Martin insisted on taking all of them out to lunch, and they wound up in a booth at House's favorite grill, Wilson, House, and Cuddy packed into one side, Martin and Jensen on the other. Cuddy kept a close eye on her husband. She could tell his leg was hurting more than baseline and also that he was still not quite ready to relax, having trouble convincing himself that it was over. Of course, it wasn't over, now that his true father had dropped into the scene, and no doubt he knew that and didn't want to deal with it yet. At least he was eating better than he had this week so far, though not with the surge of total relief he'd had after the evidentiary hearing last fall.

The others kept the topics general during the meal, and House was relieved that Martin didn't want to thank him a thousand times. The prosecutor followed the conversational leads easily enough. House didn't contribute much, just working his way through a burger and fries. He really was hungry, but he also still had a tight feeling in his stomach. The end of his evidence only meant that deliberations had to begin soon, both in the formal trial as well as in - well, other things. There still wasn't a verdict yet. He would have expected being fit between Wilson and Cuddy on either side this closely to make him claustrophobic, but the warm bodies against him were comforting somehow.

"Do you want to go back to court, Greg?" Cuddy asked as he finally finished his burger with a side of meds. He did finish, but he was the last one to do so, in spite of having had the least to say during the meal. "We can go on home if you want, or back to the hospital. Or to hear the rest of it. Whatever you feel like."

House looked across at Jensen briefly. He knew the psychiatrist had to be chomping at the bit to jump in and dissect his feelings about Thornton. A shrink leaving a bombshell like that alone for nearly two full days so far was very impressive, but it had to be on the urgent discussion list. He didn't feel like talking about it yet, though. "Let's go back and hear the defense, such as it is," he said. That wasn't just a dodge, he told himself. He really was curious what kind of paid mouthpieces Stevenson had scratched up.

"Sounds like a good plan," Jensen said, surprisingly sounding like he really did approve of it. "I'm interested in the psychiatric evidence myself." House promptly remembered that the psychiatrist wasn't being paid for this and that stalling the inevitable only ran up the unspoken bill further, and Jensen read his mind. "Really, I'd like to hear the rest of it. Call it professional curiosity. I'll go home this weekend, but today and tomorrow are fine. Who's the psychiatrist for the defense?"

"His name is George McKenzie," Martin said.

Jensen grinned. "Should have known. There really aren't unlimited opinion-for-hire psychiatrists out there in this area. Most of us are honest."

"Yes, I'm going to have fun with background and professional qualifications questions. It will be a nice contrast to Dr. House's reputation."

"Is Patrick testifying?" Wilson asked.

"No. I'm sure the reason they'll state is being afraid he'd switch personalities on the stand under stress. The real reason, of course, is that he wouldn't help his case any. With this much factual evidence, you have to be either an Oscar-caliber actor or telling the truth to face extended cross on an insanity plea. Chandler isn't either one."

House snorted. "Yeah, right. I hope the jury sees what a total load of crap this is."

"I think they've had their eyes opened already," Martin said with satisfaction. "There are two main parts to their defense. The first is evidence that Bartle would do anything to win a case and had most likely crossed the line before. There's a good bit of that now that his whole career has been investigated. I'll cut the effect of that nicely by simply not cross-examining at all on the grounds that Bartle being a crook is irrelevant to whether Chandler is also one. Anything they prove on Bartle, and I don't dispute their facts, still doesn't mean he acted alone. Then there's the psychiatrist for the defense, and I definitely will cross examine there. But the defense's case is pretty short. I think they were banking heavily on breaking you down on cross. We might even make it to the jury by the end of the day tomorrow."

Wilson was trying to work out the time line. "So opening speech, and then the testimony against Bartle, then the psychiatrist. That's it?"

"We've each got a closing argument, too, just wrapping it up for the jury." Martin looked at his watch. "We need to be heading back."

As they entered the courthouse and worked through the returning crowd, several people had encouraging comments to House or wanted to shake his hand. Cuddy gripped his left hand tightly after a minute, leaving him with none free as long as he had the cane in his right, and that subliminal message seemed to hold the public at a distance and limit the physical contact, but they still wanted to talk. Progress toward the courtroom was as slow as 5:00 p.m. traffic on the turnpike, and preoccupied with the crowd, they didn't notice Thomas Thornton, also caught in the traffic jam, until they nearly ran into him.

"Well done, Greg," he said, all the warm approval in his voice that House had never heard from John. House's head jerked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Thornton was the first to turn away, but he gave him a tentative smile first, then pushed on in the direction of the overflow room.

House abruptly picked up force, ignoring the public now and making a beeline for the courtroom. The crowd moved aside as people recognized him. "Surprised he didn't leave," he muttered as they took seats in the front row.

"Everything's not over yet," Wilson pointed out, only recognizing the double meaning a moment after he'd said it.

House didn't reply. The judge reentered, and Stevenson stood up to open for the defense.

(H/C)

"Are you still coming home for the weekend?" Cathy asked, enthusiasm overflowing her voice as always.

"You can count on it," Jensen promised her. "I might even be home tomorrow night late - very late. We'll see. But definitely Saturday morning. And that will be it; we have all of next week for vacation still."

"Cool. I've got a new piece I've been working on this week for you."

"I'm looking forward to hearing it."

"Dad, is Dr. House okay?"

Jensen mentally sorted out the 9-year-old version of that. "He will be, Cathy. It was just a hard week for him. He had to talk about a lot of things he'd rather forget."

"And that's why you aren't coming home yet?"

"Right. I want to talk to him about what happened this week, but it doesn't need to be tonight. We'll do that tomorrow night."

"The news on TV said he was great."

"He was. I think this man will be going to prison for the rest of his life."

"Good. That way he doesn't get to hurt any more kids." Jensen smiled. Cathy wasn't worried about herself at all but truly was concerned thinking of all those other children out there. "Can I talk to Dr. House for a minute? Just to say hi, I promise. Nothing sneaky this time."

"Not tonight, Cathy. He's - he's kind of worn out from today, and he's hurting. Maybe in a few days, after the trial is totally over. He'll feel better then."

She sighed. "You aren't telling me things again."

"You're right," he admitted. "And I'm sorry, but that's how life works sometimes. I'm really telling you as much as I can, Cathy. I'll tell him you said hi, okay? That will mean something to him."

"Okay," she accepted grudgingly. "Did he like the fudge?"

"Yes. He loved the fudge. It helped, and he knew you were thinking of him."

"If I agree not to talk to him tonight, can we go to the zoo again next week?"

Jensen laughed even while protesting. "You aren't going to talk to him tonight anyway. But we can probably fit the zoo in. You can talk to him next week, Cathy, I promise. Tonight just isn't the right night for it."

"I guess. Mom wants to talk to you."

"Okay. I love you, Cathy. I'll see you Saturday morning at the latest."

"Love you, too, Dad. Bye." She passed the phone off.

After a more in-depth but still edited conversation with Melissa, Jensen hung up. He felt a little guilty about not driving on home tonight, but he really did think there were acute things that he needed to at least start discussing with House, and that didn't need to be via phone later, nor did it need to be in person tonight. He wanted to see House during that session, getting constant visual as well as verbal feedback, because he had a feeling they were about to blow the top off a long-buried landmine. House had been very preoccupied all afternoon, and Jensen would be surprised if he had heard even half of what was said in court during Stevenson's opening speech and then the testimony about Bartle.

The encounter in the courthouse lobby had not been planned, but once the opportunity was there, Thornton had seized it to get in his few words. Jensen did give him credit for staying away from House during his testimony. The psychiatrist had spotted him twice in the crowd in the lobby during breaks, once yesterday and once this morning, and Thornton had given his son a wide berth both times, though with an expression of such pure longing that Jensen couldn't help feeling sympathy. Thornton wanted so badly to be part of that support system around House in this crisis. He didn't want to upset House or damage his testimony, but the message was clearly delivered in that encounter after lunch that he wasn't just going to melt away into the background again, either. Not that Jensen had thought he would, but he knew House had hoped it. Just rewind, erase that part of this week, and go on pretending nothing had happened.

It couldn't be done. Not relationally and not psychiatrically. Watching House this afternoon had been proof enough of that. They needed to get his feelings out and let him start to process them.

But not tonight. House was still in post-testimony shock, his leg was hurting significantly, and Jensen thought he needed another day to decompress after Patrick's strategy this morning. Pride surged through the psychiatrist as he remembered the way House had there at the end dismissed Patrick, facing Stevenson alone, letting him know absolutely clearly that he would not get what he wanted. But this morning had taken a hard toll on House, even though he had won. Jensen had no intentions of trying a session tonight.

He stood up from the bed in the guest room and opened the door. House and Cuddy had been getting the girls to bed, a bit of a challenge tonight as they wanted the family evening they'd all been enjoying extended. But Cuddy had put her foot down. House was worn out tonight. Jensen didn't think they'd be able to get him to shut down without at least one small conversation first, though.

Now, as he stepped out into the hall, the house was mostly silent. He headed for the nursery and nearly bumped into House exiting, Cuddy tiptoeing out after him. "Do not make a sound," House whispered.

Jensen grinned. "Rachel finally gave up?" he said, equally softly.

"Finally is the word for it." House headed off toward the kitchen, limping heavily, and Jensen came up close beside Cuddy as she closed the nursery door.

"Give us a few minutes," he requested.

She immediately fired up, her eyes challenging him. "You are not going to grill him over Thornton tonight. He doesn't need . . ."

"I have no intention of it," Jensen assured her. "I'd much rather leave him totally alone tonight, but I don't think he's going to let me. Not entirely. If he doesn't start anything, I won't."

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. "The money."

"Right." Jensen was afraid that that little issue would need to be clarified between them before he could do much else.

"Damn Stevenson." She sighed. "Okay, but don't push him."

"You can trust me," he reminded her.

They headed for the living room, and Cuddy picked up a few of the girls' things - not that there was ever much laying around in her house. "I'm going to sort out the laundry and get a load in the washer, Greg," she called.

"Mm-ky," he mumbled, obviously mouth full, from the kitchen. Jensen entered the room and opened the fridge, surveying the drink selection himself.

House looked over at him, gulped down the last square of the fudge he was polishing off, and washed it down with a long swallow of beer. "So," he said, "I got to thinking earlier." Stevenson got you thinking earlier, Jensen edited. "How much do I owe you for this week?"

The psychiatrist made his choice and closed the refrigerator as he turned to face House. "Quite a lot. I'm hoping you'll have enough balance available to be able to pay it." House stared at him, completely caught off guard by the answer. "My fee for this week is for you just to forget about it and not let that snake in a suit get you worried about something that was never even an issue."

House absorbed that for a moment, and Jensen braced himself for the protest. To have to openly admit that something was done purely out of friendship would be frightening for House, living as he had a life surrounded by many with ulterior motives. It wasn't the money that concerned House; it was understanding the frame of reference, and friendship was a frame of reference he was still cautiously exploring. Money for services was a far more familiar field. To be thrown into the deep end like Stevenson had done today left him floundering in undefined water, needing to sink or swim. "But you're missing work," House started.

"No, I'm not. I'm missing vacation," Jensen pointed out. Earlier, he would have simply taken a fee for the week to end the discussion and pacify House, but they had moved beyond that. House just needed to trust what he already subconsciously knew.

"But that's . . ." House trailed off. Work could be defined, X dollars per hour times number of hours. How the hell did you put a value on vacation with all the intangible factors of what else you could be doing?

Jensen dropped into a kitchen chair, hoping that House would follow his example. The other man's leg was obviously still hurting. House sat down across from him after a moment. "So you just do free court hand-holding for patients when required? Is that it? Didn't see that on the patient information form, but I didn't read the whole thing, either."

"No," Jensen replied evenly. "On the couple of other occasions that I went to court for a patient, my expenses were covered." On every other case, the other person had brought it up immediately when arrangements were first made, but Jensen didn't point that out now.

"So you just forgot to ask me?"

"No, I didn't forget. I will not take it. Not from you. For one thing, bringing Patrick to justice is huge, and assisting that is its own reward, but for another, I'm not doing this because you're my patient. It would be as wrong of me to accept payment for that as it would to charge Mark for the time I'm playing chess with him. This is something I choose to do for a friend."

House was scrambling mentally, still trying to define the exact edges and limits and values of this, and Jensen took pity on him. "Let's say just hypothetically that we are talking about pay. Okay, how much is a full day off with your wife and girls worth? How many dollars?"

"How the hell could I answer that?"

"Exactly. Take that times four - Monday I did spend mostly with my family, so that one doesn't count. Tuesday through tomorrow, and I'll leave tomorrow night or Saturday morning first thing. Notice, by the way, that two weeks out of my three weeks of vacation will still be spent with them. More counting weekends. But four days in Princeton. If we were dealing in money, that is what you would owe me, the value of four days with family. Now then, let's balance that. Income and outflow; the spreadsheet always has two columns. How much financially is it worth to see a serial child abuser go down? How much do I get from knowing I supported a friend who needed it? Think about the time when Dr. Cuddy was pregnant with Abby very early, and you went with James on his first visit to Mayfield to see Danny after visiting hours were approved. You gave up an evening with Dr. Cuddy and Rachel and went with him instead. How much did he pay you in cash for your time? On the other hand, how many dollars equivalent did that night pay you in satisfaction by knowing that you had helped him?"

House sighed and lurched to his feet again, starting to pace around the table. "You don't owe me anything for this week," Jensen emphasized. "Not everything has to be defined and limits proven, Dr. House. The fact that something is abstract doesn't mean it's not real."

House jerked to a halt. "I'm too tired to have this conversation tonight," he protested, an almost challenging note in his voice, daring the psychiatrist to keep going.

Jensen sat back. "I agree. I didn't want to talk tonight anyway; you're the one who brought it up, not me. I'm perfectly content not to discuss it anymore, not tonight or ever." House looked at him, then turned away, limping into the living room. Jensen followed him, wondering if he should have given in instead of holding his ground. Damn Stevenson. This was like snatching a half-formed pottery vessel off the wheel and throwing it suddenly into the kiln rather than allowing completion of the gentle sculpting first.

House sat down at the piano, first dislodging Belle from the piano bench cushion, and started to play, but the music was still distracted, trying to settle to a tune, unable to do so, and wandering constantly like a radio unable to decide on one station. Jensen sat down on the couch, watching him. "By the way," the psychiatrist said after a minute, "Cathy says hi." House smiled slightly without looking at him and kept playing. Jensen just listened, following the tracks of melody, some known, some unfamiliar. He strongly suspected that a few of them were original compositions.

House stopped abruptly in mid song. "You know that one," he accused.

Jensen hadn't realized until now that his hands had been moving slightly, reaching for strings. "Yes, I know that one."

"So go get a guitar. The cases are under the bed in the guest room. Grab any of them."

Jensen looked at him for a moment, startled, and then his smile widened. He stood up and went into the guest room, returning a minute later with a guitar. He sat down on the couch and began exploring chords, getting the feel of the instrument. "I'm not nearly as good as you are," he apologized in advance.

The blue eyes were laughing silently at him. "Believe me, I'm used to that." He started up again on the piano, and Jensen joined in with the guitar, the two instruments both falling into step with the song, and this time, the music was shared, not distracted. When Cuddy slipped quietly down the hall a few minutes later in amazed curiosity, unable to believe her ears, they were in perfect sync.