A/N: So I'm sensing a trend here... post several chapters in several days, wait a week and a half, then post several more chapters in several more days. :) I just have to take advantage of writing time whenever I have it, and today I did. The rest of this week is most likely going to be rather busy for me, though, so this might be it for a week or so. By the way, I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter even though next-to-nothing happened. This chapter is a lot more active... but you'll see that when you read it. With that said, enjoy!

Please don't believe me when I say I'm okay
Look a little deeper for the words that I can't say
I'm too small to stand alone,
I sure could use a friend
Help me learn to trust someone again
Don't leave me
Please don't believe me...

- Please Don't Believe Me, Alan O'Day

"I don't want to." Jamal articulated the words very clearly and very loudly on Monday morning, thin arms crossed over his chest, jaw set. Brennan stood in the doorway of the boy's bedroom with a hand on her hip, leaning against the other arm in the doorframe.

"You have to go to school," she said for the third or thirtieth or three-thousandth time that morning. It was hard to keep track anymore. He shook his head.

"Uh uh," was his response. Brennan took a few steps and sat on the edge of the boy's mattress, smoothing her robe and looking at him eye level.

"Why not?" she asked. Jamal sighed.

"'Cause it's school, duh," he said. She shook her head.

"If you can't give me a logical reason why you shouldn't go to school, you'll have to go," she said.

"What's logical?" Jamal asked.

"It means something that makes sense," Brennan replied. Jamal threw his hands up.

"What you don't understand about I don't wanna go to school? Makes damn fine sense to me!" he said, raising his brows at her.

"Don't say damn," Brennan said, seemingly as a reflex now. She had said that fill-in-the-blank phrase, Don't say _____, so many times over the weekend that she didn't really even think about it anymore.

"I'm'a say damn if I wanna, and I'm not gonna go to school," Jamal said with a tone of finality. Brennan sighed, agitated.

"No, you're not, and yes, you are," she responded. "Just because you don't want to, isn't a good reason not to go."

"Sound like a good reason to me," Jamal said.

"Well, it's not," Brennan said. "Sometimes I didn't want to get up and go to school as a kid, but I had to anyway."

"Sucks to be you," Jamal said. "I ain't goin'." Brennan gritted her teeth, feeling the end of her rope draw frighteningly close.

"You're going to school, Jamal," she said. "We're zoned for a very nice elementary school here, the teachers are excellent and the school consistently ranks in the top of the district for—"

"I don't care!" Jamal shouted. "I'm not goin'! I don't care 'bout the teachers or the kids or nothin', I don't care. I'm not goin'." Brennan chewed on the inside of her cheek, quelling her anger. She knew, deep down, why he was being difficult.

"Jamal," she said quietly, suppressing the urge to scream his name across the room as loudly as possible. "I know why you don't want to go to school."

"Yeah, bet," Jamal said, leaning in the corner of the room against the wall and staring down at his sock feet.

"I do," Brennan said. "I know this is difficult for you. It's a new school, with new teachers and kids you've never met before. You're scared."

"I ain't scared!" Jamal said, jumping up. "I ain't scared of nothin'."

"I think you are," Brennan said. "I think you're afraid none of the other kids will like you, or that maybe they'll know you're… that you're a foster kid and won't want to be friends with you. Or maybe the teachers will treat you differently because…"

"You're wrong," Jamal said, glaring. "I'm not."

"It's okay if you are, you know," Brennan offered. He set his jaw and was quiet, the two of them staring at each other from across the room. Suddenly he snatched his shoes up off the floor, sitting at his desk chair and shoving his feet into them without bothering to undo the laces.

"Scared, puh," he said dismissively, yanking back the tongues of the high tops and forcing his heel down into the bottom. "I ain't scared. And I'm'a show you, I'm'a pick up this backpack and walk my sorry ass down to the bus stop and go to your stupid school and show you, I ain't scared." He pulled one strap of the backpack over his shoulder and stood up, eyes still narrowed at her.

"Thank you, Jamal," Brennan said kindly, walking behind him as he left the room.

"Thank you nothin'," he said crabbily. "I ain't doin' nothin' for you, Doc, I'm just showin' you that I ain't scared."

"That's fine," Brennan said. "Don't forget your lunch." He paused on his way towards the door.

"My what?" he asked. Brennan motioned towards the counter, where a brown paper lunch bag stood upright, weighed down by its contents.

"Your lunch," she said. "I made you lunch. I don't really know what you like for lunch so I just made a turkey sandwich and some…" Before she could finish her sentence, the boy had snatched the bag from the counter and bolted, coat flapping behind him as he pealed out, allowing the heavy door to slam behind him. Brennan sighed, and turned her attention to her cold coffee in his absence.

oOoOoOoOo

Booth drummed his fingers against the chair's smooth, curving wood armrest. The thumps were rhythmic and satisfying, and increased in intensity every time he looked up into Sweets's calm, unassuming gaze. The calmer and more pleasant he got, the angrier it made Booth feel, for a reason he could not pin.

"Agent Booth," Sweets began, clicking his pen and resting one ankle on the opposite knee like he so often did. His socks were plain and black—the same kind of socks he wore every day. Booth noticed those kinds of things; that was his job, to be observant of people. Brennan may think she was the people-watcher, with all her anthropological whatever, but Booth was the real watchdog.

He doubted if she could list off the different types of ties Sweets wore in their meetings, or the way he held his pen up by his face when he was trying to gauge Booth's feelings and responses. When the pen came down, it meant Sweets thought he knew something—Booth could easily make that pen rise back towards his face with something as small as an inclination of his chin, or an eyebrow movement. Sometimes it was a game—how many times in one session he could throw Sweets off. In these sessions, though, he was focused on other things.

"Yeah?" Booth asked when Sweets did not continue. Sweets brought the pen up by his chin, clicking it again. Booth turned his head slightly, trying to wipe all hints of emotion from his face. Tabula rasa; a blank slate.

"Well, it's been three days since our last visit," Sweets said. "Last time we discussed—"

"I remember," Booth said curtly, cutting him off. Sweets clicked the pen again. If he didn't stop, Booth was going to come across that coffee table between them and snap that thing in two. Whether that thing meant the pen or Sweets, he couldn't be sure.

"You were seven at the time, is that right?" Sweets asked. Booth nodded, but didn't offer anything else. Sweets clicked the pen again.

"Stop it," Booth growled. Sweets looked up.

"Stop what?" he asked.

"Clicking that stupid pen," Booth replied. "It's driving me nuts."

"You're on edge, Agent Booth," Sweets said calmly. His calm demeanor aggravated Booth even further. "Is it the pen bothering you, or is it your lack of control over the environment?"

"Don't psychoanalyze me, kid. Sometimes a pen is just a pen, and it's gonna be a pen out the damn window if you don't stop clicking it," Booth said, crossing his arms. Sweets smiled—Oh how I would love to wipe that stupid grin off his stupid face, Booth thought angrily—and set the pen down on the table.

"Fine," Sweets said, putting both feet on the ground and leaning in on his knees, fingertips touching lightly. "Anyway, pens aside, control has always been an issue in your life, hasn't it?"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Booth asked.

"It means that your father's alcoholism left you, as a child, without any sense of control in your life. People in your situation—"

"And what situation is that?" Booth challenged.

"Well, children of alcoholic parents. ACoA's, in your case. Adult Children of Alcoholics."

"So what, you think you can psycho-head-shrink me and put me into some stupid category with everyone else?" Booth asked. Sweets shook his head.

"No, Agent Booth. I'm simply stating that children who grow up in alcoholic households tend to exhibit some of the same psychological symptoms as adults. Their childhood home was ruled by chaos, unpredictability, and illogicality. Often times, as was your case, violence is also a major part of the home. That leaves a lasting impression on a child."

"Right," Booth said dismissively.

"You're a hero, Agent Booth," Sweets said.

"What, now you're gonna try to flatter me?" Booth asked. Sweets smiled.

"No, that's not what I mean. There are four broad roles that children of alcoholics fall under. The hero, the adjuster, the placater, and the scapegoat. The hero is the one who takes all the responsibility on their shoulders, who takes it upon themselves to make sure the family looks 'normal' to outsiders. They take responsibility for everything that happens, inside and outside of the home, whether or not it's actually their yoke to bear.

"Your brother, on the other hand, from what I've observed acts like a typical scapegoat. They're the trouble kids in the family. They act out and often fall into their own patterns of drug and alcohol abuse, as a way of expressing their anger. Heroes don't get angry—not at anyone else, anyway. Heroes get angry with themselves for not being able to make everything perfect. Scapegoats take that anger and project it outward, into their actions. Sound about right?" Booth didn't respond, but set his jaw, staring at the far wall.

"You don't have to answer me, Agent Booth, but you have to understand. Your father's alcoholism had a profound impact on you, on you and Jared both. It influences your thoughts and actions every day, and until you square off with that, it's going to keep coming back to haunt you."

oOoOoOoOo

"Mom, stop," Seeley said, squirming in his seat on the kitchen counter. His father had left for work before they awoke; he probably didn't remember the night before. His mother probably made him coffee, black, and two sandwiches to take for lunch. She probably kissed him on the cheek as he walked out the door—maybe it was still scruffy from the last long night. He would shave when he got to the shop, before he opened it up. He would make himself presentable to the world.

"Just a little more," his mom said, holding his chin with one hand and dabbing concealer under his left eye with the other. It was still puffy—no amount of make-up could cover that—but it didn't shine dark purple like it had before. Now it was only a dull, dark mark on the little boy's face—only a remnant.

"Okay, almost done," she said, reaching for the powder. Seeley groaned, trying to jump off the ledge of the counter before she could cake his face with the stuff. She grabbed his arm and, with the strength that always amazed him, held him put.

"Mo-om," he whined as she tapped the pouf against the compact, shaking off the loose make-up. She patted it along his under-eye and cheek, blending it out towards his hairline in gentle strokes. She had always been good at her job, writing jingles for commercials, but her real skill was make-up artistry—in the way movie artists could create bruises, cuts, and mutations from nothing, she could cover up even the darkest black eye and make it disappear. After all, practice makes perfect.

"Alright," she said, standing back and admiring her handiwork. She could still detect a dark shadow beneath his eye, but perhaps to those who did not know, it would go unnoticed. "You can go now, don't be late!" Seeley jumped off the counter and beelined towards the door, grabbing his coat and backpack off the hanger.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" his mom asked. He smiled, trotting back across the living room to bestow a kiss upon her cheek. She pecked his forehead and ruffled his hair. He smiled, she smiled, and he left, carefully skipping cracks in the cement the whole way to school.

That afternoon at recess, squashed between math and spelling, a vicious wall ball tournament raged on. Nearly all of the boys in Mrs. Dougherty's fourth grade class were involved in some way, including Seeley Booth. He wasn't the fastest kid, but he made up for it by never dropping the ball. He also had a mean pitching arm—if some poor sap fumbled the tennis ball anywhere near him, that kid was toast.

"Don't drop it," Mark Foster heckled as Seeley snatched the ball out of the air, turning on his heel before hurling it at the side wall of Mr. Finke's fifth grade classroom. The ball sailed gracefully through the air, pinging off the brick and rebounding towards the crowd. Seeley smiled smugly—next time he got the ball, he'd be sure to pelt it in Mark's direction. Play continued on for a while like that, with Seeley occasionally aiming the ball at Mark's back. It was the best rule of the game, by far.

"Stop!" Mark shouted, fumbling the tennis ball but finally securing it in his hands. Seeley sneered—he and Mark disliked each other on a very fundamental basis. Mark's family was rich, Seeley's wasn't. Mark's family got skybox seats to the Phillies games every weekend, and hobnobbed (and used words like hobnobbed) with the coaches and players afterwards. Seeley was lucky if he could toss his ball down into the dugout and retrieve it with a few signatures.

But Seeley had what Mark didn't, too—he was bigger, stronger, and always got picked first for teams. Plus Seeley's family was Catholic and Mark's were Protestant, which the boys had no understanding of aside from that it meant Seeley couldn't eat hamburgers on Friday, and Mark couldn't recite a Hail Mary if his immortal soul depended on it. So fundamentally, they were at odds, and they vented those pent-up little boy frustrations in the only arena they had.

"Whacha gonna do about it?" Seeley taunted, holding his arms out. Mark responded wordlessly—he pelted Seeley square in the chest with the tennis ball. Before he could register the action, the ball hit the gravel at his feet, and all hell broke loose.

Seeley bolted for the brick wall, which seemed much farther away than before. His opponents scrambled for the ball—if one of them could pick it up and hit the wall, or Seeley, before he touched the wall, he'd be out. Being out wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but letting Mark Foster have the satisfaction of being the one who got him out… it was more than his nine-year-old ego could handle.

He was closing in on the wall, and turned to evaluate his enemy's progress. He smiled when he saw them shoving each other out of the way, each fighting to be the one to grab the ball and get him out. Seeley almost always won—it was a bragging right to get him out of the game. If things went his way, none of them would get to enjoy that right.

He turned back towards his destination, only to realize it was much closer than he'd anticipated. He tried to slow himself down, but the soles of his shoes slid on the loose gravel underfoot, causing him to lurch forward towards the wall. He hit it face-first, with enough force that he bounced backwards and fell on his back, eyes flashing with little white stars.

When his vision had cleared, he opened his eyes and saw a circle of spectators huddled around him, staring down with wide eyes. Meanwhile, Mark Foster had scooped the ball up off the ground and wandered lazily over to where Seeley lay, smirking.

"Gotcha," he said as he dropped the ball onto the boy's abdomen.

"Hey dummy," Seeley spat. "I already touched the wall."

"Face-plants don't count," Mark replied. Seeley sat up, his head spinning.

"Says who?" he challenged.

"Says me!" Mark replied, puffing out his small chest.

"You an' what army?" Seeley asked, now risen to his feet and standing quite a few inches over Mark.

"Me an' this army!" Mark lunged towards him, fists flying, and Seeley was more than happy to return the favor. Soon both boys were wrestling on the ground, leaves and bits of gravel flung about as a circle of children cheered and hollered. Before long a passing teacher heard the commotion and broke up the fight, verbally reprimanding the boys before sending them both off to the nurse's office.

"Fighting? Seeley, that's not like you," Nurse Himmel commented as she sat the boy up on a stool and took a closer look at the cut across his cheek. It wasn't from the fight with Mark, but rather, the one with the wall.

"He started it," Seeley maintained, wincing as the nurse swabbed a cotton ball dipped in alcohol across the cut.

"And apparently you finished it, you nearly broke his nose," Nurse Himmel chastised, her brows furrowing as she looked down at the peachy residue on the cotton ball. "Seeley, are you wearing make-up?"

"What?" he asked in a panicked tone. Nurse Himmel grabbed another cotton ball and dunked it in alcohol, scrubbing his cheek with it. As the dark bruise revealed itself, he heard her breath catch in her chest.

"Oh my," was all she said, gingerly wiping away at the area and revealing more and more of the damage. When she was done, she had revealed a very badly hurt little boy who refused to look her in the eye. "Seeley, what happened?"

"I got in a fight," he said.

"With who?" she asked cautiously.

"My brother," he said without pause, perfectly rehearsed.

"Little Jared? But he's only seven," Nurse Himmel pointed out. "How could he have done that?"

"He pushed me… into a… uh… table," Seeley said, willing the words to come to him. "Yeah, that's it! He pushed me, right into the corner of the coffee table, wham. Gave me a big ol' shiner."

"I see," Nurse Himmel said, biting her bottom lip and shaking her head slightly. "Well, go on Seeley. The principal gave me this note for you; your parents have to sign it and you have to bring it back tomorrow. Okay?" He nodded as she pinned the note to the front of his jacket, sending him back to class.

Later that afternoon, Seeley dragged his feet on the way to his father's barbershop. He was afraid of what his dad would say, but he knew it was better to tell him in public than to wait until they were in the privacy of their own home. This way, his dad still had a few hours to cool off before he got home. Also, he wouldn't be drinking.

"There's my boy!" his dad called out when Seeley walked through the front door, dropping his backpack on the floor and running across the tall, narrow shop to hug his father.

"That ain't Seeley," his father's friend argued. "He's too big!"

"I tell ya, every time I turn around this kid's a foot taller," his dad boasted, squeezing his shoulder. "Hey Seel, what's that note you got there?"

"I uh… I got in a fight, dad," Seeley said quietly, unpinning the note and handing it to his father. His dad pulled the reading glasses out of his pocket and placed them on the bridge of his broad nose, looking down at the principal's tidy script.

"I see," his father said slowly. "Did you start it?"

"No!" Seeley nearly shouted, not realizing his volume. "No sir. Mark Foster did, he started it an' I just—"

"He finished it!" his father's friend shouted, leaning over from the chair he occupied and slapping Seeley on the back. "Didja win, kid?"

"Yeah," Seeley said, nodding.

"Yeesh, if you won, I'd hate to see what the kid who lost looks like," his dad said, kneeling down and lifting Seeley's face slightly to better look at him. "That's one helluva shiner, kid."

"Yeah," Seeley said, eyes flicking from his father's kind face, to his friend's bright smile, back to his father. He couldn't tell whether it was a front, or if his dad genuinely didn't remember the previous night. He could never tell with him.

"Well, I'm proudaya, son," his dad said, rising and ruffling his hair. "This kid's a Booth through-and-through, he finishes his fights!" The men joked and laughed amongst themselves, sharing stories from their own long-lost youths, and Seeley gently touched the bruise on his face. Booth men certainly finished their fights.

A/N: A few chapter-related notes... first of all, all of the information about ACoA's is straight from a phamplet titled, aptly enough, "Adult Children of Alcoholics." Because I am a big fan of giving credit where credit is due, the pertinent information gleaned from this pamphlet can be sourced to the books It Will Never Happen to Me by Claudia Black, and Safe Passage: Recovery for Adult Chidren of Alcoholics by Stephanie Brown.

Also, I would like to point out that you guys are so much smarter than me. xD It didn't even occur to me while writing the last chapter, that it would have been possible for Brennan to attend both public and private school. But most of you were kind enough to point that out to me, which I am grateful for. I had a definite facepalm moment when I read that first comment that enlightened me to that possible scenario... oy. So anyway, thanks for helping me with that little nugget of possibility. :)

Oh, and on a third and much less important but equally entertaining note... wall ball is the best friggin game ever. Does anyone else remember playing this on the playground? If you've never played wall ball, please do yourself and humanity a favor and look up the rules of the game online, collect a few friends and a tennis ball, and go play. It's the best thing you'll ever do for yourself.

Okay, I'm really done rambling now. What did you think about this chapter? Leave me a review and let me know!