Lance's next session with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had crept up on him. He had a few goals for the hour, considering the way things had ended last time. First, he hoped to get the two to admit that they had a rather unorthodox attachment to one another that warranted exploration. Second, he hoped to get each to confess to an emotion—any emotion. And third, was a personal goal—to maintain some control over the direction of their conversation.
Lance was explaining with renewed confidence, "When two independent people…" He stopped as he noticed Booth surreptitiously checking his cell phone down by his garishly colored striped socks. Failing at goal three already, Lance thought. He couldn't decide if he was more annoyed by the disrespect or disarmed by the fashion choice.
"Agent Booth, are you listening?" he said with as much patience as he could muster. Even Dr. Brennan appeared provoked and chastised Booth, saying the judge would call with the warrant on their case later.
The two began to argue and Lance decided to confront the issue at hand. "When you argue, how do you two come to a resolution?"
"We don't argue," insisted Dr. Brennan.
Lance rolled his eyes slightly, but cheerfully said, "C'mon, zone of truth right here," spreading his arms to suggest the extensive boundaries of the mythic zone of truth his office constituted.
The pair resumed bickering, which quickly devolved into Booth complaining that Dr. Brennan had practically told him "my penis was going to shrink if I don't eat organic food."
Lance raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the introduction of sex. These two clearly had an attraction. They were flirting! Did they realize this?
Booth said, "My penis is just fine thank you."
Lance grinned and said, "Now we're getting somewhere. Alright I think we're in that truth zone!" He was excited that they were making progress.
Booth reacted angrily to Lance's interjection and demanded that the psychologist score their tests so that they could get back to crime fighting. Lance thought, Booth pours himself into his job, it consumes him. Booth is afraid—afraid of failing to catch murderers, afraid of letting down his partner, afraid that the FBI's decision to investigate his partnership with Brennan might undermine the most important thing in his life. He went for it.
"Yeah, that's good Agent Booth. Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest unless you get in touch with that fear you feel."
Though he noticed an exchange of skeptical glances, he suggested that Dr. Brennan and him close their eyes while he helped Booth visualize letting go of his fear. It was a classic therapeutic technique, and he was eager to test it out. This seemed the perfect opportunity.
Lance had his eyes closed and was concentrating intently. He wasn't about to allow these two to intimidate him. He knew how to help Booth, and damnit, he was going to whether Booth liked it or not.
Suddenly snickers pierced his concentration. He opened his eyes.
"Real mature, guys," he complained, seeing that he was the object of their laughter.
Booth's phone rang. It was the judge. "Gotta run, Sweets."
Lance had to admit, they were parting on a much less hostile note this time. Booth was even smiling at him. Lance shook his head and then indulged in a little smile himself. He could not wait to interpret the questionnaires the two had handed in.
A question leapt out, which read, 'On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you trust your partner?' Brennan's answer: 10. Booth's answer: 10. Lance thought, There is so much more than meets the eye with these two. Lance didn't trust any living person with a 10. He probably never would, now that his parents were gone.