A/N: So, many moons ago, back in Season Six, there was a scene showing Hodgins and Angela's time in Paris before getting called back to rescue Cam. Unfortunately, that scene got cut before it was even shot, so we will never know what they did in Paris. That is where this chapter comes in. This is my interpretation of what happened. It's a bonus chapter for the challenge, it's not connected to any prompt given, just something fun I thought you nerds would wanna read. Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Oh! And happy birthday, Michaela!
Angela sat at her easel in one of the bedrooms of their apartment she had claimed as her studio, with the balcony doors thrown wide open, the hint of a breeze in the air tickled hairs across her face. She has a nearly unobstructed view of the Eiffel tower, and had intended on sketching the scene out her window, but instead spent the past twenty minutes daydreaming. She fiddles with the pencil in her hand, lost in another world. It's her husband's voice that brings her back.
"Hey! Whatcha drawing?"
Angela turns to look at him and shrugs. "Nothing."
"Need some inspiration?" He smirks, coming closer, pulling his t-shirt off over his head. She takes him in in one long scan; the hard plane of his abs, the muscles in his arms, his eyes that somehow shone a brighter shade of blue.
"I promised Brennan I'd bring her back a picture of the tower," Angela starts, strongly resisting the urge to grab her husband and kiss him senseless right then and there, "and the lighting here is amazing and -"
"Come on, Angela!" Jack says, stripping off the rest of his clothes and grabbing the chair in the corner of the room. He sets it next to the window and stands on it, posing like a model. "Draw me like one of your 'French Girls'."
Angela laughs at that, big and loud, her smile wide. "Shouldn't I be the one who says that? Considering you're 'Jack' and all?"
"Well, you would, but we both know it would never turn out as good as yours," Hodgins agrees, reminding them both of his inability to draw anything better than a detailed stick figure.
Angela smiles, not meeting his eyes for a moment. "Okay," she says, picking up her pencil once again. "Hold still."
Jack strikes a pose and watches as his wife starts drawing.
Fifteen minutes later, with a lot of starting and stopping and erasing and furrowed eyebrows from Angela, Hodgins was still in the same position, and his arm was asleep.
"Are you done yet?" He asks for the tenth time.
"Hold still!" she insists.
"Sorry," he apologizes, trying to not move. And he's back to waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
"Okay. I am done." With one final flourish, Angela sets down her pencil. "Wanna see?"
"Sure." And for the first time in nearly half an hour, Jack steps off the chair and instantly feels the buzz and pins and needles as his extremities regain proper circulation. "Ah!" he hisses, limping for a step.
She grabs him by the arm and pulls him closer, kissing him one as payment for being her model. "Look," she whispers, turning her head back to the drawing.
He looks, expecting to see his face staring back, but drops his jaw at what is on the page. "Hey! What is this?"
On the page is a near perfect rendering of the scene out the window: buildings, windows, flowers, the piece of the river and finally, in the background, the Eiffel Tower; all drawn in crisp black lines.
"It's the picture I promised Brennan," she says, totally serious. She gives him a look as if to say 'what did you think it was gonna be?'
"Them what the hell was I doing standing up there naked for?" Jack shouts.
"Giving me inspiration," she smiles, looking through her eyelashes at him.
"Angela," he says, backing her, one step at a time, into the dresser behind her. And when the backs of her legs hit the wood and she has nowhere else to go, Angela knows he's got her.
"No," she laughs right as he grabs her and kisses her before going for that spot under her collarbone that gets her every time. When her knees go out from under her, Angela is glad he right there to keep her upright. "I'm sorry."
"You're gonna get it," he growls.
"Oh, yeah?
"Yeah."
He has his hand under her shirt, fingers splayed across her stomach when her cell phone rings.
"Let it go to voicemail," he directs, getting her attention back with a kiss. It stops ringing a moment later, leaving their breathing and the cars and people on the street below the only sounds in the room.
Until his phone rings.
"Answer it," Angela insists. "Must be important if they're calling both of us."
He crosses the room, grabbing his phone out of his shorts pocket.
"Hello? Caroline? Hold on." he quickly puts it on speakerphone so they both can listen.
"Cher, I need you and that pretty artist of yours to get back here as fast as you can, we have a major problem."
"What kind of problem?" Angela asks.
"Let's just say that if you two do not get back here and help her, Cam is going to be digging herself deeper into her own grave."
Jack and Angela share a look, engaging in a silent conversation. After a moment, he nods, knowing they are in agreement. "We're on our way."
A day later they are on a plane back to DC to help their friend.
Two days later they are in a dingy basement morgue working a case involving a dead boy.
Three days later they are walking down the street when she stops him and announces that she is pregnant and wants to stay in DC indefinitely.