Angela has never been religious. She was mostly just spiritual and that was always enough for her.

When Brennan called her, she was updating some equipment at the Hoover.

"I am taking Booth to the hospital," Brennan's voice told her, clipped and alien.

"I'll go with you. I'm just a couple of floors away. I can be there in just a minute."

Brennan told her "There isn't time," and Angela became afraid. She finished her project mechanically and packed up her bag. As she went down the stairs- she couldn't stand the thought of being around other people in the elevator- she passed Booth's floor. Her feet didn't listen to her brain and she was in his office, behind his desk. She sat there for five minutes, ten, then slid open the top right drawer and took out the rosary she knew Booth kept there before going to join Brennan in the hospital.

Now she runs the beads through the fingers of her right hand, feels the cool metal of the cross. She doesn't know what to do with it. She isn't used to feeling helpless. She is usually so confident, so comfortable in herself that the uselessness shakes her more just for feeling it.

The door to the chapel opens behind her and she spins, alarmed. It's just Hodgins, but she has to force herself to relax. Halfway through unclenching her left hand, she tenses again. "Is Booth…?"

"Fine," Hodgins tells her wearily. "He just got out of surgery. They have him in post-op now." He sits beside her, and she blinks, remembering that it's been hours since they got there. She hopes Cam has told the Jeffersonian, because she doubts that any of them will be in tomorrow. "I just got off the phone with his brother. He's trying to get a flight, but he doesn't know when he'll be able to get back."

"Is Parker coming?" Angela asks, wiping tears on the side of her hand. She doesn't remember crying these particular ones, but they come and go.

"Brennan talked to Rebecca, and apparently she doesn't want him to be here in case…" In case he dies, hangs in the air even if neither of them say it, but Hodgins can't take that. She watches his fist clench, almost clinically counting down until he explodes. Sad is too much for Hodgins. Angry is familiar and safe, a blinding, distracting wave of heat. His leg kicks out, but the pew in front of them doesn't dent or break. "Goddamn it!"

"Hodgins." It's a reflex, really. Because despite the beads between her fingers and the Jesus statue staring at her from the front of the room, it's what she's thinking too.

He says fiercely, "No, Ange. This is not okay. He agreed to get hurt in the line of duty. He signed up to protect people, even if that meant getting shot or stabbed or beaten or poisoned. How can he not be able to protect himself? He didn't agree for his body to betray him."

She grabs his hand in hers, and there is power in her touch, because he deflates, collapsing next to her. "He's your friend, Jack. It's okay to be angry. I'm angry too. And shocked and sad and scared. But there's nothing we can do now."

His hands cover both of hers again. She realizes that she's been running the rosary through her fingers so roughly, it could have broken. "I don't even know how to use this," she tells him, and it's her voice that breaks instead.

He draws in a breath, gathering the power for his turn to be the strong one. His arm settles around her, heavy and comforting. It somehow manages to make her feel better, even though she can see his bitten down nails. "Say whatever you need to. We'll ask Booth when he wakes up."