(Many thanks to everyone who's reading the series, and especially those who've taken the time to review. Reviews are the only reward we fic writers get, so we're grateful for them. :) I also have a fic recommendation for you: if you haven't discovered Babalooblue's works, you're in for a treat. Please check out her latest story, Invisible Hour. You'll be very glad you did. -B)

It's the morning after his practical joke fell flat and he kicked his woman out of his place, and there's no coffee to be had.

Greg gives the cupboard one more look-through, but the spot where Gardener usually keeps the beans is empty. He's next to the fridge, so he can see the shopping list pinned at her eye level with a magnet. 'Coffee' is written on it somewhere, no doubt. But that doesn't help him now, especially as he's no longer working and has no real reason to leave the apartment. Going out just to pick up one thing is a miserable experience. And it's cold and blustery weather again today. His leg aches like a rotten tooth. So there's his choice: make a special trip to the store and suffer elevated pain levels from start to finish, or find some way to get Gardener back so she'll do it.

Of course he knows that's a spurious excuse, but it's the best one he's got at the moment. He limps into the living room, digs in his jacket pocket for his phone. It has just enough charge for him to make a call.

"We're out of coffee," he says when Gardener's cheerful greeting ends. With that he hangs up and heads off to take a long hot shower.

Forty-five minutes later, he checks his phone. It's dead as the proverbial doornail, of course. Disgusted, he is about to toss it on the couch when he remembers Gardener created a dedicated drawer in the bedroom for cords and cables. He checks and sure enough, there's the charger. He plugs in the phone and opens his messages. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch. So he makes another call. "Proving your balls are bigger than mine by ignoring me, nice. Now I'll have to suffer because you've decided to go off and sulk."

He might as well have some breakfast and see if there's any tea left. Usually Wilson keeps a box of PG Tips stashed somewhere. It's absolutely vile stuff, but it does tend to wake the dead when brewed full strength. No joy there either though; he finds the canister of frou-frou flower tea Gardener keeps for company, but it's caffeine-free and therefore useless.

The fridge is holds plenty of food, at least. He chooses leftover beef curry and rice because it's quick and easy, and it's less than a week old. The microwave is clean too, so he shoves the food inside, hits the 'reheat' button, and his phone rings. He lets it to go voicemail and waits until his breakfast is ready and he's comfortable on the couch before he listens to the message.

"House? You home? Call me back." Wilson sounds annoyed and apprehensive with it. Greg snorts and dumps the phone, turns on the tv, and grabs the remote. No way will he walk through that minefield. Besides, his silence ensures Wilson will open up and tell all eventually, without any effort on his part.

Two spins through the available programming reveals nothing of interest. He settles for a Parking Wars marathon and settles back to watch. He knows he'll end up asleep, so he pulls the throw over his legs.

Sure enough, two hours later he wakes up when his phone rings again. He makes a grab for it and it disappears between the cushions. He scrabbles to get the stupid thing and hauls it out, just as the call goes to voicemail. It was the generic ringtone, but he's not taking any chances. It turns out to be some administrative assistant minion from Jefferson; a question about paperwork for the first consulting gig he's scored. It's not the first time they've called either. As if he cares. He deletes the call and groans as his leg quivers in a warning spasm. Well, that's that—he couldn't go out now even if he wanted to. He'll spend the rest of the day soaking in the bath, and then ensconced on the couch with the TENS unit cranked up while he keeps his meds handy.

He's on his feet and about to pick up his cane when the doorbell rings. "Fuck," he growls under his breath, stumps to the entrance, unlocks the deadbolt and yanks the door open. "What?"

A young guy blinks at him, startled. "Uh—" He consults a crumpled paper in his hand—"Doctor Gregory House?"

"I don't talk to process servers," Greg snaps, and starts to close the door.

"Hey, it's your grocery order!"

He pauses. "Nope. Not mine."

"Um—here." The kid flaps the paper at him. Greg snatches it and glowers down at the teeny-tiny print. He can make out just enough to see his name at the top, and that there's a bag of coffee on the list, along with eggs, milk and bread. He peers past the paper at the floor. As he expects, there's a recyclable bag filled with the items noted in the order printout. He lifts his glare to the kid, who looks nervous but keeps shtum. Wise of him.

"Bring it in," Greg says, and aims his cane at the kitchen. "Through there." The kid lugs the bag into the cooking area, plunks it on the counter, and then hesitates in front of him. "Forget it. I know the perpetrator of this prank and she's already tucked some bills in your g-string. Get lost."

Junior bumbles off and Greg slams the door shut on him, then limps back to the kitchen. He hauls out the coffee first and looks it over. It's the brand he and Gardener often buy, but it's the decaf version. Exasperation wars with reluctant amusement. "Bitch," he mutters, but a slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

A short time later, back on the couch with mug in hand, he makes another call to Gardener. "No caffeine, no cookies, no naked woman at my side . . . pathetic." He takes a loud slurp of joe. "You'll be sorry you didn't buy me high-octane."

By the time evening's arrived, he has to admit he's worried. Gardener still hasn't returned his call. Her only answer has been a literal one, with a little slap in it. Of course he did send her away, and now if he wants her back he'll have to ask. It's clear provocation won't work—or if it does, he'll blow things up the way he did at Halloween.

At ten p.m. he calls her one last time. "Gardener . . . the door's unlocked." And he leaves it at that. He makes another leftover dinner, a plate piled with meatloaf and mashed potatoes this time, and chases it with two beers. An hour later he's on a third brew when he hears the snick of the bottom deadbolt and the latch's rattle, and then Gardener's in the doorway with her overnight bag in hand. In silence she enters, shuts the door behind her, slow and quiet, and stands there. She looks tired, her clothes a bit rumpled, and it occurs to him she's worked late.

"Make up your mind," he says at last, when she doesn't move.

"I met with Wilson." Her soft voice is cool, neutral.

"Good for you. I have no urge to chew over your tete a tete with the yenta of PPTH." A lie if ever there was one, but qualified; he wants to get information without giving out any in return, if he can manage it. Even as he thinks it, he knows it's a long shot. Gardener's good at her job.

"Why were you drinking at a bar the day of the bus accident?"

Greg feels the shock hit him, but it's as if he stands outside his body; after the initial sharp pain the blow is distant, muffled. His mind wheels in a thousand different directions at once. "I drank every day back then," he says, just for something to say. "Not like now, when it's every other day."

"I'm asking about that instance in particular." Her gaze is steady, measuring. "Why did you do it?"

"Doesn't make any difference now."

"I think it does."

Silence falls. Greg tries for something, any lie he can give that will satisfy her, but of course his clever brain refuses to oblige for once. Gardener gives a small sigh and turns away. It's clear she's about to leave.

"Wait! Wait," he says, desperate to keep her with him. "Wilson—Wilson must have told you."

She doesn't move. "He said it was unusual behavior for you, but that's all. You're a creature of habit in your personal life, to say the least. For you to break your routine in such a public way indicates something upset you greatly."

He can't mess with her any longer, she'll leave if he keeps it up. "Mom called." Maybe he can get away with a half-truth. "She . . . she annoyed me. Pissed me off."

After a moment Gardener turns back. "What did she tell you?"

He picks up his beer, takes a swallow, grimaces because it's warm and flat. "Nothing. Gossip. Inconsequential chit-chat."

"Gregory." She says his name with such gentleness. "Do you trust me?"

He finishes the beer, gets to his feet. "You want one?" He doesn't look at her.

"Either you trust me or you don't."

"Yes, dammit! I trust you!"

"Then answer my question." She is inexorable. He has no choice, he'll have to tell her, but she'll get only the minimal amount needed to shut her up.

"She told me . . . Dad had colon cancer. It had metastasized. He had a few weeks left, maybe two months at the most. That's all." The old pain has picked the lock of the strongbox where he keeps it, and creeps into his head, his heart. He doesn't want it, it's pointless and stupid to feel grief for someone he hated. He pushes it away.

Gardener doesn't speak at first. Then, "Did she ask you to visit your father before he died?"

"No." It comes out as a croak. He would take it back if he could. She doesn't need to know this. It's enough that he does.

"Why?"

"Why the fuck do you think?" he snarls, furious now at the way she continues to prod him. "She didn't want me to upset her husband. How embarrassing would it be to have one last battle in the hospital, where everyone could see and hear it! No more perfect family, no more denial!"

"Is that the reason she gave you?" Gardener watches him, her expression impassive.

"She-she didn't have to say anything. I just knew!" The pain lodges in his chest where he can't get rid of it. It restricts his breath, his heartbeat.

"You're a great one for assuming things when it comes to how others feel about you," Gardener says it without a single molecule of amusement. "It's caused many problems, but I'd say this qualifies as one of the biggest you've faced."

"She didn't want me there." It comes out as a defiant mutter.

"I think she did. But she wanted you to ask."

"So it's my fault—"

"No." Gardener drops her bag on the floor and moves toward him. She stops a couple of feet away. "This is not about laying blame. You might have had a tough relationship with your dad—"

"He wasn't my dad." Now the truth is out. He'll have to tell her everything and she'll know he really is a bastard. He flinches away from the thought. No doubt he's lost her for good this time.

She comes forward and slips her arms around him before he can draw back. Her cheek rests above his heart. She doesn't say anything; he stands in the warm circle of her embrace, stiff and reluctant at first, and then his arms come up to hold her too.

After a time they move down the hall, one slow step after another. When they reach the bedroom his face is wet for some reason, and he can't seem to let go of Dana. She doesn't push him away; instead she helps him sit, and then they lie next to each other. He hangs on like a drowning man, ashamed of his actions but unable to stop them.

"Tell me," she says after a time. "John House wasn't your biological father. How did you find out?"

Word by word the whole sorry tale is revealed: his suspicions and the inevitable confrontation, the notes under the door for an entire summer, the savage, relentless battle of wills throughout high school and college, the silence when he moved away from home. She says nothing, just listens.

"I hated him," Greg says at the end. "Still do."

"But you loved him first. And he loved you, in his own way." She is silent for a moment. "That makes it much worse when you hate them later, because the love is still mixed in."

He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Your father too."

"Oh yes. Mon pere was a deeply flawed parent. We were expected to serve his talent above everything else, any other need or desire of our own, at all times. He was remorseless." She sighs, a soft, sad sound. "It killed maman. I haven't forgiven him for that. Or her either."

"You think she was at fault as well."

"I do." She rubs his chest, slow and tender. "She could have put a stop to it, told him off when he was being unreasonable or selfish. Instead she just gave him what he wanted, so that he took more and more. Finally she had nothing left to give."

Silence follows. After a while Greg feels Dana relax, as her breath grows more even and deep; she's drifted into sleep. He eases away from her, gets to his feet, and limps off to the bathroom to clean up, undress and grab his bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door. Upon his return he takes the spare blanket from the bottom of the bed and unfolds it, resumes his place next to his sleeping woman, and drapes the covering over both of them. He slips into the darkness with her warmth to give him comfort.