(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)

August 3rd

"You know, you can see the northern lights better if you're naked."

Roz turned her head to look at Greg. "And where exactly did you learn this highly scientific fact?"

He shrugged. "Everybody knows it."

"Well, obviously not everyone," Roz said. "Can you explain how this principle works exactly?"

Greg put an arm behind his head and stared up at the sky. "Fairly simple. Remove garments, look up. Ooohh, ahhh, pretty curtains of fiery color, but not as compellingly magnificent as a naked woman lying next to you. QED."

"No, it's not self-evident," Roz said. "I want details."

He turned his head to look at her. "Spill."

"Well . . ." She paused. "Where do you start? Top? Bottom? Is there a prescribed order? And how come there's only a naked woman in your little example? I'm not interested in her. A naked guy though, now you're talking."

"Point taken. Hmm . . . don't think there's rules about how you do it," Greg said. "You just peel till you hit skin." Even in the semi-dark she could see his innocent expression. "Please tell me you're interested."

Roz chuckled. "We'd need a boatload of DEET to survive and we only have a little bitty bottle of spray with us."

"Chickenshit." Greg returned his gaze to the sky.

Roz moved a little closer. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing," she said, and took his hand in hers, enjoying the feel of his long, strong fingers as they curled around her palm. "How about we start with flipflops?"

"Duh. Footwear doesn't count."

"That makes no sense. If we ever did strip, we'd look pretty silly lying here with just our shoes on," Roz said.

"'If'? You're breaking my heart. Anyway, no one's going to see us but us," Greg said. Roz pointed a finger at the stars.

"They see everything," she said in a solemn voice, and giggled at his groan. When she kissed him his theatrics changed into something else, a heat she enjoyed as much as the feel of his mouth. His tongue stroked hers with an almost shy tenderness. His arm came down from behind his head; he slid his free hand under her tank top, cupped her breast. The kiss ended with both of them a little breathless, their argument forgotten for the moment.

"Mmm . . ." Roz sighed as he rubbed his callused thumb over her nipple, making it harden.

"Small but mighty," he murmured, and chuckled when she gave him a light smack and gently removed his hand, her fingers twined with his.

"Better hope I don't say that about a part of you some day, buster. So what do you plan to do now that you've been cut loose from Princeton?"

"At the moment I'm looking for a car." Greg pulled her a little closer. She dared to snuggle in just a bit; too much and he'd tense up, push her away, she knew that now.

"You've got a sweet ride already," she said.

"Well yeah, but I'm hoping for at least one more." He gave a low chuckle in her ear. His breath stirred her hair. Roz closed her eyes for a moment, enjoyed his closeness.

"I'll just bet you are," she said, and softened her words with a teasing note. She glanced upwards and gasped as a line of wavering green descended slowly across the width of the sky. "Whoa."

"Made by solar plasma streams exciting oxygen and nitrogen atoms along the earth's magnetic field lines, which creates photons of light," Greg said. Under the amusement she caught a note of what sounded like admiration. "The bike's not practical in winter, especially around here."

"So you're in the market for wheels." She rested her head against his chest and watched the green curtain form far above them. "What were you driving before?"

"Dynasty."

She bit back laughter. "No, really."

"Yes, really." He growled when she did laugh this time. "Hey, it got me where I wanted to go."

"So will four wheels, a plank and a rope—about the same difference, only without that piece of shit Ultradrive transmission." She rummaged in her pocket and drew out her cell phone, punched in a number.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greg turned his head to glare at her.

"I got a source," she said, just as someone on the other end said

"This better be good."

"Hey Jay," Roz said. "Take the shot, I can wait." She heard him put down the phone, then the sharp click of the business end of a pool cue meeting a ball, with accompanying groans and jeers.

"Okay," Jay said when he returned. He sounded a little less preoccupied. "What?"

"You know that project you started last year?" She glanced at Greg, who still watched her. "The one in the back bay?"

"Yeah." Jay's voice sharpened. "Got a buyer?"

"Got an interest." She ignored Greg's silent, exaggerated NO. "When can we stop by to take a look?"

"Tomorrow after work."

"Cool. We get a decent test drive," Roz said. "Not just once around the block."

"You get a half hour if you promise not to haggle. I got bills to pay."

Roz snorted. "Hah. Cry me a river. You just won two hundred easy. Anyway genius, how about this for an idea: drink less beer, save money." She smiled at Greg's low chuckle.

"Hey, is that a guy I hear? You're actually on a real date?" Jay sounded slightly pleased. "About time."

"Shut up. See you tomorrow." Roz ended the call and put her phone away.

"So this Jay is an ex or something." Greg's tone was impassive. Roz was careful to hide her delight at this rare display of possible jealousy.

"A cousin. He's the only relative on my dad's side who ever bothered with me besides Poppi. He taught me how to stand up for myself, how to drive, how to go for what I want no matter what other people think. He's more of a big brother than anything else. That's pretty much how he feels too." She shivered a little; the evening was cool and even cuddled next to Greg she was still a bit chilled.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to buy a beater from some alcoholic pool player." Greg said. "No way."

"I would like you to take a look at a restoration project tomorrow afternoon," Roz said. "Even if you decide not to go, I'll be there just to see how things turned out. Jay's been working on this for a long time. He knows cars. I trust him—as a mechanic," she said, and smiled when Greg sighed.

"So he's got some souped-up rice burner in a back garage. Great."

"You'll see." She put her head to his chest once more, felt the steady bump of his heartbeat under her cheek.

"You should go home." He belied his statement when his hold on her hand tightened. She breathed in his scent, warm and male.

"I'm fine right here," she said softly, and felt him relax just a little.

"You have to work tomorrow." The rough words held real concern, she recognized it now.

"I'll be all right." She didn't care how tired she was in the morning; it was worth it to spend time with him under the northern lights as they shimmered and undulated far above. She shivered again before she could stop herself.

"Told you to wear a flannel."

"So you get to be right as usual," she shot back. He let go of her hand, then moved his arm around her to bring her closer.

"Wimp," he said. She felt his palm slide over her hip in a possessive gesture and smiled in the dark.

"Better be nice to me or you won't have a chance at that car," she said.

"So what? There's plenty of other choices out there," Greg said. "Empty threat."

Roz's smile widened. "It isn't."

Shortly before they went in for the night, she asked "Do you think you're going to stay with Sarah and Gene? For a while longer, I mean."

Greg was silent for a time. "I don't have much of a choice."

Roz didn't speak. She knew he would see any further questions as a breach of privacy. Let him tell you or not, she thought. She felt his chest move as he took a slow, deep breath. His hand tensed for a moment, then relaxed.

"Sarah's my analyst. We met in a mental institution. I was a patient at the time. She wasn't. A patient, I mean. She was on the other side of the desk."

She considered his reply, and knew it was hard for him to admit to what he saw as weakness. "How long?" She kept her tone soft, neutral; she didn't want to spook him.

"Over a year now." He began to draw away. Roz followed his movement and stayed close.

"Sarah invited you to stay here while you're working with her?"

"She didn't really have any other options." He sounded as if he choked the words out by main force. "I . . . got her fired from the hospital."

"I see." It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it even as the words left her mouth; she also knew any response, even silence, would have had the same effect.

"You don't see a damn thing." He sat up and struggled to his feet. His quiet hiss of pain when he stood on his bad leg made her wince. She said nothing, only collected the blanket and pillows they'd brought out with them and followed him into the house. He didn't stop in the kitchen or living room, however; he continued on into his room and closed the door firmly behind him. Roz paused. The door didn't re-open; she stood in the sudden silence, shut out and uncertain. After a while she folded the blanket, set it on the couch with the pillows, picked up her keys and left. She tried not to feel as hurt and apprehensive as she really was.

Maybe I should have stayed, she thought later as she lay in bed, Hellboy curled in a warm furry lump behind her knees. Maybe I should have pushed things a little harder . . . but that just didn't feel right. He'll tell me or he won't, in his own time. She checked the clock again and sighed a little. Five a.m.'s gonna get here fast if I don't try for some sleep.

Still, it was an hour before her alarm went off that she finally drifted into a troubled doze.

August 4th

He hears her truck pull in—right after work, she's kept her word—but he doesn't get up or go out to meet her. He stays right where he is in his protective little cocoon of a bedroom where he listens to music and smokes stale Marlboros. She doesn't come into the house, though. The next thing he knows she stands next to his open window. Not directly in front of it, sort of off to the side. "If you don't want to go with me, that's fine," she says, her tone neutral. "But you really should see this car. It's easy to get to Jay's place. Just follow the highway into town and turn left on Water Street. You'll see my truck in the driveway." She hesitates. "Whatever you've had to go through to get here, I'm selfish enough to be glad it brought you to me," she says quietly, and then she's gone.

She's right; it's easy to find the guy's house. He pulls the bike in behind Roz's truck and dismounts, peers at the cluster of shabby buildings at the end of the driveway as he removes his helmet. After a moment a man emerges from the shadows of an open garage as he wipes his hands on a blue cloth. Greg moves toward him, takes in details: average height, late thirties probably, dark and thin like Roz. That body type does get passed down on the Italian side, he thinks, and suppresses the urge to look for her.

"Hey," the man says. "Jay Lombardi. You must be Greg." He gestures with the cloth at the bike. "Excellent ride."

A man of few words, Greg thinks with inward amusement. That must get handed down too, at least with the males. He gives in to the urge to see who can win the Most Laconic award and offers a nod. "Here about the car."

Jay simply turns and goes back up the drive. Greg follows him. His spurt of humor fades as the bay comes into view. The interior is illuminated only by a portable light hooked over a pulley, but it's enough to show him Roz is nowhere in sight.

"She needs a wash and wax," Jay says. "Don't have to be clean on the outside to run, though."

Greg switches his attention from a search of the garage to the car. For a moment what he sees doesn't register. Then his eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Thirty four thousand original miles," Jay says. "One owner, original paint and interior." He pops the hood. "Twin T62 turbo chargers, twin fuel pumps. On fifteen pounds of boost and pump gas I'm gettin' a thousand horsepower. Five hundred forty cubic inches—the original three ninety six is in storage, you can have it for some extra cash. Crower crankshaft, Hotchkis suspension, variable ratio power steering . . ."

Jay's voice fades into the background as Greg comes up to the car. It's a Chevelle, he thinks. A sixty-eight Chevelle with twin turbos. Holy freakin' shit. The color is a midnight blue so deep it might as well be black, with custom crimson and white stripes around the bottom of the panels and the base of the hood. The old paint glows with years of loving care, a soft burnished patina.

The jangle of keys bring him back to the present. "Take 'er out," Jay says. "See how she handles."

Greg accepts the keys, more of an automatic reaction than anything else. He glances around one more time for Roz, looks at the car, gives up and gets in.

The interior is magnificent, black leather with a deep front bench he loves on sight; bucket seats can be a bitch for someone with a bad leg. He pulls the door shut, inserts the key, warms her up and turns her over. She starts with a throaty purr that sends a wild thrill right down to his toes. He backs out with care to find Roz at the end of the drive. She tosses her jumpsuit and boots into the cab of her truck; she's got on a tank top and cutoffs, her feet bare. He stops next to her, leans over and pops the passenger side door. She doesn't hesitate to accept his silent offer, and they are on their way.

Of course it handles like a total cherry dream; he floors it on a straightaway and it's the earthbound equivalent of liftoff in a private jet. The next temptation is a burnout, something he manages on the same deserted stretch of highway. He's rusty and the back end fishtails a bit, but he leaves behind a cloud of tire smoke and a respectable length of rubber.

"Good thing Jay put on an old pair of Firestones this morning," Roz says, her tone wry. Greg glances at her. She offers him a smile, but she looks tired; her thick hair is a bit lank and streaked with dust, and her eyes are shadowed. He knows then she got little or no sleep last night as well as no rest after work, and it's his fault for a couple of reasons at least.

"Don't know what the hell I'd do with this thing," he says, more harshly than he'd intended. "I don't need a damn muscle car."

"It's you," Roz says. "Come on," she persists when he gives a derisive laugh, "it is. Classic lines, sporty but not flashy, and it's outrun the cops at least three times that I know of."

"You're comparing me to a car. That's great." He doesn't know whether to be insulted or amused.

"It doesn't get better than a Chevelle SS," Roz says simply. "Draw your own conclusions."

They bring it back a few gallons lighter but in perfect shape. Jay stands to one side, a greasy rag twisted in his hands. Greg pulls into the bay and shuts down the engine in stages. When it's finally silent he mutters "I must be out of my fucking mind to even consider this. It's gonna jack my insurance sky-high along with the damn bike."

"You'll need something to drive when the cold weather hits," Roz says. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, this is completely practical for wintertime."

"You want practical, get a damn Civic," Roz says, her impatience plain. "You came here to do whatever it is you're going to do with your life. Do it the way you want to. Fuck what everyone else says or thinks." She opens the door and gets out, shuts it gently, then walks away to her truck. He watches her, prey to a number of conflicting emotions.

So what are you going to do with the years you've presumably got ahead of you? He thinks of the talk he and Sarah had a couple of days ago, to figure out the requirements for his reinstatement—the differences between Jersey and New York state boards, and where he'll end up to get his hours. There's no doubt in his mind he'll have his license back; he has an idea of what could come next but it's only an idea, hardly more than a single idle thought. There's a huge amount of work involved to make that idea real, so much it scares him when he stops to really think about it. He'll need every penny of the incredibly generous bonus Cuddy gave him, and more besides. To waste money on a car like this one is idiotic; he'd really be better off with that Civic Roz mentioned.

After a few moments he removes the keys, exits the vehicle, and hands them to Jay. "Thirty-two," he says.

"Can't let 'er go for less than fifty," Jay says.

"Way too rich for my blood," Greg says, though in actuality it's not a bad price for something this prime. "Thirty-five."

"Forty-five." Jay folds his arms.

"Forty," Greg says.

"Forty-three."

"Forty-two." There is a moment of silence.

"Done," Jay says finally. "But only if you bring her to me for repairs. You might own her, but she'll always be my baby."

Greg blinks. There is real emotion in the other man's voice for the first time. "Uh . . . yeah. Okay. Done."

They exchange numbers and other bits of necessary information, with a promise to meet later in the week to formalize the agreement, make payment and hand over the title. Then Greg is on his way home, a little numb, his head so crowded with thoughts he can hardly contain them all.

"Where've you been?" Sarah asks when he comes into the kitchen, his helmet tucked under his arm. The whole house reeks of pickles, and there are rows of quart jars filled with newly-canned batches of kosher dills and thick hamburger chips on the counter. "Out touring the big city?"

"Bought a car," he says. Sarah shoots a look of surprise his way as she puts a jar into the canner.

"What did you get?"

"Sixty eight Chevelle," he says, and unzips his jacket. Sarah turns to face him.

"You bought a muscle car?" She's not appalled; she sounds excited. Greg gives her a level stare.

"Yeah."

"Cool." She really is excited. "Way cool." She tilts her head. "Wait—you bought Jay's project. That SS he's had for ages."

"How do you know about that?" he demands. Sarah laughs.

"The whole village knows about it. Gene will be so jealous! I can't wait to tell him." She turns back to the canner. "That's so awesome. You won't regret it."

He can't help but poke at her. "That's it-you're not going to question my judgment."

"Greg, I have no reason to do so. Just don't burn rubber in the lane, okay? It makes Bob's horse nervous." She puts the last quart in the canner. "I wouldn't object to a ride when you bring it home, though." Once the lid is on she wipes her hands on her apron. "I can just see you now, parking that thing in the hospital lot. Every nurse in the place will want to date you."

It takes a second for the import of her words to sink in. "You were able to make the arrangements that fast?"

"I pulled in a favor or two," she says.

He knows she did more than that, a lot more. His gratitude is utterly inadequate, but it's all he's got to offer. "Thanks," he mutters. She comes forward and stands slightly to one side. Her smile fades a little.

"We go to Albany on Friday. You'll meet with the medical board, of course. They'll have an attorney with your records and they'll go over—"

"I know what it means," he snaps. They'll bring up everything-the addiction, the scrip stealing . . . all the bullshit with Tritter too. He tries to swallow and can't as panic starts to fill him up.

You won't be alone." Sarah's voice is quiet, honest. She doesn't try to soothe or comfort him; she just tells the truth. "I'll be there to give testimony and offer evidence of your progress. Everything you've done more than meets the requirements for rehabilitation. I checked on license transfer from New Jersey to New York as well. You shouldn't have a problem." She pauses. "May I touch you?" He nods. She puts a hand on his arm, light as a butterfly, and he remembers that day in the yard in Mayfield under a scorching sun, when she'd offered him hazelnut ice cream and the start of something like hope and real friendship, though he didn't know it at the time. "I'm honored to help you with this. You're worth it, Greg."

Later, as he sits on the patio within a protective cloud of citronella and Off! and watches fireflies dance above the lawn, he thinks over the day's events. Roz is conspicuous by her absence this evening; it bothers him more than he wants to admit. After a while he pulls out his phone and speed dials her number. It goes to voicemail. He smiles a little at her message ("Keep it short, okay?"); when the beep prompts him he says

"Once the car's mine we're going out," and ends the call. He puts the phone away, snuffs the candles, stands up and goes inside, to leave the rest of the night to the lightning bugs.

'One Summer Night,' the Danleers