As this raw, miserable day finally draws to a close, Greg is ready to give up for the rest of the weekend. The damp chill in the air doesn't do his damn leg any good, or improve his temper. He's just emerged from a day crammed full of paperwork filled out (or refused, in some cases) and returned on time, a fact which is usually cause for celebration of some kind, even if it's just the knowledge he won't have to deal with anyone at PPTH for the forseeable future—they're as fed up with him as he is with them, though he did get a farewell of sorts from his team and the new titular head of Diagnostics. Chase had burgers, fries and beer delivered, consumed in the conference room with the blinds drawn. Of course Cuddy had found out about it—someone always blabbed, that was a given-but she'd said nothing, just left them to their feast. Still, by the end of the day his ramped-up pain numbers have taken away even the few modest benefits of breath and life, and the TENS unit doesn't help much either. All he wants is a quiet evening parked in front of the tv with copious amounts of food and alcohol, and his woman next to him.

Gardener's home when he comes in. There's a fire to warm the main room, and she's already on her way to greet him. Her smile is the best thing he's seen all day. She takes his backpack and sets it down, then removes his coat. He watches her while she performs the mundane tasks; when she puts her hand on his hip, he leans down to kiss her. She tastes of coffee and chocolate, and herself. He slips his arms around her, brings her close. They stay that way for a few moments, until another warning spasm from his right thigh makes him wince.

"A bad day," she says softly. "Come sit down."

She helps him to the couch but lets him get comfortable on his own, a silent courtesy he appreciates. Once he's settled in, she hands him her phone. "You order dinner, I'll get the beer," she says, and laughs when he takes her hand and gives the back of it a boisterous smack of a kiss.

"Pizza et cetera," he says, and she nods.

"That's fine. Yuengling or Flying Fish?"

"Yuengling. With a morphine sidecar."

Her smile fades. She gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. Then she's gone. Greg observes her as she walks into the kitchen. Even in a good amount of pain, he can still enjoy the gentle sway of her hips. Hell, he'd have to be dead before he'd take that for granted. But his admiration won't get dinner to the door.

The order is easy to put in, and even better, he can use Gardener's card number. As he finishes up he sees a little note in the corner of the phone screen. Intrigued, he opens it to find what looks like a shopping list. A quick scan reveals she's chosen a place for Thanksgiving dinner—that chichi market in Hopewell Wilson's talked about a couple of times. So they did meet today. Wilson's made noises about it for a week or so; apparently he finally fulfilled his threat.

When Gardener returns with beer in hand, he waits until she sits down and he's had his first taste of brew. Then he says "You and Wilson had lunch."

She glances at the phone and nods, unperturbed; it's clear she doesn't consider this information confidential. Good to know, because he has questions and it'll be easier to get answers if she's not worried about secrets. "Yes, we did."

"Got Thanksgiving all planned out, no doubt."

"He gave me a list of places to look at for dinner." She stretches a bit so that her breasts lift under her sweater, a pleasant action Greg savors almost as much as the beer.

"And that's all." He watches her while he takes another taste. Something about that meeting makes his spidey-sense tingle.

"Yes. I'd like to talk with you about where we decide to spend the holiday, but it can wait. I'd rather hear about your day."

"That's very self-sacrificing of you," he says in pure mockery, just to see how she'll respond. Gardener looks at him.

"We aim to please," she says, and gives him another smile, warm and wry. "How did it go? I presume you found your diagnosis, since you're home."

He's about to answer her when his thigh spasms again, but this time it's a hard contraction that leaves him breathless and light-headed with pain. Gardener is already up and on her way to the bedroom. When she comes back she has the heating pad. She eases his jeans down with his help, removes the TENS unit, then plugs in the pad and places it over the great scar. "You get this started, I'll bring your meds," she says in her quiet way.

"I know what to do!" he snarls. He can't help himself, he has to yell at someone or his head will explode. Gardener says nothing, just nods and gets up. Greg watches her go down the hallway again and feels even more pissed off now, because he just took his frustration out on the one person who actually helps him and doesn't use lectures or patient resignation as methods of control or punishment. He grabs the pad control and sets it on medium as she returns with pill bottles in hand. But she doesn't stop, she heads into the kitchen. A few moments later she is by his side with a bowl of chips and the meds.

"I thought this would taste better with beer than cookies." Her voice is still soft, but she sounds worried now.

He pops the drugs first just on principle but makes sure to take a handful of chips afterward, which awakens his hunger and makes it easier to eat more. Gardener brings him a blanket and pillow, and answers the door for the delivery. The pizza box ends up on her lap atop a folded towel, with the onion rings and fries placed where he can reach them without too much effort. They watch the start of the news while they eat, and the sharp stabs of pain subside to an occasional mutter. The relief is just as delicious as the food. The feel of his lover's warm body next to his helps even more.

"Suck up," he says in the commercial break.

"Ha, you think sweet talk gets you what you want." She snitches an onion ring.

"You know it does," he informs her, and takes an enormous bite of pizza, chews it and swallows loudly.

"How bad are the spasms?"

"I'll deal with it." He'll do his best to avoid a visit to his pain management guy, even though Doctor T is far better than any of the quacks he's been forced to see in the past. It's the principle of the thing; he doesn't want his pain managed, he wants it gone.

Gardener's hand touches his for a moment. "I don't like to see you hurting."

"Me too." He finishes off his beer. "Bet Wilson met you at that upscale place where he takes his first dates to impress them."

She follows the change of subject, though Greg knows they will probably talk about an appointment later, when she thinks he's tired enough to be less resistant. "He did. It was lovely. I got the recipe for the broccoli soup from the maitre'd."

He grimaces and eats an onion ring. "Don't make it when I'm around."

"I won't. But it was delicious." She eats the last of her pizza crust and reaches in for another slice.

"He gave you a hard time."

"Actually the maitre'd was quite nice."

Greg rolls his eyes. "I meant Wilson."

Gardener doesn't answer him right away. "I think James is jealous of our relationship."

He catches the hesitation. "There's more."

"Yes." She picks up an onion ring, puts it down. "Something else is going on. Some issue between you and him." She pauses again. "I'm not prying, but if you want to tell me about it—"

"Nope." He feels the old defensiveness rise up, he can't help it. The last thing he wants to talk about is—that.

"Ah." Gardener folds up the onion ring and takes a bite.

"Aaaaaand here we go."

"James is used to having you to himself. Now he doesn't, and maybe he's worried that he'll lose you for good if he doesn't insist on maintaining rituals."

"You think he thinks I'll shut him out completely." Greg munches some pepperoni while he feels a profound sense of relief. She doesn't know about what happened, and he has no plans to enlighten her.

"You won't." Gardener eats the rest of the onion ring. "You're not into passive-aggressive revenge. When you want to get back at someone, you just do it. Though you do have your own style."

"But Wilson's paranoid." He picks up another slice. "So he's convinced himself I'm using you to get back at him."

"He asked if we were dining alone on Thanksgiving. Apparently you spend holidays together."

"Nope. Mostly just Christmas. He pays for the Chinese takeout."

Gardener glances at him. "Cheapskate," she says in that dry tone that always amuses him.

Greg shrugs. "Hey, he's the one who wants pork lo mein, not me."

"Of course. So you're saying he exaggerated?"

"Wilson rarely exaggerates. He rearranges the truth to suit his needs." Greg pauses as he takes more onion rings. "He's coming to dinner."

"I just said he would be welcome, if you and he decided—"

"You invited him." Exasperation takes hold. "You said he could spend Thanksgiving with us."

"No. That's up to you." Gardener sounds tart now. "It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."

"Liar. You've already turned this into a competition."

"I have not." Now she's annoyed, he can hear it in the way her accent grows a bit stronger. "If I wanted to compete with James I'd make dinner myself. You've told me he's a good cook."

"That he is. And you are as well. It'll be interesting to see how things develop."

"They won't. I'm ordering everything except the pie, so there won't be any reason to compete." Gardener wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and scoots over, sets the pizza box between them, and gets to her feet.

He has to say it. "'Pie' better mean plural and not singular."

"It means none at the moment." She gives him a look and heads into the kitchen.

"Make pecan and pumpkin! None of that mincemeat crap!" he yells after her. There is no answer except the sound of the fridge door as it opens and closes. When she comes out again, she has a beer in hand. Greg waits until she sits down again before he says "That's mine."

Gardener pops the top. She takes a long swallow, and moves it away from him so he can't grab it. "You've had your meds. No more alcohol."

"I make one observation and you turn into a raging bitch." Greg gives her a sidelong glance. To his surprise she looks tired; there are slight smudges under her eyes. And then he remembers. They're just a couple of weeks past Halloween, and the anniversary of her father's death. He almost lost her over this kind of provocation a short time ago; it would be in his best interest to stop. The lesson impressed on him during their breakup is still powerful. The fact that she's only talked about that experience once, and then because he asked her to do so, tells him it's a difficult memory for her.

So he takes her free hand. He says nothing, just clasps her strong, slender fingers in his. Gardener turns her head, looks at him.

"I don't want to push your best friend out of your life," she says after a little silence. "Mon pere did that with maman. There was no room for anyone else but him and the music."

"He's using you. No one's as good as Wilson at manipulation." Greg strokes his thumb over her palm. "Don't worry about this stupid dinner. It's not a big deal. Let's get a ham and a case of beer and go to the shore instead."

That makes her laugh, as he intended. He snitches the bottle from her other hand and takes an illicit swallow. She gives him a little token thump with her thumb and forefinger, then moves over a bit and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Would you rather do that? Just—just go somewhere and spend the weekend alone?" She sounds hesitant. This is a big deal for her, even if it isn't for him. Still, he has to be honest.

"As long as I can park my ass in a comfortable spot, drink beer and watch football, I don't care what we do."

"Well, then—why don't we stay here?"

Greg pauses with the bottle to his lips. "You don't want to do Thanksgiving at your place."

"It doesn't matter to me either way, but you're used to having holidays with James here."

Now that's a play from left field he hadn't expected. He sets the bottle down. "That's not necessary."

"I know. But I'd like to." Gardener's hand lies relaxed in his. She's not worried about this at all. "Whatever you decide is fine."

"So if I say no, you won't bring it up in some fight later on."

"I'd rather not fight later on. Or ever, if it's all the same to you."

He can't help but chuckle. "Scheming little wench." He takes another slug of beer. "I'll think about it."

"Good enough." She snuggles in. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh no, you don't get out of it that easily. If we have Thanksgiving here, you and Wilson will be head to head the entire time."

She doesn't answer him right away. "I meant what I said earlier," she says at last. "There's no competition. I won't be cooking anyway."

He finishes the beer and sets the bottle on the floor. Dinner at his place with Wilson is a bad idea, he knows it right from the start, but he won't tell her that or she'll believe it's a knee-jerk reaction and argue with him. "I'll think about it."

Later, when they move to the bedroom, Gardener takes a set of silk ties out of the drawer—the dark blue ones she likes to use on him for some reason. "Uh—man in pain here," Greg says, and tries to sound apprehensive. Actually he kinda likes it when she does this, but he won't let her know if he can help it. "We've got the whole weekend."

She places the ties on the bed and sits down next to him. Her small hand touches his cheek, turns his face toward hers. Her grey eyes hold considerable amusement, but also a love that still astonishes him. "Gregory, do you trust me?"

It always comes down to that question. He wrestles with it, even though he knows the answer. It's the admission that scares him. At last he nods once, and moves his gaze away.

And that is how he ends up spread-eagled in the bed. He's naked of course, and as always, quite comfortable; the ties are loose and his limbs are not pulled taut, Gardener makes sure of that. If he really wanted to, he could free himself with relative ease. But he knows where this is headed, and while the constraint still generates a sort of automatic anxiety, he also enjoys the temporary release of control. This woman will not harm him. And anyway, he has a safe word. If all else fails, he knows she'll honor it.

Gardener sits next to his right leg. She uses lotion warmed in her hand to massage the muscles above and around the great scar, which is hidden by the heating pad. Her fingertips push and release, pull and release; fiery points of pain flare and fade as she works. He watches her, and hopes she'll work on his right shoulder as well; it's bothered him ever since the weather changed from hot and dry to cold and wet . . . Her dark-gold hair is captured in a rough braid, with a few little tendrils free to float around her face; her expression is calm, full of concentration. He catches glimpses of her breasts as her arms move, and he thinks about their fullness cupped in his hands. And of course that leads to other pleasurable thoughts, which brings about the inevitable response. Gardener glances at him, then lower, and smiles.

"Men," she says, but it's not a slap, just an amused acknowledgment.

"Your nipples get hard when you think about banging me."

"True enough. But that also happens when it's cold, or I step out of the shower."

"Me too," he says, just to make her laugh, and she does. The sound is like music. He takes it in, along with the faint fragrance of lavender, clean and crisp; a moment to keep in memory as a little treasure.

"Your shoulder is bothering you." She wipes the lotion from his thigh and brings the heating pad up to cover the sore muscles, then shifts her position so she can work on his upper arm. He has a lovely view of her rack now, and the way the soft light plays over her skin. He makes a noise of protest, and she smiles a little. "Shoulder first," she says. He knows that's why she insisted on tying him up—he would never have gotten any massage worth speaking of if he'd had his way.

"Later," he says. It's not quite a whine. Her smile widens.

"Now. You're usually glad we do things in that order." Her hands are warm and slick. Greg imagines them at work on another part of his anatomy, and groans at the tightness in his balls. Gardener shakes her head at him. "One track mind."

By the time she's done, he's sure he'll explode before he gets any relief. That doesn't happen, at least not this time. There have been some mishaps in the past, but they've learned from them. She unties him, her touch gentle as she loosens the knots so he can slip out, and she helps him into the half-sitting position they've found works best for both of them. With care she straddles him, and rests her weight on her knees. He helps her, his hands on her hips. Soon enough he's inside her, and he cups her breasts as she moves slow, hot and sweet and all his, her beautiful face suffused with pleasure.

Later, after they've settled into a delicious drowsy afterglow, Greg realizes she hasn't said anything about pain management. "You're not nagging me," he mumbles. Gardener shifts a little to face him.

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't seen the PM guy in weeks."

She strokes his sore shoulder, a light, fleeting touch. "Your choice."

He closes one eye. "Saving it for blackmail later on."

"No. You're able to make your own decisions. Unless you want me to nag you. I could get out that nice doeskin flogger you like . . ."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

She makes a little derisive noise and trails her finger over his lips, then rests her hand on his hip—a gesture he enjoys, though he'll never say so. He slips into the soft darkness with her quiet breathing to accompany him.