Lost was the child, we all once did hide. There but for the Grace of God go I. Anon

.***.

They remained roommates for those strange months after the whole debacle with Zack, and eventually they settled into a routine. Sweets would let Booth re-bandage his burns and check his stitches as long as he made no comments about the older scars that littered his shoulders. Booth would help Sweets on those odd, unexpected occasions when the younger man turned ghastly white after pulling at barely-healed skin, but only if the psychologist didn't analyze his every move.

Strangely, it turned out that they were good for each other. Booth's expansive personality and easy good cheer brought out the same, mostly dormant characteristics in Sweets, who found that he liked being around the FBI agent very much. Booth, on the other hand, learned how to hold his own against Sweets's sharp mind and biting, tongue-in-cheek wit, and was even caught once or twice surreptitiously reading APA Monitor on Psychology to keep up with his roommate's discussions.

Soon enough, Sweets stopped talking about finding an apartment and Booth kept his mouth closed about reminding him. Two weeks passed, and the burns were now pink patches covering Sweets's skin. Another week, and every trace of the incident at Whispering Willows was gone.

It was shaping up to be an indefinite living situation. Sweets bought a picture frame and hung it on the wall, and got a few clothes and stuck them in the closet. Pru had definitely made herself at home, and had taken a shining to Booth that made Sweets slightly jealous.

Everything might have been okay if Sweets hadn't gotten the phone call, if Booth hadn't gone out to meet an old army buddy, leaving the younger man with overdue paperwork and interesting profiles to do for other agents.

When the phone rang, Sweets answered it without really thinking, too intent on the serial killer he was trying to label. He still had the folder in his hand when he picked up the phone, and didn't really think twice about the fact that there was no one on the other end. He went back to the profile, call forgotten.

The second time it happened was a half hour later, when Sweets was making a sandwich, padding around the kitchen in only a pair of sweats, glad for the opportunity to take his shirt off. No matter how many times Booth sighed at Sweets's embarrassment over his scars, the young man could not get over his old habit of never going shirtless, of not even looking at his own back in a mirror. As long as no one looked at him strangely, as long as he didn't see them, then he could forget about the scars and those first terrible years completely.

Anyway, the point is that Sweets was making a sandwich the phone rang again. This time he was more alert, and repeated his hello twice, three times, before hanging up. He linked the two calls in his mind but dismissed it as a prank, as kids being kids.

Turns out, it was the person he always referred to as his "bio-dad." Paul had been out of jail for three months now, and the prison had tried to find Sweets to tell him but could only trace him as far as college, probably because Sweets had left the state, traveled, and then finally settled down five hundred miles away. It wasn't the prison's fault, not really. They would have tried harder, but Paul had been incarcerated for fifteen years, was a model prisoner, got time off for good behavior, was seeing both a shrink and a priest, the whole nine yards.

Turns out, Paul had been waiting fifteen years to put Sweets six feet under. After all, it was seven-year-old Lance, with his lisp and big eyes and small, nearly emaciated body, that had put him in jail in the first place. Paul searched longer and harder than the prison. Found Sweets's old apartment and talked to a neighbor, the same guy who'd dialed 9-1-1. It was the neighbor who mentioned something about the FBI, about an agent.

Turns out, Paul was pretty good at finding stuff out. He was tall, taller than Sweets by two inches, and heavier by more than a hundred pounds, but he had a face that made people believe he was either very kind or rather simple. He asked people politely and they told him that Lance Sweets and Seeley Booth had been living in an odd-couple relationship for nearly a month now. Paul thanked them all and went to lie in wait.

When he heard his son's voice over the phone, he got excited. Excited and angry and itching for blood, for the feel of fine bones breaking in his hands. And the expression on Lance's face when he opened the door and found his father? Priceless.

"Hiya son." Was all he said, and then socked him across the face.

Paul wasn't really thinking about consequences. Prison wasn't too bad once you got used to it, and it might be damned comfortable if he knew the snot-nosed kid that put him there was dead. So he didn't think twice about kicking the crap out of his son in an FBI agent's apartment.

The floor that was littered with Sweets's work was soon spattered with blood, too, as Paul's meaty fists tore open Sweets's lip, broke his teeth, his nose… "You understand these fancy words, son? Think you're better than your old man?" That's when Lance's shirt tore.

"Nice burns there, kid. You look like a fucking leper." More punches, and Sweets wasn't so much trying to defend himself as he was struggling to hold onto consciousness. When he bent double with a blow to the gut, Paul saw them. And they only egged him on. "Still got those old scars? My last gift to you, kid. Hope you appreciate it."

"Fuck you." Sweets muttered straightening up and breaking Paul's nose with a punch Booth would have been damn proud of. It was the last thing he did.

The knife was produced next, and Paul felt a peculiar sort of pleasure, carving a word into Sweets's back, watching the blood bloom, not really caring was muscles or nerves he severed as he dug the knife in deeper. "You always were a creepy kid. Scared the shit out of your mother when you started reading and doing all those fancy math things before most kids could use the damn toilet. Probably the reason she drank herself to death." He said this all quite happily, standing over his son's now limp and bleeding body. Soon enough, Lance Sweets would be dead, and as much fun as prison was, Paul wasn't going to make it any easier for the cops to catch him.

The last thing he did before he left the apartment was stab his knife through the picture of Lance with that old grey couple that took the freak from the state. Something for the world to remember him by. Paul closed the apartment door just as the phone began to ring.

.***.

Somehow, Sweets managed to pick up the phone. "Sweets?" It was Booth. Sweets almost cried in relief. In fact, he was crying, but with pain, and shock. The whole ordeal had taken less than three minutes. He was going to die because of what happened in less than three minutes. "Sweets, you there?"

"Help me…" Sweets said, his voice coming out as a whisper, a sob, but it got the message across.

Booth had been calling to say that he and his army buddy were going to be out late, but he forgot his key so could Sweets not lock the door? Now he sat bolt upright, and his army buddy with a beer in one hand and a redhead in the other looked at him. "Sweets, are you alright? What's up?"

"Please." And then the line went dead. Booth stared at the phone incredulously for one second – couldn't this kid catch a break? – but then he was out of his chair, throwing a twenty down on the table as he ran out the door.

.***.

The apartment didn't have flames coming from it, which Booth could only assume was a good thing. In fact, it looked peaceful. The door was intact, and unlocked, and Booth pushed it open, hoping that Sweets had sliced his hand open, twisted his ankle, something normal.

"Oh my God." Booth, a religious man, saw Sweets's body and prayed to God that he wasn't dead. "Sweets? Oh, God. Lance? Sweets? C'mon, buddy. C'mon."

Sweets looked quite dead. His shirt had been torn from his body and he was on his stomach with blood pooling in the crevice made by his spine, all flowing from the letters that had been etched into his back. F-R-E-A-K.

Strangely, the first thing Booth thought was that now the kid would never take his shirt off.

The second thing he thought was that an ambulance needed to be here five minutes ago.

He dialed while turning Sweets over so he could see the bruises on his torso, mostly covering the burns that had just been starting to heal. He put a hand on the younger man's cheek his throat, his chest, and was just breathing out a sigh of relief when the operator picked up. He nearly shouted his need for an ambulance, his address, and then threw down the phone despite the fact that the operator had told him to stay on the line. Somebody needed him more.

"Sweets? Open your eyes, kid. Sweets? You're okay. You're going to be okay."

But Sweets never opened his eyes, and Booth found himself sitting in his trashed apartment holding the dying psychologist in his arms, wondering how the hell this kid's life had gotten worse.

.***.

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