A/N: Sooo you're going to be mad at me twice (maybe three times). First of all, it's been two weeks since I updated this. Sorry! I just kept not being inspired to write this chapter, and then when I was, other things came up. Excuses, excuses, I know. Secondly, this chapter is really short. I was going to write more, but I decided to postpone it until the next chapter, so it would all be more cohesive. Also I have to go to the hospital tomorrow and get like seventeen different tests run on my brain (okay I'm exaggerating the number, but barely, they told me to expect to be there for at least 7-8 hours) so I'm kind of distracted by that and unable to write anything sufficient. (More excuses, I know.)

So that's that. Hopefully you enjoy what little there is to this chapter, and be patient... the next three weeks are hell for me, but after that I'll have plenty of time to write! I actually have full intentions to pick up The Hands in the Snow again after I finish this off (in 2-3 chapters, possibly 4... this keeps getting longer than I had ever imagined it being) and work on that, which many of you have been asking about. I didn't forget about it, I promise! Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think. :)

If I had just one wish
Only one demand
I hope he's not like me
I hope he understands
That he can take this life
And hold it by the hand
And he can greet the world
With arms wide open...

- With Arms Wide Open, Creed

That Sunday evening Booth and Brennan rode in Booth's SUV towards Talia's apartment. Brennan held a pecan pie in her lap, can of whipped cream rolling around in a plastic bag in the space by her feet. Booth was abnormally quiet. Usually he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they rode, sometimes whistling a tune or humming along with whatever the all-80s station had playing, but tonight they rode in silence, his eyes fixed on the road, hands firmly grasping the wheel.

He had, in fact, been fairly sullen all weekend, ever since his appointment with Sweets on Friday afternoon. He'd gotten up early Saturday morning and left without leaving a note, which was unlike him. She called him around noon that day, and when his phone went straight to voicemail, she knew he was not in the mood to talk. Nevertheless she left a clipped message telling him to call her later, and she did not see or hear from him again until he returned to his apartment that night.

"Did you have a productive day?" she asked airily as he dropped his keys on the small table by the front door, undoing his belt as he walked across the living room, towards his bedroom door. He looked up, seeming surprised to find her on the couch.

"What? Yeah, I guess," he said, disappearing into his bedroom for a minute before returning in his typical nightwear—boxers and a white sleeveless shirt, which he colloquially referred to as a 'wife-beater' for no reason that she could understand. Tonight was probably not the night to ask, either, as he looked severely preoccupied with something else. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, flicking the television on and effectively tuning out the world.

"Are you hungry?" she asked during the commercial break. "I made a lasagna earlier, I didn't know if you'd be back or not."

"Not really," he said dismissively, not looking in her direction as he answered. Her brows knitted together. What was up with him? If he had been absorbed in a football or hockey game she would be able to understand being blown off—that was, according to Angela, something all men do that she shouldn't take offense to, and she didn't. When she was deeply engrossed in her work, she became highly peeved when he interrupted her with an asinine question about something that could have easily waited until she was finished. But he wasn't watching sports right now, so that excuse was null.

"Well, if you get hungry later, the side with the toothpicks has meat," she said, trying to conceal her mild irritation at his behavior. Obviously something had upset him yesterday, but he wasn't being forthright with any information about it, and she did not want to press him about something he had no interest in discussing. Still, that didn't give him license to be a jerk either.

"Sorry," he sighed, as if he had been able to read her most recent thoughts. "I'm being an asshat, I'm sorry. Thank you for cooking, I'm sure it's great; I'm just really not hungry right now." She nodded, pursing her lips together and deciding not to ask what an 'asshat' was, but to assume it was a self-deprecating statement.

"That's okay," she said. "If something is bothering you, though, I wish you'd discuss it with me instead of acting like this."

"I know," he said, scooting across the couch and pulling her towards him. He pulled the hair-tie out of her hair and ran his fingers through it, feeling some of his tension immediately dissipate. "Just not today, okay? Maybe tomorrow. I just need time to think about it."

"Okay," she said, knowing she would have to understand without understanding for the time being. That was the previous night, and now it was late afternoon the next day and he still hadn't mentioned anything about it. She was having a hard time deciding whether to give him his space about it, or bring it up again. Maybe she'd ask him on their way home from dinner.

Talia greeted them both at the door with a strained smile, still in her church clothes. The small apartment smelled strongly of fried chicken, though when they entered the small room to set the pie down Brennan saw a package of tofu sitting on the counter, apparently unopened.

"I know you don't eat chicken so I got some'a this," Talia said, pointing distastefully to the package in question. "But I dunno how to cook that shit, so you're gonna have to show me how so I can make it right next time." Brennan smiled and thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and while the two women worked on how to properly make fake fried chicken, Booth wandered out the sliding glass door in back of the apartment, into the vacant lot behind it. He stood with his hands in his pockets, peering across the empty space that lead to a fringe of trees, barely blocking the view of another complex of shabby apartments. He could easily spot broken glass glinting in the setting sun's rays, and could only imagine what else lay in wait in the patchy ground cover. In an empty lot like that, hidden from the eyes of the police as they cruised by intermittently, a kid might step on a hypodermic needle if they weren't careful.

"Hey," Booth heard from behind him, the glass door sliding open. Jamal stepped out barefooted onto the slab of concrete that served as a modest patio. Talia hollered something from within the apartment about not paying to air condition the entire outside world, and he hastily shut the door behind him.

"Hey Jamal," Booth acknowledged, lifting a hand in greeting. Jamal scowled.

"What's wrong wichoo A.B.?" he asked, using the moniker he had given Booth not long before he was placed into his aunt's custody. "You look like someone just ran over your dog." Booth couldn't help but smile, shaking his head and looking down at the child, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, as was typical of him.

"Nothing," Booth said. Jamal sucked his teeth.

"That's a lie," he said plainly, calling Booth out on it. Booth sighed, looking out across the stretch of grass before them. The light had dipped behind the tips of the Virginia pines, casting their spiny shadows far across the clearing.

"Yeah," Booth agreed with a sigh. "Jamal, you love your dad, don't you?" There was silence for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye Booth could see the boy carefully assess the question.

"He's my dad," Jamal replied slowly. "So yeah, I guess so."

"No matter what he does, you'll still love him, won't you?"

"Uh-huh," Jamal said, looping his thumbs on the elastic waistband of his basketball shorts, mirroring Booth's contemplative stare into the distance. "What about you? You love your dad?"

"I do," Booth said quietly.

"What's he like?" Jamal asked. Booth sighed.

"He's not very nice," he finally said. "He was pretty rough on me when I was a kid."

"My dad ain't real nice either," Jamal said. "That don't mean he don't love me. He just mean. Lotsa daddies are."

"They're not supposed to be," Booth said firmly, looking down at the boy, who looked up at him scrutinizingly. "Dads aren't supposed to be mean to their kids, Jamal. The way your dad treated you wasn't okay, and you didn't deserve it. You didn't do anything wrong." Jamal's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again. They both seemed caught off-guard by Booth's sudden words, and it took them a minute to digest before Jamal spoke again.

"Well," he said slowly, "the way I see it, if you got a daddy at all, you should be happy. Most kids here ain't got one at all, so if you got one, even if he's mean as Cain, you oughta be glad about it. Maybe he be mean and hit you sometime and not take much time for you, but if he care enough to feed you an' give you someplace to sleep, you know, that's somethin'." Booth watched the boy curiously as he spoke, with more wisdom and understanding than many people twice his age, and when the boy concluded, gave a little nod.

"I guess there's something to be said for that," Booth sighed. They were both startled by a banging on the inside of the glass, and turned to see Jamal's two younger cousins beckoning them inside.

"Hey A.B.?" Jamal posed as Booth's hand rested on the door handle.

"Yeah?"

"You ended up bein' pretty a'ight." Booth smiled, and Jamal grinned back.

"Thanks, Jamal," he said. "You're pretty alright too."