Guardian Angel
Summary: Hers was the first face he saw when he clawed his way out of hell and like a prayer answered twice, it's the first face he sees now. That's all he wants, every day, for as long as they both live. Hodgins/Angela. Post-2x09.
Disclaimer: I wish I owned Hodgins, but sadly I do not. Nor do I own anything else Bones-related.
A/N: All I have to say is it's about time I wrote a fic about these two. Enjoy!
Jack Hodgins is not a holy man. He outright detests organized religion, condemning the construct as nothing more than a blunt political tool designed to enslave the everyman. He was never a believer of miracles, which can be dissected and exposed if probed deep enough; nor did he appeal to a savior. He had no need of one.
He is not, however, without faith. He believes in quantifiable data, unrefuted hypotheses, and the fundamental tenet that behind every process, whether microscopic or cosmic, lies a logical, science-based explanation. He neither acknowledges nor denies a higher power guiding his hand in the lab; only knows that the distinction has no sway over its findings. A life's devotion, he still draws comfort from this unfailing system. It was all he ever needed.
Until today.
Today he prayed. Constantly. And in no way that's rational and in every way that matters, he knows he was heard, knows he was blessed—one of the poor lost sheep herded home by some watchful eye of the divine. And never in his life does the notion of surveillance make him feel less paranoid.
He was buried alive. Left for dead. Leaving behind no legacy but the story in his yet-to-be-discovered remains and his heart etched in a hastily scrawled farewell letter. Final words confided in a moment of fear and doubt. A winning combination of science, ingenuity, and dumb luck ultimately secured their salvation, but there was something else. Something more.
It came to him in a halo of bursting sunlight and a mouthful of ash, kissed away by an angel of mercy. For one wild moment he thought he was at the pearly gates.
And then a voice was calling him back to earth like some saintly siren, and despite trauma that cut far deeper than a knife at his tibia, he willingly steered his ship back into the rocky crag. Back into her.
He opened his eyes. Best decision of his life, as far as he is concerned.
The second was putting his faith in her that night. Choosing her over a pursuit of vengeance. Over anything.
The world is utterly dark when he wakes buried beneath a faint haze of painkillers, and for a moment the taste of nitrogen and sulfur and blood is so fresh that a scream nearly tears from his throat. Instead, the rush of cold air to his lungs numbs his entire body.
Then his eyes focus, chasing the demons away, and he sees. A figure beside him. Still. Watching.
Her.
Because of course it is. Just like she promised. Just like before. Hers was the first face he saw when he clawed his way out of hell and like a prayer answered twice, it's the first face he sees now. She is aptly named, his guardian angel.
"Angela." Veneration trembling in the quiet.
She shushes him. Her palm finds his chest, calm and steady against the pulse racing beneath. Infinitely more reassuring than the deathbed confession he still keeps tucked away in his jacket. He appreciates the gesture. He also understands the futility of it, that his heart will never fully relax again. Not after today. Not around her.
Slowly his body thaws at her touch, and he studies the delicate lines of her face in the soft moonlight. His face falls, a tragic mirror of hers. She's worried. Even though it's for his sake, no part of him enjoys seeing her wear that expression.
"You don't have to stay," he manages. He isn't above being pitied, but he likes to think he's above using it to obtain anything at her expense. Even though he needs her like air.
She slants a smile at him, not unlike the ones she gives when she finds his laboratory antics grudgingly endearing. Her eyes temper the sentiment. All kindness. Brighter than the moonbeam dancing across her hair. So deep he could drown. She sees far beyond his denial, and it's a welcome reminder that for all his scientific credentials, she is the perceptive one.
"Don't worry," she answers, and her voice is like coming home. "I'm right here for you."
His eyes shutter on a deep exhale. His body melts into the hand that still hasn't pulled away. His heart beats on, speaking promises that will soon be given voice.
He isn't afraid of oblivion this time. He knows what he'll see when he wakes and that's all he wants, every day, for as long as they both live.
The next morning, he removes the letter from his pocket and burns it.
A/N: Is this considered fluff-angst? Like, the overall feeling is happy but the background is full of pain? Whatever. This is probably the closest I will get to writing fluff. My mind just gravitates towards the dark, I guess. FYI, the "don't worry, I'm right here for you" quote is a nod to an identical line that Hodgins says to Angela in the following episode. Because, you know, they're cute like that. Heh.
Also, I am already working on the companion piece to this from Angela's POV, and it will most likely be posted under in its own title. Other projects are pulling focus at the moment so I don't know when it will be finished, but hopefully sooner rather than later. Thanks for reading.