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I don't own Bones.

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The game at the half way mark, Booth was growing frustrated with the defensive line. Furious that the quarterback had been sacked twice in the last two plays of the second quarter, he was cursing when his daughter entered the room.

"Daddy, I need your help."

Embarrassed that she had heard him use curse words, Booth blushed and turned the sound down on his TV. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been using bad words . . . Don't repeat those please. They're very bad words and not to be used by anyone in this family."

Holding up a bottle of finger nail polish, Christine thrust the bottle at her father. "I need you to help me put this on, Daddy. Mommy promised to paint my nails today so I could have pretty nails for Jane's birthday party this afternoon, but she's at work. Please Daddy."

Disconcerted, Booth took the bottle and looked at it. "Aren't you too young for this?"

Shocked, Christine stamped her foot. "Daddy, I'm ten years old. I'm not a baby. Mommy usually helps me because she says I'm messy . . . please Daddy. Jane's party is in two hours."

His eyes flicking between the TV screen, his daughter and the nail polish. Booth finally turned the TV off. "Alright . . . go sit at the island." Muttering under his breath, Booth carried the bottle over to the island and sat down next to his daughter. "Hold your fingers steady or you'll end up with painted fingers."

Pressing her splayed hand on to the counter, Christine watched as he father shook the little bottle and then opened it. "Do you know how to put the polish on, Daddy?"

The bottle now open, Booth looked at the glistening bright orange nail polish on the brush. "Of course I know how. Who do you think did your mother's toenails when she was pregnant with Hank? . . . Well I did it once and I think I did a pretty good job."

Hank, hearing his name used as he walked down the hallway, hurried over to the island and crawled up on one of the chairs. Finally leaning over the counter, he watched his father paint his sister's fingernails. "Me next Daddy."

Startled, Booth looked at his son, "Nope . . . Just Christine, Hank. This is girly stuff."

"Nah uh." Shaking his head, Hank moved a little closer to his sister, so he could watch her nails being transformed. "I seen guys with paint on their fingers." Poking his tongue in his cheek, he studied the job his father was doing. "You gots record albums with guys with paint on their fingers."

Pausing, Booth glanced at his son and scowled. "They're musicians, Hank. Musicians do a lot of things normal people don't do."

Confused, Hank placed his hands on the counter and leaned on them. "Like what?"

His four year old son was curious like his wife and daughter and Booth was proud of that, but sometimes they all asked him questions that he didn't want to answer. "Um . . . They're like clowns. You know clowns wear makeup and most guys don't . . . see?"

Leaning on his elbows, Hank pouted, "I want orange fingers, Daddy. I can wear my Phillies shirt and my fingers would be orange too."

Hanks plea made Booth realize that it wasn't that big a deal if it made his boy happy. "Alright . . . I guess it's alright."

Slipping off his chair, Hank ran down the hallway to his bedroom. "I'll go get my shirt."

Amused, Christine rolled her eyes. "He really loves the Flyers."

Proud of his children, Booth smiled. "Yeah . . . he sure does."

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