This turned out pretty angsty, but I really enjoy toying with their tantalizing pasts; surely they can't be as all happy as they appear. I enjoy the idea; don't be confused when the next chapter is from Brennan's perspective. I intend this to be a flip perspective. Let me know what you think.
"No!" Booth yanked the sheets off himself in bed, sweating, the drops of glistening salt rolling down his rippling, shaking bare chest as he panted. However, his sweat wasn't how he usually liked to spend it in bed; the terror still danced in his eyes, and the dread still crushed at his heart. He looked around wildly at the shadows, fear inundating his senses and making everything visually twice as sharp, twice as bright, and the shadows twice as fast and stark against his walls.
He fell out of bed in an attempt to walk to the kitchen. Covered in a light sheen of sweat, one that smelled like stale horror, he jogged quickly to get the adrenaline sending his heart crashing around his ribcage pumping out of his system. He opened the fridge warily, and was blinded by the intense beacon that penetrated his retina. Squinting, he grabbed a bottle of beer but stopped, shaking a little harder, and put it carefully back. He poured himself a glass of lemonade instead and gulped it down. He glanced at the clock. 4 am.
He reasoned it would be time to work out anyway, have enough time to get to the office. But a snarky little voice inside his soul, his soul that looked like shatterglass and that snarky voice sitting in the middle of the bullet holes at the most broken of parts, told him that there was too much time before his 9 am desk job. Instead, he quickly dropped to the floor and proceeded to do a hundred pushups. By sixty-five, he was sweating again, but feeling more natural. By 150, having exceeded his limit after shrugging his shoulders, he was tired once more.
At this rate, he chortled grimly, I'll have the nicest body on the East coast. His working out habits had increased as the nightmares had. People had taken to commenting; guys in the office made approving remarks, his captain had noticed, and the squints had each told him separately how good he was looking – especially Angela. Even Bones had noticed, to his surprise. He had been in a t-shirt and she had commented on his biceps. He had swelled with pride and shrugged off his extra workout; it never seemed a burden.
Until these late night where fear stalked the shadows and nightmares grinned ghoulishly. Where Booth was stuck in a world of terrifying dreams that were almost a comfort. They were just reflections of his own world, of events that had occurred, that he had survived.
They were proof he remembered.
He stumbled slightly over his sweatpants and fell on top of his comforter; knowing his sweat soaked sheets were now so saturated, it was time to change them again. Drat, it had only been three days.
He shook slightly in mild trepidation for what lay in wait for him; for the little hell that had no other doors. He finally relaxed enough to drift off. Unfortunately for Booth, it was the same dream he had just escaped.
"Stay down Teddy!"
"I mean it corporal, on the ground."
The shot went out, and Booth's target fell, but they had spotted the helmet, that irritating kid's waving, bobbing head, and shot back.
"Booth!" He dropped to his knees beside Teddy, but it wasn't Teddy. It was Bones painted out for war, her hair spreading out in crimson but his dream wavered; her hair wasn't crimson. Then he saw the pool of blood dying it so, coming out of the top of her skull; only the top half wasn't there. It was gone, and her blue eyes were staring at him through a mask of death, a last mockery of love still lingering about her lips. He held her in his arms, his mouth open for a cry of soul wrenching agony, but the blood was pouring over his own face, so thick and suffocating he couldn't breathe. He gasped for air, but the sanguine copper taste flooded his mouth, his lungs. He was drowning.
He was drowning.
He reached a hand for help and a foreign voice uttered a guttural command. The bloodbath stopped, but the other tortures began.
As the hose to his feet began breaking his bones, he began to cry; he wasn't an FBI agent, he was a scared kid just out of college. He was only 22. This wasn't what he had signed up for. He glanced down at the bloody mess of his soles, but noticed they were beating his feet with bones. A femur, to his limited knowledge of working with…Brennan. His gaze was immediately drawn to the corner, to what he hadn't seen as he felt the blood still crusting on his face. He saw her gutted and mutilated body next to his chair and knew instantly whose femur it was. He felt the bile rising but the blood streaming from the sky again and he was drowning.
God, he was drowning. And they said drowning was peaceful.
"No!" Booth wrenched the twisted coverlet off himself, feverish, the recurring sweat trickling down his torpid, trembling body as he coughed for air. He realized he had been there before that same night. He angrily threw the coverlet at the clock. Five am. An hour. Another hour of torture. There was no sleeping anymore.
He rolled to his feet and angrily pulled on basketball shorts and shoes. The 24 Hour Gym neon lights were a welcome glow to his tired mind. The pretty young trainer waved cheerily; she had just gone on shift. She knew him. He was there every day, looking worse in the face, and better in the body as the weeks crept on. Booth turned on the loudest music he could find and began pumping iron, a grim look on his face as if he were about to murder someone.
The two-hour workout had exhausted his already fatigued body; he was mentally and physically spent. He had even run home, pushing himself until he wasn't sure he could make it the entire way. One thing was for sure; he'd be sore tomorrow, which rarely happened. But today had been bad.
Booth glared blearily in the mirror as he stripped for the shower and groaned.
The day hadn't even begun.