Spoilers: A vague "Man in the Fallout Shelter" reference.

Disclaimer: Angela, Hodgins, Bones, and all respective characters are the property of Kathy Reichs, Hart Hanson, Josephson Entertainment, Far Field Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Let me tell you, I was absolutely OVERJOYED to receive this pairing as my yuletide assignment!! I've been trying to make myself write some "Bones" fic for quite awhile now, and this challenge was the perfect excuse. And it's even Christmas-themed! I had SO much fun writing it - caitn, I hope you enjoy it just as much!

December 2003

"I said stealth, Zack - god, you're worse than Dr. Brennan. Remind me never to play laser tag with you." Sighing in disgust, Hodgins confiscates the beaker of alcohol from Zack's sweaty palms.

"I've never played laser tag," Zack says breathlessly. "I lack the reflexes necessary, and I've been told that my breathing is often too loud to be considered adequately-"

"Forget it," Hodgins cuts him off. Glancing furtively around the room, he dumps the beaker into the glass punch bowl with one quick, deft flick of his wrist. "Score," he whispers, ladling out two fresh cups. Zack stares nervously at his, occasionally taking tiny sips. Hodgins, meanwhile, has the first cup downed in mere seconds and is already working on a second.

As the pure grain alcohol burns down the back of his throat, he scans the room. A sad sight to behold, as far as he's concerned, and he wonders idly why he even bothers coming to these things anymore.

A brunette with fantastic legs and wide, sparkling eyes brushes past him, and suddenly Hodgins remembers. Because every once and awhile, scientists actually do manage to have attractive friends. And in the present situation, the competition is slim to none. A bit pathetic, he'll admit, but where else is he supposed to meet women that aren't grossed out by the things he deals with all day? His eyes narrow as the brunette moves to stand next to none other than his boss, nudging the other woman in the side and handing her a plate of appetizers. Hodgins gives Zack a similar nudge, though noticeably rougher.

"Who's that with Dr. Brennan?" he asks. Zack is still making faces at his punch, as if the sheer force of his will can make it taste better.

"A friend from college. I believe her name is-"

"Oh, crap." Hodgins interrupts him again as he spots Dr. Goodman approaching the punch bowl, empty cup in hand. "Let's boogie." Without waiting for a response, he grabs the younger man's wrist and drags him off towards the safety of the hallway until their superior can find someone else to blame, all thoughts of the brunette already long-forgotten.

December 2004

Zack and Hodgins are in their usual respective spots; parked by the punch bowl, surveying the crowd. Brennan swears she's on her way, but they both know that she'll be camped out in the lab well into tomorrow. Goodman is at his daughter's Christmas pageant, making the spiking of the punch a much easier affair. And Angela is mingling, moving from one person to another and always seeming to carry on three conversations at once.

Hodgins finds himself watching her; studying the graceful way she twists and turns to face her companions, the fall of her hair against her shoulders, and her wild, excited gestures. Angela Montenegro is a breath of fresh, Patchouli-scented air to the Jeffersonian Institute, and it's clear tonight that his colleagues agree with him. She's been on Brennan's team for only a few short months, but already it seems like forever. She teases him, protects Zack, mothers Brennan, makes faces at the "icky" stuff, and brings them coffee when she knows they've worked all night. Her presence is undeniable, even in a room this large and crowded. She's bright and warm and alive and Hodgins isn't all that surprised that he's attracted to her.

"Fill 'er up," Angela demands. She stumbles in her heels on her way to the punch bowl, but manages to hold a steady glare on both of them, until Zack scrambles to refill her cup.

"You really shouldn't have any more," he warns nervously. "Given the proportion of alcohol dilution in the bowl to the number of cups you've already had, for a woman of your height and weight-"

"Little piece of advice?" she chuckles, taking a sip. Her nose scrunches up at the taste, but she ignores it and takes another. "Never mention a woman's weight." Zack babbles an apology, but Angela's barely listening, concentrating instead on finishing her punch. When the cup is once again empty, she sets it down on the table and pats the still-rambling boy on the head.

"Hey. Breathe," she instructs, taking him by the shoulders and turning him to face the crowd. "Now go find Naomi and start a conversation not revolving around her weight. Or science."

"But-"

"No buts. Go. I'm watching you." Zack's eyes are wide; Hodgins doesn't think he's seen even Dr. Brennan able to invoke this kind of terror in the kid. He takes a few shuffling steps forward, only to collide with a server balancing a tray full of appetizers in his hand. A complete disaster is narrowly missed as Zack wanders farther out into the crowd, looking for all the world like a lost little puppy. Angela sighs.

"I keep telling myself that one day, he's going to wise up. And then something like that happens."

"No worries," Hodgins replies. "I'll make a man out of him yet." He likes to think that her accompanying snort of laughter can be solely blamed on the alcohol she's consumed.

"Yes, because you're so very macho," she snickers, turning to reach for the punch ladle.

"Baby, I am all man," he purrs. "Come over to the entrance with me and I'll even let you investigate that fact on your own." Angela sets down her punch and turns, following his gesture to the sprig of mistletoe tacked to the top of the entranceway. The flirty, suggestive response is almost a knee-jerk reaction at this point, but he still can't help the stab of disappointment when she only laughs, reaching a hand out to squeeze his shoulder.

"You're not my type," she assures, leaving him behind at the refreshment table as she slips back into the crowd. Hodgins scowls, reaching for her forgotten cup and downing it in a few quick swallows. Lingering below the fruity punch, he can still taste the barest hint of her honey-vanilla lip gloss.

December 2005

"She's your responsibility now," Booth hisses through bared teeth. Hodgins tries not to laugh as he shoves a staggering Angela into his arms.

"Aw, Booth, don't be mean!" Angela pouts. "I promised you a reward if you looked out for me, didn't I?" What he's sure she perceives as a sultry look only comes off as painfully awkward given her current state of inebriation. Booth's cheeks flush bright red just about as fast as Hodgins' grin widens.

"I'm sure Brennan will be impressed with how well you protected her best friend's virtue," he teases. Booth scowls.

"Hey, I'm impressed that I lasted this long. Tell Bones I'll see her on Monday." Booth pauses, watching Angela grasp tightly at Hodgins' shoulders as she attempts to remain upright. "And once she sobers up, tell her she's never allowed to drink again." With that, he turns and stalks out of the room, long black trench coat swirling around his ankles in a fashion almost as dramatic as the exit itself. Hodgins just shakes his head, turning his attention to his coworker.

"Why am I not allowed to drink?!" she exclaims. "See? Didn't I tell you he's mean?"

"Oh yeah, he's an ogre," Hodgins agrees. "So, whaddaya say we get out of here?" Angela's eyes light up, and her smile is a little naughty and a lot tempting.

"I like the sound of that," she murmurs in his ear. Oh, this was so not a good idea putting him in charge of Drunk Angela Duty. As nonchalantly as possible, he begins to maneuver her towards the coatroom. The process of getting her coat slipped over her uncooperative limbs is harder than he would have imagined, and before the task is finished they're wrapped securely around his waist, her eyes starting to droop closed. That's probably for the better, Hodgins decides, as they have to walk directly underneath the wreath of mistletoe to reach the outdoors.

Dealing with 100-odd pounds of drunken female is a job in itself, so Hodgins decides that it will be easier to hail a cab. They cuddle against one another in the December air as they wait for an available taxi. Angela sighs breathily and it hits the back of his neck, traveling beneath his collar and down his spine. When Hodgins shivers it has nothing to do with the cold.

A taxi cruises to a stop along the curb in front of them and he ushers her into the backseat, directing the cabbie to her apartment. He prays that she falls asleep so that he can simply carry her in. But Angela, of course, is never one to do things the easy way. Instead of lulling her to sleep, the gentle motion of the car seems to revive her, and suddenly her hands are everywhere.

"Are you going to take care of me?" she asks innocently, her motions anything but.

"Angela," he gasps out, as her gloved fingers find their way inside his coat and underneath his sweater. She ignores his protests, pressing closer. Before Hodgins can process what's happening, she's sliding into his lap, her lips on his. Her taste is familiar, thanks to faint smudges on a plastic cup exactly one year ago. And though the honorable thing to do would be push her away, Hodgins will readily admit to being unable to resist her. Things progress at a rapid pace, their crystallized breath coming in deep pants as they tangle together in the backseat of the dark taxicab.

The ride is over far sooner than Hodgins would have liked, but he's grateful for the interruption of the driver requesting his payment. He stares at Angela as his change is counted out, her smudged makeup, mussed hair, and swollen lips illuminated in the streetlight in front of her apartment.

"For the sake of my physical well-being, I just pray that you don't remember this in the morning," he mutters, tucking the bills handed to him into his pocket and taking her hand. He leads her up the walkway, into the elevator, and down the hallway to her door, where he fumbles through her purse until he finds her keys. By the time they reach the bedroom, she's sagging against him again.

Hodgins lays her down gently on the queen-sized mattress. He pulls off her coat, her gloves, her socks and shoes, and tucks her under the blankets. She's nearly passed out, but manages to grab his arm as he's about to leave.

"Thanks for spiking the punch," she murmurs, her fingers small and warm around his wrist. Hodgins looks down at them, smiling.

When Angela finally awakens sometime late Sunday afternoon, she finds a bottle of Aleve and a glass of water on her bedside table. The glass is acting as a paperweight for a note jotted on a small scrap of paper in Hodgins' unmistakable spidery scrawl.

A-
For once, I cannot take credit for the punch. I'm making it my mission to find out who stole my thunder. But you know where to find me if you start feeling particularly grateful.
-J

Even though there's no one else in the room, Angela brings the glass to her lips in order to conceal a very pleased smile.

December 2006

"Thirty bucks."

"Fifty."

"Forty. And that's my final offer." Hodgins narrows his eyes, but finally nods in agreement. Josh from Paleontology fishes a few bills out of his pocket and grabs Kramer's shoulder as he passes. "Hold this," he instructs. His grad student grins knowingly as Hodgins tosses his own share into the pot.

"What are you guys betting on this time?" Kramer asks.

"On the chances that Jack here can manage to finagle his way under the mistletoe before the evening is over," Josh booms, grinning confidently. Hodgins is grinning as well, and hopes that he isn't being too obvious about this whole ordeal. Hardly anyone knows about him and Angela, and while most of the time it frustrates him to no end that he can't shout it from the rooftops, sometimes it does actually work out in his favor. After all, no one has any reason to question their motives when they take the extra-long lunch breaks that they've been prone to lately.

Hodgins seeks out Angela, and finds her on the other side of the room. She's buzzed and happy, her arm wrapped around Brennan's waist and a Santa had balanced precariously atop her head, laughing loudly with her head thrown back, displaying the delicate column of her throat. At his insistence, the infamous elf costume has made a reappearance, in all its skimpy, skintight glory. When she glances over, her scarlet lips curling into a slow smile, he finds that he's practically salivating, and unable to wait any longer.

"Making your move?" Josh asks. Hodgins nods distractedly, eyes on his target.

"Something like that." Angela and Brennan are talking to someone whose face is blocked by the sea of people, but as Hodgins gets closer he recognizes an all-to-familiar dark brown bun pinned to the base of a slender, elegant neck. He swears under his breath, about ready to turn tail and retreat when he hears Angela's voice call his name.

"I've been looking for you!" she exclaims. "I wanted to run something by you before you left for the night. Do you have a minute? It's in my office." Her expression is completely neutral and innocent, and Hodgins struggles to let his own match.

"Sure," he says with a shrug. "Why not?" Cam and Brennan make no comment as they slip away from the crowd.

Angela's office is dark, but she makes no move to reach for the switch. Hodgins blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light, as she closes and locks the door, turning back to face him with a mischievous grin. "What's up?" he asks.

Angela pulls her shirt and vest over her head in one swift, fluid movement.

They land in her desk chair in a sweaty, tangled mass of limbs, and Hodgins is once again grateful for his request that she wear the elf outfit, because the miniskirt aspect is making this endeavor much easier. She's straddling him in the chair, her bra having already been tossed somewhere across the room along with his shirt. They both gasp at the sensation of skin-on-skin contact. One of Hodgins' hands is bracing them against the desk, the other traveling back and forth across her breasts as he twists and flicks the hardened nubs of her nipples.

"Oh god," Angela groans, the sound coming from deep within her throat. She clutches tighter to the back of his neck, drawing him infinitely closer. The sound of his zipper opening seems to echo throughout the otherwise silent office.

There's a few moments of giggling and fumbling as Hodgins struggles to pull a condom out of his pocket, but Angela is soon silenced when he pushes her panties aside, letting his thumb brush across the overly-sensitive bundle of nerves at her opening. She gasps involuntarily, using his shoulders as leverage to push herself up. Her gasps only grow louder as she sinks back down, filled completely.

When either of them are able to form coherent sentences again, there's a strip of red across Angela's back from the edge of the desk, a purpling teeth-mark-surrounded bruise beginning to bloom on Hodgins' collarbone, and a chair that's now missing a wheel. Angela is grinning, her face flushed and her lips swollen. Hodgins leans forward to kiss her.

"You owe me forty bucks," he murmurs.

December 2007

Angela nearly has a heart attack when she enters the party to see Brennan already there, Booth's hand resting upon the small of her back as they converse with a few of the curators. She even appears to be having fun, under no duress. Angela grins, grabbing Hodgins' hand and dragging him over to the pair.

"Sweetie!" she exclaims, enfolding the other woman in a warm hug. The elderly gentlemen they had been talking to shoot accusing looks at Hodgins, but he just shrugs. He learned a long time ago that arguing with Angela is both tiring and pointless. They stalk off, leaving the four friends in a tight circle. "I can't believe you actually conned her into coming over here," Angela says to Booth in amazement.

"And not just to the party," he brags. At the three quizzical looks he receives, he gestures upwards. A mistletoe bunch hangs from the rafters.

"Booth!" Brennan protests in her best scolding voice. Booth grins unrepentantly, pressing his lips to her neck. Angela watches her best friend's face turn bright red. She turns expectantly to Hodgins, who is glaring at Booth.

"Oh come on, man!" he complains. "I had all sorts of plans to lure her under...this takes all the fun out of it." But he kisses her anyway, his lips firm and warm and tasting of eggnog. Angela smiles, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Next year," she promises.