Work Text:
There are nights when he can’t stand it; when the wind through the trees, the creaking branches, the sticky heat, combine to overwhelm him. He twists and turns, wishing for recycled air and the hum of a engine beneath his feet.
Eventually he gives up; slips quietly out of bed and down the stairs, out into the fields where he can walk and walk until there’s nothing between Jim and the stars but the cool, dark sky.
When he can feel the world spinning under his feet, he heads for home; for the light in the kitchen window; for Bones.