Author's Notes: 'Cause, Hodgela, awwww.
Also, um, WOW have I been cranking these out. Maybe it's my obsession with EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER ON THIS SHOW.
And don't get me started on Wendell, cause I have a fangirl crush on him about as big as the one I have on Bellatrix Black, which is saying something.
i'd rather be with you
Hodgins wakes up first—big surprise—and spends about half an hour angsting over his state of undress before Angela emerges from her temple of pillows and blankets. She blinks up at him, focuses, and then sighs.
"So, I'm thinking that was probably a mistake," Hodgins offers.
"I'm thinking I should probably go home," Angela agrees.
He makes her a cup of coffee, and she kisses his cheek on her way out. It's all very neat Zack-Addy of them and he only spends fifteen minutes sitting in his underwear at his kitchen counter, desperately wishing her back into his apartment.
Then he showers and distracts himself with his ant farm.
"So I put your findings into the Angelator and this is what I got. Bullet one went through the victim's hand before it went through her shoulder, which indicates she was holding out her hand to defend herself, like this."
"And bullet two?"
"Through the back of the skull, forty-five degrees. Execution style. The shot through her shoulder probably shocked her, or at least threw her off her game, and they were able to subdue her or even knock her out. Oh, also, I slept with Hodgins last night."
Brennan turns to look at her, blinking in that owlish way of hers. "You had a perfectly normal need to satisfy your sexual urges. I, for example, frequently have sex."
Angela rests her clipboard against her hip and shakes her head. "But with Hodgins. Can I have casual sex with Hodgins?"
"Well, you are a woman, and … he is a man, so… yes, it is possible."
"Bren. Sweetie. Obviously we are physically capable. I meant… should I, emotionally. Could you have casual sex with Booth?"
Brennan looks bewildered, and then embarrassed, and then she says matter-of-factly, "As partners, we shouldn't engage in sexual activities, but keep it strictly professional." Then she leans in and whispers very quietly, "Although, speaking objectively, I imagine that sex with Booth would be very satisfying."
Three nights later his date insinuates that she wouldn't hate going home with him, and he actually pauses to think about it.
He'd sorta forgotten how good sex with Angela was, and now he's 100% sure this girl is going to be a disappointment. The girls after Hodgela Round One were. He's not really up to sleeping with whatever the quota is before the post-Angela-standard wears off.
So instead he drops her off at her apartment and says that he has to go to work. Bodies to identify, bugs to play with. You know.
Angela goes out. She's never had trouble getting dates, and this is no different, so she goes out with some artist guy that saw Roxy's portrait of her and wanted to meet the model, and here she is. They go dancing. He is a very good dancer.
He's also very good at the horizontal tango, if you know what she means, but afterwards she feels bored and kind of sad. Disappointed.
She gets out of bed with minimal cuddling and as she's getting dressed he asks, puzzled, if he did something wrong. On impulse, she asks, "What's the scientific name for termite?"
He blinks, bewildered, and she shakes her head, not sure why she even bothered.
"I had sex with Angela," is the first thing Hodgins says as he walks into Booth's office.
The FBI agent looks at him for a minute and then kicks his feet onto his desk. "Take a seat," he says, gesturing at the far end of his desk. "Was it intentional?"
"If by intentional you mean planned, then no. It was supposed to be casual. I made her some coffee and she went home."
Booth winces. "Oh, bad plan, bad plan. That's not gonna work with you," he says firmly, speaking with the authority of one who Knows, with a capital K, of experience. "Casual sex with someone you once intended to married isn't casual. It is the opposite of casual. It is black-tie, bring-a-gift anti-casual. I would not wear fun socks. That is how not casual that sort of sex is."
Hodgins drops his head into his hands. "I hate everyone and everything. I even sort of hate you right now, just for saying that. I just want bugs. Can I just live with bugs and never have to speak to anyone ever again?"
"Uh, no, that would be weird," Booth says, making a face, and then stands. "Look. Do you still love her?"
Hodgins raises his head, his mouth dry. "I don't know."
Booth puts a hand on his shoulder. "If that's the answer, Hodge, then whatever you had with Angela is anything but casual."
"I hate everything," Hodgins says again.
Okay. She had sex with Hodgins once, and it was great, and it reminded her of all the other times, and of that period in their life when they were engaged and she thought she wanted to spend her life with him. It reminded her of when he was buried under ground and wrote her a note (that she kept) which said simply, I am in love with you. Crazy, over-the-moon, stupid in love, and I have been since day one. With you, my life is all about swings.
But it was just sex. Casual sex. She has casual sex all the time. This is no different.
Except, yeah, it is different, and she's not sure if she feels worse for screwing up their relationship or screwing up Hodgins.
Or screwing up herself.
They meet at his work table. He's dumping maggots into a blender. She wonders what it says about her, about them, that this no longer surprises her or even grosses her out. Much.
"We should probably talk," she tells him after he notices her presence.
He indicates the blender. "Maggots spoil quick. After work?"
"Meet you in storage. By Cleo—you remember."
"We can't do casual," they say at the same time, and then laugh, and then look at the floor.
"There's just too much history," Angela says at last, meaning it. "I mean, we were engaged, Jack. That's not… that's not nothing, you know?"
He looks down at his feet. "Black-tie, bring-a-gift anti-casual," he mutters dryly, shaking his head with what could be a laugh and what could be a sigh.
There's a beat. "So… what now?" Angela asks, shifting her weight.
Hodgins raises his hand. He is two parts I-hate-everything and four parts crazy, over-the-moon, stupid in love because he wasn't lying when he wrote that letter. Day one until forever. That's how it is. He's always been a one-woman kind of man, at heart, and even before, even when he was engaged to Clarissa. He'd always known there was something missing, he'd just thought she was the best he could ever hope for, and he loved her. He did. Just not—crazy, over-the-moon, stupid kind of love.
"Booth says sex with us can't every be casual as long as the question 'Do you still love her' is—unanswered."
Angela sucks in a breath. She isn't sure she wants to hear what he has to say, and she isn't sure that she wants to stop him saying it.
He's looking straight at her, in a very Hodgins-like way, not shying from the moment. "I told Booth that I don't know, and Angela, God, I don't. I was ready to marry you. I have been ready to marry you, maybe for my whole life. I'm probably still ready to marry you, but I am—not a masochist. And I'm not about to jump into a repeat of what we had before, because I won't survive Hodgela Round Two."
She nods, not even knowing if that's a rejection or a proposal, and then her lips quirk. "Hodegla?" She asks, into the quiet, unable to stop herself.
"Yeah. Fuck Brangelina."
She laughs, and then he laughs, and it's the simplest thing in the world. "How about," she says slowly, "we start with dinner. Nothing fancy. Just—"
He grins. Takes her hand. "—casual."