Many wonderful thanks to musicnlyrics, my awesome buddy and beta. To those wonderful people who are still interested in The Beginning, I AM working on the next chapter finally. There has been too much crap going on before now for me to focus on any writing. But I got it now.
Please, please tell me what you think of this one
Zack
A soft swoosh of the automatic doors announces Booth's entrance into the Jeffersonian lab. Cocky belt buckle gleaming under the bright lights, he all but swaggers straight to his wife's office. It's been a long week without any cases to share with his squint squad and he's missed spending the extra time with his partner. He opens the closed door without bothering to knock, much too comfortable in this space to even considering doing so. Brennan is sitting at her desk, typing up some report and he smiles widely at her silky hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"Hey, Bones, lunchtime. Let's g-…whoa." Brennan turns to face him, his smile falling away and he cautiously closes the door behind him. He's getting a full force stink-eye from her and for the life of him he can't figure out what he did to deserve it. "Oh-kay. You're mad."
"I was in the middle of an examination of a possible civil war soldier when I was called away. I was forced to allow an apparently inept intern to finish, so I now have to go back and correct their work."
"Ok, death to the inept intern," he smiles, hoping to charm some humor into her. That obviously doesn't work and he throws his hands up in surrender. "Come on, Bones, I didn't train the intern. Why am I getting the stink eye, huh?"
Lips tight, Brennan turns her eyes towards the couch. Bewildered, Booth follows her gaze and his confusion skyrockets even more; his son Zack is sitting on the couch, looking dejectedly down at his feet.
"Zack? Bones, why is Zack at the lab?" Thoughts of tummy-aches and fevers has Booth striding to his ten-year-old and placing his hand gently on the boy's forehead. "Hey, buddy, are you not feeling so good?"
"He's not ill, Booth," Brennan says sternly, placing papers into folders with more force than necessary. "He's here because he has been suspended for two weeks."
"Suspended for two weeks? Why?"
"Fighting and name calling."
Not sure if he can believe such an accusation, Booth looks down at his son. As if feeling the weight of his father's disappointment, Zack's head bows down, his slumped body molding into the couch.
"Though I would very much like to go to lunch, I have to give these reports to Dr. Saroyan. I'm sure she expected them earlier," Brennan adds, looking pointedly at Zack. "I think to avoid the next two weeks from becoming a vacation, we should consider either removing Zachary's electronic privileges or giving him educational assignments in addition to the class work he'll be missing."
Zach finally looks up, face scrunched. "Aww, Mom, don't-"
"I believe I told you not to speak until I asked you a direct question," she cuts him off, waiting until he looks away again before moving out of the office.
"Bones," Booth stops her just outside the doorway, his voice soft. "We both know that our Zack isn't a bully. Okay? He's just…not. There might be something else going on here."
Brennan sighs, her tense demeanor softening. "I considered that. But my anger at being interrupted and his offense clouded my thinking. Booth…I don't want our son to be one of 'those guys'."
"He's not. He's just being ten." Hoping to wipe away the stress from her eyes, he gives her lips a lingering kiss. "I'll talk to him, Bones."
She accepts his assurance and walks away, her heart heavy from the necessity of disciplining one of her deeply loved children. Booth sighs heavily, rubbing the back of neck before reentering the office. Zack is still sitting on the couch, his right foot shaking and his fingers tapping a fast rhythm on his thigh; he hates being still as much as his father. Feeling the penetrating gaze, the boy turns to face his father's stern expression.
"Alright, Zack, let's go."
Zach stands up warily. "Are you going to hit me with your belt?"
"What?" The blood drains away from Booth's face. He's made a point to never raise his hand to his children, refusing to be anything close to his own father. "No! What the hell made you think that?"
"I don't know," the boy shrugs a little in embarrassment, shuffling to his father. "When Randy got in a fight, he said his dad gave him ten smacks with a belt on his butt. Randy said it really stung."
For a moment, Booth can't speak through the clog in his throat. He knows really well just how much getting hit with a belt hurts, knows how long the welts from the hard leather can last. For a couple of months his dad really favored using his belt, gave him a longer range than his arm. Booth is pretty sure that Zack's friend didn't get hit the same way, but still his stomach clenches in rage that anyone would treat their child that way. His own young innocent child is staring up at him, so he takes a cleansing breath as he kneels down.
"Look at me," he says solemnly, looking straight into his son's deep brown eyes, identical to his own. "I will never hit you with a belt, or anything else. I promise you that. Ok?"
Zack nods, his voice a whisper following Booth's intensity. "Ok."
"Ok." Booth clears his throat, rising. He places a hand on Zack's shoulder to guide him out of the office. "We're gonna go up to the lounge, get something to drink."
Father and son walk through the lab together, Zack taking twice as many steps to keep up with Booth. The lounge is surprisingly empty for being near the lunch hour, but Booth just accepts the blessing and silently directs his son to the small couch. Knowing the boy's preference for anything sugary, Booth reaches into the small fridge and takes out one of the cans of soda he knows belongs to Hodgins. Grabbing two cups, he splits the drink into them and hands Zack one.
"Want to tell me what happened?" Booth sits, gulping down half his drink in one go.
"No," Zack says honestly.
"Well, too bad. You have to."
Zack sighs dramatically. "It's not my fault. Stupid Ricky Michelson can't take a joke."
"Really?" Zack hangs his head at his father's softly skeptical tone. "Are you sure your joke was funny, Zack?"
"Everyone laughed. I can be really funny, Dad."
Booth has to fight hard to smother a smile at what would be a smart-ass remark being truthfully and innocently spoken. His twin boys are very much him, but every once in a while their mother's influence will pop out, much to his amusement.
"He pushed me first, Dad. I just pushed harder."
"You shouldn't have pushed him at all, Zack," Booth says disapprovingly.
Zack puffs up indigently, moving forward to the very edge of his seat. "So it's ok that he pushed me?"
"No, it's not. I'm sure he's getting in trouble for that. But you were teasing him, weren't you?" Booth's holds his son's gaze, not speaking until Zack gives a small nod. Seeing the beginning of tears in the boy's eyes, Booth keeps his voice low, but firm. "Why were you teasing him, Zack? Did he do something to you?"
"I didn't want my friends to think I was a dork," he whispers softly, staring fixedly at his cup of soda resting on the table in front of him.
In his ten years, he has never been in trouble like this before. He expected yelling from his parents and the removal of certain forms of entertainment as punishment. But his mother's silent simmering anger and his father's quiet disappointment has shame eating away at his heart, clogging his throat with tears. He sniffles and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, attempting to bury himself deep inside the lounge couch to try to hide his unmanly tears from his father. But Booth silently sits next to him, wrapping a strong, comforting arm around his shoulders.
"Ricky sat next to me on the bus for our field trip last week. It was a long ride, and I got bored so I took out my notebook," Zack says softly, leaning against his father and plucking at his jeans.
"Ricky saw you writing one of your stories?" Booth asks gently, glimmers of understanding already beginning to shine through.
Zack nods. "He asked what I was doing and if he could read it. I let him and he said it was cool, and we started talking about different things that I could make happen in it and stuff. I let him read the first story of Super-Agent Max Conner too."
Booth raises his eyebrows. As far as he knows Zack hasn't let anyone but his twin and his parents read the adventures of the secret vampire FBI Agent Max Conner. His writing is the only thing Zack doesn't playfully boast or joke about and that is how Booth knows how important it is to his son.
"So, Ricky started talking about it today?" the boy nods. "You got embarrassed?"
"I didn't want the guys knowing about it. I play sports, Dad."
"So?" Booth chuckles softly. "It's okay to play sports and write your stories."
"I can't do that!" the boy looks scandalous at the mere thought.
"Says who?" There is a moment of silence as Zack struggles to find an answer. "Your Mom is good at karate and stuff, right?"
"Yeah."
"And she's a good writer too, right?"
"That's different Dad," Zack sighs, rolling his eyes. "She's a girl."
Booth holds in a chuckled at the tirade Brennan would commence if she heard her son say such a statement in her presence.
"Besides," Zack continues, his voice dropping to a mumble. "Hank's the smart one."
"Hey, that's not true," Booth tilts down until his son's own chocolate brown eyes lock with his. "Don't do that, Zack. There is no smart one, funny one, or anything. There's Hank. And there's Zack. That stuff you write, it is really, really good."
"Yeah?" Zack asks softly, looking up at his dad with a bright, hopeful smile.
"Yeah, I mean it. I am very proud that you can put words together like you do. You should be proud too," he adds pointedly.
"Yeah…but-"
"Do you like writing? Does it make you happy, Zack?" Booth interrupts gently. "Does it give you the same feeling as sliding into home or hitting a puck straight past the goalie?"
Zack takes a moment, imagining his most exhilarating memory of playing sports and comparing it to sitting in the tree fort, notebook open and pen flying as the movies playing in his head somehow flow out onto the paper. He thinks about last week, when he scored the winning goal for his hockey team, how the crowd cheered. And how only two days ago he gave his most recent story to his mother to read, how she chuckled at his words and her eyes sparkled when she told him how impressive she found his writing.
"It's better," Zack says softly.
"Yeah," Booth smiles, gazing down at his amazing little boy. "If it turns a light on inside you, like your writing does, then you hold on to it. I know you're strong enough to never let anyone take away something you love.
"Just like I know you're man enough not to do that to someone else," he adds pointedly. "And to apologize."
"I know," Zack sulks, falling back into the couch cushions. "He didn't have to push me though."
"No, he didn't. You didn't have to push him back."
"But he pushed me, Dad," Zack says perplexed.
"Zack, sometimes you have to walk away." Booth sighs deeply, flashing back to many years before, when Parker was a boy and they shared a very similar conversation. He knows he will soon have to speak to Hank about fighting as well. Christine too probably, he adds with an internal wry chuckle.
"Fighting, putting your hands on another guy, is a last resort. You have to try to walk away. If you're standing up for someone else, use that rational brain I know you inherited from your mother and talk first."
Zack looks at his father, tilting his head to the side with a small smirk. "What if it's some guy that pushes down Christine?"
"You push him down harder," Booth instantly replies. "That's just between us though. Come on, let's go get Mom some lunch."
"Do I really have to tell Ricky I'm sorry?" Zack asks as the pair rises and walks out of the lounge.
"Yes you do. And you got to be civil to him at school."
"Can I write him a letter?"
Booth shakes his head, resting a hand on his son's shoulders. "Nope. Face to face. Like a man."
"I'm a man now? Does that mean you're going to tell me what you and Mom were doing in the laundry room this morning?"