A/N: This fic was inspired by the song "Glittering Cloud" by Imogen Heap, which is probably the best song ever. You should listen to it while reading this. It makes it a thousand times better.
Shot after shot pours into the bale of hay, and Brennan's voice drowns in the sea of gunfire.
He is still somewhere else, lost in his own reveries.
His grip tightens on the trigger of his M-40 sniper rifle, while his other hand wipes a stray bead of sweat off the nape of his neck. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as his target ambles out of his house. The older man takes the cup full of brown liquid, probably tea, and sets it on the table in the corner of his patio. His wife leans over and kisses him on the cheek.
He talks animatedly with her. Booth's heart drops as the horribly domestic scene unfolds before him. This can't be real; this man had killed hundreds of innocents for his own political gain. And now, he sits with his wife peacefully, speaking with beautiful grace his native language.
His finger pulls back on the trigger, and now the wife is screaming and the blood is pouring and Booth vomits a little into the dry bush.
Her hand graces his shoulder. The shots stop.
He blinks too hard and too frequently; he is crying and doesn't want her to see. One rebellious and persistent tear falls, though, and hits his calloused hand that still holds the gun.
Her hand, still on his shoulder, moves to his back and pulls him to her breast in a sorrowful hug. She feels the tears fall onto her printed blouse, and his large hand on the small of her back, in its rightful place. The gun falls to the ground, and her hand strokes his hair lovingly.
"You're okay now."
His head curls into the crook of her neck and he smiles a small smile.
Review plz? Kthxbi.