Fic: Angela/Hodgins: Obsession
Title: Obsession
Fandom: Bones
Characters/Pairings: Angela/Hodgins, Sweets, The Gravedigger
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Gravedigger had interrupted his life in more ways than one. Now Hodgins must learn to deal with the consequences of his own obsession.
Obsession
It had taken months to simply close his eyes again, months to drift off into a peaceful slumber unassailed by images of bloody knees and tearstained pages. In those first nights, spent disoriented from the analgesics, the darkness had seemed oppressive. Weighing in with a dizzying effect, Hodgins was almost positive that he was back there. His breathing would quicken as the air seemed to congeal in his nostrils and he was trapped once more in that damned car waiting for death as the oxygen levels steadily declined. Righteous, vengeful anger bubbled forth, only weakly dimmed by the memory of Angela’s soothing smile and deep gaze.
After the ordeal, Angela had been his saving grace. While her gentle understanding quelled the beast within for awhile, his mind would flicker once more to that hellish scene. She smelled sweetly, the ghost of three-grand perfume, and if he wasn’t careful, the scent burned his nose. Ash. Nitrogen. Sulfur. The coppery odor of fresh spilt blood.
And then with abrupt devastation, the passion was gone and in her absence a vacuum formed; the distance across the examining table was as vast as an ocean. Excerpts of their break-up began to wind its way into darker recollections.
“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, glancing down at his plate. Try as he may, eye contact was impossible to maintain.
“You’re the one who isn’t stopping me.” She hesitated, almost as though some unspoken thought brushed her lips. Then, deciding better of it, she shook her head and left.
Paralyzed, Hodgins watched her go, his legs fractured and bleeding once again. Darkness descended and he was buried four feet in suffocating coal, struck deaf and dumb with anger. It was by no means a dramatic parting; they were both rational human beings after all. However, he felt the numbing impact, a resounding crash underscored with the bitter taste of betrayal. It didn’t help that his best friend was recently out of the picture. He found himself cursing once again. How could you have been so stupid, Zack?
So yet again, the Gravedigger had interrupted his life. Yet again, the nightmares set in.
Shortly thereafter, the obsession followed.
If only he could get his hands on that sliver of bumper-sticker. He could trace the manufacturer. Then maybe, just maybe, coupled with the exact alloy of aluminum... a match, an identity, closure.
He would pace the empty halls of his house late into the night, continuously postulating and planning. Occasionally, Hodgins paused, replaying a significant glance shared at the Jeffersonian earlier that day. He’d remember those deep, brown eyes and his resolve would weaken ever so slightly before he sighed and continued his rounds. After all, getting a hold of that evidence wasn’t going to be easy. Nor did having an FBI-trained psychologist forever breathing down his lab coat help the situation.
Sweets leaned over his shoulder. It took all of the entomologist’s patience to remain marginally civil.
“Do you often entertain suicidal thoughts?”
“No, I’m more homicidal in nature,” Hodgins shot back before he could stop himself, a flash fire of anger burning at the base of his brain. He was further annoyed by how very right the good Dr. Sweets really was; things were not okay.
Later on that week he found himself sitting in Sweets’s office, relinquishing more of his soul.
“Mostly, on my mind, I hate everyone,” he admitted.
“Everyone?” Sweets arched an eyebrow.
“To varying degrees, but, yeah. Ummm, everyone.” He concluded. Images cycled in his mind: Sweets, Brennan, Cam, Zack. It alarmed him how prominently Angela loomed in this distorted slideshow, only second to the blurred shadow of the Gravedigger’s countenance. The crossover was alarming.
He wouldn’t mention this detail to Sweets.
As it turned out, the omission didn’t really matter much. According to Sweets, this simmering, frothing rage somehow equated to coping. Antipathy was cleansing. Jack was on the mend. No wonder Dr. Brennan held no stock in this pseudoscience of human mental functions and behaviors; the study of “soul” was a ridiculous sham. He fumed in silence for the next couple days, refusing to admit that Sweets had further proven his skill as a deft social scientist. Sweets was predictably accurate in his assessment. Gradually, Hodgins was able to work along side Angela again, only feeling the barest trace of longing flicker in his chest. He could respond without snapping. He could bare to watch her enter into another relationship, with another woman nonetheless, without a single seriously, murderous inclination.
He found himself reflecting on the great moments they had shared and reasoning that, at least for now, those divine memories existed solely in the murky past.
And still there was that sliver of bumper-sticker, snatched with a briefcase full of evidence in the dead of the night. Tiny rivulets of dried blood had crusted around the edges. Hodgins held it reverently, like a child. This tiny strip of plastic film coated in metallic tape held the key to his nightmare’s identity. Despite his better judgment, a small part of himself was convinced that upon this momentous discovery, everything would be okay again. There would be no more restless nights, no more phantom pains. Angela would smile at him with the same childlike innocence she had entrusted to him on the night of their very first date. Then she would entrust him with something not so innocent, the soft touch of bare flesh against flesh.
Sometimes his nightmares would fade into sweet fantasy and they would move together as one magnificent being. They clashed in unbridled passion, limbs tangled and breathing heavey. Her dark curls brushed his face and he tasted her silken lips. There her name would linger until the morning came.
Angela.
Sometimes he’d wake up with her scent, the ghost of three-grand perfume, on his mind, both cloying and lovely. In that moment he’d forget the nightmares. He’d forget the pain. In that fractional moment, when time held still, Dr. Jack Hodgins was consumed by a very different obsession.
Fandom: Bones
Characters/Pairings: Angela/Hodgins, Sweets, The Gravedigger
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Gravedigger had interrupted his life in more ways than one. Now Hodgins must learn to deal with the consequences of his own obsession.
Obsession
It had taken months to simply close his eyes again, months to drift off into a peaceful slumber unassailed by images of bloody knees and tearstained pages. In those first nights, spent disoriented from the analgesics, the darkness had seemed oppressive. Weighing in with a dizzying effect, Hodgins was almost positive that he was back there. His breathing would quicken as the air seemed to congeal in his nostrils and he was trapped once more in that damned car waiting for death as the oxygen levels steadily declined. Righteous, vengeful anger bubbled forth, only weakly dimmed by the memory of Angela’s soothing smile and deep gaze.
After the ordeal, Angela had been his saving grace. While her gentle understanding quelled the beast within for awhile, his mind would flicker once more to that hellish scene. She smelled sweetly, the ghost of three-grand perfume, and if he wasn’t careful, the scent burned his nose. Ash. Nitrogen. Sulfur. The coppery odor of fresh spilt blood.
And then with abrupt devastation, the passion was gone and in her absence a vacuum formed; the distance across the examining table was as vast as an ocean. Excerpts of their break-up began to wind its way into darker recollections.
“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, glancing down at his plate. Try as he may, eye contact was impossible to maintain.
“You’re the one who isn’t stopping me.” She hesitated, almost as though some unspoken thought brushed her lips. Then, deciding better of it, she shook her head and left.
Paralyzed, Hodgins watched her go, his legs fractured and bleeding once again. Darkness descended and he was buried four feet in suffocating coal, struck deaf and dumb with anger. It was by no means a dramatic parting; they were both rational human beings after all. However, he felt the numbing impact, a resounding crash underscored with the bitter taste of betrayal. It didn’t help that his best friend was recently out of the picture. He found himself cursing once again. How could you have been so stupid, Zack?
So yet again, the Gravedigger had interrupted his life. Yet again, the nightmares set in.
Shortly thereafter, the obsession followed.
If only he could get his hands on that sliver of bumper-sticker. He could trace the manufacturer. Then maybe, just maybe, coupled with the exact alloy of aluminum... a match, an identity, closure.
He would pace the empty halls of his house late into the night, continuously postulating and planning. Occasionally, Hodgins paused, replaying a significant glance shared at the Jeffersonian earlier that day. He’d remember those deep, brown eyes and his resolve would weaken ever so slightly before he sighed and continued his rounds. After all, getting a hold of that evidence wasn’t going to be easy. Nor did having an FBI-trained psychologist forever breathing down his lab coat help the situation.
Sweets leaned over his shoulder. It took all of the entomologist’s patience to remain marginally civil.
“Do you often entertain suicidal thoughts?”
“No, I’m more homicidal in nature,” Hodgins shot back before he could stop himself, a flash fire of anger burning at the base of his brain. He was further annoyed by how very right the good Dr. Sweets really was; things were not okay.
Later on that week he found himself sitting in Sweets’s office, relinquishing more of his soul.
“Mostly, on my mind, I hate everyone,” he admitted.
“Everyone?” Sweets arched an eyebrow.
“To varying degrees, but, yeah. Ummm, everyone.” He concluded. Images cycled in his mind: Sweets, Brennan, Cam, Zack. It alarmed him how prominently Angela loomed in this distorted slideshow, only second to the blurred shadow of the Gravedigger’s countenance. The crossover was alarming.
He wouldn’t mention this detail to Sweets.
As it turned out, the omission didn’t really matter much. According to Sweets, this simmering, frothing rage somehow equated to coping. Antipathy was cleansing. Jack was on the mend. No wonder Dr. Brennan held no stock in this pseudoscience of human mental functions and behaviors; the study of “soul” was a ridiculous sham. He fumed in silence for the next couple days, refusing to admit that Sweets had further proven his skill as a deft social scientist. Sweets was predictably accurate in his assessment. Gradually, Hodgins was able to work along side Angela again, only feeling the barest trace of longing flicker in his chest. He could respond without snapping. He could bare to watch her enter into another relationship, with another woman nonetheless, without a single seriously, murderous inclination.
He found himself reflecting on the great moments they had shared and reasoning that, at least for now, those divine memories existed solely in the murky past.
And still there was that sliver of bumper-sticker, snatched with a briefcase full of evidence in the dead of the night. Tiny rivulets of dried blood had crusted around the edges. Hodgins held it reverently, like a child. This tiny strip of plastic film coated in metallic tape held the key to his nightmare’s identity. Despite his better judgment, a small part of himself was convinced that upon this momentous discovery, everything would be okay again. There would be no more restless nights, no more phantom pains. Angela would smile at him with the same childlike innocence she had entrusted to him on the night of their very first date. Then she would entrust him with something not so innocent, the soft touch of bare flesh against flesh.
Sometimes his nightmares would fade into sweet fantasy and they would move together as one magnificent being. They clashed in unbridled passion, limbs tangled and breathing heavey. Her dark curls brushed his face and he tasted her silken lips. There her name would linger until the morning came.
Angela.
Sometimes he’d wake up with her scent, the ghost of three-grand perfume, on his mind, both cloying and lovely. In that moment he’d forget the nightmares. He’d forget the pain. In that fractional moment, when time held still, Dr. Jack Hodgins was consumed by a very different obsession.