August 24th

"Would you like some company on your walk?"

Greg pauses with his hand on the screen door. Sarah stands behind him, her curls tied back; she has on a black tee shirt and shabby jeans and flip-flops. She is awake and cheerful, and for just that alone he ought to hate her because he's tired to the bone. He also wears last night's grubby clothes, not to mention he's in dire need of a shower, a brush and a shave to scrape some of the bristle down to acceptable size.

"Huh," he grunts, which Sarah takes as assent. She comes up beside him, and off they go.

At first the walk is silent. It's a cool morning, a little muggy but pleasant. He limps along and tries hard not to notice the graceful way Sarah keeps up with him. She looks fresh and cool, her bright hair tosses gently in the slight breeze; she catches his glance at her and doesn't comment, but her gaze holds amusement and affection in equal measure. "How's the leg?" she asks finally, as they round a corner.

"Still attached."

"The restlessness is getting worse, isn't it?" Her quiet voice eases his automatic defensiveness. "How bad?"

"Two, three times a night," he admits.

"I have something that might help," she says. "Elderberry concentrate. It's a specific for leg pain, but it works well on RLS too. I use it when my sciatica bothers me."

"Psychosomatic," he sneers.

"Herbs do work."

"Not on me."

She sighs. "How do you know until you try?"

Greg stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "No."

"What are you afraid of?" When he doesn't answer she just stands there. He rolls his eyes but she doesn't back off.

"Maybe . . . maybe I want to feel it," he says before he can stop himself.

"You're not getting enough sleep," she says. Her soft voice holds concern. He can't rebut her statement; it's true. He leans on his cane and looks away.

"I don't want to lose this feeling," he says finally. "It's . . . something." Something quantifiable, something I can point to an indication of action, he wants to say, but he knows she'll understand.

Sarah's hand rests on his arm for a moment. "Okay."

They continue their walk in silence. Slowly they move around the block. Greg has to admit, the fresh air feels good. The company is even better, though of course he'd never tell her that. The ache in his thigh is less persistent now. In the last few days it's been accompanied by heat, like a slight fever in the muscle. At first this new symptom terrified him; he'd been convinced it was a rejection of the matrix after all. But there's no redness or swelling, and his base temp isn't up—he's checked enough times. It's probably because he's significantly increased his physical activity since they came to Cape May. He's gone to the beach twice, and while he spent most of his time under the umbrella with a cold beer and ogled his wife as well as any shapely girl who passed within eyesight, he also went out into the water and waded or swam for what amounted to several hours total.

"Want to tell me what's worrying you?" Sarah's quiet words slip into his thoughts. "Maybe I can help."

"Such a nosey parker," he grumbles, but his heart isn't in it. He takes a breath. "Been feeling some heat in my right thigh."

To her credit Sarah doesn't act alarmed. "How's your body temperature? Is it elevated?"

For that comment alone he could hug her. "It's fine."

"Any redness or swelling in the incision site?"

"No and no." He glances at her. "Worrywart."

She could throw that gibe right back at him, but she doesn't. "You've been fairly active," she says. "Maybe it's just from the extra exercise, but it would be a good idea to tell Gene at least. If you're agreeable he can examine you, and we can contact the clinic people."

Relief fills him, along with gratitude. "Unnecessary."

"Please consider it," she says gently. "There's no point in tying yourself up in knots worrying about this. You're on vacation. This is supposed to be a time of relaxation and renewal."

"That would be a first," he says before he can stop himself. An unwelcome memory, one among many, pops up in his mind's eye: camping with John House, a solid week's worth of misery thinly disguised as an attempt to strengthen the father-son bond that had never existed in the first place. He'd come home with more bruises that time than he'd gotten in months.

"Why not change your expectation? Or at least put your mind at ease." She lets it go at that, and allows him to decide for himself.

When they reach the house he says "Get Gunney." He goes into the bedroom as silently as possible, to find Roz there.

"Are you all right?" she asks, and her concern eases his anxiety a little because he knows she means it. He sits on the edge of the bed and nods once, unable to look at her. When her small hand comes to rest on his back he doesn't acknowledge it, but it feels good all the same, and he's able to relax a bit before the knock at the door signals the arrival of Gene and Sarah.

Gene does a thorough exam. His touch is gentle, respectful; his questions are brief, to the point. Greg can feel the tension drain out of him bit by bit as they go through a checklist together, and it becomes plain this new symptom is simply the result of increased activity, as they'd all suspected from the start. "I'd say it's in your best interest to report this to the trial monitors," Gene says at last, "but I don't think it's anything you need to worry about. Just continue to check your base temp and if you do get an elevation, or redness and swelling, let me know and we'll go from there." He very gently palpates the area around the incision site. "As far as I can tell you've got more new muscle coming in, so a little heat and soreness is to be expected." He offers Greg a slight smile. "Looking good."

After they've gone, Roz gets up and comes around the bed to sit next to him. He can't admit he's overwhelmed by this confirmation of excellent news, so he just sits there and stares at the ugly crater that has been his right thigh for the last twenty years—the one companion he could never escape. It's possible now to see that Gene is right; the scar is not the same. It's less sunken in—not by much, maybe all of a quarter inch, but he knows what it should look like, and this is different. He draws in a shaky breath, puts his hand over the hole in his leg, and is shocked to find he's got tears in his eyes, dammit, of all things.

The next thing he knows he's on his side and Roz is behind him, her body pressed to his, her slender arm around his waist. She kisses the nape of his neck, her hand on his chest. This ought to feel claustrophobic, but instead it's reassuring. It eases the storm inside him. He takes her hand in his, feels her fingers clasp his palm, and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up again it's past noon. The curtains have been drawn to keep the room dark. He's alone, but even as he thinks it Roz comes in. "Hey," she says softly, and sits down beside him. Anyone else would have asked "Get some sleep?" Instead she says "Want some breakfast?"

Half an hour later they've polished off the last of the toast and jam when someone knocks on the door. It's Sarah. She looks concerned and defeated at the same time. "We have to leave," she says. "There's a hurricane down in the Bahamas, it's coming up the coast as a Cat 3. It's going to hit here hard, which means the entire shore will be under mandatory evacuation orders by Friday."

It's no skin off his nose if they go; he's merely along for the ride. But he knows how much this vacation means to Sarah. "We could ride it out," he says.

"They'll be boarding up the inn tomorrow and Friday," Sarah says. "If we leave today we'll avoid the bumper-to-bumper traffic, and we'll also get home in time to get our own houses ready. We'll probably have flooding and downed trees to deal with at the very least. Looks like this one will go into New England, so we'll be in part of its path." She rises to her feet. "Gene wants to leave by three."

"Wilson coming with or going back to Princeton?" Greg asks.

"Not sure yet," Sarah says, and leaves them, to close the door quietly behind her.

"I feel bad for Sare," Roz says when they're alone again. "She's been enjoying herself."

That she has. It's been a while since Greg saw her as relaxed and happy as she's been here. "Wonder if Wilson's coming up with us," he says aloud.

"You know Sarah will invite him. Do you think he'll accept?" Roz sets the empty breakfast tray aside.

"Yeah, he will." Greg has no doubts whatsoever on that subject. He finishes his coffee and stretches a little, pleased to find he feels better. "Should I clean up or stay as is? It's your call since you'll be sitting next to me."

"Clean up please," Roz says. She wrinkles her nose, but her green eyes hold amusement so he knows she doesn't mean it . . . much.

By a little after three they are indeed on the road for home. Greg can't help but notice the slight droop of Sarah's shoulders as they leave town. "This is your reward for being paranoid," he points out. "It'll be nothing more than a tropical storm by the time it gets here. Big deal."

"If it was just me I'd probably stay," she says quietly, and then falls silent.

"I think you're doing the right thing," Wilson says.

"Suckup," Greg says. Wilson rolls his eyes.

"I've been watching the Weather Channel. This is a big storm." He tilts his head and looks at Greg. "You've never been in a hurricane before, have you?"

"A couple of typhoons, but you forget we rode out Floyd together at my place. So to speak," Greg reminds him.

"Oh my god, so we did." Wilson laughs. "We thought the building was flooding but it was just the guy upstairs who overflowed his bathtub when he filled it with water."

"We killed two entire bottles of bourbon."

"You sent me out for pizza. The rain was coming in sideways and half the streets were flooded."

"So you came back with four large pies, a case of beer and enough Tastykakes to stock a convenience store," Greg says, and smiles at the memory. "And a bag of coffee beans."

"And you with no grinder," Wilson says. "We ended up smashing them with a hammer in between watching porn—" He stops, glances at Roz and looks sheepish.

"It's okay," Roz says. "I know he's a horndog. Keep going, this is a good story."

Greg listens to Wilson charm his wife and make her giggle. Therefore he's inordinately pleased when she puts her hand on Greg's knee and gives him a gentle massage with her fingers. It's a pleasant feeling, this casual contact, and something he never takes for granted with her. After a little while, when the conversation ends, her head comes to rest on his shoulder. Soon he feels her relax into sleep, her breathing slow and even. He lays his cheek to her hair and watches the scenery flash by until he falls asleep too.

[H]

James could barely believe what he saw. Gregory House, the world's most miserable, misogynistic, selfish and arrogant brilliant mind, was cuddled in the middle bench seat with a woman he had voluntarily made his wife. If the evidence wasn't right there in front of his eyes James would never have believed it possible—yet here it was. And what was even more incredible, he looked content. Content!

A large part of him was genuinely happy for his friend. He'd seen House struggle with misery and pain for many years, and knew now that he'd had a difficult and lonely childhood as well; for him to find someone to love who so plainly loved him in return was a great gift James would not begrudge him. And yet . . .

Face this. He struggled to follow the counsel Nolan had given him. Don't rationalize it away. Easier said than done, however. He could feel resentment creep in, partner to the envy that always accompanied it. How did he rate this? How did he manage to find people to support and care about him? The man's an ass. He's still an ass for the most part. How does he do it?

His thoughts chased around in his head and he couldn't shut them off, so he was glad when Sarah said eventually "We're going to stop for a while to stretch our legs."

A short while later he sat next to her at the picnic table where she nibbled a sandwich. "Can I talk to you about something?" he asked. Sarah put the sandwich down and faced him.

"Of course."

"I can't get these feelings out of my mind," he said without hesitation, as Nolan had encouraged him to do. "I see House with his—his wife—" He stopped, disgusted with himself for being unable to articulate his emotions.

"You want what he has," Sarah said.

"I . . ." James sighed. "I don't understand how he managed it. I . . . I resent him for this. I envy him. It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't help it."

"It's not stupid. It's human."

"So what do I do about it?" He brought the flat of his hand down on the table, but pulled the punch right before he smacked the weathered board. "Dammit, I'm sick of feeling this way!"

"You can't force yourself to not feel something," Sarah said quietly. "So try another approach. Ask yourself why you're feeling the way you do."

"Well that's obvious," James said, disappointed.

"Is it?" Sarah gave him a faint smile. "Look past the first answers that come up. Dig a little deeper." She folded the wrapper over the sandwich. James took a closer look at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, chagrined at his lack of awareness. "You're hurting and I came to you with this. Sare . . ."

"I'm glad you trust me enough to do so," she said simply. "I'll feel better after a while. Anyway," her smile widened just a little, "I might get an extra week in Key West out of this if I play my cards right."

At that point the others came over to scavenge through the leftovers in the cooler, which ended the impromptu session. But James took her words with him back into the van and thought about them. So what does come up past the first answers? He let his mind drift as he watched House and Roz play a handheld video game. That was a first—House never let anyone mess with his toys, but it was clear he'd shown her how to kill zombies or whatever. It was clear they enjoyed themselves, if the desultory conversation and relaxed body language was anything to go by. House had only acted this way around Stacy, but even then he'd kept a barrier between the two of them. Now however . . . The answer struck him just as Roz completed a level. They're friends.

But House had always been the first to proclaim the idea of men and women being friends as total blasphemy. What had changed? This new puzzle occupied him until the next stop at a diner on the New York-Pennsylvania border. James was surprised to find House next to him. "I can feel you staring holes in my back," he said. "Stop trying to figure out how I got a woman and worry about finding one for yourself."

James felt his cheeks grow warm. "I'm—I'm not," he said. House snorted, gave him a glare from those vivid blue eyes and said nothing more, but after that James was careful to keep his attention away from the couple in front of him.

It was late when they arrived at the house. "Take the bedroom at the end of the hall," Sarah suggested. "You know you like that one best anyway. Gene and I will be up early, but that doesn't mean you have to be, okay?"

James was too tired to care much where he slept, but he accepted Sarah's direction. "Will you need help in the morning?"

"Possibly. We're going down to the fire hall to find out what the plan is. After that we'll know how things will go for the rest of the week." Sarah leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm proud of you."

"P-proud?" He looked at her, surprised.

"You've come a very long way, Jim. You've worked hard to find healing, and you're continuing to do so. It's difficult to keep going. So of course I'm proud of you." She smiled at him.

"Okay, well here's another step forward," he said, and knew this was the right moment. "Don't call me Jim. It's James."

Sarah's eyes widened a bit. Then she dropped her duffel and gave him a fierce hug. It was the last thing he expected her to do. Slowly his arms came up to hold her. When she moved back she looked like herself for the first time that day. Warmth suffused her features, and her eyes were bright with affection and a hint of tears. "All this time . . ." She gave his arm a light smack and laughed, that sweet, infectious sound he'd always delighted in. "You bastard."

"Hey," he protested. "Progress is progress."

"You're right. James," she said. Her smile widened. "James Evan."

"Now don't go overboard," he said, his tiredness forgotten for the moment. "James is fine, thanks." He turned toward the staircase, feeling lighter than he had for weeks. "'night, Sarah."

"Goodnight, James." The pride in her voice went with him all the way upstairs and into bed, to ease him into dreamless sleep.