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 2: Box Step
The inevitable lull between cases always altered the atmosphere of the lab. Everyone was still busy, considering how much anthropological work there was to be done, but there was less urgency when no lives were on the line, as there often was during an active investigation of a case. This suited Temperance well enough. She enjoyed her work, whatever the focus. She stared at the ancient remains before her, impressed by the preservation of the bones. Another archaeological team had done the extraction, months ago, but she had to admit to herself that they had done an excellent job.
"Hon, I have got to go."
Temperance turned to her friend. "Why? It's not even noon yet. And your baby isn't due for another –"
"Seriously?" Angela smirked. "Do you know how exhausting it is carrying this around?" She patted her bulging belly. "We don't have a case right now, and I can study the backlog of skulls from home – where I can lay on the couch and eat ice cream. Trust me, I'll get more done."
"Actually, it's far more likely that you'll fall asleep on the coach and get very little work done, but . . . I understand. A baby is essentially a parasitic organism draining you of nutrients – I only hope you're eating more than just ice cream to keep up with its relentless demands."
Angela laughed softly. "I'm pretty sure the little guy is the one making the demands for ice cream, but don't worry – I've been taking my pre-natal vitamins and eating actual balanced meals occasionally." She winked, turning to go. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bren. Call me if you need me."
Temperance watched her walk down the lab steps. "I probably won't need to call you, unless we get another case. Enjoy your ice cream and skulls."
"Thanks, sweetie."
Peering closer at the ribcage in front of her, Temperance focused on the slight discoloration, pondering whether it had been the result of an injury or transfer from the remnants of clothing that had been left on the man. A buzzing noise distracted her.
Frowning, she stood straight and extracted her phone from her pocket. Ah, she thought, a return text from Mr. Nigel-Murray. He's contacting me later than I had expected. If he is drinking again, he may be hungover, though I hope that is not the case. I wonder why he didn't simply call me – he's familiar enough with my schedule that he would know I'd be awake and prepared to answer my phone. She pressed the button to read his text.
I am available to you anytime after 1 PM. Let me know when you wish me to meet you at the lab.
"Hm." Temperance recalled her own message to him and realized that she might not have been suitably clear. I'll just call him, and we'll set up a time, she thought. Her fingers dialed automatically. Phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the ring, she saw Dr. Saroyan walking from her office, waving in her direction and mouthing something. What is she . . . Temperance squinted. Oh. She's going to lunch early. Temperance waved back and turned away.
"Salutations!" came the voice in her ear, with an accent that boasted a private school sheen over a Birmingham youth.
"Mr. Nigel-Murray?" Temperance placed her hand on the table near the left metacarpals of the remains, leaning as she spoke.
"Yes, Dr. Brennan, it is I – er, or 'me' would be more grammatical, um . . ." There was a sound like a cough. "Did you get my response text?"
"Of course. It's why I'm calling you back. I thought I might not have made myself clear, and I wanted to schedule a time to meet."
"Well, that's clear enough, yes, and –"
"I'll be finishing my work in the lab today at six PM, so I would like you to meet me at my apartment at six-thirty tonight. You did say that you were available anytime after one in the afternoon – I assumed you meant today."
"Assumed – well, you know what they say when you, uh . . . actually, nevermind that. Your – you want me to come round to your flat?"
"Yes. If that is not acceptable, I can come to yours."
"No, no, no – yours is fine. Better than fine, I'm sure. I mean . . . what exactly do you need me to do to, er, prepare for this . . . re-assessment?"
"You need only arrive ready to interact with me for . . . possibly up to a couple of hours, but no special preparation is necessary. If you like, you may bring some CDs with music of your choosing. This is an experiment, Mr. Nigel-Murray, nothing more."
"Ah, an experiment, I see. Er . . . what sort of experiment?"
"A relatively simple one. I'll fill you in on the details when you get here. Oh – and you should probably bring a change of clothing and some antibacterial wipes. And condoms of a suitable size for your penis."
"I . . . what?"
"See you at six-thirty, Mr. Nigel-Murray." Temperance disconnected, not waiting for a response.
That's clear enough, I suppose, she thought. He frequently exhibits signs of nervousness. To tell him more might cause him too much agitation. She re-pocketed her phone and got back to work.
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Vincent stared at his phone. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was, in fact, still gaping wide, despite the phone call having been terminated minutes earlier. There would have been a jumble of thoughts flying through his brain had they not all log-jammed within it. Perhaps he was due for a hard reboot.
Laughter spilled from his mouth. His mind called up an image of a red fish-faced person in a white coat. "It's a trap!" he said aloud, giggles gradually stopping as he caught his breath. He set his phone down on the wooden top of the kitchen peninsula, bracing both hands there, back bent, head down, staring at the floor. She's testing me, he thought. Well, of course she is – this is a re-assessment, she said that. She's testing my mind, testing to see whether I can follow her leaps in logic, testing to make sure I can refrain from inappropriate behavior. He squeezed his eyes closed, eyelids crinkling. I'm meant to accept the consequences of my actions, including the consequences of my having confessed my past actions, as part of my participation in AA, but . . . I really hope I don't lose my internship over a load of pointless bragging.
He thought back to the time immediately following his post-Jeopardy win. What he could remember of it, at least. There was no question that he'd had fun – quite a bit of it. But he'd been surprised at how much he'd missed the Jeffersonian. When Vincent had walked back through those doors again, it all came flooding back – the stress, yes, but more than that, the thrill of solving mysteries through examination of bones and, of course, various occasionally-exploding experiments in the lab. Only then had it occurred to him how much time he'd spent talking about the lab while he was engaging in assorted forms of debauchery. He was quite used to seeing quizzical expressions on people's faces when he spoke to them, but, for example, it hadn't dawned on him that perhaps the nice lady giving him the lapdance wasn't really interested in hearing about how he once boiled a man's remains in a vat of rhubarb. Somehow, even when he was miles and miles away, the Jeffersonian had remained a part of him. Now that he was back, he didn't want to leave it behind.
Right, he thought. So. She's either requested me to bring condoms for alternate uses entirely unlike their intended purpose and has no idea how suggestive her request sounded, or . . . she's done it deliberately to make me think I'm in for a delicious night of sexual adventure only to catch me out. The second explanation makes more sense, in that it fits in with a re-assessment of me, at least with regard to my professional behavior, but . . . I can't completely rule out the first one.
Pushing back off the peninsula, Vincent ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. I've got to stop worrying about it! If only I had some idea what sort of experiment she wants to do . . . He frowned. Can't be anything messy, since it's at her flat, but then again, she did tell me to bring a change of clothes. What sort of experiment takes a couple of hours, requires condoms, anti-bacterial wipes, and a change of clothing, as well as accompanying music?
His eyes flew wide, head jerking back. We're going to re-create a crime scene! A grin flicked across Vincent's face. Since she can't possibly be propositioning me for sex, he thought, she must want me to go over an invented crime scene in order to . . . extrapolate how evidence found at a scene relates to evidence found on bones during examination at the lab. He exhaled, color suffusing his cheeks. That has to be it.
Turning back to the half-unpacked bags on the counter, Vincent resumed putting his groceries away, noting the square of condensation left by the carton of orange juice and managing not to drag his sleeve through it. I'll have to pop round to the chemist's, or 'pharmacy' as the locals call it, to pick up a few things prior to my meeting with Dr. Brennan, he thought, but that won't take long.
Humming to himself, he smiled, adept fingers placing every item in its rightful place.
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Author's Note: Ah, communication. Somehow so much more fun when it's off – well, fun for me, anyway. I'm keeping this in 3rd person limited, and it's my intention to have one section from Dr. Brennan's PoV and one section from Mr. Nigel-Murray's PoV in every chapter. Hope I'm getting their speech patterns right.
Anyway, thanks for reading!