So this is another little thing I wrote trying to overcome writer's block. I actually really like it, but tell me what you think. To those reading The Beginning, I think I got past my problem, so expect an update soon.

This hasnt been looked at by anyone by me, so all mistakes are mine. Sorry.

Hank

The sound of laughter echoing in the cavernous room, ears and cheeks pink from the sting of cold air. The strange smoothness of the ice slipping underfoot followed by two seconds of panic as the ground rushes forward until-

"Ompf!" Hank Booth land heavily on his rump, sitting on the cold ice for a moment before recovering enough to lift his left hand, wincing. "Ow."

"Henry." The eight-year-old looks up as his mother clumsily skates over to him, her soft curls swaying under her purple knit cap. "I saw you fall. Are you hurt?"

"Nah, I'm alright," he tries to shrug off just like his Dad and older brother always do. But as he tries use to use his left hand to rise, a sharp pain has him falling flat again. "Ow!"

"Give me your hand," his mother commands, plopping down on the ice ungracefully next to him. That's one of the great things about his mom, she's not all girly-delicate like the girls at school, doesn't care if she looks perfect in everything she does and she's not afraid of getting hurt.

"What are you going to do?" Hank asks with a child's natural suspicion of more painful poking and prodding of an injury. He trusts him mother but can't help the hesitation as he extends his hand out.

"I am going to check for fractures and any other injuries that can occur after a fall," she tells him factually, taking his hand and gliding her fingers over it firmly but not hard enough to hurt.

"Am I going to need a cast?" he inquires, eyes alight with a mixture of worry and excitement. Something in his expression earns him a fond smile and a tug on his wool hat so that his cold ears are now surrounded by warmth.

"You are very much like your father. And no, you will not need a cast. Though I think it wise that we wrap your wrist for a day or two and surrounded it with ice to reduce swelling."

"Oh. Okay."

Dejectedly, Hank looks over to the other side of the rink where his dad is racing his sister and his brothers are shooting a hockey puck back and forth. Each moves about the ice with the same confidence and grace as if they were on a field. It's with a heavy touch of envy and self-pity that he watches them move with natural athleticism while he cradles his hurt wrist, sitting on the ground with his rear freezing from the ice.

"I wish you would tell me why you're sad." Hank looks over, his mom's intense blue gaze focused on him, but unlike those not allowed into her inner circle, he sees the deep concern and love in her eyes. "I might not be able to help, but I have found that sometimes just talking about my troubles makes me feel better."

"I don't know," he shrugs, looking back over at his family, speaking softly as guilt of his resentment has his shoulder hunching. "Zack never falls down on the ice."

"I can recall multiple times where your brother fell. I remember when all of you fall."

He squints at her, that seems like an odd thing to remember. "You do?"

"Yes. When you fall…it makes me nervous," she seems almost embarrassed, but doesn't break eye contact in her honesty. "I don't want any of you to be hurt."

"Oh. Well, Zack doesn't fall anymore. Not like me."

"Are you bothered by your brother's athletic prowess?" she asks slowly, tilting her head in uncertainty. Hank feels ashamed of his feelings, as if he has betrayed his brother, his twin, but he has never lied to his mother so he simply nods and waits for her scolding. Instead he receives a response he didn't expect. "I can understand your feelings. I feel the same way occasionally, with your father."

"Really?" Starting to get cold, Hank unconsciously moves closer to her warm body, fully expecting to be welcomed by a warm arm and he is not disappointed.

"Of course. He is rather graceful while skating, something I am not no matter how much I continue to practice," she smiles slightly, looking over at her husband playing with their daughter. "Also, at work he is physically able to do much more than I can. Though I was resentful at one time, I've learned to accept that our strengths lie in different areas."

"Yeah, but that's you and Dad," he frowns down at his skates, slowly massaging his injured hand. "Me and Zack are twins. Everyone expects us to be the same."

"I don't," she asnwers adamantly, removing her scarf to wrap his hand. "I have seen many differences between you and Zack, both in physical appearance and in personality. It doesn't make you better or inferior. It just makes you…Hank."

"Yeah, Hank, who's not good at anything," he scoffs. He can feel tears building in his eyes, threatening to blur his sight so he slightly kicks out his left skate against the ice to fight them off.

"You're wrong. For example, did you or did you not win first place in the science fair last week? On an experiment you did solely by yourself, no less." He looks up at her, tears fading away with a small smile mimicking that of his mother's as he nods. "I was very impressed and very proud, Hank. So see, everyone is the best at something, you just have to figure out what it is."

Hank shares a smile with his mother, grateful that she didn't condemn him for his thoughts. Glancing hesitantly at his father, he sheepishly confesses. "Mom…I don't really like hockey. I just play cause Dad makes it a big deal."

"What do you like?" she asks without blinking an eye, not shocked at all but curious. "Do you dislike all sports?"

"No!" Shocked at the very suggestion, pulls back. She might as well have called him a sissy! "Sports are fun! I just…it's not that fun to play when I can barely stay on my skates. Do you think Dad would be okay if I watch from the stands from now on?"

"I'm sure of it. If not, I'll kick his butt," she says confidently, her chuckle mixing with his laugh.

With an affectionate pat to his head, she begins her wobbly struggle to stand. Hank glances over at his family and catches the eye of his father. The older Booth looks concerned for a moment but lifts his hand in a thumbs-up gesture with a questioning lift a brow. Hank returns the gesture with a smile, feeling secure that even if he isn't the next Luc Robitaille, he's still a Booth. The boy starts the process of standing on the slippery ice, not seeing the warm smile from his father or aware of just how identical to his mother he is in that moment.