Disclaimer: I do not own Bones nor any of the characters contained therein.
Summary: Some patterns of behavior follow logic, but many do not. Dr. Brennan reconsiders prior conclusions. Events follow s6 ep18, The Truth in the Myth. Rated T for language/sexual situations. Rating may change. TB/VN-M
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Stranger Things Have Happened
Chapter 1: Mirror Reel
The cab ride home took no more or less time than usual, in her estimation, though the trip seemed much shorter. She supposed that she must have allowed her thoughts to distract her. His last words – well, the last words before they'd each said goodnight – still rang in her head. Pushing through her door, keys jingling in her hand, she replayed their exchange once more.
"Just because you can explain something doesn't mean it's explainable." His mouth had teased into a smirk.
"You mean explicable." She had smiled back.
"Sure, like us." He'd given a slight toss to his head, joking with her, attempting to deflect the impact of his words. "We don't make any sense at all."
Temperance sighed, hanging up her coat. She wasn't sure if they made any sense, but then human pairings both romantic and platonic rarely followed any logic. Perhaps all human relationships were ultimately ludicrous. That didn't mean they were of no value. Despite having missed my chance with Booth, she thought, his friendship is of great value to me, whether it makes sense or not. She supposed Booth probably knew this, so she resisted the urge to call and tell him as much.
Stepping into the kitchen, she reached into the cupboard for the ruby tin of herbal tea Angela had gifted her with some time ago. Temperance completely dismissed the notion that the blend had any restorative effect, but she had come to enjoy the spicy flavor of the tea. This has about as much chance of improving my sense of well-being or my love life as our last case had of involving an actual chupacabra, she thought. Shaking her head as she shook loose tea into a strainer, she smiled, still amused at how much Booth, Hodgins, and Mr. Nigel-Murray had wanted a chupacabra to have been responsible for the man's death. Completely ludicrous.
Kettle on the stove, she turned to lean on the counter, gripping her phone as she thumbed through texts to see if she'd missed anything. She hadn't. Yet something was still poking at the corners of her consciousness, which she found irksome. The case was solved, no new case had presented itself, everything was as she expected. Temperance felt her brow crimp.
It wasn't Booth's Yeti story, not really, but . . . I was so determined to find a rational explanation for his story, she thought, because I wanted to believe him. I applied rational methods to lend coherence to an irrational story, but my reason for doing so was itself irrational. I concluded, in advance, that Booth's story was believable, and sought an explanation that fit it. If I am going to place my conclusions before my research in this manner, I may as well get my own public access cable show. Temperance snorted softly at the notion, and then frowned again. Alternately, what have I not wanted to believe that I have not put the same amount of effort into proving or disproving? What biases have I been letting slip past my resolve to find the truth in all matters?
Whistling distracted her. She pushed her phone away with a forefinger and turned, lifting the kettle from the stove, pouring the boiling water over the strainer that rested across the opening of her mug. Steam rushed past her nose, an errant cloud disappearing as soon as it was born. Setting the kettle down, she switched off the stove and stared down at the hot liquid turning color. The scent of the tea rose, and she breathed deep, eyes closing. Comforting, warm, slightly sweet, notes of cardamom and possibly clove. It was reminding her of something . . .
"One night, I borrowed your iguana and wore it as a hat. At a party."
She opened her eyes. Why am I reminded of Mr. Nigel-Murray? Temperance wondered. Curious, she leaned closer to the tea, took a deeper breath. "Oh!" Straightening back up, she tilted her head slightly. I have detected a similar scent on him before – it was especially noticeable when I stood next to him as he explained the bite mark pattern on the last victim. Her hand rested on her hip. I'm not sure what that has to do with anything else, though. Extracting a spoon from a drawer, she peered down at the liquid, waiting for it to turn darker.
"And also, I have to apologize for spreading a rumor . . . that you and I were lovers."
She had laughed at him. Truthfully, it still amused her – the idea that she and Mr. Nigel-Murray could be in a sexual relationship of any kind was absurd, just as she had said. Temperance felt herself grinning down into the tea leaves as she remembered her intern's confession. Completely ludicrous.
She blinked. Is that it?
Both hands on the counter, no longer seeing the tea steeping below her, she pondered his words, and her own.
"I would sooner confirm that the chupacabra was the cause of this man's death!"
"Hm." Granted, she'd been engaging in hyperbole, but to equate something unlikely, if physically plausible, with something that had no basis in fact . . . Why did I say that? If a suspect had made such a hyperbolic statement, I would have thought that they were being defensive. Temperance paused. Was I being defensive?
She shook her head, finally noticing that her tea was ready. Of course not, she thought. I have no reason to be defensive. Lifting the strainer from her tea, she tapped the leaves into her disposal, setting the loud grinding blades into motion with the flip of a switch. Perhaps I should test my assessment of Mr. Nigel-Murray – a conclusion is meaningless without empirical evidence. Dipping her spoon into the honey pot on the counter, she brought the laden utensil to her mug and stirred. A rational interaction with him will dispel any irrational biases that might have influenced my thinking. It's just a matter of setting aside any presuppositions I may have about him so that I can evaluate him properly. She took a tentative sip of tea and walked to where she had left her phone.
Being much too late for a phone call to anyone other than Angela, or Booth, or possibly her father, Temperance decided to simply text her intern. Quickly, she thumbed out a message.
There, she thought. I'll speak with him tomorrow and settle this.
Temperance smiled and entered the livingroom, intending to read until she was ready for bed, spices from her beverage teasing across her palate.
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No amount of eye-rubbing was going to change the message he'd received, and yet he persisted. He wasn't hungover, he wasn't ill, he wasn't hallucinating, probably . . . Can't be a prank, he thought. Dr. Brennan doesn't pull pranks. Or, or, it could be a prank, if someone's got hold of her phone, but – no, she wouldn't just leave it somewhere. It's possible she's allowed someone else to pull a prank on me . . . He shook his head and had another go at his eyes, remembering the black substance he'd had to scrub off after Hodgins' prank on him. Holding his phone directly in front of his face, he read the text again:
Mr. Nigel-Murray, I've decided to re-evaluate my assessment of you. I require your participation, so please contact me regarding your availability – the sooner we meet, the better.
His hands were actually shaking now, and he set his phone down. He hadn't felt this shaky since just after he'd sworn off alcohol. With a soft thump, Vincent sat on the folded futon that doubled as his bed most nights, when he wasn't awake and pacing or slumped in the extremely comfortable leather chair he'd kept from his post-Jeopardy win shopping spree. He'd managed to sell back the ornate four-poster bed and many of the other large expenditures he'd made, but he hadn't been able to part with the chair: buttery-soft leather the color of cognac, wide cushion, high back, matching footstool – nearly regal enough to be a throne. It completely outclassed everything else in his flat, but he didn't care. He loved it. The only reason he wasn't sitting in it now was he didn't want to feel that comfortable. That was a chair for quiet reflection, positive rumination, victorious contemplation, not abject agonization. It was a wonder he ever sat in it at all.
Why would she need to re-assess me now? Vincent wondered, rubbing his temples. Have I performed in a sub-standard manner? Was there an error I made that she caught later that I didn't notice? His head jerked. Was it my making of amends? She was fairly derisive . . . but then again, she seemed more forgiving of me than Dr. Saroyan had been. His head dropped into his hands. Re-assessment, of course. She's had a think and decided, based on my confessions, that I've behaved too unprofessionally. I'm going to be sacked! I'll never get another internship, I'll never finish my doctorate . . .
Vincent shook his head again, realizing he was angsting himself into a headache. Hands gripping his knees, he strove to take deep breaths, going over multiple facts in his head, seeking a state of calm. The Trilby hat derives its name from the lead character, Trilby O'Ferrall, in the 1896 George du Maurier play, also entitled Trilby, in which she wore the hat. The male iguana has two penises, technically hemipenes, so that if the female pins one of them with her tail during attempted love-making, he retains the opportunity to penetrate her with the other one. A doctorate, or licentia docenti, was originally only given out by the church in medieval times, when it afforded the recipient a license to teach at university, the title itself not being intrinsically linked to the field of medicine. Interns are more likely to burn out during the second week or after the twelve week mark than at any other time during an internship. He stared down at his fingers, pale digits splayed over burgundy silk, and let out a long breath. Have your tea and breakfast, he thought. You don't have to text her back immediately – 'soon' is not the same thing as immediately.
Deliberately, he pushed it from his mind, or at least to a corner of it. He stood and strode to the kitchen, or the nook that passed for a kitchen, bare feet slapping wood. It wasn't until he was reaching for the box of Yorkshire Gold that he remembered: he was out of tea. "Bugger." Two breadheels lurked in a bag by the toaster, and he recalled before opening the refrigerator that he was out of eggs as well. Excellent, he thought. No breakfast. Now I've something to be angry about – perfect distraction.
Grumbling to himself, he made his way to the bathroom, disrobing as he went, the silk pajamas slipping over his skin to fall unceremoniously to the floor. Ordinarily, he'd have folded them before setting them in the dry-clean-only hamper, but he was feeling less than fastidious at the moment. Vincent stepped from cool hardwood to cold tile and started the shower running. If I can't get some warm liquid in me, he thought, I'll have to settle for getting warm liquid on me. After a moment, the implications of his thought dawned on him, and he was suddenly very glad not to have said it aloud, in front of anyone. Entering, the heat and wet hit him at once, and he reached for the scented soap his uncle had sent him from India, breathing in spices.
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Author's Note: Writer's block is a bitch (and so am I?). I started working on a fic a couple of months ago and due to being busy and other things, I just got stuck. Then an idea occurred to me for a completely different fandom. I'm still stuck on the other fic, but I've started on this one – my first in the Bones-verse.
I caught a repeat of the Bones episode, "The Truth in the Myth," and it made me reflect a bit on the way season 6 ended. As glad as I was that Brennan and Booth ended up together (finally!) last season, I was sad to lose Mr. Nigel-Murray, and the repeat I saw just reminded me of what an interesting character he was, so when this idea bubbled to the surface, I decided to explore it. This fic will likely have 5 chapters when it's done. Oh, and each chapter title is a dance move of some kind.
Thanks for reading!