tabaqui told me that I am a hoor! for angst
So I wrote her an angsty!ficlet.
On The Edge and Falling Off
Not mine. Never will be.
Seeley draws the twin blades over his jaw. He can hear the harsh scrape of metal over stiff, sweaty stubble and his eyes never stop scanning the horizon. His gun in front of him, the scope just an inch from his pupil. The sun beats down on him, relentless and mind numbing. Sand is everywhere. In his clothes, against his skin, in his hair, under his fingernails, ground between his toes.
He can’t remember the last time he bathed with clean, hot water.
The shallow bill of his helmet keeps the immediate glare out of his eyes, but squinting has become second nature and he has to force his face to relax after the sunset. Or on the rare occasions that he is inside a building, under the roof of a tent.
He dreams on top of his sleeping bag. He crawls to the top of dunes and he never stands completely straight up when he’s out here. Hunting. Drifting like a shadow from ridge to ridge. Blending with the dirt and sand and brush, letting spiders and scorpions and ants crawl over him as if he was just another part of the landscape. He becomes part of the landscape.
He finishes shaving and sticks the BIC in a pocket without looking. His mouth is dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat hurts and he watches the encampment below him with the eyes of an eagle. Waiting for his target to present. Waiting for that perfect shot.
When Booth wakes, he’s just as tired as he was before he slid under the covers of his bed.
The dreams wear him out.
He misses the focus of sniping. He misses the single mindedness of it. Following orders without question and he was the best. He never missed a kill.
He never missed.
Hot water pours over him. The slick, sweet smell of shampoo and soap and conditioner. Deodorant and aftershave and as he stares at himself in the mirror, Seeley wonders when he started taking it all for granted again. He dresses mechanically and drives to work, waving at his neighbors as they send their children out into the world with Scooby-Doo backpacks and Lunchables with M&Ms.
He stops for red lights and he uses the three second rule at stop signs. He parks in the back of the lot and walks through shining Volvos and Camrys and 4x4 Explorers that have never seen actual dirt. He slides his ID card to enter an unbarred, unguarded gate and he doesn’t feel awake or alive until the moment those blue eyes find him. Track him. Touch him. Taste him.
And Seeley remembers the night when Jack’s hands ripped his shirt from his chest. When Jack’s mouth kissed from his lips to his hips. The soft rub of beard and mustache, the wet, teasing heat of Jack’s tongue and when Jack turned and the curve of his ass pressed into Seeley's groin and Jack reached to pull Seeley closer. Harder. More. Deeper. Faster. Please. Please … Now. Here.
The bones of the latest victim are spread over the table in front of them. Cam and Bones discuss age and sex and disease. Angela stares at the skull, visualizing a face and Zach collects DNA.
Jack’s voice is low and quiet and his fingers brushed the invisible, perfectly sewn seams of Seeley’s expensive suit jacket as he passed.
Yes and yes and yes …