This chapter took multiple drafts to find its flow. I'm struggling with this fic and despise it at the moment! I'll try not to desert it, but it almost succeeded in killing my desire to write any and all fics earlier today. ;)

Thanks so much to those following and reviewing! I really appreciate it!

The next morning Lance woke up to the kitten rubbing back and forth against his hair, purring like it was an idling motor. First things first—grief seized Lance's chest. This was now his morning routine. At first breath of the new day, new pain. He knew the drill.

This kitten needs to eat, he thought without any sense of how to accommodate it. The pungent stench of ammonia pierced his nostrils. So the cat had had an accident. He couldn't blame the tiny creature. He didn't really know what to do with a cat. He'd try to find the owners once he got up, but for the moment he felt like a semi had driven over his forehead. He hadn't been able to sleep for hours last night and had instead poured over the Booth-Brennan files and his notes, while the kitten had hidden under his bed. It had comforted him somewhat knowing the little cat was depending on him. He now grabbed the wee thing and put it on his chest, stroking it absentmindedly. It's tiny ears flattened out to receive its pets.

Impulsively Lance grabbed his iPhone from his nightstand and dialed Frannie. Frannie was his former girlfriend from New York. Also a recent proud holder of a doctorate in psychology from Columbia, she had gone the research rather than therapy route. They had lived together on and off during graduate school over a period of 2 and a half years, one of which Lance spent in London. Frannie had been a good 7 years older than Lance, which had always given him a little thrill. They had parted amicably when both decided to move on in their respective professional directions, though a little part of Lance would probably always be infatuated with this snarky, big-hearted hippie from Berkeley, CA.

"Well as I live and breathe, if its isn't Lance Sweets! I didn't think I'd hear from you again."

"No?"

"No, I thought once you heard I'd moved on from you to Kate that you'd be too ticked to ever speak to me again. No man, not even one as docile as you, likes to be passed over for a woman!'

Lance laughed. "Yeah, I'd heard you'd switched teams. But hey, I'd already dumped you."

"As I recall, I dumped you."

"Hm. We'll have to agree to disagree."

"Well at least I managed to teach you the ways of the world before that went down." She giggled and was most assuredly smoking, which made Lance roll his eyes. Indeed, Frannie would always hold a special place in his heart as the woman who had taught him a thing or two about the fairer sex. They had enjoyed an intensely physical relationship, but Lance had always had the feeling that he was more obsessed with than in love with her. For her part, he thought he was probably something akin to a boy toy.

"Lance—how are you doing with the loss of your parents? Lilia told me. I can't believe you didn't invite me to the funeral! You didn't invite any of us! You miscreant."

"Sorry, it all happened so fast." Lance paused, but didn't feel like opening the can of worms already gnawing at his fragile heart. "So listen Frannie, I need some advice from someone older and wiser." He grinned though she couldn't see it. This had been a running joke between them.

"Shoot, Champ," she said suggestively for old time's sake.

"Ok. I'm seeing these new patients and I need your expert analysis on why I'm failing so miserably with them." Lance went on to explain the Brennan-Booth situation to Frannie, while trying to respect patient confidentiality.

Frannie listened intently and finally said, "First off, you don't actually hate the agent guy, you admire him. You want him to like you. Not surprising since you're minus a father, and he sounds like one of those protector types." Lance already knew this, but it helped to hear it. Booth was magnetic. He had been a noncom in the army, as Lance had learned from his file, and had probably measured his self worth by his ability to safeguard his men. Ever since, or perhaps even before then, Booth continued to judge himself by whether or not he was able to successfully protect his loved ones. Lance also sensed that Booth may have experienced a defining trauma in his childhood; he had the kind of defensive, tough-guy persona that signaled he had been tempered by hardship. Lance had experienced his own share of suffering and craved more insight into Booth's emotional landscape.

Frannie was continuing, "Second, the scientist is feeling abandoned by her father, who might go to the electric chair, and now you're threatening to pull out the rug from under her precious partnership? I mean, back off! She's going to be like a mother tigress. You like her too, by the way. She's more similar to you than you care to admit. She cloaks her insecurities about the world with her almost self-righteous intelligence. You used to be really bad about that yourself."

Lance was a little annoyed by that comparison. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, therapy is so irritating. Thanks for reminding me why I went into research."

Lance snorted.

"It'll get better, Lance. You're new at this. Don't let the bastards get you down!"

"Thanks, Fran."

"Peace, Lance."

They hung up. Frannie hadn't really told Lance anything he didn't already know, but it had been comforting just to hear her voice. Lance pondered Booth and Brennan some more. He was torn between wanting to back off and secure their trust and continuing to push them. He sensed neither of them had reached the place yet where they could access, understand, and cope with their emotional baggage. He'd have to settle for some kind of balance between probing and reassuring.

Lance also had to admit fault for the first session going so poorly. I'm new at this, I'll get better, he hoped with lingering doubt. He was already eager to try again and looked forward to the appointment he had scheduled with them for Tuesday at 8am, despite the earliness of the hour. (The two seemed to revel in scheduling their time with Lance at unconventional, inconvenient times.) One virtue Lance possessed was patience, and he sensed he would need it in droves for these patients. He was not a quitter; he would embrace their challenge.

Lance sort of wanted to indulge in a rip-roaring game of Halo following the chat with his ex, but he had his cat friend to deal with. He lumbered out of bed and asked around his apartment building on the little one's behalf with no luck. He decided to make a bold move and buy it a litter box and some chow. He didn't want it to suffer while he was trying to find its owner. He had a great deal of compassion for furry animals, though he was less of a fan of fish and fowl. He dubbed the kitten 'Knox' after that famous artillery general who had hauled cannon over 300 miles to help George Washington during the Revolution. This kitten seemed to have come a long way, and like Henry Knox, had kind of saved the day by befriending Lance.

"Here you go, Knox," Lance said as he offered the purring feline some kitten chow. Simultaneously he was listening to a message from April.

"Hello, Lance," she said with tremulous nervousness. "I wondered if you might like to go to a ceramics class with me that's starting this week. Of course, if you're not busy. And care for pottery. If not, don't worry! We can do something else. Or not! Please call. I mean, feel free to call me back." April was having an audible battle with her courage on the message, and Lance was charmed.

Ceramics? Hey, why not? Lance was feeling better than he had in weeks.