A/N on 3 April, 2016: Hiya! I started writing this story so long ago, gee golly! About two years I think. Lots has changed since then, let me tell you! Whatever. Basically, this story is still ongoing, and if I ever finish, I might have to go back and change a lot of it, et cetera. (This is my second time updating the notes here, since this turned into a full chapter of html for some reason? idk haha, enjoy!)

Warning for sensitive subject matter throughout.

Part 1: Impulse

"a force acting on a body and producing a finite change of momentum"

"Today is the sort of day where the sun only comes up to humiliate you."

― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Two (and a half) Days Before

He bolts up and nearly topples from his bed in the dark, and after a few moments of dazedly groping for his ringing cell phone, he clears his throat and answers.

"Lance Sweets," he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice. He rubs his eyes with the hand that's not holding his phone to his ear and blinks a few times. And when that doesn't wake him up at all, he gives up and just hopes that this conversation will be quick, and that he can go back to sleep soon.

If only.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" Seeley Booth's sarcastically cheery reply echoes through the phone.

Sweets glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and as the 3:30am shines back at him, he has to really try to hold back an irritated sigh.

"I am now," he answers, although it's not quite true yet. And, although he's sure he already knows the answer to his own question, he continues by asking, "What's up?"

"Got a new case – a body found about an hour ago in Takoma."

"And I would be able to help you… how?" Sweets asks carefully, more than slightly confused. He's not normally called in when the body is found. It's usually the next day that he's notified about a case, when he finds the files and photos on his desk as soon as he comes in. This time, though…

"Well, a few of the teenagers who found the body are pretty freaked out. Not really talking, won't answer any of our questions. And we're not allowed to let them go home until we get their statements, so we need someone who actually knows what they're doing to come and calm them down. Plus, maybe you could take a look at the scene, see what you can deduce."

Sweets sighs. He went to bed – what, three hours ago? He's bone tired. Plus, he's been sick, and he's pretty sure he really needs sleep. Still… if he's needed, he should go. Why drag someone else out of bed to handle it? He'll deal with it, maybe find some time to sleep later. Whatever.

"Fine," he says. "You'll have to give me some time, though. I'm, like, forty minutes away from there."

"Okay. But just so you know, if you get caught speeding, I can probably get you out of it."

Sweets chuckles at that. "Nice. Okay, I'll see you in a bit."

He hangs up the phone and places it back on his nightstand before getting up from his bed. As he throws the covers off of himself, the cold air makes him seriously consider going back to sleep for just a few more minutes. But no. He is a twenty-eight year old man with a steady job, not some high school student dreading a Monday morning. He can deal with being tired, and he can deal with the cold. He won't be happy about it, but he can deal with it.

The next fifteen minutes are spent rushing to get ready. After brushing his teeth, he changes into his suit as quickly as he can, pausing only to wonder when, exactly, his pants became so loose around his waist. Slightly confused, he pulls on his belt until the prong is a few inches past the last hole and wonders how that could have happened. And with a sigh, he realizes that the elastic probably stretched in the washing machine. It's an old pair of pants, anyway. That happens once in a while. The only belt he could find in his closet, on the other hand, is new. He bought it a few weeks ago, but it's just been sitting in his closet since then. He hasn't worn it.

And apparently, he bought the wrong size.

And that's just his luck.

With an irritated sigh, he considers finding something to poke a new hole in the belt with (He has a lot of practice doing that, having always been on the smaller side as a kid.) but decides against it. It would take too long, and he just doesn't have the time. He doesn't even have time to think too long on any of this, so he just lets his pants sit there, uncomfortably loose on his hips. He makes a mental note to fix it later and continues getting ready.

After a few more minutes of running around and fumbling in the dark, he's ready enough and heading out the door. He writes a quick note to his roommates, sticks it on the kitchen table, and only just remembers his car keys before leaving the house.

He makes it to the scene in just under forty minutes, having only sped a little bit. (In truth, he probably could have driven a bit faster, considering that, at three in the morning, there are next to no cars on the road; but he's not really a speeder anyway. He doesn't have that sort of death wish.)

After parking his car on the side of the road opposite the crime scene, he gets out and walks over to the flashing lights and police tape. There are only a few cars parked on the street, though, probably because most of the people who were called to the scene have gone home. Now, in addition to the few remaining FBI agents doing last minute documentation, it's just Booth, the kids who found the remains, and a few parents. And, Sweets notes as he approaches them, no one seems at all cooperative.

"This is ridiculous!" one mother is shouting at Booth. "We've been here for hours, and there's no reason you can't take their statements in the morning! They're upset and need sleep!"

Visibly trying very hard to keep from shouting back, Booth calmly answers, "I know, ma'am. I'm sorry. Believe me, I'd be glad to let you all go home, but we're not allowed to leave the scene until we have everyone's initial statements, okay? We've got a psychologist coming to talk to them as we speak, he's on his –"

"Right here," Sweets interrupts from behind the agent, raising his hand in a small gesture.

Booth sighs in relief. "He's right here," he finishes, and as Sweets begins to follow the parents back to their kids, Booth pulls him aside by his suit jacket for a brief second and mutters in his ear, "It's about time!" And as Booth releases him, Sweets just shrugs defensively and whispers back.

"I said I was forty minutes away – I made it in, like, thirty five!"

"It's been an hour since I called you."

"Well, did you expect me to show up in pajamas? 'Cause if that's what you wanted, then next time, I'll know better."

Booth sighs again, but before he can say anything else, another parent is impatiently shouting for them to hurry up.

The two look at each other with the same annoyed expression on their faces and, completely forgetting their momentary argument, walk over to the group of people.

Sweets turns to the parents.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But I'm going to have to ask you all to step away for a few minutes while I talk to them."

Though some of the parents are inclined to argue, they eventually cooperate. And after a few minutes alone with the four teenagers, Sweets is able to get them relatively calmed down and take their statements; to their parents' surprise, the teens were smoking and drinking when they found the body. Or, rather, they were intending to start smoking and drinking. They figured the hilly wooded area behind an unoccupied house was the perfect place for all of this, but they never got the chance to start. As they started to walk down one of the steeper hills, they found the body, face up and only partially covered with dirt, autumn leaves and broken twigs.

"Alright," Booth says to the group. "You can all go home now. We'll contact you if we need any more information."

The parents, now caught between concern for their kids and anger over what they were doing, start ushering the teenagers into their cars, and within two minutes, they're all gone. Booth turns to Sweets.

"Alright, I think the crime scene is pretty straightforward," he explains. "But just take a look, see what's what."

Sweets nods. "Okay, just show me where it is."

They grab some flashlights from the other FBI agents as Booth dismisses them. Booth then leads Sweets to where the body was found, just past the top of one of the steeper hills on the lot. There are still markers sticking up from the loose dirt and scattered leaves, and there's even more police tape around here than around the perimeter of the area, which is saying something. Booth and Sweets shine their flashlights on the ground.

"Shallow grave," Booth explains. "Doesn't look like whoever did this put any effort into hiding the body."

Sweets nods in agreement. "Yeah…. So I'm assuming it's not premeditated. Otherwise, the body would probably be in an even more obscure place than this. I'm thinking the murder was either accidental, and the killer was panicking and hid the body in the first place they could find, or the killer was cognitively impaired when the murder took place and couldn't think of anything more inconspicuous."

"So, a complete accident, or the killer was drunk?" Booth clarifies, and Sweets tilts his head to the side a bit.

"Drunk, high, stoned, whatever impairs brain function. Which could be anything, I guess. I'm just throwing some ideas around, though - this isn't, like, a formal profile."

"Yeah, I know," Booth says. "Still, it might give me an idea of where to start. Thanks."

Sweets smiles and replies, "I'd say any time, but I'd rather not be called at three thirty in the morning next time there's a body…."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on." Booth gestures for Sweets to follow him back up to the street, and they start walking. And they almost make it to the top of the hill, too, before an unfortunately placed tree root gets in the way. It's Sweets' foot that gets snagged, and since he's been walking slightly in front of Booth, he ends up knocking Booth down with him when he loses his balance and falls, and they both end up tumbling to the bottom of the hill, cussing the whole way down.

Now covered in dirt, the wind knocked out of both of them, they just lay there coughing for a few moments. Then, as Booth pulls himself up of the ground, he starts to snap.

"What the hell was that?" he seethes, dusting himself off.

"Sorry," Sweets coughs, still on the ground but slowly picking himself up. "Tripped on a tree branch or something. You okay?"

Booth, although he's still rather annoyed, reaches down and helps Sweets up off the ground. "I'm okay. You?"

"I'm good," Sweets answers, though he starts to doubt his answer when he feels the cold October air on his legs. He freezes. Nope. No way.

"Uh… Booth?" he asks, blood rushing to his cheeks.

Booth, having turned around to pick his up his flashlight that he dropped when he fell, replies over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"My pants… are not… completely on my body, are they?" Sweets asks with a resigned sigh, although it sounds more like a statement because he already knows the answer.

More than slightly confused, Booth turns around and shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a brief moment. Sure enough, the psychologist's pants are loosely gathered around his ankles as he stands awkwardly, with his hands held stiffly at his sides and a mortified expression on his face aimed toward the trees.

Booth restrains himself for the moment, clears his throat and simply answers, "Nope."

"Please tell me my underwear's still on…"

Booth shines his flashlight at Sweets' ankles for a second time and doesn't see anything other than the kid's pants.

"You're good."

Immediately, Sweets sighs in relative relief and scrambles to get his pants back on while Booth finally starts laughing.

"You know, Sweets," Booth chuckles. "They started making these really cool things called belts. You might want to invest in one."

Sweets flashes him an annoyed glare as he silently shows him the buckle of his belt that's still threaded through the loops on his pants. He makes a move to tighten the belt, but, remembering that he was already on the last hole, ends up just pretending to tighten it and calling it close enough.

Booth just continues to laugh.

"Hey, aren't you a bit old for the whole 'sagging pants' thing?" he cracks another joke, and Sweets just runs his hands down his own face.

"You're so funny, Booth," Sweets replies. "Really. Have you ever considered stand-up?"

"Already done it, remember? Either way, I'm funnier than you are," Booth says, grabbing Sweets' shoulder and gently nudging him to start walking back up the hill. "And come on, you have to admit that was funny!"

"For you."

"For me. Seriously, that made my night."

Sweets stops walking for a second and incredulously glares at the back of Booth's head as the agent keeps walking.

"I'm glad I could help."