A/N: My first Bones fic. I love getting reviews, so let me know what you think of this (especially if there's anything that could be improved). Do not, however, flame me, because flames aren't helpful in the least. If you don't like it, stop reading it and never look at it again.
Summary: Just a little Jack/Angela fic. No real plot to be found. Post The Headless Witch in the Woods. This fic was also a way for me to expose a suspicion of mine regarding the moonlight/possible ghost at the end of the tape.
Disclaimer: Seriously, would a fourteen-year-old from Jersey own Bones? Put that common sense to use.
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As she requested, Angela was spending the night at Jack's house. He'd intended to set her up in his guest bedroom on the chance she wasn't up for sharing his bed, and he figured she'd take the guest room. They were working things out, but he knew Angela wasn't ready to sleep with him (even if they would only be sleeping; they were far from the stage where "going to bed" insinuated something else). She had her moments when she wanted–or needed–to have him close, and her moments when she wanted some distance.
Right now, she was having a "need for physical contact" moment. Her head on his chest was getting heavy, but he wasn't about to complain: her position gave him a clear view down the front of her shirt.
When they arrived at his house, the first thing Angela did was close all his curtains. After seeing the tail end of the tape, with the moonlight/possible ghost shimmering through the trees, she hadn't wanted to look outside and give herself a heart attack if she saw a patch of moonlight shining on the nearby trees. After that, she'd sat on his couch beside him and started talking. They'd started out with about a foot of space between them, but over the course of fifteen minutes conversation had dwindled down and Angela had slithered closer until she was pressed right up against him.
Privately, Jack thought the scene looked like one of those Christmastime Hallmark commercials: Angela had her head resting on his chest, and he had his arm wrapped around her shoulders. It was one of those sappy little "perfect" scenes. All they needed was a lit Christmas tree and some gaggingly sweet, sentimental music playing in the background.
Angela shifted slowly, straightening her neck some so that her head rested in the crook of his neck instead of his chest. From her deep, slow breathing, he could tell she'd fallen asleep. He decided not to wake her up; if he did, she would probably settle in his guest room, and, selfish as it might have been, he wanted to keep her where she was. It would be worth the back pain he'd have by morning.
He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without waking Angela. He ended up half-sitting, half lying on his back, with Angela draped across him. The new position wasn't much better. In fact, he thought it was worse.
His back was going to kill him tomorrow.
Angela shifted again, and he realized how lucky he'd been: Angela hadn't suspected a thing. Fudging up the tape to get some moonlight to bear a semblance to a ghost hadn't been the easiest thing he'd ever done–if it had actually looked tampered with, she would have known something was up, and it was difficult getting the pixels to look natural.
He wondered if opportunities like this were going to arise often. It would be worth the back pain if they ended up sleeping on his couch every time she wanted to spend the night.