We went onto a military base to talk to the captain who had been the leader of Charlie Kent's unit at the time when they went on the tour that led to the insurgent incident. I felt strangely out of place, in clothes that were odd even for public places and surrounded by men and women in their uniforms. While I knew that I should feel safe (because really, it was hard to get any safer than a secure military base) and that I hadn't done anything wrong, the uniforms made me uncomfortable, like an ex-con around a police officer.

I shouldn't have worried. I was welcomed with Booth onto the base by someone who Booth apparently knew, and introduced to me as Colonel Shore, a tall man with a dark blonde buzz cut in his camo. He looked about Booth's age, or maybe a little older, and had a small scar on the right side of his collarbone. He escorted Booth and I across the base towards the Captain that Kent had worked underneath.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kirkland," Shore told me politely with a small smile. His voice wasn't very warm, and I remembered TV and movie scenes where the supervisors were constantly yelling at their inferiors to shape them up for training. I wondered how accurate it was, and if maybe all of that shouting had made a nice, happy tone seem difficult for Shore. "Your supervisor, Dr. Brennan, has helped us with a lot of casualties that we never thought we'd be able to I.D.." Between all of the things that can kill a person in war, I wasn't surprised that some bodies were difficult to name.

Ah, time to attempt to be diplomatic. "I can't say we don't appreciate the credit, but I hope there will be a time when the Jeffersonian's services won't be required." I let Shore hold the door open while I walked through, looking around curiously. It was a uniform office with almost no personalization and a desk to the right. Behind the desk was another man, younger than both Booth and Shore, with short brown hair in a typical short cut, also in his military service clothes. He stood up, pushing his chair out as Shore let Booth and I in.

I suppose I must have said the right thing. "That's all we can hope," Colonel Shore agreed amicably, looking past me and giving a nod to the man behind the desk. "Captain Fuller, give Agent Booth and Miss Kirkland all the help they need."

With his back rigidly straight, Fuller nodded with his arms at his sides. "Yes, sir." Briefly, I wondered if captains were ranked above or below colonels and reasoned that it was probably below. Shore nodded, like his business here was done, and pulled the door shut, leaving the two of us in the room with Fuller, who allowed himself to relax slightly and gestured to the two chairs that were in front of his desk. "Please."

It was enough of an invitation for me to be satisfied with it. Shrugging slightly, I sat down on the left while Booth took the chair on the right, and when he didn't push his in closer to the desk, I didn't bother to either, instead crossing my left leg over the other and leaning forward slightly.

"So, uh." Booth wasn't exactly ill at ease, but he didn't try to make himself as comfortable as I did. He kept his elbows on the armrests of his chair while Fuller sat himself in his own spinning desk chair and pulled himself up closer to the desk. "This is your third tour in Iraq, Captain?"

Fuller nodded twice. "Yes. A National Guard unit can be difficult to lead." Why? I was answered almost immediately, even though I hadn't wondered out loud. "Nothing against the Guard, but usually they're… inexperienced. Shortchanged on equipment." Fuller's answers were somewhat reluctant, like he didn't want to say anything objectionable about the Guard, but he sounded honest. "But Kent's unit – they were one of the best I ever had."

"How was Devon Marshall's service in particular?" I asked curiously. Maybe the unit was great, but that didn't speak about Devon's behavior while he was serving.

"Marshall was a good soldier," Fuller said without hesitation, then paused and nodded slightly to the side with a sad half-smile. "But after he came back, he seemed to turn against the military. He saw us as the problem over there." Yeah, I could imagine that that happened more than one would initially think. He gestured to Booth over the desktop. "You must've known men like that."

"Some people just aren't cut out for it." Booth responded in what sounded like agreement, but he didn't use any names or offer any personal examples. I wondered if maybe he didn't know firsthand or if he was being loyal to those he served with. "Like Jimmy Merton," he added as an afterthought.

I shot him a confused look for a second. Why would he say something like that? Jimmy hadn't seemed as if he was no longer supporting the military. He was just having issues going back to his life.

Fuller didn't seem surprised. "Jimmy's been having some troubles, but he still supports us."

"We know your unit went through a traumatizing event. I think that excuses a bit of difficulty." I said, more to Booth than to Fuller, because really, how could he say something like that about Jimmy not being cut out for war when he was still loyal to the military and the men and women he had served alongside? I think that's the best you can do when you've had your world tipped on its axis.

Booth looked away from me quickly. Somehow, slapping me in the face wouldn't have gotten the hint through any clearer. "Both Marshall and Jimmy seemed like they had trouble getting over Corporal Kent's death. Any idea why it was so tough for them?" I frowned. … Maybe because their friend died? I was dreading Amy's death, although I knew it was an inevitability at this point. Her doctors' last hope had been a new type of chemical therapy, but it had failed. With Devon and Jimmy, Charlie's death had been sudden and unexpected. "Tougher than usual," Booth amended, seeming to realize why he hadn't put the question right.

What happened between those two men seemed like a silent conversation that only people who've been through stuff can really understand. In this context, I couldn't interpret it exactly, because I didn't have any idea what the underlying meanings were. All I knew was that Booth continued to stare, not with accusation, and Fuller finally turned his head to look to the left, away from the other's eyes.

"We were on a patrol in Mosul," the captain caved, his voice slightly lower in both volume and pitch, as if he were telling a confidential story. With a slight shock, I realized he probably was. "Intel reports indicated there were insurgents in this neighborhood. We were canvassing the area. Private Campbell, she stayed in the Humvee as the unit headed towards a small house up the street." It didn't make much sense to me, but I didn't ask. It could have been anything ranging from that she was apparently a female to having someone to look after their equipment or to receive calls.

"There were five of us – Kent, Marshall, Merton, Lefferts, myself." I didn't know who Lefferts was, but we'd probably get a first name before we left so that we could identify and question him. "It was a small house, two rooms. I looked through the slat and saw three insurgents in the back room, one a woman." I thought… Mosul is in Iraq. Women's equality isn't equal there… why would men be down with having a female with them, even if they were insurgents? Maybe they just had a more updated view on gender equality. "The men had AK-47's." A type of gun. "I sent Kent and Lefferts to cover the back so no one could run. I was getting the others into position when one of the insurgents must've spotted Kent.

"I heard the pop-pop-pop of the enemy AK-47. Kent made entry to take them out before they could get to the rest of us." So if the insurgents had shot him, then they'd done so because he was trying to give his unit a fair chance. "Lefferts followed him in while we were kicking in the front door. When we got to them, Kent had already been killed taking out the insurgents.

"Sight like that… it stays with you." Fuller had a distant, faraway quality to his eyes like he was flashing back and replaying his memories of the incident, and shook his head, blinking as he brought himself back to the current time. "For two part-times like that, I guess it was too much. But whatever Marshall was trying to do by desecrating Kent's grave, Kent saved the unit. Marshall can't take that away." He finished with finality and looked back to Booth, almost as if he was prepared to defend Kent's reputation against the other veteran if need be.

"Devon Marshall was murdered, Captain." Booth told him honestly when he was done speaking.

Again, that guilt from not telling them the full disclosure of the situation smacked me in the face. These people had lost one friend and now lost another person that had meant something to them, and we were letting them believe that Devon had offed – wait. What?!

I turned an alarmed expression on Booth. What gives?!

Fuller blinked once, then leaned back, sinking into his chair and covering his face with a hand as it really sunk in. "God…" he groaned.

"Any bad blood between him and Jimmy Merton?" Booth asked, after allowing the man a couple of seconds to readjust his perspective. He was very definitely ignoring what I was broadcasting.

The captain shook his head wearily, lowering his hand from in front of his face. "Not that I know of."

"We have an after-action report," I said slowly, looking back to the camo-clad captain and pushing back the annoyance for the moment. "But for the sake of being thorough and certain, I'd appreciate being given access to all the documentation you have. Corporal Kent's autopsy, any photos that were taken of the location, ballistics, if you have them…" There were too many things that could be potential evidence for me to list them all, even if there probably wasn't that much in reality. "Any other evidence that exists, as well."

Fuller looked past his desk again. "You'll have whatever you need," he promised.

"What happened to keeping the murder a secret so that we'd have the edge?" I demanded of Booth, seriously pissed off as I stalked behind him towards the car and away from the building. We were still on the base, which meant I had to keep my voice down, but there was no one within range to overhear if I kept the volume down.

"He's the company commander, Holly. He's a decorated officer." The rear and headlights of the SUV blinked when Booth unlocked the doors with the remote on the keys to save time. "He deserves to know what's going on."

"How can he deserve to know Devon was murdered more than the man's wife? Sister? Best friend?" I retorted, livid. I've been beating myself up internally for lying to these people, who had a hell of a lot more right to be privy to the details than Fuller did, and Booth had just gone ahead and shared like a grade school show-and-tell. "Being decorated's good for him, but it doesn't automatically make him a saint."

"Ri-ight," Booth sarcastically drew out, yanking open the driver's side of the door while I had to cross around to the other side of the road to get in. "I forgot that it was suddenly your job to question the motives of everyone who's ever served in any branch, ever."

"No," I hissed as I climbed into the seat beside him, pulling the door shut with admittedly a bit of a slam. I didn't reach for my seat belt quite yet, because if it refused to click the first time, then I'd just get even more frustrated. "It's my job to question the motives of everyone who could have killed the man whose death I am investigating." I gave him a dirty look across the car, cutting through the small space. "It's supposed to be your job, too, but you seem to have forgotten that."

He laughed bitterly. He didn't think it was actually humorous. It sort of chilled me that we were set so badly at odds. "I will find out who killed Devon Marshall," he determined coldly, shifting gears and returning the furious glower full-force. "I will do it while giving the captain and the other servicemen all of the respect and the honor that they deserve. That is all you need to know."

Don't treat me like an idiot! I wanted to scream. Instead I narrowed my eyes as I looked away, taking breaths so deep that they made my shoulders rise dramatically. "You're wrong," I disagreed vehemently, making sure I got the last word in this argument, too, just to spite him. "I deserve to know a hell of a lot more than your irritated declarations, both as a homicide investigator and your daughter."

The latter was meant to cut him more than it cut me, but I think I'm the one that ended up bleeding the most when I waved the blade.

I walked into Brennan's office when I saw both Brennan and Angela seated inside, Brennan behind her desk and Angela on the arm of a chair across from her, dragged away from its original spot in order to suit the artist. I had a mostly-eaten apple in one hand, and I was just about ready to start Hulk punching things, so I didn't doubt that if my nails were long enough, I'd be trying to split the apple's rind.

"Hey," I said in greeting, slowing when I crossed the threshold. "How's everything here?" I asked, cocking my head and hoping that the thinly-veiled agitation was less visible than I thought.

"Pathology is running the cigarette you brought," Brennan answered. She'd had an elbow on the table and a hand combing through her brunette hair, but at my sudden and unannounced entry, she dropped her arm back down to the top of her desk. I guess they were having a slow day so far.

"How's Booth doing?" Angela asked. She was in one of her more artsy moods, apparently – sometimes when she didn't have much to do for work, she'd get out her supplies and work. This was apparently one of those times – her hair was pulled up behind her head with a few loose strands around her face. Her copper hoop earrings were easily visible, and went well with the black spaghetti strap top, despite that it, and her jeans, were stained with what was either paint or oil pastels. This is why she keeps a change of clothes in her bag, I guess.

"He's angry," I admitted quickly without preamble. Angela was far too good at reading emotions. "So am I." I held up my snack. "I'm taking it out on this apple." To prove my point, I brought it up to my mouth and sank my teeth in with a loud crunch.

Brennan frowned. "What does he have to be angry about?"

Throwing my arms up, I shook my head, trying to convey that he really shouldn't be pissed off at me without actually speaking while I chewed. Then, once I could actually talk again, "He's giving suspects special treatment just because they served! Half of the questions I needed to ask Jimmy Merton, I didn't get to ask. And the unit commander we went to see? Booth just up and told him about the investigation I've had to lie to the victim's family about!"

Angela grimaced at the situation. No one likes lying about a dead person to that person's family. It's just wrong on so many levels. "You knew that might happen," she reminded me gently. "It's why you went with him, to try to keep him on track."

My shoulders slumped. I had been prepared for this to happen, but I hadn't thought that it would go so far. "Yeah, but then I said some things… and he said some things." I added so that I didn't seem like as much of a bad guy, because I wasn't. Then Angela kept giving me that look, like she knew I was holding back, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Me and my damn need to have the last word. "And I said more stuff," I confessed. "And it escalated."

The artist sighed. "Oh, sweetie…"

I started to feel a little bit better when Brennan tried to defend me and my temper. "But if he wasn't being objective, then you did the right thing by trying to get him to focus," she told me, and double-checked by looking to Angela for back-up on this one. "I probably would have done the same."

Now the mediator was torn between two different, valid points. "Okay, maybe," she allowed for her friend, and then tipped her head to me, giving me an expression that somehow managed to make her next sentence carry the weight of an entire lecture. "But you have to think before you speak, especially to Booth."

"Why?" Brennan asked, unhappy with this. "We can say anything to you without thinking about it first."

Angela's immediate response was to give Brennan a slow, 'sure, right, yeah' smile and an accommodating nod of her head. Yeah, we can… we just probably should make an effort not to. "But men aren't like us," she tried to explain, totally solemn and honest. "They're much more… fragile, and needy." I grinned. Angela has always been pretty good at helping out when I'm in a bad mood. Brennan was trying not to show her amusement of the belittling of men everywhere. "The fact that they think we're the needy ones is a testament to our superiority."

"Yeah," Brennan agreed with a faint smile, nodding her head in acquiescence. "I guess I forgot."

I smiled brightly between the two of them when I saw Zach coming down the hall towards the office. "Here comes one of the needy."

Thankfully, Zach either missed it or chose to ignore the comment. If he was just ignoring it, he wasn't taking it to heart. He was carrying a bunch of files all held together in a single folder, connected in small groups with paper clips and staples. "Holly, the military delivered all the paperwork that you wanted." He came right into the office and stood at my side, looking to Brennan over my shoulder and holding the records slightly down, like he wasn't sure who to give them to.

I located the trash can with my eyes and threw the little remainder of the apple underhandedly towards it, getting it on the first try. Cheering in my head, I wiped one hand off on my jeans and took the files with the other, starting to flip through the first few pages. It looked like I had everything I had mentioned to Fuller as well as some other incident-related documents faxed over, probably collected almost as soon as we had left.

"Kent's autopsy report is careless and incomplete." Zach continued. He might have been warning me, but I could already tell that by how little space the writing took, how hard it was to read, and the small discrepancies I could see when I flipped between the report filled in by the unit and the military unit's M.E. later on, and then by another examiner in America before Kent had been buried in Arlington. I looked between the two with a faint scowl. This was less than subpar. "There was no incision, no x-rays, so there's no way to confirm the amount of bullets he was hit with."

"Here it says that there were seven entry points." I tapped my finger twice against the period marking the end of the written sentence in the final report done in America, but then let the others fall down on top of it and looked up. "But in the official report, there were apparently only six actual bullets."

Totally unimpressed, Zach stood up straighter. "I could've done better with a Crayola," he deadpanned to me.

I nodded slowly, half to humor him and half because I was sure that he really could.

When I told Booth exactly how poor the documentation that Fuller sent was, he threw the folder roughly down onto the top of the table in the lab that stood innocently between us. Hopefully for it, it wouldn't end up getting flipped over in a display of temper.

"Medical reports are done on the fly in combat situations." Booth told me with a slightly raised voice, angry at the insinuation that I had made. I suppose that was his excuse for whatever the hell this thing trying to masquerade as official documentation of several deaths was. "That doesn't mean that they're falsified!"

"It does mean that it would be unwise to consider them concrete!" I told him in return, gesturing with both hands to the papers he'd thrown. Some had slid around, making the edges of the folders uneven. "This entire report is a mess. Zach could do better with a crayon!"

One look at his expression, like he was ready to go Wolverine on anyone who said one more bad thing about the military's records, suggested that I give him a second. Giving him a pointed stare to make him consider how serious the issue was, I looked over to the others on the platform to check on them.

Brennan moved up to Angela, who was standing by the computer with a digital camera strap around her neck, yet no camera. The artist was going through a few of the crime scene pictures. The anthropologist added a couple that she'd been looking at to the pile. "We might still be able to get information from the photos," she said to her friend. "Ange, I'd like you to input these photographs and enhance them for as much detail as possible."

Hodgins slowly moved up behind Angela while Brennan already turned her attention back to the computer. Angela moved over to accommodate Brennan, while she ignored Hodgins expertly. I got the feeling there was something going on that I had missed.

"I couldn't salvage much flesh from Marshall's ear, but I'm sending anything useful up to pathology. We'll see if they can match anything with the DNA they pulled from Jimmy Merton's cigarette." Hodgins shuffled his feet a little, like a kid who'd been scolded earlier. "Were you really mad before?"

"Why?" She asked, sounding calm with just a little bit of caution. "Because of your strident, paranoid ramblings?"

"I'm guessing mad." Hodgins concluded, nodding. "Fair enough. Can I… at least give you some materials to read?"

"You could try." She told him, switching pictures and not looking over her shoulder even once. "But you'd walk funny for a week."

Ouch.

Hodgins nodded, looking down with a little disappointment, but he accepted what he'd been told and backed off while she was still irritated.

I figured that Booth had had enough time to take a chill pill from his imaginary Chill Pill prescription bottle and I looked back across the table to him. "We have the evidence that Devon was murdered," I tried to reason with him. "We know that Devon used to visit Kent's grave. Jimmy said it was to apologize. What for? Maybe the same reason that these reports don't add up, which leaves me to conclude that we can't trust these or our suspects, and those are the facts that we have."

The FBI agent dragged a hand down his face tiredly and looked over his shoulder, like maybe someone who would take personal offense to even considering me was listening in, and then leaned further over the table. "So, what do you want to do?"

I had known exactly what I wanted to get him on board with since we'd gotten him back into the lab, although I didn't think getting him on board would be as easy as bribing him with free martinis.

"I want an exhumation order on Colonel Charles Kent so that the Jeffersonian can perform a thorough and correct autopsy." I stated bluntly and factually.

The reaction that I received was instantaneous. "Exhume-" He was too loud. He hit his open palms down onto the table and leaned over, looking to the side at Angela and Brennan before dropping his volume even lower. "Exhume a war hero?" He hissed incredulously. "Do you have – any – idea what you're asking?!"

I narrowed my eyes and breathed in, formulating a good response. "I know what I'm asking is going to be hard for anyone who knew him to stomach," I admitted readily, with no guilt. Yes, it was unfortunate, but priorities! "I also know that I have enough to get a warrant and there is a dead man in our lab, murdered because of something connected with Kent's death, and there is no way to find out what happened to him otherwise!"

He stared at me for a second, like he couldn't believe it, and then he raised one hand to point fervently at the records. "The report!"

I have to explain this point again?! "The report is insufficient at best and downright pathetic at worst!"

"He is supposed to be honored this week! Not humiliated!"

"Kent died a hero," I argued. By now, the background noise of the others had died out and everyone was eavesdropping on what was rapidly approaching a fight. "Anyone who should know that already does! We're not taking that honor away from him by solving Marshall's death!"

He stared at me and took a deep breath. For a minute I thought that he was going to back me up, however reluctantly, but then he bit his lip and shook his head. "I'm sorry, kid. I can't let you do this." He maintained stubbornly.

If I was being truthful, then that surprised me a little bit. He wasn't going to have my back in something, and this would be the first time in a while that I hadn't had his assistance to rely on if all else failed, whether I wanted it or not.

I blinked, and the lab felt like it was prepared to explode from however I took the answer. Instead of screaming or continuing the fight, I exhaled deeply and blinked, smacking my hand down on top of the documents and dragging them off the edge of the desk. I picked them up and knocked them vertically on the tabletop to realign them calmly.

"Fine." I said evenly, and almost didn't recognize my own voice. "I don't need your assent, anyway. I work for the Jeffersonian and I have enough reason right here." I waved the papers. "I can get the exhumation order on my own. I don't know why, but I was just hoping that maybe this time I could actually trust my father to support me."

That's what family is supposed to do, right? Support each other? I've been trying so damn hard to empathize, to understand, to help him when he clearly needed it, but he wasn't letting me. I don't have another option now but to stand on my own and get this done. I'm doing what I've wanted to do for years – solving crimes – and I'm not dependent on another person anymore. I… I can stick to more populated places, and I can kick, punch, bite, scream, and run.

I didn't realize until my mouth was already running without permission that Booth looked as if I'd physically sucker punched him. By then I could feel the composure crumbling, like it had only been a matter of time before the shock wave hit, and my eyes were stinging.

"I've never been able to trust a paternal figure before, so I don't see why now should be any different!" I gathered up the papers close to my stomach and turned my back on him and everyone else in the lab, turning to walk like my shoes were winged to the platform.

I blinked once when I absolutely had to, and my vision blurred. I sped up, breaking into a jog and hopping down the stairs, skipping most of them in an effort to just get off the platform as soon as I could. The water slipped down my cheek and my legs started moving faster, the jog turning to a sprint.

"Holly!" Someone finally yelled after me. Everything felt like time was being either rewound or fast forwarded, so I couldn't recognize the voice.

I didn't respond, because I was already crying and I don't want anyone to see me cry again.

After the sun set, Arlington National Cemetery's natural serenity and respected peace was disturbed by equipment being moved in to unbury and remove Charles Kent's casket from his grave. Brennan and I were there to see it through, while the machinery was managed by an employee of the state. Booth was there… I don't know. Because he knew I would be? Because he wanted to honor the corporal? Either way, he stood to the side with Brennan and I while Charles Kent's parents stood crying and watching their son's coffin be lifted from the ground. One was a short, older man with a receding hairline, and the other was a blonde woman in her forties who wore a dark pink overcoat.

As the coffin cleared the ground and was moved away from the grave as a precaution, the Kents started to move towards Booth. I looked away from Brennan and to the two. It looked like the mother was dragging the other towards the agent with some grim determination, and, getting a bad feeling, I sighed and left the anthropologist to take up a place beside Booth before the pair could reach him.

"Agent Booth, I'm Tina Kent." The mother stopped right in front of the agent, disregarding me, although her jaw was tensed and her expression furious, so I was pretty sure if I just let it happen, I'd get credit for her upset, too.

"Listen, ma'am," Booth started to say respectfully. "I'm very sor-"

I think I saw it coming before Tina even consciously realized what she was going to do. It was in the way she tensed her shoulder and clenched her hand into a fist, and I reacted before she could follow through. When she drew back her hand into the air, I snapped my hand up to catch her wrist before she could swing at Booth.

The woman's shocked gasp was enough of an indicator for me that she had acted mostly on impulse. I tightened my grip on her wrist for a second before relaxing my hold, but didn't let go of her yet.

"I can't say that I understand how this must feel for you," I tried to tell her softly. "But you really want to think twice about what you're trying to do." No matter how hurt I was by Booth, I could not just watch him, a former ranger and sniper, be assaulted by this small, physically unimpressive woman, just for doing his job. Hopefully he got the message that I was still on his side without me having to spell it out for him later.

After a few more seconds, as I saw her face looking less borderline homicidal, I let go of her, dropping my hand down to my side again and watching her coolly to see what she would do. Still seeming stunned by the intervention, the woman offered a halfhearted glare at Booth and looked down to the ground, shaken, while her husband took her by the shoulders and started to lead her away.

A/N: I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's commented. I've gotten some really great reviews!

Also, to a guest who commented a couple of weeks ago and requested a specific love interest for Holly: thanks, but a love interest for Holly isn't really in the very near future, and I've already planned out who it will be and how the relationship will develop and evolve. I'm very pleased that you like the story, though!