Aside: my first teaching stint was as a substitute teacher for middle school, and I was yep, 22. I have a lot of empathy for Lance in his first session with BB! Poor kid.
Don't worry, by the third session things improve. If you've seen The Secret in the Soil, you know what I mean!
"OK, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth…together…a little closer." Lance was gesturing for the partners to place their hands palm to palm in front of him in his office at the FBI. As Brennan had requested, it was after 8pm on a Saturday night, and Booth looked incensed. Sweets noted that Agent Booth had an imposing, massive presence, if a playful look in his eye.
"Ok yeah, that's perfect! Beautiful!" Lance was almost hyper with nervous excitement. He wanted to do well at the job for which he had been training so long. Part of him felt that if he performed well as a therapist, he would be giving back to the memory of his parents, who had encouraged him on this path. "Now keeping your backs straight, I want you each to lean forward."
This was too much for Booth. "No," he stately flatly.
This rejection caught Lance off guard. He sensed he was fast losing control of the situation. "Excuse me?" he asked innocently of Booth, flinching a little.
Dr. Brennan rejoined with her own snide comment, and then Booth elaborated, "We agreed to see another therapist, not to be action figures for a 12 year old."
Ok, maybe I never had control of this session, Lance sighed. Was his age always going to be the sticking point for gaining trust from his patients? With a heavy heart, Lance explained his real age and qualifications to Booth, hoping that the information would miraculously salvage the situation.
Unfortunately, Lance might as well been have perched at the top of a slide—there was no where to go but down.
"I'm sure your mom's really proud of you, Sweets," was Booth's cutting response to Lance's considerable achievement of becoming a Ph.D. at age 22. What hurt the most was that Lance's mom had been extremely proud of her son. She had gotten to revel in his success right before she had passed on. Lance felt a pang of anger at Agent Booth for bringing up his dead mother, but Booth had no way of knowing that Lance had literally lost her weeks ago.
The psychologist composed himself and chose to focus on getting Booth to at least give his title respect, rather than simply calling him 'Sweets,' like a 2 year old. Dr. Sweets. It still sent a little thrill up Lance's spine to say his new prefix out loud.
Booth responded by merely demanding once more that Lance sign the release forms. At this point, faced with the formidable heft of the man before him and Booth's genuine desire to subvert Lance's authority, the psychologist balked. He felt like crawling under his desk and waiting for them to go away.
Lance knew he had training on how to handle hostile people, but something about Booth reminded him of the bullies in high school who had cornered him in the locker room every day after gym and punished him for being young, brainy, and tiny. Lance shivered, feeling exceptionally alone. He pushed down the memories of those bullies and the events that had followed when he had tried to take his own life.
Out of nowhere, Dr. Brennan seemed to come to his rescue. Unbelievably, she said, "I don't care how young you are…" Lance felt instant relief. "I've never believed in psycho-therapy," she finished, and his face fell again.
God, these people are making it hard to hold it together. Lance was trapped in an absurdist play with no way out. He was absurd, their loathing of him was absurd; how was he going to get them to fill out his questionnaires? He needed this information to process their compatibility as a crime team.
Lance realized that Booth didn't believe that a mere psychologist could have the power to break up their partnership, so he tried a new tactic: convincing Booth that his and Brennan's fates were in his hands. When Booth pretended to not understand why the FBI would want to dissolve their partnership at all, Lance became exasperated. He was nearing the end of his rope. He heard himself utter the words "dude" and "like," again and again betraying his youth, but, Seriously, how could they be in denial?
Lance realized and finally said aloud that he understood that the situation might bring up "scary feelings" for Booth. Booth was probably being so hostile because his partnership was extremely meaningful to him, and he saw Lance as a threat to its future. And this was true given the circumstances. Lance could sympathize with a frightened Booth, who merely wished to protect his team.
No sooner had Lance thought the word 'sympathize' than Booth abandoned all attempts at being civil. "I don't have scary feelings," he spat. Then in sarcastic baby talk he continued, "Maybe you need a widdle nightwight-"
This was too much. Lance interrupted, "Agent Booth you've been trying to intimidate me since the moment you've stepped in here, and you've succeeded." Lance was so miffed and wounded, that he couldn't help but be honest. He was a teenager being bullied again. This was unbelievable.
As he went to retrieve the questionnaires, he heard Brennan whisper, "Don't scare the boy." Boy. I'm just a stupid kid to them. I'll always be ten years younger than everyone I work with, and I'll never be taken seriously, he thought dejectedly.
Before the partners left Booth made sure Lance knew, "I'm still going to call you Sweets."
How had things gotten so out of hand? Lance thought, I'm lousy at my job. All these years of training and when I'm finally on my own, I stink at this. He really wished his parents were here to counsel him. That would never be an option again. With a twinge of panic, Lance realized that he needed to think of a new approach to these two before their next session, or they would clobber him.
Lance was the picture of tragedy as he tramped up the stairs to his apartment in Cleveland Park. He had been rained on during his walk from the subway. His curls were plastered to his face, his suit was sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He had even cried a little, because who would have noticed with all the water, anyway?
Just as he was putting his key into the lock, he heard:
"Meow?" A cat had asked him a question.
He looked down to see the tiniest gray kitten he had ever laid eyes on punctuated by delicate white socks. What on earth was this tiny cat doing on the floor of his apartment building? He was exhausted, and now he would have to find its owner. No, Lance didn't have the strength. He'd check in the morning.
He picked up the little fellow by the ruff and said, "Hey, buddy. I'm more of a dog person, but for tonight, you're staying with me."
After all, Lance was glad for the company. The small feline purred rapturously.