AN: This is just my personal little exploration of an experience of one of my favorite Bones characters. It may be wildly out of character, though I hope it is not. It's just an interpretation. Oh, and, I haven't seen every episode of season four, so I apologize if any information is incorrect in any way. I was just watching the second episode of season four, though, where Daisy first appears, and was so intrigued by her blooming relationship with Sweets.

Disclaimer: Bones does not belong to me. I write fanfiction about it and sometimes wonder if that's even morally right or sane. I definitely don't claim to own the characters.

Daisy never lied. Not to me, and not to anyone else. If she tried to lie, she'd probably be horrible at it. I bet even Dr. Brennan would be able to tell.

It was comforting, in a way, to enter a relationship knowing that.

Here's the thing, though: she believed the same about me. And with that came mega moral responsibility.

I disliked lying, anyway.

And, of course, if I were to lie, I doubt Daisy would be able to tell. I obviously could make conscious efforts to restrain myself from displaying easy indicators. And, besides, Daisy had only minored in psychology. There was no way her classes had been so in-depth that she was trained to detect lies.

We had been dating for a little over a month – very intimately, but not yet actually intimately – when she had spilled coffee on my shirt. I was in her apartment for the first time, and she was freaking out. It wasn't particularly hot coffee, so it wasn't a big deal or anything. There was no pain involved in the actual event itself.

Just the post-event consequences.

"Oh my God, Lance! I'm so, so, so sorry! Ah, you love this shirt. And I've ruined it. I'm sorry."

I shook my head, smiled softly. "Don't worry about it, Daisy." I kissed her cheek.

But there was coffee all over my shirt. And I was soaked with it. It would appear insane to leave it on.

Yet I wanted to.

"Oh, Lancelot, will you please take it off? I'll wash it right now. And I'll find something else for you to wear."

Yes, it was my favorite shirt, but . . .

I didn't want her to see.

I didn't want to lie to her.

But I had a totally huge aversion to telling her the truth. "I . . . I, uh, I don't know," I said.

"Come on, Lance, please? Let me. I would feel so super terrible if your favorite shirt was ruined forever because of me."

She walked toward me. She brought her hand to the hem of my soaking shirt.

I thought about explaining to her that it would be, ultimately, my fault if my shirt was ruined at this point, and not hers, but, with her hands on me like that, it was difficult to convey psychological truths. "Let me," she said again.

I let her.

And she did. And, of course, she saw.

And for perhaps the first time in her life, Daisy Wick had nothing to say. She walked out of the room, came back, and handed me a t-shirt, thankfully a unisex one of hers and not an old boyfriend's.

She said nothing. She was looking at me, though, in a way I couldn't stand; I could feel the shift in dynamic, exactly what I'd wanted to avoid.

Except the shift; it wasn't the same as I'd expected. She didn't look pitying. She did not look patronizing. She was not running away from me or breaking up with me. Instead, she looked sad. She looked angry, too. Daisy was hyper-emotional; I knew this, but I was still surprised to see tears gathering above her eyelids, barely contained there.

"Daisy," I said quietly. I walked up to her, placed my hand on her cheek, caressed it.

"Who?" she asked in a voice that seemed unlike Daisy. "Who did this to you?"

I shook my head. She peered around my shoulder to get a closer look at my scars. She furrowed her brow, and frowned. Concentration and unhappiness. Anxiety.

"A . . . a whip?" she asked, looking completely shocked and completely horrified.

I gave a small affirmative nod and then shook my head from side to side. "No one," I said. "Just my . . . my parents . . ."

She hugged me, held me tightly; I still wasn't wearing a shirt. She kissed my exposed neck so softly.

"I'm so sorry, Lancelot." She apologized so excessively, for everything, that one might think these words would sound hollow.

Meaningless.

But they weren't; that was the thing about Daisy. I could read her – anyone could, actually – so well because she didn't hide. She felt pain and she didn't cover it up. Forget Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan; maybe I should write a book about her.

"Yeah," I said. "Thank you, Daisy."

I placed her t-shirt over my neck, covering my scars, but I knew this arrangement wouldn't last.

I hoped, anyway.