AN: I don't own anything you recognize. I have no idea how plausible this is (this applies to anything I write haha). Enjoy.

A Familiar Pain

"Hey, Bones, I'm going to head back to the Hoover building to talk to Sweets about the profiles he was going to do for this case – do you want to come with me?" Brennan nodded, taking her gloves off and hanging up her lab coat.

"I have gathered all the possible evidence I can from the bones at this point in time. Once Hodgins finishes analyzing the particulates found on them I will have more leads to follow." The agent nodded, pulling his car keys out of his pocket.

"Awesome. Ready to go?" Brennan nodded, slipping her jacket on as she followed the agent out of the Jeffersonian and to his SUV. They drove down the streets toward the FBI building, chatting idly about the latest happenings at work, touching occasionally on more serious topics regarding their current case. When they parked, Booth opened the door for Brennan, and she stood, straightening her skirt. They made their way through the building and up to the psychologist's office in relative silence, but when they got there they were surprised to find it empty.

"Sweets?" Booth called pointlessly into the obviously empty room. "Huh. He's usually here."

"He does have other duties, doesn't he?" Brennan said, craning her neck to look around the agent into the Sweets's office.

"I suppose. I guess I just expected him to be here. He usually is."

"Doctor Brennan's right, Agent Booth." Both the anthropologist and the agent jumped and whipped around to see Sweets grinning at them a little lopsidedly, his head tilted to the side. However, neither Brennan nor Booth saw the smile.

"Sweets…what happened?" Booth's eyes were wide as he brought a hand up, his fingers coming up to almost touch the psychologist's face on the darkened, bruised skin on his cheekbone, just below what was obviously developing into a painful black eye. Sweets's smile fell and he shifted uncomfortably.

"It's nothing."

"Sweets." The agent's concerned look did not relent. "Tell me."

"It's really nothing, Agent Booth."

"Kid, I know my injuries and that is not a run of the mill, tripped and fell type of bruise. Somebody hit you." The psychologist sighed.

"I can't tell you."

"Can't, or won't?" The agent reached a hand out, putting it on the psychologist's shoulder. "Sweets, come on."

"I can postulate, based on the location and intensity of the bruising that –"

"No." Sweets's quickly turned his head to look at the anthropologist, who had, up until that point, been silent. "I mean… I'm sorry, Doctor Brennan, but there is really nothing for you to analyze. I'm fine, and this is nothing, and there's nothing you need to look into. It won't happen again." He looked earnestly to the agent and back at the anthropologist. "I'm asking you now as my friends and also as my colleagues to leave this alone. Please." Booth and Brennan exchanged a worried look, but obligingly kept silent, and after the psychologist had walked around them, followed him into his office.

Sweets still felt uncomfortable, but attempted to keep a neutral look on his face as he sat down in his chair across from Booth and Brennan, who were seated on the couch. "So… guys… not that I'm not thrilled that you've come here, into my office, of your own will," he laughed nervously, "but what did you come here for?" Booth frowned.

"I told you yesterday I'd come to check up on those profiles today, remember?" The psychologist shifted awkwardly, nodding.

"Right. Sorry, Agent Booth. I forgot."

"I also wanted to ask you to help with an interrogation later today," Booth said slowly, his focus and gaze kept steadily on the psychologist, trying to read any possible clues on the younger man's face as to what had happened.

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Booth thought he detected a quiver in the psychologist's voice, but there was no way of being sure. Nevertheless, he suspected that Sweets was hiding something. He was rattled – the agent was sure of it. He wished that he could pester Sweets until he revealed what had happened and what was bothering him, but Booth knew that, despite his need to help others and gently push them to reveal their innermost workings, the psychologist was an intensely private person, and any kind of questioning would probably be unsuccessful if the psychologist wasn't willing to divulge.

Still reluctant to give up, but having realized that they wouldn't be given any information at that moment, Booth took the files from the psychologist, and he and Brennan left the room and made their way up to the agent's office. When he'd shut the door behind him he turned to his partner, frowning slightly.

"So what do you think, Bones?" The anthropologist looked up from where she had absently been looking at some of the things hung on the wall, despite how she'd seen them countless times before. She sighed.

"I don't know, Booth. The bruising looks very, very recent. I would think it happened this morning, even." She gave him a worried look. "Do you think he got into a fight?" Booth rubbed his face with his hand, shaking his head.

"No. That's not like Sweets. I… He seemed upset."

"Getting a black eye would probably be upsetting." Booth shook his head.

"No, he seemed… I don't know… just… upset. I might even say shaken." She resisted telling him that he just had, but shook her head, not knowing what else to say.

They let the matter drop for the moment and continued about with their work, trying not to think about the kid that had wormed his way into their lives and hearts and the anger they both felt at the boy who they both secretly thought of as their baby duck being hurt.

Their answer didn't come to them until late in the evening, after Brennan had gone back to the lab. Booth had gone to grab a cup of coffee from the floor's coffee maker when he ran into another agent who had a desk nearby.

"Agent Booth!" Agent Williamson was about six years Booth's junior, a smart and dedicated agent, and a generally kind man. "Did you hear what happened?" Booth shook his head, not particularly interested in bullpen gossip, but willing to listen anyway. "Doctor Sweets –" Booth's head shot up.

"What?" Williamson held up his hands.

"Woah, woah, I was about to tell you." Booth took a deep breath, willing himself to appear unworried. The younger man's bruised face jumped to the forefront of his mind and he felt his agitation rise in anticipation of maybe finally finding out what had happened. "He has a black eye." Booth slumped slightly, disappointed.

"Yeah, I saw him this morning."

"Agent Moore gave it to him." At this Booth felt his anger threaten to take over.

"What?" The younger agent looked slightly nervous, and held up his hands again in an attempt to placate the older man.

"Woah… yeah, he… apparently he was in a session with the kid – you know he'd gotten in trouble a few times for losing it in the interrogation room – and just got pissed at the questions he was asking, and lost it." Booth pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. He could not go beat up another agent, no matter how much he wanted to. Nobody got to hurt Sweets. The kid had been hurt enough already, and Booth, reluctant though he might be to admit it, was definitely fond of the psychologist, and was also most definitely protective of him. "Hacker was pissed." Booth looked back up at the other agent.

"What happened to Moore?" Williamson shrugged.

"He left. Apparently he told Agent West that he was taking some time off to get himself sorted out… but like, indefinite leave. Word is that Doctor Sweets even defended him when he was facing being let go… some psychobabble about how he has things to work through or whatever – he's troubled and whatnot. So Moore still has a job to come back to, if he can be officially proclaimed in an acceptable mental state, I guess. He owes the kid big, if you ask me. Plus the poor guy has a wicked shiner. He looks like a damn kicked puppy."

Booth sighed, feeling a headache coming on. He didn't know the details of Sweets's past, but he knew that it had definitely not been all good. He thought back to when Brennan had told him of the scars on Sweets's back, and his anger at what Moore had done grew. Sweets had come so far from his childhood trauma, and he really didn't deserve having to put up with being hit at work. Admittedly, he had sometimes felt frustrated while forced to sit through mandatory therapy, but he had never once even laid a finger on the psychologist during a session. It was unacceptable. Since the other agent seemed to be done talking, Booth gave him a forced smile, and, abandoning his idea of coffee altogether, made his way directly down to the psychologist's office.

"Sweets!" He didn't hesitate at the door, letting himself into the room. Sweets looked up, slightly surprised, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Agent Booth… sorry, you startled me. What is it?" He frowned when he noticed the agent's agitation. "Is something wrong?"

"Moore hit you!" Sweets looked at the floor then, avoiding the agent's gaze.

"It's not… It doesn't matter, Agent Booth."

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters!" Booth was getting increasingly frustrated at the psychologist's apparent refusal to acknowledge what had happened, and his voice continued to rise with his anger.

"Agent Booth…"

"I hate that you won't tell me anything."

"I can't."

"No, I think you won't."

"Booth."

"Sweets."

"I'm fine."

"Your face is purple, Sweets. Normal faces aren't purple."

"My eye is purple. There's a difference."

"Stop being a smartass." Booth gestured wildly while Sweets sat infuriatingly calmly in his chair.

"I'm not."

"You're being a smartass because you're upset," the agent pointed an accusing finger.

"No, I'm not," Sweets shook his head.

"Yes you are."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I may not be a psychologist but even I can tell that you're not fine."

"I am fine."

"Nope. I don't buy it."

"I am."

"No you're not. I saw you earlier today."

"I was fine then too."

"No you weren't. I could tell that you were rattled. I could see it in your ginormous eyes and your twelve year old face. You were freaking out about something, but you wouldn't tell me what. Now I'm here, and we're alone, and you still refuse to even acknowledge that what happened did actually happen and it's making me crazy because –"

"I was scared." Booth continued his tirade over the psychologist's soft murmur for several seconds before he realized that the younger man had spoken.

"You… what?" Sweets wrapped his arms around his stomach, hunching over slightly as if he were trying to protect himself. Booth took a tentative step forward. "Sweets?"

"I was scared." Sweets repeated, his voice still soft. Booth sat down on the couch, across from him.

"It's understandable, Sweets. The guy is like, half a foot taller and at least eighty pounds heavier than you. He's huge," Booth grinned nervously. "Must have packed one hell of a punch, huh?" Sweets still wouldn't look up at the agent, and started wringing his hands agitatedly.

"He remin- … He startled me." Booth frowned.

"He reminded you of what?"

"Of… of…" Sweets seemed to curl tighter in on himself, crossing his arms back over his stomach, his knuckles white as he clutched the sides of his shirt in his hands. "I… before. A long…" He seemed unable to string together his thoughts, but realization was quickly dawning on Booth.

"It reminded you of stuff that's happened before. A long time ago." Sweets made no indication that the agent had been correct, but he was fairly sure he had drawn the correct conclusions. He leaned forward, trying to catch the psychologist's eyes. "You'll never be that boy again, you know." Sweets was still silent. "I know that sometimes you get reminded of it, and a tiny, hidden part of you is scared that the old pattern will come back – that that stuff will start happening again – but it won't." Sweets continued to stare at his knees. "You know, bud… don't tell anyone, but sometimes I get… nervous… just because of certain things that remind me of… him, but I know… I know that it's over. It's okay to get nervous, you know."

"I took a pill." Booth looked at the psychologist nervously.

"You… what did you take?" Sweets pulled the bottle out of his pocket and handed it to the agent. Booth read the prescription. "You had a panic attack?" Sweets said nothing, still staring determinedly at his lap, avoiding the agent's gaze. "Well, if you were supposed to take these, I'm glad you did, kid." He stood up, and walked over to crouch down in front of the younger man. "Although, I wish you'd talked to me when it happened, you know."

"Nothing to talk about." Booth put a hand on Sweets's shoulder.

"Buddy, you got punched in the face by one of your patients, and it freaked you out enough for you to have a panic attack," Sweets frowned, about to defend himself when Booth continued, "and that's okay, but you're always trying to make us talk about… what did you call it? Scary feelings? And you should too." Sweets shook his head, tears springing unwittingly to his eyes as he thought of the blind panic he'd felt as he saw Agent Moore tower over him, sending a large fist into his face as he cowered in fear, apologizing repeatedly for the fault he hadn't been aware he'd committed. It had taken him straight back to when he'd been a tiny boy, cowering in fear from a different man, saying sorry over and over again as the blows rained down on his small, frail form, not understanding what he could have done so wrong to deserve the pain.

Booth sighed as he saw the tears welling in Sweets's eyes, and with a murmured, "Just this once," he pulled the younger man to him roughly, holding him in a tight embrace. They stayed there for a few moments before Booth pulled back, keeping his hands on the psychologist's shoulders. "You know, if Moore hadn't left already I'd…but there's no use thinking about that. I heard you let him off easy? Said he needed therapy but that he shouldn't lose his job?" Sweets nodded. "Woah. Kid, I would not have given him that option. He hit you."

"He's just in a bad place. It was my professional opinion. He can work through it." Booth smiled, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

"You know, bud, you may be a lanky kid, but there is a lot more to you that people don't see. You're pretty damn tough. Trust in that. You're going to be fine."