AN: So, um... hi.

Did you know handling three jobs and the home stretch of a wedding apparently does not allow for time for writing? I know now. I'm still playing catch-up in so many areas and slowly getting back into writing my various stories. I hope by the end of June to be back in full bi-weekly update mode for this story. Fingers crossed.

I've wanted to write this chapter for a very, very long time, but it never was quite ready to be told. It's ready now, and I hope you enjoy it.

Tag To: Mayhem On A Cross

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, alas, nor do I own Guns N' Roses' classic, "Sweet Child O' Mine". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.

Sweet Child O' Mine (Guns N' Roses)

He chuckles to himself as he drops the needle on the record and the glam rock begins to fill his apartment. Noddy Comet! If someone had told him years ago, back when he'd prowled the bargain bin of his local record store for hidden gems, that he would not only meet Noddy Comet but work with him, Booth would have laughed hysterically and flipped off the idiot telling such a tall tale.

A far cry from his melodic days, Gordon-Gordon stirs a pot of something utterly fantastic on the stove while he riffs air guitar. Bones smiles at him as she sips her wine and he shows off the sleeve, including the picture of the shrink-turned-chef.

"This is you singing?" Bones asks him in disbelief.

"Well yeah, my alter ego, I suppose you might say," Gordon-Gordon replies. "A bisexual spaceman with a taste for six-inch platform shoes, spandex, glitter and an exhibitionist's disdain for underclothing."

As much as Booth likes the guy, any line of discussion involving him going commando needs to be squelched, so he raises a glass in a toast. "Well, here's to Gordon-Gordon. Without him, we would not have been able to solve the murder."

His partner surprisingly concurs. "I hate to admit it, but it's true. To Gordon-Gordon."

And yet, the doctor is somehow unhappy with what should be a warm gesture. His spoon is roughly abandoned on the stove as he spins around. Booth knows the look in his eyes and it doesn't bode well. Shrinking is about to occur. The needle is lifted harshly and the music is no more.

"Stop, stop please. Look, this is exactly what Sweets wanted. I'm too good a psychiatrist ever to leave, et cetera. Well, no. Just put your glasses down, would you? Please?"

They both comply, exchanging a concerned look. Bones has caught on to Booth's fears and is somewhat uncomfortable. No matter what respect she might afford the man, she still hates soft sciences.

"Might I offer you a word of advice regarding young Dr. Sweets?"

"Might we try to stop you?" Booth counters.

"Why do we need advice about Sweets?" Bones asks.

"We don't. Sweets is just fine," he insists, grinning slickly at her in a desperate attempt to cut off the discussion.

Unfortunately, Gordon's not having it. "He most definitely is not fine! I've read his book."

"What, does he say something mean about us?"

Trust Bones to immediately assume it's about her. Booth almost wants to tease her, but the doctor continues and it fast becomes clear that this springs from her prior discovery of the scars upon the kid's back. Gordon, it seems, believes the kid has adopted them as some sort of pseudo-family – like a "baby duck", as his partner relates. To Booth, it's like having a whiny childish version of Jared to shove away, but the words "adoptive parents" and "find his place in the world" resonate deeply with the woman across the table. For her, the Jeffersonian is not only where she's found her own place – a family – but it's also where she strives to make a place for others. Zack Addy comes to mind as she turns to him and asks a layered question.

"We can find a permanent place for him. Right?"

Booth would rather have simultaneous tooth aches in both his upper and lower jaw, but he also remembers her pain months prior after a visit with Zack. He'd said something about questioning whether he truly "belonged" anymore after his time in Iraq.

He's already defeated and he knows it. With a groan, he elaborates on what "making a place" will mean in Gordon-Gordon speak.

"Gordon-Gordon is going to want us to divulge or share or bond or something awful," he complains.

The doctor grins, confirming his suspicions, before raising his hands in the typical manner of a guilty man caught red-handed. "Look, perhaps you might just show the lad that he's not the only one with scars on his back."

"But he is." Booth fights back a laugh as Bones quickly understands her error. "Too literal?"

There's talk of food, of it "not keeping" and Booth grimaces as he reaches for his keys. The command is clear between the lines: find Sweets and adopt him as your obnoxious, questioning child. With vague comments about hunting to Bones, he leads her out of the apartment and to the Sequoia.

"Booth, I don't understand what we're doing. There's wine on the table that I'm quite enjoying."

"It'll keep until we get back," he replies, drumming his fingers lightly upon the steering wheel. "And we're going to want it."

"So we're supposed to share scars, but not real ones? The scars are a metaphor?"

He hears trepidation in her voice and darts a glance in her direction. "Yeah, they are. Bones, you don't have to do anything, alright? Don't make yourself uncomfortable on Gordon-Gordon's whim."

"I'm not uncomfortable," she lies. "I'm clarifying the parameters of the task."

"Look, we have too much food and can't save it for leftovers. We're going to invite Sweets for dinner. That's family-ish, right?"

It better be enough, because I'm not sharing war stories or giving that kid any fodder whatsoever to make up bullshit about my traumatized blah blah blah, he adds silently.

"I'm fairly certain that to bond, we need to share a story. You've always told me that sharing with people makes them share in return. It's a form of social reciprocity, one that builds bonds."

"Bones – "

"Should we practice these stories?"

His hand reaches over to grasp hers and he's stunned to discover she's trembling. "Bones, relax. Don't hurt yourself for Sweets or Gordon or anyone else. Your life is private. It's yours to share."

She nods and remains silent for the remainder of the drive, her head bowed slightly and brow furrowed in thought. The only insight into her heart is the way she clings to his hand, refusing to release it even as he moves to shift gears. Hers follows his, resting upon it. There's a strange symmetry to it and he doesn't know quite how to feel about it. Grateful, perhaps, that she's open about her need for support. Relieved that she's just as scared as he is.

Fear or no, she charges ahead of him once they reach the Hoover, her hand the first on the knob as she enters the office and calls out to the kid.

"Sweets?" As he glances up from his desk, she quietly adds, "Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

Booth jumps in, eager to abort any scar-showing mission of his partner's. "Well, uh, Gordon-Gordon is, uh, making dinner for us at my place, family-style." He pats himself on the back for the use of the word family. "And, um, you're invited."

Mercifully, the shrink seems to perceive Booth's increasing discomfort with this damn office and its damn purpose and endless sessions without point, and he offers an out.

"Thank you, but I've actually got a lot of work here..."

Booth spins, ready to run out the door with a quick Too bad, so sad until his partner chimes in, driving a dagger into his heart.

"My foster parents locked me in the trunk of a car for two days when I broke a dish. I was a very clumsy child."

Sweets is fascinated and caring; this, Booth sees as his eyes dart wildly between his partner and the kid. But him? He's feeling his stomach begin to turn violently at the thought of a teenaged Temperance Brennan, abandoned by her entire family, stuffed inside the trunk of a car like... what? Garbage? For a dish?

"They warned me it would happen," she continues, her clinical recitation beginning to slip into emotional narrative. "But the water was so hot, and the... soap was so slippery."

She looks to him, tears brimming to the surface, and as much as his mind screams to hold her, to comfort her, he is paralyzed. Powerless. Because this is a scar, and scars can't be undone. He can't make this right for her.

"I still don't think it was fair, even though they gave me fair warning," she protests, as if pleading her case to a judge. "The water was so hot..."

Her voice breaks and he dies inside, because he can think of his own trunk, so to speak, and it's a hell he would never wish on anyone besides maybe his father, but definitely not her. The voices, echoes of darker times in his youth, begin to whisper and he stupidly cannot move, cannot save her from her own voices and memories.

"No, it wasn't fair at all," Sweets tells her gently. "It wasn't your fault."

No more. He can't see her hurting this way, can't bear to think of someone torturing her this way and suddenly, he's remembering the Gravedigger and another car and I'm putting a goddamn stop to this, right now.

"Bones, what are you doing?" he asks, handing her his handkerchief from his pocket.

Why are you hurting yourself like this?

"You said that 'scars on the back' was a metaphor," she replies. "Isn't that why we're here? To metaphorically compare scars?"

A dish crashes in distant memory and the right side of his head aches. Body memory. Keep it together, Seeley.

"I came to bring Sweets back to my place for dinner. That's all."

She accepts the cotton square and dabs at her eyes as Booth reluctantly faces Sweets. He's clearly uncomfortable with her statement, understanding exactly what it means. And if he's anything like Booth, the last thing in the world that he wants is people noticing them – thinking about their origin.

"Scars on the back?" he asks, upset.

"I saw them, Sweets," she admits.

"So..." He takes a deep breath and sighs as he rises and approaches them. "What? You decided to just share something from your past?" Bones nods and he continues. "That is so unlike you."

Ain't that the truth! Booth thinks.

"I still hate psychology," she adds, likely realizing that she hasn't reminded Sweets of this in at least 24 hours. "Okay, your turn. Go. "

And she looks to Booth expectantly.

"I came here to bring Sweets back to my place for dinner, that's all," he deflects emphatically.

In his head, his father tells him what a worthless piece of shit he is and his heart begins to race. She tilts her head at him, beckons forth some sort of tribute, and he knows he's not getting out of here without revealing something. She'll never forgive him for it. Hell, he's the one that's often said that giving personal information creates the expectation of information in return. The memories are rapid-fire but he quickly zeroes in on music, on Noddy Comet and Social Distortion and The Clash being cranked higher to erase the memory of the first gun he'd ever held and –

"Okay, if it wasn't for my grandfather, I probably would have killed myself when I was a kid." He spins to face Sweets and stresses, "That's all I'm going to say on the subject matter. Understand?"

His eyes meet hers anew and he feels that loving heart of hers break too, an echo of his own minutes ago. "Are you okay, Bones?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Here."

She thrusts his handkerchief, messily folded, back into his pocket, her hand lingering to press against his heart. Something about her touch sends a shockwave through him and he startles slightly, struggling to comprehend it. For a moment, it's all he can do to not pull her against him, feel her breathing and alive and while this isn't anything new to struggle with, the difference lies in her sad eyes as they stare into his own. His fingers graze his chest as he laments the loss of contact.

It's not possible, he tells himself firmly. You're both very, very raw right now. They're partners and he has always felt compelled to save and protect her. But her eyes...

It's a blur: something about him agreeing to come and arguing over stew or casoulet or whatever it's called, and a long drive in the Sequoia in near silence (except for a discussion of whether Sweets would be a mallard or a tufted duck) and then, there is food and wine. There is also Gordon-Gordon presiding over them like a proud papa, much to Booth's annoyance. And yes, the stew is amazing and the wine exceptional, and while yes, a few jokes are shared, it's a difficult night.

In his head, he can see her limbs folded like sick origami, rammed into the trunk of a car for forty-eight goddamn hours.

A dish bangs loudly into the sink and he startles, waiting for one to sail by his skull. Bones eyes him with scientific curiosity and he quickly shrugs and forces a half-smile.

"One glass too many?" he jokes weakly.

She doesn't reply, but her wine glass is trembling in her right hand. Her pupils are dilated. It occurs to him then that maybe she's lost in her own memories, waiting for her own dish to shatter.

"That should be the last of them!" Sweets announces, returning to the living room. "Thank you so much for dinner," he adds, looking to Gordon. "It's apparent now why you've been accepted for study."

"How very kind of you, Dr. Sweets! I do believe it is time for me to take my leave of you all. I'm not as young as I used to be. A ride home?"

Sweets nods gratefully. "That would be awesome. Dr. Brennan, did you need a ride?"

She shakes her head and smiles as she rises to her feet. "I'm taking a cab to meet Angela shortly."

"She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that
special place
And if I stared too long
I'd probably break down and cry

Sweet child o' mine
Sweet love of mine..."

Huh? This is the first he's heard of this meeting and Booth finds himself searching for desperate reasons not to let her go, many of which involve uncomfortably laying himself bare. She embraces Gordon-Gordon and thanks him quietly before nodding to Sweets. The kid is beaming as he looks to her, then Booth. Booth forces himself to his shaky feet and takes the chef-shrink's hand. He leans forward, whispering in Booth's ear.

"She wants to hide. Don't let her."

Booth nods, already cognizant of it. It's always been her way. Compartmentalizing is a clinical term for the eloquent structures she creates within her heart and mind, dividing the space further and further until in any moment, on any day, she is only thinking of one minute detail, one imperfection in one bone. She's taking her metaphorical measurements and erecting walls to divide and conquer and he has to stop her, if only for selfish reasons.

He needs to know that she is truly going to be okay.

He locks the door behind the psychology brigade and returns to the couch, where he notes that she's poured them both a glass of scotch. He looks at her askance and she shrugs.

"I worried Sweets would analyze us if we switched to hard liquor."

"He's kinda annoying like that," Booth replies.

They knock back the glasses in synchronized fashion, each shuddering slightly at the onslaught of bitter burning. She refills both glasses with an unspoken understanding.

"Where are you meeting Angela?"

She pauses before the sip she's intending, smirking. "I'm not. I assumed Sweets would have much to say if I informed him that I planned to remain with you for some time."

He chuckles. "Good call."

Her voice softens as she averts her eyes. "That's okay, isn't it? If I stay?" He tries to reassure her but she begins to ramble now. "Because I don't want to be a nuisance, but I'm feeling uncomfortable and while Angela is vaguely aware of my past, she is prone to crying and wanting to talk it through. And I don't want to talk it through."

"Bones, it's okay - "

"That's what angers me about psychology," she mutters before taking a sip of scotch. "Talking. Like that will truly help. It can't undo past events. It can't justify them, nor explain them adequately. I'm perfectly rational and objective. I can process my own experiences and move forward."

He isn't sure who she's trying to convince, but she's not succeeding with either of them, going by the fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. Gulping his own scotch – liquid courage? – he moves to sit beside her. As his arm slips around her shoulders, she instinctively leans into him.

"We don't need to talk about anything," he whispers. "You don't need to tell me about anything you don't want to, alright?"

A soft sigh, an affirmation. Relief. He pulls at the ethers, looking for a straw to clasp, and stumbles upon an idea. He'll help her. He'll try to.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Jared and I decided to build a treehouse?"

"No, you haven't. You built one for Parker?"

"No, ourselves. When we were teenagers." Booth chuckles at the ridiculousness of it.

"Did Pops help you?"

"Nope, and that's probably why the fire trucks ended up at the house."

"She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain..."

She pulls back slightly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. They remind him of the way sunlight dances along a lake during midday, tiny diamonds beckoning an athletic young boy forward along a pier until he is up, up, up and cannon-balling into the cool depths.

"Fire trucks? Booth, what on earth did you do?"

He smiles. "Jared and I got a little drunk while Pops was away for a weekend with his fishing buddies. We were talking about all the shit we'd wished we had as kids, when Jared reminds me of how we'd wanted a treehouse. Stupid me says, 'Hey, look at all the lumber out back leftover from the deck we built Pops!' Next thing you know, he and I are trying to build a damn treehouse in the blistering August sun, hammering and sawing and drinking more, of course. I'm alright with manual labour, but we were not remotely qualified to do this."

"How did the fire trucks get involved?" she asks.

"Soldering iron accident. Jared. Something about welding on a base for a pirate flag? He's an idiot. The fire was out before they arrived, but Jared was stuck up the tree at that point, so the ladders were extended and the cops arrested us for underage drinking. Pops was not amused."

Bones laughs heartily. "I imagine not!"

"It was still a good day, though. Jared and I... You know. But that day was a good one."

He smiles to himself, thinking of the way they'd sang along to the radio, riffing off handsaws and turning hammers into microphones. Even in the jail cell, they'd had a few laughs, singing "Jailhouse Rock" and a little "Folsom Prison Blues", courtesy of Pops' love of Johnny Cash.

She shifts her legs, stretching out her ankles along the floor, and maybe it's the booze or maybe it's the heavy weight of the night's revelations paling it by comparison, but either way, he pulls her onto his lap and lifts her legs to sprawl along the couch. Her breath hitches briefly at first, but she settles quickly, leaning against his shoulder. He has scars of his own, and her auburn waves are resting upon the only one he doesn't regret: the one that saved her life.

"Tell me another story," she whispers. "A happy one."

"Her hair reminds me
of a warm safe place
Where as a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by

Sweet child o' mine
Sweet love of mine..."

His hand smooths her hair absently as he searches his mind for another moment of happiness. A flicker of light outside heralds a thunderstorm and he remembers another good time, another day not poisoned by the sins of a father – his or his son's.

"Parker's always loved thunderstorms," he tells her. "Most babies are terrified of them. Loud bangs, the heavy rain falling... Not Parker. I was home on leave two weeks after he was born for a night and a thunderstorm rolled in. Rebecca was exhausted, so I headed into his room, hoping I could soothe him before he began to cry and woke her again. But that boy..." He chuckles softly. "He was mesmerized."

"Could he even see far enough at that stage of development?"

"Bones, he could definitely hear the rain. And when I picked him up and walked him to the window, he beamed at the flashes of lightning. Every time thunder cracked, his mouth fell into this wide 'O' shape, but there was no fear. Just awe."

"He had you. He didn't have to be afraid," she whispers.

"You have me, Bones," he murmurs.

"It rained the first night," she blurts out. "The trunk leaked."

He pulls her against him tightly, wincing at the mental image. "Bones, I'm so sorry."

"I was thirsty. The rain was very fortunate," she continues hoarsely. "I was able to catch some in a plastic candy container from my pocket."

"You don't have to tell me – "

"I have to," she insists, glancing up at him. "Or I won't sleep. I have to..."

"Let me help you, Bones," he pleads. "Tell me. I'll do anything."

And he will. He'll move heaven and earth tonight for her. He'll hunt down the foster parents responsible and destroy them with his bare hands, shove them in the trunk of a car. Anything she needs, it's hers. She burrows into his shirt, hands fisting in the fabric.

"After the Gravedigger... I couldn't sleep..."

He knows. He stayed with her that first night out of a selfish need to know she was safe. He stayed the second night because of her terrifying nightmares on the first. He stayed the third and fourth nights out of a silent agreement, one ended when she managed on that fourth night to sleep soundly.

The fourth night was the one where she'd fallen asleep in his arms. Being with Cam, he had refused to consider the meaning of it.

"Stay the night, Bones. I probably won't sleep well either," he confesses.

"Thank you."

Two half-full glasses of scotch remain untouched as they remain in this half-embrace full of loaded questions. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her conditioner – something organic, he's certain, reminding him of honey and vanilla – and it's all he can do not to shudder from the pleasure it shouldn't give him. This is his partner, his best friend in the world. His confidante and conscience. And yet, the voices in his head are looming larger and it would be so easy to lose himself in her, in that kiss of hers that haunts him years later. It's impossible not to wonder through the haze of alcohol and pain: if one kiss kicked his gambling addiction's ass, what healing could she do with her body pressed against his beneath the sheets? And what does it say about him that he's even thinking about her this way?

This is wrong. This is drunken lust.

But is it? The thought of sex is secondary. It's the intimacy – the safety of her embrace – that he's really craving. His own recent brush with death is surely a factor. His own nightmares are awaiting him. Is it wrong to want peace?

Fuck it. They need sleep. They deserve sleep.

She's already slipping away into dreamland when he lightly nudges her. She nods in understanding and follows him to the bedroom, where he loses his pants because at this point, she's seen him in boxers before and the scotch has pushed him beyond modesty. He tosses her a t-shirt and drawstring sweats from a drawer and moves to leave her, but she blocks his exit.

"Don't leave me alone in the dark," she whispers.

"Bones...I – "

"Just turn away, Booth. Please?"

Anything for her. It's how he finds himself standing three feet away, listening to the belt hit the floor and the teeth of the zipper slowly pulling apart, inch by inch, before her dress hits the ground with an unceremonious plop. She moves to reach for the shirt and pants and he knows he shouldn't look, knows it's terrible, but his eyes can't close fast enough and there is a hint of supple breast and black lace before he can stop himself. He swallows hard and pleads for self-control while she tugs on his clothes and is there anything sexier in the world than a woman wearing your clothes?

"I'm decent," she tells him.

He, on the other hand, is fighting a hard-on threatening to greet her, which is why he slides beneath the heavy covers on the bed before daring to look her in the eye. She joins him without hesitation, stretching out on her side to face him. Like a tortured night two years prior, she extends a hand towards him and their fingers lace together in solidarity.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"How would you have done it?"

Her voice is scarcely audible, but it's a sledgehammer to his skull. How would you have killed yourself? She doesn't believe in psychology, but it would have a lot to say about her question. He sighs, mulling whether to reply or to lie and say no, he didn't have a plan, and no, he didn't have a date or time picked out.

"Bones, do you really want to know?"

"I... I feel as though I need to. I'm sorry. It's invasive of me. Never mind – "

"A gun. My father's gun," he tells her, his voice a raspy husk of its usual self. "I was going to do it on his birthday, I guess to spite him... I don't know..."

"Pops found out?" she guesses.

"Not quite. Jared suspected something and it was the last straw... a wake-up call that he would never change. Pops took custody of us the day before his birthday."

He sighs, pressing his eyes shut as the image of the cops dragging away his drunk father replays in crystal clarity. Jared crying, blaming himself for ruining the family. Booth grimacing as the gun is found in his room while Pops cleans house.

"Nothing is worth spitting in the face of God, Shrimp! No matter how bad life gets, there's always a reason to fight through it."

"I'm grateful for Pops," she tells him.

"Me too."

The rain continues to fall, rat-tat-tat on the windowpane. With a sleepy sigh, she curls against his side, pressing their clasped hands to her heart. His left arm slides beneath her neck and around her and he is enveloped in her now. A safety blanket. Home.

He buries his face into her hair once more, hiding from his confused heart and its fevered wants and equally frantic fears. This keeps happening, this nocturnal co-dependence they share. It's not normal, but it feels more right than anything in his entire life, aside from Parker's birth. And yet, it's a toe in the sand, erasing lines not meant to be ignored. Danger. Caution. But she is suddenly so small, so fragile and he is shrinking and slipping into the darkness of a battered child's heart and none of it – propriety, sanity, FBI regulations – matters.

Tomorrow. He'll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, they're just two screwed up children seeking salve for old wounds.

Tonight, there's only Temperance and Seeley.

"Where do we go?
Where do we go now?
Where do we go, sweet child o' mine?"

AN: And then we all needed a hug.

My original outline is pretty long for this one, but I somehow feel it could be shorter. If there's a particular episode or moment you want me to explore in this story, speak now. I'm likely going to cut a few chapters from the outline. Knowing what moments you'd really like to dig into will shape my choices.

I am going to do my damndest to update The Ring In The Reflecting Pool soon. I'm hoping to write ahead a couple chapters and then begin posting once more. The Hand You're Dealt is also coming again soon.

Reviews are love and that box is so handy. Come say hi and badger me into never taking a hiatus again (ha).