I had to go to the hospital to get an MRI done. Although the pain radiating through my wrist had dissipated to a dull throbbing without any painkillers by the time I was escorted out of the waiting room, there was still the possibility that the sprain had been worsened, in which case I had to be extra careful.

But no, I pretty much had to have another IV of dye in the back of my hand for a half hour for no reason. The sprain wasn't worse or damaged. My blood just felt cold in my veins because of the solution until the needle was out. My hand had been moved too quickly, and after two weeks of barely moving my left wrist, the muscles had been seriously aggravated by the sudden motion.

That didn't change that I was now even more acutely aware of how vulnerable I was to an attack. Normally, Overmeyer wouldn't have even made me flinch, but I fell to my knees and screamed. It's not a very nice feeling.

My walking pace was battling between fast and sluggish. I knew I should hurry so that I could get back to working - to absorbing myself in the casework as a distraction and proof that I wasn't invalidated, but on the other hand, I was sulking. No one wants to walk fast when they're trying to sulk.

"Xena!" Hodgins was certainly happy to see me well, at least, and that made me feel a little bit better. He jumped from his seat in front of his table on the platform in the center of the Medico-Legal lab and slid his card in the security system so that I wouldn't have to get mine. "Booth said you had to go get your wrist checked out again. What's the verdict?"

"I'm fine," I answered. Normally I probably would have been a bit snappy about it, but now my energy just felt a bit too drained to expend more on keeping up an attitude. "A lot of the muscles that were pulled hadn't been used in a pretty long time. No damage, but physical therapy's looking better to me by the minute." The sooner I regain full use of all my limbs again, the better! To prevent the questions from continuing, I motioned with my free hand to Zach, who was leaning over the reassembled skull with off-colored marks and spots of gaps where the fragments hadn't all been recovered. "What's up here?"

Zach went right into the details of what was new to me while Hodgins continued glancing at me worriedly when he thought I wouldn't notice. Still, he sat back down at his table with his tray and his equipment, so I was happy enough not to comment.

"Marni's skull was fractured by a midair impact during her fall. That's evidenced by the radiating fractures centered above her right temporal bone, but this damage is isolated on the left side of her skull."

I snorted, rolling my eyes. "What, a girl's not allowed to slam her head on pipes the way she wants as she falls down a tunnel? Because no one's ever given me any instructions on it."

"From the fracture pattern, it appears to be a sharp, pointed weapon." Zach continued with his analysis like I hadn't said anything - if I'd said something important rather than a smart quip I'd have been bothered enough to make another.

Hodgins stood from his table again, this time picking up a small tray he'd been working over carefully. No, scratch that - he just picked up a circular medallion from the middle, holding it carefully in his hand like it were of precious material. "Brennan mentioned that Harold said he'd given the victim something he wished he hadn't. Could this have been it?" He carried it over to Zach and, not wanting to be left out, I didn't have much of a choice but to walk past the examination table and get closer to see.

It was a bronze piece, an almost perfect circle. It might have been made completely of a pure metal. There were patches of rust on it and the color was starting to chip and erode away with the age and conditions it had been in, but the engravings it had written in circles following the circumference were still visible.

"You know, those characters could be Latin," I pointed out. Much of it was unreadable, but I could pick out the fragments of several Latin words, so it seemed like a safe bet when coupled with the age of the artifact. "And I think those are Roman numerals, closest to the center."

Zach twisted around to stare up at Hodgins. "You know who knows about that kind of stuff?"

Goodman. Goodman had been an archaeologist in the past; while he retained the skillsets and knowledge, he had retired from archaeology and became the Jeffersonian's director and the supervisor of the Medico-Legal lab. I never knew why he gave up something he clearly loved, but we'd never been particularly close and there had been one instance when we were on very rocky ground, so I hadn't seen fit to ask.

"You show it to him!" Hodgins said quickly, taking a hurried step back and holding up his arms.

"No," Zach argued flatly. "I am not taking possession of that piece of evidence. You show it to him."

Of course, anything old enough to be an archaeological artifact could have a historical meaning, in which case the paperwork could weigh in at well past a pound on a scale.

"Armor. A Roman cuirass. Doric columns common to Rome around the first century, B.C.." Well, would you look at that - give Goodman an old medallion and a high-tech magnifying glass with a name that sounds fancier and more expensive than "magnifying glass" and he's practically ready to write a report on it.

"Overmeyer said he gave Marni Hunter something that he believes got her killed." I told Goodman. I moved at first to cross my arms but faltered uncomfortably when I realized I couldn't, and I shoved my fist in the front pocket of my sweater. "I mean, he lives underground because he's traumatized, so who knows, but maybe he wasn't wrong."

Goodman brought the medallion down from under the magnifying glass and hesitated before admitting, "This could be valuable." He pushed the leg of the magnifier back away and one metal pole slid underneath another, compacting above the table. "Let's have Miss Montenegro x-ray it. Stress from the initial pressing should provide a clear picture of what's been worn away."

That said, Goodman held out the medallion to Hodgins again, who visibly deflated, his shoulders slumping and face falling. He looked a couple inches shorter.

"I… was hoping you'd take possession of this piece of evidence," Hodgins admitted with a wince, evidently still hoping to score on that one.

Goodman snorted. "And the paperwork that goes along with it." It was the first time that that particular line had been said aloud, even though Zach, Hodgins, and I had all known it was there ever since we realized how old it was. "I wasn't born yesterday, Dr. Hodgins."

Angela had the medallion set on top of her tablet in the center of a tetradecagonal shape outlined in thin white lines to one side of the Jeffersonian seal. The technology really was amazing - I didn't know that her tablet could scan like that, but apparently it can. Her primary computer monitor was slowly creating a visual copy of the metal piece on screen.

"My God, I love this place," I breathed, watching the outline of the shape on the computer solidify, the colors filling in slowly to account for the depth of the engravings.

Angela smirked proudly. I couldn't see her do it, since she was leaning over her tablet, but I knew she was, all the same.

"Well… you don't really need me for this." Hodgins laughed cheerfully but there was an undertone of nerves as he hoped Angela wouldn't stop him as he turned around and started walking back towards the door.

"Yes, I do!" Angela corrected quickly, raising her voice so that he couldn't pretend not to have heard.

Hodgins slumped in defeat and turned back around, whining. "Why?" He dragged his feet across the carpet petulantly on his way back. Goodman was either too used to the behavior or too focused on the Latin becoming more visible as the software created the magnified and clearer likeness on the computer to act like anything was going on around him.

"Because I have not taken official possession of this piece of evidence." Angela put heavy emphasis on the "not" part of that sentence and looked over her shoulder to glare threateningly at Hodgins.

"Fascinating," Goodman stated with wide eyes and honest awe lighting his expression, completely disregarding everything else in the room as he stared at the larger image of the medallion.

"Seventeen seventy-eight." I read the date from along the bottom. In the center of the medallion, there was some sort of structure - it was rectangular like a building but at the same time some of those lines could have been a banner - that could have, at one point, been a seal. "We were right, then. It counts as a historical artifact."

"It appears to be an official seal of some kind," Goodman guessed, drawing the same conclusion that I had before his eyes widened comically. "Oh my God!" I guess he recognized it after staring at it long enough. He leaned over Angela and I practically limbo'ed out of the way, leaning back as he scooped up the medallion with no warning whatsoever. Even Angela, a sociable and friendly person who hugs people, leaned in the opposite direction out of surprise.

He took the medallion and cradled it in his hands like his most precious possession and turned, walking like there was fire at his heels out of the office.

I stared at his retreating back until he passed out of view from inside Angela's office and then I looked back in front of me with an irritated huff. "It's nice to be in the loop."

Angela raised her eyebrows at Hodgins and nodded towards Goodman. "Aren't you going to go after him?"

Hodgins just shoved his fists in the large pockets of his lab jacket and smiled happily. "Nope."

"Why not?"

Hodgins' grin grew into a smug smirk as he proudly declared, "Because he is now officially in charge of that medallion."

I threw my good arm up to the ceiling and turned around to stalk unhappily after Goodman. "Yes, after saying no - which means he figured out something, which means I need to know what it is!"

"Treasure?" Brennan repeated, the first voice that I heard when I finally found Goodman in Brennan's office, the second one that I looked into. Right after seeing Brennan at her desk, I saw Booth seated across from her in the opposing chair and I faltered, taking a step backwards rather than forwards into the office.

"It's an official vault seal, manufactured by the War Office." Even Goodman was affected by the information - the normally calm administrator spoke quickly and out of breath, like he'd sprinted after leaving Angela's office. "It was established in seventeen seventy-eight. The Latin sigils and thesaur tie it to the treasury."

"And you couldn't have said this in Angela's office?" I demanded. "Jogging down stairs is not my idea of a good time!" My legs work just fine, but the stairs require more balance than normal walking, which, in turn, puts more exertion over my abdomen - which, unless the last two weeks have been a dream, had a knife plunged through it. The only good thing about stairs was that the practice was an easy way to build up strength again.

"Oh - sorry, Miss Kirkland," Goodman apologized, turning around and moving away from the doorway sheepishly. It didn't go over my head that he was more accommodating to me since the kidnapping ordeal - instead of being offended, I was trying to take to heart what Booth had told me when we'd been quarantined over Easter; that they didn't pity me, they sympathized with me, and it was okay for them to offer help or empathy.

Without Goodman in the way I had no excuse to stay out of the office so I stepped in slowly, deliberately not looking at my father. My father. Wow, I'm pretty sure the room just did a little flip - or was just my heart? Either way, it's definitely going to take a while to get used to.

"So the treasury made a bank vault?" I prompted, standing just inside the door, perfectly content with where I was - easily able to bolt from the room if I got uncomfortable, that is. Well, maybe not easily able to bolt, since I have to be careful about running, but I could leave the room fast enough.

"Much better," Goodman replied quickly, still out of breath. Since it wasn't like he'd run a marathon, I was left with the impression that whatever it was, it was really better than an average bank vault. "The War Office established several vaults under the city to safekeep cultural treasures."

"They must all be empty by now." Brennan pointed out, head tilted attentively. She tapped the end of a pen against a piece of paper in front of her without seeming to realize that she was doing it.

"No, no. Several were unaccounted for after a series of cave-ins and mudslides in the early nineteen hundreds."

That certainly got my attention. I forced all uncomfortable social tension out of my mind. "Wait, so Marni Hunter died with a medallion in her possession that serves as proof of a vault filled with treasure worth trillions buried underneath D.C.?" Not only did the case get that much more interesting, but the suspect pool and motives widened. With something as monumental as buried and lost treasure, any number of people could be involved. Marni probably had no idea what she was getting into when she started her documentary.

"It could contain currency, gold ingots, paintings, and engravings." Goodman seemed to just be listing them as he thought of them. "The original draft of Lincoln's inaugural address was never recovered. This could be an extraordinary find. We have to find these artifacts before they're stolen or sold off," he urged.

"If we find the treasure, we'll find the killer," I rationalized, looking back to Booth. "She was probably killed because she wanted to reveal the discovery, but whoever was with her wanted to make money from the vault."

Booth nodded in agreement to what I was saying and Brennan shot us both a look for jumping to the conclusions, but didn't say it out loud - most likely since she'd told us both enough times for us to know without it being said.

"What's the monetary value of this thing?" Booth asked Goodman.

"Priceless." Goodman frowned at Booth like he was personally slighted. "You can't put a value on our cultural heritage."

"Well, I think someone did." Booth stood up, kicking one of the chair legs so that it was pushed back towards Brennan's desk. "That's why Marni's dead."

I stayed out of the interrogation room this time, preferring to watch through the one-way mirror as Brennan took my place with Booth across from Overmeyer. It wasn't that I was scared of him; he hadn't done any real damage to me. And if he tried to attack me, Booth would probably slam him on the table again, I thought to myself bitterly. As for what he admitted to doing in the war? Well, that was a war. People do what they have to when they've devoted their lives to the service of their country's armed forces, but that doesn't mean they'll do awful things afterwards, particularly if they regret it so much as to repent by living underground.

Booth had the medallion sealed safely in an evidence bag, which is pretty much just a more sterile Ziploc. "Harold, was this what you gave Marni Hunter?" He slid it across the table.

"Yeah." Overmeyer was a lot more subdued than he had been last time; he was facing away from the light filtering through the blinds of the high window, but he was no longer trying to find an excuse to leave. "She liked it."

"Where did you get it?"

"Beyond the perimeter." Well, that's not vague at all.

"Harold?" Brennan leaned forward over the table, crossing her arms over the surface and trying to meet Overmeyer's eyes - a difficult endeavor, since he was actively trying not to make eye contact. "Harold, you have to trust us. We just want to find who killed Marni." Trusting us? Yeah, that wasn't likely to happen just because she says so. "And you can help. You killed people." That's a nice thing to remind him of. "Maybe this is your chance to put that right. You said you wish you hadn't given it to her. Why?"

"Did you take it from someone?" Booth guessed, trying to give Overmeyer an easy way out; admitting it without saying it.

"The blonde," Overmeyer agreed after a beat of silence. "It was hers. And I shouldn't have taken it."

Blonde? Plus the pronoun "hers." The only female blonde I could remember meeting during the investigation was Helen, the social worker - but why would she have been beyond the perimeter? Furthermore, why did she have a medallion worth more money than she'll make in her lifetime?

"A blonde killed Marni?" Brennan tried to clarify - just because the medallion came from a blonde didn't mean the blonde killed the victim who had it.

"Marni went too deep. That's the blonde's territory." Territory didn't necessarily mean that the space belonged to the blonde, whoever she was - in this context, it could just mean that the blonde knew her way around better than anyone else.

Booth's patience for the vague answers that, really, only raised more questions, wore thin quickly. "Does the blonde have a name?"

"People around me die." Overmeyer shifted so he was facing even further away from the table and his interrogators. "Marni died." Why yes, yes she did.

"There's always going to be casualties, Harold. The important thing is to recognize the enemy and take him out, so more people don't get hurt."

"Can you take us down there, Harold?" Brennan asked gently, her voice quiet, soothing, and calm.

That elicited a sudden change and a precise response for the first time. "No. It's beyond the perimeter," Overmeyer answered firmly. "I took Marni beyond the perimeter. I'm not going to make that same mistake again."

"The social worker."

"Why? Because she's blonde?"

"Yeah. I mean, come on. Why didn't she want Marni poking around?"

"Because she thought the documentary was exploiting the homeless."

"You buy that?"

"Well, obviously, you don't."

I groaned softly and leaned back until my head rested on the back of the seat, riding in the back of Booth's SUV while Booth and Brennan sat up front, arguing without raising their voices. I was used to them going back and forth like this but that doesn't mean I enjoy it any more - actually, I enjoy it less because I like them both rather than just siding with Brennan, like I did when I met them. Now it's complicated because I still look up to Brennan, but Booth has done so much for me and, oh yeah, he's my father. Still, I'd rather them argue about suspects than argue about Booth's paternal responses like they had when going down the air shaft at the beginning of the case.

"You know what?" At a red light, Booth slowed the car to a standstill and looked across the car to Brennan. "You want to know what a better reason for not wanting somebody poking around is?"

"A mythical treasure?" Brennan predicted skeptically, sliding one arm up onto the windowsill.

Booth rolled his eyes impatiently. "Alright, look. You ever see Treasure of the Sierra Madre? It doesn't matter if the treasure is mythical or not. People will still kill if they think it exists."

"And in this case," I put in quickly, before Brennan could develop another argument against that. "We know the treasure does exist. That medallion is the proof. And we know that Overmeyer knows where it is, he just won't tell us."

"Which is why we need to find out who helped Marni get into the tunnels - past the perimeter. We know Overmeyer took her once, but she had to have help getting around." Booth agreed wholeheartedly, glad to have someone else on his side.

There was a momentary pause, a note of silence, before Brennan murmured, "It did exist."

"What?" I asked, leaning forward between the seats and looking at her.

"In the movie Treasure of the Sierra Madre," she explained. "It's gold dust. People think it didn't exist, so it blew away, but it did exist."

"But no one got it is the point," Booth countered, before his eyebrows drew together and he exclaimed in happy realization. "Huh! All of a sudden, you know a movie!"

Brennan shook her head and looked back out the window at the passing ground as the light turned green and the car sped up again. "Everybody knows that movie." She shifted, getting her phone from her pocket, and I heard the buzzing of the vibration once it was out of her pocket and in her hand. She looked at the caller ID and held it up to her ear. "Brennan."

"It's Hodgins." I heard very faintly, leaning closer and straining my ears to hear.

Brennan lowered the phone and put it on speakerphone. "You're on speaker," she told him, allowing me to lean backwards and relax the tensed muscles in my stomach. I was happy with how I was regaining mobility - given that I'd been stabbed, the injury could have been a lot more serious, and taken a lot more time than two weeks in a hospital. Just because the knife didn't go deep didn't mean that it couldn't have nicked something more important than it did.

"Your victim was in some other tunnel system before she died." Hodgins' voice filled the car, but the phone made him sound tinny when the sound echoed.

Brennan sighed at the declaration. "Facts before conclusions, please."

Hodgins didn't need any prompting. I guess he knew he'd be told to explain himself before Brennan was willing to take his word for it, since there was no immediate time frame. "Her clothing shows traces of diamond dust. That suggests a much older system of tunnels than the one in which you found her. Industrial diamonds were used in blast-hole drilling in the nineteenth century."

"Well, she was tied to a Civil War-era vault established over a hundred years ago. It's logical," I reasoned, adding the last two words mostly for Brennan's benefit.

A second later, Hodgins' voice muttered, "Good job, Hodgins. What would we do without you?" Very sarcastically and very snarkily.

I smirked. "You do realize that you're still on the line, right?"

"Oh… um… I think I hear someone-" Hodgins hung up with a click before he could be accused of the comment he made, leaving me smiling in the backseat as Brennan locked her phone and held it in her hand rather than trying to put it back in her pocket.

"So, Marni was killed near a vault, and then dragged to the shaft." I knew she did this often; summarized what we knew for sure, with facts to support it, and it had become routine that after she did this, Booth and sometimes myself hypothesized about what could fill in the blanks.

"And Overmeyer will know where the vault is, though he may not realize the significance of it." I put in, frowning at the thought of the man. Damage or not, I still don't appreciate the assault.

"Okay, maybe you could try the 'hey, we're brothers in arms' thing on him," Brennan suggested to Booth. I flinched, knowing that the former veteran wouldn't respond well to it despite the lack of malicious intent.

"Okay, that? What you just said right there, Bones - that was cynical," Booth said coldly, set on edge by the conversations with Overmeyer already, and spurred on by it. Brennan meant well, but no one can really appreciate the meaning of 'fighting for your life' until you actually have fought for your life. Overmeyer and Booth share that experience; while I have, too, fighting against the mercenaries and even fighting against Kenton wasn't the same context as fighting to serve my country. "That was glib and cynical."

"Really?" Brennan blinked innocently, unsure what about it she'd done wrong.

"Yes, really," Booth snapped. His knuckles were turning white on the steering wheel. Despite that Brennan didn't deserve to get yelled at, it was true that she needed to understand that she'd hurt Booth's feelings and could have offended a number of people. Since Booth doesn't generally dish out more than a reasonable response, even on offense, I figured he would know not to go overboard with it. "I know what that guy has been through."

Brennan frowned at him while he looked at the road. "You… killed a pregnant woman who was holding a child?" She asked uncertainly. The odds of the exact circumstance were slim but clearly she wasn't sure whether Booth meant it literally or in principle.

Booth's shoulders rolled and his jaw tightened. "Look, if you really want to know what I've done, I'll tell you, but you'd better be ready for the truth," he warned lowly.

Yes. I wanted to say it - I have a right, to some extent, to know what he did during his time in the army, especially if he wants me to trust him for dictating where I spent my time when I wasn't working, shelter-wise.

But Brennan didn't say anything, which was pretty much an I'm not sure I want to know in not so many words, and she's in the car, too. She'd hear whatever Booth said and if she doesn't want to know, she's an intelligent enough woman to have the right to decide that for herself. Bad things happen in war; whether she wants to save herself the trouble of thinking about it, or preserve the light in which she sees Booth, I don't have the right to subject her to what she doesn't want when I can easily talk to Booth alone at another time.

Like Booth thought we would, we found Helen at the social center. The social worker in question met with us outside on the lawn to talk rather than disturb the other staff or civilians inside. Whether or not we mean to, the three of us can be somewhat intimidating. We all have a presence, Booth is clearly FBI, and he has a gun.

"Harold is afraid of me?" Helen repeated what Booth stated with far more surprise, almost offended.

"Does he have a reason to be?" I asked, cocking my head at her and searching for an answer or sign of lying.

"Oh, Harold is afraid of the world," Helen said, brushing it off like nothing. She rolled her eyes at me, seemingly exasperated with my presence. "Why do you think he lives underground?"

Before I could give a scathing comment in return, Brennan interrupted and actually answered the rhetorical question. "Because he's paying penance."

"Y- what?" Booth frowned and looked to the anthropologist in confusion as to where that came from.

Brennan looked back to him, stating everything factually, with maybe just a little bit of surprise that he didn't already know about this. "You catch murderers to pay off your penance," she pointed out. "Harold lives underground." She looked back to Helen. "Did you ever tell Marni that you found her documentary exploitive?"

"Of course I did, I'm an honest person." I snorted, raising my right hand to hide my face from view so that Helen wouldn't see me smirking. She scowled at me anyway. "I told her I wouldn't help her."

"... Which is when she turned to Harold as a guide," Booth concluded, waiting for someone to correct him if he was wrong.

Instead, Helen confirmed it. "Yes, and those two other guys."

"What two other guys?"

"She took climbing lessons - how to use ropes, and all that stuff." Helen answered vaguely. I wasn't entirely sure if she didn't know what "all that stuff" actually was or if she was just being passively difficult.

Brennan crossed her arms and shifted her weight to her other leg, narrowing her eyes at Helen. "When you told Marni that you thought she was exploitive, how did she react?"

"Well, she said that showing the truth couldn't possibly be exploitive," Helen scoffed, the sarcasm in her voice almost palpable. I didn't like her attitude. Maybe the truth hadn't been Marni's goal but she has no excuse to be so rude and assuming.

"I agree with her," Brennan decided.

Helen stared at Brennan, trying to judge whether or not the scientist was sincere. "Truth doesn't mean the same thing to everyone, Dr. Brennan," she said quickly, veiling it so it wasn't exactly an insult, but it wasn't a very nice thing to say. "Harold said he was afraid of me?"

So she was self-centered, caring about what Harold thought of her, and she was picking on Brennan? "Alright, Miss Sunshine, you listen up. You can't just-"

"He said he was afraid of a blonde," Booth interrupted me and looked down at me for just a second, asking me with his eyes not to turn this into a fight even though I was tired and agitated.

Helen snidely replied, "How do you know it wasn't Charlize Theron?"

That is it, you snooty witch. One more comment like that and handicapped or not, I will take you to the floor.

"Who's that?" Brennan asked Booth.

"A blonde actress," I said through gritted teeth. "She's being sarcastic and unhelpful and I don't think she has many friends."

I almost felt bad for Booth, trying to be the good cop when both of his coworkers weren't making it any easier for him - but I disliked Helen more than I empathized, so I didn't change my demeanor. Booth smiled tensely. "Thank you for your help. Appreciate it." He turned his back to Helen and Brennan and I took that as the cue that it was time to leave. I was glad to get away from the social worker, while Brennan didn't seem too bothered either way. "You know, you amaze me, you know?" Booth told Brennan, somewhere between bemused and annoyed. "You know Treasure of the Sierra Madre but you don't know Charlize Theron. You know who you are? You're my grandmother."

"Well, that's a nice thing to say," I muttered.

"Have you got your bag?" Angela asked first thing as I stepped into her office, intent on watching the holographic recreations with her and Zach.

My shoulders slumped. I really wasn't going to get out of Angela's plan to drive me to Brennan's for the night. Brennan herself wanted to stay late and continue working, but Angela figured that, as I recovered, I needed a more regular sleeping schedule. She also figured, admittedly correctly, that even though there had been a bomb in Brennan's apartment, I'd be most comfortable at Brennan's since I had been there and not to Hodgins', Angela's, or Booth's.

I let the bag drop onto the ground with a thud. It wasn't very heavy; the messenger bag only had clothes and hygienics. "I don't see why I can't sleep in the loft."

Angela sent me a look over her tablet and through the orange three-dimensional grid of the holographics. "Because it's not very comfortable and you need better support for your stomach."

"My stomach was stabbed, cut open, sewn shut, and is currently being held that way by heavy-duty band aids. I'm pretty sure I'll be alright."

"Sweetie." I could tell by her tone that she didn't want to argue, but she wasn't going to let me get my way. "You've done a lot for us. Now we're going to help you, whether you like it or not."

I don't really like it right now.

Angela resumed talking to Zach when I stopped verbally rebelling against her wishes. Leaving the bag on the ground by the door, I reached up with one arm to rub my opposite shoulder, walking dejectedly closer to the two scientists.

"Here's the recreation. Here are the wounds." Angela's program illuminated specific points of impact on the holographic skull.

I took a deep breath. Whether or not Angela's acting like I'm her daughter rather than Booth's, I still work here, and that means I have to actually be productive rather than sulk about my personal problems. "The skull fractures center above the left parietal lobe, like they came from a single strike."
"Okay." Angela nodded in agreement slowly, entering data on her tablet for the holographics to mimic. "The lasers can measure the angle of the attack and the amount of damage that was done to the living bone of the skull - three point three millimeters indentation into the bone at the deepest point, which trailed off to zero point zero four millimeters."

"A glancing blow." Zach shook his head, looking down to the floor sadly at the meaning behind it.

"She saw the attack coming," I murmured, thinking back to my own experience with nearly fatal assault.

I wasn't quite able to say that whole thing, so I whimpered and weakly tried to shove him off of me with the uninjured hand. In retaliation, Kenton dug his fingers in around my wrist. The pain was so sharp and flared through all of the many muscles surrounding the heel and back of my hand, as well as my wrist and forearm. The agony was so intense that I bucked under the agent, opening my mouth to shout but instead coughing and then dry retching so hard that I tasted blood.

I shuddered suddenly, shoulders raising up around my neck protectively, ducking my head down so that neither Angela or Zach could see my expression, which I was sure was horrified or pained. Recalling the last time I'd felt something like that, I took deep breaths, playing a song in my head to avoid panicking the way I had before. Hot blooded, check it and see. I've got a fever of a hundred and three. Come on, baby, do you do more than dance?

"Yeah," Angela nodded once in sad agreement with me. "The angle of the attack was between fifty and fifty-three degrees."

"The attacker struck from above." Zach mimed a downwards swing with his dominant arm. "And… from the victim's right." He did it again, changing the angle his fist came down at to account for the data.

I narrowed my eyes at Zach, watching him repeat the motion, trying to figure in the angles exactly. I swallowed, mostly recovered from a momentary faintness, and saw no reason to act out of character and alert either of the squints to it. "The killer was most likely left-handed."

Zach's shoulders fell and he sighed at the hologram of the skull, rotating slowly in three hundred sixty degrees. "She was only struck once."

I screamed out loud, shrill and agonized, when the blow landed and my own pocket knife sliced through my sweater and shirt and then through my skin. He only pushed the blade in a couple of inches before pulling it out and I really wanted to grab him and do the same. It hurt like all of fucking hell and I could see blackness rimming my peripheral vision. I lifted both hands to my stomach regardless of the sprain. Clean, thin, even, but a couple of inches deep. A couple of inches too deep.

"Yeah, well." I coughed to clear my throat, frowning with an unexpected wave of grief. "Sometimes one strike's all it takes."

I wasn't really too surprised that Angela had a key to Brennan's apartment. They are best friends; it only made sense. I had thought, going back into the apartment, that all I'd be able to do was seize up and recall the burning fridge and have a flashback of tending to Booth on the floor, terrified that he was a hell of a lot more injured than he appeared.

I guess I'd worked through that part, though. I remembered reading somewhere that post-traumatic stress can be caused by any overwhelming event that leaves a negative impact, but it's more likely to occur if the event is personalized; someone you know or recognize inflicting deliberate harm, and the risk factor is higher if there were instances of physical abuse in the subject's past. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the psychological trauma is lasting.

From what I understand, PTSD is when, in a moment of great stress, the brain's ability to fully process information and emotion is interrupted, so to speak, leaving the person in question with a lot of psychological damage that they haven't completely accepted or understood. I remembered feeling overwhelmed, but I also remembered feeling fairly in-control until Kenton held a gun to me. Somewhere around that time the memories also get a bit hazy, so it's fair to say that since Brennan's apartment seems more safe than it does threatening, the bomb blast wasn't as traumatic for me as the events that happened afterwards.

I stepped inside Brennan's kitchen slowly, looking around. My security had been threatened, so I figured Angela would understand why. In a way, I'm extremely lucky to have people like Angela, Zach, Booth, Brennan, and Hodgins all looking out for me - they're all very intelligent and have all dealt with or known people who experienced traumatic things. Booth was a veteran, and Brennan was once kidnapped by terrorists for doing her job, so if anyone understands how I'm feeling, it's them. Zach knows almost every scientific fact under the sun and Hodgins and Angela are more in touch with their feelings, so even if they weren't sure, they knew better than to call attention to something unless it was serious.

Her fridge had been replaced. It was the same general style as the previous one that had been blown up. I don't know why, but it made me smile. Also, one of the rugs that used to be in the living room had been moved to the kitchen floor. To cover up scorch marks, maybe.

"Is this gonna be okay?" Angela asked behind me, standing in the foyer patiently. She was honestly concerned. I wasn't sure whether or not she was going to stay over, but probably not. I hoped not, anyway. I wanted to be alone. She knows that, but she's also worried about me, and since I'd have Brennan here once she finished her work, it could go either way.

"... Yeah. I mean, I'm fine." I looked into the living room, which was the same as I remembered - well, sans a rug. I set my bag down at the side of the sofa, wondering absentmindedly if Brennan would mind if I looked through her book collection. The shelves in the living room had dozens, if not at least a hundred. Most were thick tomes, but at least it would be a way to pass the time and truthfully, there were bound to be several that I'd find interesting.

I turned back around to see Angela. She was pulling the door shut until it clicked quietly and she turned the lock on the handle. "You know… it's weird. If I look around I can remember exactly what the place looked like before and after the bomb went off. Being here now, it's like it's the same, but a little bit different. It seems wrong, but I can associate it with safety anyway."

Angela dropped her keys on top of a marble countertop. "That's not wrong. That's good." She paused, surveyed my posture, and looked at me with soft, kind eyes. "I can't pretend to know how you must be feeling about everything. But you need to understand, there's a reason we're doing this. I know you'd rather be alone, in your apartment, but you shouldn't be alone. Not just for medical reasons. None of us are going to hurt you. We just want to help."

I rubbed my forehead with the palm of my hand, the stress brought on by the return of an already tricky topic, but if I was going to talk about my feelings with anyone, Angela seemed like the easiest. "Yeah, I know that… just like I know that Booth wants to integrate me into his daily life. Why else would he be making his life more complicated to include me in his cases? Or bring his son to see me in the hospital so many times? And just like I know that I'm doing exactly what a lot of people told me I could never do, and you know what? I wanted half the deal but I'm finding out that I can't order a la carte."

Angela watched my sympathetically but she didn't interrupt until I was done. By the end of my rant I was less tired and more agitated. I wasn't really irritated with anyone, just with the way that my life was turning out. If I was going to be annoyed with someone, it would be with myself; I'm being handed virtually everything I ever wanted - a good, interesting job, friends, a family - except I can't trust myself or the universe to accept it.

"Sweetie, sit down." Angela crossed the kitchen in seconds. I liked how Brennan had arranged everything so that her apartment was small, but still seemed quite spacious. I sighed, running my hand through my fringe, and realized I wasn't going to get out of this, so I sat down on the edge of the couch cushion. Angela walked around to the other side of the couch and sank into the comfort of the furniture, leaning against the back of the sofa. "Now. You clearly need to talk and that's what we're going to do. And I know you don't do it often, so it'll probably be hard, but that's alright. We don't even have to talk about everything, just something, so you can relax a bit more."

She really did have the patience of a saint. Angela's far from a trained psychologist, but I suspect that she'd have much more luck with me than a professional, anyway, if only because she knows me personally as a friend rather than as a patient.

I tried to mimic her position, leaning back against the couch. It wasn't a very tall couch, but the cushions were fluffy and plush - delightful, in short, and I readjusted the sling around my neck to rest my left elbow on the arm of the sofa, and once I realized how tensely I was holding myself, I let the tightness drain from my shoulders. I hadn't realized how tense - or tired! - I was until now.

"Okay. Are you relaxing?" Angela asked with a quirk of her lips to make sure I wasn't acting. Please, even I'm not good enough of a liar or an actress to seem like I'm relaxing when I'm not. I nodded anyway though, because that's what she wanted to know. "Good. Now what do you mean, you wanted half the deal?"

It was as good of a starting point as any. Usually I don't like handing out information on my feelings, especially not without some sort of gain from it; but I hoped that the peace of mind or cathartic relief would prove benefit enough to at least sleep easier.

I spoke carefully, trying to choose my words to keep the session as short as possible, but also to be accurate at the same time. There was a degree of privacy I wasn't going to give up, but there was no reason not to tell her of the less personal details.

So I did. I told her about how stressed I'd been up until Kenton started taking shots at me outside of the bar - how it seemed like I was constantly bearing reminders of a fight, whether it be scratches or band aids or bruises, how I was becoming more and more concerned as my income came in lower and I spent more at restaurants, how I hadn't slept right more than a few times since coming face-to-face with Howard Epps, who still haunted me in my sleep. I told her how stunned I'd been that I'd stabbed the mercenary, and how afterward I'd washed my hands for nearly ten minutes, trying to feel better rather than get clean. Of course, I also mentioned being beaten by Ted McGruder, trying to protect his abused wife, which had been a serious blast to a past that I'd sworn I wouldn't have to experience again.

I also told her about the things that were a bit less drastic. The cases were a hell of a lot of stress on their own but the things that had to do with the team were frustrating - like how, over the course of a couple of months, I became less adverse to touch, lifting up Shawn Cook and Parker on different occasions. I mentioned that Booth found out I had been abused but I had lied to him about the extent, and I'd been scared that he'd be angry at me for lying when I had to wear Angela's clothes in the quarantine. I told her how I tried to relate to Brennan when she was manipulated in court by Michael Styres and the prosecuting lawyer, and how pleased I was to go to California with them like a vacation, and how inadequately pleased with myself I'd been for pissing off and besting the high-ranking gang members involved in the investigation of Maria and Augustine Duarte's deaths. For only a few months, this year was turning out to be more of an emotional rollercoaster than any other amount of time in my past.

It took nearly twenty minutes, according to Brennan's clock, to go through the more simple components of the adventures, and that was before the turn of events when things went sour. After that, there was an entire boatload of baggage that came from Booth's paternity and Kenton's betrayal and my vulnerability.

"Why didn't you ever talk to anyone?" Angela asked after a very long moment of silence when I was done - I was right, the talking was cathartic. I wanted to cry and I wanted to sleep, but the release of emotions had me more relaxed and more honest than I'd been in weeks. I couldn't imagine doing it with anyone else, except maybe Zach, but Angela understood the nuances intuitively whereas Zach might have asked questions that were difficult to adequately answer.

"Because I'm like grass," I said. By now I was giving out the first things that came to mind because I found it was simpler that way. Less time for me to answer the way I preferred meant I heard the truths, and later I could sort through the ones that I hadn't already talked through. That one, though, was admittedly the strangest.

Angela couldn't stop herself from giggling, but to her credit, she stifled it as soon as she could. She was leaning back in the corner of the couch where the arm and the back cushion intercepted. "What do you mean, you're like grass?" She repeated in puzzlement.

"I mean-" I cut myself off short and frowned. I didn't want to tell her I'd mimed self harm, because that really did raise more red flags than she should have. I knew better than to ever do that to myself, and although I don't blame the people who have been unfortunate enough to resort to it, I knew to avoid it. My consciousness, on that, at least, was clear. "I was out in the garden," I said, instead of what I had started to express. "And I was just kind of thinking and moping and feeling sorry for myself. It was kind of pathetic, really. But, you know, while I was out there I just started thinking that I was living better than I could have hoped and yet I wasn't really changing anything. I wasn't changing lives or making things better or easier. I mean, the publicity looks nice for me even though I don't like it and I reflect well on the FBI and Jeffersonian, but once the story dies so will my usefulness, and the papers will find something else, and eventually I won't be of note.

"Once the internship expires I'll be right back where I started, and I'm constantly hurting even though I lash out at others. I can be cruel and violent but I'm sensitive to things given to me, and I can't take what I sometimes give. So, in some respects, I'm like grass, because in the long run I look nice, but I'm not really worth anything."