"House knows something's up. But he's not ready to hear the truth right now."

Dana lifted her gaze from her cup of coffee. James sat opposite her, his expression somber.

"I don't think it's a good idea to keep this information from him." She set the cup aside. "He needs to know what's happened."

"Dana . . ." James sighed and looked down. "You haven't known House as long as I have. You weren't there when . . . when things changed."

"You mean the misdiagnosed blood clot and muscle damage." She remembered her first meeting with Greg; he'd stood on the platform naked, defiant and awkward, but he hadn't tried to hide the hideous scar on his thigh. "What happened? I know some of the story, but not all I think."

"House told you about choosing a medically induced coma instead of amputation?" Dana nodded. "Well—at that point Stacy had the power to make medical decisions for him. When House was put in the coma, Cuddy came to her with a compromise—to remove the dead muscle but keep the leg whole. Stacy . . ." James shook his head. "It was an impossible dilemma for her. If she had let him go the coma route, there was a fairly strong chance he wouldn't make it. Removing the muscle would lower those chances significantly."

"But it also destroyed his trust in her." Dana felt a reluctant sympathy for the other woman. Greg rarely spoke of Stacy, but when he did it was clear he'd truly loved her. No doubt he still did, though his love had been damaged by her actions. Intellectually he'd know she had no good choices; emotionally, that was a different story.

"As far as I'm concerned she didn't have a choice, but House has never seen it that way. At the time he made life a living hell for Stacy and me and anyone else around him."

"And is that what this is about? Everyone else's comfort level?" She couldn't keep the impatience out of her words.

"Of course not! I just—" James hesitated, then turned his gaze to her. "He-he won't take this well, and that's the understatement of the century."

"Would you?"

James glared at her. "No, but this is House we're talking about, dammit! He'll turn this into a major disaster!"

Dana held back the reply she wanted to make; to antagonize James would serve no purpose. "He has to know. I think he's ready. He's been more alert the last couple of visits, and he can talk a bit now so he's asking questions."

"Look—if—if you have some . . . some misguided romantic notion of cuddling him into acceptance—"

Dana said nothing for a few moments. She waited until her first impulse to give in to her exasperation had passed. "I have no plans to do anything of the sort. Greg is a human being who's been through a number of difficult events in his life, to say the least. The fact that he's still here and functioning says a great deal about his capacity to deal with obstructions. We owe him the chance to learn the truth from people who care about him, rather than a nurse or doctor." She gave James a direct stare. "If you're that frightened of his reaction, I'll do it."

An emotion flickered through those dark eyes, but Dana caught it before it disappeared: shame and annoyance in equal measure. "I'm . . . I'm his friend. I've been on the receiving end before, you haven't. I'll do it."

"We'll both do it." She wiped her fingers on her napkin and stood. "Let's talk to his surgeon."

James looked up at her, brows raised. "You—you want to—now?"

"We need to discuss this with him first. If we get approval to go ahead, then we will."

The meeting took some time to arrange, but a couple of hours later they sat in a lounge with Adam Becker, the surgeon of record.

"You get five minutes." He slugged down most of a cup of hot black coffee. Clad in shabby scrubs and a scuffed pair of expensive sneaks, he looked like he hadn't slept in the last seventy-two hours. "This is about House, right? He's healing well. What's up?"

"I believe he needs to be told the full truth about what's happened." Dana kept her tone quiet but direct. "He's been trying to ask questions during the last two visits. In my estimation, holding back information is not wise."

Becker studied her for a few moments. He swung his gaze to James. "You agree?"

"Not—not exactly. But she's the expert. I'm just his best friend."

Dana fought the urge to slap James. "This is not an indulgence on my part. If Greg is asking to know what's going on, he's ready. Even for this."

Becker finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the general direction of a trash can, and stretched as he gave a huge yawn. "Well," he settled back in his chair, "I saw what was left of the scar from the surgery to remove damaged muscle. Whoever did that procedure should have their license revoked." He glanced at James. "You were there, from what I understand. How did he handle it?"

"To be honest, he-he freaked out. He ended up leaving his partner and his job—"

"There's more to it than that!" Dana's impatience broke through her reserve. "You told me the decision to remove the dead muscle was done without his permission while he was in a medical coma. Tell me you wouldn't be upset at the very least if you woke up and found yourself permanently disabled and in chronic pain!"

"It was better than him not waking up at all!" James snapped.

"That's all too easy for you to say, you don't have to live personally with either condition!"

Becker broke into the exchange. "Yeah okay, I get it. Opposing viewpoints here." He sat up a bit. "He's gonna have to know sooner or later. I would suggest you talk to the nurse who's been keeping an eye on him. Ask for Amos, he'll know what to do. I only see patients at rounds and usually just after surgery." His tone of voice indicated he liked the way things were set up. "The nurses are there twenty-four seven."

It was a dismissal. Both parties stood, thanked the surgeon for his time, and went back to the visitor's waiting room.

"So—what do we do?" James sat down. He sounded unfriendly and worse, distant. Dana went to the window and looked out over a dismal grey day, full of rain and wind.

"Talk to the nurse as soon as possible." She closed her eyes for a moment and pushed away the headache she'd had for a week now, the one caused by tears she'd held back the whole time. Later, when she was in the privacy of her home, she would cry. But not now. "I'm going out to see if I can find Amos."

Twenty minutes later, after Dana had left a note at the nurses station, a woman in floral scrubs poked her head around the waiting room door. "Doctor Wilson? Doctor Gardener? Doctor House is asking for you. He—he knows."