I'd just like you all to know… I have NO idea how to write. So… PLEASE don't rip me apart for sucking at it, y'know? I do this for fun. If it were my job, I'd allow the jibes and teardowns. But it isn't, so DEAL, okay? .
Booth sat guardedly on the edge of the couch, shifting uneasily on its leather cushions. He waited for Sweets' response with his arms folded tightly across his chest, leaning forward slightly.
Sweets deliberated internally. Who am I supposed to be right now? Friend or professional? It would probably depend on what it was Booth wanted to talk about. How best to approach? He obviously wants me to confer my compliance before relaying his story so if I-
"…uhm…that's fine."
The words were out before he had finished his internal monologue. Damn. Sweets' eyes widened in dread and he smacked himself internally for the lame reply. Nice. Way to come off as a total JERK, Lance.
But Booth just nodded. Sweets nearly sighed in relief- his careless response hadn't made him seem insensible to their situation. He observed as Booth began to prepare himself mentally, his posture becoming even more defensive. He's compensating physically for the psychosomatic exposure, thought the young psychologist.
Booth looked up at Sweets. His eyes narrowed as they saw the intensely interested look on the young psychologist's face. "Cut it out, Sweets. I just want to talk. Stop the dissecting."
Sweets didn't want to risk saying that, in psychology, those two things were practically the same thing. He shrugged instead, feigning an apologetic look at being "caught in the act." "Right. Sorry. No psychologist stuff."
At least he knew which Sweets he was supposed to be now. Friends, not professionals.
Booth sighed his acceptance, picking at a spot on the leather couch. "I can't sleep," he admitted finally. "Not since I… well, for about two weeks."
Sweets wasn't too surprised at this revelation- Booth was clearly sleep-deprived: dark purple circles lined his bloodshot eyes, his hair, which was normally perfectly coiffed, stuck out in several directions, and even his suit seemed crinkled and worn. His disheveled appearance looked distinctly un-Booth-like. But what really gave it away, as odd as Sweets knew it sounded, was the stubble. Booth ALWAYS found time to shave, even when he'd been in the hospital after nearly getting blown to pieces at Brennan's apartment.
Obviously, something was wrong.
Sweets answered, making sure to look into Booth's tired eyes. To apply a private connection. "Do you have any idea what the onset of your insomnia might be?" Oh, wrong, all wrong! It was what he had wanted to ask, but Sweets realized how impersonal his question sounded. Come on, Lance! Friends, not professionals, he chided himself.
Apparently Booth was in a forgiving mood because he continued as if he hadn't noticed Sweets' cold professionalism. He leaned back on the couch. "It started when…." He scratched his head and let out a sigh, shoulder popping as it connected with the couch's back. "After that dinner? With you and Bones? It was, uh, after the death metal guy?"
Sweets nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, I remember. Dr. Wyatt made us that… what was it? Some kind of stew? The name was French, I think."
Booth's jaw twitched. "Well, I… I went to bed that night and I…" he closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. "It hasn't happened in such a long time, I thought that maybe they were… I had this dream. Nightmare." He opened his red eyes and looked up into Sweet's face, clearly uncomfortable. He leaned forward again and made a weak attempt at a grin. "Seems kinda weird, me telling you about my 'bad dreams,'" he emphasized with finger quotes, "…when you probably still have a teddy to keep your dreams away."
Sweets smirked, but chose to ignore the shot about his age, interpreting it as Booth's attempt to project his own discomfort with the situation onto someone else. "Can I ask…" he started carefully. "You didn't just have the dream once?"
Booth nodded curtly, eyes tight.
"How many times would you say you've had it?" Booth didn't answer straight away, sending Sweets into probe-mode. He fears being perceived as weak, and fears that his inability to stifle his subconscious is a failure of strength.
"It's…every time I sleep," Booth admitted wearily, a look of shame darkening his features. "Even if it's just a nap." He pressed his thumb and finger against his eyes, kneading them slightly.
"Do you want to tell me what the dream is about?" Sweets asked cautiously, setting his clipboard on the floor to assure Booth that he wasn't going to take notes and analyze. On paper, anyway.
Booth's face fell and his expression melted into a look of disgust. He clenched his fists, drawing them to his ears. "God…" Sweets heard him mutter.
"Could you describe it at all?" Sweets persisted.
Booth dropped his fists quickly. "God, this is so pathetic!" he burst angrily, rising to his feet. "I am NOT some kid who's too afraid to go to sleep because of the monsters under his bed!" Tired but frustrated, he began pacing agitatedly in front of the office's window.
Sweets was somewhat startled by the outburst but took it in stride. He recognized the tone in Booth's voice as frustration rather than anger, frustration at his own perceived weakness. And I'm sure the not sleeping for two weeks thing isn't helping his temper, either. He switched his interrogation tactic, backing off a little.
"Agent Booth, I'm afraid I don't understand. You said our- dinner? That's what brought these dreams on?"
"No, not the dinner." Booth said through clenched teeth, arms now pressed tightly around his chest. Continuing his troubled pacing, he said, "I think it's… no, I'm sure it's the stuff we talked about before dinner."
Sweets eyes widened briefly in comprehension. He nodded, his mind flashing back to that night in his office. He recalled the disturbing story Dr. Brennan had shared about her foster parents. He remembered how his own memories of childhood abuse had surfaced. Booth, he supposed, must have experienced something similar.
And knowing Booth, Sweets thought, he's probably done everything he could since that day to suppress the memories, thus causing a lack of sleep through emotional stress. What can these memories be that he would work so hard to bury them; hide them from himself?
His voice soft and sympathetic, Sweets said, "Agent Booth, I won't pressure you, but if there's anything you need to say..." he gestured at himself. "There's no shame in expressing emotion." What he couldn't bring himself to say was "I just need you to trust me."
Still standing, Booth looked down at Sweets in irritation. "Sweets, I just want to sleep." Suddenly he really needed to sit down. "No 'sharing,' okay?" He slumped back onto the couch, exhaustion clouding his eyes.
Sweets threw caution to the wind. "But Agent Booth… Seeley," Booth looked up, startled at the use of his first name. "Can't you see that the two might be related? Your subconscious is expressing itself while you sleep because you suppress it so strongly during the day." A tone of concern had seeped its way into Sweets' voice.
Booth took no notice of the psychologists' worry, instead saying, "Okay, first of all, I'm not suppressing anything. I'm fine; I just can't sleep is all. And don't say my name like that- like we're "best buds" or something." He leaned his head back on the couch again, but not before Sweets caught a quick look in his eyes.
Sweets wondered if Booth knew how strongly his eyes communicated what he was feeling. He could deny his emotions all he liked verbally, but those brown eyes weren't capable of deceiving. Right now they told Sweets that, no, he didn't mean that he and Sweets weren't friends, and yes, he was aware that he was repressing… something.
"Fine then. Booth," he sighed, leaning back in his chairs. He knows I know he's lying. What's the point in keeping appearances? Why go through all the trouble?
He already sort of knew, of course. He knew Booth always showed up to work in the crispest of suits; his hair gelled neatly in place. Booth wasn't vain about his appearance, but he had a heightened sensitivity about to the way people saw him. In many ways, Sweets could relate. He himself felt the pressure to hide himself, his pain, from others; even if, as a psychologist, he knew the damage stifling emotion could cause.
Like severe sleep deprivation.
Suddenly, Sweets knew exactly what he needed to do.
"It's… tough, isn't it?" he began. Booth looked up cautiously, a hint of question in his expression. Sweets' fingers meshed tightly together. "There's so much you just want to forget. But you know somewhere that… it's not going away. The past." He sat up again, swallowing and summoning his strength. He watched Booth's eyes before they closed and their owner turned his head toward the window, jaw clenched. Regret. Pain.
Sweets went on. "You know, I think about it all and…" he blinked, surprised at the tears forming so readily in his eyes. "…things could have turned out so much worse, right? I mean, with my parents… I think of those kids that don't get away from… that never…" He blinked again and inhaled deeply. Booth was still turned away.
"Kids that die before anyone can get them out." Booth stiffened.
"I had my parents," Sweets continued. "My real parents, I mean; the ones who took me away from that nightmare when I was six. When Brennan talked about her foster parents and all those terrible things they did to her… " he shook his head.
Sweets was so engaged in his thoughts he was forgetting to analyze Booth's reactions. He didn't even notice that he had forgotten to call Bones "Dr." Brennan.
"I'm lucky," he concluded.
After several long moments, Booth finally turned back. He looked Sweets head on with his oh-so-readable eyes. Sympathy. Or maybe… empathy? And gratitude. Sweets smiled slightly, the motion causing a single tear to spill from his watering eyes. Friends, not professionals.
"I know why you're telling me this, Sweets." Booth watched as his friend hurriedly wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve. "And… I really appreciate it," he finished. He seemed to take a deep breath before saying:
"You asked if I could describe this dream?"