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Booth should really, really just leave his office door closed.
He knows this.
Because when his door is open, even just a crack, people tend to take it as an invitation to just let themselves in and start talking at him. Never mind that Booth has very important FBI work to do. Or, at this particular moment, a Flyers game to watch on his phone under his desk. They're playing the Capitals, and things are just getting good when he'd notices Sweets lingering at his door.
Sweets, to his credit, doesn't barge in like some agents do. Instead, he hovers awkwardly at the door, giving a little wave when Booth notices him. He has a vaguely guilty air about him, which isn't a good sign.
Anyways, Booth can always tell when Sweets is going to ask him for a favor. His eyes, already stupidly large, go all wide and plaintive. Puppy dog eyes, is what Angela calls them. They make the guy look even younger than he is. Booth is, irritatingly, not immune to them.
"Sweets," Booth says, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "What can I do for you?"
"Agent Booth," Sweets says, friendly as usual. "I brought coffee."
Sure enough, Booth sees he's carrying two large cups of coffee. If Sweets is buttering him up this much, he must have a big favor to ask. Maybe help burying a body?
"Little late in the morning for coffee," Booth says, giving him a sidelong look. Still, he grabs the offered cup and takes a swig. A bit too hot, but it's a nice dark roast, just how he likes it.
"No such thing," Sweets smiles and takes a small sip of his own drink. "It's from that new place down the block - the line was kind of long, and it might be sort of overpriced, but the quality is so worth it."
Sweets's rambling is obviously his way of gearing up to ask for something. Booth takes another drink of his coffee - it really is good - before cutting him off.
"Sweets, did you come here for a reason?"
"Can't a guy just bring his friend some coffee, without having ulterior motives?" Sweets smiles innocently.
Booth levels a flat look at him.
Sweets exhales through his nose, as if to brace himself.
"Look, Agent Booth, I need to ask you a favor." He pauses, and Booth sweeps his hand in the air, gesturing for him to continue.
"I'm having my wisdom teeth removed today. I scheduled it forever ago, and my friend - Beth, from college - promised she could drive me from the appointment. But maybe thirty minutes ago, she texts me that her girlfriend is having some sort of cat-related emergency? I know, I know, but it sounded serious. And so now she won't be able to give me a ride, and I would take the metro, but apparently the surgeon won't let me have the procedure without somebody looking out for me. It's a liability thing, but totally annoying, and-"
Booth raises a hand, cutting off the increasingly rambling explanation. The guy really seems worked up about the whole thing.
"So, what, you need a ride to the dentist?"
"And back to my place," Sweets says, glancing nervously at Booth. "I know it's a big ask, but I would seriously owe you."
"That goes without saying." Booth says. "When's your appointment?"
"This afternoon, at 12:30. I'm taking the rest of the day off."
Booth checks his watch - it was already 11. He sighs. "Fine, fine, I'll drive you."
Sweets's face lights up with a huge grin. "Really? Oh man, thanks Booth, you're really doing me a solid!"
"Yeah, yeah," Booth says. "Just meet me in the parking garage at 12"
"I'll owe you a drink. Multiple drinks! Seriously."
"Fine, sure, just get out of here," Booth says, waving him off. Sweets just gives him another 100-watt smile again and backs out of his office.
This was going to be a pain, Booth grumbles internally. He'd had plans to grab lunch with a few other agents that day. No one he would miss all that much, to be honest, but still.
He didn't love that he was the first on Sweets's list as a back-up driver, though. Next thing he knew, he'd be stuck driving him to the airport. Booth groans.
Come to think of it, though, who had picked Booth up when he'd gotten his wisdom teeth removed? That had been ten, maybe fifteen years ago at this point.
Pops, he remembers. It was Pops who'd taken him to his appointment, and then, afterwards, loaded a drugged-up Booth into his old truck. Bought him and Jared milkshakes, although Booth had had to eat his with a spoon. Then they'd all headed home and Booth had watched daytime television on the couch till he fell asleep. It had been a good afternoon, although his mouth had ached something terrible.
Pops had also kept the house stocked with red Jell-o and mashed potatoes, since Booth couldn't eat solid food for a few days after. Pops was always good at looking after him and Jared.
Sweets doesn't have a Pops to look out for him, or any living family at all, as far as Booth can tell. And the kid may be a genius, sure, but he's also stupid enough that he probably didn't bought any soft foods ahead of time. He thinks of Sweets in his apartment after his surgery, alone and with nothing to eat. Something in Booth's chest tightens.
Fine. He'll give Sweets a ride, and he'll make sure he has everything he needs once the surgery is over. No big deal.
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An hour later, Sweets approaches Booth's parked car, greeting him with a smile and wave.
He's unusually quiet as he gets into Booth's car, though, looking lost in thought. Booth waits for Sweets to put his seat belt on before backing out of his parking space.
Finally, itching to break the quiet, Booth glances over at Sweets. "You nervous?" he asks.
Sweets blinks and looks back, eyes thoughtful. "For the surgery? No, not really." He turns his head, looking out the window. "I'm a bit, um, apprehensive, about going under, though, with the anesthesia."
At Booth's curious look, Sweets continues. "In the past, I've had...not the best reaction to pain medication. When I was a kid, I fell out of a tree and broke my shoulder. The hospital put me on pain medication, and I was a total mess. Just, like, totally loopy and saying all kinds of goofy things. My parents thought it was hilarious"
Sweets flushes a little and gives Booth a small smile. "I just don't want to have a repeat performance."
Booth gives him a side glance. "If it makes you feel any better, you say goofy things all the time. I don't think I'll notice any difference."
Sweets laughs softly and turns back towards the window. The rest of the trip passes in comfortable silence.
Before long, Booth is pulling into a spot right outside of the office.
"Look at that! You never find a spot so close to where you're trying to get in the city," Booth crows, elbowing Sweets.
Sweets just chuckles. "You really do appreciate the little things, don't you, Agent Booth?" he says, a teasing lilt in his voice.
"Hey, you've gotta admit this is a pretty great parking job. Unlike that guy -", Booth gestures to the car parked in front of them. While Booth parked smoothly, parallel to the curb, the car in front of them - an expensive-looking, yellow sports car - was entirely crooked. One of its front tires was on the curb, and the rear tire sticks out into traffic.
Sweets rolls his eyes. "I hate when people do that. When the sidewalk's this narrow, a car on the curb can cause accessibility issues for those in wheelchairs."
"And it just makes you look like a total asshole. Although, not everyone can be as great at parking as me" Booth grins at Sweets's unimpressed look. "C'mon, let's get in there and get this over with."
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While the exterior of the office had appeared sleekly modern, in keeping with the style of this part of the city, the interior has a more dated, yet cozy feeling to it. Large leather couches and cushioned chairs fill the waiting room, and in the corner, an analog television plays some made-for-TV romance. The office is empty, aside from the nurses behind the glass-enclosed front desk.
Sweets heads up to the front desk, while Booth hangs behind. As Sweets greets the nurses and checks himself in, Booth turns towards the TV. The couple on screen seems to be having some sort of big argument at an airport. He can't tell if they're breaking up or making up, though, or why in the hell they both brought their dogs with them. They're both pretty cute though - the dogs, not the humans - big and white and absurdly fluffy.
"- Agent Booth?"
Booth turns - Sweets and the nurse are both looking at him. "Huh, sorry?"
"We'll need you to sign this paperwork, Mr. Booth," said the nurse, a matronly, heavyset woman whose name tag reads "Belinda." She slides over the form and pen, and he notices she has impressively long, lime green nails. He wonders how she works on people's teeth with nails like that.
"Sure," he says, grabbing the pen and signing on the line.
"Thank you. The procedure should take around forty minutes. You can head on back with me, honey," Nurse Belinda says to Sweets. Her voice is significantly warmer when addressing Sweets, Booth notices with mild offense.
"Oh, okay," Sweets glances back at him, nerves clear on his face. Booth gives him a grin and a clap on the shoulder.
"See you on the other side, Sweets," he said. Sweets appears to steel himself a bit, and gives Booth a smile and a nod back, before following Nurse Belinda out of the waiting room.
The room left entirely empty, Booth exhales and settles into one of the leather couches. He feels a bit nervous himself, for no reason he can quite identify. Checking his watch (12:30, on the dot), he leans back and watches the stupid dog movie.
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The wait goes by surprisingly quickly. While the movie he starts out watching (titled "Call It Puppy Love," which, come on) ends shortly after he sits down, a new movie ("Love By the Sea") starts immediately after. Almost against his will (and in the absence of any better to do), he finds himself becoming way too absorbed in the plot.
This one's about a marine biologist falling in love with the square-jawed businessman buying her aquarium. Despite the bad acting and worse script, he enjoys it. The uptight biologist is cute, in a squint-y sort of way, and the story is engaging enough, though it's full of plot holes. Like, why would the businessman's evil boss want to sell all the aquarium's dolphins? Aren't dolphins the the only reason people even go to the aquarium? He wonders what Bones would think of it. Probably, she'd criticize all the "scientific inaccuracies and blatant oversimplifications of biological processes," like she did when they watched The Fly together that one time.
Right as the movie's getting really good though (the biologist is planning a heist to steal back the dolphins, with the help of the businessman), Booth hears the squeak of a door hinges opening. He turns in his seat in time to see Sweets and the nurse returning: Sweets in a wheelchair, Nurse Belinda rolling him in.
"How'd it go?" he asks, looking down at a fairly loopy-looking Sweets. Sweets shoots him a double thumbs-up, squinting in the light.
"Just fine," the nurse replies, also looking down at Sweets with a warm smile. "The chair is just a precaution. We'll just have him sign a few things, and he'll be good to go."
"Hey, good work, Sweets," Booth says. Sweets looks at Booth with a big smile.
"Hi Booth!" he replies, as if just noticing him, then he grimaces. "My mouth feels funny."
"That'll be the bandages, dear. Remember, we put all that cotton in your mouth?" Nurse Belinda gives him a squeeze on the shoulder. "Now, come on, hon, I'll get you those papers."
Sweets takes a longer-than-usual time to sign and date all the forms handed to him. Nurse Belinda seems to be in no hurry, though. While Sweets flips through the paperwork, she gives Booth a stern lecture and several pamphlets on Sweets's post-surgery recovery.
Booth wants to protest that he's not the guy's dad, and shouldn't Sweets be the one being lectured at anyways? Except Sweets seems way too out of it to keep track all of the nurse's orders on soft foods and bandage-cleaning. So he listens the best he can, while Sweets finishes up the forms.
Finally, with a sloppy flourish, Sweets signs the last of the forms and hands the clipboard back to a smiling Nurse Belinda. The three of them heads to the door, and Belinda wheels Sweets all the way to the car.
"Thank you so much, Miss Belinda. And tell the surgeon I said thank you too. Also thank you again, you're totally awesome" Sweets says. His words are slurred, and he sounds kind of drunk, but the nurse appears genuinely touched.
"My pleasure, sweetheart." With that, the woman draws him into a big hug (which Sweets reciprocates as well as he can, given his wheelchair). She heads back with the wheelchair, giving Sweets a parting wave and warm smile.
Booth smirks. "Look at that, Sweets, I think you have a lady admirer," he says, amused.
Sweets gives an affronted frown, settling into the car seat. "Don't be gross, she's old enough to be my grandmother. A lot of older women do seem to like me though," he muses. "Is there something about me that makes people want to mother me?"
Booth makes a face. "That I can't answer for you, Sweets." He puts the keys in the ignition, mentally making a list of soft foods he'll grab for Sweets before dropping him off.
Before he can put the car in drive, Sweets makes a dramatic gasp and grabs sloppily at Booth's forearm. "Look! It's the guy! The shitty parker!"
Sure enough, a man is getting into the canary sports car ahead of them, wheels still half on the sidewalk. He has wraparound sunglasses, a shiny Rolex, and styled gray hair - pretty much what Booth would've pictured the driver of such a car to look like.
"You should go," Sweets waves his free hand in the air. "I don't know, yell at him! You're in the FBI. Parking that badly is definitely, like, illegal," Sweets says, shaking Booth's arm.
He rolls his eyes - Sweets was obviously still loopy from all the laughing gas they gave him. "Why don't you yell at him, if you're so offended?"
Sweets nods seriously at Booth, and, to his horror, starts to roll down his window.
"Wait seriously? Sweets, don't do that," Booth says. The guy's gonna get his teeth knocked in, yelling at the sports car douche. And then Booth will be stuck driving him to the dentist, again, damn it.
"Hey, asshole," Sweets slurs out the open window, ignoring Booth. Before he can finish whatever he was going to say, though, Booth rolls the window back up, and clicks on the child safety lock for good measure. He switched the car into gear and quickly pulls out into the street.
Sports car douche, meanwhile, turns towards their car with an expression that is more confused than angry. Booth waves apologetically. Sweets gives the man the finger.
"What the hell, Sweets?" Booth said, batting down Sweets's hand. Despite his mild horror, he can't suppress his laughter as they drive away.
"He was a jerk. Anyways, I told you I get loopy on medication," Sweets says, crossing his arms.
"I thought you meant hug-y, giggle-y loopy, not random aggression loopy," Booth says, shaking his head.
"Only to people who deserve it," Sweets responds primly.
Booth rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, the kid's eyes light up. "Wait, I love this song!" He reaches for Booth's radio and turns up the volume. Sheryl Crow's twangy voice blares through the car speakers.
Booth immediately reaches out and turns the volume down several decibels, shooting Sweets a glare. He just gets a sweet smile in return, followed by a surprisingly decent rendition of "Strong Enough" (especially considering how much cotton Sweets has in his mouth). Booth tolerates singing time with a patience he feels would impress several saints. Sweets actually falls asleep during the next song, a mellow Beatles tune that he also insisted was "his jam."
The drive passes quickly after that, and Booth soon arrives to a grocery store just down the block from Sweets's place. He pulls very gently into a parking space, trying to avoid disturbing Sweets (and again, he found a spot just in front of the building - he really is nailing the parking today).
Booth debates waking Sweets. He should, to ask what he wants from the store. However, one look at his open-mouthed, sleeping face, and Booth decides to save himself the trouble and let the guy rest. He has an additional internal debate about whether to leave the car windows cracked a bit, to give Sweets some fresh air as he sleeps. However, Booth does not want to come back to Sweets picking fights with random assholes, so he leaves the windows rolled up.
He'll get the shopping done quickly. Just get Sweets some essentials so he doesn't starve to death while his mouth heals. In and out, then he'll be done with his good deed for the day.
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Booth ends up spending a solid thirty minutes shopping - much longer time ithan he'd anticipated. The pamphlet the nurse gave him had a lot of options for soft foods - mashed potatoes, yogurt, iced cream, pudding, soup. The list goes on and on. Unable to decide what exactly Sweets will be willing to eat (the guy has an odd palate at times), Booth ends up getting one of everything on the list. His shopping basket is almost spilling over onto the floor by the time he figures he's probably gotten enough stuff.
Whatever. Sweets will definitely owe him a drink for this one. Multiple drinks.
Booth heads over to the check-out, annoyed at himself for buying so much and doubly annoyed at the long line ahead of him. He glances at the magazines on display as he waits - celebrity gossip, word searches, conspiracy theories - with little interest. Hanging next to the magazines though, are a variety of fuzzy, novelty socks, in eye-meltingly bright colors. On impulse, Booth grabs a neon pink pair and adds it to his basket. Sweets will probably find them funny - he has a weird sense of humor. The cashier gives him a wry look as she checks him out, and he just gives a sheepish grin in reply. Once he's paid, Booth lugs his many shopping bags out to the car.
Sweets is still asleep in the front, but he stirs once Booth hops into the driver's seat. He stares blearily at Booth and then smiles. "Hey, Booth."
"Hey, Sweets - miss me?"
"No, I was asleep," Sweets responds, sounding amused. He still looks half-asleep, hair mussed and half his face red from being pressed against the window. Booth feels a sudden surge of fondness roll through him.
"Hey Booth," Sweets repeats, this time giving him those puppy eyes. "Can we stop and get a smoothie?"
"A smoothie?" Booth frowns. "I just got you half the grocery store. You don't need a smoothie."
"You did?" Sweets says, eyes wide and mouth in an "o" of surprise. "Wow. The soft foods Miss Belinda said to get? Wow, thank you."
Sweets looks way too grateful and starry-eyed for Booth's taste. Feeling uncomfortable, Booth looks away and says, "Yeah, whatever, we can't have our psychologist starving to death because he forgot to buy basic supplies."
"I have soup in my apartment! I think. Actually, no, I think I ate it for lunch last week," Sweets says cheerily.
"You see? Well, now you'll have enough soft foods to last you a week, at least."
"Wow," Sweets repeats, staring ahead dazedly. For a minute, Booth thinks he may just fall back asleep.
After a pause, though, Sweets turns back to Booth. "Could we still stop and get a smoothie though? I really want a smoothie."
Booth groans, and Sweets adds, "I can buy you one too! I owe you a drink."
"An alcoholic drink, Sweets. Like beer, or whiskey. Not a smoothie."
At Sweets's pleading look (and whoever taught the guy to use that puppy dog stare should be arrested), Booth caves. "Fine. But then, I'm taking you straight home! No stops for ice cream or frozen yogurt, or whatever, you hear me?"
Sweets lights up. "Yes! Thank you, Booth, you're the best!"
"Yeah, I know, I know," Booth sighs. "Let's get you your freaking smoothie."
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The smoothie place has a drive-in, but also a line, of course. This is well enough, though, given that Sweets can't seem to make up his mind on what he wants.
"Just pick already, we're almost to the front," Booth says. Sweets continues to stare at the menu in deep concentration, as if it holds the secrets to the universe.
"I'm trying to calculate which flavors would go best together. There are a lot of options," Sweets says, seriously.
"If you don't pick in the next minute, I'm just going to order for you," Booth says. The situation reminds him of waiting in the McDonald's drive-through with Parker, who is also terribly indecisive when it comes to menus. Of course, Parker is a child and not a drugged-up adult man, but Sweets seems similarly overwhelmed by the number of options.
"Fine! Just get me a regular smoothie," Sweets says.
Booth stares. "What the hell is a regular smoothie?"
"Just, like, a normal one!"
"I don't know what that means," Booth says, barely hanging on to his patience. The car ahead moves, and he pulls up to the drive-through window.
He gives a final glance at Sweets, who is giving him a look in turn that suggests he doubts Booth's intelligence. Which was unfair, as Sweets is the one who demanded a smoothie then gave a completely nonsensical order. Booth turns and gives a gritted tooth smile to the young looking employee at the window. "Hi there. Can I get one peanut butter-banana smoothie for myself, and my friend would like-"
Sweets calls out, "One smoothie - regular!"
The employee looks baffled. "I don't know what that means."
Booth pinches the bridge of his nose. "Make that two peanut-butter banana smoothies. And a spoon, thanks."
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Smoothies acquired, Booth starts the car towards Sweets's apartment. Sweets, smoothie order drama forgotten, grabs a straw to open.
"Ah, ah, ah. No straws for you," Booth chides. At Sweets's confused frown, he continues, "The nurse said no straws for at least a week, or you might mess with your blood clots. Here, I got you a spoon instead."
Sweets takes the spoon, his expression brightening. He really does seem so much younger all drugged up like this, Booth thinks. Carefully eating a spoonful of the smoothie, his eyes get even brighter. He looks at Booth with an amazed expression. "Agent Booth. This is seriously the best smoothie I've ever had, in my entire life." Booth huffs a startled laugh. He feels weirdly proud that he'd managed to get a smoothie the kid liked, despite his incomprehensible order.
"Here," Sweets says. "You have to try it, take some." He lifts the spoon towards Booth.
"I got the same one as you, buddy - I'm good."
Sweets shrugs. "Well, thank you for stopping, anyways. Seriously, this smoothie is just. So good."
"You say thank you a lot when you're drugged," Booth remarks, as he pulls into a spot in front of Sweets's building. Not his best parking job of the day, as it's a bit of a walk from the entrance, but you can't win them all.
"Sorry," Sweets replies, unbuckling his seat belt. He exits the car a bit clumsily, and Booth worries for a minute that he'll fall on his face.
"Maybe we should've brought that wheelchair with us, huh?" Booth says with a grin. He unbuckles himself and grabs the shopping bags from the back. Sweets stumbles over and takes a few of the bags from Booth.
"Shut up, m'fine," Sweets replies.
"Sure, sure," Booth guides Sweets back to the sidewalk with a firm hand on his shoulder. The guy seems in less danger of tripping now that he'd gotten used to walking again, but you couldn't be too sure.
It takes them a bit to make their way to Sweets's building, and even longer to navigate the stairs up to his apartment (how the kid lived in a building with no elevator, in this day and age, Booth can't believe).
When they do make it to Sweets's apartment, he struggles to get his key in the lock. After a few tries, Booth grabs the keys from him and opens the door easily.
"Sorry, I'm still, uh, disoriented," Sweets apologizes, stumbling through the doorway.
"Yeah, well, just sit down. You don't look great," Booth says. It's true - Sweets looks pale and sweaty after walking up all those stairs. Maybe Booth shouldn't have let him carry those grocery bags.
"Fatigue and dizziness are normal side effects post dental surgery," Sweets replies, flopping onto his couch. "Miss Belinda told me."
"Well, if Miss Belinda said it," Booth mumbled. He starts unloading the groceries into Sweets's fridge. The fridge is almost entirely empty, outside of a few half-empty takeout containers, and Booth is glad that he'd gotten the kid some actual food to eat.
Sweets peers at him over the edge of the couch. "Oh, man, you don't need to do that, I can help."
Booth waves him off. "Find something on the TV to watch."
Sweets gives him an uncertain look, but turns back and flicked on the television.
After flipping around a bit, Sweets calls, "M.A.S.H. is playing! Oh man, I love M.A.S.H."
"Isn't that before your time?" Booth calls back. He's finished unpacking the groceries, when he sees the pink socks. Booth almost forgot he'd gotten them.
Heading towards the couch, he unceremoniously tosses the socks onto Sweets's lap.
"Here - got you a little present," Booth smirks.
"Wha - you got me socks?" Sweets gapes. "They're so soft!" He presses them to his cheek. Booth winces - the things are probably covered in supermarket germs.
"They go on your feet, not your face," he says.
"Right!" Sweets quickly kicks off his shoes and replaces his old socks with the fuzzy neon pink ones.
Booth smiles. "You actually like them?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't I? They're sooo soft, feel them!" Sweets attempts to stick his foot in Booth's face, but he bats it away.
"Ugh, stop that, I believe you," Booth says. Sweets laughed, and again Booth is struck by how young he sounds.
He's never really thought about the kid as someone who's guarded. Not like Bones is, or Booth himself for that matter. Now, though, seeing him all loose-limbed and giggling, kicking his feet and admiring his socks...giving Booth those uninhibited, bright smiles every few minutes. He thinks that Sweets really does keep himself pretty buttoned up most of the time. For all of the guy's talk of "opening up" and "being honest," Sweets tends to keep his own emotions regulated, it turns out. Sure, he showed his emotions, but he only did so using careful therapy-speak. Maybe that was why Sweets had been so nervous about being drugged up for this surgery - he knew that it would force some of his walls down, walls that he preferred up. Booth could relate to that.
"Hey, Booth," Sweets says, cutting through the man's thoughts. He isn't looking at Booth, instead staring at his smoothie and stirring it gently with his spoon. "I just wanted to thank you, for driving me today. And waiting all that time for my surgery to finish. And for the groceries, and the smoothies, and the socks..."
Booth cuts him off. "I told you, you say thank you too much when you're high."
Sweets giggles, again, in that young-sounding way. "Well, thanks anyways."
Booth, feeling a bit awkward, turns his attention to the TV. "This is a good one. The show went downhill after they killed off Blake."
"That episode was sad," Sweets agrees around a mouthful of smoothie. "Although, Radar was always my favorite."
Booth snorts. "You're such a Radar!" It's true - the eagerness to please, the youthful "aw, shucks" energy - there are definitely similarities between the two.
"I am not!" Sweets pouts. "If I'm anyone, I'd be Father Mulcahy."
"You're not even Catholic!"
"Semantics. He's more of a psychologist to the doctors than a chaplain."
"That's ridiculous," Booth scoffs. Sweets has set his smoothie on the table and is lying down on his side. He's still wearing those ridiculous socks, Booth notices.
The guy looks kind of cold, though. His knees are pulled up to his chest and hands tucked into his armpits. On impulse, Booth grabs a heavy knit blanket off of one of his armchairs and throws it on top of him. Sweets smiles up at Booth gratefully, and adjusts the blanket so it covers him from his feet to his chin. "
Thanks," he mumbles, sounding like he was getting sleepy again.
"No more 'thank you's,'" Booth responds.
Sweets is quiet long enough that Booth figures he must've fallen asleep, before he says, "Agent Booth." His voice is blurry with sleep. Booth waits, and Sweets continues, "If you were on M.A.S.H., who would you be?"
This kid is ridiculous. "Never really thought about it," Booth says, truthfully.
"I think you'd be Hawkeye," Sweets murmurs. Booth raises an eyebrow, although Sweets can't see it. "Cause he's like, funny, and makes jokes, but he's-" Sweets yawns, hugely. "He's, like, good at what he does and-" Another yawn. "- just a good guy, y'know?"
Something in Booth's chest feels warm and uncomfortably tight. " Just watch the damn show, alright?" Sweets hums in response, apparently past the point of using his words. Booth turns his attention back to the TV. Hawkeye and the other surgeons are treating a soldier. Someone must have said something funny, because the audience is roaring with laughter. After another minute, Sweets has started snoring softly. Booth wonders if he should leave, let the guy get his rest in peace.
He peers down at Sweets, whose face is completely relaxed. He looks vulnerable - all his walls down. Something about it makes Booth feel a little shaky, and, if he's honest, protective. He'll stay, Booth decides. Just a little longer, to make sure the kid's really okay.
Booth settles into one of Sweets's armchairs, the one closer to the door. He lets the warm light and sound of the old TV show wash over them both.