A/N: I know you're probably all about to fall over because I NEVER post this many chapters in this many days. It usually takes me what, a week between chapters, maybe more? But I've been in the writing mood lately, and as a friend of mine told me, "if you're feeling inspired, then do it." Good advice. :) Classes start again next week, so I will be much busier... since I won't have as much time to update then, I might as well get as much done as I can now, right? I will still be shooting to update at least once a week, but I'm just saying... don't get too used to this chapter-a-day business, haha. Anyway, enough of that... enjoy!

They cry in the dark, so you can't see their tears
They hide in the light, so you can't see their fears
Forgive and forget, all the while
Love and pain become one and the same
in the eyes of a wounded child...

- Hell is for Children, Pat Benatar

When Brennan awoke the next morning, she rolled over onto her other side, pressing her face into the pillow. Getting up was inarguably the most difficult part of any day. The waking sun shone through her linen curtains, and she groaned. If only the coffeemaker could start itself.

She suddenly jumped to attention, however, when she remembered there was a ten-year-old boy living in her house. She listened for sounds—the television, music, glass objects breaking. Nothing. She threw on a robe and slippers and padded into the living room, expecting to find him reading quietly or pursuing some other harmless endeavor. When she didn't find him there, she rapped gently on his bedroom door.

"Jamal?" she called out, to no response. She opened the door and found his messy, unmade bed, clothes thrown into a heap on the floor. He was not in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the balcony. Feeling her heart race, she called his name out again. It echoed throughout the empty apartment.

Shit, she thought anxiously, throwing the door open and calling his name down the hallway of the building. I haven't had him for twelve hours and I've already lost him. She ran down the stairwell and burst out the lobby entrance, her breath catching in her chest when she looked out into the parking lot.

There he was, safe and sound. He reached down and took a handful of gravel from the parking lot, picking and choosing the largest pieces and dumping the rest. One by one he chucked them across the parking lot at a "24-Hour Tow" sign, each rock pinging off the metal like a bell sounding. She let the caught breath out in a relieved sigh, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

"Jamal," she called out. The boy did not turn, but picked up another handful of gravel. "Jamal," she repeated, and this time he sighed and turned around.

"Yeah?" he said. She approached him with her arms crossed, and he crossed his in mime, dropping the rocks from his palms.

"You didn't tell me where you were going," she said. He looked around, as if confused.

"I ain't go nowhere," he said. "I's just in the parking lot. I ain't allowed in the parking lot?" Brennan sighed, dropping her arms.

"Not without telling me where you are," she answered. "I was worried you had run off."

"What, 'cause I'm black I'm'a run away every time you turn around?" he asked bitterly, turning his back on her and sweeping more rocks from the ground. Another one went sailing through the air, hitting the image on the sign dead center. A bird took flight from one of the trees crowding the lot, cawing aggravatedly.

"No," Brennan said, choosing her words. "Because you're a troubled ten year old boy."

"What, so I'm 'troubled'?" Jamal asked angrily. "I ain't done nothin' to you but you can't trust me? That ain't fair."

"You're right, you've done nothing to lose my trust," Brennan said, understanding the boy's need for a reason but not sure exactly how to reason with a child. "But you haven't done anything to earn it either."

"Man, that shit's whack," Jamal lamented, throwing the handful of gravel at the ground angrily and storming off.

"Don't say shit!" Brennan called out to the boy, who stopped in front of the apartment door and turned around.

"Why not?" he yelled out. Brennan put her hand on her hip, biting her bottom lip.

"I… I don't know," she responded. "I just know the use of vulgar language by children is viewed negatively by society. I'm not sure why." Jamal gave her a genuinely puzzled look, then shook his head and sighed irately, slamming the door behind him as he stomped up the stairs. She rubbed her temples with her thumb and index finger, making a pained face. Last night's… what would Booth call it… honeymoon period was definitely over.

On the other side of town, Booth sat in Sweets's office, leaned back into the couch with his arms draped over the back. He stared at Sweets defiantly, his usual charming grin replaced with something a little darker, a little more aggressive. Sweets smiled back unassumingly, uncapping his pen and marking the date at the top of a yellow pad of paper.

"So, Agent Booth," he began, resting his ankle on his knee. "You were referred to me by the disciplinary board at the Bureau, is that correct?"

"Why else would I be sitting here with you?" Booth asked tartly. Sweets smiled and wrote down a few shorthand words.

"You know, Agent Booth, answering a question with a question is both an aggressive and evasive tool," Sweets observed. "Why do you think you're evading my question?"

"Maybe because I'm irritated!" Booth said through gritted teeth.

"And why is that?" Sweets asked. Booth sighed loudly.

"Because I'm here, Sweets, with you. And you are twelve. You play World of Warcraft and watch cartoons on Saturday morning and get excited when your mommy lets you stay up past ten. This is a waste of my time."

"Agent Booth, I'm sensing a little hostility—"

"No, really?" Booth interrupted, but Sweets continued.

"—but I don't think you're angry with me personally. You're just using me as a scapegoat for your internalized anger, the same anger that overtook you when you attacked Mr. Williams."

"I didn't attack him," Booth groused. Sweets raised his eyebrows.

"What would you call it, then?" he asked. Booth rubbed his face, annoyed.

"I don't know," he finally answered. "Karma. Vengeance. Giving him what he had coming to him."

"Why did he have it coming to him?" Sweets asked. Booth's face darkened.

"Because he hit that kid!" he nearly shouted. He took a moment to regain composure. "He hit that kid. He knocked him down, just like… just like that."

"And that angered you," Sweets said.

"Of course it angered me! Wouldn't you be pissed if you saw a big guy smack a little kid around?"

"Naturally," Sweets said. "But I don't think your actions were motivated solely by the inequity of the fight. Am I right?" Booth didn't answer the question, but turned the other way, focusing steadfastly on the far wall.

"Am I right, Agent Booth?" Sweets asked again.

"I don't know," Booth responded brusquely. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Did your father ever strike you as a child, Agent Booth?" Sweets asked. Booth nearly jumped out of his seat.

"I love my father," he answered aggressively, leaning in towards Sweets and puffing his chest.

"I never questioned your love for your father, Agent Booth," Sweets maintained calmly, though scooting back in his seat a bit. "All I asked was if he ever hit you when you were a child, in the same way Mr. Williams hit his son. That would certainly be a powerful motivator for your actions."

"My father did what he felt like he needed to," Booth defended. "You don't know what it's like. To try to raise a family on no money, to come back from war and… you don't know what he had to do to make ends meet. You have no right to judge him."

"I'm not judging him, Agent Booth," Sweets said. "My question was completely objective, a simple yes or no. Did your father ever hit you?" Booth set his jaw, crossing his arms over his broad chest and staring down at the table between them. He jiggled his leg anxiously, tensing and loosening his muscles. He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, sighing heavily.

Seeley Booth bounced up and down on the dugout bench, smacking loudly on a piece of bubble gum. He was seven years old, and it was his first real baseball game. Not tee-ball, where they put a big soft ball on a stand and let you swing as many times as you want until you hit it. No, this was real baseball, with a pitcher and outfield and rules and winners. He blew a bubble that popped on his freckled face, and he pulled the sticky mess off of his nose and grinned.

His father loved baseball. So did he, by default. Sometimes his dad would close the barbershop on Saturdays when there was a big Phillies game, and he would take Seeley and Jared to the big field to watch the game. On really good days he would just take Seeley, and they would have the afternoon to themselves. They would get big loaded chilidogs and cokes and lean on the railing with their gloves and strain their arms into the sky for pop-ups. They never caught one, but they always tried. When the crowds got thick dad would lift Seeley onto his shoulders so he could see over everyone, and he felt like a giant, on top of the world. He was on top of his world.

Coach called Seeley's name—he was next in the line up. He grabbed his bat and strutted out to home plate, resting the bat leisurely on his shoulder. He turned to the bleachers, where a smattering of parents sat and cheered loyally. He saw his mother, sitting in the very front row with a baseball cap covering her curly brown hair. She beamed and waved at him, shouting his name. He looked to either side of her, and his smile fell—his dad wasn't there.

Maybe he got up to go to the bathroom, Seeley thought to himself, and bolstered his heart with the notion. He missed the first pitch, but nailed the second, a pee-wee line drive that hit the ground half-way to second base and rolled just past it into the outfield. He pumped his arms as he dashed to first base, making it long before the discombobulated outfielders could retrieve the ball and get it back to home plate.

He looked into the cheering crowd, and saw his mother jumping up and down and waving to him. His father, though, was still mysteriously absent. How could he still be in the bathroom? He promised this morning, before Billy's parents came to pick Seeley up for pre-game warm ups, he promised he would be there. Grandma was going to watch Jared, and mom and dad were going to come to his game. That's how it was supposed to be. He felt something in him deflate as he slowly rounded the bases, eventually running into home plate to score. His mother was positively ecstatic, and he managed to smile for her as she snapped innumerable photos of him. He knew she would want that.

His dad never came. He rode silently in the back seat of his mom's old jalopy, listening uninterestedly as she babbled on and on about what a great game he had played. His silence didn't go unnoticed, and she looked sympathetically into the rear-view mirror.

"Honey, I'm sorry your dad couldn't make it," she said, reaching into the back seat and giving his knee a squeeze. "He really wanted to, but he had to open the shop today."

"He said he was going to close it today," Seeley said, staring out the window. "He said he would close it for my big game."

"I know sweetie," his mom crooned. "But sometimes these things happen. He'll be there next time, okay? Now cheer up, you won!" He smiled and nodded, biting his bottom lip when she turned her eyes back to the road. Big boys didn't cry—he wouldn't cry. He was a big boy. He played baseball. Big boys play baseball, they don't cry. They don't cry.

When they got home, the first thing Seeley noticed was his father's antique 1955 Coupe DeVille with the hood propped up in the driveway. The old Caddy's red paint sparkled in the waning late afternoon sunlight, and it looked to Seeley like a big piece of hard candy. As soon as his mother cut the car's engine at the curb, he jumped out of the car with his little league trophy in hand, sprinting across the small front yard. The houses in their neighborhood were tall Hardie-board structures, with deeply pitched roofs and narrow alleyways in between. They had a front porch small enough to sneeze across, and a narrow driveway that lead to a one-car garage. The one car in the garage was always dad's Caddy—the family's other two cars found themselves parked outside in the elements. They were the redheaded stepchildren—the Caddy was the Chosen one.

"Dad! Dad!" Seeley called out, braking just short of the Caddy's open door. His father was seated in the driver's throne, fiddling with something on the dashboard. He did not look up at the boy, but grunted to acknowledge his presence.

"Dad, dad, dad," Seeley repeated breathlessly, all former resentment forgotten as soon as he had seen his father's face. "Lookit, dad, we won!" Seeley's father finally looked up, squinting at the trophy in the boy's hands.

"Did you score?" he asked. Seeley grinned.

"Yeah! Twice!" he said, thrusting the trophy into his father's hands. "We won six to three, and I hit a double, dad! I got all the way to second base!" His father took the trophy in his hand, looked down at it momentarily, then set it aside on the seat.

"That's good, son," he said, turning his attention back to the car. Seeley hung over the side of the door, looking in at his dad's work.

"Dad, where were you?" he asked. "You said you were gonna be there."

"I had to take care of some things," his dad answered vaguely.

"But you said you were gonna—"

"Damnit, Seeley, I had things I had to take care of, alright?" his dad yelled, grasping the steering wheel in white-knuckled fingers. In later years Seeley would understand—the bleary eyes, the sharp smell on his father's breath. He would understand one day, but this was not the day.

"Oh… okay," Seeley said, turning his eyes towards the ground and resting his chin on his arms.

"And get off the Caddy, willya?" his dad said, grabbing the boy's arms in his rough hand and shoving him backwards. Seeley attempted to control his balance but lost it, and fell onto his butt on the pavement. One of his elbows partially broke his fall, and the skin sloughed off. He felt tears prick his eyes, but he was determined not to cry.

"Ow," however, did escape his lips. His father looked around the side of the open door, eyes narrowed.

"Ow? What, that hurt?" he asked, stepping out of the car. Seeley cradled his skinned elbow in his opposite hand, looking up at his very tall, very intimidating father. He did not look happy.

"A little," he whispered, thinking as soon as the words left his mouth that he maybe should not have answered at all.

"A little? What the hell kind of player d'ya think you are, can't even handle a scrape? What, bust your ass on the pavement and you wanna go cry about it? Sheesh, get the hell out. I'm glad I didn't go to that stupid game; I don't wanna see a bunch of whiny-ass kids cryin' all over the field. Get up." Seeley turned his eyes to the pavement, determined not to look his father in the face. Big boys don't cry. Baseball players don't cry. They don't. They won't.

"I said get up!" his father hollered, snatching Seeley up by the arm and yanking him to his feet in one sudden jerk. He had barely regained his balance when he felt his father's broad hand shove him down onto the pavement again, this time knocking him square in the back. This time his palms reached out in front of him, bearing the brunt of the fall. They immediately began to bleed, droplets staining the pressure-washed cement.

"Did that hurt, huh?" his father yelled down at the boy, who whimpered quietly but did not reply. "You gonna cry about that too? Big fuckin' baby, sheesh. Wipe your snot and grow a set, and don't come back into my house until you do." With that his father stormed into the house, screen door banging behind him. His mother had already left to pick his little brother up from their grandmother's house. He was very alone.

He pressed his bleeding palms together in an attempt to stop the blood flow, which worked moderately well. He wiped his nose on his jersey sleeve, blinking his eyes hard. The sun dipped down behind his house, casting the building's large, heavy shadow over him. He pressed the back of his hands against his eyes, forcing the water back in. He wouldn't cry. Big boys don't cry.

A/N: This chapter was kind of difficult for me to write, for various reasons. There's not much more to say about that. Also, the song quoted at the beginning of this chapter ("Hell is for Children" by Pat Benatar) is a great piece, something everyone should listen to at least once. So is the song in the previous chapter, "Father of Mine" by Everclear. In fact, I personally think all the songs I quote in the beginnings of chapters are good songs... so you can always take that as a suggestion to listen. :)

So, what did you think of the chapter? Please leave a review and let me know!