Disclaimer: I do not own any of the lovely characters from Bones ~ I intend no copyright infringement. I worship the ground that Kathy Reichs walks on and admire her endlessly for inspiring Bones. I do not own Vincent (though I wish I did), Angela, Hodgens, Booth or Brennan. However, I do own Vincent's lover. If you wish to borrow her (as I have borrowed the other characters), please ask.

She blinks at him.

He notices that her nose is considerably similar to his, though admittedly it is more feminine. Still, it is long and straight. He never particularly liked his nose, but if his nose looked anything like hers, he didn't think he minded anymore.

Her eyes are very blue. They are colored like the ocean, he thinks. They have a little greenish blue in the middle and dark blue around the edges. They are looking right at him. Her lashes are dark brown. He is quite sure they are real, despite the fact that they are spectacular.

She looks young. He guesses no older than 19. He looks her up and down and hates himself. He feels like a dirty old man, looking at this young woman with interest. In actuality he's only 24, but he feel miles away from acceptable.

Her lips are pink and full. They curve gently, and he imagines that she could be on lipstick commercials or ads. Of course, he hopes she is actually possessing of intellect, but he's learned in his years that a person usually looks good or is smart. It's not usually both.

Her head tips inquisitively and he realizes her perfect lips have parted to speak. Her words wash over him in waves. He is still staring at her lips. Without knowing how he knows it, he is sure his lips would fit hers quite nicely, like they were made for each other. Her words then hit him. "Hello, nice to meet you."

He shakes her hand, and her skin is rough on the pads of her fingers and heel of her hand, but smooth otherwise.

His hair is dark, dark brown and sweeps over his forehead. He has this charming grin. It is alarmingly disarming; it could stop a tornado in its tracks, she's sure. His eyes are this color that she can't decipher; she could have sworn they were dark brown when she approached him. They were dark and deep and swallowed them both. But now they gleam light blue—lighter than hers, lighter than her brother's. They are pale glass, his eyes.

His face is smooth and she watches in wonder as the grin slips from his face. He does not let his smile fall away for dread or dislike or uncomfortable reasons, but simply because his expression is replaced with one of awe. Though she has never met anyone who has been struck by lightning, she is quite sure that this is what a person would look like immediately after. She is also quite sure she looks the same.

Her hand snakes out on its own accord, and it takes her a moment to realize it's headed for his cheek, possibly to caress it. She quickly redirects it and extends it to shake.

"Hello, nice to meet you."

She has every possible phrase or greeting (ranging from "Bonjour!" to "I love you.") battling off her tongue except this one, so of course this is the one she speaks.

His hands are warm with long fingers that she imagines would be good for precise work. She wonders what he does for a living. This question fights to leave her throat with all her other thoughts, so she clamps her teeth shut in fear of making a fool of herself.

She realizes that in the time it took to suppress her raging words, he has spoken to her. He looks at her expectantly and gives her an indulging smile, as if understanding how lost she feels, coaxing her in the right direction. She only clenches her jaw tighter.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

He has a British accent. A British accent. Her insides melt.

"Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

She had not meant to say it, but feels oddly relieved when she does. It explains everything, and she knows it. The alarmingly charming grin is back on his face, and she realizes they are still holding hands. She is determined not to look at their hands, in hopes that he never remembers and never lets go.

"My name is Vincent Nigel-Murray, it's a pleasure to meet you as well."

Her eyes are far away, tunneled into his, and he's sure she didn't hear a word he said. She looks dazed, confused, like she's been hit over the head with a baseball bat. He gives her a small smile. Her eyes snap back, and he sees the look in her eyes. It's rather frightened, as if panicked that she missed something important, something she can't fix. The expression looks very at home on her face.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

She seems to sink about a half inch when she hears him talk. He notices.

"Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

He is quite sure there is a grin on his face, but he's not all that sure. He can't feel his face, he can't feel his toes. He has to tell her he understands and that she is not a fool, he never thought she was one.

"Did you know that fear of public speaking is called glossophobia? The word comes from the Greek glōssa, meaning tongue."

Facts are his answer to everything. Though he realizes she is not speaking publicly, he knows the message will hit home. He is just as ridiculously knowledgeable as she is.