The flashing red-and-blue from the squad cars paints the crime scene in fractured light. You sit on the edge of the ambulance bumper, a blanket draped over your shoulders even though you’re not cold - just shaken. Your gloves are gone, your evidence kit knocked somewhere into the grass when he came at you. The EMT keeps asking if you want to go to the hospital, but you shake your head again, eyes scanning the chaos for one person.
Hodgins doesn’t wait for clearance, doesn’t care about protocol. He barrels past the tape, past the uniform that tries to stop him. His curls are wild, his lab coat long gone, and the look in his eyes makes your throat tighten.
“Where-” He spots you and breaks into a run.
The EMT starts to protest, but you lift a hand. “It’s okay,” you manage, voice hoarse.
Hodgins drops to a crouch in front of you, hands hovering but not touching until he knows where it hurts. “God-what the hell happened? They said you-” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “Are you okay?”
You nod, though it’s shaky. “Yeah. Just… he came out of nowhere. Tried to take me down before I could bag the last sample. Didn’t get far once I screamed.”
His jaw clenches, and you can practically hear the grinding of his teeth. “Son of a-” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking to the bruise forming along your jaw. His hands tremble as he finally touches you, fingertips feather-light against your skin. “He hit you?”
You catch his wrist gently. “Hey. I’m okay.”
But he doesn’t look convinced. His voice lowers, sharper, rough with fury he’s trying to keep buried. “You shouldn’t have been out here alone. They should’ve had someone with you. What if-” He breaks off again, shaking his head like the thought is too much.
You squeeze his hand, grounding him. “What if doesn’t matter. I called. You came. I’m here.”
For a moment, all the buzzing activity of the scene fades into background noise. It’s just you and Hodgins, his breath uneven as he tries to reel himself back in.
Finally, he exhales hard, pulling you against him despite the EMT’s disapproving look. His embrace is tight, almost desperate, his voice muffled against your hair. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
You rest your forehead against his shoulder. “Not exactly part of the plan.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, then pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are still storm-dark, but softer now, anchored on you like you’re the only evidence that matters.
“Next time,” he says firmly, “I’m going with you. Lab be damned.”
--
The apartment is quiet when you finally get home. You drop your bag by the door and toe off your shoes, the motions automatic. Your jaw still aches, and there’s a stiffness in your shoulders that no amount of hot water in the shower will wash away.
Jack has been pacing since you walked in. He tried not to, but you can hear the uneven rhythm of his footsteps echoing off the hardwood. When you emerge from the bathroom in a worn t-shirt and sweats, you find him leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Jack,” you say softly.
His head snaps up. There’s no witty remark waiting on his tongue this time, no sarcastic grin to mask the storm in his expression. Just raw worry. He pushes away from the counter, crossing the space in a few long strides.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His hands hover like he’s afraid to touch you too hard, like you’re fragile glass instead of flesh and bone.
“I told you-”
“Yeah, you told me,” he cuts in, sharper than he means to. His voice wavers as he pushes on. “But I can’t shake it. You’re out there, collecting dirt, doing your job, and some bastard thinks he can put his hands on you. You screamed, you called for help, and all I can think about is what if nobody heard-"
“Jack.” You catch his face in your hands, forcing his eyes back to yours. “I’m here.”
His breath comes out shaky, curls falling into his forehead as he leans into your touch. “I spend my life analysing what’s left after people die. Every single day, I see what happens when someone doesn’t make it out. What if it were you?"