Title: The Winner Takes It All
Author: atrosie
Rating: T/PG-13
Pairing: B/B implied, Zack/Naomi
Spoilers: The Woman in the Car, specifically; general first season otherwise.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. So who does? There's a list at the end. The title belongs to Laura Branigan.
A/N: Dedicated to Grumpy, who always appreciated humor and encouraged me for twenty-two years. Miss you muchly! Comments and criticisms are always appreciated. Flames are used to control my heating bill. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed my previous fics.
Summary: "What are you afraid I'll do? Build a race of criminal robots who'll destroy the earth?" Zack-centric.
The Winner Takes It All
It had started as a hobby, something his parents encouraged because it kept him out of trouble, both with school and his siblings. He'd cobble them together from old car parts, broken bits of radios and the leftovers from the weird appliances in his uncle's used items store. The first one had caught on fire and burnt off his eyebrows; the second had exploded in the back yard, terrifying the chickens and scaring one of the cats. Poor Shaunessy had never been the same.
The third was a success; it was able to calculate (mostly thanks to his sister Jill's old TI-30) and perform small duties. Unfortunately, he had left it sitting in his father's ancient orange easy chair, and from then on, robots were banned in the Addy house.
It was when he'd left for college that the robots became decidedly more complicated. He and his roommate built a couple of small ones during their freshman and sophomore years, giving them away to the girls on the upper floor in return for laundry favors. The robots were able to do simple dances and play a few songs, and the girls thought they were cute.
Their junior year, living in a ramshackle house with a guy who was a poster boy for Coors, they'd built a miniature R2-D2, complete with pop-out lightsaber and various beeps and twitters. Jeff, the other roommate, suggested adding a compartment for ice and beer, and when the ice leaked into the wiring and nearly burned down the house, they'd all sworn off robots, at least until after graduation.
The summer before grad school started, he and a couple of prep school friends (one a graduate from ITT Tech; another from Colorado State's engineering program) hung out together and set about creating the ultimate robot. It took nearly two months, but they finally completed her on the second day of August.
Her name was Pandora, named as much for the hot girl who worked in the local Dairy Queen as for the myth. She could complete several household chores: sweeping, mopping and vacuuming as well as light dusting (on old coffee tables with nothing else on them); she was able to feed the dogs and the cats on the farm, carefully measuring out dry food and opening cans. Set a garden hose in one appendage and turn it on - she made for an excellent sprinkler system. They'd hooked up an old fire detector to her, along with one for carbon monoxide, a thermostat, a barometer and an alarm clock. Pandora was, they truly believed, the ultimate in robotics.
Unfortunately, Pandora was also the ultimate in lightening rods. Two weeks after they'd completed her, Pandora was on the roof of the high school when she was hit. They'd never caught the culprits, though he still felt that his sister's eight-year-old twins were to blame.
And that had been the end of his serious robot career. He still built the small ones, mostly as a hobby and to give as gifts, but his focus now was on bones and forensics and the Jeffersonian.
Until that Pickering lady showed up at work, asking questions about security and valuable pieces of information. He'd really only paid her just enough attention to keep her off his back; the majority of his concentration had been on the case. Only one thing stuck in his mind.
"What are you afraid I'll do? Build a race of criminal robots who'll destroy the earth?"
"Do you have that fantasy often?"
"Very often."
And he'd only been half-kidding, really. It wasn't poor Pickering's fault that she'd been sent to question their odd little group: Dr. Brennan with her stubbornness and strong belief in justice, Hodgins with his conspiracy theories, and Angela with her utter wackadoo but lovable nature. It wasn't Pickering's fault that he was beginning to see how cruel the world could be, with the deaths and kidnappings of children and the brutal murders of innocents.
Not that he was a complete innocent himself. Growing up on a farm with seven siblings meant death was a regular visitor. Between the cows, pigs and chickens being slaughtered and fighting and giving birth, he'd learned some early lessons about how life worked. And while he'd never been beaten up or even really bullied at school (something he was sure his older brothers had a part of - he was a prime candidate for the kids to target), he'd gotten into plenty of fights with his siblings. He still could hold his own. Maybe not against someone like Booth, but he was betting that he could beat Hodgins in a fair fight, upper body strength notwithstanding.
And Dr. Brennan's way of dealing was helpful while he was at work. Focus on the details was a constant litany in his mind, but her voice had usually faded by the time Hodgins dropped him off at the garage apartment. So he'd begun working on his robots again, making one for each case they'd worked on since little Charlie's body had crossed paths with his. Therapeutic engineering, his psychology-major sister called it. Dealing, he said.
His sister was the only person who knew anything about what his job was really like, and honestly, she was the only person in his family who could really understand. They'd been close when they were young, mostly because they were the almost-babies of the family (he was a whole eleven months younger than her, and thirteen months older than Lucy, the actual baby; their other siblings were four years or more their elders.) Beth's current classes also granted her insight into the real world, something that the other members of their family could hear about on the news or read about in the paper, but never really comprehend, and this was what connected them.
"The guy seriously cut off the kid's finger? Ew, Zack. That's both disgusting and barbaric."
Beth made gagging noises, and he grinned.
"Yeah, poor kid. But the finger did help us find him." He shrugged, knowing that even if she couldn't see him, she'd know what he was doing. Beth always knew.
"Hmm," she replied, and he could faintly hear beeping as her oven timer went off.
"Whatcha making?" He studied the half-finished robot in front of him. All it really needed at this point was a small speaker and a song, but he was having trouble figuring out which tune was appropriate.
"It's some garlic and beef thing. One of those South Beach Diet frozen meals." She made more gagging noises. "It's got cauliflower. Nasty."
"So pick it out, Lillie-Beth." He began attaching the wiring for the speaker, still running through songs. Something by Tom Petty?
"It's gonna leave behind that gross cauliflower taste. Anyway, they caught the guy? Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth?"
"'Course they did. Hey, help me think of a song, will you? I'm having trouble with this one." He superglued the speaker to the front of the robot, careful to keep the glue from getting on his fingers.
Beth hummed the Jeopardy! themesong, something she always did while thinking, and he wondered if she did the same thing when taking a test. "Something by Tom Petty?" she finally suggested, and he had to grin.
"But what? I don't really think "American Girl" is appropriate here."
"Maybe something of Sting's. Ooh, how about "Fragile"? That's a good one."
"Yeah ..." but that one didn't seem quite right either. He figured something would come, though, and put it off until later. The robot could wait.
"How're classes going?" Beth chuckled and began telling him about one professor's antics.
"He's just like a conductor, it's absolutely hilarious! Waves his arms around like a maniac, does these grandiose gestures - honestly, I'm glad he puts his slides online. Vic and I would never get a decent grade if he didn't. It's kinda like when Mom drives and listens to Beethoven and conducts at the same time, only we're less likely to be killed by it."
"Unless he has a knife in his hand," he said, and she laughed.
"He's my poli-sci teacher, so I wouldn't put it past him." They continued talking for a while, but she finally had to get off the phone. "Vic needs to call Simon," she explained, "and anyway, CSI is on. Bye, little bro-ha. E-mail me and let me know what song you pick."
"Will do," he replied, and they hung up. He sat for a minute longer, debating about whether he should do the dishes or just leave them for the morning, and decided on the latter. He carefully put his tools away before heading into the bathroom and following the nightly ritual of hand and face washing and tooth brushing, then changed into pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt before flopping into bed.
Falling asleep after a big case was always difficult, but he'd finally come up with a system. Instead of counting to one hundred or imagining cows jumping over the moon (something he'd done when he was little), he began silently naming all the bones in the human body, in alphabetical order.
Calcaneus, capitate, clavicle, coccyx, cuboidal, distal phalanges …
Dr. Brennan was wearing a tight blue pleather bra and short-shorts, legs encased in thigh-high matching blue boots. Angela was wearing a similar outfit, featuring red pleather and a miniskirt instead of shorts. Hodgins was wearing black leather pants and a shirt similar to those worn by pirates in movies and on the covers of romance novels. Booth was nowhere in sight.
"Australia's been taken, Dr. Addy," Brennan said, smiling and fluttering her lashes, and he nodded graciously in reply.
"Good, good," he heard himself say, and his voice was surprisingly similar to Darth Vader's, without the heavy breathing. "They were the last of the planet, correct?"
"Mm-hmm. They put up a good fight, too, but they were just no challenge for the Beasts." Brennan fluttered her lashes again.
"I'm already working on my portrait of their defeat," Angela put in, fluttering her own lashes, and bending over to give him a good view of her cleavage. "It's going to need a lot of red."
"Excellent," he replied, tenting his fingers and glancing at Hodgins. "What about your research?"
The man stepped closer, bowing slightly and grinning evilly. "The aliens have been giving us some great data, Dr. Addy, and sharing a lot about the members of the Consortium. Turns out that Roswell was not the beginning, like we originally thought, but instead some sort of big frat party they had that got a little out of control. They'd like to set up a meeting with you, to talk about your plans for earth and specifically about the robots. And they want to know when they can expect that big shipment of chocolate."
"As soon as it's ready to go. And let them know what's good for me; check with Naomi for my schedule. Also, check with Goodman, find out how the new religion is taking." Hodgins nodded and bowed before walking off to complete his tasks. "Oh, and send Booth up when you get the chance. She's getting a little frisky again." He glanced at Brennan, who had somehow come up with a pole and was now gyrating against it, in an uncoordinated but still sexy dance.
Beth suddenly appeared, wearing a lab coat and ski goggles, her brown curls in disarray. She pushed the goggles on top of her head and grinned at him. "I finally figured out what to do to Pickering," she exclaimed, "I'm making her sing show tunes from "My Fair Lady" until she apologizes to Hodgins. He keeps antagonizing her, so it should be awhile." She glanced to the side. "What the hell are they doing?"
Angela had joined Brennan at the pole, and her dancing was a lot better. Zack watched for a minute before pulling himself away. "Nice going, Lillie-Beth. Have you figured out what to do with Trump and Bush yet?"
She made a face. "I'm still working on that. I'm trying to come up with something really evil, but I'm having a hard time. Got any ideas?" Her eyes slid back to Angela, Brennan and the pole, and Zack willed his to stay on her face.
"Ask Hodgins. I'm sure that he and the aliens can come up with something that's absolutely perfect." He watched her for a moment longer, then, "Go ahead, join them. You deserve a break."
"Thanks, almighty bro-ha!" She stripped off her lab coat, but left the ski goggles, and headed over to the pole. He watched them dance around it, Brennan getting some tribal thing going, when Booth appeared, Parker sitting on his shoulders.
"Hey, Zack," he said, and Parker echoed him. "I hear that she needs some discipline again." He tapped his chin for emphasis, and Zack sighed in relief. Brennan was fun to look at, but she needed someone strong in bed.
"Thank God," he muttered. "Take her when you want, Parker can hang out here." He grinned at the boy, and Booth squatted down so Parker could get off. "Oh, hey, any ideas about Bush and Trump? Beth can't figure out a good punishment."
Booth grinned. "Think like Lois," he said cryptically, and headed over to the girls. Zack and Parker watched as he threw Brennan over his shoulder and headed off, Brennan shouting threats all the way.
After they left, the pole disappeared, and Beth, disappointed, slipped back into her lab coat and walked away, presumably to continue thinking of ways to torture their enemies. Angela snapped her fingers, and an easel and paints appeared in front of her. She started painting, and Zack and Parker watched, enthralled. As sexy as she was while pole-dancing, Angela was twice that while painting.
"Wow," he said a few minutes later. "There is a lot of red in there, Ang."
She smiled. "They're your Beasts, Dr. Addy," she simpered, and continued painting, adding more red. "And really, the color is crimson."
They watched until Parker started complaining. "Can we play a game, Dr. Addy?"
"Sure," he replied, turning back to the boy and gesturing. A table and chair appeared in front of them, and Parker took a seat. "What do you want to play?"
"Monopoly," he said, and the game shimmered into place. It was the NASCAR edition, a present from Zack's father for his conquest of Asia, and featured raceways instead of railways, something that Parker always found amusing.
They had been playing for a while, and Parker was winning by a large margin, when Naomi walked in. Dressed in a green pleather catsuit with obviously enhanced cleavage, she fluttered her lashes at him as she settled herself on his lap.
"I have your schedule for tomorrow, Dr. Addy," she purred, and he rolled the dice.
"Good, Naomi. Did you set up that meeting with the alien leader?"
"Of course, Dr. Addy," she shifted slightly, and he grinned.
"And that chocolate shipment went out?"
"Of course, Dr. Addy."
"When can we expect more curling irons? The girls have been complaining about theirs."
"This is true," Angela chimed in. "Mine's broken again, especially after that last thing with Camilla. Who knew those hats could protect them so well?"
"Mine needs replacing too, Dr. Addy. I put in the order yesterday; they should be here by the end of the week." Naomi shifted again, and Zack suppressed a groan. Goodman would be up soon; he could send Parker off with him, and he and Naomi could ... speak of the devil.
"Dr. Goodman," he greeted, holding out a hand. Even if he was now a subordinate, he still deserved respect.
"Dr. Addy," he replied. "You wanted to know how the religion was going, correct?" Goodman was wearing an Armani suit and looked impeccable as always, though his Afro needed a trim. And a new dye job - the purple was wearing out.
"The people really are accepting it, Dr. Addy. Combining all the common aspects of the major religions seems to be working, and people seem to like not being forced into churches or worship." He glanced at Angela's painting. "That's turning out nicely, Ms. Montenegro. I like the red." He turned back to Zack, ignoring Angela's muttering of "it's not red, it's crimson." "Anything else you would like me to do, Dr. Addy?"
Zack gestured to Parker. "Mind playing a bit of Monopoly with Parker? I have a few things I need to take care of." He was careful to not look at Naomi, but he knew Goodman got the picture.
"Certainly, I'd love to play with the boy." Another chair appeared, and Goodman took a seat. "Mind if my daughters join us, Parker?"
Zack scooped up Naomi and headed out, just as two more chairs appeared with Goodman's girls on them. The three kids began talking excitedly about their upcoming trip to the Moon, and he heard Angela chiming in.
He carried Naomi down the hall and into the elevator, and pressed the UP button. As they began to move, Naomi's zipper came down (gravity, you know), and just when things were starting to get good, the security alarms went off.
The loud beeping of his clock radio alarm jarred him out of the dream, and Zack couldn't stop a groan. Of all the places to end it, ending it with Naomi stripping in an elevator was absolutely the worst. Monopoly with Parker, a kid he'd never met? Nah, he could sit through all of that. But giving him a beautiful woman, and the dream was over like that.
He had to wonder at his dream self's intelligence, though. Sending a dancing Brennan off with Booth? What the hell was he thinking?
There had been a song playing softly in the background throughout the entire dream, though, and he was trying to figure out what it was from. Simple piano music, with violins in places, it was pretty and soothing and everything the dream was not. Something was coming to mind, something about chocolates and life ...
Aha, the "Forrest Gump Suite." That was it. And it was perfect.
Finis
Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, or any of the following.
Star Wars belongs to George Lucas, and the idea for an alcohol-storing astromech comes from Aaron Allston's Star Wars: X-Wing: Solo Command, and belongs to him and Face.
Dairy Queen belongs to Berkshire-Hathaway, Inc.
The Jeopardy! themesong belongs to Sony Pictures.
Bro-ha belongs entirely to my little sister.
My Fair Lady belongs to George Bernard Shaw.
NASCAR belongs to itself.
Monopoly belongs to Milton-Bradley.
Coors belongs to well, Coors Brewing Company.
ITT Tech and CSU belong to ... I have absolutely no idea. But I don't own them.
Bush, Trump and Camilla belong to their own bad selves. No disrespect intended. Really.
The Simpsons belong to FOX and Matt Groening.
The X-Files belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.
CSI: and CSI:Miami belong to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and a whole lot of other people.
The Young Wizards, the curling irons, and the idea that aliens love chocolate belong to Diane Duane.
Anne of Windy Poplars and James Pringle belong to L.M. Montgomery.
Lois and Malcolm in the Middle belong to FOX and Linwood Boomer.
The "Forrest Gump Suite" belongs to Alan Silvestri.
If there are any references that I missed, don't hesitate to let me know. Please review!