A/N: Oh man, what an insane two weeks. I was sidelined for something like 9 or 10 days with a really bad case of the flu, and wasn't even able to get out of bed, much less do anything productive. Then, someone close to me was in and out of jail, on the day before my birthday. Happy birthday to me? Then I made the long-coming decision to quit my job, so I'm now unemployed and looking for another job. Currently I'm trying to catch up in all of my classes, but I had to take a break for sanity's sake, and during that break I wrote another chapter for this. It's another one of those chapters where not much happens, but it's setting the tone for "Part II" of the fic. Mentally I have this fic divided into four parts, and we just passed through the first one. The organization won't make sense to you until the end, but now I know where exactly I'm going with the storyline and eventually you'll see what I mean.

Anyway, enough babbling... enjoy! And I'll try to update again this week, after I finally get caught up with my readings. That's my reward to myself. :)

And now we're grown up orphans
That never knew their names
We don't belong to no one
That's a shame
But if you could hide beside me
Maybe for a while
And I won't tell no one your name

- Name, The Goo Goo Dolls

An hour later, lying on his couch, his father's old words still rang through his head. Booth men finish their fights. He had stormed out of Sweets's office ten minutes before the session ended, driving haphazardly across town in a seething rage. Just thinking about it made his blood boil, but actually verbalizing the memories… it was like breathing them into life. He sighed loudly, sagging into the old cushions with an incredible weight not his own. When the doorbell rang, he found it difficult to force himself to his feet.

"Dad!" Parker yelled when his father opened the door, throwing himself around his middle. Booth patted his son on the back absent-mindedly, not listening as the boy rambled. Rebecca's gaze caught his, and her brows knitted together cautiously.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly as Parker breezed past them, throwing his belongings on the floor in his bedroom. Booth cleared his throat and nodded, rubbing his hand over his hair.

"I'm fine," he said unconvincingly. "It's just work, is all." Rebecca nodded, not understanding fully the difficulties of working with murderers but wanting to be sympathetic nonetheless.

"Okay," she said, leaving the subject alone. She'd known Booth long enough to know when to just let it lie. "Are you up to this weekend?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Booth said, waving her off. "You and Cap—Brent, you guys go have a good time."

"We're going to the Daytona five-hundred, how much fun do you think I'm going to have?" Rebecca asked in a dark tone, and Booth couldn't help but chuckle.

"Well, you can send me one of those cheesy Wish you were here in sunny Florida postcards, how about that?" he said, and Rebecca broke into a relieved smile. He was going to be okay.

"I might be able to swing that," Rebecca said, looking over Booth's shoulder as their son flipped on the television, sinking comfortably into the couch. "We should be back late Sunday, but you might have to take Parker to school on Monday morning. I'll let you know." Booth nodded and Rebecca left, kissing Parker on the cheek and ruffling his hair before she went.

"Hey dad," Parker asked later that evening as the two of them loafed around in their boxers, eating pizza straight out of the box. Booth raised his eyebrows.

"Huh?" he asked. Parker seemed to shift his weight in his seat before continuing.

"Is fighting bad?" he asked. Booth bit his lip.

"It depends," he finally said, after careful consideration. "What kind of fighting?"

"Like, if someone says something mean and you get in a fight," Parker elaborated. "Is that bad?"

"Parker, you talk with your mouth, not your fists," Booth said. "Just because someone makes you mad, doesn't mean you can hit them. Did you get in a fight with someone at school?" Parker mumbled something that sounded affirmative.

"Who was it?" Booth asked.

"Colin," Parker answered.

"And what did he say to you?"

"Nothin'," Parker said. "But he called Aleisha a… a bad word."

"Oh?" Booth said, letting his pizza hang half-way between the box and his mouth. Parker nodded.

"I can't say what he said," Parker said. "But it was really mean, dad. He made her cry." Booth set his pizza down, lacing his fingers over his abdomen and cocking his head slightly as he surveyed his son.

"So after he said the bad word to Aleisha, that's when you hit him?" Booth asked. Parker shook his head.

"Well, no," he said. "First I told him to take it back, and he wouldn't. Then I hit him." Booth repressed the urge to smile, reaching out and putting his hand on Parker's bare shoulder.

"Okay," he said. "Hitting people is bad, you know that. But sometimes you do bad things for good reasons. You shouldn't have hit Colin, but you did it for a good reason, so I'm not mad at you. But next time, just let the teacher do the punishing, okay?" Parker nodded, looking relieved.

"So I'm not in trouble?" he asked. Booth shook his head.

"No, you're not," he affirmed. "I'm proud of you for sticking up for your friend, I just don't like the way you did it. But you still did the right thing. Do you understand?"

"That's what mom said," Parker said.

"What about Brent?" Booth asked. Parker made a face.

"He said hitting's always wrong and you shouldn't do it no matter what," Parker recited boredly. "He said even if someone hits you, you shouldn't hit 'em back."

"Well Brent's an idiot," Booth slipped before he could control himself. Parker gave him a wide-eyed look, and he sighed.

"I didn't mean that," Booth said.

"Then why'd you say it?" Parker countered.

"Brent's a good guy," Booth said. "There's just some things we don't agree on. When it comes to fighting… well, you know my rule."

"Never start it, always finish it," Parker said proudly. Booth nodded.

"That's right," he said. "Booth men always…" He trailed off, realizing what he was about to say.

"Booth men always what, dad?" Parker asked. Booth tossed the piece of pizza back into the box, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"They do the right thing, Parker," Booth finally said. "They always do the right thing."

"Dr. Brennan, I'm glad you came," the tall, thin woman said tartly. Her grey hair was slicked back into a bun, and the way her narrow frames sat on the end of her nose gave Brennan the sense that she was being perpetually looked down upon. This was not actually possible, since Brennan was at least an inch taller than this woman, but she couldn't shake the feeling nonetheless.

"Of course," Brennan replied.

"Please, sit down," the woman said, offering her a seat on the opposite side of her desk. Brennan took it, but the woman did not sit. Instead, she walked along the far edge of her desk as she spoke.

"I'm Dr. Randall, the principal here at Eaton elementary," Mrs. Randall introduced. "We spoke earlier on the phone." Brennan nodded.

"I remember," she said. "Is Jamal in trouble?" Dr. Randall pursed her lips, drawing her face even more tight, if that was possible.

"You're Jamal's foster mother, correct?" Dr. Randall asked. Brennan nodded.

"He's been with me for about a week," Brennan said.

"And how is he adjusting?" Dr. Randall asked. Brennan shrugged.

"He's doing alright," Brennan said. "Being in the foster care system is difficult."

"I understand," Dr. Randall said. "I took the liberty of looking up Jamal's educational background. Apparently he attended Birney elementary, in the eighth ward. Is that correct?" Brennan nodded.

"He lived in the eighth ward, yes," she responded. Dr. Randall didn't seem to notice if she had said anything at all.

"His attendance record was very poor, Dr. Brennan, to the point that truancy officers visited his home four times over the course of the past school year. Were you aware of this?"

"I had a feeling," Brennan said, hating the word feeling for its subjectivity and the way it fell off of her tongue like a lead weight.

"My point," Dr. Randall said, finally sitting down and facing Brennan, "is that Jamal is far behind where we believe a fourth grade boy should be. Far behind, Dr. Brennan. He met today with one of our educational psychologists for a general assessment, and his reading scored on a second grade level. His math was not much better."

"Considering that his access to education has been abysmal at best, that's not really surprising," Brennan defended. Dr. Randall pursed her lips again.

"We believe it would be in Jamal's best interest to place him in a class where the curriculum would be better suited to his academic progress," Dr. Randall said.

"And where would that be?" Brennan asked.

"Third grade," Dr. Randall said. "We have a special education department that can work with Jamal and get him up to speed, but it's going to take some time. Until then, we believe he would be better suited to a less rigorous academic environment."

"Dr. Randall, Jamal's turning eleven next month," Brennan pointed out. "He's already been held back a year, he should be in fifth grade. The average age of a third grader is what, eight? Don't you think it would be demoralizing to place an eleven-year-old boy in a class full of eight-year-old children? That seems like much more of a detriment than an aide."

"I thought you might react badly to the suggestion," Dr. Randall said brusquely. Brennan flared.

"I don't believe my reaction is out of line given what you're suggesting for Jamal," Brennan said.

"I am only suggesting a course of action that would best benefit the child," Dr. Randall insisted. "As Jamal's foster mother, you should be concerned with what will best suit his needs, not your own particular feelings about the situation." Brennan's jaw clenched—never in her life had she been accused of letting her feelings inhibit her ability to objectively assess a situation, and she wouldn't stand for it today.

"Well, Dr. Randall, I don't believe the course of action you are suggesting would be in any way beneficial to Jamal," Brennan said. "In fact, I believe you are assessing the situation not as an educator but as a bureaucrat, making assumptions based on a set of test scores that may or may not be an accurate reflection of the child's intelligence and ability."

"Facts are facts, Dr. Brennan," Dr. Randall said flatly. "They are not up for interpretation."

"Actually, all statistical facts are up for interpretation. That's the entire point of scientific inquiry, to collect data and interpret it objectively." Dr. Randall gave her a sour look.

"This is not a science experiment, this is a little boy who can't read, write, or perform arithmetic on grade level. I will not allow him to suffer in a fourth grade classroom where the material is entirely over his head, when he could find success in a third grade setting. You have to be rational about this."

"Maybe if your school was able or willing to give Jamal the extra attention he needs to catch up, he wouldn't have to suffer," Brennan snapped.

"Well if you can find an educational facility that is willing to pour resources into a child who simply cannot keep up, by all means perhaps you should place him there instead," Dr. Randall huffed. "Because as long as Jamal is at my school, he will be in the third grade."

"Then I guess I will just have to find a more suitable learning environment for him," Brennan said crisply, rising from her seat. Dr. Randall watched Brennan open-mouthed as she left the office, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her.

In the time she had spent in the principal's office, Jamal had been summoned to the front desk and was waiting for her there, slouched back in an uncomfortably lobby chair. When he saw her storm out of the office his brows quirked, and he struggled to keep up with her fast, irritated strides as they crossed the parking lot.

"Did you get in a fight with the principal?" Jamal asked from the back seat after Brennan had taken a few deep, relaxing breaths.

"We had a difference of opinion," Brennan said. "Jamal, do you like that school?" He made a face.

"Hell no," he replied, then quickly corrected himself. "I mean, no."

"Would you like to look at some other schools?" Jamal nodded.

"Uh huh," he said. "I wanna go somewhere they don't treat me stupid. They put me in class with a bunch of third grade babies!"

"You're not going to be in third grade," Brennan said resolutely.

"Good," Jamal said. "I'm not stupid."

"I know," Brennan said, turning on the road that would lead them home.

A/N: Again, I know not a whole lot happened here... but at the same time, it did. Booth is having to consolidate his father's messed up brand of parenting with his own, and show Parker right from wrong when he isn't even sure about what he knows. Now that Sweets is making him question the very underlying facets of his personality and how they stem from his father's alcoholism, he has to wonder, what if he's passing on negative traits to Parker without even realizing they're negative? What if he's teaching his son to be violent without even knowing it? Where is the line, and how do you know you haven't already crossed it?

And on the flip side, there's Brennan having to make important parental decisions for Jamal without having any kind of experience or know-how. But it doesn't matter, because whatever she lacks in experience she makes up for with an intuitive momma-bear instinct. She has to go with her gut and take a stand for Jamal when no one else will, and hope that she's doing the right thing. When you're a parent, you don't get second changes - you make a decision for your child and if it's the wrong one, then you've screwed up and the kid has to live with the consequences. Just as hard as Booth is trying not to screw up Parker, Brennan is trying to jump into Jamal's life and undo the damage that's already been done.

Anyway, what did you think? Like it, hate it, bored by it? Leave a review and let me know. :)