(Just a quick note to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews, and that includes the guest reviews to which I can't respond.

One guest reviewer asked why House is calling Dana 'Gardener' in this story. My best explanation is that I wrote the first story, Discipline, some time ago-2010-and I didn't really understand House as well as I do now. Well, at least as much as anyone does. Anyway, I understand now that House uses last names for two likely reasons: he was raised by a military dad, and it's a way to create distance. And House is all about keeping distance between himself and other people. Stacy is the only person he calls exclusively by first name, and I think that's fitting since she was his first and best love, IMO. So in this story, it made sense to me that he would call Dana 'Gardener' except in moments when he feels close to her; he loves her, but it's still a new love, and he's still learning to trust her. I'll go back and change the name detail in Discipline eventually, so the two stories match. Thank you for pointing that out to me, it's much appreciated. -Brig)

November 14th

"Stop picking on my girlfriend."

James didn't bother to take his attention away from the case notes he'd just finished. "I haven't seen Cuddy at all today. I think she's still looking for you. Something about paperwork with ketchup and beer stains on it."

"Har har, you're a big steaming pile of laughs." House perched on the arm of one of the visitor's chairs. "You took Gardener out to lunch and tried to dump a load of guilt into her brain. Not appreciated."

James paused. "Did not."

"Did too. We almost had a fight about it on Friday. If it weren't for my eminent good sense and even temperament, I'd be sleeping on the couch with no nooky to anticipate." House leaned over the desk. "Your attempt to compete with her makes you look petty and foolish."

"I'm not in competition with her or anyone else." James put down his pen and sat back. He stared at House, unsure if he should say anything or not. Might as well find out one way or the other. "Did she ask about—about—"

"She asked. I said nothing." House straightened. "Let's keep it that way."

"I don't plan to say anything. Not if—if you don't."

Silence fell for a few moments. Then House spoke again. "You told her we spend all our festive moments together."

James resisted the urge to squirm. "I said we'd been doing holidays for a while now."

"Christmas and the occasional New Year's ball drop. So to speak." House raised his brows. "That is not all holidays, as you implied." He glared at Wilson. "This moment of angst is brought to us courtesy your paranoia about the fact that she and I are spending Thanksgiving at my place."

"That's—I-no!"

House nodded. "Thought so."

"Why bother to interrogate me then, if you've already made up your mind?" James let his exasperation show.

"Doctor Wilson, ready, willing and able, and not just with the nurses," House said. He got to his feet. It took him a bit longer than usual, James noted. "Since you caused discord, you get to buy lunch."

"In case you hadn't noticed, it's one-thirty."

"So it is," House said with false bonhomie. "Let's call it the late-bird special."

"I'm eating out today." And with that James made his escape.

He felt somewhat guilty about it later, as he sat in the café that he used now and then; it was convenient to the hospital, and that was about all it had going for it, but it was a diner after all. No point to expect haute cuisine. He was fortunate they at least had a grill and it was reasonably clean.

He had to admit his bailout was a bit of an over-reaction. House hadn't been all that obnoxious. Lunch with him was a form of entertainment, even if colored with annoyance. In this case however, he'd face an interrogation about what happened with Doctor Gardener, and he wasn't ready to answer in-depth questions just yet. There was more to it than that, but he refused to think about it right now. Time enough for thought later, when he lay in bed alone and talked to empty air, and waited for replies that never came.

Odd, he thought as he waited for his order. I can usually handle House's torture sessions to some extent. Why was this one different? He knew the answer in an instant. Dealing with his girlfriend is . . . weird. Of course that made no sense whatsoever; he'd done all right with Stacy and the occasional flirtations with Cuddy. So why was this giving him so much trouble?

It can't be as simple as the fact that she's a dominatrix. James sipped his coffee and winced at the harsh taste. He dumped in some illicit sugar and cream—he needed to lose a few pounds, as usual-and considered Dana Gardener. He'd talked to her on several occasions; they weren't friends, but more than acquaintances. She was lovely, both inside and out-a delightful woman. And yet he felt as if he didn't know her at all. Every time he met with her, he felt he was held at arm's length, though with a respectful civility he couldn't fault.

Why would she do that? He accepted his salad with a nod of thanks. Haven't I been friendly, welcoming? Willing to share? That thought brought him up short. Wait—House isn't a toy we're fighting over. Is he?

His phone went off. The ringtone indicated it was his PA, so he answered it. "What's up?"

"Not much, since you decided to eat in lonely splendor." House sounded amused.

James sighed. No doubt House had cajoled Sandy into the use of her phone; the man could be all charm when it suited his purposes. "What do you want?"

"Some lunch. I'm starving."

"No one's stopping you from a trip to the cafeteria—"

"Saying 'trip' to a cripple. You're just mean." There was a hint of a whine in House's voice.

James fought down a laugh. "I didn't—"

"So you refuse to eat lunch with me. Was it something I said, something I did? Damn, it's the mint I left on your pillow this morning. I thought that might be a little impersonal."

"Oh, shut up! I just—I don't feel like enduring the third degree from you over your girlfriend and Thanksgiving, okay?" Exasperation made James's reply more forceful than he'd planned.

"Getting answers to pertinent questions isn't the third degree, it's getting answers." House sighed. "You started this."

"Did not." James winced as a server one booth down dropped a spoon with a loud clatter.

"Did too. Might as well get it over with." There was a pause. "You're at that greasy spoon across from Emergency. Better bring the rubbing alcohol. It's the only substance that reliably kills on surfaces. A swig before eating might be a good idea too."

"Gross," James groaned, but he spoke to dead air. House was on his way, that much was plain.

He arrived a few minutes later, to push through the line at the register and limp over to the booth. Once there, he sprawled in the opposite seat and hung his cane on the edge of the table, angled out so anyone who passed would have trouble getting by. He peered at James's plate. "Rabbit greens again." House shook his head. "You're worse than the food cops at the cafeteria."

"You didn't come here to discuss my eating habits," James said, and tried not to sound annoyed. Apparently he wasn't successful. House gave him a look, brows raised.

"But that's exactly why I'm here."

"This is ridiculous. Thanksgiving is weeks away—"

"Two weeks. You got my free sex option all upset."

James sat up a bit straighter. "I told you, we just talked—"

"If you want to come over for the stupid dinner, then say so. Stop going the long way around, it's not appreciated." House's bright gaze held cool speculation. "This is about more than that, though."

James stared at him. After a moment he gestured at the menu tucked between the ketchup and sugar containers. "Order. Then we'll talk."

"Okey-doke." House didn't even glance at the menu. Instead he flagged down a waitress and spoke without so much as a glance in her direction. "Large Coke, double burger naked, large fries extra crispy." The woman looked at James, who gave a reluctant nod. As she left, House leaned back and looked James over. "Begin."

"Not much to say." Now he regretted his moment of weakness. House snorted.

"Always knew you were a tease." He opened his eyes wide. "Could it be? James Wilson is . . ." He lowered his voice. " . . . territorial." He gave a dramatic shudder.

"Knock it off." James felt his face grow warm as a couple of people at a nearby booth glanced at them. "I'm not . . . I'm not jealous."

House tilted his head, all amusement gone now. "So this really is about ousting the competition." James tried to find some way to refute House's statement, but nothing came immediately to mind. "Aaaaand . . . no killer riposte. I am vindicated."

"No—House! I don't—I'm not—"

"It's pointless to try to get rid of her. You're in different categories. She provides sex, therapy and housekeeping. You provide comic relief and reliable loans." House glanced at the counter. "Order up for table four!" he bellowed.

"'Comic relief'?" James set down his fork. "I beg your pardon?"

"What a meaningless phrase that is nowadays." House tilted his head. "You're not really begging my pardon, as if you'd get it anyway. You just want me to deny I said what I said."

"I do not want to-to oust your girlfriend! I don't want to do anything except—" James stopped, surprised by what he was about to say. The words trembled on his lips.

"Except to keep things the way they've always been. But neither of us can do that now, can we? Especially since Amber's dead."

"Don't." James was a little surprised to hear the anger in his voice; he felt detached, impersonal, as if he listened to someone else speak. "Don't you dare do that, making me wrong for the same damn thing you've done for years!"

"Why Jimmy, you're all het up," House said, his tone mild. "I just can't understand why you're annoyed. It's the truth. You always put such a high value on being honest and open."

James stabbed a forkful of salad, not out of any real desire to eat, but it did provide something to do while he fended off House's accusations. "Only when it's beneficial to the conversation."

"Beneficial to you, you mean."

To James's relief the waitress showed up with House's order. She slapped the hamburger platter down in front of him and placed the soda next to it. House lifted the bun. "I said naked, not loaded with crap. Take this back."

"It's got two pickles on it, big deal," the waitress said. House glared at her.

"Hence not nekkid. Take. It. Back."

The woman grabbed the plate and stalked off. James shook his head. "Why not just dump the pickles and get on with it?" He knew the answer, as he'd asked the same question at different points in their friendship over the years.

"The meat's been polluted with vile juices." House paused. "That sounds like a line from a porno."

"You ought to know, you've memorized most of the dialogue anyway."

"Not hard to do when an entire script consists of two lines." House took the paper off his straw. "Stop giving my main squeeze agita."

"I heard you the first time. And the second, and the third." James ate the mouthful of salad.

"And yet I'll probably have to say it again." House looked up as the waitress returned. She offered the plate, one brow raised in challenge. He lifted the bun on the hamburger and peered at the meat. "You just pulled off the pickles." He raised a brow. "Yet another line from a skin flick. I'm on fire today."

"Take it or leave it." She departed for the counter.

"You don't have to get nasty about it!" House yelled after her. He turned back to his plate, picked up the burger, gave it a thorough inspection, pulled off the top patty and dumped it on the tabletop. With a flourish he took a bite of the burger, chewed, swallowed and offered up a loud belch. "Bet this has pink slime in it," he announced.

James snorted. "Bet it's got spit in it. You'll be lucky if it wasn't jerked off on too. You're gonna get me kicked out of here if you keep this up." He used a napkin to pick up the discarded patty and placed it next to his salad.

"Stop griping. You know you thrive on angst." House held up a skinny, anemic french fry. It drooped in a slow, graceless arc. "Extra crispy, my shiny white ass. They're as limp as the cook's dick." James pinched the bridge of his nose, but he couldn't hide a smile. House waggled the fry at him in an accusatory fashion. "See, even you think it's funny."

"Jesus, House." James exhaled and tried not to think of the headache he knew was on the way, despite his reluctant amusement.

"Most people call me God, actually." House downed a third of his Coke and burped again. "Damn diner food."

"Take it to go and leave me in peace. You've said what you wanted to say." James gave up on the salad as a lost cause. The edges of the lettuce were brown anyway.

"And you have weaseled out of a real reply to my statement. But then I'd expect no less from the expert on passive-aggressive maneuvers." House lifted his arm and snapped his fingers. "Hey garçon! A little service here!"

"'Passive-aggressive maneuvers'? Because I actually dare to stand up to you, I'm a manipulative jerk?" James took a last sip of tepid coffee and set the cup aside. A bad brew, curdled creamer and artificial sweetener didn't hold much appeal. "Call me all the names you like. I'm not in some insane contest with your dominatrix lover."

House paused. His eyes widened a bit. "Oho," he said after a moment. "So that's it. A large part of it, anyway."

"So what's it?"

"You've got a problem with her line of work," House said in an authoritative tone that set James's teeth on edge. "You believe I've traded you in for a model with more widgets, bells and whistles, which is not accurate. So I'll say this again." He held up two fingers. "You are in one category, she's in another. Therefore, competition is pointless."

The waitress showed up as House lowered his hand. "You do understand garçon is French for boy," she snapped.

"Don't get your point, don't care. Bring me a to-go box."

"Find your own." The woman stalked off. House shrugged and glanced at James before he got to his feet.

"Make your peace with the situation and do it now, as in immediately." He picked up the plate and exited the diner.

It wasn't until some time later, in the middle of a consult, when James realized House had shown him the British equivalent of a middle finger. Anger was followed by resignation, edged with irritation. So, House had warned him off . . . and that meant stealthier means were called for.

"Doctor Wilson, are you all right?" The patient's husband sounded worried. "You look . . . are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," James said automatically, and set the problem aside. He'd think about it later, when he had time to devote his full attention to it.