May 6th

It's a quiet Sunday night at home. Greg sits at the piano, a tumbler with a last sip of bourbon in it perched within easy reach. The house is quiet; Roz is in the study, probably at work on her schedule for this week's students; Hellboy is curled up and drowsy on the back of the couch, his golden eyes mere slits. Greg watches him as he plays bits and pieces of songs, a blues riff, a few measures of melody he finds enjoyable.

Tomorrow they will start in earnest the move to a new living space. It's strange, but after all the places he's been, all the countries he's lived in, the jobs he's gained and lost, he's never done anything quite like this before. The idea should fill him with apprehension, but all he can feel is something like a relieved sigh. Home at last, he thinks, and grimaces at his sentimentality, but there it is.

Wilson had called earlier, just after they'd finished dinner.

("There's no easy way to say this," he said. "I have cancer, House. Thymoma, stage 2. It looks like there isn't too much infiltration of fatty tissue and the tumor's pretty much encapsulated, so surgery is still the best bet with a round of chemo afterward."

Greg sat there, phone in hand, and tried to process the news. A few years ago this would have devastated him, sent him into a panic at the loss of his best friend, as well as the one last outpost within humanity's borders that he had left—selfish, yes, but truthful. Instead he felt the unavoidable shock of deep sorrow such news brought with it, but there was no terror, no sense of some black void before him, ready to swallow him whole. He knew what that was like, after the blood clot. "Send me a copy of your file and your test results," he said. "Let me take a look at it."

"Thanks. I—I wanted to ask, but . . . I'd like to ask a favor. I know I have no right—"

"Spit it out," Greg said, but kept his voice neutral.

"Yeah—yeah, okay. I'd like to see you," Wilson said with some hesitation. "I know it's a lot to ask . . ." His voice trailed off, came back again. "What . . . what do you think your wife will say?"

Greg glanced at the kitchen doorway, full of golden light. "She's moved past what happened. I have too. Maybe you should as well."

There was a disbelieving silence, then a soft chuckle, followed by a cough. "You're right," Wilson said when he could speak. "You're right. Okay. May—may I talk to her?"

Roz took the phone with an inscrutable expression—not displeasure or annoyance, more like uncertainty. She perched on the couch and listened. "There's no need to apologize," she said after a lengthy silence. "Doctor Wilson . . . okay, James . . . it was a misunderstanding. It's over, and I'd—I'd like us to be friends, if that's all right with you."

Greg knew the moment Wilson had told her the news; she looked down, but not before he'd seen true sorrow in her eyes. "Oh," she said softly, "oh, no . . . are you all right? Is there anything we can do to help?"

She spoke with him for some time—listened mostly, to be accurate; Greg realized then he'd never known Roz was not just a good listener, but an excellent one. She even made Wilson laugh a little when she dared to tease him, a tactic which earned Greg's whole-hearted approval. Humor was one of the best ways to deal with the random miseries of life.

"You really did find a good woman," Wilson said when Roz handed the phone back to Greg and left the room. His voice was a little rough now, emotions not quite so controlled. "She should be telling me I'm only getting what I deserve for being an ass."

"Self-pity does not become you. What you have is survivable," Greg said. "You know the success rates—"

"Yeah, I know. I have all the stats burned into my brain from years of reciting them to my patients. You know what? It doesn't matter. People who should have lived didn't. The numbers aren't enough, House. There's more to it than that." Wilson drew an unsteady breath. "I want to put my life in order, just in case. After the surgery and chemo . . . I'd like to spend some time with you if—if you—you're okay with that."

"Hmm, let's see. Forced to endure maudlin emotional moments and endless memories of our days together at PPTH, sorting out who did what and where the blame lies . . . all in a day's work for you, but about as much fun for me as tweezing my underarms hair-free one follicle at a time."

"No, it wouldn't be like that! I don't care about who's to blame for things that happened—"

Greg snorted. "Lie number one."

"—and I won't force you to remember anything you don't want to—"

"Lie number two."

Wilson growled and ended up in a cough. "Stop it," he said when he could speak. "Stop messing with me! Either say yes or no so I know what—"

"Have to talk to the wife first," Greg said. There was a brief silence.

"Do you . . . do you think she'll say yes," Wilson said, caution evident, "or—"

"Wilson."

"Okay. Okay, got it." Wilson hesitated. "I'm—I'm taking an extended leave of absence, I've been on part-time hours anyway since Mayfield . . . Cuddy's already agreed to have my partner take over."

Greg snorted. "Partner . . . let me guess. She's thirty-something, long legs, no inhibitions."

"He is fifty-something, twenty pounds overweight and married with two kids and a grandchild on the way. Not exactly date material," Wilson said, but there was an edge of humor in his voice. "Okay, let me know and I'll know how to set things up. House . . . thanks."

"Don't," Greg said. "Maudlin emotional scenes et cetera."

"Yeah, okay. I'll—I'll talk to you later then."

He found Roz on the front porch. She sat with her arms clasped around her knees and watched the last bit of light as it left the sky. "You didn't have to go," he said as he sat beside her.

"I thought you might want some privacy."

Greg shook his head. "Not necessary." He slipped his hand under her disreputable old sweatpants and cupped her hip. "Seems we've been asked to take in a visitor later this summer." He stroked his thumb over the slender curve. "It's up to you."

"Wilson wants to come up?" She stared at the sky. "Things . . . things didn't go so well the last time he was here."

"True," Greg said.

"But things are different with us now. Better." Roz rested her head against his shoulder. She didn't say anything for a while. Then, "It's all right with me, amante."

"You're not just saying that because he has cancer? Because he'll be fine after the surgery. Don't let all that emotional manipulation—well, manipulate you."

"No," she said. "I'm not just saying it. I want you to spend time with a friend. He needs you, but you need him too, I think.")

And so here he is at the piano, as he tries to sort out how he feels, what he thinks. His fingers drift over the keys, fit in the notes . . . The tune suddenly registers with him, and the lyrics fall into place. He rolls his eyes at the overt sentimentality, but plays it all the same.

She's got a way about her
I don't know what it is
but I know that I can't live without her

Surprising; he thought he'd be focused on Wilson, but there will be time for that later, once he thinks about the situation, talks it over with Sarah in a session. So he lets the music take him into memory—the first time he met Roz, the confrontation in the office, the first time they kissed. She's bloomed since then, become—not perfect, that would be far too boring. She's a mix of angles and curves, strength and yielding softness, wisdom and foolishness, and all of her captures him in a way no one else ever has.

She's got a smile that heals me
I don't know why it is
But I have to laugh when she reveals me
She's got a way of talkin'
I don't know why it is
But it lifts me up when we are walkin' anywhere . . .

He can honestly say that he's never had a woman as a friend; mother, lover, hooker, coworker, but never friendship. Stacy might have come closest, but even with her he kept most of his masks in place. With Roz it's different. He enjoys her, likes the way she thinks, her honest responses, her sly, sardonic sense of humor. And she likes him too, something he can still hardly credit, but the proof is in the evidence she offers—she seeks him out, stays at his side. And she puts up with his only friend. No one has ever wanted to do that, especially after they've been wounded in the crossfire that's an inevitable part of his relationship with Wilson.

She comes to me when I'm feelin' down
Inspires me without a sound
She touches me and I get turned around
She's got a way of showin'
How I make her feel
And I find the strength to keep on goin' . . .

He thinks of James's many attempts to find someone, all dismal failures—even Amber counts as one, though it was random chance and not personal failings that took her out of Wilson's life. He still hasn't talked with Sarah about what happened during that terrible time before his stay in Mayfield, though he knows someday he will. But he's already come to realize Wilson has played a part in some of his losses as well. And yet Roz is not lost, nor will she be. She herself has chosen to stay, to stand with him. He can't figure out why, but he'll accept it all the same.

As he plays Roz comes to sit next to him. When he glances at her she watches him with a smile. Pride fills him. She knows he plays for her; she understands what he wants to say and can't.

Slowly she leans forward. He anticipates the kiss, savors her closeness. She brushes her lips over his, touches her tongue to the corner of his mouth, a silent promise. He waits for it to deepen . . .

There's a loud hiss and the slap of something soft and pillowy against his cheek. Roz has a can of whipped cream and she's used it to decorate his face. Even as he stops and grabs for her she jumps up from the bench and hot-foots it to the kitchen, giggling. There's nothing for it but to give chase, all somber, sappy thoughts forgotten in the need for revenge—but even as he takes off after her, his delight in her audaciousness flows through him like fine bourbon, smoky and sweet.

She's got a smile that heals me
I don't know why it is
But I have to laugh when she reveals me
She's got a way about her
I don't know what it is,
But I know that I can't live without her anyway . . .

[H]

Gene closed the book and put it on the nightstand. "Another chapter tomorrow," he said, as he always did.

"One more? Please?" Jason said as he always did, but Gene could tell his heart wasn't really in it.

"Nope. School in the morning." He put a gentle hand on Jason's head. "You need your sleep. Remember, we're going over to Greg and Roz's new place after you come home."

Jason's sleepy gaze brightened a little. "Yeah. Mom said she'd bring dinner over for all of us and then she'll help out too. Roz says once everything's clean, she and House will choose the colors and then we can paint and stuff. I've never painted a room before." He yawned and snuggled into his nest. Gene ruffled his hair and brought up the covers, though the room was warm; Jason liked to burrow.

"First things first," he said. "Clean, then decorate. Do you have everything ready for school? Homework done, lunch packed?"

"Yeah." Jason yawned again. "You and Mom fixed up this house together, didn't you?"

"Yes we did, and it isn't finished yet. No house ever does get completed, there's always something to fix. But it's worth it."

"Dad?" Jason looked up at him. "Do you think Gibbs would like this? All this changing stuff?"

"I think Gibbs would say change is a natural part of life, and he'd be pleased to see his home enjoyed by someone who knows the history of the place." Gene leaned in and kissed Jason's forehead. "Love you, son. Sleep well."

"Love you Dad. 'night."

Gene took his time as he made the rounds downstairs. He banked the fire in the living room and turned out lights in the office and kitchen, then went to the back door and stood on the step for a few moments. He looked up at the stars, scattered like diamonds through the tree branches. It was a quiet night, a little windy and cool but you could still tell summer was on the way. He breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass and clean air and smiled a little, then went inside and locked up.

When he entered the bedroom it was to find Sarah still awake. She lay on her side, book propped on a pillow. As he came in she looked at him and smiled. "Hey," she said softly, and set the book aside.

"What are you reading?" Gene stripped off his shirt and unbuttoned his jeans.

"New study on Tutankhamen," Sarah said. "Pretty good so far. How's our boy?"

Gene savored the sound of that phrase. "Tired. He's probably already asleep." He stepped out of his jeans and took his clothes to the hamper. "Are we all set for tomorrow?"

Sarah nodded. "I'll go over after Jason's in school and work on the kitchen until suppertime. Then we'll just have to get the entryway and that back bedroom done and it'll be ready to renovate." She hesitated. "We need to talk."

Gene felt his good mood evaporate. "Okay," he said, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," Sarah said. She sat up and faced him. In the soft light of the fire her curls sparked as she moved. "It's something I've been thinking about since coming back from Oklahoma."

"Okay," Gene said again, and waited.

"Looking at what happened to the children in our family, and in yours too . . . and Jason, and Greg and Roz . . . if someone had been paying attention, if they'd had the power to offer help, maybe things would have turned out differently for all of us." She lowered her gaze to the quilt. "I could be that person here."

"That's a tall order," Gene said after a brief silence. "You can't save everyone, Sare."

"I know that now. But if I helped even one child out of the kind of misery we've all dealt with, it would be worth it." She traced a line of stitches. "I wanted to ask you first, though."

"Why?" Gene asked when she didn't continue.

"Because I've learned my lesson," Sarah said. "We make decisions together." She raised her gaze to his. "Do you agree?"

"Learned your lesson . . . I certainly hope so." Gene pretended to consider her words. "Yes, I agree. So I'll think about your proposal," he said. Sarah glowered at him. It was clear she wanted an immediate answer; he watched her struggle for a full minute before she said slowly,

"Okay, that's fair."

"Good. So I've thought about it, and my answer is 'When do you start? Because I'm really sick of your dishpan hands, Suzy Homemaker,'" he said, and flashed her a grin. Sarah blinked.

"Oh, you-!" she spluttered, "I'll give you dishpan hands!" and tackled him. They wrestled for a moment or two, and then the battle became something else entirely.

Much later, as they lay together, Gene said "I was afraid you wouldn't come back." Sarah looked up at him. She stroked a light line down his cheek but said nothing. "In my head I knew you would." He sighed and brought her a little closer. "Down inside though . . ."

"I won't ever leave you again." Her soft voice held reassurance and under it, absolute certainty. "You have my promise, love. No more running away."

Gene kissed her forehead. They lay together in the soft darkness and held each other close. Then he chuckled as a song crept into his mind.

"What is it?" Sarah asked.

"Just thought of something to add to the band's playlist," he said, and heard it unfold in his mind, just as he'd heard it years ago on his sister's ancient record player, the vinyl full of pops and crackles.

for strength is mine when we're together,
and with you I know I'll never
have to pass the high road for the low
I have no more than I did before,
but now I've got all that I need,
for I love you and I know you love me . . .

'She's Got A Way,' Billy Joel

'Papa Gene's Blues', the Monkees