Chapter 3 Another Shirt Shed in Rescue

Hank had finished dressing and brushed his teeth. Coming downstairs, he didn't see his father in the kitchen, so he entered the living room, grabbed the remote, flipped on the television, made sure to lower its volume, and curled up on the couch with his Great-Grams' afghan to watch cartoons. Ten minutes later, Booth still hadn't appeared. Hank decided to wait some more, since he'd been cautioned not to awaken his mother. Finally, as the Power Rangers episode was ending, he heard footsteps on the stairway.

"Daddy?"

"What, Tiger?"

"You sure took a long time getting dressed!"

Booth chuckled. "I couldn't find my socks in the dark; didn't wanna wake your mom!" he told his son. Whoa-boy, too much daydreaming about last night with Bones. It's a good thing this kid can't mind read!

"You ready? Grab your jacket just in case. It's pretty warm outside, but the weather could change. Gotta be prepared, right?"

"Yup, Daddy. Tiger Cubs always are!" Hank agreed happily.

The Booth men drove to Rockville Rentals, procured the tiller, and loaded it into the SUV. On the way back home, they stopped at Brennan's favorite bakery and picked up croissants and bagels with two cups of cinnamon and chive cream cheese. Once Booth unlocked the front door, Hank carried the bag of pastries carefully into the house and set it on the kitchen counter. Father and son pushed the tiller across the driveway to the backyard, Hank's arms barely reaching the handle, Booth walking awkwardly behind him like Brennan when their son hung from the shopping cart in front of her.

"Okay, Hank, let me push it now that we've reached the grass. It would be a big help if you'd open the gate for me, please," Booth directed his son.

"Sure, Daddy."

Hank's tongue popped out as he concentrated on working the latch, just like his mom and Christine. Once he'd opened, he grinned back at his father, pleased as punch with himself.

Booth patted him on the shoulder with an open palm, he thought with a nod to Zach.

"Good job!"

After removing a section of the picket fence that kept their pets out of the garden, Booth lifted the tiller into place along a strip of grass adjacent to the already cultivated dirt. Sorry, Hodgins; after all, dirt is dirt, he smirked silently.

"Hank, go get your rake from the garage and you can help me," Booth suggested.

Hank tiptoed to reach the wall-mounted opener, entered the 4-digit code, waited for the garage door to rise, and trotted in to grab his small rake, hoe, and trowel.

"Leave the trowel, Bub; it's too early to plant any seeds."

Hank returned with the two garden tools, one in each hand, and looked at his father expectantly.

"Okay, put on these goggles like mine, and you stay in that corner, so the dirt won't get in your hair. When I turn the tiller on, some dirt clods or grass clumps are likely to get tossed up."

"Dr. Hodgins says it's soil, Daddy."

"Yah, yah, you're turning squinty on me, kid, just like your mom and her lab buddies," Booth retorted with a grin.

"Now stand back and stay clear of this thing!"

Booth jerked the starter cord and the little motor flared to life. He buried the tiller's tines into the strip of sod and started forward. Surprised by the noise, standing stock still, Hank watched in fascination as the machine whirred and buzzed, ripping and shredding the dormant thatch and tangle of roots into bits of mulch. Reaching the end of the row, his dad carefully pivoted and retraced his tracks back down the strip of sod. Then he killed the engine with the push of a button, and turned to survey his work.

"One more pass ought to do it, Hank-o. We'll be finished before you know it, and I'll take you to the park to lob the football between us!"

"Yay!"

Adjusting the tiller's position, he pulled the starter cord again. The machine coughed and hesitated. A large knot of earth and roots was caught between the tiller blades. Booth leaned over to pull it loose, and gasped. His index finger spurted blood.

Hank rushed over, tore off his goggles, and yanked off his shirt.

"Here, Daddy!" he said, handing Booth the gray Batman t-shirt. "I help like you!"

The previous night, Hank and Christine had wanted to know why their parents were delayed stopping by to tuck them in, and ended up staying home. They also noticed that Booth black t-shirt was now gray. Brennan explained carefully that one of Daddy's co-workers had cut his hand, and their father had lent his t-shirt as a bandage. Since both children had endured stitched-up lacerations in the past and seriously disliked the unpleasant experiences, she omitted the more graphic details.

Booth took the small shirt, wound it around his finger, and smiled at his son.

"Thank you, Hank. You're a real helper."

"Does it hurt, Daddy?"

"Oh, not too badly, but I need to go in the house and get a bandage. Can you open the back door for me, please?"

Hank scampered up the patio steps, and grasped the door knob.

"Daddy, it's locked!"

"Reach in my pocket and get the key….Nope, you know what? Let's just go around front, and ring the doorbell. Your mom should be awake by now. And if she isn't, she'll need to be. I'm gonna need some help with bandaging this cut."

"I can help you!" Hank declared. "You can use one of my Superman band-aids!"

By this time, the pair had reached the front porch, and Hank pressed the doorbell. Brennan looked up from her journal, and opened the door.

"What happened?"

"Daddy got cutted, Mommy!"

Brennan didn't even stop to correct her son's grammar, but reached for Booth's hand.

"Let me see, Booth," she requested.

Leading him to the kitchen, she gently backed him onto a stool, opened the cabinet and took out her first aid kit. Unwinding the t-shirt, she examined the cut, replaced the cloth and pressed down, then looked up at her husband.

"I don't believe you need stitches; Steri-strips ought to be sufficient. We'll give it an hour and if the bleeding hasn't stopped, we can go to Dr. Frederick's office. His PA is on call for urgent care this afternoon."

After covering the Steri-strips with a Batman band-aid while Hank watched closely, since the Superman strips were gone, Brennan ran cold water in the laundry room sink and put Hank's t-shirt in to soak with a generous squirt of Gonzo on the stain.

"It was very sweet of you to give Daddy your favorite shirt for his hand, Hank. You're a very considerate son," she told her little boy who beamed with pride. Returning to the kitchen to fix Booth a cup of coffee, she glanced at his torso.

"Oh, Booth, there is blood on your Flyers t-shirt. If you take it off, I'll soak it with Hank's."

The agent pulled the shirt over his head, careful not to dislodge the bandage on his finger, and handed it to his wife. She leaned up and kissed him, then whispered in his ear.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, but seeing you shirtless makes me think perhaps we could call Isaiah to take the kids to the park later this afternoon. I'm sure he'd be glad for the extra money, and I can think of some ways I can help you recuperate!"

"Good idea for later, Bones, but first, I've got to finish with this tiller and get it returned to Rockville Rentals before my 4 hours is up. I don't want to pay extra to keep it longer!"

"I will finish the tilling, and you may supervise, Booth. Keep your finger elevated, bring your coffee out and sit on the porch. If you'd been wearing work gloves, that cut wouldn't have happened," she scolded gently, pulling her own skull-print garden gloves from a drawer by the back door and putting them on.

"I don't want to hear any guff, Booth! I'm perfectly capable of operating a tiller! You've finished one pass, all you need is another. I'm not helpless; I tilled a garden during grad school long before I met you!"

Grumbling, Booth followed her outside. Hank perched on his lap, and Christine picked up her brother's rake and hoe, carrying them back to the garage.

"Thanks, Monkey, that's very helpful," Booth said.

Suddenly, Brennan stopped, thought, pressed the tiller's kill switch, and turned to look at her boys with a frown.

"Hank Booth, go in the house, get a shirt from the laundry room, and stop running around bare-chested. It's warmer than usual out here, but you don't need to look like Tarzan or risk catching a cold. There's a clean load of laundry in the dryer. While you're in there, you can fold the socks."

"Momma!" Hank whined. "I wanna watch!"

"Okay, fine, you can do that chore later. But get dressed, please!"

bbbbbbbbbbbbbb

Later that afternoon, once the tiller was returned, a delayed lunch was consumed, and Isaiah arrived, the Booth children headed happily to the park. Their parents retired to their master bedroom, where Brennan expertly distracted Booth from his laceration, all the while mindful of its condition.

Kissing her soundly, he griped, "I can't reciprocate with this dang cut, Bones!"

"Kindly lie still or you'll trigger more bleeding and then we'll have to postpone these pleasantries while you get sutured!"

She gave him a wicked smile. "You know, I have sutured people when necessary on dig expeditions in the past. I passed EMT certification in 2002. I could stitch your finger for you….."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary, Bones. I'll just stick this finger back up in the air!" Booth assured her.

"You may have to go shirtless more often, Booth. I find it very alluring."

"Yeah, and we'll have Hank running around sick, trying to imitate me. He copies everything I do, just like Parker used to!"

"You have a point. Now hush, and let me get back to business! The kids will be back in an hour!"

"Sound good to me, Dr. Brennan; you have the perfect healing touch," he replied happily as she expertly massaged his back and gradually moved further down…..