The waiting room had been busy. The park bench seemed miles away from the chafingness of the hospital. In reality, it was only three or four blocks. She had lost count, had turned abruptly at the entrance to the park, had deliberately swapped the clinical for the organic green and dirt.

But here, again, she was sitting. By herself, waiting. Just as she had in the four hours after the doctors had taken her partner's unconscious son away for a CAT scan. In the four hours after she had called Booth, leaving him an uncharacteristically incoherent message when he hadn't answered for the sixth time. In the four hours after she had called Rebecca, trying to calm the frightened woman who was across the country on a business trip, even though anyone could tell you that she was the last person to try to comfort anyone.

She didn't know if his son would be fine. She didn't really know what had happened, except for the scattered explanation that Angela had choked out while Cam was bent over the small boy. He had fallen, that much was obvious. He must have climbed up that ladder and slipped, someone pointed out needlessly.

Hodgins was calling 911. Why hadn't she been watching him? someone asked. Hadn't she promised to watch Parker when Rebecca was away and her partner couldn't miss that meeting? Hadn't she offered?

Yes, she had promised. Yes, she had offered.

It was a mantra she had repeated during the ambulance ride, punctuating each sentence with a squeeze to the young boy's hand. Yes, she had promised. Grasp his hand. Still not awake. Yes, she had offered. Grasp his hand. Still no movement.

And then they had been at the hospital, and there had been nothing that she could do, because she wasn't family and she didn't know his medical information and there was nothing that she could do.

And then Booth was there, and he was yelling, and saying those things, and she knew he was worried about his son and she knew that the not doing anything was so hard because she had done it so many times before, and so she tried to reach out to touch him, to offer him comfort, because that was what Angela always said you needed to do, but he just knocked her hand out of the way and just kept saying those things.

And then people were looking and a nurse was walking over, so he lowered his voice and the nurse started walking away, but it didn't hurt any less because he was still saying those same things and they were still so mean and she didn't understand and she couldn't even get him to stop because she just couldn't say anything because it just hurt so much.

He stopped. Finally. And they just stared at each other, not in disbelief, not in embarrassment or shock or anger. Just there. Not really breathing or seeing each other or thinking about what had been said. Just exhausted, frozen.

Except it still hurt, so badly. She knew that he hurt, too, that he was scared and sick and needed to be not scared and not sick. Because didn't she feel that way now, with his son still upstairs, still unconscious, still maybe really hurt? Didn't she feel that way minutes before, when it had just been her in the waiting room? Didn't she feel that way whenever she was sitting rigidly in hospital chairs, waiting for him?

And so she understood, but she couldn't stay. It hurt so much, what he had said. And she wasn't supposed to hurt like that, because it was true, what he had said, and it didn't make sense to get upset about what was true, because it had happened and was over with and couldn't be changed, and because Booth knew about these things, these emotional things, so even if she hadn't realized it before then everyone else must have known and it would have been pointed out to her eventually, and better that her partner, whom she trusted, tell her than somebody else, right?

So she had turned away and left, walking away from the hospital until she had seen the park.