A/N: The title of the chapter comes from the song "All These Lives" by the band Daughtry.
Booth almost wished he hadn't long since sworn off getting drunk. How often is it that you find out that someone you've known for a relatively short time is quite literally the daughter you never knew you had?
He wasn't entirely sure what to do beyond stare blankly, then have a fit and demand of Brennan exactly what the doctor means. By the time everything's calmed down, he doesn't feel much better because he still knows only a couple of things for sure and has no more information to go on: one, Holly is expected to recover and that's great, it really is, and two: He's not entirely sure how this managed to happen, but Holly happens to be his seventeen-year-old daughter. And it's not even some very late and extremely badly-timed April Fool's joke.
So while Brennan left reluctantly to take a phone call from someone (he thinks it might be Goodman, but he's really not sure), Booth takes the time to watch Holly - except this time, he's not looking to discern what Kenton did to her, or how likely it is that she'll wake up within the next day (although that would be nice, even he knows it's unrealistic). Now he's looking for any way he could have possibly known.
She doesn't even look like him, he thought. They were opposites in about as many ways as he could think of - she was a teenager and he was an adult; she was female and he was male; her hair was long, his was short. Her skin was much too pale when compared to his, and even though he was pretty sure that it came from a lifetime of not being fed and cared for right, it didn't seem right. Their eyes weren't the same color, and he didn't think they were the same build - then again, isn't it true that other people see similarities easier than any of the people involved?
She didn't look much like his other child, either, although it was hardly a surprise if he stopped and actually thought about it. Parker was a four year old boy, in kindergarten, and Holly was a seventeen year old girl who had already finished high school years prior. Parker was still little enough to fit in the special swings for toddlers at the playground, but Holly was skateboarding at a skate park last he heard.
How was he supposed to reconcile his idea of "child" with the one that Holly gave? Because he had a four-year old, his idea of a child was a short, miniature person with inept grammar and innocent enthusiasm and naivete. Holly was nearly the opposite; tall, literate, a realist, and had basically decided that anyone who had a problem with her would just have to deal with it or leave her alone.
To be honest with himself, she was the daughter he'd thought about but never particularly wanted. Everyone thinks about children, but Parker hadn't been planned (though he loves his son just as much as he would if he and Rebecca were still together). Still, after going to serve overseas, his desire for the picket-fenced, wife-and-kids, nine-to-five life faded. He tried to rekindle with a flame, joined the FBI, and moved into an apartment, and now he has a four-year old son, a cool job if a little depressing at times, and the experience of working with a handful of the most qualified people he's likely to meet. All in all, not bad. And if he'd known Holly was his, well, he'd have done something before finding out due to a stab wound. Just because he hadn't wanted her before, hadn't known she existed, didn't mean he didn't want her now, but there were too many variables to consider what to do next.
Holly was currently a minor, yes, but she would be turning legal at the end of the year. In less than eight months she would be free to do whatever she wanted, sans a few things that would have to wait until she was twenty-one. She'd been coping on her own for a long while already and the parental figures she'd known had been far from great. The ones that didn't hurt her during their run had hurt her the most in the end by abandoning her. Why would she take that risk with another? At the same time, she was so protective of children and others that she clearly had the social eptitude for a family, but lacked the experience. Arguments could be made for either side but ultimately it came down to her.
Aside from Holly's decisions, there wasn't much that stood in the way. He'd end up telling Rebecca, but there was no reason for her to disagree. He honestly hadn't known he had a daughter; trying to do the right thing was what he did, and maybe if Holly had a good home then he would be content with interacting with her as they were, but she didn't have a home. She was from several broken ones and managing to hold one together for just herself. Parker already liked Holly, so he saw no immediate issues there, especially given how Holly seemed hell-bent on protecting children even more so than adults, probably because she empathized and because children were too small to fight back.
Working for the FBI didn't make him rich by any means, but he'd never particularly cared to go overboard with spending money. He could easily afford to house another person and he knew it. Had no issues with it, even. Adjusting to find a balance between treating Holly as his daughter and as a colleague might be difficult, but that was all in the details. The only way to know for sure was to experience it and try it out.
He still didn't have any legal claim over her, though, and he couldn't force her into anything she didn't want. Morals aside, Holly was old enough to be taking care of herself and making her own decisions. To pass her legal custody from her foster brother to someone else required her to sign the forms and if she didn't want to, then anyone would be extremely hard pressed to make her. Without custody he had next to no say in what happened during her hospitalization and the care she received afterwards. If he wanted anything to do with her in a parental sense she would have to acquiesce.
Which brought on several more issues. She trusted him, but there was a difference between trusting with your life and trusting with your emotions. Just because she was willing to trust him to keep her alive didn't mean that she trusted him to be a father. One required trust in the moment and the other required long-term trust, faith, and commitment. Holly's commitments hadn't seemed to last very long, going home to home. She was committed to the working relationships in the Jeffersonian, and she committed to the people she promised to save - Donovan Decker, Shawn Cook, Lucy McGruder - but the moment they were safe she never made a move to contact them again.
And, more importantly, would she still trust him when she found out that he had been her father the whole time? Suddenly, a lot of conversations they'd shared had a lot more meaning.
"I was just wondering what my biological father would be thinking."
"I think he'd be proud."
He'd meant it as comfort, because really, at that point Holly had put her life in danger for a huge mass of people, and hell, it was a terrorist attack. Despite his initial misgivings of having her tagging along, by that point he had been over the frustrations because he could tell she knew how far to go and could look after herself. He'd said it because he'd known that if she were his daughter, then he would be proud.
On many levels, it wasn't fair to either of them. This would flip their lives upside down for an indefinite amount of time - he had to adjust to the responsibility of another child and working around her comfort zone, while Holly, like it or not, would have to learn to accept a few changes in their relationship, because Booth would not let her just drop off the map. She'd managed to live outside of her guardian's names and wills for who knew how long, and aside from her bank statements and transactions she was barely even on the grid in the past year until she was initially arrested. She was a smart kid and given the reason, he knew she was capable of making herself extremely hard to find if she wanted. That was an extreme scenario but it was, unfortunately, a possibility if the situation wasn't handled with care.
And of course, they couldn't keep it a secret from Holly. She had every right to know. Even if they tried, there was no way they'd manage to act completely the same. Whether or not she appreciated being analyzed, Holly was perceptive. She'd know something was up. They could push it until she was well enough to start moving again - he knew that getting stabbed and the consequential surgery required "re-learning" how to walk in a way that didn't strain - and could stay awake in the days, but he was her father, damn it, she deserved to know that, after living for so long with questions, she'd been spending the majority of her time with him!
"Hey," Angela's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. She pushed open the door further before pressing back, letting the door swing shut again and affording Booth only a momentary glance at Brennan's back as she stood with her phone in hand, seeming to be standing guard. "Do we know what happened yet?" The artist carried several bags. One was a backpack that Angela probably owned and the others were from WalMart.
Holly's room was fairly impersonal and Booth had assumed that it would stay that way - at least, until she was moved to a room not in the ICU. Apparently, Angela greatly disagreed, because the bags from the supercenter were filled with color from both wrapping and items.
"No, not yet." It was a bit frustrating to be pulled out of his intense thoughts when he was trying to figure out what needed to be done next, but it was probably better that he didn't get to continue on that line of thought while looking at the girl in question lying unconscious in a hospital bed. He forced himself to look up at Angela, who was gently settling the backpack on the ground next to Holly's bed. "We know she was taken to the warehouse and she was stabbed. Her wrist is sprained. Other than being… pretty beaten up, we won't know what happened until she can tell us." He motioned with his unbandaged arm towards Holly.
Angela frowned slightly, already moving away from the bed and towards the WalMart bags again. "What about security tapes?"
"FBI says what happened was out of view from the windows." Booth answered, shifting in his seat and straightening his back, feeling his spine pop.
"Oh." Angela was organized and almost methodical about the way she unpacked the WalMart bags, first taking out a woven basket with light and dark tans, then pulling out several bags of miniature candies from the first plastic bag. She moved without much thought to her motions, like she'd planned it out beforehand. She set the basket on top of the countertop with the sink built in to the left of Holly's bed and set the candy next to it, going back to the WalMart bags. Booth eyed the candy. It was still completely wrapped and sealed; Hershey's, Reeses, and a mix bag of Snickers, Three Musketeers, and Milky Ways.
"So what are you-" Booth started, but Angela interrupted him.
"Care kit. Who doesn't love candy?" She reasoned. Booth had to admit, Angela had a point. Angela pulled several DVD cases out of the next bag and set them inside the basket, moving them around so that the titles were facing outwards and leaning against the rim. "Holly's going to wake up, and if I know her at all, then the first thing she'll do is get annoyed at Kenton for hospitalizing her. Secondly, she'll try to walk to prove that she's not hurt as badly as she actually is. Walking is going to hurt, and when people are hurting, they want comfort." Angela waved one hand at the DVDs - Criminal Minds, Firefly, and Xena. "So, chocolates and entertainment."
Booth only knew for sure that she liked Criminal Minds because she had made references to it, but he figured Zach and Hodgins had probably gotten Angela to get the science-fiction DVDs. "She'll like that," he answered in a soft murmur. But of course, he couldn't know for sure that she would like that, because he didn't know her nearly as well as he should.
"So." Angela turned and planted her hands on her hips, staring down at Booth. "Bren says the doctor found something really weird. She also said that you should be the one to say, so I'm asking you now, for Holly's interests, what it is."
Booth sighed. He should have planned a way to tell the squints before he started planning a way to incorporate Holly into his life as a child. Angela was like a mother hen when it came to her friends and he had no doubt that if Angela thought he was in the wrong with his intentions, then she would give him a glare strong enough to turn him to ice and, quite possibly, get him knee-deep in debt.
"I'm her dad," he said, his voice so soft that he barely recognized it as his own.
Angela's eyebrows shot up high in amusement and she offered him a lighthearted grin. "You lied to get in? Okay, then. I promise I won't tell the hospital. Now, what was it the doctors found?"
Booth didn't think the misunderstanding was funny. His stomach twisted uncomfortably again in protest and slowly, when he didn't reply and remained completely serious, Angela's smile faded, as well, being replaced with a stunned expression of bewilderment. "No," she gasped, realizing that he wasn't just telling her that he'd told the hospital they were related to be allowed entry. "You aren't-?"
The way her hands flew up to her mouth and her eyes widened, Booth half suspected she nearly had a heart attack, but he nodded. "There's a paternal match in my DNA." It was weird - he could say it and he could recognize his own voice, but it didn't feel like he was the one talking.
"Oh my God," Angela breathed, summing it up nicely in Booth's opinion. The artist sat down in the other chair next to Holly's bed, her energy and motivation for arranging the care kit seeming to be forgotten in light of the information. It took several minutes, but Angela was the next to speak. The shock seemed to have dissipated and her eyes were instead lit with concern. "What are you going to do?"
"I…" Words stuck in his throat despite his commands. "I'm not exactly sure," he admitted. As far as this discussion went, Angela and Brennan were the best people for him to have it with… aside from Holly, who was currently out of commission. Brennan was rational and forthcoming with answers, and Angela was in touch with emotions, which were quite obviously largely at play here.
Angela crossed her hands in her lap, fixing Booth with a stern yet patient stare. "Well, you have to tell her, and you have to do something about it," she lectured, taking it a lot more gracefully than he himself had.
"Yeah, I get that, Angela," Booth replied, feeling a bit like a child with the way that she was talking to him. Some help sorting it out was better than none, though, so he tried not to sound too rude. "She's not a little kid anymore. She'll have to make decisions about it, too."
"And she needs to know that those decisions are welcome," Angela countered, "Which means you need to put that out there for her. She won't involve you in her life at all if she feels like she's imposing, but I think you're one of the few people she trusts enough to actually listen to when you tell her, "hey, I found your dad, it's me."" The mocking tone she used about the situation made Booth shoot her a look, telling her without words that one, it was not necessary, and two, it was not amusing. Angela held up one hand in a gesture of surrender. "Let's start over. What do you want to do about this, in an ideal situation?"
"If it were an ideal situation, then we wouldn't be having this conversation," he sulked. "Because either she wouldn't have been stabbed and we never would have found out, or she wouldn't have been stabbed and I would have raised her myself." Although, he admitted to himself that he enjoyed having Holly with him on cases. Had he always felt a fatherly sense of protection for her, he likely wouldn't have let her within five feet of a case file, let alone a serial killer. It was nice, the exchange they had. In the beginning it was touch-and-go; no real emotional connection persisted, but for him, it was nice to have someone he could justify as being protective over, and it was nice to know that there was someone who would have his back, even if things got violent.
"Right, well, life sucks. For all of us. Okay?" He was smart enough to realize by Angela's testiness that he was beginning to push her boundaries and realized that he wasn't the only one who was stressed. Angela had been forced to fear for her friends' lives for the past forty-eight hours, and probably hadn't gotten much sleep as a result. He straightened his back slightly, trying not to jostle his arm.
"I would offer to take her in," Booth confessed, sending a glance to the girl on the bed. Holly remained as still as a statue, but that didn't make it any less awkward that she was, quite literally, in the middle of the conversation. "I mean… she's my kid. And she's been living God knows where without any family." He didn't think he need to bring up the other reason why this was like a slap in the face - Holly had grown up abused. Booth had sworn a long time ago that when he had children, he would take care of them and love them unconditionally, being the exact opposite of his own father. He wasn't to blame for Holly's trauma, because he hadn't known she was even alive, and he wasn't the one doing the beating, but it still stung.
"Good." Angela nodded in approval of the idea and then waited all of five seconds before declaring, "Go for it."
He jerked up to stare at her. "Excuse me?" In theory, it was simple. In theory it was actually the best option. In practice, he highly doubted it would play out that way.
"Honey," Angela started, but then blinked and re-considered. "Booth," she amended. "Firstly, if Holly's your daughter, then you need to at least offer her a better home. Secondly - and probably more importantly - there are literally billions of people in America, and Holly could have ended up anywhere with the foster system, with any interests or abilities. What are the odds that she ends up a good kid with street smarts and book smarts, in the same city as you, with the knowledge to work pretty much the same job as you at seventeen?"
The odds were spectacularly against that exact scenario. That was Holly, though; defying the stereotypes and the chances.
"That's not just luck. That's fate." Angela said emphatically, really working to get him to understand where she was coming from. "I think this is like the universe's way of telling you that she's your kid and you're supposed to have her." Angela smiled, less serious, as she added, "And I bet Parker would love a sister."
"He already likes her," Booth told Angela, taking the change in focus to his benefit. He appreciated the assistance in sorting it out. Thinking it over, however, was best done alone.
"Oh?" Angela leaned back in her chair and reached over to pick up a bag of the Hershey's candies. She got it and the basket onto her lap and then took two of the chocolate kisses from the bag before dumping the rest in with the DVDs. She tossed one over to Booth and he caught it with his good arm without really thinking about it. "When did they meet?"
"On Easter," he answered, turning the chocolate over in his hand and frowning at it like maybe, if he squinted hard enough, then it would have answers etched into the silver foil wrapping. "Rebecca brought Parker to the restaurant for me. Holly and Bones were already there." He smiled at the memory. "He got up in her lap and seemed content for quite a while. I have a picture on my phone, wherever that is." It was probably still in his own hospital room, along with his credentials, sitting on the rolling table by the television remote.
"You have got to show me later," Angela grinned. "So she let him? And that's when they're virtual strangers. Imagine when they know they're family." She was trying to coerce him, subtly persuade him that she was right in what she had previously said, and he knew it. But at the same time, he wouldn't deny that he liked the ideas she was putting in his head of having his daughter and his son over. So what if he only just found out Holly was his daughter? He had certainly liked her beforehand, except now he'd have a good excuse for Parker's surprising desire to see her, expressed not long after Easter.
He looked back to Holly, the steady beeping of the heart monitor having faded to monotone background noise a while ago and now coming to the forefront of his concentration.
The infuriating beeping in my ears seemed incessant and as I only grew more aggravated as I woke up, it grew louder, sharper, and faster. I opened my eyes, an insult on my tongue, but was nearly blinded by the lights from the ceiling, illuminating where I was.
It was a hospital room. It was made of whites and cream colors; the sheets over me were white and the gown that I'd been dressed in was a sort of off-white papery color. There was a bright splash of color against the countertop next to the sink to the left of the bed, cabinets both above and below it - the tan and brown basket was covered in blue and green tissue paper, the foil wrappers of red, silver, bronze, and yellow candy, and the muted colors of DVD cases stood out from the monotonous color scheme.
I grimaced slightly in discomfort. The last thing I remembered was being drugged; I had thought I was being drugged at the time, anyway, but I didn't seem to be dead or in danger, so maybe not for no reason? There was a chair on either side of the bed, the bed's controls mounted to the railing, and a rolling table that extended out from the side of the bed and over my legs. A sleek silver laptop was on the table along with a half-empty bottle of water, and the chairs were filled with people.
Booth was slouched over in a way that had to be uncomfortable, but he looked a lot better than he had when I'd last seen him. He was actually in his own clothes now rather than the hospital's bandages and dress, wearing casual jeans and flannel. His left arm, though, was still wrapped in a sling, and there was still a particularly painful-looking abrasion low on his right cheek from a burn during the explosion at Brennan's apartment.
He'd been a lot worse. How did he heal so fast?
Brennan was in the other chair, closer to her laptop. Her hair fell in front of her face but she was leaning back in the chair, so she was less likely to wake up hurting. She seemed deeply in sleep but she looked tired and stressed, anyway, and a quick survey showed that she was wearing work-suited clothes with wrinkles from being slept in. How long has she been here?
I didn't want to wake either of them up, because they must have been tired to fall asleep sitting upright. There was a whiteboard mounted on the wall opposite the bed and under a television set with the date written in the top corner. I squinted to see against the glare from the lights and made out the day. Monday.
My mind was scattered and I wasn't entirely sure why I couldn't figure out what had been going on. Hadn't I just been shot at on Thursday? And Brennan was shot at on Thursday night. We spent most of the night awake and then the bomb at Brennan's apartment had been Friday night. I stayed in the hospital with Booth until Saturday morning, when I left with Kenton, and we spent the morning going between fieldwork and the lab. He'd kidnapped me sometime in the afternoon, right?
I knew I'd been stabbed. I couldn't recall the pain, except I knew that it had been positively excruciating and I'd been hoping to pass out and die of shock. My life may be far from nice, but I've never been the type to roll over and wish for death, so it had to have been awful. I eventually did pass out, but only after I'd lost too much blood.
So I managed to completely miss from Saturday night to Monday night? What the hell happened to those two days in between?!
I tried to sit up and reach for the hospital chart but two things happened at once - pain shot up my left arm and my stomach contracted violently in protest. I blanched, settling myself back down on the bed, and took an inventory.
My left wrist was bound in a cast, but it had hurt to move - a deep, radiating pain rather than a sore surface pain. Internal damage? Oh, right, I'd had my wrist snatched and slammed against a concrete floor. Yes, that would do it. Sprained. There was also a needle in my arm. Hypodermic. There was a lot of brightly colored tape wrapped around it where it was planted high in my forearm, but I could see the tube going up to the IV rack next to the monitors at the head of the mattress.
Oh, so that's where the infuriating beeping was coming from.
My abdomen was sore. Not a hellish agony like before, but simply constantly sore. I moved my right arm slowly, relieved not to have any more than a bit of an ache when I moved that limb. Well, small victories, I suppose. I peeled back the sheet and rolled my eyes. Of course, I'm wearing a hospital gown. It didn't even go all the way to my knees. I set my hand over my stomach gingerly. No blood and no pain, just that continuous dull aching. There was a raised line under the nightgown and I nodded slightly, pulling the sheets back up to ward away the chill from the vent. Scarring. Stitches. Surgery? Blood loss and abdominal trauma. Yep, exploratory surgery. Seeing as I'm not dead, I guess it went well.
Considering what Kenton had been planning to do to me, I guess I got off pretty well with a sprain and a closed stab wound.
I closed my eyes and sighed, trying to relax. I had half a mind to pull the pillow out from under the small of my back but decided against it. I knew it was best to keep the injured area slightly elevated for circulatory purposes, so even though it wasn't the most comfortable, I could deal with it. What bothered me more were the limitations I would have to deal with.
The sprain I could handle. Lots of people got sprains, although not necessarily in the way I did. Basically, a tendon in my wrist had been torn while I was fighting. It would knit itself back together so long as I didn't strain it too much. Once I was satisfactorily healed enough, I could take off the cast and work on a greater range of motion. After I could move my wrist easily without pain, then I would work on building up the strength again; I could sign up for a martial arts class or something of the like in place of continued physical therapy. My fighting could get right back to the level it was at, easy.
It was the stab that bothered me. It grated on my nerves to know how much of a pain it would be. I would be clumsy with walking for any time from a couple of days to a week and my running would be subpar at best, disastrous at worst until it was further healed and I could have the stitches taken out. Assuming I wasn't stuck in a wheelchair, I'd still have to either use crutches or stay where I could have help for about a week before I recovered enough to move without the threat of reopening the injury.
That's not even going into the complications of rest, pain relief medications, and strain.
Without anything else to do, I just sighed softly and looked between Booth and Brennan. They should really go home, I noted to myself. I appreciated the company - it was easier to wake up in a strange place with people who I trust, at least, until regaining my bearings, but I had no right to ask for their presence, especially not when I clearly wasn't going to be the best company, if my difficulty keeping my eyes open was any indication.
I tilted my head up to try to see the bags on the IV rack, but failed to make out what it was. Judging by how I'd been out for around forty-eight hours and was still tired, I was probably being given regular doses of some sort of sedative. Given the stitches and stab, it was probable that I had been kept under so I didn't strain the injury. Doctors probably recently decided it was more harmful than beneficial to keep me drugged up to the sky and lowered the dosage. I could probably expect to wake up again in a few hours - maybe around morning, if my internal clock wasn't too out of whack. If they were taking me off of the morphine or ketamine or whatever it was they were using, then they'd probably give me Vicodin, Oxycodone, or some other prescription medication for pain.
"This was really not how I intended to spend my weekend," I tried to say in a soft whisper. I wanted to hear my own voice, just as an assurance that I was okay and I was grounded. It didn't work out so well - my throat was dry and voice cracked in disuse. I scowled, bad mood only pushed a little bit lower, and I swallowed deliberately. Thankfully, clearing my throat didn't wake up either of the adults who had decided to guard me.
I reached up to my face with my right hand. It would be difficult to adapt to not using my left hand as much but thank God it's not my dominant side. I rubbed lightly at my eyes, feeling slight pricks of saltwater on the side of my hand. I rolled my eyes. Typical, I feel a bit of pain and I start crying.
Closing my eyes again was not as easy in practice as it should have been. I was tired. Yes. No arguments there. But the drugged sleep was obviously not natural and my mind kept demanding of my body why I was so damn determined to be unaware, so several times when I was about to slip under again I'd wake up with a jolt and the slight impression of falling backwards.
By the time I had finally made my mind shut the hell up, I could see Booth twisting slightly, bringing his injured arm closer to his chest defensively, and as I dozed back into the land of the unconscious, I found myself wondering how much the injuries reminded him of his time as a tortured war veteran.
Waking up again was a lot easier than it had been the first time around, for which I was thankful. I didn't particularly enjoy the pin-and-needle feeling through my wrist, but while uncomfortable, it was far from agonizing. Compared to what it had felt like initially, it was practically comforting.
I drifted in and out for a while. I knew I should wake up, but at the same time, I didn't want to. I didn't want to deal with things quite yet. I knew I'd have to eventually; I'd have to face either getting babied or being given the cold treatment and blame for letting Kenton get the best of me in the first place. Kenton was bigger and stronger than I was, but I'd fought more dangerous people in the past. It was really just his luck that he'd managed to rip a tendon. The shock and pain had stunned me enough for him to stab me, which furthered the cycle.
But apparently they're only allowed to sedate me for so long after surgery, because the third or fourth time I woke up to the sun shining through the blinds and catching a glare on the whiteboard, I opened my eyes fully and sighed softly, knowing that not only was it still Tuesday, but I wasn't going to be getting another nap right now.
I could see light-skinned hands holding up a book above a couch against the wall, one of the uncomfortable hospital ones. If there was (comparatively) nice furniture, then I probably was in an extended stay room, meant for patients who were either recovering from tedious work or were down with serious illnesses, like pneumonia or cancer. Though I couldn't tell who it was (probably Brennan or Angela), they couldn't see me, either, my face blocked by the rails of the hospital bed and the pillow fluffed up around my head.
I tested out my range of motion with a grimace, wanting to get it over with. That way if I accidentally hurt myself, I'd be better able to cover it up later. I'd know what I could get away with. My stomach was healed enough for me to breathe easy, which was definitely an improvement. So was the lack of blood, although I think I'd prefer bloodstained clothes to the scratchy hospital gown. Wiggling my fingers was easy, but slightly uncomfortable; the muscles in my body were stiff from disuse over the last few days. It was when I tried to make a fist that the sprain told me to stop by sending sharper pins further into my arm. Basically, I could forget about using that hand for a day or two longer, and moving my arm completely normally would take a couple of weeks.
I didn't even try to move my wrist. I figured that it was probably best to just do as little as possible with the sprain until a physical therapist came by, or Brennan or Zach. Though Brennan's expertise wasn't explicitly with the still-breathing types of humans, I'd still take her opinion over a doctor's any day, and not just due to idolization. If she told me anything, she'd be sure of what she was saying before contradicting doctors. While Zach wasn't likely to speak against them, his near perfect memory would leave little cause for doubting his words.
I used my good arm to push up against the mattress as firmly as I could, keeping my back as straight as possible while attempting pathetically to sit up. My arm protested but I had enough upper body strength to pull myself so I was sitting up, and my hair fell over my shoulders.
It hit my face and fell over my forehead, and I winced. Evidently, doctors don't care very much about personal grooming - there was no more blood in my hair, so it had to have been at least rinsed, but it hung together in thicker strands and felt uncomfortably greasy on my cheeks. I don't care how much it hurts; I am standing up and I am washing my hair myself, damn it.
I swallowed this time before speaking, remembering the failure from the night before. "How's it going?" I asked, turning my head to look at Brennan lying down on the couch. The book was nearly covering her face, she was so deeply into it. She jerked up at the sound of my voice and I rocked my head to the side before mirroring the action, stretching as best as I could.
She sat upright suddenly, her shoes clicking slightly as they landed back onto the tile, and her light eyes widened in surprise and relief. Her breath caught slightly and I rolled my shoulders back, hearing several bones pop quietly.
"You're awake," she observed, a small smile gracing her face. She did a once-over on me, her eyes roving over my body like she was checking for distress.
"Unfortunately," I replied with a scowl. "That son of a bitch is really going to get it," I complained, moving to cross my right arm over my chest before realizing how awkward that gesture would be without the other joining it.
"He's already under arrest," Brennan informed me, her lips quirking upwards in amusement to my reaction. "He confessed. He'll be going to prison for the rest of his life… with you alone, we've got a solid case. Plus we have forensic evidence to tie him to James Cugini's murder. You probably won't even have to testify."
"Good. I've seen enough of that courthouse." I couldn't help the smirk of satisfaction that grew. Kenton had gotten my trust, a difficult thing to do, mostly because he helped me to keep myself safe and he had seemed dedicated to protecting Brennan, too. Then not only do I find out he's the murderer I'm after, but he turned on me and tried to murder me. He deserved whatever the justice system gave him and worse, in my opinion.
I stretched out my good arm, reaching for the end of the bed without pulling anything in my abdomen. It felt good to feel the muscles in my arm heat up and loosen.
"You shouldn't move too much," the anthropologist cautioned softly, standing up. She slipped her finger between the pages in the book and set it upside down on the couch to save her place, taking measured steps towards the bed. "You were-"
"Stabbed. In the stomach. Sliced open for surgery and then had hands digging through my insides," I supplied in a swift interruption, already falling back into the seemingly unshakeable attitude. I liked the way I came off to them; sincere enough to be honest and trustworthy, but aloof enough to not be fragile. It was bad enough I wouldn't be sleeping much as a result of Kenton's betrayal. I don't want any of my other relationships to suffer. "And my wrist is sprained." Her expression morphed into sympathy and upset and this time she combed over my appearance for discomfort. I lowered my hand defensively up in front of my stomach without thinking about it.
"How did you know about the surgery?" She asked softly, tipping her head to one side the way she did when she was bothered or trying to understand something. "You've been unconscious for nearly three days."
"I woke up last night," I replied in a matching volume, going along with the atmosphere that she chose to set. I could adapt. "You and Booth were both asleep. I sort of pieced things together." At the mention of Booth's name, her expression fell further and she sucked her lower lip in, worrying it gently with her teeth. I tensed immediately. "What's wrong? Was he readmitted?" I didn't know what could have happened to him in the last several hours to invoke such a response but it couldn't be good.
"No, it's… nothing like that." Brennan quickly corrected me and I felt myself wind down again, allowing myself to take comfort in the knowledge. "But there is something that we learned… right after the surgery." Her voice failed her for a moment and her eyes filled with emotion. "It's nothing urgent, or really… bad, I don't think… but he should be the one to tell you."
"Tell me what?" The moment they were out of my mouth I realized that, given how she'd already said she wouldn't tell me, they were quite useless words, but I couldn't help the impulsive response. I went on the defensive again. What could Booth have possibly found out that related to me that mattered? My apartment? The restraining order? Oh, come on! I was already just given about the amount of love that a Silence of the Lambs victim receives by Kenton, and now I have to deal with whatever this is, too?
Brennan lowered one hand to gently smooth her fingers down the corner of the top sheet, which had pooled over my legs when I sat up. It was like a substitute for the way someone would touch a person's hand or leg when they're hurt. "I should get Booth," she said, more to herself than to me, like she was trying to remind or convince herself. She raised her eyes to me and nodded delicately to the door. "If you're feeling okay, I'll send him in. I don't think I should be here for this."
My heart sank even further. If she didn't want to be here, then surely it would be uncomfortable. He was probably going to yell at me or express disapproval, disappointment, and anger in some way.
However, faking that I still felt like I'd been stuffed into a suitcase for three hours, thrown out of a train, landed in a tree, fallen out of said tree right into a moving train, and then been dumped into a fire would only get me so far, and it probably wasn't healthy to be doped up on narcotics for no particular reason when an aspirin would work nearly just as well.
"Yeah, I'm feeling fine," I said, my throat drier. I swallowed again and closed my eyes, willing myself not to get too upset, and afforded a wry grin at Brennan. "Well, as fine as can be, considering."
Brennan nodded and walked to the door after giving me a long, lingering glance, and I heard the door creak slightly as it was pulled open. Sharper light from the hallway shone in through the gap between the door and the frame and I heard quiet voices outside. I looked to my lap and saw that my hand was shaking. Squeezing my eyes shut, I clenched it into a fist to control the anxious tremors before opening my eyes again as the door clicked shut.
I hate feeling so vulnerable. For all the fights I get myself into, I'm rarely hurt too badly. When I am, it's usually with a knife or broken glass, but it's never been a deep, penetrative injury. It's usually able to be wrapped up. Even though there have been a couple times when I've had to spend half an hour with rubbing alcohol giving myself a few stitches and cursing and crying, I've never felt as invalidated as I do right now. It's never put me out of commission. Right now, if someone attacked me, I couldn't fight back. Too much strain on such a fresh wound could rip out the stitches, and since it was in my abdomen, that meant I had to be careful doing anything. Plus, I'm going to need a sling or a cast for one arm.
I know I'm not in danger here. Booth could be as angry as I dreaded, but it was unthinkable that he would actually become abusive, and he was the most impulsive, most violent out of everyone I'd be in contact with during my recovery. I think, though, that not being able to use my arms as a shield, and feeling weak as a result, makes it seem like I'm more helpless than I actually am.
"So…" At Booth's voice - which was much quieter than expected, and slightly wary, too - I forced myself to lift my head and look up at him. He stepped around the foot of the bed and pulled one of the plastic-backed chairs closer to the mattress before sitting down while I watched him closely, waiting for some sign of anger. "What happened?"
I was very careful not to seem surprised by the question, or the caring tone it was expressed in. "Hollings was framed. He wasn't in the apartment when Kenton and I brought in a team. There was a map he left out, with emphasis on the warehouses down by where he took me."
"You don't have to go into detail," he said, leaning forwards. His arm was still in a sling, but it was less confining than it had been before I was kidnapped, so the doctors clearly thought he was healing up nicely. A dislocation of the shoulder wasn't necessarily too awful, anyway, so he'd probably be sling-less soon. Even as I overanalyzed, I was doing it for the benefit of his health. "You must have been terrified," he added softly, sounding guilty.
And what did he have to be guilty for? He must know that it wasn't his fault. Kenton wanted someone dead, particularly Brennan or I, because we were the strongest ties between Booth and the Jeffersonian. He'd have found some way to get us hospitalized. I was just thankful that, for all the harm he did, he'd done it in a way that hadn't risked other people's lives like another bomb might have. It's weird, because he nearly killed me and all I feel is serious irritation and a sadistic satisfaction that he was not only shot, but also likely to be facing the death penalty, but when I found out that he meant to kill Brennan and had nearly killed Booth, I had been just about ready to rip his throat out with my teeth.
No reason for him to be guilty, anyway, so he should know that I'm fine. Or think so, anyway. "It wasn't that bad," I lied with a roll of my eyes. "The son of a bitch pulled a gun on me when I tried to call Zach. I told him I knew Hollings wasn't behind the map and planned murder and he panicked. He must have thought that I knew it was him or that I'd get the Jeffersonian to run some test determining it."
"You know the FBI will just have to take your statement later," he reminded me gently. He looked at me with big, soulful brown eyes and for a moment, I almost felt like I could relax and try not to think about it.
I soldiered on anyway. "He took me to the warehouse," I persisted, seeing the way his eyes dimmed slightly as I resumed. "He forced me into that big room with the dogs. I took him by surprise and attacked him and got the gun, but he tackled me from behind. He got my wrist and slammed it down onto the ground. It's how I got the sprain." I would have held up my hand in display, but refrained for obvious reasons. "I couldn't fight back as well and he took my pocket knife from me before stabbing me with it. He tied up my wrists and hung me from the chain. He was going to incapacitate me, I think, before you shot him."
I looked back down and picked lazily at the seam of the hospital's cheap sheets, trying to sort through the fuzzy memories that were mostly just sounds, distant sensations, and splashes of misplaced color.
"I can't remember much since getting stabbed. It's kind of in bits and pieces. I think I'd been going into shock," I admitted reluctantly. "It's hard to tell when you're the one experiencing it. Since my wrists were untied I remember lots of bright lights… I assume from the paramedic vehicles."
"Kenton killed Hollings." Booth leaned forward further until the slung arm was practically on his knee. "He set up the search before he picked you up. He killed Cugini, too, and was working for the Romanos. I guess he thought that if we were off looking for Hollings, he'd have time to put together another ambiguous assassination attempt that could be tied to the mafia. He didn't expect you to be so brilliant."
The praise, however indirect, made me smile just a bit.
"Dr. Brennan said you learned something while I was out," I prompted, a bit unsure. If it brought out anxiety in Brennan, who knew how Booth would react to it? Still, I tried to seem unmoved, just curious, even remembering to use Brennan's title. I'd never stopped using it when I'm talking to her - though really everyone calls her by her surname alone (or Bones) I figure it's more respectful my way for my situation.
"Um… yes." I was definitely not imagining the nervous shifting as Booth tried to get comfortable in that chair, which, I was pretty sure, was not going to be happening. "You needed a blood transfusion," he started to explain. I frowned, not certain what that had to do with anything, but waited for him to continue. "We're the same blood type, so since it would be faster, I had them use my blood."
It was both kind and a bit disconcerting. Blood is meant to stay in peoples' bodies; though the sentiment is nice and caring and all that, it was also a bit disturbing if I thought about it too long. "Er, thanks… I think."
He shifted again, pushing up to the edge of the chair. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?" He asked quickly in concern. I eyed him suspiciously. You're not getting out of it that easy. "Because, you know, if you're dizzy or tired, this should wait."
I raised my eyebrows. "Really, Booth, I've slept so long I think I'll slip into a coma if I sleep any more right now. Even if I was tired, now I'd be too distracted to sleep."
"Right," he mumbled. "Course." He raised his voice, speaking up, but he still spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully and very deliberately. "While the doctors were doing those blood tests for compatibility or whatever, they found a near-fifty percent match in our DNA."
I blinked. Twice. Then several more times, unable to compute that as quickly as I probably should have been. A match in the DNA? Genetic material could only match within biological family members, which was pretty much the reason why my thought process, which usually involved thinking or considering several things at once, screeched to a grinding halt and repeated the one phrase in an effort not to overload. A near-fifty percent match was only between siblings or parent-child pairs, and I really think I would have noticed if I had a brother. Besides, Booth wasn't even in my generation.
"Are you serious?" I asked, my voice louder than I had intended and a lot edgier, too. I couldn't help it. Most people, they find out that their father is not only someone to be proud of, but someone who they've been with for a while, they probably get teary-eyed and happy. Me, of course, I just get confused and scared and end up projecting it as anger.
Booth gave me a very serious, unamused expression in response. While he was quite clear that he didn't like the thought that it would be a joke, he seemed almost apologetic, and watched for my reactions carefully. "I wouldn't lie about this."
I looked down furiously to the sheets over my thighs. What the hell?! Is this the universe's twisted idea of a sick joke?!
I gave up entirely on ever meeting my father years and years ago, and since then I haven't even seriously considered it in passing. I've been fine without him. He doesn't want me? Fine, I don't want a negligent man trying to boss me around, either. After all the hell I was put through growing up, I figured it was better to just continue on my own, because if I'm alone, then there's no pain, no betrayal, and no disappointment. And, as I've aptly demonstrated by getting nearly gutted by Kenton, trusting people can lead to all three.
The only reason I ever entertained the sentiments of parents was never because I wanted mine. It was because the idea was so… foreign. Like someone might daydream about going to another country, I did the same, except mine were about stable homes and unconditional care.
I highly valued my relationship with Booth, and I understood that the people I've been surrounding myself with are good for me. I was trusting easier and speaking about my emotions, and without knowing it, I was allowing for them to begin understanding me, as well. I wasn't as opposed to touch as I once was, welcoming children with much less apprehension and beginning to associate touch with things other than assault by seeing the friendly exchanges between Angela, Booth, Hodgins, Zach, and Brennan. Booth was really the first man that I had trusted in a very long time, aside from someone who had abandoned me without warning. I didn't want to lose that, but it seemed like I didn't have a choice.
By his age, I must have been conceived while he was in high school. Still, he didn't strike me as the type for noncommittal relationships, so maybe he wasn't necessarily to blame? I know I shouldn't take responsibility for this mess, because in this, I had no part. I can't choose my parents and I certainly can't choose how all of my relationships play out. In the chance that he wasn't aware that his girlfriend was pregnant, then he was equally off the hook. Relationships come and go. Sometimes they last, often they die. If he hadn't known then there was no reason to see someone after the spark was gone.
That doesn't mean I wanted it to turn out this way. I liked the way we were; he didn't see me as a child any more than I saw him as a sniper. Though that's what we were, it's not what we wanted to be seen as. It was like I'd accept certain measures of protection if he allowed me into the field. We compromised on things without realizing it because it was something that happened over time and without deliberacy. Just because we know we're related now doesn't mean that he wasn't my father last week - nothing has really changed, but Booth's not the type of person willing to overlook something like this.
So whether I like it or not, the dynamics of the relationship would shift. If I could deal with it, then I'd have to accept that he'd see me as a child even more so now. If I couldn't, well, then I'd have to find a convenient way to avoid him and everyone at the Medico-Legal lab, which I'm not entirely sure I'm willing to do. I can't very well protect myself in a dangerous community if I'm both alone and seriously injured.
Honestly, I'm not okay with it, no matter how rationally I try to look at the situation. Whether or not he was at fault for it, he's my father, and he wasn't my parent when I needed one. I can't accept that and say it's all okay with me, because I'm not all good with it. Whether he wanted me around or he didn't, there would inevitably be tension for a long time, until either we reached a medium or we gave up.
"Do you want me to leave for a while?" He asked when I failed to speak for what must have been several long minutes.
I didn't take the time to try to interpret the emotions he was feeling by his posture or his voice. One crazy trauma at a time, please! Slowly, I nodded, not looking up and instead staring at my lap. A few seconds later, Booth abided by my will and respected the need for privacy, leaving the room quietly.
I heard the same voices outside - probably Brennan, and maybe someone else - but I couldn't understand what they were saying. With the door closed, they weren't making an attempt to use hushed volumes, but there was just too much obstruction for me to make out words.
I wasn't sure it was important if I could, anyway.