I don't own Divergent.

Hey, everyone. Thanks for the 40+ followers already! Here's the next chapter - I hope you like it. Feel free to guess about AJ!

"Four, if you aren't hurt, please leave." I grit my teeth.

"Fine," he huffs. Then he turns on his heel. "I forgot I am hurt. Can I have another ice bath, please? My ribs are killing me."

I gently push him onto the table and pull his shirt off. I feel his ribs again. By the time I'm done, he's very pale. I'm not sure if it's with pain or because he got turned on. "Nothing is broken, Four. I can give you another ice bath, but the bruises will just need to fade."

He hisses as I help him into the bath. Then I go back to my computer and some more files silently.

"Look, Tris -"

"Don't, Four," I snap. "Just leave me alone; go away."

"Tris!" Four says sharply. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to pry. It's just - I've been talking to you a bunch, and you haven't said anything."

I let out an exasperated sigh and spin around. "Look, Four, if I wanted to talk, I would."

Four grunts in annoyance.

"Tris!" Christina yells through my door. "Git your butt up!"

"But we have a day off!" I yell back.

"Tris!" Four adds.

"Why are you outside my room?"

It's been a week and a half since I arrived here. Four has been around me...constantly. I think he's trying to keep Peter away from me by staying with me...constantly. He hasn't been nice, persay, but he's been funny. I kind of like it. Apparently, he doesn't really hang around with people like he does me. I think it's just because he thinks of me like a kid sister he as to protect.

"Why does it matter? Get up!" he orders.

I don't know if I like him thinking of me as a sister.

"Get up or we're busting in there," Christina threatens.

I hurry to pull a shirt and a pair of basketball shorts on. I slept in my underwear.

I open the door, bleary eyed. "Happy?"

Four pushes his way in. "Damn, Tris. Your room is clean," he comments, grinning at me.

"Get out, Four," I order.

He shakes his head. "Shower and get changed and meet me for breakfast in ten minutes."

"Excuse you, she needs twenty," Christina interjects.

"I'll take fifteen. Thanks, guys. Now leave?" I order, chuckling.

"Dad?" I say. "What's up?" I'm on my way to breakfast.

"AJ wanted to talk to you," Dad explains. "But first, I wanted to tell you how nice he was to Mr. Parker - he gave him all of his saved-up allowance and apologized. Mr. Parker wasn't too bad about it, either. He told AJ he didn't have to give up his allowance - just said that he should be honest in the future." Dad pauses. "You should be proud of him."

"Thanks, Dad. How is he doing?"

"Pretty good. His preschool teacher's been happy with him - no more fights with that one kid that kept trying to bully his friend," Dad says. "Wait - he's tugging on my arm to talk to you." In the background, I hear Dad tell him, "Be patient, AJ. Patient. You can talk to her in a second, I promise."

I chuckle. "How are you and Mom? Has she done any new service recently? How's your job? How does Caleb like Microsoft?"

"Good, good, everyone's good," he evades.

"C'mon, Dad, what's going on?"

"Caleb went on a date," he offers.

"Let me guess," I drawl. "He went on a date to, say, a coffee shop with Susan."

"Yup," Dad confirms. "And your mother is actually at the homeless shelter right now."

"Sounds good." I hear the sound of AJ in the background. "Maybe I should talk to AJ now. I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, Bea Wee."

"Hey, AJ," I say gently into the phone.

"Hi."

"You were excited just a second ago to talk to me," I tease. "Do you not want to? 'Cause I can -"

"No! I wanna talk to you, I promise," he assures me.

"Are you playing in the peewee league?" I ask.

"You know I am. You signed me up." I can hear the annoyance in his voice.

"I know, bud. I was just asking. Do you like it?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. "A lot. My coach is really nice, too."

"That sounds fun. Guess what I'm doing?" I shift the phone to my other ear as I step off the elevator.

"Helping people train for baseball."

"Yes, sort of. I help them when they get hurt, remember?"

"Yes."

"Guess who I'm with," I tell him, waving to Four.

"Uhh…Mariano Rivera?" he asks hopefully.

I chuckle. "No, but I've talked with him a few times. Four Eaton."

"Four?" AJ says reverently.

"Yup. Maybe, if you're good, you can meet him," I offer.

"Please please please please please," he begs. "I'll be good and do my homework and not break Mr. Parker's windows and not lie and go to bed and -"

"I have to talk to Four," I cut in. "I'll think about it."

AJ shifts the phone, pausing for a second. "Papa says I have to go to school," he tells me.

"Have a good day, sweetie," I say, making a kiss sound.

"Bye. I love you."

"I love you, too." I plop down next to Four with a plate full of eggs, pancakes, fruit, and syrup. I have a glass of OJ, too.

"Who was that?"

"AJ."

Four hasn't pressured me about my family since my second day. I haven't asked him about his. "Oh. Um, that's nice."

"Caleb is my brother," I offer wearily.

"There's progress," he mumbles. "My father is Marcus Eaton."

"Marcus Eaton…the stock guy?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Oh. Caleb works at Microsoft, just like my dad. They're both system managers. Insanely smart. My mom volunteers." I shift awkwardly.

"My mom was Evelyn Johnson-Eaton. She disappeared when I was nine." Four takes a big bite of his eggs to prevent further talking.

"Oh." I take a bite and swallow. "So what are we doing today?"

"Zeke is putting together a scrimmage baseball game, with some of the pitchers and catchers, you and the girls, of course, the manager, and some others. It should be fun." Four smiles hesitantly at me. "Do you have any gear?"

"Of course," I say quietly. "I played softball from when I was three until I was nineteen."

Four shrugs. "Can you throw it on and meet me at the fields? Zeke doesn't want to start it for another hour, but I figured - hoped - you and I could warm up a little, maybe?"

I nod. "Sure. I'll be down soon." I run up to my room, leaving Four down there.

I open the bag of my old softball stuff and lay my jersey out on my lap. It's then that I start to cry. I didn't think the jersey would affect me like this. Stupid hormones.

I take deep breaths and get it back together. I put the jersey aside carefully, pull on long black basketball shorts, a big black tee shirt, my Yankees cap, and my cleats, with my "6" socks from my softball days. Finally, I grab my glove, bat, and a water bottle and jog out of my room.

"Hey, Tris." When Four really sees me, he frowns. "Are you okay? Why were you crying?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm okay," I tell him. "Are we gonna warm up or what?" I growl, setting the bat and water bottle down on the bench.

Four shrugs. "Sure." He looks down. "Damn, Tris. You have nice cleats. Ooh, and you were number six. That's funny, 'cause I'm number four and all…"

"Yeah. I got that." I jog onto the field, grab a ball off the pitcher's mound, and hurl it at Four.

He catches it just in time and then yanks the glove off his hand, shaking it out. "Damn, woman - you got an arm on you."

"Yeah, I do," I say fiercely. "Anyway, I'm going to jog out to the outfield, and you're gonna stand at home. I wanna see if you can make the throw." I jog off without waiting for his response.

Four winds up and throws to me. I catch it.

"SO DID I PASS YOUR TEST?"

"YES! YOUR ARM IS AMAZING!" I yell back. Then I jog in. "So what do you want to do?"

"Could you maybe help me with fielding?" Four asks. "Hit balls I have to field while I'm on the mound?"

"Sure. Do you guys have a basket of balls?"

Four goes and gets it while I grab my bat. He hands it to me and stands out at the pitching mound.

I grin and smack one at him. Hard. Four lunges at it and catches it, rolling it back to me. I hit one aimed at about two feet above his head. He jumps and just barely tips it.

"SLOPPY, EATON!" I scream, grinning. Then I continue to hit them at that spot until he catches them most of the time.

"Tris! Four!" Zeke calls. "How long have you two been at this?"

I shrug. Four looks a little exhausted. "An hour and a half?" he guesses.

Zeke shrugs. "Are you two ready to play?"

I nod and scan the people behind Zeke. As predicted, some of the team, the girls, the manager, and a few people I don't know stand behind him.

"Max," Zeke says, gesturing to the manager, "take your pick."

"Peter." Peter joins Max.

"Four," Zeke decides.

"Al."

Four whispers into Zeke's ear. Zeke frowns and glances at me. Then he shrugs. "Tris."

I walk over and stand next to Four. Fourth pick - not bad for me.

In the end, we have a few pitchers, other staff, and catchers I don't know, Christina, Marlene, Four, Zeke, and myself. Zeke grabs a bat and steps up the the plate. He bats lefty.

Four plops down next to me. "What position did you play?"

"Shortstop, pitcher, catcher or first. Mostly shortstop and pitcher, though."

"Did you pitch overhand or underhand?" Four turn slightly on the bench to look at me.

"Depended on the team and the league," I shoot back. I turn so I can look at him a little closer, too - his deep blue eyes and perfect face...

"Lefty or righty?" He snaps me out of my reverie. Like he would ever go for me anyway.

"Switch for both." I turn back around. "Looks like Marlene's up."

Four turn back to the game as well.

Four grabs my arm before I leave the dugout to bat. "Peter will aim for the lower right hand corner of the plate."

"Thanks." Then I tug away and walk to the plate.

Peter growls when he sees me. He's going to try something.

The first "pitch" he throws would have hit me if I hadn't moved. Same with the second and the third. I don't want a walk, so I turn to face him, standing over the plate.

"What the hell, Peter?" I shout. "Just throw a goddamn strike."

"You want me to throw a strike?" he calls back. I nod, and he throws the ball. I feel it hit me in the stomach, and then I fall over.

Four jogs out of the dugout and helps me up. I groan. Shit. What did he do to my stomach?

Four starts leading me toward the dugout, but I pull away and walk toward Peter. I slap him across the face and kick him in the balls so he falls down. Then I proceed to sit on him and rain blows on his face.

"I hate you," I repeat, like a mantra, with every blow. Then I feel someone lifting me off of him. I can tell it's Four, but I don't fight him. Instead I sigh and look at my hands - covered in red blood and dirt. Then in look at Peter, who's barely conscious.

"Are you okay, Tris?" Four asks softly.

"I'm actually better now," I say level lay, surprising myself.

"That's -"

Max enters the dugout. "What was that, Tris? You injured one of my best players! And all because he hit you with a ball."

"No," I correct, walking toward Max and lowering my voice. "No. This had nothing to do with that. I knew Peter before I came here. He is and was an awful, terrible, cowardly...he's not even human!" I spit. "This was because of something he did to me. The debt is finally repaid. I won't have problems with him again, sir."

"Good, because I need you to treat him." Max turns to the rest of the field. "The game is done!"

Everyone hurries to leave. I grab Four's and my stuff, and he carries a half-conscious Peter.

"So can I ask what happened between you and Peter?" Four asks, leaning against another table as I work on Peter.

"No."

I set his broken nose and tape it up, wipe the blood from his face, and hand him an ice pack. The only area I hit was his face, so I should be done.

"Go now, Peter," I growl. He stumbles away. I then being to treat my own hands - I split my knuckles and my hands are covered in bruises.

Four comes over and take the cloth from my hands. "I'll do it," he grunts.

I stare at him. "How do you know how to treat split knuckles?"

He gives me an incredulous look. "I know you've read my file and put two and two together. I started fighting back when I was sixteen. I used to split my knuckles all the time."

"How did you know I knew?"

"I saw my file open on your desk and the underlining you did," Four explains, gently dabbing at one of the knuckles. I hiss - I can feel the isopropyl alcohol.

"Oh. Sorry. I just didn't want to make you tell me - I don't like it when people pressure me." I am red.

"No, it's fine. Most people don't know. I guess if you're smart enough to figure it out, you deserve to know," he answers.

"And I could kind of, um, feel some scars on your back when I was checking for broken ribs," I mutter.

Four laughs. "Of course you did." He takes his hands away from mine to grab the ointment for my hands, and my hands immediately feel cold.

"Well, hey. You can't see them," I defend.

He shrugs. "I dunno." His face twists into a scowl, and he looks away. "They're ugly as hell, and I hate them. That's why I got the tattoo - to cover them up."

"Hey," I say sternly, turning Four's head to face me so I can look at his eyes, "they aren't as bad as you think they are. Trust me. I don't think they're ugly."

"Thanks, Tris." Four grabs some butterfly stitches and tape my knuckles back together, adding bandaids over those as the final touch. "I'm done."

"Thanks, Four. It's a lot easier to do to someone instead of to yourself," I comment.

He nods. "Don't I know."

I don't let go of his hand just yet, and he doesn't pull away. I just hope he doesn't notice I'm holding onto him. "Does Zeke know?" I ask softly. "Uriah? Their mom? Anyone?"

Four shakes his head, and then nods. "My old coach. Amar."

"Then I feel honored," I announce quietly, a smile working its way onto my face.

"You don't look at me like a kicked puppy. I - thank you. Amar did, and I hated it." Four looks down.

"I might consider looking at you like a kicked puppy…if you were one." I wrap my arms around him, hugging him tightly. "But you're not. You're an amazing man, Four - successful, happy, honest, and morally sound. Marcus should reaize how great you are."

"Thank you," he whispers. "But I don't see Marcus much anymore."

I chuckle. "I wonder why."

Four wraps his arms around me as well. Then he releases me and leans casually against the table. "So, Tris. Why don't we play 'I ask you a question and you ask me a question'?"

"Sounds okay." I hop up on the table and look over at Four.

"How old are you?"

"I am twenty three. I'll be twenty four in July," I answer. "What's your real name?"

"I refuse to answer that." Four crosses his arms.

I shrug. "Okay. Then I won't answer any more questions, either."

Four scowls. "My middle name is Jeremiah."

"Really?" I ask, suddenly alert. "So is AJ's. Well, his real name is Andrew Jeremiah, but everyone just calls him AJ."

"What's your name?" Four asks me.

"Beatrice Grace Prior," I respond. "Can I call you FJ?" I tease.

He gives me an incredulous look. "Hell no. Anyway, will you tell me who AJ is? Is he your little brother?"

Suddenly I feel sick. Like throw-up sick. I run over to the trash can and puke my guts up.

"Tris?" Four asks, concerned. "Tris?"

"Ugh," I moan. "I think it's from the pitch to the stomach." I sit on the floor, lift my shirt, and wince at the sight of the big, purple bruise. Then I begin pressing lightly to check for displaced organs. Shit, that hurts. Fortunately, nothing seems to be displaces, just bruised.

Four kneels next to me, looking at the bruise. "Are you okay?" Then he takes a closer look at my stomach. My scar. Shit. "Tris…why do you have a scar running across your stomach?"

I stand up and pulls my shirt down. "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm fine, Four."

Four strides closer to me and pulls my shirt up again. "No, it's not. What is it?"

"It's nothing, Four! Just go." I'm near to tears now.

"No," he hisses. "I let you in, Tris. Just let me in."

"I can't, Four." I'm trembling now.

Four sighs and pulls me into a tight hug. I press my face into his shirt and allow him to hold me. He hushes me, though I'm not crying…I think.

"I'm sorry, Tris."

Four knocks on my door. It's been a week since the Peter incident. The only time Four has let me be alone is when I'm asleep.

I open it.

"How long have you been up?"

"About a half hour." I yawn.

"Ready for breakfast?"

"What's your favorite color?" I ask suddenly, right when Four's taking a bite of bacon.

"Why?"

"I realized I know a ton of, like, deep stuff about you, but nothing little. Superficial," I explain.

"Oh. It's gray. You?"

"Blue."

"Favortie food?" Four asks.

"Spaghetti." I grin.

"Chocolate chip cookies."

"When's your birthday?" I hope he'll tell me.

"March fifteenth," he answers.

"Hey, that's soon. In a few weeks," I say, surprised.

"Yeah, I guess. When's yours?" Four evades.

"July eighth. Are you doing anything special?"

"Nah." He looks at his watch. "We should go."