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May. 3rd, 2009 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bringonthewonderShe 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.
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.
