Title: Zeros and Ones
Author: Lucy (somethingsdont)
Pairing: Booth/Brennan
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: Seven gifts Booth gave Brennan at seven not-so-arbitrary times.

Seven seconds in, Booth gives Brennan a flash of his badge.

She returns the favor with an observation about his mismatched socks.

"There's nothing wrong with my socks."

"They suggest to me that you do not take your job seriously. The alternative is that you have tritanopia, but that is an extremely rare form of color blindness, and the FBI has routine ophthalmology checkups. I presume that from the dumbstruck look on your face, you have never even heard of this disorder, so my conclusion is that the rationale behind your lack of coordinated socks correlates with your lack of professionalism."

"You know, Dr. Brennan, you can't just put me under one of your microscopes."

She makes a face. "You wouldn't even fit on the slide."

That's when he realizes she isn't like the others.

"Thanks, Einstein," he mumbles.

She blinks. "That's not my name."

Seven minutes later, Booth gives Brennan a nickname.

"Don't call me Bones."

"Aw, c'mon, Bones. It's just a nickname. You work with bones. Bones… Bones."

"A nickname is generally useful for names that are either long, difficult to pronounce or to accentuate a person's peculiarity. Since 'Brennan' is neither long, nor difficult to pronounce, and as my skills extend beyond forensic anthropology, I fail to understand the need for an epithet."

"Whoa, what? Look, it's just a partner thing, okay? Here, why don't you give me a nickname too?"

"Booth will serve me just fine."

"How about Mr. Sexy FBI Agent?" He waggles his eyebrows at her.

She merely snorts.

Seven hours later, Booth gives Brennan a reason to like him.

Anthropologists are observers, people who study other people. She watches him console the victim's family, carrying sincerity in his voice and professionalism in his demeanor.

"You were really good back there, with the victim's mother," she tells him once they've buckled up in the car.

His facial features fill with surprise, but he's visibly pleased with her assessment. "Yeah, you know, it's not always about the guns and the science."

"No, it's not," she agrees. "I'm not very—" She pauses thoughtfully. "Interacting with mourning family members is not my forte."

"Well, Bones, you just leave that to me. You take care of the bones; I'll handle the people."

"From that logic, your nickname should be People." She smiles proudly.

He grins. "Bones, did you just make a joke?"

"Was it funny?"

"It—" He laughs. "Yeah, Bones, it was funny."

Seven days later, Booth gives Brennan a goodbye present.

Because when their first case comes to a close, they both think it's their last.

Each pretend to be sick of the other because let's face it, a week of arguing over science and propriety and socks can get tiring. She calls it intellectual stimulation; he calls it torture.

The FBI is pressuring Booth to find a way to keep Brennan on homicide cases because they have a good record together – one for one – and because his ability to remain with all appendages intact for a week in the presence of one Dr. Temperance Brennan becomes something akin to a legend around the bullpen.

But she's adamant on taking a trip to Guatemala to look at bones. She prefers dead bodies to him, and somehow, it doesn't offend him. Because well, she isn't like the others.

So when he's standing in front of the key counter at the hardware store, duplicating his apartment key for his girlfriend Tessa, his eyes lock on a small skull keychain, and he leaves the store with it in his pocket next to the duplicated key. This is not foreshadowing, or irony, or symbolism, or any of those bullshit literary devices he only vaguely remembers from high school English class. He just likes the keychain.

"I, uh, I got you something," he tells her the morning before she leaves for Guatemala.

They're sitting in the diner, finalizing their report over breakfast. She looks up from her muffin. "I wasn't aware we were going to exchange gifts, Booth, or—"

"No, Bones," he interrupts, his hand fumbling in his pocket for a moment before coming up with the keychain. "I just saw this the other day and it reminded me of you."

She studies him for a moment before taking the keychain into her hands. "Because of the skull," she remarks, turning it over in her palm.

"Yeah. Look, if you don't like it, just—"

"Despite the fact that the anatomy of this model is questionable – the parietal is much too large with respect to the size of the occipital – this is a very thoughtful gift, Booth. Thank you."

He smiles, feeling Tessa's spare key digging into his thigh. "It was nice working with you, Bones, even if you are a pain in the ass."

"I have never once touched your ass throughout this entire case. I'm unsure where I could've possibly pained it."

He shakes his head, chuckling lightly to himself. A polite handshake, and he's gone.

That night, she threads her keys off her old keychain and onto the new one.

She carries him with her to Guatemala.

Seven weeks later, Booth gives Brennan a call.

Because yes, he is crazy, and yes, he kinda does miss her a little bit. And Guatemala? Is a dangerous place. He's just being a good partner (even though he's not really her partner), a good friend (even though he's not sure if he's her friend), a good person (yeah, he can work with that).

And well, the FBI is really putting the heat on.

Deputy Director Cullen: "You know, Booth. I just don't get it. She likes you, and—"

He scoffs. "Sir, she does not like me."

"Have you spoken to Agent Quinn? Dr. Brennan dislocated his shoulder because she didn't like the way he hovered over her while she worked. Only popped it back in when he promised to never be seen in her presence again. Take it from me, Booth. She likes you."

It's nighttime, and he figures with the two-hour time difference… actually, he has no idea. He isn't even sure if she even has her cell phone with her, but he dials her number, and:

"You've reached Dr. Brennan."

"Bones?"

A pause. "Booth?"

"Yeah, hey." He shuffles his phone to his other ear. "How, uh, how's Guatemala?"

"Full of genocide victims," she replies without missing a beat.

"Oh, that's—Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. I was just preparing for bed."

"Listen, Bones, is there any chance you'll help out the FBI again when you get back?"

"No," without hesitation.

"Why not?"

"This is what I do, Booth," she explains. "Here, in Guatemala, or Peru, or Mongolia. I look at bones of people who have been forgotten, and I give them names. I give their families answers, closure."

"You can do the same thing for more recent victims, Bones, right here in your own backyard."

A silence stretches between them. It's not what she wants. Or… it is, and she doesn't know it yet.

"Alright, Bones," he concedes. "When are you getting back to DC?"

"Two weeks from today."

There aren't that many Guatemalan flights direct to DC, and this is how he knows when to send an agent to pick her up from the airport. And the skull in her bag? That was just a hunch. What do you mean that goes against FBI protocol? Cullen okayed the whole ordeal.

Seven months later, Booth gives Brennan an earring.

Technically, he's merely returning what is already hers, and objects have no intrinsic power, Booth, but he knows from the look on her face when the earring falls free from his fingers that for one moment, she believes. In the intrinsic power of objects, in the mysterious grip of voodoo, and maybe… maybe even in him.

An earring is really just an earring, except when it's her mother's earring, and she's just spent the strangest half a week in New Orleans chugging knee-deep in beliefs that aren't her own, testing her faith in the one thing that had remained a constant – science.

There, with her mother's earring between her fingertips, she figures out that science is not the only constant in her life.

Seven years later, they're exchanging gifts.

She's older, and tiny crinkles appear at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. Nobody can see them except her, and only when she washes off her makeup and presses her face close to the mirror. She smiles a lot more than she did seven years ago.

She slides into the bed he's warmed for her, seeking his heat and something she'd never imagined she'd ever want or need – his affection. But she's changed for him. No, not for him, but because of him. He's shaped the way she envisions the world, the way she envisions herself. And… and him. The way she envisions him.

"You've changed me, Booth." Her words are neither accusatory nor resentful. They are soft.

Through the haze of sleep, he chuckles. "Daunting task," he murmurs playfully, his fingers sliding under her oversized t-shirt and skimming up her side, brushing skin.

She sighs into him. "Booth, you—" She pauses, frowning as she studies his sleepy features. Some things don't change.

He draws her closer, planting a soft kiss on her temple, and quietly: "I know, Bones," he reassures her. "Me too."

Seven years.

She doesn't even know how it'd happened or why. No, she does know why. She can't pour it into an Erlenmeyer flask and swish until the colors swirl, and she realizes that she doesn't want to. That's the change. That's his gift to her.

This is her gift to him:

She's washed off her makeup.

She presses her face close to his.

Eyelids heavy, he outlines the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes with his fingertips and smiles, the lines of age and experience gently creasing his skin.

They're somewhere between young and old. They're neither. They're both.

They are still partners.

He studies her, leaning in to brush his lips against hers, soft, promising. "Having doubts?"

Her lips curl into a grin. "Not about anything important."