Title: Lead Me Home
Rating: PG
Word Count: 560
Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter, nor Bones, are mine.
Summary: Sequel to You Hold Your Truth So Purely, which you should read first, and it's sequel You Kissed My Lips and You Saved Me, which you don't need to read first.
Sometimes, Angela sketches the three of them. Luna/Vincent, Hodgins/Angela.

So I wanted to write something that would cheer weasleytook up a little. Just a little bb snapshot fic.



Lead Me Home

Sometimes, Angela sketches the three of them when they’re laid out like this. Luna is perched precariously on her heels, stretching herself out over the length of plaid blanket to get a better look at the waterfall to their left, waiting to see her Cassav’s appear in the water. Vincent and Jack are bickering companionably back and forth over the last case, Hodgins grinning as he purposefully riles Vincent up, and Vincent’s hands drawing more and more elaborate designs in the air the quicker he speaks.

The sun is warm on her back as she curls over her pad, the pencil loose in her hand as she sees the crumbs from Jack’s sandwich catch in his beard, as she sees Luna’s smile and the way Vincent’s eyes soften at the edges as he looks at her. Vincent pops a square of watermelon into his mouth and wipes the juice off his chin with the back of his hand, flopping back on the blanket in laughing exasperation. Jack catches her eye, smirking at the way she shakes her head at him, and Luna leans into the breeze, something almost wistful in the way her fingers curl against her leg.

Sometimes, Luna leans easily against Angela’s shoulder, watching the way she brings out faces from the white expanse of paper. The boys pose angelically for her, until Vincent pokes Jack in the side, and somewhere along the way there’s a chase that ends in a splash. They’re sullenly soggy until Luna relents and dries them off, her wand in hand, a collection of Latin based words rolling off her lips. Angela watches and longs to catch the power held gently inside of her, the ways her eyes light up and her stance eases.

Sometimes, Angela sketches Luna and Vincent, curled up together on the blanket, staring up at the clouds. Jack watches her, watches the focus and the slight crease between her eyebrows as she works, and sometimes he distracts her idly with kisses. Luna and Vincent’s finger slide casually together, and it’s there in the way she leans her head in against his, in the way his knees brushes against hers, something unspoken and too big to pin down.

Sometimes Angela slides her sketch pad back into her bag and lets the other three draw her in. Luna braids Angela's hair loosely and curls a flower behind her ear, and Vincent insists she eat and relax and play complicated trivia games with him. Jack makes her laugh, his own grin slipping out as she smacks his arm and leans in against his warmth. They stay out as the sky grows dark, slipping into warmer sweatshirts and heating hot chocolate up in a kettle over a blue fire.

They pick out stars and constellations and trade stories and trivia and mythology, tell each other truths and lies in the half-light. Jack holds her hand, warm and solid in hers, and Luna smiles into Vincent’s shoulder as he starts an outrageous tale.

Sometimes, on a bad day, Angela flips through her sketch pad, the one she keeps at the bottom of her bottom drawer. There’s warmth in the faces, in the lines she’s drawn, and no matter the toll death and cruelty take on her, their faces, captured laughing and peaceful and hopeful and happy, eases a weight, loosens a band, let’s her breathe.

Sometimes, it’s enough.



Finis


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