"Is there anything else going on in the news since I left?" I asked the grad student over the phone curiously as we wrapped up a conversation. I was riding in the passenger's seat of Booth's FBI-issued SUV, on our way to another part of the city to talk to Devon Marshall's next of kin.

"As far as anyone knows, this is still a suicide," Booth established firmly while he drove in the seat to my left. "I want the killer to think that he got away with it. He's smart. I want the edge."

Zach pretty much confirmed that when he answered as Booth's voice was no longer audible. "Not that we've seen," he reported from the lab. "Hodgins has been keeping track, but it's still mostly just basketball and honors."

I nodded slightly to myself. I had expected as much, but it was always good just to double-check and be safe. "Thanks, Zach. I guess… call me if you get a weapons match, please." I pulled the phone down away from my ear and ended the phone connection. The screen flashed the contact I.D. and length of the call for a few seconds before it reverted to the home screen of the Smartphone.

I may not be very tech-savvy, or have ever really had much in the way of electronics, but I do really like this phone.

Booth looked over to me from the driver's seat before quickly looking past and to the side mirror. "You know, I'm just gonna be asking his mother a few questions. You could have just stayed back there and played with the bones in the lab."

I was sorely tempted to remind him that skeletal remains weren't playthings and that if he thinks that's what we spend our time doing, then he needs to reevaluate his knowledge of the Jeffersonian.

"I know," I answered. Rather than try to get my phone back in my pocket, I turned it over in my hands for something to do. "I'm just trying to be more sociable," I lied, hoping that Booth was distracted enough by the case to fall for it.

The real reasons I wanted to come with him weren't exactly things I wanted to say – one was that I got used to questioning people with him and I don't see a reason to break pattern. The more pressing one, though, is that I was afraid he may not treat the victim's kin with the same safe, reasonable suspicion that we're supposed to view all potential suspects in. I know that unless I serve, I'm never going to completely understand what it's like – but I also know that my priorities lie with finding a murderer who killed another human being today, in America, not a long time ago on a different continent.

I mean, yes, I will show respect to veterans and their families. That doesn't mean that I'm going to treat them any differently than I would if they were just average civilians like in any other investigation.

"Sociable?" Booth snorted. Slowly, I turned my head to look at him with narrowed eyes. "You?"

I grit my teeth and rolled my eyes. Apparently that one's just too unbelievable. "That was mean," I said with deliberate emphasis, "But I get your point." I'm not very sociable. I never have been, and while I'm getting better at it, I can't see myself going out of my way to improve on my social mannerisms.

I shifted in my seat, and I stopped turning over my cell. "I just…" I started slowly. There was no way to say this without offending Booth, I didn't think, but there had to be a way that softened the sting. "I can't help but think, with the way you've been responding to everything, that mentally you're still in the military with this," I said slowly. "You've got a biased perspective. You need to be objective, and you might also need help to… to be okay with something so close to you."

I looked out the window to my right and waited for the mine to blow up. I knew if it were Brennan rather than Booth, I'd be okay, because I had a point and Brennan and I had this deal where if I saw her being swayed, then I could intervene without getting in trouble. Booth, however, allows himself to be driven a lot more by his emotions, and we have no such arrangement.

It turned out that I knew him pretty well. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and his jaw tensed. "I know how to do my job," he snapped. "I was doing just fine, long before I met you."

Ouch. That hurt.

"Oh." I rolled my eyes, lifting my head up and nodding angrily in turn. "I try to be helpful and you get angry. I see how this works."

"Well, I have people, all around me, with opinions about the war who don't know what the hell they're talking about!" He was getting dangerously close to yelling at me.

One time that may have made me stop and fall silent, but… now I know that even if he gets angry at me, he won't attack me, and so fear wasn't keeping me from retaliating.

"You really think I don't know anything about warfare?" I objected in more of a hiss than a yell. "I was in 9/11." I was indignant and angry, and I gave away more information than I'd meant to. I hadn't had any intentions on telling him, but now that I had, I might as well reinforce the point. "And I don't mean I was in the wreckage. I mean that I was in a tower when the airplanes crashed! I was hurt trying to-"

I cut myself off abruptly there, burying my teeth in the inside of my lower lip. That wasn't necessary. I'd been a child. I shouldn't have to rehash this again, especially when the conversation wasn't supposed to be about my trauma.

This shocked Booth so much that he looked at me, his eyes leaving the road and the speedometer dropping as his attention was diverted.

I pointed at the meter under the dash. "Highway, Booth! Fifty-five!"

The agent forced himself to look back to the road. "You were in the attack?" He demanded, loud and stunned. I don't think there was as much genuine anger towards me as there was towards the situation I'd been put in, but the aggravation was still rooted in my earlier explanation. "Why would you not tell me that?"

"That's not the point I'm trying to make! I'm not turning this into a conversation about me. Dr. Brennan's been in Rwanda, Tibet, and several other countries with demographics horribly dangerous for women," I responded heatedly, trying to stay on track. "We've both been exposed to these things, so you can't say we're ignorant. I know firsthand how badly war can affect people, even if they aren't a soldier.

"So maybe, instead of trying to push me out for reaching out to help – which, I should add, I've only done a handful of times in my life," I felt was important to remind him. I felt snubbed, like one of the few times I really tried to reach out, I was getting my hands smacked. "You could try to let me in! Especially if you want me to do the same for you," I finished, winding down as most of my pent-up frustration made its escape. It just wasn't fair that he expected me to let myself be vulnerable and let him in as family when he wouldn't show me the same.

Several seconds passed. Both of us took deep breaths, calming down before we said something we would regret.

"Okay." When Booth spoke again, he was measured and careful, but there was still that tension in his voice. "Look, all I'm saying is that this is just another case. That's all. It's just – It's another case," he reiterated.

I scoffed, shaking my head and looking back to the window. Way to let me in, I thought bitterly. "You know, I get you don't like it when I lie, but keep in mind that the best liars are also the best at knowing when they're being lied to."

I let that sink in for a second, just so he'd really get that I was telling him I didn't believe the words that he said. Maybe he was trying to convince himself of that, but they weren't true and he knew it.

"I'm not trying to step on your toes, or tell you that you can't do your job." I looked over at him in concern while he drove. No matter how irritated or resigned I was, I don't think I could not be worried. "I'm worried that this case is going to be hitting too close for you, and I want to be there so that I can help in whatever way I can. The problem you're having is that I'm not going to buy into the whole, 'I'm just fine' act. I've spent too long pitching that sale myself." Hopefully I wouldn't have to expand on that – he had to realize by now I had a lot of unresolved issues.

"You've been trying really hard to be a father to me. You're… you're supporting me and making sure I'm safe and taken care of. I should be able to do the same for you." I added, more quietly, because this was a touchy subject for him, but it was hard to say for me as well. "If you're so determined for us to learn to be a family, then the least you could do is let me try to be your daughter."

Booth passed the small, framed photograph back to Regina Marshall, Devon's mother, who had come into the FBI headquarters with her other child in tow – a preteen girl named Kiara who apparently liked to read the Warriors saga with the cats, if the book she held protectively was any clue. The mother-daughter resemblance was strong in the two. Kiara had inherited her mother's smooth complexion, dark hair, and brown eyes. Once puberty hit and she actually started to look less like a child and more like an adult, they'd look even more similar.

As it was, they sat in chairs pulled side to side across from Booth, who was leaning against the front of his desk. Kiara was in a pink vest over a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, while her mother was dressed more formally in a neat blouse, her purse in her lap. Her mom probably still had to work, even though Kiara's school was out by now.

"Did he, uh, have any troubles since he came back?" Booth asked the two females carefully. Regina seemed composed, but she had to be grieving for her son, and Kiara was quiet, almost shocked. "Any personal problems?"

Regina took the picture of her son. In the photo, Devon was in his military uniform, kneeling behind a grinning Kiara and looking over her shoulder. "Some days…" she ran her thumb up the side of the frame and tore her eyes up from the photograph. "I didn't know him." Standing to the side of the desk, I looked between the Marshalls, curious what she meant by that. "He used to be very outgoing… happy. But since he came back, all he did was spend time with his little sister. Take her to school, help her with her homework…"

Kiara was brought into the conversation and she canted her head to the side while she looked up at Booth. "He said his job now is keeping me safe." I noted to myself that she hadn't switched her verb tenses in reference to Devon yet, and realized that her brother's confirmed death hadn't really sunk in yet. "But, most of the time, it was like I was taking care of him." That's a lot of responsibility for a kid. "It was like he was scared all the time."

"Did he, uh…" Booth cleared his throat. I don't think he was completely comfortable with talking to the deceased veteran's younger sister, especially not without telling them the full truth of their relative's death. "Did he talk to anyone else he served with?"

Kiara shook her head before giving herself time to consider the question, and then she switched to nodding. "Just Jimmy." Regina nodded while her daughter kept speaking, silently confirming it. "He talked to him when Jimmy wasn't in the hospital, the V.A.."

Regina reached to settle her hand on Kiara's knee. "When he was over there, he really believed in what he was doing. He wrote us all the time, saying how good he felt seeing the people free… voting." I felt a little more acutely the guilt that came from not telling them Devon had actually been murdered. Regina was trying to convince us that he wouldn't have protested, and especially not in that way, but we couldn't tell her that her son hadn't actually killed himself. Although I don't usually connect well to the families, I really do hope we can correct this misinformation soon. "Because he remembered when his grandpa was a young man, and he didn't have the right to vote."

Blinking several times, as if to stop herself from crying, Regina reigned in her emotions and looked away from Booth, towards me. After the initial introductions, I had stayed out of it, hoping that Booth would be less irritable if he had more control in the conversation with Devon's family. "When can I have my son back? When can I lay him to rest?"

Somehow, the full truth – when we've found his murderer – seemed like a not-so-great thing to respond with. "Soon, Mrs. Marshall," I promised, still wishing that we could tell her there was a reason beyond politics that we were keeping her son's body even after an apparent suicide. "We just need to be sure we know everything about the situation that we can."

D.C. has a V.A. Hospital – which stands for Veterans Affairs Hospital. It's specifically for servicemen and servicewomen who have returned from serving and primarily need help either readjusting to society or have need of a hospital.

Because I'm not a veteran, nor have I ever really been close to one before Booth, I'd never been in any V.A. before, but it was actually kind of relaxing. It wasn't exactly quiet – like most public buildings, there were people that talked and there were no set-in-stone volume restrictions – but some halls were less populated and some rooms were quieter for people who were enjoying the solitude. No matter how nice the atmosphere was, I still got the distinct feeling that I didn't belong, so I walked down a tiled hallway side by side with Booth on our way to see Jimmy, the vet that Devon had been on such good terms with.

"Well, I get that Kiara was his little sister, but for an adult man to be spending hours at a time with a thirteen-year-old seems… odd." Even Booth couldn't rationally argue that point, and I kept my voice down to be respectful while looking to him while we walked. "Not necessarily bad, but it's not the best way to appropriately reintegrate into society."

I wasn't saying that he shouldn't have spent time with his sister – family is important. It's a priority. I just meant that, okay, some siblings do have much closer relationships than others, but between the two being the opposite sex and the age gap, it may not have been seen as appropriate by too many people for very long after he returned from overseas.

"When you come back from combat, it's still all over you." Though he clearly didn't mean literally, I thought that I could relate. I remembered how… just, how dirty and guilty I'd felt after seeing the mercenaries slaughtered. Though I hadn't killed anyone, I'd felt as if part of the blame lied with me, and there were times when I couldn't sleep or I'd wash my hands for over five minutes to make sure that there was absolutely no blood. "You know, you wanna be around something pure, something innocent."

"Like… a child." I said slowly, understanding as well as I could. Booth hummed in confirmation. "And it helped that she really was his family, right?"

He nodded. "Right." He looked sideways into what looked like a sort of lounge or waiting room before fixing his eyes ahead again. "Adults, they want you to relive it all. They want war stories like they're entertainment." Well, hasn't he ever been to a library? There are hundreds of published documents and diaries and journals of soldiers and Marines and air force veterans. They are entertaining to some people, but I suppose once you've been in that situation, it loses a lot of the 'entertainment' factor.

"Well, for one, people want to know what's going on without putting themselves in danger," I pointed out to him. I felt like it was necessary to defend people from what he thought of them for some reason – very few people mean badly when they ask what war is like, and though he probably realizes they don't mean to do any harm, I wanted to offer an alternative reason for it to really stick. "Other times, they may want to be able to empathize with a loved one. Additionally, for some people, hearing it from others makes it seem like it's not as dangerous or awful as it actually is. They don't want to be the cowards, but they don't want to put their lives at risk." This was actually something I'd learned from Aaron, who had liked movies with heroes. "Having only those roles in your mindset – cowards, heroes, and villains – it's called John Wayne syndrome."

He threw his head back. "Don't tell me you're gonna trash the Duke?" He complained.

I blinked. Somehow I knew that was a reference, but I'd never actually seen any John Wayne movies (as far as I remember, and aside from that incident in New Orleans, my memory is pretty reliable). "Okay, just because I know of a medical thing that's named for movies doesn't mean I've actually seen the movies. I'm a nineties' kid, Booth." Wayne movies had mostly been things of the seventies and early eighties, or sometime around then.

Booth stopped suddenly and I paused. "You don't know the Duke?" He questioned, staring down at me like I had started talking in Dr. Seuss rhymes. Unsure if it was a trap, I shook my head slowly. "You're unbelievable."

Jimmy Merton was in a lounge with his wife, Karen, the two of them not even talking together while they sat. They agreed to talk to us and we moved to a different space, closer to the doors, and the Mertons sat on one of the small couches while Booth and I sat next to each other on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. The lounge was quiet, and there were only a few other people sitting around in the maroon-cushioned furniture. Brown-framed still life pictures with soft, gentle colors were hung up around the room.

"Just a couple of quick questions, Jimmy." As Booth told him that we were just here about Devon, I noticed that the ex-vet had a cigarette in his right hand. He was twisting it around in his fingers, but it had never been lit. It seemed like a way to curb his anxiety, a tic or habit that he'd picked up and didn't fully realize.

"I – I – I can't-" Jimmy stammered, having trouble finding a place to start. "I can't talk about Devon now, man. I – I just can't."

"Why can't you just leave him alone?" Karen asked protectively, sliding towards the edge of their seat like she needed to get up and defend Jimmy. "He's got enough troubles."

"I understand, okay? It's – readjusting takes time. It's different for every one of us." Booth assured, placating both of them. Jimmy's nervous tic slowed down and he rubbed the cigarette between his fingers.

"It sure as hell as different for Devon," Jimmy agreed fervently. "He's gone, man. Son of a bitch should've never checked out on me like that."

While I could understand he was pissed that, as far as he knew, Devon had just given up on getting better and reintegrating, it was still aggravating that he was bashing his murdered best friend. It was even worse that we hadn't told him that, hey, Devon didn't kill himself.

"That's when Jimmy came back in here – when he heard about Devon." Karen added. "He was doing pretty good before that."

Jimmy twisted enough to look up to his wife's hazel eyes. "Baby, I can't hold a job yet," he reminded her, seeming angry and upset with himself, but passively so. "I can't even provide for my family."

"Did you and Devon ever argue?" Booth queried casually, gentle in the question and calm, like he was just asking about his hobbies. It wasn't the attitude he tended to take to the people he questioned in the course of an investigation.

Jimmy shook his head quickly, but he stopped just as fast, like he'd almost given himself a headache. He looked up to Booth to answer, but his eyes were narrowed and half-lidded from the light that probably seemed far too bright. Between that and the cigarette he was toying with, I guessed he might be getting over a nicotine problem. "Oh, no, we, we had to stick together." He drove the index finger of his free hand into his jeans. "That's what it was all about."

"Devon would call, and Jimmy would take off to meet him." Karen was more emphatic than her husband, and the look she was switching between Booth and I was a little frustrated, a little bitter. "Middle of dinner, playing with Sarah – it didn't matter. Jimmy would go." I had gleaned that Sarah was one of their children. Evidently Karen was having a hard time trying to get him to really come back and spend time with his kids.

"He needed me, Karen." Jimmy looked to the side towards his wife like he was wounded by how unwilling she seemed to be to understand. I can believe that he and Devon were major safety nets and support systems for each other, but didn't he think that his family needed him, too? They could have lost him, and then once they had him back, it must have felt like he was still inaccessible. "Man, you served. You know what it's like when you get back." Jimmy was imploring to Booth. "You've got no one but the guys you served with."

Something snapped, like a rubber band, and my stomach churned. How could he say something like that? How could he just dismiss the people who were being so patient and compassionate for his sake, as if they were nothing? You got no one but the guys you served with. That's not true – he has his wife and kids. If he feels he can't care for anyone that he wasn't overseas with, then maybe he isn't fit to be part of a family. It's a responsibility. If you don't respect that they need you and vice versa, then you can't claim to be part of that.

"And your family, of course," I added, in a deceptively mild voice as I saw Karen looking away, her eyes seeming to sparkle with tears that she tried to hide from Jimmy. Let him see. He should have to own up to it when he hurts you. The look that I got for this reminder from Booth was a warning not to push, not to talk about what I didn't understand, but to hell with that. I didn't push the point, as Jimmy wasn't responding to it anyway, and instead continued with the same questions I'd have asked even if we weren't in a V.A. center. "So, you and Devon would visit Arlington for Charlie Kent?"

Jimmy hung his head, and crushed the end of the unlit cigarette into the iced ashtray on the coffee table. "It never should've happened like that. Not to Kent." Karen kept a hand on his upper arm, offering the little comfort she could, but she was quiet now and looking down. His words had hurt. What was most frustrating to me was that he didn't even realize he'd said something wrong. "We would go and tell him that we – we were sorry. We needed him to know."

The closest I'd ever come to feeling like someone dead needed to know something was with Warren Granger, but I hadn't wanted to actually tell his gravestone that Lucy McGruder had been saved from her husband. I just felt like it was a shame he didn't get to see it for himself. I've never visited anyone's grave. I don't believe that spirits hang around, so I never saw the point.

"I understand," Booth told Jimmy softly, keeping his voice down respectfully.

I looked at Booth in my periphery before looking back towards Jimmy. "All due respect, but I'm… not sure that I do," I said, careful of how I phrased it. This was like someone asking me about my experiences with the mercenaries, or Kenton, or the Twin Towers. "Would you mind expanding a bit on the insurgent attack?"

"It doesn't matter, Holly." Booth interrupted, cutting in before Jimmy could even begin to answer. He pushed up against the arm of the chair and leaned forward to stand up.

I blinked, looking from the ex-veteran to Booth as he rose up to his feet from the couch. "Um." I started to object intelligently, half stunned by how ready he was to leave without all of the answers we needed. "Actually, it kind of does."

My words were ignored. "We'll see you later, okay, Jimmy?" Booth nodded politely to the serviceman with a forced smile. Jimmy couldn't bring himself to look up, instead keeping his eyes squinted towards the coffee table ashtray.

"At home," Karen hurried to establish, recovering and rubbing her hand in circles on his upper back. She was proud and determined as she smiled up at Booth. "He'll be at home next time, with me and the kids. Right, Jimmy?" She lowered her eyes to her husband expectantly.

She didn't get an answer. Clearly, Jimmy wasn't as confident as she was that he'd be able to leave the V.A. quite so soon. While there was no way I could honestly fault him for having trouble readjusting, and for finding sanctuary at the V.A., I still thought he could have talked to his wife about it. Even if he had been trying and just really wasn't ready, then he should try to communicate with her that point so she wouldn't unknowingly push him too far.

Because Booth was already leaving the room, and he was my ride, I forced on a transparent, terse smile and shifted towards the edge of the couch to stand, subtly reaching down and slipping my fingers around the cigarette in the ashtray on the end that was meant to be burnt, where Jimmy hadn't touched. "Thank you for your time," I offered, metaphorically biting my tongue on anything else I wanted to say.

We barely got halfway back towards the lobby of the V.A. before Booth decided we were safe to share thoughts on the suspect. "Jimmy loved the guy," he declared, as if it were a factual thing that could be proven. "He didn't kill him."

Oh, because Jimmy is the only convincing suspect we've ever talked to. Camden Destri and Tucker Pattison, who had been responsible for Nester Olivos' death, came to mind. They'd seemed innocent. "Oh, so now you're Jennifer Hewitt?" I asked derisively.

"Maybe." He snapped his fingers, at first not too bothered by my annoyance. "Want me to guess your weight?"

I turned my head enough to glare at him. "If you enjoy being conscious, I strongly advise against it!" I have a healthy weight – maybe a little under average if I was being honest – but having my weight guessed is a sure way to piss off almost anyone. "Psychic tendencies aside, Jimmy was probably one of the last people to see Devon before he was killed. They go to the cemetery together, he said so himself. If this were any other investigation, you'd agree that he's a suspect."

"This is another investigation." Booth reestablished, looking back down at me with more irritation than amusement. "If you think he's so suspicious, then why did you leave?"

"Because I'm not sure you wouldn't have a bitch fit and drive off, and I didn't feel like walking to get a taxi." I stopped after I realized what I'd said and shook my head. Whoever came up with the phrase 'honesty is the best policy' has probably never met me. "Besides, I have evidence, anyway." I held up my arm and the sleeve fell down from around my hand and the cigarette I was keeping out of sight. Most of the V.A. was a no-smoking zone. "I'll give it to Hodgins and see if he can get any DNA from the tobacco sleeve. Maybe it'll match something from the corpse."

The FBI agent started to look forward. "Great," he said coolly. Okay… so he doesn't approve of sneaking evidence off of an unsuspecting, traumatized suspect. It's not like I'd hurt anyone. We needed answers, we were investigating a homicide, and I hadn't done anything illegal, or, given the context, particularly immoral. "Right. If you got what you needed, then why are you giving me such grief?"

A frustrated half-sigh, half-groan wrenched itself out of my throat without my permission. I stopped in place just out of the hallway in the lobby of the V.A., planting my heels in firmly. I knew how I had to look – sweatpants, sneakers, and a baggy jacket weren't the most intimidating clothing – but I made it totally clear that I wasn't going to let this conversation keep advancing out of the building, especially not when there were actually other people in the lobby, some seated and others standing and conversing to each other.

"Because you were being a pushover," I answered plainly, dulling the sparks in my eyes so Booth wouldn't get any angrier than the words would already make him. As if I'd confessed to the murder myself, the agent stopped and turned around to look at me slowly. "He says one thing you can empathize with, and suddenly you believe everything else."

"Hey." His voice dropped for a semblance of privacy in a sort-of public building. He moved closer, and his demeanor made the height difference between us stand out more. I just inclined my chin, refusing to obey my instincts telling me to back up. "I'm tough."

Somehow, this had turned into a competition of who could keep their ground the longest. I knew it intuitively. I've never been one to easily back down from a challenge, repercussions notwithstanding. Why start now? "That's what you like people to think."

He laughed. It wasn't the sincere, bright laugh – rather, quiet and low. "Do you always have to get the last word in?"

"It's satisfying to, yes," I replied, doing the exact thing he was now ribbing me for and getting the last word in.

"Booth!" A man leaving from another hallway saw us and recognized him, calling for the agent's attention. Booth broke eye contact to see who it was. I looked after him, relieved that someone else had interrupted. I wouldn't have been willing to stop without 'winning,' but if it hadn't ended, it would have escalated.

The man who had called was in his fifties, and in a wheelchair. Despite his age, and apparent lack of use of his legs, he was practically buzzing with energy that made him seem bigger, taking up a larger presence despite his handicap. He was in a suit, professional and formal, and his hair was a dark blonde peppered with grey, and his eyes were wide and cheery.

He had a wide smile. Either he was truly imperceptive and didn't realize we'd been in the middle of something, or he was just going to ignore it. Either way, it was a neutral breakup to the tension. "Son of a bitch," he complained to Booth, still grinning.

"Hey, Hank!" Booth left me standing near the hall threshold and moved to the man in the wheelchair – Hank, apparently – and bent over. Even if they had been standing, Booth would have been significantly taller. "Hey!" The men hugged with as little discomfort as possible, what with Hank being in a wheelchair. "How the hell are you, man?"

"Great!" He leaned forward but dropped his hands to the silver wheels on the chair, doing an impressive trick with a mix of balance and strength. He tipped the front wheels up off of the ground and held upright on the back wheels. "Just got some new wheels!" They did still have a nice, metallic shine.

"Sweet ride, man," Booth agreed brightly. He remembered I was with him and stepped back from Hank, moving sort of in between the two of us. He gestured to me with one hand. "Hank Lutrell, Holly Kirkland."

"Ah. The D.C. heroine!" The man – who was clearly Booth's friend – looked me over, seeming to be impressed. I wasn't sure if I preferred being known and respected by some over being an unknown face and name.

I raised a hand up in an uneasy wave. "Uh, yeah. That's me." I forced a smile. It wasn't Hank that bothered me, and normally I could be a little friendlier, but after the standoff which I'd been sure would end badly, I was wound up tightly.

"I heard you two were working together a few months back." He said, looking between the two of us. I liked that he was talking directly to me, rather than just to Booth and leaving me to overhear. "Booth and I were in the same unit in Kosovo." Kosovo, I remembered after a bit of digging in my memory, was a territory of Serbia.

"We're a little more than working together. Hank, Holly is my daughter." While Booth revealed this with an excited look, like he wanted Hank to share his enthusiasm, it was hard for me to keep that fake smile up.

What the hell? I thought it was an unspoken agreement that we wouldn't introduce me as his daughter unless it was a potential emergency. And, right, this had been unspoken, so it was possible I was the only one who knew this plan existed, but still. I've identified myself without my parents in the equation for most of my life, and having someone else meet me as Booth's kid was conflicting. I had the feeling it would be, until I was more used to the prospect.

"Um…" I said quietly, a soft half-objection that went unheard.

At least Booth got the happy response that he wanted. "You're pulling my leg, man!" Hank cried out, before motioning to his paralyzed or injured legs. "No pun intended." He looked back to me. "Yeah, I can get the resemblance!" I don't look that much like him, I told myself uneasily. Although… it's hard for the people involved to make an objective comparison… "Hey, you two've gotta come over for dinner! Janie and the kids keep asking about you," Hank added to Booth.

"Yeah, we'd love to." Booth agreed readily, stuffing his hands in his pockets amiably. We would? I swayed slightly on my feet, a little overwhelmed. "I'll call. We'll, uh, make it a date, okay?"

Why would he do that? While Hank redirected most of his attention to Booth, I shook my head almost unnoticeably. I'm not a person who generally gets invited by a virtual stranger to be in the same space as their children. I get that being affiliated with Booth changes the way people think of me, especially when compared to the reputation I had from living in the neighborhood by the bar, but I guess I hadn't really expected that to make itself clear in the real world.

"Great!" The smile fell slightly and, apologetically, Hank added, "I've got to go. I've gotta be in court at three." A clock on the wall made it about fifteen past two.

"Yeah." There wasn't anything to agree to, but Booth took a step away so that Hank could move his wheelchair.

"They can't start without the judge!" He added joyfully, with far more energy than I'd have thought he possessed if I'd just seen his picture. While the two men said goodbyes, I blinked rapidly. What… just happened? A few feet away, Hank spun his wheelchair (cool to watch, I admit) and tipped his front wheels up again, although not as dramatically. "Hey, call me, or I'm gonna kick your ass."

Booth raised a hand to say goodbye and sighed knowingly. "Uh-huh."

As Hank left, wheeling out of sight down a hall (probably towards the exit with the ramp), I paused, shaking my head slowly. "Okay," I started to Booth, at a volume where only he could hear. "So. A lot of things just happened."

A lot of things I wasn't sure I was okay with, but there was no point in making a fuss here, of all places. It would be grossly inappropriate and disrespectful. While I'm going to investigate as if even veterans are civilians, that doesn't mean that I don't recognize the sacrifices and dangers they've taken onto themselves. This is supposed to be a sanctuary for them. I'm not going to take that away, or disrupt it.

"First question." I pointed off down the hall after Booth's friend. "What happened to him?"

I really just wanted an answer. I didn't want any of the gory details, just an explanation. Unfortunately, wanting to know was apparently bad. Booth rolled his shoulders and, with a tight voice and a curt attitude, responded shortly, "He got hurt," before walking off towards the doors.

I looked after my infuriating father and, because I knew better than to be a smartass about this one, I complained under my breath. "Well, duh!"