"Understanding is the first key to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery." Dumbledore

.***.

Hodgins hovered in the doorway to Sweets's office, watching the younger man with the shuttered eyes. Of course he knew what had happened between Sweets and his father, and then a whole story had come out after that about abuse and adoption, about redemption and revenge. And Hodgins had listened to this story, delivered in a low, rage-filled voice by Booth, and felt the sick twist of guilt begin in his gut.

They'd all been so quick to assume certain things about Sweets. Young and ambitious, everyone at the Jeffersonian and the FBI had jumped to the conclusion that he'd had a normal childhood: grew up in white suburbia with parents that he'd probably hated by the time he left home. Smarter than average, most likely graduated high school early. Nerdy. Clingy. Annoying.

None of them had ever thought of Sweets as a survivor, as the quiet guy in the background who ends up stealing the show, getting the girl, being the hero. And that's who Sweets was. And Hodgins was kicking himself for not recognizing that.

"Hey, Sweets." He called, knocking on the already open door with the back of one hand.

Sweets jumped, then winced, biting back a scream, and finally managed to stand up and smile. "Hello, Dr. Hodgins, what -"

"Sit down, kid, you look like you're going to keel over." And he did. Sweets was swaying slightly, and though the physical wounds had been patched and covered by clothes (except for the bruises that stood stark and ugly on the young man's expressive face) Hodgins knew they were there, and he knew that they hurt.

Sweets sat gingerly in the chair, doing his damndest to arrange his face in an expression that would appear natural. He tilted his head upward, resting his chin on the tips of his long, pale fingers, and if it hadn't been for the black eyes, the wary eyes, Hodgins might have believed that everything was a-OK.

"I was just wondering…" Hodgins began, feeling extremely awkward now that he was here, in this room, talking to the guy he'd been meaning to pull aside all day. "Would you like to get a couple of drinks?"

Sweets bit his lip and looked away, which was definitely not the reaction Hodgins was looking for. "The hospital kind of recommended staying away from alcohol."

"Coffee, then." The kid looked like he was about to decline again, so Hodgins rushed forward, "I know this out of the way place, not at all crowded, and I'm only asking for one hour. It's either me or the girls, and I don't think you want Angela to smother you in pity of Dr. Brennan to turn the psychoanalyzing against you right now."

"I didn't mean to avoid them."

"You did. That's okay. They get it." Hodgins spread his arms. "Look, I think I'm your best bet right now. Why not have a cup of coffee with me?"

When he was younger, Sweets's parents would tease him about his obsessive need for a schedule. It was nothing elaborate, not like he always needed to have a book on him or anything. He just liked knowing what was going on, and nothing would make him more nervous than waking up in the morning and not knowing the exact arrangements of the day. He especially hated having his plans derailed, like they were being derailed right now.

"One cup." He agreed hesitantly, standing up again. This time, Hodgins moved forward and grabbed his arm, guiding him to his feet. And, strangely enough, the touch didn't make Sweets lash out like he had this morning when Booth, worried, had shaken him after the alarm had blared three times. Then, Sweets had thrown an arm up over his face, cowering, crying, and Booth had looked surprised and so damn hurt that Sweets felt a deep shame that he hadn't felt since he was very, very young.

The out of the way place turned out to be Hodgins's house/mansion/manor that Sweets had known about, of course, he had the file, but had never seen. It was impressive, and intimidating.

Somehow, though, the kitchen managed to be a cozy thing, with a breakfast nook that had a large bay window that beautifully showcased the rising orange moon of late August. Lance cradled in the tea in his hands, staring into its depths as if the answers he craved could be found somewhere down there.

Uncharacteristically, Hodgins said nothing, merely slid an entomology journal close to him and took a sip of his own drink – designer coffee with exotic beans, but you had to forgive the man this small extravagance. He didn't read the article, though – every follicle of his being was on end, waiting for Sweets to say something.

And finally the younger man's instincts as a psychologist, the need to fill oppressive silence with something constructive, won over. "Booth has been…different…since the…" He didn't say anything, just gestured at the bruises that still littered his face and body. It was enough. "Before he'd started calling me Doogie Howser. I'm assuming it was another joke about my age. I didn't even know who that was."

"That's just proving his point, kid." Hodgins said, shaking his head and smiling slightly.

"Yeah, well, he was teasing me. Comfortable with me. And then my father showed up and suddenly he's leaving rooms as soon as I walk in and looking at me like I'm a…pariah. I've tried to analyze his actions, and I've come to the conclusion that my injuries are a painful reminder of Booth's own past. I've been looking for other living arrangements."

"And have you discussed any of this with Booth?" Hodgins put his expensive coffee down, brow furrowing. "Because I'm pretty sure your analysis is off."

'I don't see how it can be. His reactions are perfectly rational." Sweets ran a hand through his hair, wincing as it connected with bruises. He'd sworn not to succumb to that particular nervous habit until the welts had faded more. "I just…I thought we were becoming friends. After Gormogon, when he arrested me, I was sure I was going to apply for a transfer and leave Washington, but then there was Whispering Willows, and my apartment burning down, and my father, and -"

"This has not been a good summer for you." Hodgins said, his smile sad. He leaned forward, "Sweets, Booth is avoiding you because every time he sees the bruises he remembers that they never found that monster that beat you up, and he blames himself for that."

This was a revelation to Sweets, who had been blaming himself for that night so much that he never even thought that others might be toting the same gun. "But that's not his fault! Booth worked longer and harder than anyone to find my…to find the man who… I don't blame Booth! It was my fault for being negligent. If I'd alerted the prison to my change of address after the death of my parents I would have been notified of his parole. I just didn't expect him to be out for another five years."

"Listen to me, Sweets." Hodgins said, impulsively holding Sweets's hand, feeling the muscles automatically tense in his grip. He kept his eyes on the therapist though – this was it. Fight or flight. Stay and talk it out or make excuses and run. Honestly, Hodgins couldn't blame Sweets if he wanted to run. He couldn't imagine facing a past like the one that had just come back to slap this young man across the face.

He waited until he was sure Sweets was staying before he began, "When you first showed up at the Jeffersonian I didn't like you, Sweets."

This was obviously not what the psychologist was expecting to come out of the entomologist's mouth, and he jerked his hand away, hurt flashing across his face. Hodgins continued quickly, words tripping over each other in their haste to make amends. "Well, think about it. You were some smart-ass guy coming in looking like a kid playing dress-up with his father's clothes – I saw that smile, Sweets. The age jokes are kind of funny."

"Dr. Hodgins, I've been the youngest person in the room since I was ten. There is literally no joke about my age that I have not heard a dozen times before." But it was undeniable that Sweets was smiling a little, even as he tried to steer them back on point like the good psychologist he was. "You were saying how much you hated me…?"

"Not liking you is not the same as hating you." Sweets brightened up a little and Hodgins groaned. "Those bruises make you look truly pathetic, by the way…anyway, you were annoying, and you were butting in, and for a long, long time I didn't like you. Being arrested for murder didn't help, especially since we all thought you'd hurt Zack, too."

Here Sweets wilted, staring at the now-empty cup of tea before raising earnest eyes to meet Hodgins's. "I would never hurt Zack or any of you. I could never hurt anyone. When I was little my dad – that's Peter Sweets – he used to tell me to stick up for myself, punch if I'd been punched, you know? But I was never good at that. I was always afraid of hurting someone, and of looking like a bully."

Hodgins didn't think he'd ever known anyone less like a bully in his life than the broken, mild-mannered, sweet-tempered lanky young man in front of him. And it was with those words that the entomologist realized that this had been an acquired trait, an active search to change a character, for Sweets had been so determined to distance himself from his father that he didn't allow himself to share even the most basic character traits.

"I still think I need to find another place to live. I'd be putting Agent Booth in danger if I continued to live in his apartment. What if Paul comes back and Booth is there? He is going to be pissed once he learns he didn't kill me."

Something flashed across Hodgins's face and he leaned forward, anxiety and concern dripping from his words. "Kid, you need to tell Booth this. Please. Before you consider buying a new place, before you start hunting for another apartment while you're all wrapped up in casts, just talk to him. Tell him what you told me." He grabbed Sweets's hand, and this time the psychologist didn't flinch or jerk away.

"You're annoying and a pain in the ass, kid, but damnit if we all don't love you to death after what we've been through together. Booth too, man. Don't do anything reckless. Do you want Angela and Dr. Brennan attending your funeral?"

Sweets managed a tight smile and squeezed Hodgins's hand, touched that the man had reached out to him, touched that he'd been touched, touched at the words that had love woven through them so obviously Lance felt like he was glowing from the inside.

.***.

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