(A/N: Dana's comment about trauma is taken from a tweet posted by an online friend. It was too good not to use.-Brig)

November 1st

It's in the small hours of the morning when Greg is awakened by the faint sound of a piano. After a few notes he knows what it is—a Chopin nocturne, opus nine number two in E flat major. He lies in the soft darkness and listens to Gardener play. Her technique holds an echo of her father's style, though hers is more measured and precise. But he can feel the emotion in her phrasing, the lightness of her touch. The music is reflective of her inner self—joy, calm, passion, honesty, and above all a pensive contemplation that is as much a part of her as her grey eyes and slight smile.

When the music ends he pushes aside the covers, puts on the silk bathrobe and slipper, settles into the wheelchair provided, and heads out to the living room. As he enters she is still seated at the piano. There's one table lamp on, otherwise everything is shrouded in shadows. As he approaches he sees her wipe her eyes, a simple gesture, and then she moves over a bit to make room for him on the piano bench. He accepts her unspoken invitation and sits next to her. After a brief silence he says "Play more."

Much to his surprise, she begins a song he knows within a couple of bars—'Trampoline', one of Joe Henry's older efforts. She doesn't rock it though; it's a straight ballad, slow and serious—a declaration of intent, pure and intense.

I've been talking in my sleep

You once kissed me not to hear me speak

And loved me just so you could leave

Every bit of life wrung out of me

And this time I'm not coming down

This time I'm not coming down

When she is finished, she rests her hands on the keys, then withdraws them into her lap. On impulse he reaches out, takes one of her hands in his. Her fingers are cold. "Not your usual style," he ventures, just for something to say.

She nods. "You left some albums here. One day I put this one on and listened to it. This song . . ." She looks down.

"Is . . . is it still how you feel?" He chafes her hand gently.

"I don't know." There is a subtle anguish in her words that shocks him somehow. It shouldn't; he knows he's wounded her in the worst way, because he'd led her to believe she could trust him. Still . . .

"I warned you." He has to say it. "I told you I'd . . . I'd hurt you, in the end."

She is silent for a few moments. "People say that to excuse anything they decide to do." There's no heat in her words, but the pain is more evident now. Still, it's not an accusation. Not yet.

"It's the truth. I've hurt everyone in my life, pushed them away."

Gardener looks at him then. "You really believe you're unique in that regard?" Her fingers curl around his. "Relationships aren't supposed to be either-or, Greg. They're more like give-and-take. You once said John House had an insane moral compass. Well, you've got a set of internal self-judgments that would put an Old Testament prophet to shame."

He can't help but smile a little. "You've been thinking about this."

"Of course I have." She is silent a moment. "It seems my choice is to either walk away, or stay with you and expect more of the same, unless you decide otherwise. Would you say that's a fair assessment?"

He can't answer her. A cold lump of dread sits in the pit of his stomach. She turns to him just a little; he can't read the expression on her face.

"Why did you wait six months to talk to me?" He looks down at her. Her expression is impassive, her gaze inquiring, nothing more. "Was it a test?" Her words are quiet, but they slash at him all the same. He says nothing. "Gregory, do you trust me?"

There it is, the one question he's feared this whole time. "I can't give you the answer you want."

"What answer do you think I want?"

"Stop it." He pushes her hand away. "Stop—stop analyzing everything I say and do! I didn't call because I knew you wouldn't—" He stops, the final words trembling on his lips.

"You knew I'd never forgive you." When he is silent she exhales, a long, slow breath. "We've talked about this before, this tendency you have to assign emotions and judgments to people to protect yourself from more betrayal. That creates a self-fulling prophecy." She pauses. "Forgiveness is my decision to make, not yours. If you'd asked me six months ago, I would have said there was nothing to forgive. You're a human being, you were hurt and acted to protect yourself. Now you must understand once and for all that you have a choice in how you handle situations like this. You like to think you don't, but you do. If we're to continue, you must learn this and act on it."

"Trying to change me," he dares to say. Gardener shakes her head.

"No, just reminding you that you aren't locked into a pattern of behavior. And I have a duty to maintain my own self-respect. I don't refute your trauma, but I'm not responsible for bearing the brunt of your inability to unpack it." She glances up at him. "You really can trust me, you know."

"Not sure if that's a warning or a statement of intent."

"More of a reminder." She stretches a little, and Greg can see now she's almost drooping with tiredness. Once again he's pushed her well past her limitations, with no thought of anyone but himself.

"You should go to bed." His words are harsh, though he didn't mean them to be. Gardener nods.

"You too." She stands, extends a hand. He takes it.

They move together to his bedroom. At the door she turns to him. "Good night," she says in her quiet way.

"You're—you're not leaving? I mean—not tonight—here. This place. Philly." He winces at the clumsy words. She doesn't answer right away.

"I'll stay." But he hears the unspoken corollary. Then she is gone into the soft shadows, and he's alone with one simple truth: he has to find a way to earn back her trust, and he has no idea how to go about it. He carries that knowledge to bed with him, the only partner he has . . . for now.

'Nocturne, opus 9, no. 2,' Frederic Chopin

'Trampoline,' Joe Henry