Zeroed by Yhlee

Summary: Booth-drabble.

Spoilers: None.

He would never admit it, but he's starting to like skeletons. All that bone, candle-yellow or bleached, covered with grime and grubs, flesh sloughed away. When he looks at skeletons he doesn't see scopes, doesn't estimate how far to lead the target, doesn't think about air pressure and friction and all those things that guide or misguide bullets. Doesn't have to wonder what she would look like, reduced to the anatomies of violence.

When he dreams in the language of guns, he isn't sure what's worse: the ones where the people have faces, or the ones where they don't.

End.

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