Fluff fluff fluff. That's all this is. Don't you love it? I hope you do if you're going to read this.
Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'.
It wasn't his fault. It really wasn't. Forces beyond his control had conspired against him and forced his hand. He was just a pawn in their cruel, sadistic game. It wasn't his fault.
That was what Jack Hodgins was telling himself as he leafed surreptitiously through the drawings that his co-worker, Angela Montenegro, had left completely out in the open, bound tightly into a portfolio underneath her desk. The drawings that she'd flat-out refused to show him. The drawings that she had expressly forbidden him to look at, on pain of death. And who was Jack to refuse the urgings of extreme curiosity when the opportunity to satisfy them presented itself? It really wasn't his fault.
And the fact that he'd dropped that box of coverslips this morning wasn't his fault either. She'd been sitting on the counter in his corner of the lab—she'd snuck up on him! He hadn't expected her to be sitting there, looking unfairly beautiful and humming to herself. The sunlight from the high windows of the Jeffersonian made her wavy brown hair shine with slight red highlights and he brown eyes sparkled. The only thing that marred the picture was the fact that she was closely studying an old skull while she sketched on the large pad balanced on her knees.
Jack couldn't help it—he was only human and she had caught him by surprise. He was so shocked by this (to him) sudden apparition that the box of glass coverslips that he had been carrying slid from his nerveless fingers and crashed to the ground, breaking both the peace and half of the box's contents and causing Angela to fall off the counter with a scream.
Not the best way to start the day.
So in a way, Jack rationalized as he picked his way through the sketches, this was simply well-deserved revenge for her attack this morning. His fingers walked through paper after paper, eyes taking in images of the Smithsonian museums, the Native American museum, the Mall, and the Capitol. On the other hand, there were sketches of the poorer, more run-down neighborhoods off 13th street—and these were the portraits that caught Jack's eye. They were grimy, gritty portrayals of the poverty that was incredibly prevalent in most of DC, and Jack instantly felt even more in awe of Angela's abilities as an artist.
But what he couldn't figure out was why she wouldn't want to show him the sketches. She showed him other pieces of her work—what was so special about these?
He heard the sound of high-heeled footsteps approaching and quickly shut the portfolio. As he shoved it back under the table, a stray piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Hastily Jack scooped it up and was about to throw it under the desk with the portfolio when Angela walked in.
"Hey, Hodgins!" she said. "Temp wants to know if you have—" she saw what he still held in his hand and froze.
"Did you go through my stuff?" she asked in a quiet, dangerous voice. Jack saw his life flash before his eyes—she was in a murderous mood. He might not make it out alive. The idea of telling her how she deserved it and why was probably suicide. He'd just have to brave it.
"It…it was out and I thought…" he stammered helplessly.
"You thought that you could go through my work? Just invite yourself in?" she asked, obviously furious. "You thought that you could go pawing through the things that I told you not to?"
"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds worse than it is…" Jack muttered, staring at the ground. Then, in a fit of suicidal courage he raised his gaze. "I don't see what's so bad, Ange," he said. The intensity of Angela's glare increased. "I mean, it isn't like you've never allowed me to see anything of yours before!"
The woman let out a wordless cry of exasperation. "The things I've drawn for fun or for work, Jack!" she exclaimed. "That's what I've shown you! This is different—this is more personal!"
"But—" Jack began to protest, but Angela cut him off,
"What makes you think that you know anything about me outside of this place?" she cried. "How do you know what I like, what I do, where I go? I don't want you judging me! I don't need another person judging me because I'm not smart enough or because I don't actually enjoy spending my time surrounded by dead things! I don't need you, Jack!"
She paused, chest heaving with anger. Jack could see tears sparkling in her eyes and he stepped forwards hesitantly. "Hey," he said softly. "I didn't mean anything by it. And I would never judge you. Unless, I mean, you're into really weird stuff, like my Uncle George, but we don't talk about him. But you…Angela, you're normal! And because of that, I respect you more than anybody else in the entire world!"
The woman studied his face warily. "You did see what was in that folder, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," Jack replied. "And I think that you're an awesome artist. You managed to capture DC perfectly."
"Not that," she replied impatiently. "That." Angela pointed to the scrap of paper that Jack held, forgotten, in his hand.
"Huh?" he said. "Oh—" He turned it over and stared down at the smooth surface.
It was a drawing of him. More importantly, it was a drawing of him and Angela. She was leaning on his shoulder, and both were smiling up at the artist. The two figures on the paper looked so happy together that Jack couldn't help but smile in return. He looked wordlessly up at Angela.
"The best thing about art," she said simply, "is that you don't need Photoshop to make your dreams come true."
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