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Anthropologically Predictable

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Booth ambles through the Jeffersonian – he's likely constitutionally incapable of anything else, Brennan thinks, his biological architecture a flimsy defense against the reckless forces of socialization (garish socks, troubling pie habit) – but at least, this morning, it provides her with advanced warning of his presence. She takes a moment to push her pen up against her desk calendar, leaving a perfect inch of space between the two, and closes three windows on her computer that could prove distracting should she glance over mid-conversation. The sharing of personal details, Angela has assured her, is best done without a portion of either party's brain being focused on DNA comparisons between two sets of sixth-century remains, recently unearthed in Ballyspittle, Ireland. Brennan's still not sure she fully agrees, but –

"S'up, Bones?"

– time's up. She swivels her chair to face him, raises an eyebrow. "You came over quickly."

"Well, you said it was urgent," Booth replies, sauntering over to her desk and poking at her nicely angled pen. "Need something?"

"Not exactly." Brennan folds her hands in her lap.

Booth quirks a half-smile. "You know, for someone who had an urgent thing they had to talk about - not on the phone - you're pretty laid back." He gestures at her. "For you, you're pretty laid back . . ."

She frowns at him. "What does that mean?"

"Bones . . ."

"I have something to say for which the skewering of my personality is not a prerequisite, thank you very much."

Booth slips into the chair across from her, all loose limbs and drowsy patience. "'Kay." He gestures. "I'm listening."

She watches him for a second, arranging her thoughts. "I wasn't entirely sure, when the idea first occurred to me, if my hypothesis was even a possibility. So I ran some tests, gathered data on the probability of . . ."

Booth squints. "This about a case? We don't have a case open."

"No, not a case."

"So you were running data on . . ."

"Probablities."

"Riiiight." Booth reaches over, snags her pen, and twirls it between his fingers. "Okay."

Brennan rolls her eyes and reaches to take the pen back. "So." She sets it back in its proper place. "I tested."

"Tested what?"

"My hypothesis."

"Which is . . ." Booth sighs. "You know, you're doing that cryptic thing again."

"My hypothesis," Brennan continues, "was entirely accurate and all tests indicate that I am, indeed, pregnant."

Booth blinks at her. "Pregnant."

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. You're . . . "

"I calculated my due date and if NIH estimates are to be believed I should deliver on or near March 27th. That's provided, of course, that nothing happens to the fetus, as miscarriages are statistically more likely in the first trimester, especially among . . ."

"You're pregnant?"

Brennan shrugs. "Yes?"

"You mean . . ." Booth's expression slowly transforms from shock to something far more goofy and proud. "We're having a baby?"

"Eventually, yes, provided that, as I said . . . "

"Oh my god," Booth cackles, bounding up out of his chair and rounding her desk to crouch beside her. "Oh my god, you've got a baby in there? Our baby? Baby Booth and Bones? Widdlebabyboooones."

Brennan bats at his hands as he tries to touch her belly. "Technically I have an embryo. We've successfully past the zygote stage but it's at least another seventeen weeks before we could consider viability outside the womb and . . ."

"We're havin' a baby," Booth says, grinning up at her.

Brennan huffs a breath of resignation, risks a tiny smile. "Perhaps. If we're lucky."

"We already are lucky," Booth says. "What are you talking about? You live with me," – he leans in and kisses her – "you work here," – another kiss – "you live with me . . ."

She smacks him none-too-gently up the back of the head. "You live with me," she points out. "Your apartment is nothing but a cemetery for comic books and decaying videotapes of sports events from several decades ago, which – "

"This kid's gonna love football," Booth predicts. "Baseball, hockey, basketball . . ."

"Chemistry, biology, higher math . . ."

"Pie . . ."

"Pi."

"That's what I said."

"Not exactly," Brennan smiles at him, touches his cheek and indulges the urge to kiss him again.

"Mmmm," Booth murmurs. "Unprofessional Bones, I like."

She laughs softly. "You can go away now."

"Hey," Booth protests, still grinning. "Can I take you to lunch?"

"It's not even 10am."

"Well, can I take you to get . . . I don't know, flowers and a new microscope, and lunch?"

"I have work to do."

Booth tilts his head. "And you're pregnant. I think your mummies'll wait a couple of hours more while I shower you with baubles and slides and expensive software or whatever the hell it is you'll think is cool. Anasazi art? Ritual sacrifice knife?"

"You can take me to lunch at lunchtime and buy me a banana milkshake," Brennan offers, pushing him away. "Go on. You've got work to do too. Saving – good people from bad people or something."

Booth pouts but does as he's told, smoothing down his tie as he stands. "You're a hard woman," he says wistfully, reaching over to angle her pen again. "You told anyone here?"

"Not yet. I thought you might – "

Booth grins mischievously. "Oh, I think I might."

"Booth!"

"Oh . . ." He ambles toward the door. "I think . . "

"Booth."

"I might," he finishes, and bounds up the stairs to the main lab. "MY BOYS CAN SWIM!" he yells once he reaches the top of the stairs, pumping his arms above his head.

Brennan groans and rests her face in her hands. "How anthropologically predictable," she whispers to herself, and laughs despite her horror as the whoops and cheers of her coworkers and friends begin to drift through her open door.