Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are. Niccolo Machiavelli
.***.
Sweets had never had a roommate.
As the only child of an older couple, he'd had plenty of space, plenty of long silences between easy words that he spent reading or writing or doing whatever else young boys do. When he went to college, he'd exploited every angle until he managed to get a single room, and had pulled the same strings in graduate school. Right after completing his education he'd lived alone in his own apartment, and had never even attempted moving in with a girl (like that was going to happen this decade).
Booth was different entity entirely. He'd shared a room since his brother was born, and then had moved on to sharing a room with a whole bunch of guys in the military. He liked the easy camaraderie that sprang up between roommates, liked the thought that someone was always there when the lights went out.
Sweets was a considerate house guest. The first day after the fire, he was in the hospital, being treated for the burns that covered his neck and arms and chest, but he was released by that afternoon in time to pick up Pru from a concerned Angela.
"Aww, Sweetie," Angela gasped at the sight of his burned and bandaged body. "You're on the news, you know. The woman whose daughter you saved? She's calling you a hero. Was it really bad? Did they save anything from your apartment?"
Sweets shook his head, grateful for the warm weight of the cat in his arms. He stroked her singed fur absentmindedly. "Thanks for taking care of her," he said lamely, "Prudence is kind of important to me."
"She's an affectionate cat. I think I'm going to get one now." Angela said easily, still looking concerned. She brightened up suddenly, and rushed from the room, leaving Sweets and Booth staring at each other, eyebrows raised. "I almost forgot!" Angela's voice drifted in from a nearby room. "I felt so awful about your apartment, and I kind of had the day to myself – well, and the cat – and I just had to do something."
She came back with the book that Sweets had been sure had succumbed to the fire. His eyes widened in complete surprise and Angela looked bashful as she held it out. "Most of the original pictures didn't survive, and the book itself was in pretty bad shape, but I patched it up, doctored some of the pictures…"
Sweets dumped Pru on the floor with the book and wrapped his arms around Angela before she could finish. "Thank you," He said, his voice thick with emotion, "thank you."
.***.
The next day, Sweets was determined to intrude as little as possible on Booth's home. He was just thankful to have a place to crash while he went apartment hunting. Then he woke up early and realized he had no clothes to change into. He supposed he could borrow a shirt from Booth's for today, even though they were very different sizes. Sweets sighed at the prospect of spending the whole day shopping and slipped his suit jacket, mostly in tatters, around his shoulders, mindful of the burns that still stung his skin if chaffed too much.
He covered up without even thinking. He'd been doing it for so long he sometimes forgot it was to hide the scars on his shoulders, the white lines that were a painful and humiliating reminder of those early years he'd just rather forget. When going to the beach or a pool as a child, he'd wear a shirt and laugh about not wanting to get burnt. When other boys stripped to the waist in sweltering summer heat, he'd let them believe he was self-conscious about his skinny body, not about the marks on his back.
Booth wasn't up yet, and he was glad for the kitchen to himself. The one meal Sweets really knew how to make was breakfast. Pru jumped on the counter and batted one of the eggs with her paw, and Sweets hastily broke it in a pan before it had the chance to fall to the floor. He cut up some ham he found in the fridge and grated an old block of cheese, thankful for all the ingredients required to make his perfect omelet.
By the time he was buttering the toast, the jacket had slipped to the floor, and Sweets was bobbing his head to the radio, turned down low and tuned in to a country station that somehow always reminded him of church and Sundays with his mother. He was just flipping the last omelet when he heard a soft sound behind him.
Sweets whipped around, spatula in hand, too quickly for Booth to have time to wipe the surprised horror off his face. Sweets saw his expression, and his soft brown eyes shuttered shut. His whole body drooped, like a plant left unwatered, unwanted. "You saw."
And things started clicking for Booth. Sweets's earnest need to get all the gory facts about Booth and Bones's childhoods, the way he dodged questions about his own as smoothly as any politician, the way Booth realized, just this moment, that he never took off his shirt, even when it was hot and other men had already discarded their own shirts.
There was so much humiliation spread across Sweets's expressive face that Booth felt like he needed to say something, like if he didn't talk right this minute everything was going to fester and boil and Sweets would be lost to him. So he did something he rarely did: he opened up.
"Jared has the same scars," Booth said after an awkward minute. He cleared his throat and leaned over the counter. Two steaming omelets and four slices of toast lay forgotten to the side. Sweets was staring at him, eyes wide, and Booth realized in that minute just how very young this psychologist was. "That's why we lived with my grandfather."
"Agent Booth, you don't have to say anything," Sweets began, embarassed, but Booth waved this away, thinking of the long, twisted scars that snaked across Sweets's shoulders, somehow more terrible than the new shiny burns that extended across his torso.
"I was supposed to be at home. I was always at home by the time dad was there because…well, you know." Sweets nodded. He knew some of these sordid tales. Booth, Brennan, and he all shared horrid pasts, though up until right this moment he'd been the only person in the world to know of that particular connection.
"Well, I wasn't there. The bus I was taking had broken down and…and if I'd known I would have run the three miles home, but I thought it would be okay. It was just a half-hour…" Booth circled around Sweets, no longer staring at his face, and the psychologist shivered when he felt a shaking finger trace the lattice of scars that spilled across his shoulders.
He didn't speak. Once, a professor had told him that people having flashbacks was a lot like people who sleepwalk. If you startle them in the middle of it, sometimes bad shit happened.
"When I got home, Jared was on the floor. Unconscious. Not much more you can expect from a nine-year-old, and the blood…there was so much blood…it distracted me enough that I didn't even realize that dad wasn't there until I was at the hospital. By then I didn't care." Booth jerked his hand away from Sweets's skin and the younger man let out a sigh of relief, scooting forward and putting a few inches of space between them.
Now he was facing Booth, and the FBI agent's eyes were wide and compassionate. "He has six marks. I know because I counted them for…oh, years I guess. I thought six was bad."
Sweets shrugged the coat back on, ignoring the protest from his burns. Pru mewed weakly, rubbing her velvet head against the back of Sweets's hand. Giving him courage.
"You were so worried about those pictures." Booth mused, tapping his fingers against the counter. "And you were so happy when Angela gave them back to you…I never even thought…"
"My parents never hurt me." Sweets said, quiet, dangerously quiet, feeling his hackles raise in automatic protection of the people who had, quite literally, saved his life. "They loved me."
Booth was surprised, but years of military and FBI training had made sure that this didn't show on his face. "Who hurt you, Sweets? Because I gotta be honest with you here, I've had a pretty lousy couple of months and kicking the crap out of someone must be good for my emotional state, right?"
Sweets actually smiled at that. "My…my biological father is very safely in prison, Agent Booth, though thank you for the kind offer. When his parole comes up you'll be the first person I call."
"Hey," Booth said, his hand reaching out and clutching Sweets's wrist. He did this a lot – touched someone's hand or leg or arm, just to get their attention, just to know that they were listening. Sweets closed his eyes at the touch, willed himself not to jump.
When he opened his eyes again he saw that Booth knew exactly how much Sweets wanted to bolt from the room. His grip tightened, though in a way that was comforting, secure, rather than suffocating. "If that bastard ever gets out of prison, you tell me. First thing. I don't care if it's thirty years from now and you think you've actually hit puberty. I've always regretted not protecting Jared. I'm not going to let something happen to you."
Sweets wrapped the jacket more securely around his body and looked away hurriedly. "Okay, Agent Booth." He said submissively, inching the omelet and toast closer to the bigger man, who turned abruptly andput hands on his hips, breathing hard as if dredging up these memories was physically difficult.
And Sweets just stared at him, wondering if Seeley Booth, FBI Agent, had meant to compare him, Lance Sweets, an annoying wunderkind psychologist, to his kid brother.
.***.
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