I couldn't resist. I have so much written and polished at this point, I just want to be out with it all. Second posting of the day, ho! Besides, I wish I were in Florida right now. It's freezing here! Brrr...

Thanks for reading, everyone. It thrills me! RT, I can't wait to read where you go with Lance and bio mom in The Heart of the Family—the best fic of all time. :) You'll find his experience in Florida in this story…disappointing for him. And short. He shouldn't have come, but Sweets' brain hasn't been functioning correctly since the season finale, since mine hasn't been either!

Lance was downright frightened. He had just left a friend in need whom he very much cared about in a potentially dangerous situation, and he was on a plane to see the woman who had given birth to him and then left him to rot under the bleak care of his father. Why was he doing this? Hadn't his summer been hard enough—first losing his future wife and most of his friends to time and space and then being brutally attacked?

Lance was seated on the plane by the window next to an elderly woman with wild silvery curls, pouring over a crossword. Lance's own curls were slightly unruly, but he had taken to wearing his glasses more often lately—they were simple black frames—because he thought they made him look older. The last thing he wanted was his new students at Georgetown to think he was a college student rather than their professor. He was tired of being undervalued because of his youthful appearance.

They were an hour or so into the flight when Lance struck up a conversation with the elderly lady. He was one of those people who talked on planes—he couldn't help it. He was fascinated by people and delighted in meeting strangers.

"So are you returning home to Florida or just visiting?" he asked her, eagerly.

"Oh, I'm returning home; I was visiting my daughter and her family in Washington. And you?"

"I'm…well, I don't really know what I'm doing," Lance admitted confused. "I'm meeting my birth mother for the first time in 20 years, I guess." For whatever reason, the usually guarded Lance was perfectly willing to share this with a complete stranger.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with interest. "I'm Twila, by the way."

"Lance." They shook hands.

"Well, you must be very nervous, young man. Do you remember her at all?"

"A bit. I vaguely remember that she had dark brown hair—almost black—and brown eyes that look like mine. She used to sneak me books and Yoohoos." Lance laughed. What strange memories he had of her.

"Was she kind?" Twila wondered.

"She was…quiet. But she smiled at me sometimes. She didn't really touch me, you know, but she seemed fond enough of me." Just not enough to save me, he thought. When he thought about it, it still really hurt that he had almost never been hugged by his birth parents. Touched inappropriately by his father, but rarely hugged. His mother hadn't even uttered the word goodbye to him when she left. To this day, Lance craved physical contact with those he cared about almost more than anything. Perhaps this need had contributed to creating a blind spot with the super-affectionate Daisy.

Twila said, "Honey, some advice. It's natural to be curious about our roots, but you don't have to feel guilty if you don't love her. Just find out what you want to know and move on. You don't owe her anything."

Lance looked at Twila with gratefulness. "Did you used to be a counselor? That's exactly what I needed to hear."

Twila grinned and moved her chair back to recline, tossing her crossword aside. "No, honey, but I've been a mother for 50 years. I've given a lot of advice. And…I was adopted myself." She closed her eyes, but Lance was not ready to let her drift off to sleep.

He said, "She's not my mother, you know," more to himself. "My mother died a few years ago. A real mother hugs her son."

Twila looked at Lance from under heavy lids and said kindly, "You are absolutely right. A mother always hugs her child. I suspect this woman you are going to see knows that she is not your rightful mother. Good luck on your journey, Lance." Twila closed her eyes and then so did Lance.

Once in Florida, Lance had checked into his hotel—a lurid palm-themed affair—changed out of his stale plane clothing, and then sought out the circus almost immediately. After all, he had come to Miami for one reason. He bought a circus ticket from a bored clown, who looked like Raggedy Anne, at the entrance and soon found himself surrounded by giggling children gnawing on cotton candy, harried looking parents flitting after them, and the odd characters who composed the circus milling about.

Lance couldn't help but think of the Jeffersonian case in which Booth and Brennan had concocted a fairly stellar circus act as a cover. Booth had knife throwing chops like you wouldn't believe. Lance dressed plainly, trying to fit in, unlike the last time he had fruitlessly sought his mother among circus folk. He was wearing a dark green t-shirt, which contrasted with his brown eyes, faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. He wasn't wearing his glasses now, and in fact, he could be mistaken for a boy of 18 rather than a jaded man of 25.

When he had sought out his mother at the circus for the first time, he had been in college studying psychology. He wanted to silence the voices of his past by investigating the shadowy figures who composed it. It bothered him that every time a doctor asked for his family medical history, he had no information to tell. Did his family have a history of heart disease? Diabetes? He had no idea what terminus of life his genes might hold in store for him. It bothered him that he could only guess his ethnic heritage—half Jewish, half Irish?—based on what little he knew of family names and could remember of his birth parents' features. He had been feeling angry and accusatory when he had tried to find his mother before. Perhaps his emotional baggage had contributed to making the trip ill-fated.

This time he was not so angry (at least not at his mother), but just sort of sad and drifting through the crowds. It was dusk but still hot and humid. He tried to think of what he would ask when he found her. Then he noticed a tent set up that read 'psychic.' He panicked. In fact, he hid behind a nearby pole, which caused a suspicious mother to usher her child behind her skirt for fear that he was mad.

Lance remained perfectly still behind the pole staring at the little tent. After what seemed an eternity, a man emerged wearing a muscle tee, his arms punctuated by giant tough-guy tattoos—of Mom hearts, bulldogs, those kind of tattoos. And then, before Lance could prepare himself, a woman emerged wearing billowing, gypsy-like robes. She had a mixture of brownish-black hair shot through with silver streaks. Her features were elegant, her eyelashes long. She was a tall woman with a thin waste. Her lips were plump and attractive.

It was her. Lance ran off, pushing through the crowd.