Welcome back, my wonderful readers! I didn't expect my break to be quite this long, but real life sucks sometimes. As always, I want to give a special thanks to my beta chosenname. She came up with the title of this story, and it's absolutely perfect. She also puts up with my frustration and doubts over my writing, and I couldn't be more appreciative.

I've decided on a posting schedule of twice per week for this story - Wednesdays and Saturdays. The reason I'm not sticking to the every other day schedule is due to a scheduled surgery on 10/19 (finally!) and the upcoming holidays. I've worked well ahead in the writing, so I shouldn't have an issue sticking with that schedule. That being said, my surgery is on a Wednesday, so I'll probably post the night before. Lucky you!

I will warn you in advance - this first chapter is heavy. It had to be done, but I feel a heads up is appropriate.

As always, the usual disclaimers apply. M rated for a reason and I don't own Bones. Obviously.

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Chapter 1

Special Agent Seeley Booth sat alone in the home office he shared with his wife, staring at the aged file folder on the desk in front of him. He had watched her pull the file out of a small safe where it had been squeezed between the estate documents she'd told him about the previous fall. Though Booth knew full well what those documents entailed, he'd deliberately avoided them for the sake of his own peace of mind. It had never occurred to him that the stack of files might also contain information about his wife's past. Brennan had been called into the lab. She had offered to tell Cam she wasn't available so that she could stay with him while he read through the file, but Booth had declined. He had a fair idea of what he would find between the covers of that manila folder, and he could already feel his self-control slipping.

The thick file seemed to take up all of the space in the room, sucking the oxygen from the air until Booth couldn't look at the vile thing without feeling lightheaded. He'd stalled as long as possible: using the restroom, pouring himself a glass of scotch, and pacing the length of the room in attempt to stay calm. His thoughts flickered back to the events that had brought him to this moment, and he found himself wishing desperately that his wife had never been invited to speak at her alma mater.

They'd traveled to Chicago together, making an appearance at the anthropology conference at Northwestern before taking some time to enjoy a bit of the city together. It had been wonderful until they'd run into a woman named Melissa Wilkes. She had been in the system as well, and the two women had shared similar experiences in one of their homes. The news that their former foster father had died might have been welcome, had it not been for the disturbing circumstances of the man's death. In an attempt to put their suspicions at rest, Booth and Brennan had done some investigating before leaving Chicago. Unfortunately, their digging had only left them with more questions.

Booth glared at the manila folder again and took a large drink of his scotch, cursing himself for his weakness. He opened the folder with a trembling hand and felt his heart clench as he read the name at the top of the first page.

Temperance Brennan.

The information was simple and straightforward at first. Date of birth, height, weight… Brennan had been several inches shorter as a teenager, and her weight had been listed at a hundred and fifteen pounds. The file listed the date her case was opened as December 28, 1991. Fifteen-year-old Temperance stared up at him from a small photograph attached to the first page. Her eyes were guarded, and her familiar frown told him that she'd been stressed and troubled. Booth glanced at the list Brennan had written for him in Chicago, lying innocently on the desk next to the file. He matched the first name on her list with the first set of documents in the file.

Mr. and Mrs. David Anderson had taken her in as an emergency placement. Though that sort of arrangement was usually temporary, they had agreed from the very beginning to foster Brennan on a more permanent basis. Booth had been curious when he'd read Brennan's brief explanation for leaving their home: 'They requested a change of placement.' The horrible details of the homes that had followed had overshadowed his curiosity that day, but now he was left wondering again. The notes from the caseworker were vague and generalized, but the statements provided by the Andersons were slightly more detailed. They'd claimed that Brennan had refused to speak to them unless it was absolutely necessary and that she had been withdrawn and sullen, locking herself in her room during the hours that she wasn't in school. After three months with little or no progress, they had contacted Brennan's caseworker to request that she be placed in a different home.

Booth squeezed his eyes shut briefly and shook his head in disgust. The girl had lost her entire family, he thought angrily. Did they expect her to be happy about it? He vaguely recalled the first real conversation they'd had about her time in the system and the comment she'd made about foster families who wanted 'normal' children. This was what she meant, he realized. She was depressed, and they banished her for it.

He moved on to the next set of documents, naming Mr. and Mrs. Paul Carter as the foster parents. Booth glanced again at Brennan's handwritten list, and the words blurred slightly as he read the end result of this placement. Neglect. Food/water deprivation. His wife had been a thin child to begin with, but in the four months she'd spent with the Carters, they had managed to starve her to a weight registering just over a hundred pounds. The situation had gotten worse after the end of the school year, when Brennan could no longer take advantage of the free breakfast and lunch at school. After several weeks with minimal food and water at home, she had run away. She hadn't turned up again until the middle of July when a caseworker at a homeless shelter had reported her to social services. Brennan informed her DCFS caseworker that the Carter's had used starvation and dehydration as punishments for perceived infractions. She and the other children in the home had been confined to their bedrooms the majority of the time, and any food in the house had literally been kept under lock and key. Although Brennan hadn't been sent back to their home, there was no mention of a reprimand for the Carters.

Booth had known about the neglect, but Brennan had never told him about running away or staying in homeless shelters as a teenager. He thought back to the Dylan Crane case from the year before, when Brennan had bonded with a teenaged boy who, ironically enough, had called himself Carter. They had talked about their 'lists,' and she had given him some cash so that he could buy himself a proper coat. Booth sighed and rubbed his aching temples, wondering where Carter was now.

He took another heavy gulp of scotch and gave himself a mental shake, reminding himself that he hadn't even gotten to the hardest parts yet. The third name on the list made him sit up a little straighter and renew his focus. Mr. and Mrs. James Hammel had fostered Brennan for less than three months before she'd run away again. She had listed physical and emotional abuse as the reasons for the transition from their home, but once again, she'd left out the fact that she had run away. Brennan had made several reports to her caseworker about the abuse, but there had never been any physical evidence to show. The caseworker had conducted a lazy investigation in which she'd concluded that the allegations were unfounded. Booth ground his teeth in fury, knowing that the 'investigation' had probably led to more abuse. He wanted to scream in frustration with a system that seemed to treat every child like a liar, and he felt sickened at the memory of falling for that stereotype in the course of his work.

James Hammel hadn't escaped his karma in the end, however. While Booth and Brennan had been looking into the death of Bill Taylor, who was listed as foster father number eight, they had discovered that Hammel and Taylor had died within weeks of one another, under eerily similar circumstances. Brennan suspected that her father had been involved, and if Booth were being completely honest, he would have to agree. Although there was no real proof of her father's involvement, Booth knew one thing for certain: Max Keenan took care of his own.

Booth checked the list again and took a deep breath before turning the page. He knew more of this story than any of the others. He'd been horrified at Brennan's description of the two days she had spent locked in the trunk of a car as punishment for breaking a dish. Glancing at the timeline she'd given him, he recalled the story she'd told him about Russ's first attempt to contact her on her birthday. She'd been with Mr. and Mrs. Jack Campbell for only a few weeks prior to her birthday, and the phone call had resulted in the first beating she'd received in the Campbells' home. After her experience with the Hammels, it seemed that Brennan had been more reluctant to report the abuse. There were no incident reports on file until December of that year.

Booth knew what the report would say, for the most part. But he hadn't expected there to be pictures. His breath caught in his chest as he gazed at the first photograph. Brennan's beautiful blue eyes were wide with panic, her face was dirty, and her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her skin was paler than he'd ever seen it, and her expression was frantic. There were a few snapshots of her on an emergency room bed, but her quick movements had blurred the images. The last of them depicted two orderlies restraining her so that a nurse could administer a sedative.

The words of the ER report leapt out at him as his entire body began to shake violently. Exposure. Dehydration. Hypotension. Acute anxiety. The ER doctor had made a point of noting that Brennan's survival had been somewhat miraculous. Had it not been for the mild winter and the fact that the Campbells' car had been in a garage, she would most likely have died before being discovered.

Booth had reached his limit. The contents of his stomach rose up despite his best efforts, and he vomited into the small trash can they kept next to the desk. When at last the heaving subsided, he buried his face in his hands and fought to regain control of his emotions. Booth would've liked nothing more than to toss the file into an incinerator, but he knew that wasn't an option. And as much as he wanted to walk away and put the rest of it off for another day, he realized that stalling would likely do more harm than good. This wouldn't be the last time he'd have to read those terrible reports or look at those heartbreaking images.

He rose from the desk to replace his scotch with a glass of water and rinse out the trash can. With enormous effort, he returned to the task at hand. After the trunk incident, the state had opted to assign Brennan's case to a different social worker, though from what Booth could tell, this one had been no better than the first. The man's notes were just as vague, but it was clear that he'd had no patience for Brennan. She'd been sent to a therapist following the trunk incident, and the shrink had described her as withdrawn, taciturn, and defiant. Brennan had refused to speak about the incident, and if she opened her mouth at all during their sessions, it was to give short, one-word answers. Booth felt himself agreeing with her much-avowed distaste for psychologists as he read the reports. Even if the quack had possessed twice the amount of compassion he'd shown in his reports, there was no way he should have been in a position to work with traumatized children. After a couple weeks of inpatient treatment and observation, Brennan had been sent to yet another foster home.

Booth sipped his water cautiously, reading the next name on his wife's list. Mr. and Mrs. Aaron Roberts had fostered Brennan from late December of '92 to April of '93. It had been another case of physical abuse, but this one had been confirmed by the caseworker as well as an ER doctor. Contusions in several stages of healing had indicated that Brennan had been beaten multiple times before the incident that had finally resulted in her removal from the home. Aaron Roberts had thrown her down a long flight of stairs, resulting in a concussion, a sprained wrist, and a fractured rib.

There were photographs of this ER visit as well, and Booth fought the urge to rip them to shreds. Her brilliant blue eyes, so bright with panic after the previous incident, now appeared dull and lifeless. Every bruise and cut had been photographed, but there had been no need for a sedative this time. Her vacant expression haunted him, reminding him forcibly of the times he'd seen that same emptiness in they eyes of a corpse. She'd been admitted for treatment of her injuries as well as for shock. The doctors had used words like catatonic and post-traumatic stress disorder. She'd been referred to a shrink that time as well, with near-identical results.

Eventually, they'd released her to another foster home, and Booth was relieved that the reports on the next placement didn't include pictures. He wasn't sure he could stomach any more photographs, and he knew that the images he'd seen would continue to torment him indefinitely. Brennan had noted that Mr. and Mrs. Michael Lewis had requested a change of placement, but she had also included the words emotional and verbal abuse. The caseworker's notes on this particular family were minimal. There were no incident reports and no complaints from either Brennan or the Lewis family until around the four-month mark when they had formally requested her removal from their home. They'd claimed that she was obstinate, rude, lazy, and withdrawn, all of which culminated in a bad family environment. Booth frowned at the ridiculous description and wished that he'd allowed Brennan to stay with him, if only so that he could feel her familiar warmth in his arms. Did anyone ever show her kindness? he wondered. Surely there was someone, somewhere, who recognized that she was special...that she was hurting.

Booth turned the page with a heavy heart to read the next entry. Almost as if in answer to his silent questions, the description of Brennan's next placement was blessedly free of abuse. She had lived with Mr. and Mrs. Troy Collins for about four months until December '93 when the couple had requested a change. Mrs. Collins had gotten pregnant, and the situation had been high-risk. They had felt that they no longer had the ability to care for Brennan on top of the health concerns, so once again she was transitioned to a new home. Booth supposed he could understand the Collins' perspective, but his heart ached for the seventeen-year-old girl who had most likely thought that she'd finally found some peace, only to have it ripped away from her.

The next family on the list was Mr. and Mrs. William Taylor, and Booth felt his pulse quicken at the details he recalled about this placement. Brennan had long since told him about the physical abuse that occurred there, and her description of the events still echoed in his mind. She'd explained, almost casually, that she'd been molested 'at least one time that she knew of.' The nonchalant tone she'd used had disturbed him, but after having read through the majority of her foster care file, he supposed that being molested might have seemed minor in comparison to what she'd already endured by that point.

It had been in the Taylor home that Brennan had met Melissa Wilkes, and both girls had been abused by Bill Taylor throughout their time there. Brennan had reported an incident of physical abuse in which her head had been slammed into a wall repeatedly until rendering her unconscious. When she'd awoken, Taylor had been on top of her. There was nothing in the file about a rape kit or medical examination being performed, but the caseworker's investigation had resulted in Brennan's immediate removal from the home. Unfortunately, however, the change in placement occurred at the demand of Taylor's wife, who had accused Brennan of seducing her husband. Taylor had never been charged with child abuse or molestation, and as Brennan had explained previously, her file had been marked as a behavior case. In addition to the self-isolation and attitude problems she'd already been accused of, the caseworker had then added promiscuous to Brennan's list of ridiculous descriptors.

One more, Booth sighed internally. You can do this. He inhaled deeply for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon and turned to the last placement report in the file. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Edwards had fostered Brennan until she'd aged out of the system, and there was once again very little documentation of her time with them. She had cited emotional and verbal abuse on her handwritten list, but it appeared that she'd never reported it to her caseworker or anyone else. Booth couldn't blame her. He guessed that by that point, she had probably given up on any hopes of being treated like a human being and was merely thankful that she wasn't being physically harmed.

Brennan had turned eighteen in October of 1994, while she was still attending high school as a senior. There was an exit report in her file, but it revealed nothing about what had happened to her after leaving the Edwards' home. The last pages in the file were Brennan's high school transcripts up to the end of her junior year. She had maintained a steady 4.0 GPA throughout her time in the system. She'd taken advanced placement classes, kept herself busy with extracurricular activities, and had no negative reports on her school record whatsoever.

Booth closed the file and gripped it tightly, his hands shaking as he fought back the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He unclenched his fists long enough to drop the folder on the desk, and within seconds he was headed toward the basement, taking the steep steps at a run. His vision was a red haze as he pummeled the large suspended punching bag, not bothering to put on gloves or even tape his knuckles.

Though he knew that his fists were making contact with the bag, he neither felt nor heard the impact. His mind was overrun with images and words, some typed or scribbled decades ago on the numerous reports, others spoken in his wife's voice.

'Exposure and dehydration.' Punch. 'Acute anxiety and PTSD.' Punch. 'Multiple contusions, concussions, and fractures.' Punch, punch, punch. He slammed his fists hard into the bag for each of the names on her list, a punch for each terrible lie that someone had told about her, for each time the system had let her down, for every A she'd earned in spite of the hell she'd been living…

The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins never waned, and when Brennan returned home several hours later, she was alarmed to find him still attacking the punching bag as though the object itself had done him bodily harm. Droplets of blood were flying from the surface of the bag every time Booth's fists made contact.

"Booth! Booth, stop!" She pulled back on his arms, but his movements never ceased. He didn't seem to hear her at all, and his face was wet from the tears that had been flowing silently for the last few hours. Brennan faltered for a moment, unsure of the best approach. She knew what had put him in this state, and she was now cursing her decision to go to the lab that afternoon.

Brennan stepped behind her husband and very carefully wrapped her arms around his torso, holding him tightly in spite of his rapid breathing and the forceful movements of his arms and shoulders. The effect was instantaneous. The punching stopped, and the adrenaline began to dissipate quickly. Too quickly. Booth collapsed to his knees, fighting to remain conscious as he felt Brennan's arms still around him.

She's here. She's okay. She's safe now… He repeated the mantra in his mind a half dozen times before he finally spoke.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he sobbed, touching her arms gently.

"Stop. You've done nothing wrong. I shouldn't have left you here to deal with it alone…whether you thought you were up to it or not," she replied softly, clutching him tighter. Booth twisted in her arms to look at her, belatedly realizing that they were both sitting together on the blood-spattered basement floor.

"I… I read all of it. Every page…" He struggled to form a more coherent thought, but the words eluded him. He was overwhelmed with anger for the people who had hurt her, and he would have liked nothing more than to hunt every last one of them down. Booth couldn't understand for the life of him how no one had seen what was happening to Brennan back then. So many people had either ignored it or overlooked it. He couldn't comprehend the fact that none of them had been able to see how amazing she was.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked, pulling him back into the moment with her soft, loving tone. He met her watery eyes with his own and felt another tear slip down his cheek.

"Just one. What did I do to deserve you?"

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Brennan cleaned Booth's hands to the best of her ability with a first aid kit, but after some careful probing, she insisted that he have his hands x-rayed. Once the adrenaline had left his system, the pain he'd inflicted upon himself hit him full force, and he didn't argue about the trip to the ER. Brennan reviewed his x-rays and agreed with the doctor that he didn't require surgery, but his hands would need to be wrapped tightly for at least a week to avoid further injury. Brennan had been concerned when she'd seen the extent of the bleeding, but Booth had been lucky to end up with only a hairline fracture of the third metacarpal of each hand. The rest of the bones were bruised, and he was in a fair amount of pain, but he did his best to conceal it.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he apologized, his voice laced with guilt. "I lost control."

"Yes, you did. However… I understand why you lost control. If our positions were reversed, I probably would've done the same thing."

Booth wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse, but he was thankful for her compassion. The scenery glided past the passenger window as she drove them home. He gazed down as his heavily wrapped hands and heaved a sigh of regret.

"Cullen's gonna be pissed."

"Well… You didn't shoot anything this time," she pointed out, meeting his eyes with a tiny smile. He gave her a small grin of his own and nodded.

"True, but I won't be doing any shooting for the next few weeks. He'll probably put me on desk duty until I'm healed."

"That wouldn't be the worst thing. I can't leave the lab until I find a replacement for Zack, and none of the people I've interviewed meet my requirements. Plus, we're very busy over the next few weeks with Parker's birthday and with school starting..."

"Yeah, you're right. I just hope he doesn't send me back to Gordon Gordon."

"I thought you liked Dr. Wyatt."

"I do, but I really don't feel like talking about…you know, why I got upset. I just need some time to process. I promise I'll do better, baby."

"Booth, stop blaming yourself. It's not like this is an easy situation."

"I know, but I've gotta get a handle on this, Bones. If we're really going to investigate those deaths, then I'm definitely going to have to look at that file again. I can't lose it every time I see…" He trailed off, feeling slightly short of breath. Brennan placed a warm hand on his forearm, squeezing it gently to reassure him.

"If you have any questions, you can ask me. If I can't remember, then I'll check the file. Alright? It's not like you're doing this alone." She waited for his nod of assent before continuing. "Are you sure you're still okay with looking into it? It's not like it's an open case for us; we don't have to do it."

"I'm sure, Bones. You need answers, and I want you to have them. I want to help you find them."

"Okay," she replied softly. "Thank you."

"There is something I'd like to ask you about, now that I think about it," he said hesitantly. Her voice sounded nervous when she responded.

"Okay…"

"You aged out before you graduated high school. Where did you go after you left the last foster home?" Booth asked. Brennan frowned, knowing that he wouldn't care much for her answer.

"I had enough credits to graduate in December of that year. I stayed in a shelter for a few weeks until I was able to save enough money from my part-time job to rent a room in a boarding house. After I graduated, I was able to work more hours, and when I started at Northwestern, I had a full scholarship that covered room and board."

"You were...homeless," he repeated, as though testing the word on his tongue. It left a foul taste in his mouth. "You ran away a couple of times too. You didn't tell me about that."

"I guess I didn't," she sighed, turning onto their street. "I didn't intentionally leave it out, I just… I don't know. In the context of everything else, the time I spent on the streets seems fairly minor." Booth watched her shrug dismissively and shook his head yet again. He was in awe of her. He'd always known she was strong, but somehow her strength still managed to catch him off guard at times like this.

"I love you, baby. So much." He carefully lifted her hand to his lips, trying to avoid putting pressure on his injured knuckles.

"I love you too, Booth."

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Booth's guilt was compounded by the realization that he wouldn't be able to swim with Parker during his birthday party. Brennan assured him that she would be in the pool with Parker and the other children, but it didn't make Booth feel much better. There were few things he hated more than disappointing his son, but to his surprise, Parker didn't seem overly upset about it. He was thrilled that Brennan would be swimming, and he couldn't wait to show his friends the diving game Brennan had taught him. The game was a simple search for colored marbles on the bottom of the shallow end, but assigning a certain color to each participant made it more challenging.

"I've been working on holding my breath for longer, Bones! I'm definitely gonna win this time," Parker told her excitedly. Brennan smiled back at him and told him to make sure their marbles were ready to go. She was in the process of filling a vegetable tray when the doorbell rang.

"I've got it," Booth shouted from the living room. Rebecca watched the activity from her seat at the breakfast bar.

"Dr. Brennan, are you sure there's nothing I can help you with?"

"Please call me Temperance," Brennan answered politely. "And no, I think everything's ready. We're just waiting on the guests now."

"Hopefully that's the first of them," Rebecca said, tilting her head in the direction of the front door. "I'm not sure how much longer we'll be able to keep Parker out of the pool." Brennan chuckled and nodded, glancing up at the doorway when Booth entered with Hank. She saw Rebecca stiffen in her peripheral, and she hoped the two of them would remember their manners. Hank was no fan of Rebecca, but Brennan had insisted on inviting her. Neither she nor Booth wanted Parker to feel as though his two families couldn't coexist peacefully.

"Hello, Sweetheart," Hank greeted Brennan cheerfully. "Did my fool of a grandson do something to piss you off?"

"Of course not," Brennan replied, frowning in confusion. Hank wheezed a laugh, but Booth looked uncomfortable.

"I only ask because it looks like he's been in a helluva fight, and you look as perfect as always. He wouldn't tell me what happened to his hands," he explained.

"Oh… Well, that may be a conversation for later," she said evasively. The tension in the room was dispelled by another guest at the front door, and Booth retreated once more to greet them. Hank exchanged a stiff nod with Rebecca before heading to the backyard to find Parker.

"He's never liked me much," Rebecca said quietly. Brennan's first instinct was to reply that she was well aware of Hank's distaste for Booth's ex, but she had a feeling that it would be rude to agree with Rebecca in this instance. She was thankful for the arrival of several of Parker's classmates, and she directed them to the backyard.

Although the party went off without a hitch, Booth and Brennan were thoroughly exhausted by the time the last guest had said their farewells. Parker was assembling a set of Legos on the dining room table with Hank, Rebecca had gone home, and Brennan was collecting the far-flung pieces of wrapping paper that littered the back patio. Booth was attempting to help, handling an empty food tray clumsily in his wrapped hands.

"Booth, put that down," Brennan admonished him. "I've got this."

"I want to help. You shouldn't have to clean up all by yourself."

"It'll only take me a few more minutes. Why don't you go help Hank," she suggested. They glanced through the large window to see Hank frowning at the Lego instruction manual. Booth sighed but agreed, planting a light kiss on her lips before heading back inside.

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Booth waited nervously outside of his boss's office the following Monday morning, diligently avoiding the concerned gaze of Cullen's secretary. He knew it was necessary to inform his boss that he'd been injured, but he wasn't particularly looking forward to explaining how that injury had occurred. He couldn't very well tell his boss the details of Brennan's foster care file or the reason he'd been looking at it in the first place.

Booth had given the matter a lot of thought, and he knew that he would be walking a very fine line in regards to running his own investigation into the deaths of his wife's former foster parents. It would have to be done off the books, with little or no help from anyone in his department. Neither Taylor's nor Hammel's death warranted the opening of a federal case at this point, and without some sort of evidence, they never would. At this point, all they had was suspicion, and that wasn't enough to necessitate bringing the situation to Cullen's attention. For now at least, the investigation was strictly between himself and Brennan. They had both agreed to keep it to themselves until and unless they discovered hard evidence.

"You can go in now, Agent Booth." Cullen's secretary pulled him out of his thoughts, and he rose to enter his boss's office.

"Take a seat," Cullen instructed, scowling at Booth's bandaged hands before returning his eyes to his paperwork.

"Sir, I apologize for interrupting your morning unexpectedly. I needed to let you know that I'll be… out of commission for a few weeks," Booth said awkwardly. Cullen still wasn't looking at him, but the grim set of his mouth wasn't doing much to quiet Booth's anxiety.

"And why is that, Agent Booth?"

"I, uh… had an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes, sir." Booth wasn't sure what else to say, but Cullen looked up from his desk with a raised eyebrow, indicating that he wanted more information. "I got a bit carried away in the gym."

"A punching bag, I assume?" Cullen asked, scrutinizing the agent's hands. Booth nodded. "Care to tell me what it was that pissed you off?"

"No, sir."

"Excuse me?" Cullen challenged.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's a personal matter. I would be betraying someone's confidence."

"Dr. Brennan." It was a statement rather than a question. He knew Booth well enough to be able to draw the correct conclusion.

"Yes, sir."

Cullen sighed and shook his head. He respected both partners, and he'd been very happy to attend their wedding. He had no desire to pry into their affairs, but something was clearly going on. This was the second time in less than a year that Booth had been overcome by his own anger to the point of necessitating some time out of the field. Dr. Wyatt had left his practice and was no longer available to the FBI for psychological purposes, but he wasn't the only shrink at Cullen's disposal.

"Fine," Cullen said after a few moments of thought. "I won't get into it, but someone needs to." Booth pursed his lips with a sense of foreboding. "Since you'll be on desk duty for a few weeks, I also want you to take that time to talk with one of the shrinks. You can see Dr. Sweets; he just started here so his caseload is light."

"What about Dr. Wyatt?"

"He's working in a different field now. Dr. Sweets is on the second floor. You can see his secretary to make an appointment, and I'll let him know the situation." Booth opened and closed his mouth several times, searching for the right words to convince his boss that therapy was unnecessary, but none came to mind. In reality, he'd been expecting this, and he knew there was little he could do but to suffer through it.

"Alright," Booth sighed in resignation. "Thank you, sir."

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"Dr. Sweets? Who's that?" Brennan asked, setting their dinner plates on the dining room table that evening.

"I don't know, some new guy. Probably another old geezer who wants to talk about my military career and my crappy childhood. At least this guy has an office, and I won't be doing odd jobs in his backyard."

Brennan hummed in agreement and sipped her wine, recalling how much trouble her husband had had when it came to opening up to Dr. Wyatt. He eventually did, of course, but Brennan had a feeling that the majority of Booth's progress had taken place at home rather than in 'Gordon Gordon's' backyard.

"So how did your interviews go today?" Booth asked, eager to direct the conversation away from his impending therapy.

"Same as usual."

"Still nobody good enough, huh?"

"No. I think Cam's starting to get irritated about it, but I want to make sure we hire the right person."

Booth nodded, understanding his wife's perspective as well as Cam's. He was trying not to take sides, but Brennan had already interviewed eight or ten people for Zack's job. She'd found an excuse to dismiss each and every one of them. He understood her reluctance, but he also knew that it had more to do with missing Zack than being a picky boss.

Brennan coaxed him into the master bathroom later that evening and began to unwrap the ace bandages from his hands. The skin was still raw and broken in places, but the swelling was almost entirely gone. She nodded in approval and began to remove her clothing, reaching into the shower to turn on the water before pulling Booth's shirt over his head.

Booth quelled the impulse to assure her that he could handle his own shower and admired her body instead. He allowed her to remove his pants and boxers, and she looked up to see a rather dreamy smile on his face.

"You okay?" she asked, laughing at his expression as well as the fact that his eyes were nowhere near her face.

"Mmhmm… My wife is hot," he grinned.

Brennan chuckled and shook her head at him, grasping his forearms to lead him into the shower. She washed him slowly, avoiding his injured hands. She had to stand on her toes in order to reach his hair, and Booth let out a groan as her breasts pressed against his chest. Brennan smirked as she rinsed the shampoo away and met his lust-darkened eyes. Her fingers stilled in his hair and pulled his head forward, allowing their lips to connect. They quickly lost themselves to the kiss, and only the feeling of Booth's hands on her back brought her back to awareness.

She pulled away, shaking her head to chastise him as she took hold of his forearms again. Brennan guided him to stand with his back against the shower wall and lifted his arms until his hands were level with his head.

"Don't move your arms," she commanded, her voice husky with arousal. Booth's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his mouth fell open as she dropped to her knees in front of him.

"Oh God, Bones…" He watched as her lips closed around the tip of his arousal, tonguing and sucking lightly. It was a sight that he would never get enough of, and he moaned deeply when she took his entire length into her mouth. Brennan's eyes never left his as she swallowed around him, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from his lips. He began to lower his hands toward her, and she pulled back immediately.

"Keep your hands up, or I'll stop." Her blue eyes dared him to argue with her, and the spark he saw in her expression made him ache to be inside of her. He did as he was told and returned his hands to their former position.

Brennan's hands stroked him rhythmically and lifted him back to her lips. She kept her eyes on him still, watching his expression tighten and listening to the change in his breathing. She felt him pulsate against her tongue and anticipated his release, taking his full length into her mouth again just as he erupted at the back of her throat. His cry of relief echoed off the bathroom tiles, but he never attempted to move his hands again.

"You take orders very well," she teased him, rising to her feet and kissing him sweetly. Booth was still leaning heavily against the wall and moaned against her lips.

"Never let it be said that I don't listen to you." They shared a laugh and another kiss before he pulled back to look at her, grinning deviously. "Let's go to bed, Bones. There are a few other things I'd like to do that don't require the use of my hands."

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So hopefully the smut lightened things up a bit, right? I have no idea when Parker's birthday is, so I figured summer worked out best. As you can see, we'll be meeting Sweets earlier than we did in the canon storyline, and I know the fandom has some mixed feelings about him. My Sweets will be easier to tolerate, I think. He won't be such a whiny, nosy brat, among other things. So hang in there, Sweets haters. He's too big in the series for me to just take him out. This story will go through the end of season 3, and I do plan on a collection of one-shots to serve as a sort of extended epilogue.

As always, please review. Not only will it give me nice things to read while I'm recovering this week, but I really do want to know your thoughts. Feedback makes the hard work worth it!