RIZZOLI & ISLES

The Secret Diary of Bass Isles

thefutilitarian

Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli & Isles, the characters or the TV show. I do not own TNT, nor Tess Gerritsen, nor am I Tess Gerritsen. Scout’s honour.

No cliches, stereotypes, or inflammatory opinions were harmed in the making of this fic. The views of one Bass Isles do not necessarily reflect the views of the author…

A/N 1: First and foremost, thanks to wizened_cynic for the most kick–ass idea of writing from Bass’s perspective. I would never have thought of it and thus would have been denied the frequent chortling to self at computer whilst typing. As always, I bow down to your ingenuity.

A/N 2: This is a story written for the ever rocking law_nerd. I know it’s not a donkey called Anne (thought that’s coming, I promise) but I hope you still enjoy.

A/N 3: Thanks to my first, permanent and most loyal beta, my gf mythbuster81, who allegedly “does not get credited nearly enough”. Yes, your life is very tough, punkin, I agree. I don’t know how you cope. *removes tongue from cheek*

A/N 4: Yep, this fic requires a little suspension of disbelief in exchange for, hopefully, a little humour. At present, I reckon it will have two parts, however, should there be enough amusing cannon material as the show proceeds, who knows? Part 2 will incorporate events from my other fic – “The Mating Behaviour of Dr Maura Isles.” Reading it is not mandatory unless you want to know Maura’s thoughts. Which Bass would undoubtedly have found… far less interesting than his own.

The Secret Diary of Bass Isles

thefutilitarian

Day 1

“So yeah, this here is a Russian tortoise, and like…”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not a Russian tortoise. See the distinctive grooved pattern on its back? This, um…” peering forward to read the tag, the female human resumes talking, “Brad, is actually an African Spurred Tortoise, Geochelone sulcata, so called because of those furrows on its shell. Sulcus is actually Latin for furrow, and so it’s really quite simple to tell the difference between –”

“Jesus, lady, I am not in biology class, okay? You want the turtle or not?”

I perk up. At least she knows what I am, which gives her one up the last place. Or this place, for that matter.

“It’s a tortoise and aren’t you at all concerned that you don’t know what you’re selling? You are aware there are different types of diet, habitat –”

Again, Brad interrupts. The other humans working in this compound refer to him as ‘douche’. I am not familiar with this colloquialism but judging by this human’s unimpressed expression, the word appears rather apt. “Look, someone brought him back in yesterday because they didn’t want him. I am on like eight bucks an hour and believe it or not my dream isn’t to work in Pet Smart, cause I’m like going places, man. This – this is just a part time gig until my band takes off. Speaking of which,” he looks her up and down and leans in suggestively, “we’re always looking for fresh meat. You wanna come watch us play tomorrow night?”

I shake my head. Human males have absolutely no clue how to woo a female.

“Someone… returned him?” The female’s voice catches a little and her eyes soften.

Oh good, a sucker.

I stick my head out of the shell and try my best to look lovable and pathetic. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the puppy over in the playpen.

Steve.

He is the Brad of the animal world; each one of them my nemesis. He smirks at me in pity. Yeah, well, it’s a lot easier to sell yourself when you have the soulful brown eyes and the cute, chubby, furry body, isn’t it, you little bastar…

I clear my throat. At forty days of age, I am far too… adult for such profanities.

“Well, I was just passing through here… I don’t even really know why I was compelled to come in. I certainly had no intention…”

“Look, lady, whatever, I’m on a break in three minutes anyway.”

She gives me the once over again.

You will buy me, human, I chant, stamping my feet like every annoying crying child that passes through this compound. With any luck this tantrum crap works in reverse.

“I’ll take him.”

Yep, toootal sucker… called it.

The HypnoTortoise strikes again.

Day 5

No… hey, I mean, it’s totally cool. I am sure your parents waited for several days before they named you, right? So just go ahead and refer to me as it, or he. Yeah, it’s not like you’ve had me for five days or anything. I am fine, just hanging out over here, nameless, faceless… my life without purpose or direction. I mean, I am sure you know how I feel because… Oh wait. No, you have a name, don’t you, Maura? Now, how would you like it if people referred to you as she? Exactly. Don’t you dare ignore me! I said –

She swivels round in her chair, “Okay, I think I’ve got it. Sorry, little guy, I just couldn’t decide.”

Oh, little guy. How cute.

Just… no.

I give her my best death ray glare.

“There are just so many names, it’s a little overwhelming.”

Yes, thank you, I’m aware of this fact. I’ve spent the last forty five days trying to pick out a name myself. Obviously, there are so many greats: Albert, Isaac, Carl… Galileo. Okay, the last one is a little presumptuous, but come on, I am a tortoise that knows, well, everything; I am clearly destined to change the world. I look to her expectantly, confidently awaiting the name that will forever immortalise my greatness.

“I christen you William…”

William…?

WILLIAM?

Billy?

Should I purchase a trailer and move down to the Bayou?

“M…”

That had better not stand for Maura.

That’s a girl’s name. And I do not need any more hang–ups.

“Bass,” she beams proudly.

William M. Bass.

Billy Bass.

Dear God, I am off to find some chewing tobacco. Might as well pack my bags and move to the nearest dirt pond seeing as how you’ve just regressed me all the way to the bottom of the evolutionary chain.

“But we’ll keep that just between us, okay? To everyone else, it’ll just be Bass.”

Bass… oh good, so now no–one will even realise I’m named after the forensic anthropologist. They’ll just think I’m named after a game fish, a bug–eyed creature several rungs below me on the totem pole.

I clench my as–yet–to–be–sharp claws and narrow my eyes in anger. Maura lovingly scratches me under my chin and strokes my head.

Oh hell no.

I resort to the final method of showing her my displeasure, slowly turning myself around so I’m not facing her and excreting… well, I don’t need to spell it out.

“Aww, is that your way of telling me how much you love it, Bass?”

I close my eyes; sighing my disappointment. It’s never been more obvious why she should be allowed contact only with the dead.

Day 60

“You won’t know if you like it until you try it.”

Oh really? Does that cliché apply to everything? Because I am pretty damn certain I don’t need to expire to know that death and I are never going to be best friends.

We are sitting on the couch. It’s Friday night and we’re watching Jeopardy. If that isn’t pathetic enough in itself, a bright red object is being shoved into my face. It’s times like these that I long for a good old–fashioned .38 revolver, oh and of course, a pair of opposable thumbs.

“Just a little bite, come on. Did you know the first strawberry was bred in Brittany in 1740? That’s in France, by the way.” Her smile is gently coaxing as she brings it closer.

In place of being able to perform a slow sarcastic clap, I settle on slowly turning my head away in utter disdain. Yes, thank you for enlightening me. Brittany is in France… whatever next? Shall I have to bear you pointing it out on the map like I am some sort of imbecile?

Sulking, I correctly call the next five answers before Maura does, silently and malevolently calling her names in my head. Eventually mollified by my own wisdom, I benevolently turn towards her once again. She is only human; I should forgive her for not having the superior awareness of a tortoise.

In the next instant, I take it all back as the strawberry is practically forced into my mouth.

Outrageous! How dare she? Who does she think she is? Perhaps, she’s trying to poison me…

Then the explosion of taste registers in my mouth. I chew slowly, thoughtfully, trying to find fault. Facing defeat, I finally settle on a grudging acceptable, don’t ever pull that kind of stunt again look.

She wears a knowing smirk.

I glower and return my eyes to the screen, trying very hard not to make a Faustian–type bargain for those thumbs.

“You know, I think you’re old enough now that I can bring over a… gentleman friend. Next Friday night. What do you think, Bass?”

I practically choke on the strawberry so deep and disbelieving is my snort.

What do I think?

WHAT DO I THINK?

Make plenty popcorn, that’s what.

I wouldn’t miss this clusterf–iasco for the world.

Day 302

“Hey, little guy.”

Strike one.

Thirty seconds in – impressive. This one’s clearly going for the record.

“He’s awfully cute, isn’t he, Maura?” The guy winks at me conspiratorially as he checks his breath and pops a mint into his mouth.

Strike two.

Where does she find these human males? And why is it their looks are inversely proportional to the size of their brain?

“Here’s your wine, Peter.”

“Thanks. You got a nice place, Maura. What does one of these babies fetch on the market these days?”

“Well, I haven’t recently had it appraised…”

Oh Jesus, Maura, come on. Really? I mean REALLY? How did you even let this… this douche, I pat myself on the back for the appropriate use of a forgotten word, through the door? I mean, sure, he is all ripped muscles and Days of Our Lives looks but he is totally going to take you for everything you’ve got.

Strike three.

All within five minutes… time to take a little walk.

I lumber slowly towards the kitchen, making a mental checklist as I waddle along: strong smell of alcohol on his breath –check; mint in mouth – check, gold digger – check. So all in all, I have around fifteen minutes before he offers to go get the rest of the wine and take this party upstairs.

I make it to my stash in eight. It takes another six to prod the strawberry into place and move into position. One minute to spare… I relax and wait, marvelling at how fantastic it is that a Kodak camera simply requires a gentle tap of a nice big round button.

So simple… so perfect… any idiot can work it; certainly one this side of the savant.

As he rounds the kitchen island, I push the button down with my nose.

Say hello to my little friend…

“What the –” is the startled response as the flash goes off, blinding him for just a second. I immediately start to clamber onto the camera, making it look like an accident. Speaking of which, the slide of his foot as it encounters the strawberry, the awkward arm flailing to try and remain upright, the near pirouette into the inevitable splits… simply magnificent. I shout Bravo and award a 5.7. No–one’s ever been awarded a 6.0 but not for lack of trying, my standards are rather high… what can I say, just call me Simon Cowell.

“OhmyGod, Peter, are you alright?” Maura comes rushing though. “I’ll get some ice. Don’t move. There’s a good chance you have an adductor strain or a stress fracture.” Peter chooses that moment to groan and attempt to rise. “No, really, sit still. 77% of all accidents happen in…?”

“Jesus Christ, Maura, I don’t fucking care! As if your permanent Wikipedia mouth isn’t enough, your fucking pet just tried to kill me!”

Perceptive.

I begrudgingly tally a one to Peter’s ‘pros’ column.

“Kill you? Peter, don’t be absurd. The camera must have fallen off the counter and Bass just didn’t notice it. He’s probably more scared than you are!”

I stare into his eyes and mouth Oh yes, I’m real scared of you, pretty boy. As Maura’s eyes flit over me, I hang my head and try to appear… pitiful. For good measure, I retract my head into the shell, from which I stare balefully at this Peter as he rises awkwardly with the aid of the kitchen counter.

“Look, Maura, this has been fun and all but I am going to split.”

I chortle. Maura fails to suppress a tiny smile. Peter turns the same strawberry shade of red as is currently smeared on the bottom of his shoe.

A hopeful, “Maybe we can do this again?” follows.

She never learns.

“Yeah, I’ll call you, okay?”

Her crestfallen expression tells me that at least she knows it when she hears a barely disguised rejection.

“Well, Bass,” she picks me up as the door clicks shut behind male number ‘infinity + 1’ (in truth I lost track of the count around that ‘unfortunate’ incident with the stove), “sometimes I think I’m destined to be all alone for the rest of my life.”

Hello, what am I – a lump of coal?

“Well, not alone,” she brightens as if she reads my mind, “I’ve got you. Maybe I’ll just be like that old lady with a million cats, except I’ll have a million little Basses instead.”

She hugs me tighter.

A million Basses? I frown in horror at that thought.

All those males in my territory…

All those competitors for my strawberries…

All those rivals for her affection…

Totally and utterly intolerable.

Yes… well past time for operation Getting Maura Isles Laid.

A Day of Revelations

No, not that Revelations, all religion is just a hoax. If I thought it was worth the effort, I’d document exactly why. As it is, humanity appears to be firmly in the grip of their delusions, so honestly, why waste my time?

“What are you wearing?” Her tone is bordering on flirty… or at least Maura’s version of flirty, which is everyone else’s idea of direct and to the point.

Oh God, oh God, please don’t let this be another disastrous attempt at phone sex. I rush to get away as fast as my four stubby legs will carry me, which means I roughly move about an inch.

“No? No. No! Oh, absolutely not. I’m taking you shopping.”

Well, by the process of elimination, she was eventually going to land herself a homosexual. I am just surprised it’s taken this long; her taste in fashion is impeccable. At least her virtue will be safe with this guy, unless he doesn’t know he’s gay, or unless it’s yet another one after her money, or a greencard, or…. must be about time for Manoeuvre 26 again, now where the hell did I leave the duct tape last time?

Her voice lowers, softens, drips with affection normally reserved for me. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone needs advice sometimes, especially when it comes to picking out a dress.”

I pause with my foot raised in the air. A dress? I revise my opinion, a cross–dresser, not a homosexual… or maybe a rare cross–dressing homosexual. I wonder which one would hang in there the longer.

“I promise I’ll hold your hand the whole way. I’ll even buy you ice cream afterwards, okay?”

Ice cream – what, is she dating a kid now? She isn’t, she wouldn’t… I mean, she might be desperate, but no, just no. I shake my head to clear it of all manner of disturbing images. (Note to self – must stop watching Law & Order while Maura is at work).

“Alright, fine. Yes, you big baby. Yes, tomorrow… after work, Jane. Bye.”

Hold the phone.

Jane?

JANE?

Like the guy in Firefly, right? That Jane? The male kind of Jane… the big hulking mass of a brute who calls you ‘sweet cheeks’ and wields three guns… but secretly just longs for the love of a good woman and a place to call his own. Right, Maura?

“Have I told you about Jane Rizzoli yet, Bass?”

Hmm, let me think, dig through my memory a little. I mean probably, maybe, possibly… OF COURSE, YOU BLOODY WELL HAVEN’T!

“You know when you meet someone,” Maura methodically pours out exactly 150ml of Pinot Grigio into a glass while reaching for a strawberry, “and straight away, you have this strange connection that draws you together?”

Yes, of course, I know… because it’s like a reptilian Club Med here… just me, chilling out with my ‘ho’s…

“We have nothing in common.”

Oh.

“She doesn’t get me. Actually, she scrunches up her face like this,” Maura demonstrates by making a face she appears to think is adorable and which I think makes her, or more accurately this Jane, appear like she’s had a stroke, “whenever I state facts that she doesn’t know.”

My.

“I definitely do not get her. She isn’t logical or practical. Not like you and I are, Bass. But she’s really smart, smarter than almost anyone I know. Wouldn’t catch all the bad guys otherwise, right?” There’s a measure of pride and shades of hero worship in her voice I’m fairly certain she’s completely oblivious to.

God.

She is smarter than the dead people you hang around? Wow, that is an achievement. Feel free to wait while I fashion this Jane a gold star out of my sarcasm.

“But despite all of that, I really just enjoy… what is it the hip kids call it these days… hanging with her?” The phrase is compounded by Maura imitating the hand motions of a rapper she probably saw on MTV… about ten years ago…

It seals the deal.

And just like that, all the pieces line up.

Maura is gay.

Well, that might be an assumption. Better to say that Maura may be gay for Jane Rizzoli. Right, concentrate on facts, Bass. Maura wants Jane. Maura doesn’t know that she wants Jane. Maura doesn’t know what she wants. Maura has never known…

FOCUS.

Possibility: Jane is gay. Maura makes a move and in her endearingly gawky way, screws up (like she always does), Jane runs into the night. Maura pines after Jane, Maura can no longer work together with Jane. Maura leaves work and spends rest of life eating Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food on the couch, watching soap after soap.

A shudder shakes my shell.

Not on my watch.

Probability: Jane is straight. Maura will never figure out how she feels and even if she does, she’ll never have the courage to say anything and they’ll just remain friends.

The only real noteworthy point: two sets of hands equal two times the strawberries and double the affection.

The plan hatches instantly. It’s brilliant, of course. What can I say, I am a genius.

It’s just too bad Rizzoli and I despised each other at first sight.

Part 2

A Day of Different Revelations

At last I’m meeting this elusive Jane. Given all it takes is some harmless serial killer on the loose, I realise that to entice her to repeat this visit I’m probably going to have to (kill again) bring out the big guns.

As Maura’s heels click down the stairs I lift my gaze to carry out a last minute inspection. Face – flawless, posture – faultless, smile – fulsome…

…yes, all in all, I’m looking pretty slick.

Tearing myself away from my reflection, I evaluate my human. Her polished shell is not on par with mine but it’s passable: an elegant ruche blouse, sleeveless (I award her points for easy access); tight white designer jeans which really show off her a–h, okay, probably best that I don’t go there. And no, not because I like her that way, Dr Phil, that’s utterly preposterous. The reptile world would never stoop to such attraction–we are not amphibians.

Go time kicks in the minute that the door swings open–time to ascertain the disposition and intent of one Dt. Jane Rizzoli. FYI world, The L Word’s pretty useless source material when in reality you have to dig your way through snow to hang out in a coffee shop and what was it–oh yes–you’re gainfully employed. A low pitched, “Why do you always look like you’re about to do a photo shoot?” interrupts my musing. Hmm, that’s definitely verging on the maybe, even if on the scale of one to cheese it’s somewhere around brie.

I catch my first sight of this vision as she crosses the threshold, needless to say recoiling stronger than a Smith and Wesson. Does she own make–up? Are those sneakers on her feet? She’s wearing sweatpants? What are we – – a bloody pit stop on her way to Dunkin Donuts?

Strike one. There’s nothing more deplorable than lack of effort… especially when one expects a welcome overnight.

She grabs the proffered glass of wine, swigging a mouthful before she’s barely shucked off her jacket. Strike two. My God, it’ll still be there when you hang your coat, you Neanderthal. I see as well as dressing you skipped Manners 101.

Appalled, I resign myself to the final disappointment. It takes precisely two more seconds–“GOD… What is THAT?” As if the affront itself is not enough her windmill arm swings to point her finger at me as if a two–bit barrister that would be better suited to barista.

Hello. My name is Bass Isles. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Alright, she probably didn’t really kill my father–although–as I eye her colossal lanky body and her great big gaping maw I think about how I never knew my father… and how–who would know better than a cop to leave no trace of evidence behind…

“Sshh, you’ll scare him.”

Not unless she threatens to sit on me.

“HE is alive?”

No, these new thirty pound paper weights are all the rage – – what do you think? I poke my head out in disbelieving confirmation.

“His name is Bass.”

Her baffled expression is both laughable and pitiable.

“Geochelone sulcata, the African Spurred Tortoise, I’ve had him since he was,” Maura indicates a puny size with her forefinger and thumb, “this big.”

Wait–what–I am sure I was bigger; all the males in the world will swear to that fact.

“Partial to British strawberries.”

They really aren’t British, Maura, it’s a great big myth; I don’t know how many more times I have to tell you this. Just like this Awesome Jane, the place you purchase them sits on a throne of lies.

“Bass… what, like after an old boyfriend?”

William M. Bass, the famous forensic anthropologist “… that founded the Body Farm,” Maura completes my thought, Jane looking even more befuddled.

“Right, yeah, that Bass…” Her mutter couldn’t fool a child. This human specimen solves crime? Perhaps alongside Scooby and his gang…

Dismayed by Maura’s taste, I’m left with only one option–a swift retreat. “It’s okay,” she dangles the strawberry in front of me enticingly. Hmm, I beg to differ–this is worse than any Peter, Steve or Brad.

“Yeah, he’s a great pet. Really interactive, I’ll bet.”

Jane’s final sarcastic comment really seals the deal. Maura’s face value, “Uh–huh,” is lost within my rising mist of rage.

So I am the pet? Not interactive enough for you, Jane? Well then, excuse me, I’ll be back in just a moment–time to whip out a nice old Chianti and a tin of beans…

~ ~ ~