As I was listening to my saddest song mix, I got a few reviews for my other fics, and thought 'hmm, i really ought to update...' but this mix doesn't fit the tone of any of my in-progress fics. You know what that means... new story. :) hope you like. please, please R&R.

It gets to you after a while. It's inevitable. Sometimes, I'm really afraid that the world is full of people just looking out for themselves, their needs, their wants, their desires. The people who are supposed to love you don't or can't or won't. The decent people in the world.. they can't be expected to love more and care more to pick up the slack. It's not fair to ask that of them. I just hope that they might, anyway.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

"Bobby, you had that looks, like you were a thousand miles away."

"Sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "It's not important."

"Liar." But she looked away, and turned on the ignition.

People are tough to read. That's why Bobby's so 'special' ... he can read people. He can see the flicker of pain behind the eyes. He can smell emotional blood. That kind of skill doesn't just come out of nowhere. That isn't a gift that graces people who've never felt pain. It's the make-you-or-break-you talent. It's the talent that comes from years of introspection, of questioning if it's you or them that's crazy. It hurts knowing that. It hurts knowing that anyone who gave it a second thought should be able to figure it out. It shouldn't take a sociopath to put two and two together. But no one asks. The vaguest of explanations will do. No one wants to know what it takes to be his kind of genius.
"How'd you get so smart,"

"You don't want to know." He smiled over his beer.

"Yeah, I do."

"You're dumber than you look."

"If you don't want to tell me, I'll respect that."

He shrugged at her. This was just part of the 'getting-to-know-you' routine. The standard bullshit dinner and drinks he'd done countless times, with countless others. He wasn't about to pour out his life story to some tough little girl from vice over a beer. Especially not when all he'd get was pity afterwards. He didn't want or need pity.

"Look, I had a tough time growing up. I mean, anyone who has a good time growing up is abnormal now, anyway. It isn't that I don't want to tell you, it's that I have nothing to tell you. No big secrets, no monsters under the bed."

"Liar."

He stared at her.

"Everyone's got monsters under their beds. You don't get to this age, doing this job without a couple of monsters waiting to jump you."

I never told her. I never needed to.