"Look, Bones, can we please just not talk about it?" He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
"Avoiding the problem will not make it go away, and believing so is engaging in juvenile fantasy-"
"You know what, I didn't want to have to bring this up, but you made me."
"What, something you think I'll be embarrassed about? I don't get embarrassed-"
"Torn off belly-button ring."
"Oh! Booth!" She smacked him, gagging.
"Yeah, not so fun, is it?"
"If I- If I vomit in this SUV, you will severely regret your decision to bring up that topic."
"It makes you that squeamish?" He chuckled.
"You get nauseous on practically every case we work."
"That's different, you, you deal with rotting corpses, exposed organs almost every day. You wore a dead guy's hand on top of your own, pop eyeballs out of sockets. You're not allowed to be squeamish."
"I'm not allowed to be squeamish." She repeated, laughing incredulously. "Why am I not allowed to be squeamish?"
"You're supposed to be all immune to that stuff, seen it all, nothing fazes you anymore. Me, I've only worked with dead bodies for a few years, I'm allowed to get grossed out."
"Sweets would take exception to your word choice." She pointed out.
"Oh, do not bring psychology into this, you hate psychology." He groaned, leaning his head back for a moment.
"Squeamishness implies a prolonged inability to handle things the Western world would find off-putting, a synonym might be 'prudish'; whereas being grossed-out suggests more of a transient nature, the person being more able to deal with the subject matter."
"You know what? My car, my rules." He jabbed the radio on.
They rode companionably for a minute or two.
"Technically, this vehicle belongs to the FBI."
"Really, Bones? Really?"
"What? I was just pointing out a simple flaw in your logic-"
"Just listen to the music, Bones."