Chapter Text
The aging Airbus A320 shuddered violently as its wings sliced through the dense cumulonimbus formations blanketing the eastern seaboard, the hydraulic whine of its landing gear deployment barely audible over the cacophony of rattling overhead compartments and clattering tray tables. Prudence presses her forehead to the cold oval window, watching D.C get closer second by second.
Beside her, Temperance snored with the rhythmic precision of a metronome. The forensic anthropologist's field notebook lay splayed open across her lap, its pages filled with meticulous graphite sketches - a haunting gallery of skeletal remains documented during their three-week excavation near Tikal, Guatemala.
Prudence's fingers twitched involuntarily toward her cargo pants pocket, tracing the obsidian arrowhead's jagged contours through the fabric. Twenty-one days sweating through her field clothes in the Petén jungle. Twenty-one nights listening to howler monkeys while Temperance lectured local medics on osteological trauma patterns. And what did she have to show for it? A caffeine-deprivation headache from that godawful instant coffee, a five-stitch laceration along her collarbone courtesy of a collapsing dig site tent pole, and this damn arrowhead she'd pocketed from the excavation against protocol.
The plane banked sharply to starboard, sending a half-empty vodka mini bottle skittering down the aisle. Temperance mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, her fingers twitching as if still measuring pelvic bones in her dreams.
They were landing.
Prudence exhaled through her nose, watching the scene unfold with the detached amusement of someone who'd witnessed far too many of Angela's impulsive stunts to be genuinely shocked anymore. The airport's lights glinted off the clerk's name tag—"Mike"—as Angela leaned dramatically over the counter, her blouse now unbuttoned to a degree that would make a burlesque performer blush.
— Tell me you tried "Excuse me" first, asked Tempe with a smile.
Angela's face lit up and they began to speak, moving out of the airport. But as they moved toward the exit, Prudence felt more than saw Tempe's posture shift, that subtle coiling of muscle that meant future trouble.
Three paces later, her twin was abruptly turning with predatory grace and heading toward a man in a cheap suit.
—Sir, why are you following us ?
The man seized her arm, while Prue sighed et grimaced.
— Uh, uh, bad idea, big guy...
Prudence standed, unmoved, while Angie panicked around, asking for help. Truth be told, she was more amused by her sister giving orders to security guards and startling the agent with a "Boo!" than anything.
— See you later, Tempe' ! Prue called over the commotion when her sister was taken into custody.
She hoisted her bag higher and nudged a gaping Angela toward the exit.
— You coming ? I've got a orgasmic bath waiting with my name on it.
Angela trotted after her, sneaking glances back at the detained twin.
— Aren't you—I mean, shouldn't we...
— Worried? Come on, this is Temperance. Everything she does is perfectly legal. That woman once talked Interpol into giving her a souvenir grenade launcher. Whatever this is, it's already been pre-approved by some obscure loophole she'll cite at dinner.
Prue let out a soft, satisfied sigh as she lowered herself into the steaming bathwater, the heat immediately seeping into her tired muscles. As she submerged up to her shoulders, she exhaled forcefully through her nose, watching with idle fascination as the resulting steam twisted upwards in lazy spirals toward the cracked ceiling tiles. The patterns reminded her comfortably of incense smoke curling through the musty air of a tomb.
Outside the bathroom's frosted window, the sounds of the capital never ceased. The entire city thrummed like a disturbed beehive, all frantic energy and sharp edges—the perfect habitat for her sister's particular brand of uncompromising brilliance. Prue could picture Temperance right now, probably in some sterile security conference room, methodically dismantling some poor agent's career with the same clinical precision she applied to decomposing remains. For some reason, people don't seem to like their honesty.
The archaeologist smirked at the memory of the man's yelp when Tempe'd twisted his wrist. Five years ago, Temperance would have just glared silently. Now she could put a man twice her size on the floor. Pride warmed Prue's chest almost as much as the bathwater.
She leaned back, letting the heat work its magic on her stiff shoulders, and closed her eyes with a contented groan. Just as she was about to dunk her head under to wash out the dust still clinging to her scalp, the nagging thought that had been pestering her resurfaced with irritating persistence. The pattern of this day was weird.
This wasn't like Temperance. Not at all. The woman lived and breathed procedure. There was absolutely no way she'd simply "forgotten" to file paperwork for moving human remains. Prue's fingers tightened on the edge of the tub. Something about this whole situation smelled worse than the formaldehyde in Tempe's lab after a busy week.
The bathwater suddenly felt several degrees colder. Prue sat up straight, droplets cascading from her shoulders as she reached for a towel.
Something was off.
The office door clicked shut behind Prudence with the same hollow sound it always made. She stood motionless for a long moment, surveying the sparse space that technically belonged to her—at least according to the brass nameplate screwed into the walnut veneer. The Jeffersonian's History and Archeology department hadn't changed a single detail since her last visit two months ago. Not the stiff-backed visitor chair that no one ever sat in, nor the thin layer of dust on the unused bookshelf, nor the impersonal institutional beige of the walls.
It was pristine in the way abandoned places often are—not from careful maintenance, but from utter neglect. The temperature always seemed three degrees too cold, though Prue suspected that was more about her own discomfort with permanence than any HVAC malfunction.
Her fingers trailed across the empty desk surface, leaving faint streaks in the dust. She'd never accumulated the typical academic detritus—no framed degrees, no quirky coffee mugs from digs gone by, no sentimental trinkets from conferences. The artifacts she worked with passed through her hands like water—examined, cataloged, then inevitably shipped off to museum vaults or traveling exhibitions. Nothing stayed. Just like her.
The nameplate mocked her: DR. PRUDENCE BRENNAN in crisp black lettering. Official. Permanent. A lie. She travels too much, for her research, to the point that she doesn't have her own place, crashing in her sister guest-room when she is in town.
Sometimes, Prudence feel like she's still running away, from foster family to another. Not staying long enough to get attached. To be hurt. Abandoned again. Yet, she always come back. Not for this office. Just because D.C is where Temperance live. Prue doesn't need a house.
Home had never been a place.
She took a look at her watch. Surely, Tempe has been released and must be around here right now ? Prue headed for the elevators. Might as well track down her wayward sister before Tempe started interrogating some hapless intern about soil composition.
The sterile corridor echoed with each precise step Prue took, her stiletto heels producing sharp clicks against the polished floor tiles—too loud, too clinical, like someone scattering knucklebones across marble. She slowed as she reached the lab's biometric scanner, swiping her access card with practiced efficiency while peering through the reinforced glass. Inside, she spotted her sister's team clustered around the central examination platform, white coats shifting like ghosts under the cold surgical lighting.
Then her twin's voice cut through the hum of equipment, crisp and authoritative:
— Remove the remaining tissue, I'll debride the skull fragments myself, reassemble it so Angela can put a face on our victim.
A snort came from the corner where Angela Montenegro stood, arms crossed.
— Good, the forensic artist sighed, her nose wrinkling. I prefer holographs. They don't stink.
Prue couldn’t argue with that. It was why she stuck to artifacts herself—bones at worst. Flesh had a tendency to degrade in unpredictable ways, turning grotesque, accompanied by odors that lingered no matter how strong the ventilation.
— Zack...
Ah. That tone. The intern was about to get a lecture—no doubt about it.
— I don't like those terms for humain remains : "soaker", "crispy critter"...
Zack Addy straightened, contrition flashing across his face.
— I know, Dr Brennan, he muttered, then fumbled as his gaze darted to Prue. Oh. Dr Brennan ! I mean, Dr Prudence ! How was Guatemala ?
Prue stepped forward, her own shoes tapping a decisive rhythm against the floor.
— Not as instructive as I’d hoped, Mr. Addy, she admitted, though her attention was already snagged by the examination table. But eventful enough for a paper or two. Her eyes narrowed at the body laid out—far fresher than anything they usually handled. Oh, that’s a very fresh and fleshy set of remains. What’s going on, Temp’ ?
Temperance didn’t look up from the bones.
— Agent Special Booth.
Prudence couldn't help the frown.
— Again ? I thought you swore off working with the FBI after last time.
Her sister exhaled through her nose.
— Didn’t have a choice. Goodman ‘loaned us out.’ Congressional optics.
Dr Goodman was Prudence old teacher and mentor. As a fellow archaeologist, she has a lot of respect for the man. As a person, she even used to saw him as a fatherly figure. This... This was disappointing. This felt like a betrayal.
— You're not property, Prue bit out. What about the others ? Dr Hodgins, Angela ?
— They're my team, Temperance replied simply, fingers still tracing bone.
Of course. Logic—her sister’s kryptonite. Sometimes Prue hated how easily Temperance could be swayed by pure pragmatism.
— I don't like it, Prue said, quieter now. He hurts you.
No need to clarify who. She remembered the furious call from months ago—Temperance’s voice raw with betrayal as she recounted her participation in an actual investigation, the way this Booth had bulldozed over her expertise. Prue had been knee-deep in Egyptian sand at the time, but she’d heard it all—the quiet devastation.
Temperance finally met her gaze.
— I know. Don’t worry—it won’t happen again.
Prue’s jaw set. Oh, it wouldn’t. Because if Seeley Booth thought he could waltz back in and make Temperance feel like shit a second time? He’d have to get through her first.
And Prudence Brennan didn’t lose fights.
The key turned in the lock with a reluctant click—Temperance always forgot to oil the hinges. Her sister was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a half-empty bottle of merlot cradled in her lap like a wounded animal.
— You're drinking red wine. Straight from the bottle, she observed, toeing off her heels with relief. That's my thing ! You're supposed to be the "proper" Brennan, the one who pours it into a glass and sniffs it first like a pretentious sommelier.
Temperance didn't smile. Just took another swig, adding :
— Angie said : "Gloo-gloo".
Well, if Montenegro advised this, it was probably bad. Prudence sighed and flopped onto the couch, hip-checking her sister to make room, prying the wine from Tempe's grip.
— Alright. Talk.
At first, the silence stretched. That was fine, Prue could be patient.
— Booth thinks I'm... her jaw worked. He says I treat victims like specimens. That I ask for trust but don't give any back.
Prudence lifted one shoulder, unconcerned.
— And ? she asked, not seeing the problem with that.
— And he's not wrong, Temperance's voice was quiet, rough at the edges. Prue, I can reconstruct an entire life from a skeleton, but I don't... She gestured vaguely. People confuse me. Their motivations. Their lies. Their need to say what's "appropriate".
— So... You're upset because you're bad at small talk ?
— No ! I'm upset because he's right. I don't get them. Bones don't lie. Bones don't expect anything from me.
Prudence studied her sister. The tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers flexed like she wanted to strangle something. She recognized that look. It was the same one they wore when their third foster mother had sighed, as if exhausted by them, and said : "I can't. The both of you are just too hard to love."
Prudence leaned back, stretching her legs across Temperance's lap.
— You know what I did this afternoon ? Spent four hours translating Mayan glyphs about a king who disemboweled his enemies to fertilize corn crops. And "that" makes sense to me. Meanwhile, Dr. Nakamura came by, asked how Guatemala was. I panicked so hard I pretended to get a phone call from Dr. Goodman. Tempe', you're not broken because you speak fluently with bones and they talk back to you.
Temperance had her brow furrowing.
— You faked a phone call ? That's absurd, you hate answering that machine...
— Yeah. Texted myself to vibrate my own pocket. It was a whole huge production.
A snort. Then, miraculously, the barest hint of a smile. Prudence grinned and stole the wine back.
— Face it, Tempe. We're both disasters. You just hide it better. Like always.
The wine continued to pass between them, a silent understanding. Outside, D.C hummed, a living, breathing thing neither sister would ever fully understand. But here, in this dim apartment, with a good bottle of merlot ? They didn't have to.
The Jeffersonian's marble lobby gleamed like a mausoleum at dawn. Every footstep echoed with cathedral-like permanence. Prudence's designer heels struck the tiles with military precision—each click a warning shot fired across the bow of institutional decorum—just as Dr. Goodman's silhouette appeared in the arched doorway of the administrative wing. His face lit with fatherly warmth at the sight of his former protégée.
— Prudence ! His voice cracked with paternal warmth, the kind reserved for prodigal daughters returning home after too many years away. When did you...
She pivoted on one stiletto, avoiding his outstretched hand with the grace of a matador dodging a bull. The obsidian arrowhead in her blazer pocket pressed against her ribs like a shard of frozen time, its serrated edges threatening to tear through the fabric.
— Interesting management strategy, she said, voice colder than the Arctic core samples in Geology. Leasing out personnel like excavation equipment. Tell me, do you polish their femurs before congressional testimony, or just send them raw?
His smile withered like a plant in sudden frost. Somewhere behind them, the janitor's mop made wet, rhythmic protests against the floor, the squeaking rubber head providing an awkward soundtrack to their confrontation.
— It's far more nuanced than that, Goodman began, fingers tugging at his knit tie as if it had spontaneously transformed into a hangman's noose. The Board has certain expectations regarding...
—Compliance ? Prudence arched a brow. How amusing. I distinctly recall one of your famous ethics lectures. Something poignant about moral lines in the sand... and how we mustn't become just another breed of academic bureaucrats auctioning off artifacts to the highest grant donor.
— Prudence, darling girl, Dr. Goodman sighed with the weary cadence of a man who'd rehearsed this moment in shaving-mirror reflections for weeks, this situation is entirely...
The arrowhead's volcanic glass teeth sank into her palm as she turned away, leaving his sentence dangling like an unanswered subpoena.
Midnight found Prudence's workstation transformed into an academic warzone. Mayan codices lay gutted across the surface, their accordion folds stretched open like sacrificial victims on an altar. Her laptop screen casting blue shadows across notes detailing ritual bloodletting practices. The arrowhead—now cleaned and photographed—glinted under the desk lamp like a fallen star.
Her phone buzzed with Temperance's trademark efficiency :
<< Lab. Wine. Bring your liver. >>
The forensic department's version of happy hour smelled like a crime scene where ethanol had murdered good judgment
— Booth found the murder weapon in the senator's safe, Hodgins muttered to her by way of explanation for the funereal atmosphere, his eyes fixed on the swirling dregs of his single-malt.. But without diatomaceous earth trace...
—It's circumstantial, Temperance finished through gritted teeth, her grip on the wineglass suggesting imminent shattering.
Hodgins raised his tumbler in a mock toast. Let us seek wisdom from The Lives of the Saints. Albertus Magnus, Patron Saint of Scientists.
— I thought Magnus was the patron saint of fishmongers.
Only half-listening to the boys' theological debate, Prudence turned to her sister :
— Did the senator's property have a pool ?
Temperance blinked.
— No, why ?
— Diatomaceous earth is primarily used in filtration systems, Prudence said slowly, I'd expect either a swimming pool or at least an ornamental koi pond...
The wineglass hit the counter with a crystalline thud as Temperance went statue-still.
— Two entirely separate concepts, Hodgins continued obliviously with Zack. Albertus Magnus was a 13th-century philosopher and...
— Koi ? Fish ? Hodgins ! Prue ! You both testified that diatomaceous earth could be used as a filtering agent. Her fingers dug into Prudence's wrist with bone-bruising intensity. What about tropical fish ? Oliver Laurier said that Ken Thompson kept fish.
The forensic anthropologist was already in motion, dragging her twin toward the exit with the single-minded determination of a coroner chasing a vital organ sample before decomposition set in.
— What's your hurry ?
Temperance didn't slow down.
— Thompson read the warrant, responded Tempe. He knows we're looking for diatomaceous earth ! Over her shoulder, she tossed instructions like a surgeon demanding scalpels: Get in touch with Booth. Tell him where I'm going, okay ?
Prudence barely caught Hodgins' bewildered mutter—"she didn't actually say where they're going, did she?"—before Temperance yanked her through the doorway with enough force to dislocate a lesser woman's shoulder.
— Well, Prudence gasped as her sister commandeered an elevator with the same efficiency she used to bag skeletal remains, I suppose we're going fishing...
The scent of gasoline hit Prudence's nostrils three steps before they kicked in the door, that odor that always meant someone was desperate to destroy evidence.
— Stop ! You can't destroy evidence.
— This is a private residence, promptly said Ken Thompson, a can of gasoline in his hand. I don't suppose you have a warrant ?
— I'm working with the FBI. If I have reasonable suspicion of a crime being committed, I don't need a warrant.
— What crime ?
Prue snorted at the audacity of this guy. She took some paces toward the fishes aquarium, keeping an eye on him and her sister. Yep. Definitely usage of diatomaceous earth here.
— It's him, she confirmed to her sister, even if the scene was already quite clear.
— Destruction of evidence pertinent to a federal investigation !
They both continued to argue. Prudence crouched down to take a look at the concrete. Temperance was right, this floor was definitely new. Thompson's chuckle carried the hollow resonance of a man who'd already decided how this ended.
— You might wanna get out of here.
And this... This sounded like someone who wouldn't care to kill two others persons to hide his crime. She stood, alert.
— I can't let you destroy evidence.
The click of his Zippo was obscenely loud.
— Come on, don't be stupid. You'll burn with us, added Prudence, his hand hovering with the lighter.
Prudence's spine straightened millimeter by millimeter. Behind her, she felt rather than saw Temperance's Glock clear its holster. She barely had time to register the movement before the gunshot cracked through the room. Ken Thompson went down, screaming and clutching his thigh where Temperance's bullet had neatly severed the femoral artery's smaller branch. Painful enough to incapacitate, precise enough to avoid fatal bleeding. Prudence nudged the jerrycan and the zippo away from Thompson's twitching fingers.
— I don't get it.
And there... There was fragility in her sister's voice.
— It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't passion. Cleo wouldn't get rid of your boss's baby, and so you got rid of her. What kind of psychology is that ? What kind of person are you ?
— Oh, Tempe, sighed Prudence. A greedy man, that what he is. A reflection of this terrible society.
And oh, how she got why her sister was so distressed. This was not something their own minds could comprehend. Tribal cultures, simple ways? Those made sense. But this world? With its lies and illusions?
Before Temperance could retort, the front door opened again. Prudence instinctively drew her own weapon — because this was why she was here. Watching their backs. Ensuring her sister's safety. They would not be taken by surprise. A sweat-slicked guy in suit with his own weapon drawn appeared, with some wild-eyes civilian.
— Temperance... Are you all right ?
The tension in her arms lessened, seeing that her sister seemed to know those guys. She hid her gun again.
— That guy bleeds to death, Bones will go on trial for attempted murder. You don't want that, now, do you ? Asked the one she assumed to be Booth.
And there, Prudence heard true concern. Maybe this military guy was not so bad, after all.
Outside, flashing lights painted the neighborhood in strobe-lit vignettes as backup arrived. Prue leaned back against the cold metal of a squad car, absently scraping blackened residue from beneath her fingernails with the edge of a car key while watching Temperance go through the motions of handing off their suspect to the paramedics with all the enthusiasm of someone returning an overdue library book after finding it wedged behind their couch.
Then she saw it—that minute tightening in Temperance's shoulders, the way her sister's spine straightened just a fraction more than usual. Prue recognized the signs instantly; her twin was gearing up to navigate one of those painfully awkward social interactions she usually avoided at all costs. With the resigned determination of a scientist approaching an unpredictable lab specimen, Temperance propelled Special Agent Seeley Booth forward like an exhibit being presented for peer review.
— Prue, Seeley Booth. Booth, Prudence. Temperance announced in her clinical tone, then hesitated before tacking on with visible effort: My twin.
Prudence arched an eyebrow, studying her sister's rigid posture. She knew what this moment meant—Temperance Brennan didn't introduce people casually, especially not family. This was her sister extending a piece of herself, making a conscious effort to bridge the gap between her professional and personal worlds.
Because Prudence wasn't just family—she was the other half of a matched set, the living archive of every scraped knee and whispered secret from their shared childhood. With a quiet exhale, Prudence stepped forward, placing herself deliberately between Booth and her sister while sizing up whether this federal agent deserved this uncharacteristic show of trust.
The FBI agent's eyes darted between them, taking in the identical arch of their eyebrows, the same stubborn set to their jaws.
— Yeah, I kind of figured that out, Booth said, rubbing the back of his neck. You two look... remarkably similar. Nice to meet you, though I should warn you, I will be the one to go with her and look for her back in the future, if you don't mind.
Prudence let the silence stretch, her gaze traveling from Booth's scuffed shoes up to the barely concealed frustration in his eyes and back down again. She watched as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the confident agent suddenly looking like a teenager waiting to hear his grades.
— You'll do, she finally declared, taking two deliberate steps backward toward Temperance without breaking eye contact. For now.
Because if there was one thing Prudence Brennan understood better than ancient artifact, it was this: loyalty wasn't given. It was earned. And Seeley Booth had just begun his probationary period.