June 7th

Greg knows his wife is in a good mood when he wakes up after a snooze on the couch and hears not only music from the kitchen, but Roz singing. Usually she's very careful to hide her utter lack of talent, though he's made it plain he doesn't mind; actually she's much better now than she was before he gave her lessons, so he can take pride in her progress if nothing else.

So he steals to the doorway to see what she's up to, and there she is in her cute little cutoffs and tank top, as she sings along to 'Girls Talk' while she works on a salad. She's really into it, she swings her hips as her long legs move in perfect time to the beat. He takes in the sight in mute appreciation, arms folded as he leans against the doorjamb, and remembers the year the song came out; he was first year pre-med and heard it at some mixer party, where half the room wore checkered Vans and black pork pie hats along with black tee shirts and drainpipe trousers. Roz would look adorable in a pork pie hat, but he's not going to suggest it to her because she'll raid his closet—

"You gonna help or stand there staring at my ass for the rest of the afternoon?" She stares at him now, vegetable knife in one hand, a cocky little smile on her lips even though her cheeks are a bit flushed. Greg straightens.

"I'm not doing anything until you put down that knife," he says. Roz's smirk widens.

"Make me," she says, an attitude he finds irresistible. Slowly he approaches, reaches out, slides his hands over her hips, brings her close. She puts the knife on the counter and mirrors his action, but her palms come to rest on his butt. She looks right at him while she cops a feel. Her green eyes spark in a silent dare edged with amusement. So he takes her up on it. He brings her close and kisses her, his hands move up under her tank top to cup her breasts, and his thumbs rub gently over her nipples as they harden. She moans into his mouth, a low, sweet sound that has him hard in moments.

They make love there, deep, slow thrusts that has both of them breathless when they're done. She steals another kiss, nibbles his bottom lip, whispers 'ti amo' and holds him like he's something special. Under his hands her slender body feels lithe and strong, and alive.

"We're taking dinner over to Gene and Sarah's," she says eventually.

"The Brit knows how to cook. So does Gunney." He nuzzles her temple. "The yard ape could make PBJs for a month and his mother would be thrilled to death."

"Greg . . ." The laughter that threatens to spill out around the edges of her voice makes him feel a curious sense of lightness. "We're taking them dinner."

And so they do, after a lengthy hot shower and a change of clothes. With Hellboy in close attendance, they walk over with a salad, cold chicken and dessert—chocolate angel food cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. The sun has begun its long, slow descent from a cloudless summer sky; it's warm but not uncomfortable.

He will never admit this to anyone, but that first moment in his first, best home is something he always anticipates. He feels welcome, safe, known. It's irrational, he knows; there it is all the same. Today the house is full of music from the kitchen—Rich Delgrosso groovin' on 'Shotgun Blues'—and the smell of fresh-cut grass. Roz takes the container from his hand. "Go find your mom," she says with a smile. "I'll get dinner started."

Sarah is in the office with the Brit. The door's propped open just a little, no doubt to provide airflow. Greg eases up in near silence and stands just within earshot.

" . . . propensity for impulsivity," Wyatt's saying. "What I'd like you to think about is the reasoning behind the action, my dear. You have endangered your life on a number of occasions, and not just within recent memory."

There's a little silence. "I haven't," Sarah says. She sounds defiant and anxious at the same time. "I mean—'endangered' is—is a strong word—"

"Endangered," Wyatt says mildly. "It's precisely the correct word. What I desire to ascertain is what you think about that idea."

"I don't do it on purpose."

"Hence the use of the word 'impulse'. But you and I both know impulsivity comes from a deeper source, a belief so intrinsic it feels like truth."

Another silence. "You think I think I'm worthless."

"Now now, my dear girl. Such tactics do not become you." Wyatt's amiable tone doesn't hide his resolve. "Tell me what you feel and think."

Sarah sighs, and Greg has to suppress a chuckle. So, she's just as bad as everyone else in attempts to wriggle out of tough emotional territory during a session. "I don't know."

"Take your time."

The silence lasts a full minute. Then, "What comes up is . . . my life doesn't matter if someone needs help."

"Indeed." Wyatt sits back, if the creak of the leather chair seat is any indication. "Doctor House, perhaps you'd give us some insight into Sarah's statement?"

Busted. Nothing to do but cop to it. Greg pushes the door open and encounters a full-on glare from his shrink. Her eyes don't go emerald green the way Roz's do when she's irritated or mad; instead they turn a sort of stormy grey.

"Don't let me interrupt," he says.

"Too late." Oh, she's annoyed all right. "So give us your pearls of wisdom, Doctor Eavesdropper."

"Well, since you asked . . ." He props himself on the door frame. "Your parents set the bar on this one by treating you like you were expendable, no doubt." He gives her a quizzical look. She says nothing, just continues to glare at him. "They convinced you you're worth less than the people around you. That makes it easier to pull idiotic maneuvers like pushing a kid out of the way of a car, or taking on a drunk sociopath with a gun." He watches her carefully. "And this latest disaster."

She battles with what he's said, he can see the struggle in her expression. It is this quality, this ability to fight old programming and accept truth, that encouraged him to work with her in the first place back in Mayfield; he continues to work with her now because of it.

"Okay," she says at last. He can barely hear her. "Yeah, okay." It hurts her to admit it, but she does it anyway. And then suddenly there are tears on her cheeks. "Why? Why didn't they want me?" Greg stands there, unable to go to her, but unwilling to leave. After a moment the Brit takes over. He glances at Greg as he gets to his feet.

"Close the door behind you, please," he says quietly, and it's clear he expects to be obeyed. If it was anyone other than Sarah, Greg would defy that command. Slowly he moves back. The last glimpse he gets is of Sarah curled up on the Brit's lap, her face buried in his chest with Wyatt's arms around her as he embraces her with great care. Right before the door shuts she makes a noise, a little broken sound, and Greg retreats with all haste to the kitchen, where his wife holds court. She looks at him and her smile fades.

"What is it?" She comes to him, Sarah's apron tied over her clothes and a potholder in one hand, the very picture of reassuring normalcy.

"When do we eat?"

"Half an hour or so. What's up?" She tosses the potholder on the counter and puts her hands on his arms, rubs them gently.

"Nothing," he mutters, but leans into her touch. They stay that way for a few moments.

"I could use some help," Roz says at last. "If you don't want to hang out here, you could get Gene and Jason, they're at the barn practicing."

That's as good an excuse as any, though he's well aware all he has to do is call Gunney. He takes it. "Back shortly," he says, and heads off.

The barn is full of music when he gets there. Sounds like father and son are at work on something together, and they make a pretty good job of it. "Extra credit for music," the kid says when Greg inquires. "If I get enough points ahead, I can choose jazz band instead of general practice." He runs a rag through his instrument and packs it up with a skill that bespeaks plenty of hours put in. "And I can get private lessons."

Greg makes a decision to scope out the band teacher. If the guy's a dud, he'll do something to get the kid a decent instructor. He looks over at Goldman, who gives him a little nod; clearly they're thinking along the same lines.

It doesn't take long to walk back to the house. The shadows have lengthened now, as they stretch across the back yard; the air carries the fragrance of the herbs in Sarah's garden. Some downed tree limbs have been stacked next to the wood pile, to be stripped, cut and stacked to season; no doubt there's a similar pile in his own yard, ready to be processed.

Roz has just set out plates when they come into the kitchen. The kid goes off to put his things away, while Goldman comes over to help. Greg chooses a piece of chicken to taste-test, as if he hasn't done that half a dozen times already today. He's about to reach in when someone puts a hand on his arm. He knows who it is. They stay that way for a moment, and then Sarah gives him a little squeeze before she moves on to get some glasses out of the dishwasher.

They have dinner outside on the back porch. Citronella candles glow and flutter everywhere in the soft light of late afternoon; the talk is relaxed, full of jokes and laughter. Roz sits next to him and chats with Jason, who manages to take in an enormous amount of food and flirt at the same time. The kid's got skills that will come in handy later in life, definitely. Sarah looks the worse for wear, especially around the eyes, and Goldman sticks close to her, but she participates in the conversation. The Brit is the same as always, his sly but good-natured sense of humor on display. Hellboy is perched on the back of Wyatt's chair, to take proffered bits of chicken with lordly dignity.

So they linger over glasses of wine and iced tea after dessert is served, while day slowly turns to night, and the first stars arrive to join them. Eventually they take the gathering inside, and when the hour grows late they part ways, with Greg and Roz and the cat to lead the way, as they back to their place through the perfumed, warm darkness.

'Girls Talk,' Dave Edmunds

'Shotgun Blues,' Rich Delgrosso