In The Interest of Brilliance
A Bones Fanfic
Rating: M for language and references
Pairings: Hodgins/Nigel-Murray, Jack/Vincent, etc, Booth/Nigel-Murray, Seeley/Vincent, etc.
Warnings: Slash, Language, Sexual References (I always gotta include plenty of those), Random Trivia, and some British slang
Spoilers: Through Season Four
Author's Note: Just an idea I had kicking around my brain, this takes place around the end of Science in the Physicists after Jack wakes up. Tell me if it's any good.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned. I do not own Bones itself, I only own my idea and random ramblings. I do not make a profit off of this and do this solely for the pleasure I feel when I write a story.
In The Interest of Brilliance
Vincent slid onto the chair next to Agent Booth just in time to receive a complement from Dr. Brennan. Complement, from the Latin word complementum or "that which fills up or completes." He accepted it cheerily, although he made sure to keep a low profile afterwards. Agent Booth scared him. He was half-expecting to be shoved off the stool upon which he sat and replaced. By who? By some other graduate student who was preferred by Dr. Brennan. She insisted on calling him Mr. Nigel-Murray, and rubbing his nose in the fact that he didn't have a doctorate yet. Most of the time it made him want to break his cool, British exterior and scream his lungs out because of the lack of respect he received for doing most of the dirty work.
Who was it who had to remove the shredded chili con carne remains from the rubbish bags? Who discovered the stab wounds from the mechanical pencil?
He may not be a brilliant yet misguided psychologist. He certainly wasn't an artist slash computer genius or a chiseled, snarky entomologist. He wasn't even that interesting in general. Yes, he knew random trivia that no one else remembered or even gave a shit about, but at the end of the day, he went home to his flat to spend another sleepless night trying not to think about the horrors of humanity he had seen throughout the day.
Drowned, rotting transvestites.
Frozen, shattered remains of a physicist left out for crows to devour.
Acid-soaked, foaming remains of a man who only meant to be truthful with his brother.
There were more, god, were there more, and they were slowly consuming him. He spent all of his time working with the scraps left after the scum of the human race was done tearing their selfish creed into the fabric of existence. No wonder Zach Addy went crazy, no one pays attention to you when you're just a lab assistant. Hodgins and Angela were too caught up in the dying embers of their once fiery relationship to care about anyone but themselves. Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth were skirting the issue of her father and pretending that their lives were fine, and Dr. Saroyan just couldn't be fucked to care.
Porcupines can float. Did you know that?
Facts, trivia, knowledge, insanity, depression, masked, cloaked, unprotected, lonesome, there were so many words to describe Vincent's existence. He could tell you the urban population of Swaziland (twenty-four percent), or that potassium was discovered in 1807 by Sir Humphry Davy of England (another point to the UK), but did it really matter?
He lay in his tiny bed that night, having left the late night dinner with the other labrats plus Booth because it was too awkward. They were all worried about Hodgins and never really paid attention to him unless he did something wrong, or something stupidly correct.
He shivered, feeling the cold breeze from an open window chill his toes from where they peeked out from under his thin, but affordable blanket. Sitting up suddenly, he grabbed the bat from it's resting place next to his nightstand. He hadn't left a window open. Vincent's brain seemed to freeze and he struggled to focus on some obscure, interesting fact only he gave a flying fuck about.
"The Louisville Slugger was invented in 1884 by a seventeen year old carpenter named John Hillerich." He whispered to himself, feeling his brain start to work again, "Brains, hmm, brains, the average weight of a human brain is 1,400 grams."
He shut up instantly as he saw a dark shadow flickered on the opposite wall. Shit. Shit. Bloody hell. The figure kept moving, slowly and rounded the corner to met with a rather pathetic, yet definitely painful swing of Vincent's bat. Bam, motherfucker.
"Don't move!" He held the bat to the intruder's throat and hit the light switch. Oh shit. "Hodgins?!" He was answered by a pained groan from the curly-haired man on his floor. Vincent dropped to his knees and observed the damage or lack thereof his swing had caused. It wasn't as bad as he had expected, wow, he should probably hit the gym more... not that he had time with his dissertation due in the upcoming months.
Hodgins groaned again and brought him back to Earth. The entomologist's nose was bleeding slightly, and he would have a nasty headache for a while, but there would not be any permanent damage. Thank god. He slid an arm awkwardly under his shoulders and lifted, oh, he'd be feeling that in the morning. Vincent brought the older man to his scruffy little couch complete with a patched and frayed comforter. He never claimed to be a man of wealth, even though girls often told him his accent made him sound distinguished. Not that sounding intelligent gained him many friends over the years... or any friends, for that matter. And girls, well, it was a moot point, he would never tell anyone, but he tended to prefer Booth over Dr. Brennan, if you can catch his drift.
"Bloody hell, Hodgins, what are you doing here at," he glanced at his watch, "2 am?!"
The elder scientist grimaced and slurred, "Pops... desert... tattoo...couldn't think... so tired..." he yawned and seemed to drift away from his current pain, an average yawn lasts six seconds, and Vincent had to remember to shake him awake because of a slightly possible concussion.
"How did you know where I lived?" He asked, curious and slightly nervous.
"Paranoia plus brilliance equals the phone book."
"I see."
"Do you? Or does your retina perceive photons and respond with neural impulses? Really, I'd think you'd know that Mr. High-and-Mighty-Brit."
Vincent winced at the harsh tone of his part-time colleague. "Well, I did, but still--"
"But still, what?" Hodgins cut him off. "You just don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"I needed to see you, Mister Nigel-Murray." The entomologist sing-songed the end of his sentence, "I wanted to tell you something."
"For God's sake, hold it down, mate, you're off your face." running his hand through his hair, anxiously, Vincent tried to calm the man down. He could smell alcohol on his breath and really didn't need to know more about this. The truth will set you free and from the mouth of babes and such, but still, he didn't want this. "Did you know the word coccyx, or the tailbone, means cuckoo in Greek?"
After an awkward silence full of blank stares, Hodgins started to laugh. "Coccyx. That's almost what I was going to talk about."
"Really?" Utterly bewildered, he racked his brain with the full force of his genius IQ and could draw no answers, screw letting drunken information slide, this was too puzzling to let go, "How so?"
"I was gonna say, I find you very, very interesting, Mr. Nigel-Murray."
"Interesting?"
"Yup, and kind of sexy."
This bloke was off his rocker.
Word Count: 1,157