It wasn't easy to find internet, my lovelies. I've been searching far and wide. But I've written many chapters (like 7!) during this hiatus, and once I can post more reliably, they will flood in. D-day for internet is tomorrow evening! As usual, I MISS READING! I want to catch up on what everyone else has been writing, but that requires quiet, extensive internet time rather than the few minutes I come to post.

To those following and reviewing—it means a lot! RT, I love writing Booth scenes. He so harasses Sweets, and Sweets laps it up. Ahead lies the answer to what the letter said, and in the next chapter, more Perotta!

Disclaimer: the usual.

Lance was back at work. His face had almost returned to normal, though its bruising left a faint greenish tinge to his chin. He was still laboring on his crutches, but the lessened pain allowed him more mobility. Instead of spending his first day back at the FBI, he went straight to the Jeffersonian. He was dying to know where the new Gravedigger case was headed and how it connected to his misfortune, but mostly, admittedly, he wanted to see Bea. He had a coffee date set up with Agent Perotta for later in the week, and all in all, he was in a rather cheery mood.

Depression was still threatening him, like the hint of a budding migraine, but he was successfully pressing forward for now. The contents of a certain letter were weighing on him, and he was desperate for someone to talk to about it. He felt he couldn't make sense of it himself and was therefore glad that a meeting with Dr. Wyatt was also on the agenda for today—in fact, in just 45 minutes. Somehow he felt Wyatt would bring clarity to his situation.

Lance made a beeline for Bea's workspace. He was very disappointed to find that she wasn't in Angela's office. He observed where Bea worked. Her desk was cramped in a corner (added to the furniture Angela already had) and no wood was visible beneath the pile of debris and computer gadgets she had accumulated. He noted some snacks mixed in—oddly a slice of fresh coconut was teetering atop a stack of files. A Grizzly Bear poster (the hipster band not the mammal) hung on the wall and a picture of Lulu was taped to the computer. It was too much for the human eye to take in, and Lance felt a little nauseous looking at it. He valued tidiness and order.

Then he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He tried to turn around on his crutches but was clumsy and toppled onto Bea's messy desk, sending some papers and a cup of tea flying.

Bea tried to catch him, as she was the person who had sent him off balance.

"Uh, sorry!" Lance said, cursing his lack of grace. He couldn't help it—he wanted to impress this gorgeous woman. Her breasts said, 'Frack,' across her indigo blue tee, and he made a mental note to geek out with her over Battlestar Galactica. The new one, of course. It was totally awesome. And he should probably stop staring at her breasts.

Bea stooped to pick up her papers and waved Lance off from assisting. "Don't worry about it. I got it. One should never startle a klutz on crutches."

Lance pouted.

"Oh, God. Don't pout at me with those colossal lips. Your puppy eyes have no effect on me. I'm used to getting them from Lulu everyday and still, I make her eat her mashed peas, ok?" Bea quipped, joking but also a little irritable.

Lance thought he might have noticed the reason why—she had a dark bruise on her cheek. Bea didn't wear much makeup, and she hadn't tried to cover it up. He noticed also that the green streak in her bun was now violet.

Bea touched her face when she noticed Lance staring at her bruise. "I smacked my face on a cabinet."

"Dr. Vu—"

"It's Bea, Sweets," she interrupted.

"Bea, I read people's lies for a living."

Bea gazed at him with continued annoyance. "Ok, then I smacked my face on some klutz's crutches." She stared at him hotly until he finally looked away.

Lance collected himself. "You're obviously extremely intelligent. Why don't you get yourself out of this mess? I can help."

"Excuse me, Sweets, but I have no idea what you're talking about, and I don't appreciate your implication." She was wiping furiously at the spilled tea with a sweater from the back of her chair, which Lance found vaguely unsanitary. She did not turn around.

Lance knew when to quit. Bea was extremely stubborn. He began to hobble past her toward the door. "If you need a safe place to stay or you need to talk—come to my office at the FBI, come to my apartment. It's the big building next to Sal's Pizza in Cleveland Park. Call me. Whenever. I know what it's like to feel like there is no escape. But there is for you. Ok? You deserve so much more than you're allowing yourself."

Bea's mouth opened with a half-formed sarcastic comment and then snapped shut. Tears leapt into her eyes as she practically slammed the door on Lance's retreating figure. Through the glass he could see her shoving wet papers into the trashcan, cursing.

"Good to see you, Dr. Wyatt," Lance said through his wires. His jaw was so tight, and he already felt tired of talking, though he had only briefly stopped by the Jeffersonian before coming to the diner. His conversation with Bea had been taxing.

"And you, Dr. Sweets. Might I add that you look like you've gone after your chin with green magic marker? It's quite the sight," Wyatt said jovially.

"Thanks for noticing," Lance said with friendly sarcasm.

The waitress brought them coffees, which Lance proceeded to dump about a cup of cream into. He usually had his coffee black, but any liquid that was colder or hotter than lukewarm hurt his teeth.

Wyatt raised an eyebrow at Lance and asked, "What on earth are you eating with your jaw bound like that?"

Lance said, "I'm on a totally liquid diet. I drink a lot of Ensure. You wouldn't believe the things I've tried to put into the blender lately."

Wyatt grimaced. "Well then, I won't torture you by ordering any of the greasy offerings from this fine establishment."

"Dr. Wyatt?"

"Yes?"

"I wanted to ask you about something. You know that I'm adopted. Well, by the time I was taken out of my biological parent's home at age 5, my mother had already fled. She left when I was around 4—my biological father was hurting her as well. She didn't even try to take me with her," Lance added bitterly. Wyatt was regarding him with interest. "I…I received a letter a few days ago from my biological mother. I'm not sure what to do."

Wyatt looked surprised. "Oh? Has she ever contacted you before?"

"Definitely not."

"Well, what did this letter say, if you don't mind me asking?" Wyatt continued.

Lance heaved a heavy sigh and sank down in his chair a little. Why was he unloading this on Wyatt? What could Wyatt tell him that he didn't already know? Lance still felt some tenderness toward the shadowy figure of his biological mother, though he wished he didn't. She had been a librarian and had provided him with books—his only toys and companions as a child. Lance didn't go to school when he lived with his biological parents, but he read so voraciously that he was advanced far beyond his age when he was taken away. His mother had brought him math books, literature, philosophy, history, anything and everything. Though he believed her to be incredibly selfish to have left him to the wolves, he did credit her at least partially with his advanced intellect.

Lance answered Wyatt's question about her letter, "She wrote that she had abandoned me, because she had been terrified. She didn't think either of us could survive his wrath. She also said that she joined the circus in Florida as a psychic, which I already knew."

Lance thought about how his mother was always very good at reading people, just as he was. They had both developed this skill in hopes of sparing themselves from his father's violent rages.

He continued, "She even mentioned which circus, in case I want to contact her." Lance gazed out the window at passersby—a woman holding her small son's hand as the two giggled and promenaded.

"And how did this make you feel?" Wyatt asked simply. Lance laughed inwardly—once a shrink, always a shrink.

"I have no idea. Hurt? I guess, because it took her all this time to apologize. Angry that she could possibly think I want anything to do with her. Conflicted that I actually had tried to locate her in the past and couldn't find her in the labyrinthine world of the circus." Lance had torn his eyes away from the street to look back at Wyatt, hoping for a glimmer of instruction.

"Well, are you going to write her back? Are you going to try to find her again?" Wyatt's expression was placid and unreadable, the face of a true psychiatrist.

"Um…" Lance's voice cracked. "I'm not sure I'm feeling strong enough at the moment…I don't mean physically," he interrupted himself to clarify.

"Ah yes. I picked up on this at my restaurant. You suffer from depression? How are you doing?"

Lance cringed. He hated how easily Wyatt seemed to read him. It made him feel like he had no control over how he was perceived. And yet Wyatt had once said that no one could guess what he'd been through just by looking at him. But Wyatt with his hands on Lance's Bones: The Heart of the Matter was practically as psychic as his mother in the circus.

"I'm doing ok at the moment," Lance said honestly.

"What do you do for yourself?" Wyatt asked with concern.

"I meditate, and I also spend time focusing my mind on the people I want to see, the tasks I have to accomplish each day."

"I'm glad to hear it. But your attack, even this letter from your mother—a reminder of your past—could be a setback for you."

Lance nodded but then said. "The attack has also mobilized a lot of people whom I didn't really know were true friends. It turns out, they are." He thought emotionally of Cam, Perotta, Bea, even his neighbors.

Wyatt smiled. "Well then, I'll look forward to having coffee with you again next week. Perhaps you'll even want some coffee with your cream by then, eh?" he chuckled.

Lance managed a weak smile. His mind was a thousand miles away, pondering his mother's letter, lamenting Bea's plight, and cursing his stupid, sore jaw.