Lance did not consider himself an unkind person by any means. In fact, he was pretty sure he was annoyingly eager to please. He had never really had a problem with anyone, and he didn't think anyone had much of a problem with him. But right now, he just really felt like being a dick.

He sat at his desk with his head resting on his right hand. His teacher rambled on about Avogadro's number, but he wasn't listening. He was too focused on the sick feeling in his stomach and the burning in his chest. He kept picturing Frank in the school. School had always been safe for him; neither Frank nor Melissa cared enough by the time he was in high school to get involved with his education. Lance got to come here, work hard, and hang out with Michael-and he didn't have to be looking over his shoulder the whole time.

"Hey."

Lance looked to his left to see the girl who had been assigned the seat next to his looking at him. He was pretty sure her name was Ashley, but he wasn't confident enough to say it out loud. She whispered again, "Are you okay? You seem like you're in a bad mood."

"I'm fine," Lance snapped out and looked away.

Okay that had been kind of rude. But what right did she have to be asking him that? They didn't even know each other. And what was he going to do? Tell her everything? Even if she cared, she wouldn't understand. She'd just give him that fake sympathetic look that everyone had been giving him since Dalia disappeared. It was so obvious they thought they were being empathetic, but really, they were just making him feel like a supervised child.

The bell rang, and Lance threw his unopened notebook into his backpack, zipped it up, and was out the door before anyone else. He ran down the slope of the portable classroom's ramp, stumbling through a puddle at the bottom. Water found its way into his socks, but he continued on. His feet squelched against the asphalt. That made him angrier. He wanted his feet to pound; he wanted everyone around him to hear how pissed off he was as they heard him coming.

His English class was in another one of the portable classrooms only a few doors down, but he headed in the opposite direction, out toward the sports fields. They were also flooded from the rain that had been pouring down all morning, but he trudged through until he got to the above-ground baseball dugout.

He flopped down onto the bench, tossing his backpack into the corner. He knew that people snuck off here to mess around a lot, and he was probably laying on top of a lot of bodily fluids, but he just couldn't bring himself to be as grossed out as he should be. It was better than being in class and getting stared at.

He crossed his hands over his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. A few spiders crawled around, bouncing on their webs as they waited for their prey. Lance wondered how long a spider could go without eating. He would have to look it up.

As if suddenly recognizing its cue, his stomach let out a faint rumble. He hadn't eaten breakfast this morning, too anxious in general and also totally unaware of what Dr. Brennan's rules were. He knew rationally that she wasn't going to be locking cabinets because he gave her a dirty look—at least he was pretty sure—but Lance was waiting for her to tell him how much, what, when he could be taking the food she paid for. He would just wait it out here until lunch and get his usual cafeteria Uncrustable.

He heard the bell ring again in the distance, indicating that he was officially late to class. Michael was also in that class, and he would definitely notice Lance wasn't there. They sat on opposite sides of the classroom—because Michael couldn't keep his mouth shut for 50 goddamn minutes if Lance was around—and Lance could just imagine him popping his head up to stare over everyone at Lance's empty seat. Lance took a kind of satisfaction in it. Michael always acted like he knew everything about Lance, always knew how Lance was going to react to something. He'd be absolutely horrified to realize that Lance was gone and hadn't told Michael where he was going. Good.

Lance closed his eyes. He hadn't slept well the night before. He could at least make good use of his time slacking off by taking a nap. The sound of the rain against the top of the dugout was lulling, and after not too long he felt himself start to fall asleep.

"Hey."

Lance's eyes snapped out. Why did people keep saying that to him? He turned his head to the entrance of the dugout, where Michael was leaning against the frame, lips pursed. "You come out here to meditate yourself to death?" he asked.

"Something like that." Lance pulled himself up to a sitting position. He expected Michael to come sit next to him, but he just stood there, arms crossed, his shadow falling over Lance. "How did you know I was out here?" Lance checked his watch; it had only been a few minutes since class started.

"I asked one person where you were. Everyone saw you stomping out here, drama queen."

Lance frowned. He had kind of intended to make a scene, and yet hearing that he had made him feel like shit. He sighed. "Michael, can you just…" He motioned back at the school. "I'm sick of people acting all concerned. I'm just gonna sulk out here."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Your murderer foster father who beats the shit out of you is out there walking around, coming to our school, and you want me to leave you out here unsupervised?"

"I don't need to be supervised, especially by you." Lance scowled, leaning back against the dugout wall. "I'm not scared of him."

"Sure."

Lance didn't actually know if he was scared of Frank right now or not. He was taller than Frank, had been for a few years; it wouldn't be that hard to take him down if he really needed to, if his adrenaline was pumping. Frank wasn't even his foster parent anymore, so he had no power over Lance.

Michael gave Lance a few beats to respond, then said, "Listen. I saw your FBI guy walking into the office. I'm gonna tell him you're out here so he can deal with you. Because you're obviously not gonna listen to me." He started to turn away.

"Michael, come on," Lance pleaded. He didn't actually know what he was pleading for: for Michael not to tell Booth? To just leave him alone? To stay?

Lance stood up. Michael was taller than him, but at least now Lance didn't feel like he was being towered over. "I just need to not be around anyone right now," he tried to explain. He ran his hand through his wet hair. "I'm sick of everyone knowing about my shit. People keep looking at me like they pity me—or like they blame me." He shrugged.

"No one blames you," Michael said placatingly. He crossed his arms again. Lance didn't like that it seemed like he was preparing for an argument.

"I blame me," Lance rebutted. "Seriously? I left her alone and then he fucking killed her." He stepped toward Michael, who took a step back into the rain. "I was so wrapped up in being a good little student that I left a kid to fend for herself in that hellhole!"

"You didn't know that was going to happen."

"Of course, I did!" Lance laughed. "It's what always happens! I was that kid! I just never fucking died!"

"Lance, you thought she was going to watch cartoons all day then be whining for a snack by the time you got home. Frank never gets home from work that early. You had no reason to think she was in any danger. You're a kid in high school, so you went to school. You didn't do anything wrong." Michael pulled his jacket up over his head to try to block out the rain. He looked ridiculous.

"Whatever."

Michael huffed and shrugged as much as he could holding his jacket up. "You're impossible. I'm going to get Agent Booth."

Lance punched him.

He'd never punched anyone before. He had looked up the proper form once, but it all went out of his mind as he lashed out and, as he drew back, he was shocked by how much it had hurt his hand. His heart pounded, and he drew his hand back to his chest.

Michael stumbled back, holding the eye that Lance had managed to hit. His feet slipped in the mud, but he managed to keep himself up. "What the fuck?" he shouted. He pulled his hand away from his face and briefly checked it for blood. There wasn't any. He looked at Lance with wide eyes for a moment. Then he lunged forward and pulled Lance forward, throwing him down into the mud.

Lance braced himself for Michael to get down on his knees and start throwing punches. For the shortest of moments, it seemed like Michael was preparing himself to do just that. Then he took a step back and watched as Lance pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"Get up," Michael commanded. Lance hesitated, and he added, "I'm not gonna hit you. You'd deserve it if I did, but I'm not."

Lance managed to get himself up. He was completely covered in mud. Maybe it would dry, and he'd be in a cocoon of dirt all by himself. Just as he thought that, Michael pulled his jacket off and handed it to Lance. "Wipe yourself off. You look like an idiot."

Lance reached out with a shaking hand and took the jacket. It occurred to him, maybe inappropriately, that the jacket probably cost more than Lance's entire wardrobe. He avoided Michael's eyes as he wiped off the mud on his face and arms with it. When he handed it back, Michael snatched it out of his hands and immediately started to walk back to school.

Lance watched him for a few seconds then shouted "M-michael!"

Michael stopped. He turned. He locked eyes with Lance, and Lance couldn't decide if he looked sad or angry. "Can I walk back with you?" he asked. Michael breathed heavily then nodded.

Lance rushed to grab his backpack out of the dugout and followed Michael.

They went to the front office without talking. Before they even walked in, Lance could see Agent Booth talking to one of their security guards. He looked serious, fully shrouded in his Agent persona. Lance felt his stomach drop out. He glanced at Michael, hoping to find some moral support, but Michael wouldn't look at him.

Agent Booth looked over when they walked in. His expression softened slightly, but his eyebrows shut up. Lance's breathing shortened. He tried to greet the agent but couldn't get a word to form so he just waited for Agent Booth to decide what to say.

Instead, it was Michael who said, "Agent Booth, I think this is yours." Then he left, no goodbye, no look at Lance, nothing. He just walked out.

Lance gaped at the door long after Michael had left but eventually turned to look at Agent Booth again. Booth blinked a few times then said, "Care to explain?"

Did he? He'd punched his best friend for daring to care about him, and now he looked like an idiot covered in mud. "Not really."

Lance might have been mistaken, but it looked like Agent Booth smirked a little bit. "Alright," he sighed. "Let's get you home, kid."