Title: Come
Fandom: Bones
Summary: Her features, so familiar to his eyes, were arranged somewhere between horror and a peaceful sleep. His breath caught in his chest as his heart froze inside.
Rating: PG
Pairings/Characters: Hodgins/Angela
Length: 1,300 words
Genres: angst, romance
A/N: Written for the Hodgins ficathon on on LiveJournal, my prompt for which was the quote below. I set out to write a happy Jack/Angela+baby fic, but of course my angstaholic muse did nothing of the sort. It saddens me, really. As does the fact that I'm not really satisfied with the way this fic turned out. But then again, it's me, and I'm hardly ever completely satisfied... So read and see what you think. :)

The true test of character is not how much we know how to do, but how we behave when we don't know what to do. - John Holt

Come

Doctor Jack Stanley Hodgins, PhD. Three well-earned doctorates and an IQ score that would make many scholars jealous.

So much knowledge, so much intelligence, yet here he was, at a complete loss as to what to do. Wandering lost in a bleak darkness of ignorance, trying his hardest to find his way back to precious, familiar daylight.

Sighing to himself, he buried his face in his hands.

The world seemed, in the course of a few mere days, to have turned completely on him and the weight of it seemed to press on his shoulders. His fingers accidentally brushed across the row of stitches in his forehead, causing him to inhale sharply at the pain.

Memories that he'd been trying to dispose of over the past two days flooded back to him in an instant, overwhelming his senses. A blinding flash of light, the sound of creaking metal, the feeling of his entire body exploding in pain, the taste of blood in his mouth, the acrid smell of fire and blood.

And, slowly turning his head, the sight of her beside him. Blood matted her already tangled hair and slowly trickled down one side of her face. And her features, so familiar to his eyes, were arranged somewhere between horror and a peaceful sleep. His breath caught in his chest as his heart froze inside—

The distinctive ring of a telephone snapped him out of his reverie and bought him back to the present. He opened his eyes, banishing the memory, and stared at the telephone sitting mere feet away from him on the coffee table.

It sounded like the ambulance sirens.

He let it ring until the answering machine picked it up.

"Mister… Doctor Hodgins?" The voice echoed through the empty house. "This is Nurse Hitchens from Sibley Memorial Hospital. I know you've been avoiding coming in because you're confused and don't know what to do, but I think you should come, Mister Hodgins. I really do." There was a pause, then softer, the woman added, "I'm sure she would want you to." And she hung up.

Left alone with the silence again, Hodgins swallowed against the lump in his throat.

The nurse (who he'd come into contact with in his own brief stay in the hospital) hadn't been wrong. Quite the contrary: after such a brief encounter with him, she had him figured out perfectly.

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, interlocked his fingers, and then rested his chin on his hands.

Yes, part of him felt like he should be spending every moment at Angela's bedside, simply being there with her, hoping for her quick recovery. Yet another part of him felt like he didn't belong there at her bedside, that, considering she was there because of him, he didn't deserve the right to be by her side.

Standing suddenly, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked around the back of the couch. He wasn't particularly hungry, but maybe a sandwich could help ease his mind.

But in order to get to the kitchen, he had to pass by the table on which the answering machine sat.

Angry red numbers pulsed across the darkened room at him, notifying him that Nurse Hitchens was not the first but sixth caller to leave a message since he had last checked his messages.

Freezing in his place, Hodgins stared at the machine.

He knew who all of the calls had come from. Every single one of those six calls had come from Sibley Memorial Hospital, and not just from Nurse Hitchens. For the past two days, the doctors at the hospital had been trying to speak with Hodgins.

But Hodgins knew exactly what it was they were going to say, so he hadn't answered a single call.

I'm sure she would want you to.

The nurse's words echoed through his head and tugged at his heart. He didn't doubt for a moment that what the nurse had said was true. But knowing it was true and doing something about it were worlds different.

Slowly, inadvertently, his eyes traveled to the row of car keys hanging on the wall by the door. There was no rhyme or reason to the placement of the keys on the various hooks, but in his mind each set for each car had its place. One hook, situated three from the end, was empty.

He swallowed again.

And suddenly, as if controlled by something outside of himself, he hurried over and grabbed a set of keys, then bounded out the door and down the steps. He was in the car, driving down the long, winding driveway before he realized what he was doing.

No, no, he assured himself. The mansion was big, empty, and lonely. He was only out for a drive to get away from there for a little while. That was all.

But he knew right away that he was merely feeding himself pointless lies, and he soon wound up at his real destination: Sibley Memorial Hospital. His feet automatically carried him towards the room he already knew she was in.

Walking down the almost empty halls, he soon realized that visiting hours were over. His heart sank at the realization, but his feet continued to defeatedly carry him up the corridor. It wasn't long before he came to the nurses' station, a short ways from his destination.

A lone nurse stood in the station, and she looked up at him when she heard his footfalls coming down the hall. But instead of ordering him away like he knew she would, she said nothing and a smile drifted to her face.

Confused, Hodgins frowned until he saw the nameplate on her shirt.

Hitchens.

She continued to smile at him as he passed by, but he couldn't find it in himself to return the expression. His face remained straight and stiff as he walked on to his goal. Slowly but steadily, his feet carried him onwards.

Finally, he arrived at her door.

He paused outside and the rush of conflicting thoughts once again bombarded him. Could he really do this? Could he really walk in there and be at her bedside after what he'd done?

He knew the others had been here. Brennan had been here, as had Booth—he'd probably said a prayer over her. Even Zack and Cam had been here, he knew. And, of course, her father had come in to sit at her bedside.

Now here he was, the man who claimed to love her, coming for the very first time to see her. And all he was doing was standing outside her door, trying to decide whether or not he should go on inside.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and slid inside.

He briefly surveyed the room, finding it to be nothing more than an average hospital room. And there she was, lying on the bed.

The blood had been wiped away from her face, her wounds cleaned and bandaged. Her eyes were closed peacefully, and her expression was still, unmoving. Dark hair was splayed across her pillow behind her head, and he thought it made her look like an angel, even now. The heart monitor in the room beeped steadily and the respirator hissed.

Slowly, he crossed the room, eyes flicking to the chart clipped to the foot of her bed.

Angela Montenegro. Critical condition. Comatose.

He shook his head to clear away a flood of thoughts that came at reading that, and walked around the side of her bed. For a moment, he just stared at her and breathed slowly.

Then he bent down and gently kissed her cheek, brushing back a stray lock of dark hair from her face.

"Hi," he whispered quietly. "Sorry it took me so long to come."

THE END

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