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Jack Hodgins rolled into his office and headed immediately for his desk to add his notes from analyzing the mass spectrometer results he'd scrutinized just prior to leaving yesterday. He'd intended to finish that task before he left for the evening, but Michael Vincent had fallen during last recess at school, gashing his thigh deeply. Since Hodgins was still unable to drive, Angela had convinced him to accompany her to the elementary school and their pediatrician's office.

Angered by his physical limitations, he'd managed to tamp down his feelings for his wife's sake. He knew he'd been a curmudgeon to her lately, unable to curb himself most of the time, but their son's injury gave him a temporary focus beyond his own aches and pains. The boy had tried to be brave, but was frightened of needles. The prospect of getting 'sewed on' was just too much, and he had dissolved in tears.

Michael Vincent adored his father, and the pair shared a special bond from hours in the 'bug room' which Angela refused to enter under any circumstances. Jack opening his arms was all it took for the little guy to clamber into his dad's lap as Dr. Melton opened her suture pack. She had rolled her stool over, motioned for her assistant to lower the instrument table, and spread a blue drape across their laps, positioning the hole over Michael Vincent's upper leg.

Okay, Mr. Hodgins, you're going to feel a few little sticks while I deaden this area," she said gently.

"I don't want my leg to die!" he moaned.

"Your leg isn't dying, silly, she's putting it to sleep so you won't feel the stitches," Jack explained, cradling the child's head on his shoulder.

"I don't wanna watch!"

"You don't have to, Sweetie," Angela murmured, rubbing his shoulder. "Just stay calm and look at me or your dad."

Michael Vincent yelped at the pinch of Dr. Melton's anesthetizing injections, but they took effect quickly, and once the pain subsided, he became fascinated with her instruments.

"Can I watch you sew?"

"Certainly, kiddo," the kindly doctor responded. "When I was about your age, I fell out of an apple tree on my Granpa Henry's farm, and spent most of the summer with my arm in a plaster cast. It was hot as all get out, and itched like the dickens! I'd have chosen stitches over that, if anybody had given me the chance!"

Michael scrubbed his fists across his drippy eyes, and returned her grin.

The skillful suturing was completed in record time, punctuated by the patient's curious questions about how she tied the knots. Once his leg was bandaged loosely, Michael Vincent's stomach asserted itself with a noticeable growl. Angela had suggested Vincenzo's Pizzeria, and the family's evening passed without further calamities.

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Setting his coffee mug down, Hodgins reached for his evidence folder, and noticed an envelope lying beneath it. Picking it up, he recognized Brennan's distinctively-slanted script and rubbed his curly beard in puzzlement. He reached for the "King of the Lab" letter opener Zack had set him the previous Christmas to slit the envelope.

Brennan's stationery was ivory watermarked paper; the kind his grandfather would've appreciated. Jack opened the single page slowly, relishing its weight and linen texture. He realized that his friend had composed this message on her computer rather than using a fountain pen as she often did. Dr. Brennan was an enigma wrapped in a conundrum; well-versed in the latest forensic technology yet as old-school as Booth's Bakelite telephone when it came to her correspondence materials. She must have had a meaty thought to convey, he thought to himself. She had once told him that her longhand couldn't keep pace with her brain, when plot ideas for her books came popping into her head.

He scanned her letter, frowned to himself, then read it again more slowly. Yes, he mused, this was a heavy missive. Reaching the bottom of the page, he reread it, then paused, deep in thought. His first reaction was irritation at her injecting herself into his very personal physical struggles. How dare she? But he stopped himself, knowing his colleague as well as he did. There wasn't a mean bone in her body; she never did anything out of spite. Her blunt honesty was often misinterpreted, but her motivation was heartfelt and pure. With Dr. Temperance Brennan, what you saw is what you got.

Placing the letter on his desktop, he rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and rubbed his eyes. She's concerned about Angela, he realized. Her best friend. His wife was trying her best to support his recovery, and the turmoil was wearing on both of them. For someone who claimed she couldn't read people, Brennan had become very attuned to those closest to her. Booth had rubbed off on his friend, Jack smiled to himself. Angela and she were sisters of the heart, and well aware of each other's emotions and thoughts.

"I'm going to accept this letter in the same spirit it was written to convey. I've gotta work harder at managing my frustration. Angie didn't cause my injuries, and doesn't deserve my stressful wrath. Time to grow a pair, Jack Stanley Hodgins IV," he lectured himself.

"As Ms. Julian would tell me, put on your big boy pants," he chuckled to himself.

He turned on his computer and fired off an email.

"Thanks, Dr. B. It helped. A lot."

Then he slipped the letter back into its envelope, slid it into his bottom desk drawer, and reached for the evidence file to start his day's work.