Title : Wish I May

Disclaimer : Me no own, You no sue.

Warning : Slash, language

Note : This is just a series of drabbles. They are separated with a "-z-"

Note2 : Title is from Breaking Benjamin's "Wish I May"


"Hey, Booth," Hodgins gets the agent's attention, "did you know that our favorite little Zachy-boy here, has never been in a real fight?"

Booth paused mid-drink before turning to Zach and cooing, "Aww, that's so sweet!"

"He's lying," Zach's usually robotic-like voice trembled slightly with indignation. "I punched him in the face."

Booth jerked his eyebrows up and sent a questioning look at Hodgins.

"It's true," Hodgins grudgingly admitted, absently stroking his lower lip.


"What?" Booth didn't take his eyes off the road.

"I didn't say anything," Brennan watched the passing scenery.

"That's the thing," Booth waved his hand in the anthropologist's general direction. "I know you saw us and I know you have something to say. So, do us both a favor and just say it."

Temperance Brennan eyed the special agent's profile: prominent brow, flexing jaw muscles, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He was nervous. The corner of her lip twitched upwards.

"You think I'm going to be mad?" another flex of Booth's jaw. "You think I'm going to condemn you."

The large government-owned SUV came to a slow stop at a red light.


"I'm fucking one of your subordinates, Bones, what else do you want me to think?"

The heavy silence suffocated them both.

"Are you happy?"

Booth's head snapped to look at Brennan as if he had been slapped.

"Is Zach happy?" Brennan's voice was soft, maternal.

Booth's mouth opened as if to say something but no words made it through his lips.

"Do you make my boy happy?" Brennan's voice was stressed, as if desperate for the answer.

"Yes," Booth's reply was weak, but as he continued, his voice became stronger. "I make him happy. I make him happy, Bones."


Zach Addy was running. Running so hard and so fast.

His lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His muscles on fire as the adrenaline raged though them, his body desperate to just get. Away. Now.


Seeley Booth was driving. Driving without care or worry.

His hands tapping on the steering wheel with the beat of the song on the radio. His mind wandering to thoughts on his favorite subject: The Squint Squad.


Zach didn't know if they were still after him. And he didn't dare chance a look.

So he kept running. He wondered how much longer he had before his body would finally crumple into itself.


Booth missed his little group of squints while he had been away. Now that he was back, and with a case, he was on his way to pay them a visit.

So he stepped on the gas just a little but more. But before he had time to wonder what his first words would be, he saw the briefest flash of blue shirt and floppy brown hair before the government-owned SUV collided with it.


Zach Addy was addicted. He never thought of himself as one capable of addiction. And yet, here he was, curled up in the presence of everything that was Booth: safety, warmth, power.


Seeley Booth was addicted. He never thought he would see the Baby Squint like that. And yet, here he was, intertwined with the kid he had very nearly killed with his own vehicle. maybe it was the kid's readiness to forgive him, or the shaggy hair, or, perhaps it was the way Zach had shyly initiated that first kiss.


Sometimes, when the nightmares would come in the middle of the night and Booth couldn't go back to sleep, he would sing. He would sing his army cadence and walk around his apartment, cleaning and tidying things up a bit.

The first time Zach was present for the phenomenon, he watched Booth from a distance. He could never have looked away.

Booth always knew when Zach watched him. He wondered if he should acknowledge the younger man, but each time he made to do so, he would decided against it at the last minute and switch to the next cadence.

The songs brought on the images of the dust and sand, the ghost of the sun's kiss across his arms and chest and neck, the whispers of laughing men and clinking bottles and click clack of guns being cleaned, the fading stench of cigarette smoke and death.