Italics are flashbacks.
Temperance Brennan focused the light on the bones carefully scattered across the table. So few bones, merely fragments really, but they could tell such a story.
"You make it sound like the bones talk to you."
"They do. And they make a lot more sense than regular people, I can tell you."
"You're doolally, Bones."
"I don't know what that means. And don't call me Bones."
She walked around the table, carefully readjusting the shattered shards of bone. A rib here, a metatarsal there. Tiny bits of dirty white material, looking just like stones. A man's whole life, everything he felt and thought and loved and wanted and ate and watched and breathed, all here in these fragile, scruffy remains.
Temperance picked up a fragment of a pelvic bone, and turned it over and over in her hands, searching out it's secrets.
Yes, definitely a man.
"We need facts. We can't just assume anything. That's unscientific." Brennan snapped, striding ahead of Booth, leaving him half running in an effort to catch up with her.
"Hey, you're the scientist, I'm the FBI guy. I'm allowed to rely on my gut. It's practically in the job description.". He finally caught up with her, and taking her arm, span her round to face him. "Where would Clarice have been if she ignored her gut instinct? Swimming around in Hannibal Lecter's gut with a nice Chianti." he joked, trying to make her smile. She just looked adorably puzzled.
"Who are these people? I don't know what you're talking about." She stepped back away from him, genuinely frustrated. "I never know what you're talking about."
Booth put his hands on his hips, blowing out a sigh.
"Do you even watch TV? Movies? Read a few books occasionally? Participate in any of the activities the rest of the human race engages in?" he asked, only half sarcastically. She looked guilty, surprisingly.
"I'm too busy." she said weakly.
"Oh, you're too busy to read books, but not too busy to write them?"
"I like writing." she said, softly, but still confused. Booth always confused her. Not just the pop culture references he insisted on throwing into every conversation. Everyone did that to her. He just wasn't like anybody else she knew.
And, as always, the lost-in-the-real-world look on her face melted his anger and annoyance.
"And you do it well, Bones." he said, reaching out to her. "Now, back to the case..."
"You read my books?" she asked, incredulous. He shrugged, embarrassed.
"I may have glanced into one or two."
"And you liked them?"
"I've read worse."
"You liked them that much?" she said, recognising the compliment underneath the throwaway words.
"Yeah...but is..."
"No,the FBI guy isn't you." she snapped, turning away. "Okay, back to the case. The simple scientific fact is, you're wrong, and I'm right."
She switched on the tape recorder. Her voice was steady and strong and clear as she spoke into it.
"I would estimate the man's height at 188 centimeters, and the weight at between 200 and 230 pounds.
"You're going to get fat if you just keep eating like that."
"Show me another autopsy photograph and I'll lose my appetite forever. Then I'll be skinny and you'll be happy."
"They're just pictures. You're too sensitive."
"Thanks for your concern, Bones."
"I mean it." she reached over the table and put her hand on his.
"I worry about you." she said. "I do. You don't have a healthy lifestyle, you eat way too much junk food, you're always rushing around the country..."
"Getting shot at by bad guys. Don't worry about me, Bones. Worry about yourself."
She withdrew her hand suddenly.
"What's wrong with me?" she said, stung.
"I don't know if you noticed, Brennan, but the same bad guys that are shooting at me are usually shooting at you too." The cockiness disappeared from his tone, and he stared across the table at her, as if what he had just said had just hit him too.
"That doesn't worry me." she said, snagging one of his fries and popping it into her mouth. "You're looking after me. I know I'm safe if you're around."