Continuity error occurred during scene shuffling, detected and corrected. Apologies.

Family House

House waits the morning away in his office, safe from judging eyes of the gossiping staff, his hands busy with elaborate yo-yo tricks.

"Stacy called about your patient records." Cuddy gets his attention, but not his reply. "You could have told me." She walks over.

"No point in hastening the undesired."

"What do you mean?"

"Rich throw money at the place with the best doctors, because they know the administration of those places will force said doctors into treating the sick donors." He declares factually. "My success rate makes this place the biggest donation recipient. Their money pays for everybody else, which keeps you happy. But if I'm not here, throwing money becomes… throwing money. So donations dwindle and patient care suffers. People suffer. And you're not happy anymore. But you know all this, so if you know I'm indicted, you also know you'll stop being happy. Which makes you unhappy in advance."

"Which is not what you want." She concludes, a smile sneaking to her lips.

"Sorry for scaring away donors." He apologizes in advance.

She makes a 'who-cares' face. "I can always hire Foreman."

"I'd take Chase." He suggests.

"Good to know that." Lisa heads out. "Mattie will be leaving in half hour."

House nods.

A decent size white ball, yellow with age and heavily scribbled, flies from one gloved hand to the other. Owner of said ball is a lanky biker, astride on a badly scared machine. From within a matching helmet, a pair of blue orbs pierce the hospital facade, waiting for something.

An extended family emerges from the entrance, Matt, Patrick and a slightly older couple.

"Yo, kid!" The biker shouts and takes the helmet off, a scruffy, old face revealed in all its life-saving familiarity. "You forgot something."

"Thank you." Matt's reply prompts a roll of eyes.

"Something mine." House outlines a rectangle in the air.

"Dr Lisa is keeping it for you."

"Is she now…?" He fumbles with something behind the bike. "Catch!" The cane appears out of nowhere, launching the ball at Matt.

Catching the hefty thing, he studies the mass of signatures made in black marker, covering its every square inch, but for the inscription recording:

Jays
'71 finals
Team cpt G-man

Matt pouts with a studious frown. "What is this?"

"Yours." Greg slams the visor shut, revs up the bike and takes off in a cloud of exhaust smoke and asphalt dust.

'Hanson and partners, attorneys at law' stands emblazoned sterling on black. A worried face, long and unkempt, is mirrored by the plaque.

Unsteady steps carry the haggard looking doctor up a small flight of stone stairs, beyond two-way double doors and into the intimate lobby. Amber lighting is warm over white walls, deep wood panes and cream marble floor advertising the small firm's reputation.

"I've come to see Stacy." House off-handedly informs the receptionist/secretary, a young redhead on a semi-apprenticeship under the big kahoonas.

"Mrs. Warren has no appointments until noon." The lady leaves her post to catch up with him in short, quick steps. "You can't go in; she's researching a short-notice case." She is in his way now, petite size and fiery temperament earning her the label 'spark'.

"Yeah, I know." He moves in her face. "Cuz' it's my case."

"It's okay, Angie." Stacy speaks from her door and the redhead steps aside.

Without a look to the receptionist, House moves into the office, welcomed by the odor of wood furnish and dusty papers. The large, full desk is stacked with files and free standing papers.

"You've done your homework." He helps himself to a tall-backed guest chair, waiting for her to settle before explaining his visit. "I want to update my will."

Stacy's eyes, deer-in-headlights large, flash at him in sheer panic.

"In case we lose."

Regaining composure she shakes her head.

"Than I'm going elsewhere." He leans forth to stand up.

"Wait." She sighs, pen tapping nervously at the blotter. "All right. But let's go through the defense first."

Sitting back, he urges her on with a look.

"I've got the charges divided into groups based on their seriousness." Stacy begins shuffling the documents on his case. "I'll run you though them for worst case scenario to best. The first priority is to discredit accusations for violent crimes. If you're cleared of assaults, the leg alone would get you minimum security."

"Life sentence of clinic duty and rehab." He chuckles faintly. "I'd rather take permanent solitary."

"Hell is other people?"

"Hell is healthy people playing blame the victim. Hell is irrational nuts telling me to put my life in god's hands. Sorry, not after an infarction, neuropathy and two failed attempts of fixing it." Angrily he shakes four fingers between them. "God is one sick bastard." House mutters bitterly, eyes downcast and unfocused.

"Maybe, but sex offenders don't have a long life expectancy."

"Good."

"Greg!"

"It doesn't matter if you get me into club fed, Stacy. I've got no life, no fulfillment or purpose outside medicine. Odds are I'll be assigned to the prison infirmary, taking orders from some med school failure too dumb to get hired in a public hospital. And what am I going to do in my free time - watch other inmates do sport?"

Her posture sinks with remorse. "You can't think like that."

"No, always look on the bright side of life." He mocks. "What bright side? What are they going to do after d-tox? Give me paracetamol? That'll only shoot my liver. Let the cripple die a slow, agonizing death, just so they can feel good about helping an addict and keeping the streets safe. Self righteous asses."

The silence following is drenched in bitterness and sadness respectively, and she knows full well why he considers taking the easy way out.

"What do you suggest we do?" Stacy offers.

"Challenge the addiction claims." He states simply. "If they jail me for everything but drugs I get to stay medicated. No pain, no rehab…"

"All right, that's plan A. What else?"

"Child abuse. I want that discredited beyond doubt." His expression is rock solid.

Stacy nods in complete understanding. "Your past is our best argument."

A snort is all the reply she gets.

"I'll do the will if you let me at least prepare this as a last option. Think of it as Plan Z."

Greg shakes his head. "It' would kill her. It would serve him right, but it would kill her."

"More than finding out her son died in prison?" A lawyer never asks a question to which she doesn't all ready know the answer to. "I promise to only use it as last resort."

"I don't want their pity." Nervously he rolls the cane over his thing, or maybe to massage the muscle inconspicuously, now that psychosomatic pain joined the party. "I don't want them to pigeon hole me under abused kid. He does not define me."

"Your jack-ass-ness is your own." She agrees with a knowing grin.

The silence between them is long, void of both tension and camaraderie.

Finally, she goes for the ugly. "On the off chance they win?"

"Sell everything I've got and fund a wing for chronic pain research. Gile's trumpet alone will make a million."

"Giles? As in John Henry?"

A nod.

Warm browns narrow thoughtfully. "Any other celebrity you treated?"

"That African doctor, tuberculosis guy."

A smile softens her angled face. "This is so good."

"Hm?"

"Our 'get out of jail free' card – the sheer number of people you saved that were other wise doomed. Even if they find you guilty on all charges, locking you up would be a death sentence to so many innocents they wouldn't dare do it."

"Let's hope so." He sighs, than points his chin at her bloater, or rather beyond it. "How far along?"

"Should have known…" Stacy shakes her head. "What gave it away?"

"No coffee mug, twins beginning to rival Lisa's." He tips his head at her chest. "Dry munchies indicate nausea." He thumbs the bowl of biscuits. "Means its under three months…"

"Ten weeks." She admits.

"Congratulations." House stands, hand offered.

"Thank you." She accepts, watching him leave with a heavy heart.

The scenic ride home is a soothing experience, the feeling of flight almost liberating as wind roars around him, clothes flapping from its force. But turning the corner into Baker street, House is distraught by the sight lof ights on in his ground-level apartment.

Pressed against the front door, he finds them un-tampered with and hears the clatter of – cutlery? Unlocking the door carefully, House sneaks in, cane gripped tightly in hand. Even though it's not the maid's day to visit, the living room is Wilson-ized – bereft of clothes, takeaway cartons and beer cans.

"I have a weapon and I'm not afraid to use it!" He shouts from the miniature lobby, instantly stopping all sounds.

"Greg?" Replies an aged soprano.

He blinks. "Mom?"

True enough his parents step from the twin kitchen and dining room.

"What are you doing here?" He can't hide the confusion.

"There's some kind of tri-state conference in town." John explains. "All the hotels are booked."

"I see." Greg mutters, cane drifting to floor. "Landlord let you in?"

John nods. "Nice lady."

"Yeah." Bony fingers tussle up the helmet-hairdo. "Ugh, this is probably late hours for you. You can take the bedroom. Just let me get some covers."

Blythe frowns stubborn. "We're not inconveniencing you."

"You're not sleeping on those, either." He waves the cane between chair and sofa, returning her expression with an equally determined one. The glare he shoots John says 'wouldn't care if you'd sleep in an alley.'

Couple of hours later, Greg writhes in the recliner, light blanket tossed over his lower body. Sleep is elusive due to the uncomfortable position, and the fact his leg is never quite warm enough. His eyes drift across the darkened room from one knick-knack to the other until the true cause of his insomnia strikes.

A noise is missing, the kind one never notices until it's silenced. His eyes snap at the top of the bookshelf, friezing with abject terror at the void he finds there. "Steve!" Greg franticly scampers to his feet, eyes snapping all over the place.

His parents appear in the door frame, groggy from sleep. "What are you looking for?" John inquires.

"Not 'what' - Steve, a rat." He starts digging through the spires off literature dominating the apartment. "He managed to open the cage."

John winces in disgust. "That thing was yours?"

Greg friezes in his tracks, head up to face House senior. "WAS!?"

"Blythe found a rat, I flushed it."

"My ticket to Stockholm." Greg mutters, fingers buried in messy, dark curls.

"What?"

"The Noble prize!" His hands flail. "I tripled his life span."

John is baffled. "Why would anyone reward that?"

"They rewarded a schizo mathematician for games. They might as well reward a junky doctor for making a Methuselah!"

"So get a new rat." John shrugs.

BLAM!

Blythe staggers back in shock as John struggles to his feet, hands wrapped over a profusely bleeding nose. Hand fisted and body shaking from the adrenalin rush, Greg stands above his father as if in a daze.

"Come on, Blythe…" John speaks nasally, cartilage pinched to stop the bleed. "We're leaving."

"John-"

"He's gone mad."

There is nervousness to House as he stands in the DA's waiting room, Stacy pacing the time away with ease.

"Why make this appointment anyway?" He bitches, feeling all on edge.

"I've got a way to bring this lawsuit to a reasonable scope." She replies. "Just remember this is not a hospital and your opinion is worth zilch. Keep your mouth shut and let me handle things."

Before he can answer the whole-wood doors swing open to a serious room, half-empty bookshelves lined with photos of an aging woman, hair like steel wool, meeting political hot shots. The woman herself gestures them in, Tritter standing in the opposite corner like a stalker.

"My client suggests you drop the violent crimes charges." Stacy makes no room for fake courtesy. "Personally, I'd like you to keep them, just so I could mop the floor with your."

"How do you plan on that?" DA Sullivan replies, "I've got half the hospital as character witnesses, all against him."

"Professional jealousy." She counters. "We've got one superior, two peers and three fellows who say otherwise, and they have more experience working with him. But let's not generalize so much, let's go through this case by case. Take sexual assault on a minor. You've got a random janitor placing him with a teenager in the parking lot, we've got a restraining order – for her. You've got a nurse saying he stuck his head between a girl's legs, we've got her father saying he predicted, sought and found a tick in the pubic hair. Would a man invent that unlikely a story to protect his daughter's violator?"

'Chick fight!' Shouts the juvenile part of House's brain, the more mature one noticing the ensuing battle of ego's, inferred from the use of 'We'.

"Dr House repeatedly neglected to report child abuse." Sullivan plays a weaker card, but still potent enough to muddy the waters of debate.

"All disproved or denied, as social security records state." Stacy flashes a file from her briefcase.

"I'll admit, child abuse was for shock value, but the others are valid points."

"Maybe, but impossible to hold on to."

Sullivan snickers. "You wish."

"Push assault charges and we go for self-defense. It's gonna be a long, technical drag, right until the point we mention the fact his shooter was never found, despite the man's explicit identification. Similar with breaking and entering."

"We've got eye witnesses." Tritter interjects.

"Right…" Stacy is unfazed. "Neighbors saw strangers using the spare key. Yet nothing was taken. Could it not be that his fellows were allowed in to look around for medically relevant clues that solved the case nine times out of ten? As they will all say? As the patients and their family will all say?"

Sullivan offers only a sower look, a silent threat of vengeance.

"Patient endangerment, now that's a beauty – have you checked his success rate?"

"I've checked his insurance reports." Sullivan stands her ground.

"So have I. In fact, I've defended all the questionable decisions once already. Care to watch me do it again?" Stacy is on a winning streak and making use of it every way possible.

"I will take my chances."

Stacy nods 'fine.' And checks the indictment letter. "Assault on an officer… You must mean the thermometer incident. How humiliating it will be to admit being screwed over by a cripple." She play's on Tirtter's pride. "Or have your violent side exposed. Didn't your parents teach you not to trip the handicapped?"

"We can forgo that one." Tritter grates. "Corruption is a more damaging acusation."

"The car was a gift."

"From a suspicious character."

"Which is why it was given away at a charity auction, to fund medical research."

Sulivan is not threatened by the avalanche of counter-attacks. "You keep avoiding the big issue here."

"Substance abuse is fair game. We've got evidence he tried every option available to get off the drug, but if you want to wrestle, your choice. Just so you know - I've brought down bigger sleazes than yourself, Sullivan. If you need a crusade for the state elections, start with the police."

Tritter makes himself big behind Sullivan. "What are you talking about?"

"A narcotics detective making traffic arrests, prison and whiteness guards taking bribe left and right, beat cops arresting disabled people for parking on handicapped spots. I could fish out unrelated cases but that would be underhanded." She spares a second to glare at her rival. "Amend the accusation, drop as much charges as possible and deny them categorically. Save your face and blame it on the trash press making things up to promote sales."

"You're doing this for power." Stacy nods at Sullivan. "You're doing it out of petty vengeance." She nods at Tritter. "I'm doing this because he saved my husband. Which one of us is most motivated?"

Assured in her impact, she directs Greg outside, where finally his enthusiasm is let loose. "That was badass!"

Stacy beams, head high and stride confident. "Thank you."

A small whirlpool spins in bourbon, propelled by an even wrist roll, clear glass and clearer fluid reflecting flicks of a silent TV, its screen the only light in the whole apartment. Outside footsteps and rapping draw House from the revive.

"Who knocks these days?" He asks himself, slowly hobbling over, cane left at the sofa.

Opening the door, Lisa's face replies, except she is in full Cuddy mode, bossy to the point of allowing no quarrel. Wilson on the other hand is James, obedient deputy and shadow manipulator in one.

"Now what?" House sounds annoyed in a reflexive defense mechanism.

"Now we prep you for battle." Cuddy sees herself in, Wilson in tow.

He shuts the door behind them "I'm as ready as I could be."

"You're not going like that!" She threatens, long nail on longer finger sharp in the air.

"I'll shower and shave. Chug a bottle of mouthwash. I'll be decent."

Wilson finds the loaded glass. "And useless." He lifts it for all to see.

"Had I drunk anything, it would be empty, the bottle would be empty." Arm sticks out at the beverage.

"The night is young." States the younger man, bottle stored away and glass drained into the sink to House's horror.

"Is this what you planed to wear?" Cuddy lifts a dull gray suit jacket from the recliner's back, matching slacks spread over the armrests. "Find his black two-piece and get it to the cleaner's." She thumbs at the hall.

"It's a little late for that." Pointedly House checks his watch.

"I know an all night place." Wilson returns with a stale suit and pastel blue shirt, clean but not ironed.

"What's wrong with what I've picked out, its presentable." House follows him out with frustrated eyes.

"But not impressive." Cuddy counters. "First day is about impressions." To his bewilderment she starts fishing stuff out of her large purse: talcum, razor, scissors… "Want them to see you as renowned doctor, don't come in looking like a hobo." She grabs House by the forearm and guides him to the bathroom. "Sit." She shuts the toilet lid.

"You're not plastering my face with cucumber-salad." He plants himself on the spot.

"Hair-cut." She finds his shaver and plugs it in. "Face the bath."

Like a protesting kid he drops down, feeling a towel draped over his shoulders and his head pushed down. "No crew cut. Don't want to look like Forman!" House shouts over the buzz.

"What's wrong with the how he looks!?" She trims his nape.

"Nothing! I don't want them to acquit him! I want them to acquit me." His words dwindle to a mumble.

Buzzing stops momentarily.

"I've seen you in a black-tie ensemble; didn't take anything from your charm." Cuddy jabs sarcastically to lighten his mood. "Turn around."

He obliges, watching her prepare the old fashion shaving equipment. "All the more reason to drop the charade."

Cuddy effectively kills the argument by pushing his chin up for a better view. "Keep your mouth shut." Face wet, brush works up a generous foam from ear to ear. "Law is not our element, Greg. You want to win, play by their rules. If they say appearance counts, suck it up and take a page from Foreman's book."

Swipe by swipe the foam is removed, uncovering a decade younger man.

"Repeat in the morning." She hands him the razor. "And blow-dry your hair for now. Either you keep it under control or the prison barber will be doing it for you."

House nods absent minded, savoring the pre-infarction sensations of smooth skin and short hair. "Thanks." He stands up; suddenly mere inches form her, feeling odd electricity return.

"Anybody home!?" Wilson interrupts the moment. "Now there's a face haven't seen in a while." He comments on the not so much older man. "Suit will be delivered seven AM."

House takes the receipt. "Now can I knock myself out?"

"I've got better." Cuddy heads for the kitchen. "Out cold without the hangover."

"Anything else?" Thick brows rise above eager brown eyes.

"Shoes." House mumbles embarrassed.

Patting his friend on the shoulder, Wilson is on the job in seconds, leaving House humbled by the situation.

People he never inconvenienced himself for coming without summon to help him keep his freedom. Not sure how long he just stood overwhelmed, but it feels like only a second later a mug of warm milk appeared in his hand, giving off the sweet aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla mix.

"Settle in and sip." Lisa explains. "By the time it's empty you'll be sleeping like a baby."

House studies the spiral of brown and white in his mug as if it was the most fascinating phenomena in the universe. "Trial starts at eight." He speaks out of the blue. "In case you…"

"We'll be there." She reassures, and the pair departs with little goodbye nods.

House stands alone for a moment, palms wrapped around the mug to seep in its calming warmth, than turns off the TV and ambles to his room. Soon he rests half-lying, head propped up by a pile of pillows, running Murdoch's 'Orange Sky' in his mind as he sips. Guitar and vocal flow nice and slow, singing him to sleep with siblings, dreams, love and salvation.

There is an air of dignity about House as he walks through down town Princeton with his new look, fire cane traded for a telescopic walking stick, inoffensive chrome and rubber. Lack of tie is the last stubborn bastion of his informal individuality.

"You're early." He calls out to the tall brunette on the courthouse steps, her back to him. He cocks his head for a better angle. "And you've got me a cane."

"Not exactly." Lisa holds out a walking staff.

It the silliest thing he's ever been given, cheep and cheesy, probably bought from a fantasy costume store or those internet craftsmen that fancy themselves 'artists'. Shallow lines etched in black plastic criss-cross to form the scales of a snake, spiraling around in ever denser circles until it curls in on itself at the knob.

It's also the most wonderful gift ever: sturdy, classy, appropriate, and totally in character. Unbreakable epoxy with a rubber butt for traction, sanded dull gloss and black to match any outfit, the handle's diamond-net pattern engraving making for solid grip.

And there's one other thing, the most important thing - it's a staff. Canes are signs of weakness; staves of nobility and authority: the conductor's baton, professor's pointer, general's swagger… and for doctors…

"The rod of Asclepius, god of healing." He notes, holding it up for scrutiny, other hand folding the high-tech gizmo before hooking it to the briefcase.

"Power of knowledge on transformation of complements: health and sickness, cure and poison, life and death."

"Good thing you got the snake count right." He taps the thing, leans to test is support. "A caduceus would so suck considering I can't even walk."

"Like it?"

An odd expression of appreciation and pleasure adorns his face as both eyes and fingers study the implement. "Love it."

He is surprised when Lisa snakes one arm around his, but makes no attempt to break away, nor dose he make any hint at disapproval.

"Stairs." She feels the need to explain herself.

Sotto-bracio they ascend to face danger, House reassured by the simple fact of her closeness.

TO BE CONTINUED