Booth drove Bones back to the Jeffersonian and then offered to take Lance home. All three of them had been very quiet in the car, engrossed in their own stifling memories. They were going to question Mr. Baras tomorrow at headquarters in the interrogation room. Lance hadn't offered his theory that Matt's death was a suicide. They still needed to understand who had inflicted the violence on the kid. It was clear from forensics that Matt had been pushed, his back punctured by a metal object.

Booth was eying Lance now that Brennan was gone, Lance sensed. The psychologist had moved into the passenger seat and was resting his wet head on the window. The icy drops outside the glass looked like viscous tears.

Before Lance could second guess himself, he asked Booth, "Did you ever try to hurt yourself?"

"What?" Booth responded gruffly. He shot a withering look at Lance to try and shut him up.

"You said that if it weren't for your grandfather…"

"I know what I said, Sweets. Don't repeat that again." Booth sat in a sharp silence. The SUV rounded the corner to Lance's apartment complex. Its tires skidded across the slush.

Lance finally said quietly, almost inaudibly, "I did."

Booth stopped the car. Chunky gray ice now obscured their view through the windshield. "Look, Sweets. We don't know what happened to Matt yet, ok? Don't go jumping to conclusions!"

Lance felt like a struck puppy. He had just confessed something immensely personal and had been rejected. He turned away.

Booth softened his tone, "Sweets, what's going on with you?"

"I cheated on Daisy, Booth. I messed up."

Booth exhaled. "Does she know?"

"Yeah, I told her. Today. She took it well—she'd already guessed."

"Oh."

"Oh what?" Lance asked trying to read Booth's expression.

"Maybe Daisy…nah. Never mind. Just let it go, Sweets. Move on. You love her right? We all make mistakes." Booth was staring at the sleet, as if it held answers.

"Why am I so bad at this, Booth? My parents were together for over 60 years. They were never unfaithful. Their love was perfect!"

"Sweets, listen to me." Booth was gazing intently at him now. "NO one's love is perfect. Stop beating yourself up. Especially since Daisy seems to have forgiven you."

"You think she cheated too."

Booth didn't say anything.

Lance sighed and got out of the car. "So do I."

Booth called, "See you at 9 tomorrow in the interrogation room, Sweets. Get some sleep. You look like hell." Booth's jaw was set.

Lance knew now. Booth had tried to harm himself, too. He never felt more grateful for Booth's Pops, whom he had met several months ago for the first time, than he did at this moment. He couldn't image his life in these past few years without Booth. Booth was a number of people's rock. He was Lance's rock.

Lance charged up the stairs to his 3rd floor apartment and caught the cat—Knox— just before he could escape out the front door.

"Knox, no!"

The tiny gray cat with white socks was purring like his nightly escape ritual was a terrific game. Lance pet him and tucked him under his arm.

"Aw, come on! KNOX!" Lance had just beheld Knox's handiwork. He had unrolled the toilet paper again and dragged one end from the bathroom out into the hall, like a limp, white snake.

Then Lance jumped because Daisy was asleep on his couch. She'd said she was going to skip dinner. Why was she here already? If Daisy had been anyone else, he wouldn't have believed that she could have slept through the ruckus he had just caused, but she always slept like a passed-out kid. Lance was a tosser, turner, sweater, frequent insomniac, who sometimes dreaded the mere sight of his bed. Daisy's comatose slumber was just one of the many things he found charming about her.

He messily rolled up the toilet paper, shoving it into the bathroom. Then he removed his trench coat and suit jacket and unbuttoned his soggy work shirt. In his undershirt and slacks, Lance perched himself on the coffee table across from Daisy and roused her gently.

"Hey, darlin," he said quietly. She opened her eyes and smiled slightly. "I thought you were coming over later." He was rubbing her on the back just as he might have done with Knox. Like a cat she stretched. She was adorable.

Daisy sat up. "Oh, Lancelot. I wasn't feeling well."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are you ok?"

"I dunno, Lance. I just needed a nap. Angela and Wendell—well Wendell—suggested we have dinner tonight. I proofed a chapter of his dissertation, and he wanted to treat us. Is that ok? We're supposed to meet up in half an hour." Her voice was oddly formal, and she wasn't touching him.

"Uhhh…" It didn't sound like a good idea to Lance, but what could he say? "Sure, just let me change and we can go. It's really wet out there."

Lance wondered at her behavior. She seemed very distant for Daisy. Normally, she would have kissed him—correction, they probably would have slipped in a quickie—by now. She was definitely punishing him. And he deserved it. Maybe he should have gotten her those flowers.