Jack Hodgins had been in many difficult situations. He had nearly been killed at least three times during murder investigations, and had been rejected by Angela more times than he could count (before they'd finally gotten married in a jail cell). And yet, he still found sitting in Vincent's hospital room alone to be…painful.

It was twelve o'clock at night. Dr. Brennan had finally needed to get up from where she sat on the edge of Vincent's bed to use the bathroom. Angela had gone with her, giving the small intern a nervous look as she followed her friend out. Cam had taken Michelle home just a few minutes ago, despite her daughter's desire to stay. Fischer and Wendell had gone home nearly half an hour before, with the promise that they would be called if there was any change at all. Arastoo had gone with them. Agent Booth had left nearly half an hour ago to 'go get the duckling'. Hodgins hadn't pushed the issue. He had other things to think about. And they hadn't been able to get into contact with Daisy.

It wasn't so much that he had any particular attention to Vincent…well, that was a bit of a lie. Since they'd been working on the dinosaur project, he'd begun to think of the young man more as a friend. It wasn't the first experiment they'd done together either. Though Cam was now almost paranoid when it came to cannons, firing one indoors had been more than worth it. After he'd lost Zach…it had been harder.

Zach, despite his lacking knowledge of relating to others, acting human, and normality in general, had been his closest friend. There was something about Zach that he'd just understood. And Zach had understood him. After he'd Zach had been admitted…Hodgins had been sure he'd never have a friend anywhere near that again.

And then Vincent had showed up. Small, none too athletic, overly intelligent, squinty as the rest. And annoying as hell. Which was exactly how he'd thought of Zach, when he'd first shown up. They hadn't hit it off well, at first- him and Vincent. It was almost as though history was repeating itself. The initial irritatation, and then the slow warming up. The thrilling feeling when they'd done their first experiment together. And though the Brit hadn't ended up living above his garage…

Granted, he hadn't been a replacement for Zach. But he'd helped fill a little bit of the void that Dr. Brennan's assistant had left when they'd put him in the asylum. Insane, his ass. Zachary Uriah Addy was more sane than he was.

Glancing over his shoulder to ensure that no one else was in the room, Dr. Jack Hodgins stood and walked over to stand right next to Vincent's bed. He leaned over the still figure, staring it him. Please wake up right now. It didn't work, obviously. Telekinesis and telepathy were the stuff of movies. Taking one of Vincent's cold, clammy hands in one of his own, Hodgins touched his forehead briefly with the other.

"Hey, kiddo." It was silly talking to someone unconscious. They couldn't hear you. But he was doing it all the same. "Hey, Vince. I know that's what Wendell calls you when you're upset. Or sick. Or whatever." Hodgins paused, taking a deep breath. "We miss you, kiddo. Even though you're right here and it's only been half a day. You're tough. You can handle this. It was just a stupid bullet." He swallowed, "You've got that conference, you know. It's this weekend, Vince. You can't miss the conference. You've been working on it for forever with Dr. Brennan. She can't present it alone. It's not hers, it's both of yours." He paused, closing his eyes. He hadn't cried in a long time. Not since Zach had gone, and even then it had been alone, sitting in his car with the radio up loud. Certainly not in a hospital. God, he hated hospitals. "You know what I'm talking about. With the damn dinosaur costume that I spent all that time working on so that'd would actually work." Hodgins fell silent for a moment, "Dr. Brennan needs you. You're her favorite. And you haven't even gotten a chance to meet Ange's baby…"

Hodgins trailed off. "I sound like a goddamn idiot." A few moments later, there was a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to the side slightly. Angela.

She offered him a watery smile, "Bren said we should just go home," she took a deep breath. "With the baby and all…and there's not anything we can do for him here. Not here, not anywhere else."

"Brennan's staying," he said, stupidly. Idiot. Why was he arguing with his wife? Not arguing, exactly, but disputing something with her. He took a few steps back from the bed, away from Vincent. Angela wrapped her arms around him, and he did the same. Holding her. Because that's what they all needed, really. Someone to rely on. She seemed to understand it wasn't a protest, just a statement.

"She's staying because she feels responsible. I tried reasoning with her…" Angela paused, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I don't believe in 'impossible', but it's as close to that as things get, convincing her to leave. She says she wants to be here when he wakes up." There was a pained look on her face. A pained look that clearly said what they both knew. If he woke up. If.

Hodgins nodded, "Does she know we're going? And what's Booth up to?"

Angela nodded, and then grimaced, "He's picking Dr. Lance Sweets up from a bar," she shook her head, "Something about a breakup with Daisy." She finally pulled away from him. "That would probably explain why Booth couldn't reach her earlier."

"Probably?" Hodgins snorted, "That's raw explanation if there ever is such a thing."

Angela opened her mouth to reply, but before she had a chance to finish, Brennan walked in. Her eyes were red and puffy, as they had been since the arrival to the hospital. "Is Booth back yet?" As the two shook their heads, she nodded, and then sat down on the edge of Vincent's bed. The same position she'd been in earlier. Within a few moments, Hodgins knew, the anthropologist would start babbling to her intern and grad student, talking about mundane things like the weather and recipes and her mother, but mostly how brilliant he was. How they needed him. How she didn't think his facts were stupid, at least not all the time.

Dr. Brennan turned her head to look at Angela, "Call Dr. Saroyan, please."

Angela gave her friend a blank look, "Why? What am I telling her?"

"You're telling her to call the conference director and tell him to reschedule the conference. I have no intention of presenting without Mr. Nigel-Murray."

Comprehension dawned on the artist's face. "Oh, sweetie…" she trailed off. Logically, she could explain that rescheduling the conference was about as likely as a pig flying. But it wouldn't help the situation. Or Dr. Brennan. "I'll…I'll talk to her." Gripping her husband's hand tightly, she pulled him towards the door.

Once they were in the hallway, Angela turned to Hodgins, giving him a somewhat strained smile, "How do you think that's going to go over with the conference director?"

"I'm not so much worried about the conference director. I'm more worried about Cam."

For the first time since Vincent had been wounded, Angela laughed. But it wasn't a completely happy, carefree sound. There were tears in the corners of her eyes.

The Founding Fathers was the last place Booth had been planning on going that night, with Vincent in the hospital, Dr. Brennan in emotional turmoil, and Brodsky still out and about and dangerous as hell.

The conversation they'd had just before he'd left had not been particularly encouraging, either. "Bones," she was sitting next to Vincent, staring at him with dull blue eyes, having finished her story about one of their cases. "Bones."

She turned and looked at him, after what seemed to be a lifetime. "Booth?" Her voice was wavering, childlike and helpless.

"I finally got in contact with Sweets," he said, straightening his tie.

"You did?"

"Yeah. He's at the Founding Fathers. Completely smashed." The agent called Lance Sweets three times, three damn times, before the young man had finally picked up. His voice had been slurred, too loud- the psychologist was obviously drunk.

"Oh. You should go get him, then." Brennan turned back to watching her ailing intern.

"You should come with me, Bones. Brodsky's still out there. And I can't keep an eye on you if you're here and I'm somewhere else."

"Booth, Brodsky's not a threat anymore," Brennan sounded tired, rubbing her eyes, before dropping her hand to clasp Vincent's again. "He did his job."

"Bones…" that was when realization dawned on Booth. The same thing that his partner had realized many hours before. "He was trying to kill me. He thinks he killed me…"

The anthropologist slowly, tears glistening in her eyes. "It could have been you…" she paused, giving Vincent's hand a squeeze. "I'm so glad it wasn't you…but he has to make it through this."

Booth hadn't known what to say to that, so he'd been quiet for a minute. Normally, guilt would have been eating away at him, tearing his heart to pieces. But it wasn't. Because it wasn't his fault. It was Brodsky's. There was no time for guilt, or self-pity, or wallowing in self-hate and pain. He needed to be strong for Bones. And Vincent.

And his former mentor wasn't stupid. It wouldn't be long before the renegade sniper figured out he'd shot the wrong man. "I'm going to pick up Sweets. Then I'll come back for you, okay?"

She had only nodded.

Seeley Booth pulled into the parking lot of the Founding Fathers. It was still full, despite the fact it was technically the next morning. He ended up leaving his car right near the exit ramp- probably would've been easier to leave it on the street, in hindsight. He dodged swerving cars and drunken couples and gaggles of girls stumbling across the asphalt and clumped near the entrance, ducking in. What was it, get your senses shot to hell night? Maybe he was just oversensitive to the crowd. Oversensitive to everything, actually, at that point. He stepped inside, relieved to see that most of the crowd was outside and struggling to identify their vehicles.

Sweets was sitting at the counter, slumped over, forehead pressed against the faux wood counter. He didn't even look up as Booth approached.

His irritation and anger for the young man evaporated. It wasn't like the psychologist was supposed to somehow know that Brodsky had shot one of their interns. "Sweets," Booth frowned.

Sweets lifted his head, blinking blearily at the FBI agent, "Hi, Booth," he slurred. "Guess what! Zach is innocen' and they didn't show South Park reruns on the discov'ry channel t'day."

Yup. He was drop dead drunk. Booth grabbed Sweets by the elbow, wrapping his other arm around the smaller man's shoulders, and began to lead him towards the door. He shot the bartender an irritable glare. "Don't let the kid get so damn drunk next time." The man behind the counter wisely kept his mouth closed.

Sweets remained mostly silent as Booth lead him out towards the car, around the drunk groups (who hadn't made much progress). The kid was going to have a lot of explaining to do the next morning, but he wasn't going to ask questions. Drunk people weren't usually too good at offering explanations, and Sweets was surely no exception.

As soon as they were in the car, Sweets began talking, "You're not listening! It was…was like an ep'sode of Law an' Order, only no one died a'the end."

It was going to be a long ride.

Wendell stared at the Television. ABC, CBS, NBC. CNN, FOX, BET, MTV. He flipped through the channels every few seconds. All of it looked the same, sounded the same, was the same. Booth had sent him home many hours before, with Arastoo and Fischer. The digital clock beneath the television set now read 3:17. He wasn't going to get any sleep that night. I Love Lucy. Modern Family, Two and a Half Men, Iron Chef. Seinfeld, Friends, Happy Days. Desperate Housewives, Adult Swim, CSI.

He hadn't wanted to go. No one had, really. But it was that unspoken explanation, that horrible statement that meant admitting what could happen to Vincent. I don't want to leave, and then get the call that he died.

Vincent didn't want to leave, either. Please don't make me leave. He'd heard Booth whisper it to Cam, standing in the corner of the hospital room. Please don't make me leave. Only Vincent didn't have a choice. He had.

"I can't sleep."

The words came from the hallway of his apartment, and the voice belonged to Fischer. Wendell slowly turned, staring at the other intern as though he were an alien. Silence. Then, "Dude, why are you still in my apartment?"

Fischer rolled his eyes. "Because you never dropped me off back at home, obviously." He paused. And then, of course, for affect, "Son of a bitch."

Wendell glared back at him, not in the mood to get in a catfight with the other intern. That was what girls did, "I liked you better when you were high on all that happy music and tea and shit."

Fischer snorted, sitting down on the couch next to him. "I liked me better then, too."

They had no reason to be fighting. Vincent's condition was no more either of their faults than the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Fischer seemed to realized this, as well, "Sorry," he muttered, picking at a loose thread on the arm of the couch.

Wendell shrugged, "S'fine. I'm the one who forgot to drop you home."

Fischer shook his head, "I wouldn't want to be home alone tonight. Not with Brodsky. Or Vincent…
he trailed off.

"Yeah. I know." Wendell sighed. Silence, except for the TV. He picked up the remote, cutting off Charlie Sheen's voice mid word.

Now it was silent.

He wasn't usually the chatty type, not like Daisy, who needed to fill every spare moment with senseless babble. But maybe it had been better to have the background noise. Something creaked. Both of them flinched.

Wendell ran a hand through his hair. "I helped him get better with American cars, you know."

Fischer looked up at him, knowing very well who the blonde intern meant. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Wendell nodded, smiling to himself. "He was really confused at first, Vincent was. I mean, he could drive, because it wasn't all that different, but one time he almost turned into oncoming traffic. And I've had to pull him out of traffic because it's on the different side of the street, here."

"Like Churchill."

"What?" Wendell stared at Fischer.

"When Winston Churchill was visiting New York City once, he stepped out into oncoming traffic. Because he wasn't used to our traffic laws." Fischer offered. "The only thing that saved him was his really thick fur coat."

"That's the kind of dumb thing only Vince would know." Wendell chuckled. He paused, "Dammit. He's got to make it. He needs to be here when Booth hauls Brodsky's sorry ass to jail.

Fischer just nodded.

Author's Note: I'm taking some classes this summer, so updates are going to be about once a week from now on.

Reviews are much loved! My goal is at least the same number of reviews as the chapter number. So far I've achieved that (one review for chapter one, two for two, and three for three), but it'd be nice to get above that!