Author's Note: This was an idea that jumped into my brain at about 7 a.m. and refused to leave until it was written out on the page, causing me to put another Bones fanfic that I was writing on hold. The idea is original, but may contain spoilers up to episode 2.14, Man in the Mansion. The rest I made up. Imagine Patty Griffin's beautiful piece entitled, "Rain" in your head while you read this, and you'll begin to feel how I did while writing it.
Author's Warning: Angst alert! Angst alert!! This story is a serious ANGST piece. So … if you want sunshine and lollipops, you might want to go and read some Bones fluff instead. Consider yourself warned!
Ownership: Don't own them, wish I did.
Rain
He could still remember the last night they had spent together. It was etched in his mind in great detail, like one of the hauntingly beautiful watercolours that Angela used to paint for him.
He could still recall the steady, even beat of her heart, loud and strong as she had snuggled up against him for warmth. He liked to keep it cool in the bedroom, so he'd have an excuse to start a fire in the antique fireplace that lay across from the bed.
He remembered her reaction the first time she had come to stay with him, and had been in his bed. She'd laughed that beautifully melodic laugh, and pointed to the fireplace. 'Is that all the heat in this room?' She had asked. He had given a smug reply, he was sure – something about her having to wait and find out for herself. But he couldn't remember what his exact words had been.
The mind was funny that way. He swore he could recall each and every word she had ever said to him, throughout their courtship, and on their numerous dates. He swore he could remember the way her deep brown eyes had danced when they were together, and the deep sorrow that drove them when she was disturbed by a rough case at work.
But could he really be sure of anything anymore? Or was his damaged brain only creating memories to replace moments he had lost, had forgotten about?
Hardly anything was constant anymore, and nothing was the same. Each day brought with it a whole new set of challenges, and a new set of hurdles to clear. And on even his best days, he could barely muster the energy to step up. He could barely get enough effort summoned to complete even the most mundane of tasks.
The only constant in his life these days was the rain. He swore that it had been raining non-stop for the past two weeks, heavy, dark clouds looming in the sky. The rain had become his constant companion, an event by which he could set his watch to. And it always brought with it a flood of memories…
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It was raining the day they had met. He was pumped to be starting a new job – a real job where he could start fresh and not worry about his past, his influences coming into play. He had gone to school, worked hard, and graduated with a wealth of knowledge and degrees.
The Jeffersonian Institute had been the first to offer him a full time position, at a starting wage he couldn't refuse. Not that he needed the money, but to be earning it doing something he enjoyed – no, loved – was what would make it worthwhile.
He had worn his best pair of jeans, and a fitted shirt that showed off the upper body work he'd been doing lately. You never knew when you might run into a lady worth putting the moves on. He was single, and very much looking.
Approaching his assigned parking stall, he noticed that the dark clouds above him had begun to open up, letting out a sheet of cold rain. Having been too preoccupied to check the weather forecast that morning, he hadn't expected the rain, and therefore hadn't thought to bring an umbrella.
Opening the door to his car, he tentatively reached a hand out, felt the plop of a large, icy raindrop, and sighed. His first day, and he was going to show up looking like a drowned rat, his curls plastered to his forehead.
Grabbing his heavy coat from the passenger seat, he draped it over his head. He jumped out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and began to sprint towards the building.
As he made his way across the lot, he heard a squeaking noise coming from behind him. He turned and watched as a tall brunette made her way across the street. She was wearing a thin sweater, skirt, stockings and at least 3-inch pumps. She had her arms raised above her head, and was attempting to use her hands as an umbrella.
A smile played across his lips as he watched her try to run, though it looked more like a hop, across the street, splashing in the water that had started to pool in the dips.
She looked towards him and stopped, obviously noticing that he had been watching her.
"Are you enjoying the show?" She asked, sarcasm in her voice.
He continued to stare. Now that she stood before him, he got a better look at her. Dark brown eyes sparkled in her face, pouty lips painted a deep shade of pink. Her once carefully made up face had begun to run, and her dark brown hair was soggily matted to her head. But she was still the most beautiful being he had ever seen.
"Uh…" he managed. "Hi."
"Yeah," she put her hands on her hips. "Hey. Great weather, eh?"
He was speechless. Her beauty seemed to flow towards him, her presence made his heart stand still.
A large raindrop hit his head and rolled down his forehead. He became aware again that it was pouring, and they were just standing in the midst of it.
"Oh!" He recovered. "Here," he lifted the coat off his head, motioning for her to come stand beside him.
She hesitated for a moment, but seemed to think him harmless, and walked closer. He held the coat over both of their heads, and began to walk towards the building again.
Her shoulder bumped up against his, and he turned to look at her. She smelled of strawberries and vanilla, and her mere presence warmed his insides. He tried to slow her pace, wanting this moment to last as long as possible, but she was briskly striding forward.
Once they had reached the building and were safely in the front doors, she walked out from under his coat. Attempting to fluff her hair, she turned to him.
"Thanks," she said, and flashed him a smile.
He watched, dumbfounded, as she turned and walked away from him. He wanted to call after her, ask her name, but his voice had receded somewhere deep in his throat, and could not be found.
He didn't see her again until much later that day. He had spent the better part of the day going through numerous security checks, getting the proper ID, and being shown to his "corner" of the lab, where a scant few supplies had been set up for him.
Dr. Goodman, his boss, had then taken him around to each workstation, and painstakingly introduced him to each and every employee. He knew he would never remember everyone's names, but nonetheless he shook hands, exchanged niceties, and smiled.
When they had come to a roomy office with large pieces of artwork covering the walls, he had stopped. He slowly took in the abstract pieces, portraits, and landscapes, all in vivid colour that seemed to cry out to be seen. He had been so taken by the work that he hadn't even noticed her until she stood before him.
"This," Dr. Goodman began. "Is Angela Montenegro."
He shifted his gaze to the face before him, and felt his breath catch in his throat. It was her, the brunette from that morning. Her hair had obviously dried, and been restyled into loose curls that hung just past her shoulders. Her make up had been reapplied, and he was drawn to the large, deep brown eyes.
"Hey, hi." He croaked. Clearing his throat, he added, "Hodgins. Uh … Dr. Jack Hodgins."
Angela turned to Goodman. "Yeah, we met this morning…"
"Alright then. I'll let you become reacquainted." And with that, he had walked off, leaving the two alone.
Jack had tried to stand tall, stretching his neck up high. Angela was definitely taller than him by at least a few inches, and with the new pair of pumps she donned, it pushed their gap to at least 6 inches.
"So…" he began, rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Oh, don't even try it," she cautioned, rolling her eyes. "You're cute, but so not my type…"
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But try he had. Over the next year and a bit that they had known each other, they had become friends. They were all a close-knit group, especially he, Angela and Zach Addy, the resident graduate student assigned to the department. But they had never really hung out together on the side.
Shortly after beginning his term, Zach had taken up residence in his guest cottage – above the garage – but the two still hadn't spent time together. It was as though everybody had their private lives and their work lives – and they were all content to keep the two on separate pages.
But with Angela, he had never been happy with this arrangement. In the last year, he had begun to notice her – really notice her. Every moment they spent together, every waking minute he longed to have more. He began to bring all sorts of information and evidence her way – even stuff he knew she couldn't work with.
And she had begun to notice, once accusing him of trying to prolong the conversation by presenting evidence he knew very well that she couldn't help him with.
But the more he pushed, and the more time he purposely spent with her, the more he could feel her resolve soften. They had had a few heart to heart conversations, and during a particularly disturbing case, he had given her an English Alba rose, a species commonly associated with Romeo and Juliet.
Finally, he had summoned up enough courage to ask her out, and had to deal with her turning him down. But she had come to her senses and had eventually accepted. What resulted was one of the best and most memorable dates of his life.
To him, Angela symbolized innocence, and purity. She had a genuine heart, loved to laugh and was a real positive spirit. So he had given her the swings. And though she had later admitted the date was perfect, she crushed his heart again when she told him she couldn't get involved with him because they worked together.
He had spent the next week agonizing over this decision, almost resolved to leave his job if it meant a chance to be with her. But she had come around again, and it had only taken a near death experience on his part to trigger this.
She had opened her heart to him, and her home, and provided him the comfort he had needed during those hard times. Because of her, he had pulled through and moved on with his life – their life.
They had been together for nearly 10 months, and had known each other for just over two years. She had confided that she loved him, and he had confessed the same. They had spent every waking hour together, and every night as well. She had agreed to move in with him, and they had fallen asleep in each other's arms every since.
Everything had been going so great that, in hindsight, he should have been worried. He should have realized that things were about to go really, really bad…
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It was raining that fateful night. The day had been bright and clear, blue skies seemingly endless and free of clouds. But by late afternoon it had changed. Rows and rows of big dark clouds had moved in, and had been threatening to crack open at any minute.
The rain had eventually come down in sheets, making the roads slick and the view muddled. Angela had turned to him once they had gotten into the car, and asked,
"Why don't we just stay home, Jack?"
She said the weather was too awful to go out, the drive too dangerous.
But he had insisted they continue with their plans. He could feel the ring in his jacket pocket, as though it were burning a hole clean through. He had meticulously planned every detail of the evening: dinner at a fancy restaurant, followed by a leisurely stroll that would end in the very park where they'd had their first date. This time the swing set would be the backdrop to another new beginning. Though the plans may have required tweaking, he wasn't about to let the angry rain gods ruin everything.
He had placed his hand over hers, curled his fingers through her own and squeezed.
"I'm going to give you the best night of your life," he had promised her, turning to study her eyes.
And he thinks this is when it happened, but he's not really sure. Everything after that point was a blur – so he doesn't know if he turned his eyes back to the road, and continued driving, or if the hit had come right at that moment.
When he thinks of it now – obsesses over it – he recalls only the sight of bright lights illuminating her silhouette. Her beautiful eyes dancing, expression reassured as she studied him, unaware of what was to come.
A sickening crash, a jolt – and then nothingness.
When he awoke in the hospital later he was told that a car had slid through the light and had collided with the front passenger side of his car.
The car he had chosen based on looks, because it had been deep blue, with green metallic flakes. He had not paid any attention to the safety features; to what type of airbags it was equipped with, what type of crumple zones.
The police and the doctors told him that she had never stood a chance – even in the safest of vehicles. It was a direct hit, and the car had been going full speed, accelerated on by the slick road conditions once it had started to skid.
So many people had come to see him, and so many times he had asked about her. His head hurt, his body ached, he was confined to the bed with numerous wires and tubes protruding from his body. But nobody would answer him. Nobody would look him straight in the eye when he'd asked,
"Angela?"
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They had buried her a week later. She'd hung on for 5 days after the accident, her basic bodily functions supported by machines and technology. They had finally let him see her that last day, after he had hauled himself out of bed, ripping numerous stitches and disconnecting wires as he went.
And when he finally rested his eyes on her still form, he couldn't help but think that she looked peaceful beneath the starched white sheets.
He had held her hands in his own, and cried. So many times she had been there to comfort him, and once she had even been the one to pull him back from the brink of death. But he knew he wouldn't get the chance to return that favour.
Even without reading the charts, and hearing the doctors talk about the absence of brain activity – he knew she was gone. He could see it in her face, could feel it in her spirit. He knew he would have to let her go.
The doctors had allowed him to be there, his hands resting on hers, his head across her chest, as they disconnected the wires. He felt her heartbeat – the very same one he had felt strong and alive just days earlier – slowly fade until only silence remained.
He had kissed her lips, whispered one last, "I love you" and had then limped back to his room.
His wounds had begun to heal, at least physically, but every inch of his house still reminded him of her. Those gorgeous watercolours that she had created still hung on the bedroom walls, so that every night when he went to sleep he imagined her face, saw the serene expression she displayed when she was painting.
That night as he lay himself down in his big empty bed, his eyes focused on the beautiful portrait that hung above the mantle – a piece that Angela had created not long ago of the very swing set where they had shared their first date, and their first kiss.
And as he lay in the silence of the room, he realized that outside the rain had stopped. For the first time in a very long time, the skies above his head had cleared and he knew the sun would be able to shine through the next morning. But below that deep blue sky, Jack Hodgins let himself cry, the tears falling like rain down his face. And he knew things would never be the same.