issue.

But she's already decided not to think about that.)

And now she's spent a whole phone conversation fighting with Booth.

And.

And.

Angela told her once that the more she feels, the more disconnected from reality she tends become. The more rational.

More blunt.

It's just been building in her.

(And she's always kind of wondered.)

(Not about this in particular but about the... whole idea.)

So she interrupts him, "Are you making a point of celebrating it then because I didn't sleep with you that time?"

And for about ten seconds, the world stops moving.

Or something like that.

(Something scientifically possible.)

Because they don't talk about this.

Especially not now. Before, maybe, would've been okay; except back then they didn't ever mention it because it was awkward or tentative or complicated and now they're... well they're at that place where you don't talk about these things.

They're at that place where there is a line. A line that really, is only drawn because they (kind of, maybe, sometimes) think about crossing it.

But they don't talk about that either.

"What! No, Bones, no." He coughs out eventually, "That's definitely not the reason why."

"Oh. So then there is a reason?"

"Well... yeah, I suppose."

"Then why?"

"Oh! So you want my reason?"

"I believe that's what I was asking. Maybe if you explain it to me, I'll appreciate your logic and we can come to an agreement regarding the terms of our partnership."

"Because..." He's sure he's been here before, backed into this corner, "Because... I suppose, it's the same day I decided to stop gambling. They kind of, y'know, go together."

"... So when you said, that night, about...?"

"When I told you I had a problem. Yeah, that's when I decided to do something about it."

"That's very... commendable of you."

(And this is why she knows, when they talk about it with Sweets, that he had a gambling problem before he met me.

This is why she's able to say it, in that kind of proud way, as though there is some underlying cause and effect.

Because there is.

Logically speaking.)

"Ah, thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome." And after a pause, "Thank you for the flowers."

And when they clumsily end their phone conversation, he understands that nothing's fixed and nothing's been made better.

But for the first time in a long time, he feels like it's going to be.

The next time he calls with a case, (a skull in a windshield), she agrees to come.

Zack or no Zack, she comes with him. It feels like too long.

But it's not just her you see, it's him – he's beginning to learn how this give-a-little, take-a-little really works with them.

For once, he gave a little of himself. And it worked.

And yeah; maybe the whole case will have to be give-a-little, take-a-little (one part awkward, two parts bicker-y and one part what-the-fuck-the-building's-gonna-explode-and-I-just-jumped-on-top-of-you) – because things got a bit messed up there for a while and they've really got to work that out, cause they're the centre.

They'll sit on their bench by the coffee cart and they'll agree: the centre must hold.

And it will.

They will.

They always will.

Eventually.

Four. (Linen, Silk, Fruit or Flower)

(This year you get variety.)

"You know, if you wanted what I ordered, you could've just asked for it yourself."

"I'm quite happy sharing yours."

"I can see that. I'm just not sure if I'm as pleased with the arrangement as you are."

"You know Booth, anthropologically, the sharing of one's-"

"Bones, it has nothing to do with anthropology and everything to do with the fact that you end up eating more of them than me."

"I do not."

"Do too."

"And even if I did, which I don't agree with – you'd be more than welcome to share mine also. You might benefit from including less... refined foods in your diet."

"Yeah, like I want to eat half of your rabbit food. But tonight's your dinner. I'll attempt to survive on smaller portions for your sake."

"It's our dinner, Booth."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"What's the occasion?"

"You know what it is."

"So remind me."

"But you already know."

"Not exactly. I might have an idea... but you're a mysterious woman Bones. How can I tell if I'm right?"

"What's your idea then?"

"No, c'mon, you're meant to tell me."

"Why?"

"Please?"

"I'll feel stupid."

"You could never be stupid Bones. Not ever."

"Not even if-"

"Never, Bones. Not to me."

"..."

"Well...?"

She takes a breath, a little smile playing around the edges of her lips that goes straight for his heart. "It's because tonight... Today, it's been four years, since..."

But she doesn't need to finish – a smile is already wide across his face, brighter than she's seen it in a long time and she's matching him, smile for smile, her statement drifting off as they share in their moment.

"Yeah. Yeah it has."

"Happy anniversary. Anniversaries."

"Yeah Bones, happy anniversary."

(See here? This is where they're good at dealing with these moments.

Two years later they're experts and knowing what to do when they're staring at each other, smiling smiles that take up half their face and just feeling so warm inside.

They just keep doing it for as long as they can get away with.)

(Oh, and just in case you're wondering, he sent flowers.

Yellow ones.)

Five. (Wood.)

(Would.)

Year Five is the only year she doesn't get flowers.

Well, not really.

(In her book there are flowers.

In her book, Booth and Bren have been married for five years and in somewhere in between the constant demands made by late nights, in between the noisy music and rowdy patrons and stolen moments pressed up against the cloakroom wall, Booth gives Bren flowers.

They're beautiful like you. And radiant. And bright and wonderful.

There are words and sentiments that she normally wouldn't dream of voicing, pouring out onto her page.

Because in her book she gets her daffodils.

In her book, Bren takes them, marvelling, warmth bubbling in her stomach with a rainbow of adjectives and synonyms that all seem to mean love... and she kisses him.

And then they make a baby.)

Instead she sits by his bedside, tapping at keys in a way that seems to help numb the achy feeling in her heart.

(It's not her heart. Her heart is a muscle and it doesn't hurt and it doesn't break.

She knows this, yet she can still feel an unfamiliar crushing inside her chest.)

Instead she gets the gentle hum of the respirator and the reassuring (but oh-so fragile) beating of his heart under her palm.

Instead she gets to quietly squeeze his hand, waiting for him to come back to her.

When he wakes up, when he realises what he missed, he tries to make things right.

(The lady in the florist looks at him a bit funny when he's late and he's so... insistent this time around.

He finds it easier not to try and explain.)

When she sees the flowers there on her desk, when she reads the card with his short apology and his careful words, the empty air catches in the back of her throat and she thinks about the book that exists now only in what they both remember of it.

She thinks about all of the feelings that have been bearing down on her lately, carefully undefined in her head as one emotion or another, threatening to crush her with their weight.

She thinks about Booth and Bren and Booth and Brennan.

And she decides that it might be time to get out of country for a little while.

One. (Paper or Cotton)

(Because we're back here again.)

It is important to understand that unlike numbers Two, Three, Four, and Five, number One does not represent an anniversary.

But it does represent a milestone.

(A big marker.

A rock, like a symbol of strength.

Something you can build a house on.)

And you see, no one (other than those directly involved) really knew that much about the events of number One until the era in which numbers like Five and Six fall.

So it fits here. With the Fives and the Sixes.

Because this is not a beginning.

It is a milestone.

("Look Booth, I know you've got more to deal with now, but we need this, we need her. You were the one that brought her in in the first place."

For the moment, he's taking the big new job, lot more to deal with line and running with it.

Far.

And fast.

"What about Bradbury? Maybe she'll like Bradbury."

"Are you kidding me? She basically told Paul to get fucked, so I don't see while she'll get on any better with him."

"Yeah." He's... resigned. Or something. He doesn't have as much fight as he thought. "I just... I know we got through that first case alright, but I just don't think she's gonna want work with me either."

"She wrote a fucking book about you. She can't hate you that much."

"With all due respect sir, I really don't think the book is about me."

He takes a moment to reflect upon a particularly memorable scene from Temperance Brennan's debut, wherein characters Andy and Kathy take an opportunity to get to know each other a little better in an FBI interrogation room.

Yes, he's fairly sure that her book is in no way about him.

"Oh come on, we all did the math, books take a while to write Booth. And she nearly broke Stewart's arm, so it's definitely not him she wants to screw up against a wall somewhere."

So. Apparently his boss's boss's boss has read it too.

"Whoah. I, ah... I mean, I can assure you that nothing like that happened when we worked together."

Except, well, that's not entirely true.

And, he's fairly sure this is why he is trying to tell his boss that he shouldn't work with Temperance Brennan.

"Christ, I know that, she's fucking crazy. But clearly, she has a bit of a thing for you. And I need you to use that and get her back on board."

Ignore urge to lunge at Boss.

Ignore urge to bang self over head repeatedly until need to defend Temperance Brennan to Boss dissipates.

"I ah... It's just-"

But what can he say?

Yeah, so, she didn't break my arm during the case but there was that time we maybe, possibly almost had sex.

But you know, we didn't.

And then she hit me.

Really hard.

He's got nothing. "Okay. I'll... try."

"Attaboy. Now get outta my sight.")

But he'd always kind of known that it was going to be like this. He'd always kind of planned for it.

Planned to see Temperance Brennan again.

It's just not quite that easy.

Nowadays he's a big fish – he's Special Agent in Charge Seeley Booth. With his predecessor side-shuffled to some back het position in the middle of nowhere courtesy of an abysmal solve rate, underperforming agents and generally low morale, he's supposed to be making things bright and shiny and happy again in the world of the FBI DC field office.

Apparently this involves making nice with a woman he's not spoken to since she assaulted him in said DC field office almost a year ago.

So, if the whole brain twisty sometimes-thinking-about-talking-to-her-again thing wasn't enough, now he's got career shit bearing down on it too.

Oh and also, she wrote a book about him.

(Or at least, there was that one time she worked on a case for the FBI. And that case just happened to be with him.

And ten months and (for the purposes of this conversation) no cases later, she produces a book.

About a forensic anthropologist fighting crime with a hot shot, former defence-forces FBI agent.

Yeah.

Whatever.)

So he's really gonna have to do this.

Right.

To be clear, he is not having a good day.

The not-good day does not begin and end here however.

His fingers are... itchy.

Five years later (the time with Fives and Sixes), three people will briefly discuss what it was that happened in these weeks.

They'll do so only briefly because at this time of said discussion, these events have only a cameo role in a bigger, more interesting tale that is to be told.

But you already know that story.

It's this story you want to know more about.

He'll say, "Well he- he still thinks that we slept together."

And she'll say, "We're not in love with each other. It took us a year after we kissed to be in the same room together – right?"

And it is here that you need to pay attention. That part where he replies, "Oh! ... A-absolutely. Right. No kissing, no nothing."

See? See there?

He stumbled.

He did.

(And while you think it could have something to do with the earlier part of her statement, it has as much to do with the latter.)

Because it was a year. Just not quite the same year that she's thinking of.

(His is about four weeks shorter.)

He isn't lying, he's just rounding up.

And it's probably not worth mentioning. An insignificant detail. There will have been enough revelations for one afternoon and he'll feel there is to be no point in making room for another.

But it matters more than you think.

His first mistake was calling.

(Yeah, that should teach him to be a coward.)

Having now developed a somewhat... terse relationship with Dr Brennan's assistant, he knows he's getting nowhere over the phone. He knows if he's going to get anywhere that he's going to actually have to see her.

He just, ah, needs to calm his nerves a bit first.

(Yes, of course, it's just therapeutic.)

And if he's been able to go for a whole year now without gambling, he'll be able to handle himself just for a few hours if he's only here to take the edge off.

This is the logic that has him standing in front of a familiar pool hall, some time before noon, gently fiddling with a poker chip in his pocket.

Just looking.

For days, his fingers have been itching. He just wants that to stop.

He just wants to feel powerful.

Like a winner.

And then he can go and see her and get all this work stuff out of the way.

Yep.

He's fine.

He can't decide if the view from the Jeffersonian Institute's high-flung catwalk makes him feel more like God or an anthropologist.

From where he is standing, he can observe without participating. He is able to separate himself from the collective experience.

He can see them, all of them, each happy person that makes up the staff of the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab. He can see what they're doing, even how well they're doing it.

But he is by no means a part of it.

Whichever one it is, whether he be deity or scientist, from here he can watch without any of them really knowing he's watching.

It's making him feel... powerful.

(He's still holding onto that poker chip though.

Just in case.)

Booth leans back off the railing and casts out another glance across the space, a smirk growing on his features.

Because the remarkable thing about his chosen location is what he can see.

The ebb and flow of the lab below him.

Constant motion, people doing important things.

But even more interestingly, what he's been able to see is Doctor Brennan powering around her workspace, purpose-driven and focussed on the task at hand.

He's seen her give orders, deal in instructions. She has authority and determination and high expectations of everyone, but he can see it (it's just another thing he sees), the way she still has the unwavering respect of the lab and of its people.

Just in this short window of observation he's been privy to the way she can go from So Smart It Will Boggle Your Mind to I don't know what that means so fast it'll give you whiplash.

And you see this, all of these things that he's been able to observe are why he has come to the conclusion that Temperance Brennan is the kind of person who can write a book that is so clearly about her life and have it not be about her life.

He's not claiming to be an expert on the inner workings of Bones, but he quietly likes to think he has some advantages when it comes to understanding how she works. And all afternoon he's been watching, just observing, considering, furthering his data intake – like a science.

He's applying himself to the science of Temperance Brennan.

And the conclusion?

She quite simply doesn't realise what her book means.

And, he supposes, all that really matters is what she thinks.

Yeah, they're going to work together just fine.

As she sets a tray of what must be bone shards upon a workbench, reaching for glue from across the table, she pauses when her artist friend passes along of the front of the platform, a big bouquet of flowers in her arms.

And it's here he sees something else.

Something important.

(More important than the stuff about the book.)

The flowers are an arrangement of vivid color and from where he stands he can see the way she falters from her work just a little bit, and then there's the smile that just plays around the corners of her mouth.

He recognises that smile.

And he files the information away somewhere in his brain.

(Daffodil, daisy.

You can work out where Jupiter came from yourself.)

It carries over the lab on a lull in the ambient noise. "Nice flowers Ange."

Angela smiles, says something about a Hodgins and pollen and an experiment and continues on. Brennan turns back to the glue and her tray of bone pieces.

It's not like he understands why she smiled that little smile.

(But he will, one day.

One day he'll know it's because her mother always had daffodils in the house in the spring time.

That the smell reminds her.

But until then, it's just enough for him to understand that that little smile means something... good.

Because from now on, he'll be seeing it a lot more.)

Booth decides to watch a little longer.

But here's the thing.

That afternoon in the Jeffersonian, she saw him too.

Or at least, she's almost sure she did.

And here's how you know:

When they talk about it, with the Fives and the Sixes, she'll say, "It took us a year after we kissed to be in the same room together – right?"

And she checks, she turns to him and she checks that she's correct.

Temperance Brennan never has to check if she's correct.

To Temperance Brennan, when something is a fact, it is a fact. Set in stone, universally agreed upon, no confirming or cross-checking.

Which means this cannot be a fact.

Because this time, she's not sure. Because that day, she's pretty sure she saw something and she kind of... wonders.

(Not in a consuming fashion. It's not something she thinks about always. In reality she doesn't even think about it a lot. But as is always the case, thoughts turn over in her mind in an almost constant fashion and sometimes, on a rare occasion, this one is just there.)

She's doing a skull reconstruction, by hand picking each of the pieces, moving them from her tray to her desk and fitting them together. Making a face.

It's the sort of thing she should Zack doing. It's the sort of skill he needs to learn and she knows this, yet she insisted specifically on taking the job as her own.

Because she likes putting the skull back together.

It helps her clear her head.

And while it is a general rule that she dislikes metaphor, the only way she's found to describe the recent type of thoughts inside her head, is loud. Metaphorically loud, up in her ears, oscillating inside her brain. All of those scientifically impossible things that she scoffs at, out of the mouths of other people.

She takes quiet comfort in the fact that at least she knows, still, that it sounds ridiculous.

And so piecing the humpty-dumpty skull back together is helping her sort through these loud thoughts.

It definitely about Pete. There's definitely something... very not right there.

When she thinks about him, even when she's with him, she finds it hard to define the emotion she experiences. She's fairly certain, whatever emotion it may be, it's not the right one.

She struggles with how it is she's come to know what the right one is.

Not helping is the fact that she's fairly certain their relationship has continued for an amount of time that can be classified as long. This is not a state that she has the means to deal with. This is not a state that she wants the means to deal with.

And yet somehow, in spite of all of this and without her direct consent or even really her knowledge, most of his earthy possessions are now to be found inside her apartment.

Her apartment, thankyouverymuch.

His stupid TV in the living and his stupid socks in her bottom drawer and his stupid corn chips in her cupboard.

She's not sure she wants them there.

And then, just to make things in her head a little bit noisier, there's Agent Booth.

Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI.

But this is definitely not about Booth.

She should've expected it really, after it ended so disastrously with the string of other (may they be, incompetent) agents. Of course they'd try sending the guy she's already closed a case with successfully.

Of course she'd have to deal with him again.

Of course.

He's been calling with a degree of regularity and she's told Zack not to pass along any of his communications.

Of course this isn't going to work for much longer.

But this is definitely about Pete and definitely not about Booth.

So she's sliding pieces of bone together. Finding commonalities in fault lines and breaks, matching one edge with the other when on a breath, she tips her head up towards the roof.

And she sees him.

At least, she thinks it's him.

Maybe.

(Statistically, the human brain is more likely to project a familiar image onto an unclear object.

And she has been... not thinking about him.)

Booth. Up high. Far away. His attention absorbed elsewhere by the activities of her lab below.

At a distance, she thinks he sees him smiling.

Of course.

It alarms her somewhat that her body's natural reaction to this set of circumstances is the rapid secretion of adrenaline. A fight or flight response.

In the presence of epinephrine, her heart rate accelerates (she can feel it) and her feet get antsy, itchy.

But then, in a moment, it's like the loud is receding. Like she has more room to think in her own head.

This, she knows, is illogical. The release of adrenaline into the bloodstream prompts rapid vasodilatation of vessels to muscles. Subsequently, blood flow increases to the extremities, to arms and legs, to let her run or fight, to prompt action. She knows, in consequence, blood flow to the brain is reduced. That her capacity to think clearly and rationally should be lessened.

But somehow, suddenly, she thinks she might be looking at Booth and whatever it is about Pete she's been trying to work out just seems to make sense.

And she decides it might be time to get out of the country for a little while.

A day and a half later he happens across her name on a flight manifesto for a plane out of DC, followed by a string of stopovers taking her south.

South as in, Guatemala south.

Just for a second he smiles to himself (she always was one to surprise him) thanking his lucky stars that the return journey was in fact booked and paid along with the trip ex-DC, just twenty four hours before.

Temperance Brennan 1, Seeley Booth 0.

But as he prints the information from his screen and picks up the phone to call in a favour, he's thinking only one thing:

Not for long.

(You're wondering what happened.

In between the pool hall and the Jeffersonian.

What he did. (Did he gamble?)

How he ended up where he did.

As for the first question, the gambling – you already know the answer to that one.

You've known since the start of this story, since that first (/second!) anniversary.

When he was celebrating two years.

As for why that is? As for why he ended up at the Jeffersonian?

Well, the answer to that doesn't really matter.

It's not like he's going to do anything about it for another four and a half years.)

Six. (Iron or Sugar)

(Bitter and sweet.)

It surprises her and doesn't, when they arrive.

Surprises her, of course, that he was somehow able to arrange for her his little testament to their day. Somewhere in the middle of Afghanistan while she's in lord-knows-where Indonesia.

The rest, not so much.

(Because it's still their day.

Because they're still partners.

Somehow.

She knows this.)

It doesn't surprise her that his little card has few words.

Quietly, she blinks away a few stray and salty tears.

(Not too many.)

Entropy is a natural force that pulls everything apart, right down at an atomic level.

Pulling. Straining.

Not everything changes, Bones.

(She can hear it. In her ears.

Like he's there.

But he's not.)

Some things don't change.

Nine. (Pottery, China or Copper.)

(They're all things you keep in your home. On shelves and in cupboards.

Nine is for domesticity.)

"If you're not finished in ten minutes, we're going to be late." She tosses the instruction over her shoulder as she drops her own dish in the sink.

With a sigh and an affectionate eye roll her breakfast companion replies, "I know Bones. I'll be ready in time."

Brennan just gives him a look and shoots through to her bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed long enough to jam her feet into some boots.

She rushes back through.

"Whoah, Bones, you gotta slow down."

(He's so like his father.)

"I just-"

"We don't have to leave for like, what, twenty minutes? You're being all... jumpy."

"You don't want to be late, do you?"

"We're not going to be late." His eyes go wide on a smirk, imploring her to see his point. "Dad's plane doesn't land for ages."

She sighs and slinks into a chair across the table from where Parker sits.

"I'm just..." and then she smiles at her own enthusiasm, "excited."

He nods big, knowingly. "I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Dad's excited too, he said so on the phone last night."

She echoes him, her words warm, "I know."

"And when he gets back, he said we're going to spend the whole day doing fun stuff. And that I'm not allowed to do any science studying the whole time cause he says it's boring."

"I hope you told him he was wrong."

Parker laughs again, and for a moment says nothing, before eventually deciding on, "I told him it was more fun when you helped me."

"That is not the same thing!"

He hedges, "It's almost the same thing."

But the way he's smiling at her, and the easy way they've worked together the last few days on his schoolwork – she knows he really does have respect for her field. As far as a thirteen year old can, he understands that what she does is important.

(He's so like his father.)

Parker continues, "He really likes you, y'know."

Brennan's head tips to one side.

"He didn't say that part. But I know. When he talks about you."

And then she's not sure what to say. She's not entirely sure this is even something she should be discussing with her partner's son over breakfast.

(It's this kind of thing where Booth usually keeps her right.

Another reason to miss him.)

Honesty, she decides, is the best policy.

"I really like him too."

"That's good. I like the way things are now." An unabashed smile spreads across his face, almost unaware of the way in which his words have buoyed her, reminded her that she's getting better at this.

The clock catching her eye again, she bounces from her chair, reaching over him to collect his empty cereal bowl. As she bumps him lightly on the shoulder and presses a kiss to the top of his head, she adds quietly, "Me too Parks."

Yep, she's definitely getting better at this.

Sitting squashed onto a cold metal bench, one eye on the flight arrivals board, she tests him.

"Ca?"

"Calcium."

"Ni?"

"Nickel, easy."

She lifts an eyebrow at his challenge, "What about Pb?"'

"Lead!" He laughs loudly, "I always remember it cause you told me they used to call it plumbum."

His laughter is infectious and her low chuckle joins his, so excited by this love for science she can see beginning to spark.

"Yeah? That's how I remembered it too! My dad told me when I was your age."

(This is how she knew that he'd want to share in one of her favourite little fragments of science.

Just as her father had, with her.)

She explains, "A lot of the symbols come from Latin like that, but none of them are nearly as entertaining."

"Oh yeah? What other ones?"

"Well, what element is Na?"

"Uh... Potas- No, wait, it's Sodium, right?"

She nods, "Right! And that's because in Latin they called it natrium."

"But that's boring."

"Well what about W, which element is W?"

"Um..." He looks at her for help, his mouth set to one side as he struggles for the answer.

Overcome with some kind of youthful enthusiasm she seems to draw from Parker, she pokes him and sticks her tongue out waiting for just a fraction of a second until he picks up on her hint.

"Tungsten!"

And it's all she can do to laugh at him some more, that delight that's so evident in his features, pleased that he's finally found the answer and happy to just to be silly with her, sitting in the middle of an airport like there's nothing else in the world going on around them.

"It's not Latin though. It's because they sometimes refer to Tungsten as wolfram."

"Wolfram. That's so cool. That's a good name."

It's here the notion strikes her that she could probably handle children, provided they were just like Parker.

She bites down on the subsequent wandering thought about dominant genetic traits and probabilities and Booth.

Pressing on, she asks, "K?"

"Aw, that's Potassium."

"What's Potassium?" an unexpected voice interrupts.

Her head snaps upward and she realises just how much her focus narrowed as she sat talking with Parker, how easily she was engrossed in their conversation.

(This surprises her.)

But then her eye's meet Booth's as he stands over their bench and then her legs are pushing her up, up out of her seat and her arms are twisting around his neck, welcoming him home.

And she feels it, even though it's entirely illogical and even though she can explain the physiological impossibilities of the mere suggestion, she feels a lingering discomfort in her stomach settle as his own arms come around her waist closing that last amount of space, and as his lips touch one side of her forehead.

His arms tighten some more, just for a second and she realises that he's glad to be home.

"We were just-"

"Too busy paying attention to each other to notice I'd made it back in one piece?" But his words are light, happy.

And then she's ploughing her face into his neck, doing that thing that Angela always talked about that never seemed to make sense until Booth, and she breathes deeply and it's just his smell and his arms and... he's there.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispers, he words muffled on the side of his neck.

"Me too Bones, me too."

And then he steps back, accepting a brief hug from Parker.

"Bones was helping me with science Dad, so I can be just as smart as her and beat stupid Amanda Young on our test next week," he explains, his words at a speed such that they run into each other a little.

Booth looks at Brennan, "I've been away a month and you already turned my kid into a squint?"

"He asked for my help," and she shrugs in time with his arm settling around her waist, propelling her forward, towards the exit.

Parker takes charge of the trolley confidently, following alongside and interjecting, "What's wrong with being a squint?"

Booth's brows lift in Brennan's direction as if to say see? See what you have done? and she rolls her eyes in return, that feeling of warm settling right down into her insides as they pass through the big, big open sliding doors of the arrivals hall.

And she thinks this is my life now.

Some time later, (much later) after Parker has gone back to his mother's ready for school the following morning and as ready for his eighth grade science test as any kid has ever been, Brennan is curled into Booth.

As his hand trails slowly down her exposed shoulder, in a quiet voice he asks, "Seems like you got on pretty well when it was just you and Parks last night, huh?"

She smiles a little, and carefully responds, "I think we did alright."

"I know you did alright Bones. And I know you were... y'know, worried about it or whatever, but you didn't need to be, you did fine."

Her words are still careful, and she deliberates on how exactly to explain, "It's not that... I didn't want to. I was... concerned because most children tend not to enjoy my company. I didn't want him to be uncomfortable."

"But Parker isn't most children Bones."

"I know," she nods and continues delightedly, "He's actually quite a remarkable young adult. He's beginning to demonstrate an aptitude for science beyond that of the average child his age."

Booth laughs, "Of course that's what you'd be getting excited about." But then he adds, "Part of that comes down to you, you know– you're always helping him, encouraging him."

"Only because he's showing an interest. And because he has natural ability."

"Either way, together you do just fine. And I'm enormously glad cause it means you can do things like you did today – letting him stay overnight so he can come with you to the airport at the crack of dawn. It means we got the whole day together Bones, and you know how special that is."

"I know how much you missed him," she explains.

"Yeah, I did. But hey, that's not to say I didn't miss you just as much."

She just nods mutely in response, her eyes serious.

"Really, he thinks you're fantastic, I can tell."

And then any apprehension is gone and her smile becomes a playful smirk, "He said the same thing about you."

"Oh yeah?"

Her breathy yes in response is lost as he rolls into her, pressing attentive kisses along her neck.

As he leans in, he mutters, "He's right you know."

His lips then trail up, along her face before he leans in and murmurs into her ear, "For nine years."

"Surely... not... oh, not the whole time."

"Every goddamn minute Bones."

"Mmmm, thank you for the flowers."

And at least for a while, no further conversation takes place.

"I've been thinking-"

"As usual."

"Yes, well, in particular I've been considering your assertion that tonight marks the ninth anniversary of our partnership."

"In what way?"

"I believe your suggestion that we've worked as partners for nine years is incorrect."

"Why?"

"Because we took a year off. We celebrated a seventh year without actually working together during that period."

"You didn't seem all that bothered at the time."

"Well I had... other things to think about."

"You did, did you?"

"...Yes. And also, it would've been... awkward to have questioned the grounding of our partnership at that time."

"..."

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"I'm not smiling."

"You are! Look, like that, you're... smirking at me."

"I'm not. And frankly Bones, I'm hurt that you'd even think such a thing."

"I'm not questioning the value of our partnership Booth – I'm merely examining your facts."

"The facts being that we worked our first case together nine years ago."

"But during that time, there were extended periods when we weren't partners in any official capacity."

"Does that matter?"

"Yes."

"Well I say you're wrong."

"We've spent seven years working together for the FBI."

"Oh God, I just lost another year."

"You didn't! Booth! I'm trying to explain that-"

"You know, we had this argument before, and I remember winning."

"You did not."

"I did too. You asked me why it was I celebrated it that way, we talked about gambling and you gave in."

"I did not give in."

"You did. And you even agreed, on all the anniversaries after that..."

...

...

Safe to say, it takes a while.

Thirty, Forty and Fifty all sound the same.

"Do you love me?"

"Yeah. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

"Mm, if you're not too sleepy."