A/N: I think the show writers gave us pregnant Daisy just so Sweets's death would be THAT MORE awful. But for the purposes of this fic, there is no pregnant Daisy.
"The Hurt in the Recovery"
"We got him, Sweets. We got all of them. Emory, Durant, the whole blackmail network."
The steady psh-pshaw of the ventilator was the only response.
Booth sat next to the still figure in the hospital bed, idly rubbing one hand over the abraded knuckles where he'd struck Durant to get his DNA.
"We couldn't have done it without you," he went on. "You know that, right? You're a vital member of this team and we need you back."
The ventilator wheezed and deflated, artificially breathing for the broken body. Seeley would give anything for the kid to open his eyes and talk his ear off again.
"Booth," Bones's voice called softly from the doorway.
"Yeah." He brushed his hands on his pants and stood up.
"I need to pick up Christine," she said. "But you can stay here. Someone- someone should."
The unspoken "in case" hung heavily in the air. Sweets was barely hanging on and the doctors were not confident he would make it through the next few days. Booth could still hear Brennan listing off the injuries with the barest quiver in her voice to belie how distraught she was over it. Broken femur that had nicked the femoral artery; several broken ribs and a punctured lung; spinal fracture; bruised thyroid cartilage from attempted strangulation. It was a miracle he had made it to the hospital at all.
Booth ran a hand down his face. "Yeah, if that's okay."
"Of course. I'm sure Cam will work out a rotation once all the case files are finished."
Booth just nodded. He didn't want to say that he didn't know if he could bring himself to leave in case their worst fears came true. He didn't know if he'd forgive himself if he wasn't there if Sweets…he already couldn't forgive himself for not being the one to serve the warrant.
Bones left, and Booth sat down and leaned his arms over his knees again. Sweets was deathly pale, which made the bruises on his face stand out all the more starkly.
"I fought back. You'd be proud."
"I am proud, Sweets," he murmured.
Days passed, and the longer Sweets continued to fight, the more hope they all had that he would pull through. Everyone took a turn sitting with him so he was never alone, even the interns. There wasn't anyone on the Jeffersonian team who didn't care about the psychologist.
Brennan paused her oratory to look at the readings on the machines. Despite Sweets hanging on, he otherwise showed no improvement. It was still too soon, she reminded herself. The extent of his injuries required an extremely lengthy recovery.
"Of course, the physical therapy was challenging," she went on. "But Dr. Sweets was determined. His friends were sometimes exasperated by this part of his personality, especially when it came to pushing them to talk about their feelings and psychology, which Dr. Brennan pointed out was a subjective pseudo-science. Still, in this case they were all grateful for Lance's resilience." She canted her head. "This is where Angela would insert a sexy nurse, but any sexual activity would be extremely negligent on a caregiver's part given the injuries Dr. Sweets is recovering from."
"Uh, Bones?"
She looked up at her husband standing in the doorway with a perplexed look on his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"When you were in a coma, I read my book to you, and you apparently did hear me because it influenced the dream you had. But I don't want Sweets to wake up confused, so I'm telling him a story of his getting better on the off-chance that it will help him believe he can." She fidgeted self-consciously. "It sounds silly when I say it out loud."
Booth's expression softened. "It's not silly, Bones." He came fully into the room, his demeanor sobering as he looked at their friend. "Still no change?"
"No. But he hasn't gotten worse, so that's something."
Booth nodded despondently. "That's something."
But days became weeks, and that fragile hope turned to a whole new worry that Sweets would never wake up. The Jeffersonian team eventually had to get back to work full time. Booth didn't return to the FBI. Even though he'd been cleared of the murder charges, the sting of betrayal was too raw. He split his time between the hospital and staying home with Christine. He didn't let himself think about what he was going to do, whether he would ever go back to work. Of course he loved working with Bones, he just…wasn't ready. And as long as Sweets's life still remained in limbo, it was easy for Booth to do the same.
Brennan was studying the skull of a cold case victim when her cell rang.
"Cell phones aren't allowed on the platform, Miss Warren," Cam chided.
"That was me," Brennan quickly said and answered her phone. "Dr. Brennan." She listened to the voice on the other end of the line. "Thank you, I'll be right there." She hung up and immediately began removing her gloves.
"Was that about the case?" Cam asked.
"No, that was the hospital. I asked to be notified when they were taking Sweets off the ventilator."
Cam paled. "Oh god, they're…? Weren't you going to tell the rest of us?" she exclaimed.
"It's highly unlikely Sweets will regain consciousness," Brennan replied. "But I wanted to be there regardless, and it will give me an opportunity to examine his latest x-rays."
Cam blinked in apparent confusion, her mouth moving soundlessly.
"So," Jessica interjected, "they're not pulling the plug?"
Brennan furrowed her brows. "That's not how an extubation works, Miss Warren."
Cam exhaled heavily. "His lung sats have improved to the point they believe he can breathe on his own."
"Yes, that's what I said." Brennan shook her head and exited the platform.
She texted Booth on her way out to the car, knowing he'd want to be there too, even though there was no reason to expect Sweets to wake up. But he'd be angry if she didn't inform him, so she made sure the doctors waited until they were both present.
They stood outside the room, watching through the glass wall as the doctor and nurses once again tested Sweets's response to the ventilator being turned off. When his vitals remained steady, they proceeded with the extubation. Booth looked tensed, as though he expected something to go wrong. But nothing did, and for the first time in several weeks, they got a view of Sweets without the large tube stuck down his throat. His bruises had also yellowed in that time, giving his pallor a very sickly tinge. His broken bones and tissues were also mending well. Brennan was pleased with the progress she saw on the latest x-rays.
"Why won't he wake up?" Booth asked tautly, expression fraught.
"He went through a severe trauma," Brennan once again repeated. "But this is a good sign, Booth. He's not in a coma. He's healing."
"Still wish he'd wake up so we could stop worrying," Booth muttered.
The doctor and nurses exited the room, and Booth went in. Brennan followed behind him.
"Hey, Sweets," Booth greeted softly. "Bones says you're doing good. Personally, I think you're milking this a bit much. Sleeping on the job, now what do your psych books say about that?"
Brennan didn't comment.
Booth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he carefully opened up. "Christine drew this for you."
He set the child's drawing on the stand next to the bed. There were two stick figures, one easily recognizable as Christine by its height. The other could have been a rendition of anyone, but she had written "Uncle Sweets" above the character's head.
Booth tentatively reached out and squeezed Sweets's hand. "Wake up, buddy."
Brennan shared the sentiment but knew it made no difference. This was up to Sweets.
Booth was reading the newspaper when the slightest movement caught his attention. Sweets's hand had shifted, almost as though it was reaching out. Booth shoved the paper away and looked up into groggy but open eyes. Sweets's mouth moved but no sound came out.
"Hey," Booth exclaimed, getting to his feet. "It's about time you woke up."
Sweets squinted and tried to speak again, but only a hoarse utterance rasped from cracked lips.
"Hang on, I'll get the nurse," Booth urged. He had to force himself to move away from the bed and rush to the door so he could call for help. But then he was right back at Sweets's side.
The nurse arrived a moment later.
"Welcome back, Dr. Sweets," she greeted as she checked his vitals. "Do you know where you are?"
He opened his mouth again, only to grimace and swallow hard when nothing came out.
"Just blink once for no and twice for yes," she instructed.
He blinked twice.
"Why can't he talk?" Booth asked anxiously.
"It's a common side effect of the intubation. I'll get the doctor." The nurse paused to give Booth a compassionate look. "He's fine."
"Fine" wasn't the word Booth would choose. But "alive" and "awake" were an immense relief.
"I'm gonna call Bones," Booth said aloud and pulled out his cell.
Sweets's hand twitched again, and Seeley reached down to grasp it as he made the call.
"Bones, he's awake. Yeah, right now. Okay." He hung up and turned back to his friend. "She's on her way."
Sweets kept trying to speak, his brows knitting together when he failed to produce more than a strained wheeze.
"Hey, just take it easy," Booth soothed. "You're fine. Everyone's fine."
Sweets squeezed Booth's hand weakly. Booth squeezed back.
The nurse returned with the doctor, who proceeded to go over Sweets's vitals and explain his injuries to the psychologist. Booth still had trouble following all the jargon, and he wished he'd asked them to wait for Bones. Not that her explanation would be any more clear.
"You have a long recovery ahead of you, Dr. Sweets, but your prognosis is good," the doctor finished.
Sweets looked overwhelmed but managed a small nod.
"We'll get you some warm broth to start with, since your stomach hasn't had food in a while. It should help your throat too."
The medical personnel left, leaving just Seeley and Sweets. Sweets lifted his other hand and mimicked writing. Booth faltered as he looked around for something to write on. He ended up grabbing the newspaper and fortunately had a pen on him. The paper crinkled and gave under the weight of Sweets's hand, but he managed to scrawl one word.
"Case?"
"It's over," Booth told him. "We got everyone involved."
Sweets dragged the pen over the paper again.
"You ok?"
"I'm fine," Booth said. "We're gonna focus on you, okay?"
Sweets let the pen drop. Booth left it and the paper within reach in case he wanted it again.
It wasn't much later that Bones arrived, along with Angela, Hodgins, and Cam. All of whom expressed their heartfelt joy at seeing Sweets awake.
"He can't talk yet," Booth warned. "Something about the intubation."
"Yes, it would have left his throat irritated," Bones explained.
"The doctor said they'd bring him some warm broth, but it's taking forever." Booth glanced out toward the nurse's station in growing agitation.
"Nothing in the hospital moves quickly," Cam said. "I'll see where they're at." She gave Sweets another smile before leaving.
The rest of them crowded around the bed. This marked a turning point. Things could only go up from here.
Lance's arms quivered as he struggled to keep himself upright on the physical therapy bars. His leg muscles were even weaker, straining to bear his weight as he fought to shuffle one foot in front of the other. The stiff back brace encasing his spine constricted his chest when he wanted to bow over from the exertion.
"Two more steps," his physical therapist encouraged. "You're almost there."
Sweat was beading along his forehead and he wanted nothing more than to let go and drop, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. One agonizing step. One more.
The therapist caught him as he reached the end and helped turn him around so he could ease down into the wheelchair. He was out of breath, a sensation that was frustrating given he'd barely taken a dozen steps. His doctors had warned him recovery would be painstakingly slow, especially because of the healing spinal fracture. He was lucky he wasn't paralyzed, though regaining the ability to walk completely was going to be long and arduous.
The therapist wheeled him back up to his room where he found Booth waiting.
"Hey, there you are," Booth greeted with a jovial smile. "How was physical therapy?"
"Exhausting," Lance muttered.
"He's doing well," the therapist added, wheeling him to the bed and setting the wheel locks in place.
Lance sucked in a breath as he braced himself against the arm rests.
"Here," Booth said, rushing in to help as the therapist lifted Lance out of the chair and transferred him to the bed.
Lance sagged against the uncomfortable mattress, utterly wiped.
"Can I get you anything?" Booth asked.
"No, thanks."
"Alright, let's see what's on TV." Booth plopped himself down in the plastic chair and grabbed the remote to the television mounted on the wall.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Lance asked.
"Nope."
"Booth," he said seriously. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but you've been here almost every day. You should be back at the FBI by now."
"I'm taking some time," Booth replied flatly.
"You're still struggling with what happened. But avoidance isn't going to help you come to terms with it. You have to learn to trust again."
"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped but quickly shook himself as though ashamed he'd taken that tone with Lance. "Let's just watch the game." He pointed to the soccer match he found on TV.
"Soccer's not even your sport," Lance pointed out.
"I like it today."
Lance let it go, if only because he was worn out from his own road to recovery.
"The remodeling on your fractures is very good," Brennan was saying as she looked at a recent set of x-rays on the wall.
"When can the back brace come off?" Lance asked.
She canted her head in thought. "The doctors want to be cautious about not re-injuring your spine, which I concur with."
"It's really uncomfortable."
She gave him a sympathetic look as she came to sit next to the hospital bed. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to help with that." She paused, then went on, "How are you holding up?"
"I'm held up by braces and nursing assistants," he quipped.
"I meant emotionally," Brennan replied, failing to appreciate his factual humor.
Lance quirked an amused look at her. "That's an odd question coming from you."
"I've learned from you that trauma takes its toll on someone. And since you're the one who's always there to offer support to the rest of us, I wondered if anyone was doing that for you."
His expression softened. "That's really kind of you, Dr. Brennan, but I'm holding up well enough. It's Booth I'm worried about. He still hasn't gone back to the FBI?"
"No," she confirmed. "He hasn't officially quit; he's just still on leave. But I don't know how much longer he can push that." She sighed in frustration. "I don't know how to help him find his faith in everything again."
Lance nodded commiseratively. "I've tried talking to him, but he refuses to even go there."
"He blames himself for what happened to you," Brennan said solemnly.
"I'll keep trying to get through to him," Lance promised.
She smiled. "If anyone can, it's you."
"Booth, we need to talk."
He knew that tone, and it immediately made him bristle.
"Let's talk about the Cardinals," he deflected. "Their prospects look good this year."
"That's not what I want to talk about."
"Hamil got traded, and this new rookie has some pretty impressive stats," Booth rattled on.
"You have to face this sooner or later," Sweets pressed.
"Then later."
"Booth!"
"Would you give it a rest, Sweets!" he snapped, only to immediately blanch. "I'm sorry. Look, I don't want to talk about this, okay? Can't we just enjoy the afternoon?"
"You want to examine why you can't let yourself be mad at me?"
Booth shook his head in vexation. "I'm getting this close," he warned, holding up his thumb and forefinger.
"But you keep holding yourself back."
"What, you want me to get mad at you?"
"I want you to face the truth of what you're feeling."
Booth shot him a glare. "Why are you pushing this, Sweets?" he asked darkly.
"Because this is what I do, and I can't do much of anything else lately, can I?" Sweets retorted with a small hint of bite.
They stared each other down for a tense minute.
"Yeah," Booth finally broke. "You're like this because of me. Is that what you want to hear? I should have delivered the warrant. It was my fight."
"It was all our fight," Sweets rejoined. "Coming after any one of us is coming after all of us. Because we're a team. That's what we do. I was doing my job."
"It should have been me," Booth persisted.
Something shifted in Sweets's expression. "Because you could have handled the guy? Because he wouldn't have gotten away with the document? You wouldn't have been beaten up?"
"That's not what I said."
"I don't know, sounds like you were making a judgement about my capability in the field," Sweets went on.
"Well if you weren't in the field, you wouldn't have nearly died!" Booth snapped.
Sweets's shoulders visibly sagged. "Isn't that the job, Booth? Look, I'm sorry if I let you down."
"No," Booth interrupted sharply. "You did not let me down, Sweets. You- you did everything right. I just…" he trailed off, his breath hitching. "They took everything from me, okay?" he admitted, voice cracking. "My home, my freedom, my job. And they almost took my best friend, and there is no way I can ever be okay with that."
Sweets was silent for a moment. "They were brought to justice, Booth. You were proven innocent. How many times have our lives been threatened? It's part of the job. You've accepted all those previous times; this one is no different, except that it hit you in your soul. Accepting it isn't the same thing as being okay with it. It just means you can move forward and not stay stuck in it."
Booth looked away. "Easy as that, huh?" he said bitterly.
"Simple, not easy," Sweets said kindly.
He shook his head. "So what am I supposed to do?"
"Go back to work. Learn to trust again. Agent Aubrey is a good guy. And you still have Dr. Brennan. The two of you do important work, Booth. You got everything back that was taken from you; so don't let them have this in the end after all."
Booth exhaled heavily. Sweets was right. He always was.
"I guess I should be there when you're ready to come back to work too," he said.
Sweets's smile was only half genuine. "Yeah."
The days were agonizingly monotonous in the hospital. Bed rest, physical therapy, bed rest. Even with the books and case files he'd asked his friends to bring him, Lance was going stir crazy. He wanted a change of scenery. He wanted to move. Too bad movement was still strenuous and painful. Nor could he find a restful position in bed anymore, which was just as frustrating. The discomfort made it difficult to follow the friendly argument Booth and Brennan were currently having about something or other. It was getting heated, too, but swiftly subsided when one of Sweets's primary doctors walked in.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Sweets," the man greeted.
"Dr. Talmudge," he acknowledged.
"We have some things to discuss," the doctor began.
"What? Is something wrong?" Booth immediately overreacted.
"Not at all," Dr. Talmudge quickly assured him. "Dr. Sweets's recovery is progressing nicely. It's time to transfer you to a nursing facility."
"Oh." Right, they'd mentioned that a while ago. When he'd wanted a change of scenery, that wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind though.
"A nursing facility?" Booth repeated dubiously. "Why?"
"He no longer needs to be in the hospital, but his recovery is far from over. Dr. Sweets still needs a great deal of care," the doctor explained. "And since he lives alone, the long-term care center is the only option available." He turned back to Lance. "I have the paperwork ready for you to go over."
"Sweets can come stay with us," Brennan declared.
"Yeah," Booth quickly echoed.
"That's very thoughtful, but you need to understand what you'd be signing up for," Dr. Talmudge countered.
"I'm fully aware of the care Sweets needs," Brennan interrupted. "And we are equipped to see to them. Our house has a wide, open floor plan with plenty of room for a wheelchair to manuever through. We'll have to move some furniture around but that isn't a problem. And there is space for a physical therapist to come daily to work with him. Which will be less expensive than the care facility."
"Dr. Brennan," Lance started. He appreciated the gesture, but he wasn't going to put his recovery on them.
"No," she cut him off with vehement protest. "You're coming back to live with us, Sweets. End of discussion."
Lance didn't have the heart to argue. He was truly grateful for them taking him in again. "Thank you," he said, voice cracking with emotion.
Brennan gave a clipped nod. "Of course. You're family."
"All right then," Dr. Talmudge said. "I'll start getting the discharge papers ready."
Even though Booth had agreed to go back to the FBI, now that Sweets was going to be living with them, he opted for part-time work and desk duty, a lot of which he could do from home so he could be there to help Sweets. Bones approved of the plan and said Agent Aubrey was working out well with the team. Booth felt a niggle of jealousy and protectiveness over that, but he chose to feel gratitude because it meant everyone was being looked after as was needed.
Booth carried Sweets's bags while Bones pushed his wheelchair up the drive to their front door. No sooner had he opened it that Christine came running down the hall, looking ready to fling herself into Sweets's arms.
Booth dropped the bags and lunged to intercept her. "Whoa there, kiddo, remember what we talked about? You gotta be gentle with Uncle Sweets."
She flicked a nervous look at him. Fortunately, all the outward signs of the brutal beating he'd taken had healed up, leaving just the wheelchair and the padded brace as evidence he'd been badly hurt.
"Hey, Christine," Sweets said with a bright smile. "Come here."
She approached him with more caution, and Sweets gave her a very soft hug.
"Thanks, Dad," Bones said as Max appeared.
"No problem, sweetheart. Sweets, good to see you're doing better."
"Max."
Booth gave his daughter a light nudge. "Why don't you help Mom get Sweets situated on the couch while I put his bags in his room?"
Christine nodded eagerly and bounded into the living room.
Booth dropped the bags in the guest bedroom and unpacked them. Sweets hadn't needed much—sweats and other loose fitting clothing, toothbrush. In addition to the physical therapist, Bones had hired a nurse to come a few times a week to help Sweets with some of the more personal issues, like bathing. It was going to be awkward enough that Booth would have to help him to the bathroom, but he was willing to do it. Sweets needed care and it was only right his family saw to it.
The first few days were…easy, in a way. Booth was gung-ho attentive, ready to leap up any time Sweets needed something. Not that Sweets was demanding in any way. He was able to wheel himself around the house, and he enjoyed sitting out in the patio for the fresh air. He was a big help keeping Christine entertained so Booth could get some of that paperwork done he'd brought home from the office.
But as Booth fell into the rhythm of working again, the interruptions became minor irritations. Not that he would ever complain; it wasn't Sweets's fault. But he did casually mention to Bones about getting a nurse all day maybe once or twice a week, so he could do some work in the office. He framed it as wanting to take the next step to reintegrate himself at the FBI, and she'd agreed without question.
Sweets appeared unfazed by the idea when they presented it to him and agreed that it was good Booth wanted to get back to the FBI. Booth tried not to feel guilty, like he was running away from his responsibilities. He was just…delegating them a little bit. There was nothing wrong with that.
"Uncle Sweets, we're home!" Christine announced loudly as Brennan opened the front door to let them in.
"Sorry we're late," she called. "Traffic was bad. Booth is on his way with dinner."
Christine immediately ran to her toys in the living room. Sweets wasn't there, nor was he wheeling himself out to greet them.
Brennan removed her coat with a frown. "Sweets?"
She checked to make sure Christine was absorbed with her toys before heading down the hallway to the bedroom. She found Sweets lying on top of the covers, his pallor pale and face pinched.
"Sweets?" she called in concern.
"Hey, Dr. B," he said breathlessly, like it took tremendous effort to speak.
"You're in pain," she deduced. "Did the nurse leave you like this?" she asked in indignation.
"No. I mean, I didn't tell him. It got- worse- since."
Brennan shook her head and went to the dresser to find the prescription painkillers.
"No," Sweets blurted. "I already had one."
"It's clearly not working."
"Doesn't- matter. Have to wean off." He gestured stiffly toward a stack of papers on the chair.
Brennan went over to read them. It was the latest instructions from his doctors about weaning off the pain killers. She pursed her mouth unhappily. "You're in pain, Sweets. You need to take something."
"I know how those meds work," he argued. "And I know why they have the weaning schedule. I just have to get through this. It will calm down on its own. That's what they said."
The last part sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than her. And while Brennan understood the science behind all of those factors, she hated seeing Sweets in miserable pain.
She moved around the bed and took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Gently taking his hand in hers, she turned his palm up and touched her fingertips to his, brushing lightly, one at a time, in a steady rotation.
Sweets furrowed his brow. "What are you doing?"
"The latest studies in neuroscience have shown that the pain cycle in the brain can be interrupted by opening the brain up to other sensations. Focus on the sensations in your fingers." She continued to lightly stroke down one, then another. She even traced his palm.
His breathing remained strained. "Dr. B, this isn't making the pain go away."
"No, it doesn't do that," she said regretfully. "Only medication can. But if you're determined to wean yourself off the meds completely, then this will help in the long run by preventing those neuro pathways of pain sensations from becoming cemented in the brain."
She moved to his wrist, pressing gingerly into various pressure points, then up his arm. "What do you feel?" she prompted. "Use words other than 'pain'."
Sweets's brows knitted together as he struggled either to focus or feel past the pain in his body. "Tender," he said. "Um, smooth."
"Good."
"Warm. Your hands are warm."
Brennan shifted to his chest. "I'm going to touch your sternum," she warned. "I won't hurt you."
"I know."
He still tensed as she carefully and lightly ran her finger along one of his healed ribs. Sweets sucked in a sharp breath.
"Did that hurt?" she asked worriedly.
"Yes. No. I'm sorry. It felt like it did, but- but not the same way."
"That's the brain misinterpreting signals," she explained. "It helps to give it a sensation other than pain to maintain neuroplasticity."
"I trust you."
Brennan continued her slow, gentle touches. Sweets closed his eyes and focused on breathing, and hopefully the sensations other than the pain. She felt it when his body finally relaxed and he dozed off.
"Bones, didn't you hear me calling?" Booth said loudly as he walked in.
"Shh!" she hissed.
He pulled up short. "What?" he said quietly. "What were you doing?"
"I'll explain over dinner," she whispered back and quietly pushed him out of the room and shut the door behind them.
"It's on the counter. Shouldn't we wake Sweets?" Booth asked dubiously.
"Let him sleep for a bit. I'll bring him a plate later. He had a rough evening."
Booth's brow creased with worry as he glanced back at the closed door.
Brennan put a hand on his arm to propel him toward the kitchen. "He'll be fine. He has us. But I am going to contact his doctor about incorporating some additional modalities into his treatment plan."
"Uh, okay…you're sure he's okay?"
"Yes," she said confidently. As she'd said, Sweets had them.
"I'm just not seeing a motive," Booth complained as he once again pored over the case file at the kitchen counter. This latest homicide was vexing.
"I'm having an equally difficult time finding the official cause of death," Bones commiserated. "Since Christine is sleeping over at Hodgins and Angela's, I might go back to the lab tonight."
Booth straightened. "What? It's late. No, let's just get a good night's sleep and come at it with fresh eyes tomorrow."
Brennan shrugged in capitulation.
A crash from the back of the house had them both jerking in alarm and then rushing down the hall.
"Sweets!" Booth exclaimed when they found him on the floor outside the bathroom.
"I'm all right," the kid tried to protest, even as he lay there, his legs askew.
Booth dropped down beside him and grabbed his arms to pull him upright and prop him against the wall.
"Easy, Booth," Brennan cautioned and began running her hands over Sweets to check him over.
"I'm fine, really. I'm sorry."
"What happened?" Booth demanded.
Sweets let out a frustrated noise and thunked his head back against the wall. "I was just going to brush my teeth. I made it through it, too. I just lost my balance getting back to my room."
"Why didn't you call for one of us?" Booth reprimanded.
Sweets shook his head. "I thought I could do it," he said under his breath.
"No broken bones or fractures that I can detect," Bones concluded. "You're lucky, Sweets. A fall like that could have aggravated your spinal injury, or you could have hit your head and suffered a concussion!"
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just…I'm tired of being a burden."
Booth raised his brows. "What? Where's that coming from?"
"My recovery is taking too long. I should go to the nursing facility after all. I don't want to keep monopolizing your lives like this."
Booth clasped his shoulder. "You are not a burden, Sweets."
"By definition of the word, he is," Brennan interjected.
"Bones," Booth hissed.
"But it's a burden we choose to carry," she pressed on. "Because you're family and we love you."
Sweets sighed. "I know, and I am grateful. I'm just frustrated with everything, and I doubt you thought I'd be here this long."
"You almost died," Bones reminded him, her tone quavering slightly with the memory of it. "You should have died. Please don't rush your recovery and risk a setback. I don't want to lose you."
"You were patient with me when I was recovering from my brain surgery and coma," Booth added.
"It didn't take you nearly this long to get back to your old self," Sweets countered.
"It's not a competition." Booth exhaled heavily. "I get it, though, how hard it is to be laid up. You're the strongest guy I know, Sweets. You've overcome insurmountable things before; you'll do it again."
Sweets's eyes took on a sheen. "Thanks."
Booth clapped a hand on the kid's knee. "I think it's time I start bringing you to the office with me, get back into work."
"I still can't walk."
"Handicapped stalls are federally mandated," Bones put in.
Booth shot her an exasperated look. "Right. Look, you're going stir crazy like you were in the hospital, right? I think a change—and challenge—is in order. Trust me, you need this. And Bones and I aren't going anywhere—or letting you go anywhere. You got it?"
Sweets gave him a small smile. "I got it."
Booth nodded. "Now let's get you off the floor. And if you pull a stunt like this again when Christine's home and you scare her, I will kick your ass the moment you're out of that chair."
Sweets ducked his gaze, properly chastised. "Fair enough. I am sorry."
Booth and Brennan each took one of his arms and carefully pulled him up, then braced him as he clumsily shuffled into the bedroom toward the bed.
"Thank you," he said again. "For everything."
"You belong here, Sweets," Bones replied. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Booth nodded his agreement. They still had a long road ahead, and it was bound to have its bumps, but Booth was confident they'd all make it. They always did.