Change

Part 1

3:24 A.M.

A tuft of brown hair pokes out from the top of a matted, formerly fuzzy, beige blanket. It looks loved, worn past the point where anybody who had no attachment would have thrown it away. The man beneath it is snoring intermittently as he succumbs to a dreamless sleep.

Next to him, the wide brown eyes of his fiancé stare, frustrated, at the ceiling. She does not mind the dingy blanket touching her bare skin. She forces him to wash it once a week. She nudges his side with a not-so-kind elbow.

"Lance," she growls in his ear. He doesn't move.

The phone rings. The cacophonic din being the sound that woke her in the first place.

"Lance!" She shoves him harder. The blanket pulls under him as he rolls, unconsciously away from the source of the disruptions to his pleasant sleep.

"Lance-a-lot! Wake up," she's sitting now, her brown hair standing on end, giving her silhouette the appearance of a frightened cat.

"Huh?" A confused groan escaping the protection of the coveted blanket.

A loud, ringing phone is pressed to the approximate location of his ear, "somebody is calling you!"

Lance pulls the blanket away from his covered face, eyes squinted against the abrasive sound that blared into his ears.

"What?" he asks, he winces as he forces his sleep-pained body into a seated position, "oh. Thanks, Daisy," he mutters, pulling the phone from the slender hand of the frustrated woman.

Daisy slumps onto the dark blue pillowcase without another word.

"Sweets," he answers the phone with an all-too-obviously faked vivacity.

"Sweets," the voice on the phone growls back.

"Booth?" Lance's eyes widen, mostly because he has escaped the remaining hold that sleep had on his body, but the increase in heart rate and surprise at his friend's phone call are also contributing factors.

"We need to talk," Booth's speech is slurred. Sweets can hear the faint sound of a television raving in the background.

"Are you okay?" Concern is evident in the young psychologist's voice. He can't stop his brain from analyzing the situation upon impact of the drunken speech. He had told Booth to gamble. He had told Booth take a leap of faith. He had told Booth to confess his love to the woman they both knew he was in love with. He had broken a code. He had influenced an outcome he had promised not to interfere with. His word barely escaped his tired lips.

"Are you okay?" Booth mocks, "Fuck off, Sweets, you had no right-"

Deescalate. Don't let him say or do anything he'd regret tomorrow. See if he'll go to sleep, and come talk first thing tomorrow morning.

"I think we should talk about this in person-"

"Yeah, of course you do. I'll be waiting in your office. Watch your fuckin' back, kid."

Empty threats. He's drunk. He's angry. Something obviously happened. He's mad at you. . . but he needs you.

"I'm sorry-" he hears the line click, indicating the call has been ended before he can finish.

Sweets closes the phone and lowers it to his chest. His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling as tears threaten to spill from their place. "I'm sorry," he calls softly into the universe, hoping Booth could feel the sincerity in his apology from his place in his own home.