A/N: Hey, look! A Bones fic! By me! :D This idea was running around in my head for weeks, and finally, at one in the morning two nights ago, I forced myself to pick something up and write out my thoughts before going to sleep. And now, after two days of writing, it seems it's ready for the online world to critique! :)

At first, I intended for this to be a cute little friendship fluff piece. But it turned into more of a dark character study. There's still some friendship bonding at the end, though.

Hope you like it. :D

Hey - Why won't you listen?
Can't help the people you're missin'.
It's been done, a casualty re-run,
Welcome to the family!

I'll try and help you with the things that can't be justified.
I need to warn you that there is no way to rationalize.
So have you figured it out now?
So have you figured it out?!
You can't win this fight!

- "Welcome to the Family" - Avenged Sevenfold (Nightmare, 2010)

Lance Sweets was used to nightmares. They were just something of a constant in his life, something he'd just always had to deal with, since childhood; for obvious reasons, of course.

Over the course of his post-adoption childhood, he'd constantly be reminded why he had to be adopted in the first place. Whenever he closed his eyes to sleep, images of a biological father brandishing a leather belt, swinging a fist, violently throwing open a closet door, were always waiting for him. Deep in his mind, he knew he was perfectly safe; but, regardless, the nightmares always came and always tormented him.

Nearly every night, he'd wake up covered in freezing sweat, shaking, sobbing, with tears continuously running down his face. Nearly every night, though, he'd also wake up with four hands rubbing gentle circles on his scarred back, two sets of arms being wrapped around his shoulders, two parents whispering in his ears, telling him that he didn't need to be afraid anymore and that everything was going to be alright.

And that's how things were for awhile; that was how he dealt with the nightmares as a child.

As time went by, however, he found that he was outgrowing such an overwhelming need for comfort. As a young teenager, it seemed inappropriate to have to be comforted by parents after every nightmare. So, in his campaign to start dealing with everything by himself, he began to bite his tongue. It took some practice, but eventually, he no longer woke up screaming. He'd wake up with a bloody mouth instead, and the first thing he'd always do was take his pillow and shove his face into it, in an attempt to muffle the sobs he'd had a harder time controlling. His parents never again had to come into his room in the middle of the night.

He was dealing with the nightmares, all by himself; that was his first step toward independence, in his mind, and it became a source of pride, a symbol of strength.

As he grew even older, became a full-fledged teenager, his nightmares began to change shape. Not that he minded; it was, after all, of his own accord. Instead of the familiar nightmares of an abusive giant, he found himself sleeping through the kind of terrifying, macabre dreams that only a hardcore death metal enthusiast could have. And he really didn't mind those dreams. As terrifying as they were, he'd gladly take the bloodied chainsaws and rotted flesh over the punches and kicks and belt-lashings any night.

Through his near-obsessive enthusiasm for death metal, he began to gain the slightest bit of control over what he saw when he closed his eyes every night. Maybe it wasn't healthy; maybe that numb, empty feeling when he awoke wasn't great, but he was dealing with it. He could control it. He'd be alright.

And he was, for the next few years. The nightmares became less and less frequent and life went on. But then his parents died, and he suddenly found himself completely and totally on his own. The old nightmares came back, along with a few new ones, which now seemed to stem from every insecurity he'd ever had.

He'd dream of his biological father some nights, showing up at the door of his new apartment when he had no one to help him. Other nights, he'd dream of chains and blood and screaming and screeching guitar chords. And then he'd dream of his parents, dreams that always began nice, but always turned sour. They'd begin simple enough, as a picnic in the park, or a movie night in their old living room, but in his head, his parents would go from their normal, loving selves to the mean-spirited kind of people he'd always feared. They'd go from laughing at the movie to shouting all kinds of abuse and deprecation at him.

Hence why he once again found himself waking up in the middle of the night, screaming, shaking, hollow. No amount of music, pills, or even self-administered psychological tricks helped at all. Not even biting his tongue seemed to work anymore. He was at an all-time low; his control was slipping away, as was his emotional well-being.

So, naturally, he buried himself in his work. Having recently been accepted into the Federal Bureau, he always had a new case to work on, a suspect to profile, an agent to help. He constantly worked himself to exhaustion, so that when he did finally fall asleep, there would be no dreams at all. At least, none that were particularly memorable, anyway. That was his new way of dealing with it.

Things got a little bit better soon after that. He managed to make a few good friends, and he soon found himself on a team, helping to solve murders. He was making a difference, and he was ecstatic about that. Sure, perhaps it was a bit childish to become so excited over having friends, but he didn't really care. He was finally happy, and he found that he could finally just go to sleep at an appropriate time without the nightmares being too bad.

Of course, his line of work did still manage to give him nightmares occasionally. And in all honesty, they were perhaps some of the most frightening ones he'd ever encountered.

As an adult, he was rarely bothered by the old nightmares of his father. He'd come to terms with the deaths of his parents, remembered that they loved him. He had a feeling, though, that he wouldn't ever really stop dreaming about the cases he'd worked on.

Heather Taffet, Jacob Broadsky, Christopher Pelant; the list continued. There were many sick and twisted people that he'd encountered in his work, and their faces and actions would, on occasion, keep him up at night; and it honestly didn't help that one of them was currently walking free.

Nevertheless, it was alright. In spite of these occasional nightmares, he was alright. Of course, he'd wake up with a gasp or a muffled shout every once in a while, but that was it. Most nights, he was perfectly fine; and he was proud of that.

Then some more time went by. One Daisy Wick came into his life, and then out of it. Then back into it, and then back out of it again.

Lance Sweets found himself without a home for a few weeks, sleeping in his office, back to the old work-himself-to-exhaustion routine. (Not because he was avoiding the nightmares, though. Working kept his mind off of her, and the fact that he didn't have a place to live, and the ever-growing possibility that he was going to spend the rest of his life alone. Work was a much-desired distraction.)

It stayed like that until Booth offered to let him stay with him and his family until he found a new apartment. He'd accepted that offer without any hesitation or forethought, because that sounded a thousand times better than living in his office twenty-four-seven. Even better, it meant he wouldn't have to be alone. For the first time in years – How many? Six? Seven? – he'd be living with other people again, if only for a little while.

Living with other people, however, has one small downside. It cuts you open, exposes you in a way that nothing else can. It brings down the walls you have in place. If you're not careful, every tendency of yours, every bit of yourself, becomes known and suddenly there are people that know you better than you know yourself. It can be unsettling, nerve-wracking, even, especially if you're the kind of person that's used to being just a little bit closed off to people; especially if you're the kind of person that wants to save face.

Case in point.

It's one of the first nightmares he's had in a while, only a few nights after the whole awkward moving-in fiasco was finished. And it's nothing new – just the memory of one Heather Taffet being killed in front of him, playing and replaying behind his closed eyes. It's been years since the Gravedigger's murder, yet every second was drilled into his mind's eye, the images vivid and unforgettable. The bullet flying through her skull, her blood, her brain – the disgusting feeling inside that maybe, maybe, she deserved to die after everything she'd done? But no, no one deserved that, but it happened and it happened so fast. One moment, she's claiming insanity, the next, she's got a bullet in her head and her blood is all over, all over, all over.

That particular nightmare is far from new, yet it plays over and over in his head on some nights, including tonight.

He's right in the middle of the memory, and then he's suddenly awake again, covered in sweat and falling off the bed, onto the floor with a strangled shout and a loud thump.

And he's lying gracelessly on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling for a few seconds, remembering where exactly he is, while his shoulder throbs from knocking against the nightstand on his way down.

Slowly, though, he pushes himself up into a sitting position, just in time to hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. It wasn't a fast pace, however, so he still has time to completely get up off the floor and grab his cell phone from the nearby desk and make it look like he's doing something, like nothing just happened, like he wasn't still totally freaked out over it, before the door is gently pushed open.

With a soft knock against the doorframe, Booth sticks his head into the room, only looking a little bit anxious.

"Hey, everything okay in here?" he says, flicking the lights on and giving the room a quick once-over before looking back at Sweets, who's sitting on top of the bed now with his phone in his right hand.

"Hm?" he answers, as if he were not completely aware that Booth had come in. "Oh, yeah. Everything's good."

Booth nods. "Good. Good, okay. I, uh… I thought I heard something," he places an emphasis on thought and loosely waves his hand, and they both know exactly what he's trying to say. "And, you know, I just had to check. Sniper training, I guess." There's a sideways, half-smile, kind and perfectly communicative.

I didn't really hear anything, even though I did.

Nothing happened, even though I know exactly what it was.

I understand.

Sweets nods and both men are silent for the next few moments that seem to stretch on and on. The entire situation would seem a bit awkward at face value; but, in fact, it was the opposite. Nothing was said out loud, but there suddenly seemed to be a solid understanding between the two.

Surely, if there's ever anyone that understands any of this, Sweets realizes, it's Booth. Brennan, too. He wouldn't put it past any of them to have had similar nightmares all throughout their lives. And he's almost certain that the nightmares have to be constantly bothering them as well, just as they bother him.

But, for all it's worth, they have each other for now. Nothing would ever really have to be spoken for the understanding to be there, and that was enough.

They're dealing with it together, as it seems.

"Alright," Booth breaks the silence. "Just had to make sure. G'night."

"Night."

The lights go off again as the door swings shut, and Sweets goes back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Needless to say, he doesn't wake up again until his alarm goes off at six.

Needless to say, no one says anything about the night before in the morning.

So, yeah. Maybe Sweets was cut open a little bit when he decided to stay with Booth and Brennan. Maybe one of his walls fell to the floor, crumbled down into bricks again; but those bricks somehow turned into a bridge.

And that's good. That's fine. That's perfect.

The nightmares, the bad memories of his past, no longer seem like such a big problem anymore, really.

He's dealing with them.

A/N: Please, please let me know what you thought of this. (Even if you don't want to write an all-out review - even a quick rating, maybe on a scale of one to ten or something, would be wonderful!) I really want to know if there's anything I can improve on. Oh, and if I got the characterization completely wrong, I'd love it if you'd tell me. :) It would help a lot. Anyway, I hope I hear from you in review form! Thanks for reading. Love 'ya!

- Joa Marie -