Booth grunted, giving her a dark look before he shuffled back into his room to drop the gun and its holster back on his bed. Grabbing a t-shirt off the pile of clothing on the chair near the window, he pulled it over his head and returned to her room, gaze falling on her wounded arm.
Without asking, he passed by her to head into her bathroom. "Considering you're standing here talking to me and he's not, I'd say it wasn't his night," he replied, raising his voice just enough to be heard. Grabbing one of the fluffy white washclothes from the rack near the sink, he ran it under cold water and left the bathroom.
"Sit." It wasn't really a command or a question, just a statement punctuated by a hand motion towards the bed, then a pointed glance at her arm. "No answers, more crackpots. I'm really starting to hate LA and I can't even leave."