A/N: Please read with caution! I have to warn readers for mentions and short scenes of child abuse. Please don't read if you think this could trigger you. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone.

I stared determinedly at the textbook lying on my desk. The clock's second hand ticked by quietly, but the noise stood out in the near silence of the high school classroom. I spared it a glance. The day was going painfully slowly, as usual.

I looked back and tried to read the paragraph, but it was hard to focus with objects hitting the back of my head as my classmates - all older than I - decided that science was highly overrated and started a game of seeing how many things they could hit me with before either they got in trouble or I snapped.

A muffled yelp from next to me made me turn my head slightly to look through the curtain of hair to the girl sitting next to me. Her soft blonde hair was pulled down to one side in a braid, her pencil dropping on top of her notebook. She lifted a hand up to rub at the back of her neck.

I didn't even know her name. None of the fourteen and fifteen year olds talk to the eleven year old, and I gladly returned the favor. Not getting into trouble at school meant there was less likelihood of being hit or malnourished.

But her assault had gotten my attention, and seeing that, the boy behind me tossed another of his spare pencils at the blonde-haired freshman. I saw her wince, but she didn't do anything.

I looked back to my textbook, gritting my teeth and trying not to think about the morons. Not all of them were bad, but the ones that were were just plain awful. Eukaryotic chromosomes are generally much bigger than those of prokaryotes. In eukaryotic cells, replication may… Another pen hit the girl next to me.

I turned around in my seat and glared defiantly at the athlete sitting behind me. He was a fifteen year old boy still in the freshman year of high school - Not because of being held back; I think his birthday was just in an odd time, or he started a year late. Still, four years my senior, and I hadn't hit most of my growth spurts yet. His five and a half foot height was high over me and he leered down, pleased to have gotten my attention.

"Quit that," I snapped, thankful that the teacher was out of the room. "If you have a problem with me, you take it up with me. I advise you read the assignment if you don't want to fail like last week." I turned back around to my desk and muttered under my breath, "If you're even capable, that is."

"I don't need to work." He leaned back in his chair and I felt his feet rising up, first kicking the back of my chair before settling in the basket under the seat generally reserved for class books. "You'll do it for me."

"Yeah, right." I retorted. "Do it yourself, loser." I had gone to several lengths to keep him and his soccer friends from using me. Saying "no" had only gotten me beaten in the hall. I tried to do it for them willingly, but gave them all wrong answers on their copies. That had been even worse than the previous method. Now I flat-out refuse and keep all of my work locked securely in my locker, and I always take my binder with me.

"I can always just follow you home. There are no teachers there," he reminded me snidely.

I didn't dare to turn around, because that would satisfy him, and I didn't want him to see the apprehension that was no doubt on my face. "Yeah, and once we're off the school grounds, I can kick your ass. Feel free to test me."

The fist landed on my shoulder so suddenly that I didn't have time to dodge, and the schoolroom was replaced in my mind with a living room and a drunken man. I shot up out of the desk, accidentally sending it tipping over when my ankle caught on one of the legs, and sent my hand out to strike the athlete across the face.

I waited for a long time for anyone to come back into the room before I leaned back down. I used the controls on the side of the bed to bring the mattress up so I was leaning back but still, for the most part, upright. How could I possibly respond to this situation? What could I do?

The obvious thing to do would be to request a paternity test, just to be certain. It's a fair assumption that Booth won't want to be saddled with my well being on his conscious, so I had no doubt that he would consent. Besides, blood tests weren't the most convenient means of testing heredity. Buccal swabs were much more effective - and on the upside, they took far less time, only a few days, to get results. The sooner I had absolute confirmation, then the sooner I could stop myself from constantly doubting whatever the hell was happening right now.

I wanted to rationalize it, but the thing is, I can rationalize as many crazy thoughts as I like. No matter how hard I try, I can't reason away emotions when I'm not even entirely sure what or why I'm feeling. I've learned not to take things at face value and this is no different. I'm not getting a father I'd managed to actually trust and moving in with him and a little brother. The world just doesn't work like that. Even if that does happen, there's sure to be catches, complications, issues.

I'll be damned if I'm going to try to do all of this without helping myself, though. If I can't do anything right mentally, I can at least work on improving physically. I pulled the blood pressure cuff off of my arm and that was quickly followed by the pulse monitor on my index finger.

The carpet was rough against my cheek. I pushed myself up from my stomach, bringing up the back of one hand to rub tears off of my cheeks. As I stood up on shaky legs, my shirt fell back down over my back and the fabric rubbed painfully over the lashes, still red and stinging like they were minutes old rather than an hour or so.

My limbs trembled hard. I was surprised I didn't just collapse and just start crying, but I knew if I didn't start working on scrubbing the blood stains out of the carpet I'd just get hurt even more.

Through the walls, I could hear the music coming from the lavishly-decorated room of the biological daughter of my aggressors. She was five years older than me; seventeen, moving out next year for college. My goal was to have been marked enough to go to the police and get taken out of this home by the time she sent out college applications.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted my casted wrist up towards my chest and leaned over, moving my legs slowly off of the edge of the bed. I was very careful not to move my arm, but there was a degree of inevitability to it, so I was trying to force myself to relax so it wouldn't hurt so much.

I looked back up to the door. There were still the occasional comments from behind it - I was learning to tell apart Booth, Brennan, the nurse, and the doctor, even through the sound barrier. Most of them were from the first two. But no one was coming in, so I slipped out of the bed to try to walk on my own.

I'd been passed out for three days. So long as I took it slowly and didn't start training for any marathons, the risk of pulling out the stitches was very low.

I lurched forwards almost immediately, my balance thrown from being bedridden and drugged for so long. I threw out both arms on instinct but bit down on my lower lip hard to keep from crying out. I caught myself on the counter, my knees bent but still off of the floor. Both of my forearms crashed against the countertop. A shockwave from the impact ran up my wrist and I bit down harder until I tasted blood. That startled me into reacting and I stopped biting myself, running my tongue over the inside of my lip. Good thing injuries of the mouth tend to heal fast.

Better shy away from excessively salty or acidic foods, though.

I planted my feet firmly on the ground and pulled my casted arm back up to my stomach, straightening my legs and praying that no one outside heard the stumble. Gradually shifting my weight from my arm to my feet, I ended up standing. Leaning over the counter with the feeling of pins and needles in my wrist and hand and blood in my mouth, but standing, nonetheless.

Hey, I never said I expected to succeed unscathed.

I stood there for a couple of minutes, just trying to figure out how to center my weight with the least pain and least likelihood of hurting myself again and, oh, trying to decide if I was liable to pull my stitches and spill more blood all over the floor. Finally I decided that my entrails were far more likely to stay in my body, so I took a small step away from the counter.

Which was a mistake, because with nothing to catch myself with, I ended up falling down as soon as I lifted my foot. I tumbled down to the ground in a heap, letting out a very undignified squeal. I had enough presence of mind to grab the steel pole of the IV rack and drag it closer so the IV wouldn't rip out, but I landed hard, mostly on my elbow and hip.

Almost immediately, the door opened and the sounds from the hallway grew much louder. I tried to look as dignified as possible, setting the casted arm on one leg and gripping onto the IV rack tightly with the other hand. I glared sulkily at the side of the hospital bed, hating myself a bit for being so pathetic that I couldn't even satisfy my pride without failing.

"You shouldn't have been trying to move without help," Brennan told me in what sounded suspiciously like a lecturing voice. "Are you hurt?"

"Just my ego," I muttered, casting my eyes down at the dirty tiles when I saw Booth turn the corner into the room. I didn't want to look at him right now. "I'm fine."

Would you believe that I didn't get my wish? Booth sighed and knelt down, arms out. I ignored the offered help stubbornly - it was my arm that wasn't working, not my legs. Still, I understood why he was trying to help when I tried to haul myself from the floor while keeping the IV right next to me. I used that as a support, but it was on wheels. By the time I managed to get both feet under me without rocking, I considered that enough of a workout for the day (aside from showering as soon as I could, which would have to wait until I could have the IV removed, however temporarily).

I sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to relax but not quite able to coax my body to agree to that. "What's up?" I muttered for lack of anything better to say, awkwardly swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

"What's up?" Booth repeated, unimpressed with my admittedly lacking responses. "You shouldn't have been trying to do things without someone here. What if you'd gotten seriously hurt, huh? Ripped your stitches?"

"Well then I'd be in a lot of pain, and that's a lot more effective that an arrogant "I told you so,"" I retorted swiftly, already trying to push his concern away. Maybe I hadn't noticed when he'd transitioned from treating me callously to treating me kindly, but I was certainly noticing how he was trying to protect me and lecturing me about my own safety. It was too paternal too soon, even if I suspected that anyone else would have posed the same sort of question if Booth hadn't.

I hope he didn't realize that I pulled my injured arm closer defensively and therefore out of his reach.

He did, however, frown and deflate, and damn that stupid thing called empathy for making me feel guilty over hurting his feelings. Whatever his motives were, they weren't to harm me, and even if it was just because he's going through the transition of dad-shock, we both benefit from it: I get exceptional care and he gets his nerves soothed.

I rolled my eyes and reached across to push the controls on the side of the hospital bed. The sound of machinery met my ears and I had to talk over it as the mattress was raised into a sitting position. I didn't want to be lying down all day.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" I offered, not meeting his eyes or Brennan's. In fact, I looked over to the basket on the counter and tried to figure out how much time it would take to go through all of the features on every CD - long enough to distract me until I could leave or do something productive? "I hate not being able to rely on myself for protection. I wanted to prove that I'm still strong enough to take some measures of defense." My shoulders slumped and I shut my eyes, sighing deeply. "Obviously, I can't."

I felt the bed dip down on the edge. I opened my eyes and looked up to Brennan, who was seated on the end of the bed and watching me for a sign of discomfort with an understanding sympathy in her expression. "You are not completely invalidated, Holly," she assured me gently, but the admission that I was partly invalidated didn't help my mood at all. "You are still quite brilliant. The trauma from your surgery should have healed enough for the stitches to be pulled out in a couple of days, and then you should be able to start seeing a physical therapist.

"Your wrist is sprained with only a small tear. If you keep it immobile, then it will heal itself correctly and you can begin working on muscle durability in a matter of weeks. There are no signs of any side effects from your injuries, illness or otherwise. There is no reason that you can't return to your life as it was in time." The gentle tone had me relaxing before I realized it but when I did, I didn't force myself to try to fight it. I liked feeling a bit secure.

"Your housing situation will have to change, though," Booth cut in, his voice sincerely apologetic.

I squared my shoulders as best as I could and bit the inside of my cheek. "What are you talking about? There's no reason I shouldn't live there, it's in my… family name." It was a hard battle to say that and when I did, it came out with no small amount of distaste.

Booth interrupted me softly before I could continue to make excuses and arguments. "We know you don't live there, Holly." His eyes moved up to meet mine, his gaze mostly sad and disappointed. Because I lied? Or because I he thinks I don't trust him? "Angela tried to go by and get a bag of your things for you. She says there's barely anything unpacked and no one has been there in a while."

My shoulders slumped uselessly and I bit down harder on my lip. Where my teeth had already broken the surface, it stung sharply with the added pressure. What would happen now? If he won't let me keep living in my apartment, then I'm pretty much screwed. I could go back to the Kirklands' home, but it never feels like an actual home to me. Part of the reason I avoided it so much was because it was more depressing than my run-down apartment complex, because I associated loss with it. I'm not old enough to rent out my own place in a complex that's actually up to code in a safe, secure part of the city, and there's no way he'd send me back to the foster system… I hope. He knows what I've been though and he knows I'm self-sufficient, so why would he give my custody to someone who doesn't know how to take care of me? I'm the only one that really knows what I need.

"I need to know where you've been living. We can get some of your things for you," Booth added when it became evident that I wasn't willingly going to give up the information.

I felt my eyes stinging with the effort of not crying so I looked away and squeezed my eyes shut. "I've been staying in an apartment a few blocks from the bar," I said, my voice a lot quieter than I had actually meant it to be. "I can give you the address… but you don't need to go there. I don't really have many things I can use in a hospital, and it's hospital code that I stay in this stupid gown until the stitches are out." Sure, I had my violin, but that would be extremely difficult to play with a sprained wrist.

"Do you have anything that you want here?" Brennan offered kindly.

You shouldn't be being so nice to me. I've been lying to you ever since I met you.

I shrugged halfheartedly. "I don't really have toys. Most of the time, when I'm at the apartment, it's just so I can sleep. I don't spend much time there."

"What do you do whenever you're not with us?" Booth seemed genuinely puzzled.

I scoffed and reached up to rub lightly over a bruise on my collarbone, wincing when I put pressure on it. "Well you guys don't pay me. I spend all my time on cases when you have one, and when you don't I work overtime. If I can't sleep I find something to do in the city. Recently I've been skateboarding. There's a park not far from my apartment." Brennan frowned down at the sheets thoughtfully but she didn't speak up, so I assumed that she didn't have a problem with me. She has very little in the way of a verbal filter - she says what she thinks without understanding how someone could take offense most of the time. While it does cause problems sometimes, I appreciate the blunt honesty and rarely have to wonder if I've stepped out of line.

No one responded for a minute, so I cleared my throat. "Um, do I need to do any paperwork? For payment and insurance, and medical consents?"

"No," Brennan answered, looking up and taking me by surprise. Sure, people could go to the emergency room and be attended to for free (what, would you try to ask for personal information from someone with a bullet embedded in their limb? I think he or she'd be a bit busy screaming), but after that, people had to pay, especially for extended stays, and given the cost of surgery and medicine, I was looking at a bill of several thousand, probably even with insurance. "Hodgins has you on his insurance plan. He says you don't have to worry about costs."

I was pretty sure my eyes were wide, but I was a bit busy wondering why he would do that. Hodgins was the sole heir to his family's company, the Cantilever group. They're a high-profile association, but not much about the members are known to the general public, which is why it had taken hearing about Hodgins' estate to figure out that he was from the same family. He was right - if Cantilever was taking care of my medical expenses, then I definitely wouldn't have to worry about finances. But claiming me on his insurance plan would also make Hodgins partially responsible for me in the eyes of the law, which was something I figured that most adults would try to avoid. Yeah, I'd helped him out before, but I figured we were more than good, considering he let me wander around his lab when I was waiting for something.

"Oh," I finally said when I remembered that I hadn't replied.

"The hospital needs your consent to let other people see you now," Booth told me, tactfully not mentioning that, as my father, he could lawfully get custody and then determine that himself. "Bones and I are clear, and Angela's been in here, but since you're here because of attempted murder, they want a list of people allowed into your room until the whole thing smooths over."

"Makes sense," I allowed. If he's not going to bring it up, then I won't either. "If someone accused them of being security negligent then the hospital gets bad press, especially since I'm relatively well-known in the city now. Obviously, I don't mind you lot coming around - you two, Angela, Hodgins, Zach, and Dr. Goodman, although I'd be surprised if he showed up."

"You shouldn't have to worry about anyone untrustworthy coming in. Someone will be with you at all times," Brennan assured me gently, which actually didn't help me much. I'm sure she meant that I wouldn't be lonely or left to my own devices, but I couldn't help but suspect that they didn't want me trying to get out of the hospital on my own. "You don't have to be alone through this."

"This being hospitalization?" I asked sarcastically. "Because if that's your concern, then I'm pretty sure the doctors aren't going to forget I exist. Plus, if I get lonely-" I cut off and pointed to the 'nurse call' button. "Plus, movies," I added as an afterthought, nodding towards the basket. "Hospitals always have CD players."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that they didn't deserve the flippancy or the sarcasm. They were concerned and being kind.

"Sorry," I muttered. It seemed like I was doing that a lot lately.

"You don't have to apologize." Booth offered me a smile, but I saw through it immediately. And here comes the special treatment I don't need or want - well, okay, maybe I do need some special care, seeing as I can't walk on my own. But how much of his consideration was coming from familial obligation, and how much would have been present regardless? "You should be resting. You know, to get better faster."

"Yeah… alright."

I sounded reluctant and I knew it, but I didn't apologize this time. I don't like doing nothing. I feel like I should either be solving murders or working, and doing nothing didn't sit well with me. Still, when I made no move to get comfortable again, both adults stared at me pointedly.

"Fine, fine," I huffed, leaning back against the raised front of the mattress. I grabbed one of the extra-fluffy pillows and stuffed it behind my lower back, the way I'd been before trying to get up. It wouldn't do much for me until I was lying down, but Brennan would be happier. "But if I end up getting pneumonia from not moving, I am so going to throw a pillow at both of your faces."

I hoped they didn't realize that, mere pillows or not, it was an empty threat.

Dr. Temperance Brennan stared at the screen of her new laptop, watching the cursor blink in and out of existence in front of the last word she wrote in the document. She meant to work on her newer book - after all her publisher had given her (the laptop, for one) she felt like she owed it to the company to get to work on her next manuscript. She took a glance around the room, trying to determine how to start her next sentence, but she found herself reviewing everything with more purpose than she'd meant to.

Looking around the private hospital room, one would never have thought that the girl habitating it was without family or close friends. Despite that Holly's parents and older brother were AWOL, and she didn't seem to have any friends outside of the Jeffersonian staff and Booth, the room looked as homely as anyone in the opposite situation.

She didn't consider herself as close as family to Holly, but she would definitely call the girl her friend. It had always bothered Brennan when Holly seemed genuinely surprised when anyone, herself included, offered help. Or, in other cases, when she'd do something without considering that anyone would object on her behalf - during the case of Warren Granger's murder, for instance.

Somehow, without any of them seeming to realize it, Holly had become a natural piece of the clockwork of the Jeffersonian. She was a bright and exceptionally talented young woman who was responsible enough to look after herself. Even if it was easy to see that she didn't live a life of luxury, she always appeared to be in good health, so they could assume she ate enough and slept as necessary, aside from special circumstances when time had been essential. The only instances to suggest Holly wasn't of sound psychological condition - although Brennan didn't believe in psychology, she understood the fragility and importance of mental status - were when Holly would fight.

Watching her fight was almost frightening, particularly the first time she'd really seen Holly in a fistfight. When Ambassador Olivos' employee had assaulted her, Holly's movements had seemed to change. She moved faster, gracefully, and without thought, and it was unnerving how her blows, when threatened, always went to a vulnerable place on her target without fail. Head, eyes, throat, chest, groin. And the seventeen year old didn't even seem to realize it. In the dormitories of the school, Brennan had actually taken a step back. Even when she wasn't engaged in combat, the girl was surprisingly attuned to her senses. Given the area of town she lived in and how she grew up, from what Brennan could glean, it was probably due to a long-standing necessity of self-defence.

Later, the anthropologist had decided what Holly had reminded her of - a threatened wild animal. Admittedly a ferocious one, like a wolf or a bear. Holly was calm and collected, if snarky and sarcastic, until she felt like she was under attack. Then she was easily angered and quick to lash out at anyone she thought was harassing her. At the same time, she was fast to defend anyone she felt needed to - the disabled, adolescents, or even people capable of fighting who Holly was just protective of. And she was certainly protective of anyone once she began trusting them.

Then, once she became more comfortable with the new surroundings - namely, the people, she became more friendly without seeming to realize it. She was amiable most of the time but if anyone became a problem, it was easy to see where she felt her loyalties lied; with Booth and Brennan, and then it shifted to include Hodgins, Angela, and Zach. It was surprising how much she trusted Brennan and Booth in dangerous situations. The trust was mutual, of course, but given that she rarely handed out personal information with the intention of bonding, it was harder to understand why she trusted. Brennan supposed it had to do with a skewed social development due to abuse.

And that was another thing - Brennan was a trained anthropologist, and yet, until Holly had been given no choice but to wear more revealing clothes, she had had absolutely no idea that Holly had been put through hell in the foster system. She understood the families hadn't been the best, given how Holly was so passionately against it, but she hadn't known that she had been used as a punching bag since her youth. She was almost afraid to ask how long it had been going on, but she, having gone through a milder form of it, knew better than to ask when Holly's nerves were strained as it was.

Looking at the broken girl lying limp in the bed, it was hard to reconcile the fiery young adult with the delicate-looking girl sleeping soundly under the effects of a mild narcotic drip and pure exhaustion. Holly looked about half her normal size and her already pale skin looked almost worryingly drained of color, and since she usually wore a sweater that was too big and concealed her figure, it was disconcerting seeing her in something that actually fit snugly, such as the hospital gown.

However, Brennan never would have guessed that she bore any biological relation to Booth. She had thought, on occasion, that they looked similar when they stood side-by-side, but it was scarce for the two to get closer than two or three feet and usually when they did, someone was in danger. But if she concentrated then she could see the familial resemblances persisting in the tissue and bone structures. Although the scientist didn't make a habit of looking to see if it were possible her colleagues were related, it was clear that Holly's appearance had a lot to do with maternal genetics.

Brennan watched her chest move up and down evenly as she breathed. She was looking better than she had right after the emergency surgery, but she still looked like porcelain. No matter what she said about the matter, it would almost certainly take time for Holly to regain her full strength after this ordeal. Briefly, Brennan wondered if Holly would even wish to continue working the FBI cases in light of being kidnapped, stabbed, and nearly murdered and fed to dogs. She dismissed the thought as soon as it came into her head. Admittedly, Brennan would be disappointed if that were the case, but she would understand. Holly was highly intelligent and highly capable, and only seventeen. It was her choice and if she wanted to make safer decisions after such a close call, then she could hardly blame her.

She just barely sighed and reached forward to close the lid of her laptop, putting it to sleep, and watched the statistics on the monitors by Holly's bed. It was pretty obvious, even to her, that worry for the newest member on their team would simply not allow her to write until Holly was no longer in skeptical health.

Surprisingly enough, I managed to sleep for several more hours before waking up. I was alone in the room, but it was around dinner time, so I guessed that whoever had been with me before was in the hospital cafeteria. There was a note on top of rolling table, but I didn't have the energy to drag the table close enough to read it. However, my wakening had been anticipated. The television screen had been turned on to the main menu of the Criminal Minds disc with the first half of season one, and the remote had been left on the side of the mattress, within arm's reach.

I inclined the mattress so I could see the television easier and opened up the episode selection, setting it to play on one with a cool title ("Broken Mirror"). I couldn't remember what all of the episodes were about - it had been a while since I'd had access to free television, but Aaron used to let me use his laptop sometimes - but I had been pretty sure that "Won't Get Fooled Again" was the one with the notorious bomber, "L.D.S.K." had the guy that played Lassiter on Psych, "The Fox" was the one with a recurring un-sub who came back in season five, "What Fresh Hell?" was the one where no one actually died, "Machismo" took place in Mexico, and "Secrets and Lies" was the one with the CIA. "The Fisher King" was the season finale, but I didn't think I'd seen it before.

I liked Criminal Minds since the first episode I saw. It's absolutely fascinating to me. Not only are the characters well developed, and the BAU based on a real FBI unit, but the un-subs are actually fairly realistic. The facts they use when explaining things are statistics and facts from real killers throughout history. Some of the un-subs are even based on real killers - I think Adrian Bale was based on real-life bombers, and I know there's a serial killer in season two that was based off of H. Holmes' "murder hotel" during the Chicago World Fair. I had seriously considered going to school for a profiling job at one point before finishing high school.

The television served as a neat distraction from the stress of my real situation. Even though the door was ajar and I had to tolerate the occasional beeping from the machinery, it was much easier to focus on fake murders than my real-life near murder, the complications that would come with Booth knowing I was living completely off my own name, and the difficulties I was having accepting that the aforementioned man is my father. Knowing it? Yeah, I can do that. Accepting it, however - totally different ball game.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because you asked me to, Cheryl. You asked me with your glances, the way you talk, those little gestures."

"What are you doing?"

"Do not answer this man."

"You asked for this! You asked for it, Cheryl!"

I watched with a sort of absent fascination, trying to guess who the un-sub was or things about him as the episode progressed. It was like a game to me - trying to figure things out before the characters, substituting their superior knowledge of psychological profiling with the advantage of having seen previous scenes and clips from the un-sub's point of view. "Erotomania," I mused contemplatively.

"What does that mean? Will someone please tell me what we're dealing with here!?"

"De Clerambault's syndrome - otherwise known as erotomania, the belief that someone, usually of a higher social status but not necessarily a celebrity, is in love with you. Erotomaniacs believe that the objects of their affection are subtly professing their love for them through looks, gestures - glances."

"I called it," I reminded the IV rack, before sighing in depression. This is pathetic. Not very long ago, I used to value my tough demeanor, lack of emotional attachments, and my talent for staying out of any serious trouble. Now, though, I'm laid up in a hospital with a nearly-fatal stab wound, watching quiet television to avoid dealing with daddy issues.

Life just kind of screwed me over… again.

"Hey." Angela Montenegro set a small vase of flowers on the counter by the sink of the hospital room, looking over at Holly. She was asleep as she had been for the last several hours, but it was still slightly disappointing. Angela did, however, have to admit that she'd much rather Holly sleep and heal rather than be awake and be in pain. She glanced around to the chair and sat down quickly, folding her hands in her lap and crossing her legs.

She watched Holly, but she didn't get a response other than the muscles of the arm with the IVs flexing slightly as she pulled her arm across her stomach, over the bandages. Nightmares. Angela sighed sympathetically and stared, wishing she could help, but she was the miracle worker that did anything with a computer, not the kind that magically healed life-threatening injuries. Even if she could, Holly probably wouldn't let her.

She couldn't imagine how Holly must have felt. An idiot could see that Holly was attached to Booth, even if Holly tried to act nonchalant about it. She was tense in the Jeffersonian without Booth or Brennan, even if she tried to seem at ease. Not only were the lives of the adults she looked up to threatened, but someone she had thought she could trust had been responsible. And then to make things worse, he kidnapped her at gunpoint, with the intention of killing her as a cover-up. It was adding salt to the wounds that he stabbed her when she was already vulnerable - and with her own knife, at that.

Before this disaster, Angela had actually been happy that Holly was friends with Kenton. She stayed loyally at the hospital until Booth was better but then left when he entrusted Kenton with her safety, showing a good balance between concern and angry vengeance towards the person responsible. Now she wondered if anything would have ended differently if she'd volunteered to transport Holly back to the Jeffersonian. Chances were, Holly's assault had been premeditated, although they wouldn't know until she woke up and told them what Kenton and told her. Guilting herself was absolutely useless, and Angela realized that, but she couldn't help just a bit of it.

Now everything had changed, and while she spoke optimistically to her friends, Angela wasn't actually certain whether it was for the better or worse. Holly had trust issues. Learning that Booth was the father who hadn't been there would likely not go over too well - worst case scenario, Holly refused to accept it and cut ties with everyone. At best, she'd probably try to ignore it until she just couldn't anymore. It unsettled the sort of balance that she'd created for herself and raised new issues and feelings that she'd buried a long time ago. So while she didn't doubt that Booth was a good father for Parker, she had her doubts about whether a father-daughter relationship with Holly would work.

Truly, the entire situation was just heartbreaking and she found herself hoping that Holly slept for a while longer before she had to wake up and deal with everything. Though Angela held out hope and was confident that things would be dealt with accordingly, she was worried that the consequences might hurt the entire group.

A/N: I have never been a victim of physical abuse. While I have been emotionally and verbally abused, I will not even pretend to know firsthand what physical abuse is like. However, I do know people who do, and I'm trying to do justice to them and everyone else who's been victimized by anyone else. If anyone, absolutely anyone is offended by the flashbacks in this chapter, please, please tell me so that I can delete them.

Secondly, the chapter title is from the song "Concrete Angel," by Martina McBride.