A Big Life

She hadn't exactly planned this when she left Hodgins' place, though to be fair, she hadn't exactly not planned it, either. Sometimes, it's all you can do to just to plan to a moment, and what comes after will have to take care of itself.

Still, she's crossing into Tennessee before she even figures out that she's headed for Texas. She stops in a town that's barely big enough for a motel and a diner, calls Brennan and says she'll be out for at least a week, burning through some the the dozens of comp hours she earned failing to figure out how close they all were to the Gormogon killer. It's not like her being away will matter -- the administrative review drags on and there's nothing pressing to do in the Medico-Legal lab, anyway.

Angela sleeps for a handful of hours and gets back on the road, that pattern continuing until she reaches her father's house, unannounced and unexpected. (There are certain conversations one doesn't have on the phone.) She knows her father is out of town, but Charlene is there, and that's just as good. Charlene is officially the housekeeper, but that's for bookkeeping and tax purposes -- she's family, the closest thing Angela has to a mother. Charlene is in her mid-sixites now, but she still fits into the evening gown she had on when they crowned her Miss Texas, hair arranged in the same slightly gravity-defying blonde bouffant she's worn it in all Angela's life.

Angela gets most of the story out while Charlene fusses at her, and then sends her to bed. Angela spends the next twenty-four hours drifting in and out of sleep and sunshine, Charlene shaking her awake occasionally to eat something.

When she finally really wakes up, her father is sitting in the chair by the window. "Charlene called," he says, by way of greeting and explanation.

"Figured she would," Angela says.

"You need me to kill that boy, Angie?" he asks.

"No, Dad. I left him. It's not his fault. It's fine, or, well--"

"If you left him, Angie, he gave you a reason."

"Seriously," she says, "it's really not his fault. It was just the best thing for both of us right now. You don't need to kill him or scare him or, I don't know, tranq him and tattoo him and leave him in the desert."

Her father slides his glasses down his nose and looks at her over the top of the frames. "Like you hadn't thought up something like that," Angela tells him. "I know you, remember?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks for the offer, though."

"You change your mind . . ." he says.

"I won't. I just wanted to come home for a while."

Her father gets up, crosses the room, and leans down to kiss her forehead.

"You can stay as long as you want. You know that."

"Yeah, I know, Dad. Thanks."

Two or three years is looking pretty good right now.

It's been hot in DC this week, ridiculously so for April. Tempers are short, even before the sudden storm blows up, and the accidents happen, and traffic slows to crawl.

Angela went out with Brennan for a drink after work, nothing special, nothing wrong, just girltalk with her best friend (or what passes for girltalk when your best friend is Temperance Brennan).

She told Hodgins she'd be home "around eight."

Her phone rings at 7:55.

And again at 7:58.

And ordinarily, she'd answer it, but this is not a good time to take her eyes or attention off the road, or to pull over and take a call.

By the time she turns down the driveway, her phone is displaying fifteen missed calls and seven voicemail messages.

And it's 8:15.

The thing about living in DC (or just outside of it) is that there's always something you can go and do. And the thing about have Temperance Brennan for a best friend is that sometimes you get dragged off to some of the more improbable ones.

This particular evening, they've been at the Kennedy Center, listening to Estonian Folk Musicians.

It was actually pretty good, though Angela doesn't expect she'll find herself humming any of the tunes over the coming days.

She called Hodgins when the concert ended to say that she and Brennan were going to grab some dinner and then she'd get on the road. The call went to voicemail.

Slightly odd, that, but not worryingly so.

What is rather more worrying is that there's no answer when she yells, "Jack? I'm home." Nor can she find him when she searches the house. She even checks the Bug Cave in the basement.

"Jack?"

The note is on the kitchen table, and reads, in its entirety, My lawyer called about something I need to deal with. Nothing to worry about. I'll be back Friday, Saturday at the latest. Love you, Jack.

She's calling his cell phone again before she even finishes reading it.

Work's been crazy stressful, and thoroughly depressing, and unrelenting in both.

So when Eugene calls and says a group is getting together for dinner and then sneak peak at Delia's new show (officially opening tomorrow) and asks if Angela wants to join them, it takes her about four seconds to take him up on it.

Delia's a nervous wreck, though there's no need to be, her work is amazing. Angela's trying to explain that when her phone rings, and she looks down and recognizes the number as being Caroline's office. Not in the mood to deal with work after hours, Angela hits "ignore" and then "silence" and drops her phone back in her purse.

She stays a lot later than she meant to, because Delia's paintings are the kind you look at for a long time, noticing different things. And because she's among friends who want to talk about art, not about Zach and secret socities and shoulda-coulda-wouldas.

And it's really, really nice.

To the friends of Special Agent Seeley Booth,

It is with a heavy heart and great sadness, to say nothing of a sincere regret that you're getting this news from a note, that I have inform you that Booth was shot and killed in DC. He was out with friends, and very happy, and the bullet that killed him was one intended for someone he cared about, and so I, for one, think that if he had to die, that is the way he would have wanted to go.

If you need or want more information or just want to talk about anything, please find me. I'll be happy to speak to you.

Again, I'm very sorry you had to hear this like this.

Sincerely,
Angela Montenegro

Angela has her eyes closed, leaning her head back against the bars in the cell.

She's painting in her mind, slowly and deliberately, so she can remember what she'l want to put on canvas when she gets out of here.

And she's more or less completely oblivious to anything around her.

Angela got a look from Caroline Julian when she arrived this morning, one of those calculated, take-it-all-in, lawyerly looks, and a slight shake of her head. Angela's pretty sure she knows what it means. She's also pretty sure that the fact that Caroline told her not to be quite so dressed up and done up is about to be the least of Caroline's problems with the Jeffersonian's forensic artist.

There's no denying that Max Keenan has done some terrible things, and there's no denying that he's the most likely candidate to have shot, gutted, crucified, and incinerated the corpse of Deputy Director Kirby (though there's also no denying that Kirby was threatening to kill Max Keenan's kids). There's no denying that it is Angela's job to testify in court when the Jeffersonian gets involved in determining how a person died.

But there's also no denying that Max's daughter is Angela's best friend. And there's no denying that Brennan told her, And even though I can't condone what he did, I really, really don't want him to die.. Even though Brennan only said it under the influence of a mood-altering teddy bear, even though Brennan would much prefer Angela forget that she ever heard it.

She's only half-paying attention as she answers the who are you and what do you do and the government would like to have Ms. Montenegro declared an expert witness questions, sorting through all this one last time, but being here in the courtroom doesn't change a damn thing, in her opinion.

There are things you can live with, and things you can't. Sometimes, it's that simple, no matter how complicated the details look.

"And with the body so badly burned, intestines reduced to ashes, how did you identify the remains as those of Deputy Director Kirby?" Caroline asks.

Angela looks up at the lawyer, at her friends and coworkers in the crowd, and then says, "I've got nothing to say."

Caroline frowns. "You're under oath as a material witness, Ms. Montenegro."

Yeah, thinks Angela, but I told you before you called me that I would refuse to testify.. "I swore to tell the truth and the truth is that I am not saying anything," she says. There's a snicker from the jury, but Angela doesn't turn to look at them.

Caroline appeals to a higher authority, turning to the judge. "Judge Haddoes, could you . . ."

The judge looks down (and really, why should he get to look down on everyone just because he has a black robe and a little hammer?) at Angela from the bench. "The witness will answer."

"No," says Angela. "The witness will not."

Brennan, from her seat behind the defense's table, looks stricken. "Angela! Answer!"

The judge turns his attention to Brennan. "Silence, please." And then turns back to Angela. "The witness will answer or I will find her in contempt."

Angela looks up at him and lowers her voice a bit. "Is there any way I could talk you out of that?"

Judge Haddoes looks at Caroline, and the word Angela has to go with here is incredulous. "Why would you call a witness you knew wouldn't answer?"

Caroline shoots Angela a look, and yeah, that one she got coming in today pales in comparison to this one. "I figured that once she got up here and saw your scary face, she'd rethink her options."

"I'm taking the Fifth," Angela announces, and she doesn't really think it will work, but come on, who hasn't wanted to say that from a witness stand?

Caroline turns to her with exasperated patience. "Cherie, the fifth refers to the Fifth Amendment, which protects you from being forced to incriminate yourself."

"Okay. All right." Damn. But if there's one thing Angela can do, it's improvise. "Well, the . . . the First Amendment protects freedom of association, right? Which means that it protects friendship. So, I'm taking the First, which is even better than taking the Fifth," she concludes triumphantly.

That probably won't work, either, but it should.

"There is no friendship in a homicide trial," says Judge Haddoes. "This is the Federal District Court of Columbia, United States of America. When this asks you a question, you answer, or you pay the ferryman."

Angela shrugs a little. "It ain't gonna happen."

Jack looks like he's like to explode. "Angie, they aren't kidding around."

Booth leans across the aisle to whisper to Brennan and Angela really hopes he was better at whispering when he was hiding out waiting to shoot people as a sniper than he is in a Federal courtroom, because he and Brennan are loud. "Bones, now’s the time to speak up."

"What?" Brennan not-exactly-whispers back.

"He's the ferryman," Booth says. "The judge is the ferryman."

"Ange!" Brennan calls. "Just so you know, he's the ferryman!"

Angela thinks she would laugh, in another time and place. But then, this wouldn't be happening in another time and place, so maybe not.

Judge Haddoes, however, is less amused. "I will clear this courtroom if I hear another word," he says, banging his gavel for emphasis.

Brennan mutters what looks like, "Thanks a lot," to Booth but it's lost as the judge continues, complete with more gavel-banging.

"I find this witness in contempt. She will be incarcerated until she answers the question posed to her by the People."

Angela cooperates as much as she can with the bailiff, who first grips her arms and then handcuffs her wrists behind her back. (A little excessive, that. Do they really think she's a flight risk? In these shoes?)

She can't say that any of her friends look exactly well-pleased (Jack looks like he's already working out which dozen lawyers to call as soon as he can get to the hallway), but Brennan is the one who can't not ask Angela to change her mind.

"Angela, please!"

Angela looks back at her best friend. "Sweetie. This is one of those times when I know what's right and everybody else is confused."

Okay, so yeah, that was too much scotch.

Angela can tell when she's had more to drink than she should have -- there's a heaviness that starts in her knees and elbows and spreads till her limbs feel just vaguely disconnected.

And the beginning of what's probably ultimately going to be one hell of a headache.

She doesn't know that she'd call this drunk, but then again, she might. Definitely tipsy, though.

There are notes from the Max Keenan case -- from Bren's dad's case -- all over her living room -- on the chair, on the floor, on the coffee table, on the couch. Angela shoves the ones on the couch onto the floor, and lies back to stare at the ceiling, arms up above her head, right hand spinning her diamond around her left ring finger.

Hodgins has lunch with his Uncle Preston today. For now, the most bizarre thing Angela knows about Hodgins' uncle Preston is that he wants to be buried standing up without a casket. Hodgins would like to keep it this way, and has, therefore, gone off to face this ordeal without backup.

Which leaves Angela with a Saturday afternoon free. What to do, what to do?

(She's not seriously debating it; she knows exactly what to do.)

Angela lets herself out of Hodgins' front door, makes her way past the pond and the tennis courts, all the way down to the other end of the driveway, and then up the steps to apartment over the garage.

She's fairly certain Zach will be home, when she knocks. Where else would he be?

A: Dear man, good heart. . . . no.

H: Why? I didn't do it right again. But-- How-- Oh, you're not gonna tell me.

A: I don't know, Hodgins. If I knew, I would tell you. But when you ask me, I have to have this feeling. It has to be-- (trails into pause). I'll know it when it happens. And I hope you won't stop trying.

H: I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or punch out the sommelier.

A: I'm sorry. I hope you choose laugh.

H: I don't understand.

A: I don't either. Look, let's just finish the dessert and go back to your place and make love and maybe it'll come to me.

H: While we make love?

A: I said 'maybe.'

H: But . . . you love me?
A: More than you know.