There were only a few hours a day that Booth was not frustrated and those were usually the ones where he was asleep. The FBI agent laid sprawled over his bed in an awkward position, face down in a pile of papers he'd printed off the internet on everything from time travel to what went bump in the night. He still was far from convinced that the latter existed, except in the form of muggers and other less savory characters, but the message boards had convinced him that LA certainly had its fair share of nuts.
The crash startled him out of the deep sleep he had just sunk into. The thing about weirdos and time travel and the other shit was that it had put him into a mood where everyone was suspect and he didn't doubt someone or, yes, something could break into the hotel room for the fun of it. Booth had his service revolver on the bedside table and it was that he grabbed as he flipped the lights on. Turned out it was the last thing he needed.
Booth squinted in the brightness, letting his vision adjust to the light as he sat up. Padding over to the connecting doors, he peered in and spotted Abby and the broken vase. The more his vision focused, the less he was liking the picture. "You look like hell," Booth stated with his typical bluntness. "Where were you and what were you doing?" The question came out less protective parent and more a statement of disbelief.