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Dinner was lovely, Gordon-Gordon more than proving his ability in the kitchen with the cassoulet he prepared. Although Booth was loathe to admit it, he suspected the other man would fare quite well in his upcoming adventures as a chef.
The four of them spent hours first huddled around Booth’s tiny kitchen table, then retired to the more spacious sofa. Although the circumstances that had brought Sweets to the apartment that night were dark and serious, conversation amongst the group remained light, and before any of them realized how much time had passed it was nearing one in the morning. Gordon-Gordon was the first to excuse himself, a smile on his face as he thanked the remaining trio for allowing him to cook for them. Brennan departed not long after, citing an early meeting with her publisher the next morning that she needed to be well-rested for. This left Sweets and Booth on the couch, both of them in a comfortable haze mostly due to the multiple glasses of wine they had each consumed.
Sweets set down his glass on the coffee table before him and groaned, stretching his arms. “Thanks for inviting me over,” he told Booth, flashing the other man a warm smile. “I know it may not have been your idea, but this was fun. I really enjoyed myself.”
He moved to stand up but had barely gotten to his feet when something grabbed at him, preventing him from moving further. Bemused, he looked down to see Booth’s hand clenched on his pants leg, not too tight but firmly enough to keep him in place. “Booth? You okay?”
The older man was staring up at him, brow furrowed, his dark eyes unreadable. Sweets frowned. “Booth? Hey, what’s wrong-”
“Sit with me for a minute, Sweets.”
“I’m- sorry?”
“Just sit.”
Sweets sat. All of Booth’s genial attitude from the past few hours seemed to have vanished as soon as Brennan left the apartment, he noted. Maybe there was a correlation? “Is something wrong between you and Dr. Brennan? Did her admission earlier about being locked in a trunk get to you?”
Booth rolled his eyes; his hand, still grabbing at Sweets’ leg, finally let go. “Yeah, of course that story bothered me, but Bones and I will deal with that another day. That’s not why I want to talk to you.”
His hand returned to his side. Sweets waited patiently as he took a breath and let it out slowly, finally seeming to come up with the words he wanted to say. “Sweets, you’re not a baby duck.”
Sweets blinked. Really, out of all the sentences he had predicted to come out of Agent Booth’s mouth, that had not been one of them. “No,” he answered slowly, trying not to make it sound like a question, “I’m not?”
Damn. He failed.
“You’re not,” Booth echoed, sounding more sure. “Yeah, you’re young, but you’re a grown man, you are. And Bones and I, we see that and recognize that. I just want you to understand - it’s fine if you wanna imprint on us or whatever, but there’s no need to do that. We may not always act like it, but we care about you. We see you.”
Booth’s dark eyes swept across Sweets’ body, focusing for a moment on his clothed shoulders, before coming back up to his face. His voice lowered, the words quiet but firm as he held Sweets’ gaze. “I see you.”
“Oh.” Sweets flushed, unsure if it was the wine or the expression on Booth’s face that was causing his face to warm. “Um. Thank you Booth, that’s very kind, although- imprinting, I’m not really sure where that came from, but I appreciate your words. I think? I feel like I need to have a talk with Dr. Wyatt about something, I’m just not sure what.”
He stood up again, gathering his and Booth’s glasses and carrying them to the kitchen sink. Booth followed behind him, leaning against the counter and watching as Sweets turned on the faucet. “Since I didn’t cook or anything, I figure I can wash dishes before I head out,” Sweets explained, trying not to feel uneasy when Booth didn’t answer.
The two men stood in silence for a few minutes, Sweets methodically washing dishes and setting them on a towel to dry, Booth watching from a few feet away, arms crossed across his chest. The only sound was that of the faucet, which to Sweets seemed incredibly loud in the surrounding quiet. He focused on the soothing rhythms of the water falling onto the dishes and the repeated scrubbings he made with a sponge. He was so focused on his actions, in fact, that he didn’t notice when Booth stepped closer to stand right behind him, laying one hand on his right shoulder and startling him out of his work.
“Whoa- Agent Booth, what are you doing?”
“Can I see?” Booth asked without preamble.
Sweets shut off the water and turned to stare fully at Booth. The FBI agent gazed back determinedly, hand still resting gently on Sweets’ shoulder. His expression, which on the couch had been rather restrained, now was filled with an emotion Sweets had seen several times on his face, but which was normally directed towards Dr. Brennan, never to him: care.
Whatever was going on in Booth’s head, it was clearly very important to him.
With a sigh, Sweets dried his hands with a kitchen towel. He shrugged off Booth’s hand and began to unbutton his shirt, pausing at the last button. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you,” he said, addressing the other man, “but I’m assuming that seeing my back is actually very important to you for some reason, and isn’t just something for you to laugh at?”
In response, Booth stepped closer and took the shirt in his hands, undoing the last button with his own fingers as Sweets’ hands dropped to his sides. Slowly, cautiously, he slid the shirt off of Sweets’ shoulders and let it fall down his arms and to the ground. “Turn around,” he said, voice low once again.
Without a word, Sweets complied. He stood there, back tense, holding back a shiver as the air settled on his bare skin. He could’t tell what Booth was doing, couldn’t see the expression on his face, but as the silence stretched out in long seconds, he began to grow uncomfortable. “Booth-”
And suddenly, soft fingertips were trailing down his shoulders, tracing the scars that stood like mountains against his body, raised and paler than the surrounding skin. This time Sweets did shiver, the gentle sensations foreign to him. Never had somebody touched his scars like that. “Booth?” he repeated, though the word sounded shaky to his own ears.
The fingertips stilled but did not leave his skin. A moment later, warm lips pressed to one of the scars on his left shoulder. He knew exactly which one it was; it was bigger than all the others, and thicker, spanning from just below his neck to nearly halfway down his back. It was the scar he had always been the most self-conscious of, the one he was the most eager to keep covered. It hurt him to think about.
Only now, when it was being treated so gently, so delicately, he found he did not hate it quite so much.
The lips pulled away, and Booth pressed his head into the crook of Sweets’ neck, warm air ghosting across the younger man’s collarbone. “I see you,” Booth repeated, pressing one more kiss to the base of Sweets’ neck. “I see you, okay? I just need you to know that.”
“Okay,” said Sweets, eyes sliding shut as he leaned back further into Booth’s hold. “Okay.”
They stood there, Sweets with his shoulders bared to the world, Booth with his hands pressed against the scars, and they were okay.