Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Bones.

A/N: This actually has a (sort of) plot. I'm not at all satisfied with the way it's come out, so please feel free to offer any feedback!

November, 2005

It's just another evening at the diner. I'm cleaning countertops when he comes barging through the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him. He's really very handsome, and he looks pretty agitated, so I let it slide and follow him to the booth in the far corner, asking him what I can get for him. He jokingly asks for a shot of hard liquor. I smile and pour him a strong cup of coffee. He smiles in thanks and we both turn our heads to see a tall brunette storm through the door, much like this man just did.

"Thanks for gracing us with your presence, Bones. What, you can name all the bones in the human body but you can't read a clock?" He practically snarls the words at her, and I wonder what this beautiful woman could have possible done to make him so mad. She really isn't that late.

"I'm sorry; I was busy discovering the victim's cause of death. What were you doing, smooching up to your boss so you don't get thrown off yet another case?"

"Kissing up, Bones, the phrase is 'kissing up'. If you must know, I was going through phone records, emails, persons of interest, you know, the sort of work that actually solves murders."

The venom is flowing freely between these two, so I fill up her coffee cup and get the hell out of there. I'm back to cleaning the counter when she opens her bag and pulls out a thick stack of glossy photographs. She spreads them out on the table and even from across the room, I see a desiccated skeleton, lots of bugs, and that yellow crime scene tape I thought they only used in TV. They begin discussing the skeleton's manner of death in voices just a bit too loud and combative for a public place, and I honestly debate kicking them out of my restaurant. Really though, it's not that crowded, and I'm worried that if I leave these two to their own devices, they'll end up killing each other.

Two hours later and they finally seem to have reached some sort of stopping point. He's had some pie and she hasn't eaten anything at all. He looks bemusedly at her every time she talks murder weapons or insect activity or fracture remodeling. I did hear him consent that knowing cause of death was helpful in their efforts, so I guess for them, that's progress. She almost smiled, and as they walk out the door, I have a niggling feeling that these two could be heading somewhere very interesting. I find myself hoping I get to watch them.

November, 2009

It's just another evening at the diner. I'm about to close up when I see them striding to the door. I quickly flip the closed sign so it faces inward and make sure their usual table is clean.

They walk through the door together and the bell tinkles. I notice his hand is at her back, so this must mean they've resolved whatever was wrong between them last week. Last week was all sullen glances and awkward silences. It's anyone's guess what sort of mood they'll be in when they arrive; they have a more up-and-down relationship than any I've ever seen, and I've seen my fair share of volatile couples around this place.

It's been four years since the first time they stepped through these doors. I've seen them enter angry and yelling, sullen and moody, quiet and contemplative, smiling and laughing. They're usually the most exciting part of my day. We've settled into a routine of sorts. They keep the murder talk down to a low volume, and I give them free refills.

I've figured out a few things since they first showed up. I've seen his badge poking out from the edge of his suit coat, noticed the holstered gun near his wacky belt. I've heard her prattle on about cultural norms and scientific theories. This place is about halfway between that fancy museum and the FBI headquarters. I'm no special agent, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out why those two spend all their time together. I've got my very own crime-fighting duo frequenting my restaurant.

I see the bags under her eyes and the way he tries to hold back a yawn, so I dash over and pour them some coffee. I practically mouth his order along with him: Cherry pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I stick by their table even as she looks at me and shakes her head, trying to get away with not ordering. I know what comes next.

She won't order anything at first, and he'll give her this look and mutter something about how she's going to waste away. Used to be she'd launch right into some sort of scientific explanation about how long humans can actually subsist without eating. It's certainly what she'd have told him a few years back. But I guess they've progressed from there, because now I know it'll go down something like this: She'll give him this indulging grin and ask for an order of fries. He'll smile like he's just discovered the secret of the universe. Sure enough, this is exactly what happens. I go to fill the order, settling in for the show.

I'm sure they don't know I watch them, because they're so absorbed in their own world. And normally, I don't intrude in the private lives of my customers, but these two are something special. I hand him his pie and give her the fries, smile at their words of thanks, and it begins.

"Come on Bones! Try it, just once," He really is persistent. He offers her a bite of pie just about every time they eat here, but she never gives in and tries it. She wouldn't want to disturb the routine they have. She seems like one to stick to her ways.

"No Booth," He tries that winning smile, but no amount of grinning is going to make her give in. Not when they play this game so often.

"Bones. Have you ever even tried pie?" This is new. Usually he relents with a lopsided grin and shrugs, telling her it's her loss. I listen harder, moving to wipe down the tables nearest them.

"No. I don't need to try artificially processed, baked fruit to know that it will disagree with my taste buds." She's getting formal and scientific. I think it's her defense against his smile, because sometimes it seems like those looks get to her more than he'll ever know.

"Well, as a scientist, you should do a little experiment. You can't know anything without proof, right? So try a bite of pie. See if you like it. It's irrational to hate something without knowing anything about it." He's thrown her life's motto in her face. Even I can tell that she's all about being rational.

They go on like this for several minutes, with him insisting that she's missing out, and her insisting she doesn't want any of his dessert. I eventually have to move away, because he shoots me a curious look. I have, after all, been cleaning the same booth for a good five minutes.

I move away and out of hearing distance. It's a shame to miss out on their flirty banter, especially because they obviously don't know just how charged and suggestive their conversations can be. But body language and facial expression can sometimes say more without all those words in the way, so I don't really mind when I go behind the counter and pretend to sort through receipts.

He says something that makes her quirk her mouth in a grin. She hides it quickly by picking up his cup and stealing a sip of coffee, but he saw that smile, and I recognize the pleased grin he gives her. Today, his mission is to make her happy. Last week, it was to make her admit she was wrong, and the week before that, he wanted to let her know he was there. I'm sure a tough guy like him would hate to think that his emotions and motives are so easily deciphered, but those eyes just give everything away, at least when it comes to her.

She launches into what I can only assume is one of her scientific tangents. Four years ago, his eyes would glaze over as she rambled. Now, he listens with rapture, and I see how far they've come.

He calls her "Bones", but I'm sure it can't be her real name. She doesn't seem the sort to put up with a pet name, but I suppose I'd let a man like him call me whatever he wanted. Bones stops mid-rant, looks at him, and blushes. He leans forward, like he's reassuring her, letting her know he values what she has to say.

It's been four years since they first invaded my diner, plopping down into that same booth and spreading gory crime scene photos all over the table for the whole world to see. It's been four years since she could barely sit through a meal with him, four years since he would talk right over her explanations to tell her just how much she was boring him. It's been four years, and I know they've come a very long way. But I can see it in his eyes, in the way she so carefully avoids touching him, in the tension crackling between them; they still have quite a ways to go.

April, 2010

It's just another evening at the diner, except it's really not. They're here. My hands-down favorite customers, my crime-fighting heroes are here. But really, they're not here at all. He's barely touching his pie and she keeps picking at her fries in between swiping her hand across her eyes, trying to hide the tears that fall. They're not talking, and I can't remember a time they've ever eaten silently. He keeps glancing down at his food and his eyes look suspiciously red. I don't know what happened between them, but I have this sinking feeling that all the progress they've made has been forgotten in favor of this weird silence.

Finally, he says something. It's so quiet, I barely hear what he says, and I'm standing as close as I can to them without arising suspicion. "I'm sorry I gambled with us." His eyes are on fire, desperate for her to understand. For once, she just nods. She doesn't pretend not to know what he means, though I don't have a clue.

It should be just another evening at the diner, but it isn't, because they're here while also being somewhere else. They're crying and not speaking, and I hope they haven't ruined what they have. I think the rest of us can only wish for the kind of love they show each other every day. If whatever he gambles has destroyed that, then there's no hope for any of us.

April, 2011

It's just another evening at the diner, except really it's not. They're not here. Haven't been for nearly a year now. One day they're here, eating pie and fries and drinking coffee and pretending everything is still normal. Next day, they don't come in. That's not unusual; they don't stop by every day. But weeks go by, and then months, and I find myself whipping my head around to the door every time that damn bells signals a new arrival. It's never them.

I knew something was wrong between them after that night of silence. They still came in, but the conversation grew stilted, the looks more longing and pained than conspiratorial. They created this barrier between them, and I started to see him come in by himself. He would sit on a stool instead of at their table. She came in alone and did the same, all the while shooting alternating glances towards their usual table and the door.

They haven't been here in almost a year, and it's like a piece of me is gone with them. I don't know when I became more than the old lady who kept them caffeinated, but sure enough, I feel like I have something to lose in this game of keep-away they are playing with their hearts. I don't know where they are or how I know they're not together. But I have this feeling that they're running scared. I have this feeling that they've never been further away from each other. I have this feeling that they could have been great, but life only hands out so many moments for people to figure that out. Four years of moments, and I'm afraid they're out of time. It's just another evening at the diner, except really it's not.