Just an average morning (K+/Angst) A Oneshot

This is one of the oneshots I told you about. It was written during my writer's block time, and it took me forever to find the words and type them down.

Anyway, I hope you all like it!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

He opens his eyes to find the room in darkness. He tries to go back to sleep, even though experience has taught him to know better: when he wakes up like this, there's no way he'll be blessed with the unconscious oblivion of sleep again.

He knows his dreams are to blame. He can't remember precisely what they were this time, he only knows the way they make him feel—guilty. His heart is burdened with remorse, the pain that regretting so much brings to the soul unbidden in the early hours of the day.

Maybe he should be thankful his dreams are forgotten as soon as he opens his eyes. He doesn't know if he could handle the truth they would surely portray. What if they were about his time in the desert, a sea of sand all around, an unfathomable thirst, and a list of people he had to put a bullet through? Or maybe they were about Kosovo, and an even longer list telling him he had to execute faces he could still remember registering the shock of the sudden ending to their lives. Or perhaps it was a more egocentric dream and it was an endless recount of the worse tortures he'd endured, reminding him of how close he'd been to spilling the beans and the terrible consequences it would have brought to so many people.

He had either done or been too close to doing so many terrible things he is sure the best he can hope for is the Purgatory.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispers to the dark.

Giving up, he sits on the bed and hears himself let a sigh escape, feeling just as tired as he felt the night before. He doesn't dare looking at the clock on the bedside table, afraid the numbers showing on it tell him he hadn't even gotten a couple hours of rest.

Trying to distract himself from the emotional pain gnawing at him, he gets up and decides he could use some physical exercises to distract his thoughts from the memories that kept coming to his mind eye. Taking some lifting weights out of the closet by memory and walking to the living room, he starts doing the indoor routine he learned during his Ranger Training days, lights still off.

Soon afterwards, sweat runs freely down his face, his neck, his back. The pain appears in his too-tired muscles, imploring him to stop. But he won't, using the discomfort as a punishment for his crimes. His numerous crimes. Oh, God. I am so, so sorry.

It's only when he's sure he won't be able to tell sweat from tears that he allows himself to cry. It's only when his breath is so ragged he won't know the difference that he permits the sobs to appear.

The strenuous exercises and the halted breathing his hidden crying has imposed takes all the strength he had left. Letting himself drop to the floor, he tries to regain composure. Back in his room the alarm clock begins to ring, reminding him there's a job he is supposed to get to that morning.

He stands up, ignoring the cry his body makes at the effort. He walks to his room and turns the alarm off and, reaching the bathroom, knows he can't avoid turning the lights on any longer.

He flicks one finger on the switch, eyes closed to protect his eyes from the sudden brilliance in the room. He stands up in front of the mirror, hands on the faucet. And finally looks at the reflection.

His eyes are red, lids just a bit swollen. His skin is flushed and wet and the wrinkles around his eyes are a tad deeper that they were last day's morning. His mouth, so fond of smiling, has a an expression that makes him look bitter. At the world. At life. At himself.

He should be thankful. He has way more than he deserves. He has a marvelous son, who keeps delighting him and making him proud. If he hasn't done anything else valuable in his life, his son is a joy he wouldn't change for the world.

And he has Bones. Sort of.

He undresses himself and steps into the shower, trying to get ready for the day. As the water runs through his body, the memory of her brings the first little smile to his lips. Because as always, it's her and the way she fights to make things right and bring justice to the world—in her own unique way—that reminds him why he keeps doing the same.

That's why he's always trying to help her choose the right guy. She deserves much more than what he could give her; she deserves the best guy available. She deserves someone who won't leave, someone who'll love her for all that she is, who will cherish her for the precious little annoying thing she can be. Someone who'll know how lucky they are for being with her. Someone whose crimes won't stain the love she deserves.

Because no matter how much he loves her, he knows he's simply not enough.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

Do you ever wonder how it is for Booth to feel so much regret? so much guilt? I do. This shot just tried to reflect some of that pain...

Oh Aloe, your Booth is so, so tortured.

It's only when he's sure he won't be able to tell sweat from tears that he allows himself to cry. It's only when his breath is so ragged he won't know the difference that he permits the sobs to appear.

I have to say that I never felt it flow so deeply, but your story gives me reason to pause.

But it's still Bones that brings on the smile.

I never thought that it could be this hard for him to live with all the bad things he had done in his life.