A/N: Thanks everyone for your lovely reviews -- I love hearing from you! So glad you're enjoying the story.

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Friday night

Kitty defrosted a TV dinner and picked at it half-heartedly. It had been a long day at the office – the cap to one of the longest weeks of her life – but everything was more or less in place for the fundraiser the following week and all the official requirements for House taking over as Chairman had been completed. She'd even picked up her dress for the ball from the dry-cleaners that afternoon knowing that next week would be even busier. She could see it from her position on the sofa: it hung on her bedroom door, too long to fit into her closet without crushing the bottom of it. The mask she'd bought to match also hung from the hanger, the peacock feathers glinting darkly in the faint light from the living room.

She sighed. If everything went to plan, it was going to be one of the most successful evenings in the PRC's history. Pity it would be the last one she'd ever attend. But after the discussion with Steve and House, she knew she had no other option. House had seemed to take her denial of his accusation at face value, but she knew she could never trust that. Never trust him. She'd got into this because of Andrew's game, now it had rapidly turned into Greg House's game. Enough was enough.

Kitty was going to only play Kitty's game from now on. And that was to protect herself from attack, to secure her professional reputation, and to ensure the PRC's success, even if that meant its future was without her.

Throwing her fork down onto the container, she decided to give up on the tasteless meal and she instead went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of merlot. A couple of glasses would help her sleep, she figured. Because although she felt tired enough to sleep for a month, she knew the night would be like every other this week, tossing and turning, unable to shut her mind down.

She'd just taken the first sip of wine when there was a loud knock at the door. The sound startled her, because it was so unexpected and so rare. No one knocked at her door. Especially not at eight pm on Friday night.

"Who's there?" she called out, walking over to the door, glad for her security chain and deadlock.

"Let me in."

He didn't identify himself, but Kitty knew instantly who it was.

"Go home, Dr House. You'll have your moment of glory next Friday night."

"Let me in," he repeated.

"Why on earth should I do that?" Kitty asked. She knew the smart thing to do would be to stay silent. To let him bang at the door until he got bored and went away. But knowing him, that could take a very long time.

"I have to talk to you."

"What about?"

"My father."

Kitty looked down at her wine glass and raised it to her lips, taking a long sip. It wasn't what she'd expected him to say. "Why?" she asked eventually.

"Because you knew him. I didn't. He up and died without so much as introducing himself."

Kitty sighed, angry with herself that his blatant manipulation was actually getting to her. He probably did care a little about Andrew, did want to know more about his father's life, but this time she was sure it was just a convenient excuse to get inside so that he could torture her further. Despite that, for some reason she knew she was going to cave in to his demands. Perhaps because she hadn't known her own father and knew what longing for that kind of information was like. Perhaps because a traitorous part of her that she would not consciously acknowledge couldn't wait for him to kiss her again. Kiss her and touch her and . . . more.

She opened the door, leaving the safety chain fastened. He moved to step in, but frowned when the door hitched.

"I'm not dangerous," he protested.

Kitty snorted inelegantly. "Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath. "Ground rules," she said, meeting his eyes.

"Ground rules?"

"I'm not letting you in unless you agree to ground rules."

"Like what?"

"One, our discussion will only cover two subjects: Andrew Barnes and the PRC. If you so much as mention anything else I will throw you out. Two, you will not touch me. If you even try, I'll call the police."

"I think that's a bit harsh—"

"Three, when I decide the conversation is over, then the conversation is over and you will leave quietly. Do you agree?"

"Well, I think you're being—"

"Do you agree?" Kitty said, her eyes boring into his. She was not going to get so worked up that she had an angina attack. It wasn't worth it.

He stared at her, clearly unhappy about her terms. But something in her expression must have told him she was serious because eventually he gave a short nod of his head. "Okay."

Kitty unchained the door and opened it wide.

"I'll have what you're having," House said, gesturing at her drink before stepping inside and heading straight for one of the two large sofas that dominated the tiny living room. They sat facing each other with a low, wide timber coffee table between them. Her kitchen nook was off to the left and a short corridor to her bedroom and ensuite bathroom followed from that. It was small, but it was home.

Kitty rolled her eyes at his comment, but went and poured him a glass of wine, topping up her own as she did. She returned to the living room, handed him the glass and ignored his hand patting the seat next to him. Instead she sat on the opposite sofa, facing him.

"That's not very friendly," he protested.

"Strike one," Kitty said. Her voice was calm but there was a steely threat running through it.

"Okay, okay!" He held up his hands in defence. "No need to get snippy."

"You wanted to know about Andrew?"

House took a sip of his wine and gave her a measured stare. "When did you meet him?" he asked.

Kitty sighed. "Greg, I was serious when I said you could only ask about—"

"Don't be ridiculous. If you're going to be pedantic I'll rephrase the question: How old was my father when he met you? There, that's a question about him, not about you."

"Technically—"

"Oh, just shut up and answer the question."

Kitty threw a hand up in the air in exasperation. She realised that she'd got herself into this. It was easier just to answer. "He was sixty-two. Had just celebrated his birthday."

"And that means you were twenty-four."

Kitty was startled by his knowledge. "How do you know how old I am?"

"Actually for someone as smart as you are, I'm surprised you didn't want to know how I knew where you lived."

Kitty felt a stab of anger at him and with herself for not questioning him on exactly that. "How did you know?"

"Got my induction pack from the PRC. Lots of interesting and useful information that the Chairman needs to know. After-hours contact details for staff members and the like. And media releases, including the one announcing when you were appointed as Executive Director. Had your age in it. I noticed – you're exactly ten years and five days younger than me."

"Smart ass," Kitty muttered.

"Yep. We're both Geminis – that means we have four personalities in the room right now – isn't it fun?"

Kitty felt the urge to slap the smug smile right off his face. "What else did you want to know about Andrew?" she asked with emphasis on the name.

"What was he like?"

"That's a pretty broad question for someone as particular as you. What do you mean?"

"I mean, what was he like? Happy? Morose? Grumpy? Loving? Miserly? You know, just go with the adjectives."

She took in a deep breath and released it slowly. He wanted adjectives? She could do that. "Successful. Demanding. Perfectionist. Caring. Occasionally manipulative. Sweet. Good looking – people used to say he looked like Sean Connery." Kitty felt her mouth curve into that smile it did when she thought kind thoughts of Andrew. "A lot of people saw him as an arrogant, overly-confident entrepreneur who didn't let anything or anyone stand in his way. And he was all that – he often spoke without thinking, and hurting other people's feelings wasn't a big issue for him. But underneath he was also very generous and he could be very loving and protective."

Kitty looked down at her wine glass and swirled the liquid around. Andrew had been the closest thing she'd had to a father. When he'd put his arm around her and tell her everything was going to be okay, she believed him. He'd been there when her mother died, helped organise the funeral, helped sort out all the paperwork and bills. Made her feel less . . . alone.

"Did he ever say anything about me?"

Kitty looked up sharply. The joking tone was gone and she was shocked by the honest, earnest look in his eyes, almost, but not quite, overshadowed by the carefree attitude he was trying to convey. He really wanted to know. And he was embarrassed by that.

Kitty felt her heart go out to him.

She nodded. "Yes, he did. He told me about you. He was very proud of you. He knew you were a doctor – a good one, he said." Kitty paused, wondering what she should share. But Andrew was dead now and she felt House had a right to know what his father thought of him. "Andrew used to say that you were the son he should have had. He said you were intelligent, driven and successful – which is a marked difference to Denis's fat, lazy and slow." From what Kitty knew, Greg was far more his father's son than Denis. "He was sad that he'd never got to be part of your life. But he knew that it would be easier for everyone if he stayed away."

"Why?" House's voice sounded normal on the surface, but there was an edge to it, a tone that told her that this information was important to him.

"I don't know why he didn't try to contact you once you were an adult. But back then, when . . . well. Your dad was away a lot, Andrew told me. And he and your mother were friends – she was lonely when your dad was away. They didn't mean for . . . things to happen between them, but they did. He told me that he loved your mother. I think he always did. He said once she was the love of his life."

"But if he loved her, then why did her let her go back to him?"

Kitty shook her head. She didn't really know, all she could tell him was what Andrew had told her. "They were both married. Andrew and Rachael already had Denis and Miranda by then. Your father – Mr House – apparently believed he was responsible for the pregnancy. So I don't know, but I got the impression that Andrew felt it was the right thing to do."

House nodded and fell silent, gazing out the windows for a while.

"I wish for your sake that you had got to know him," Kitty said softly. "He was like a father to me."

"He supported you?" House asked, just as quietly.

"Yes, I guess. He . . . helped me."

"How?"

Kitty was vaguely aware that the conversation had definitely crossed the boundaries she'd set before letting him in. But talking about Andrew had loosened the ties she kept around that topic in her heart. She wanted to talk. She wanted someone else to know, to understand. And then, all at once, the words were rushing out of her.

"I was just finishing pre-med at college – I'd wanted to be a doctor as long as I could remember. Then my mom got sick. Cancer – Ewing's sarcoma." She looked up and he gave her a nod, enough to know that he understood what she meant, but without speaking, somehow realising that now wasn't the time to interrupt. "It was just my mom and me, all my life, and when she couldn't work any longer, I had to drop out of school to look after her." Kitty stopped to take a drink of her wine, hoping he wasn't looking close enough to see that her hands had begun to tremble.

"She was sick for a long time, the medical bills started piling up and I needed money. One of the girls at college used to dance at a . . . uh, you know, exotic dance place. She earned in a single night what I was earning in a week doing clerical jobs. It was enough to pay a nurse to come in while I was out and still have enough left over to pay some of our bills. So, I did it. I didn't love it, but there are worse ways to earn money." She took in a deep breath and blew it out.

"And that's how I ended up meeting Andrew – one of his business contacts brought him to the club to celebrate his birthday."

Kitty was going to leave it at that, but the unexpected surge of honestly made her want to keep talking.

"Andrew was so sweet, so embarrassed – a club like that wasn't his scene. I'd never done anything other than dance, but his friend offered me money – a lot of money – to sleep with Andrew. It was his idea of a birthday present." She took another sip of wine, not sure why the words were still pouring from her. "I'd never done that, and I thought I never would. But my mother was much worse by then and I needed a nurse almost full time. The money was . . . irresistible."

"So after that, you became his mistress," House guessed.

"No, Andrew refused. We talked, I told him about my life, he listened. Then he told me about his and I listened. I never slept with Andrew. Not once. We were never . . . together like that." Kitty shook her head, biting her lip as she relived the memories of that night.

House was silent for a while, looking at her intently. Then he cocked his head to the side and said quietly, "So you had sex with the business friend instead, while Andrew watched."

Kitty's mouth fell open and she looked away. She knew she should deny it, but as ashamed as she was that he'd guessed her dirty secret, part of her felt relieved to have someone else share the knowledge.

"He was like a father to me," Kitty protested. "After that night he semi-adopted me. He paid my mom's hospital bills; paid for her to be put into a top-quality palliative care facility. He tried really hard to get me to go back to med school, but I decided that it was too late for me to do that, it'd been too long since I'd finished pre-med and with my mom's illness, well . . . I think something like that either makes you determined to be a doctor or puts you off. So instead he got me into grad school, paid for me to get my MBA. He encouraged me, he came to my graduation, he was so proud of me. He always told me how much he loved how smart I was, how ambitious and determined. He said I reminded him of himself."

"And all he asked for in return was that he get to pimp you out to his business associates when he needed to jerk off." The anger in his voice, although contained, was scary. Kitty shrank back into the sofa.

"It wasn't like that," she said weakly. Her voice held no conviction because suddenly she wondered if it hadn't been precisely like that. No one had ever put it that way before, because she'd never told anyone – until now. It was terrifying to hear it summarised in those words because it made it impossible to avoid; it was totally, undeniably, an accurate summation of what Andrew had asked of her. "It only happened a few times," Kitty said, realising how pathetic it sounded, how pathetic she sounded.

"Excuse me." Kitty put her wine glass on the coffee table, where it tipped over and the remaining wine poured out onto the carpet. She stood up blindly, one hand covered her mouth, and she reached for the arm of the sofa to steady herself. She'd hadn't managed to take a step when she felt a hand wrap around her wrist, holding her back. "I have to go to the bathroom," she protested, her voice muffled by her hand. "I'm going to be sick."

"No, you're not."

Kitty felt like she was trying to draw breath underwater. She knew what a panic attack was, but she'd never experienced one personally. Some rational part of her brain was taking note of her thready pulse, shallow breathing, blurred vision. The feeling in her stomach was more like vertigo than nausea and she realised he was right, she wasn't going to throw up, she just needed to get her breathing under control. So she stood there, braced against the sofa, eyes screwed shut and told herself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Kitty expected him to hug her, to fold her in his arms and tell her he was sorry, or that she shouldn't feel guilty, or any one of a million obvious platitudes. He did none of those things. His grip around her wrist lessened a little, but otherwise he just stood there, silent, waiting while she pulled herself together.

Eventually she took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. She opened her eyes and looked down at the floor and the slowly spreading wine stain. "Crap, that's going to be a pain to get out of the carpet," she said, her voice shaky.

"Probably," he agreed. His hand let go of her wrist and she stepped back, still keeping hold of the sofa for balance.

"I'm sorry," she said, not entirely sure what or who she was sorry for.

"Yeah." He ran his hands through his hair and for a moment his composure dropped and he looked as shaken as she felt. "I think I should go."

"Wait." Kitty spoke before she thought, her hand reaching out to grab his arm without conscious permission.

"I know," he said softly.

They stood, staring at each other for a long moment before he turned away. Without another word, he picked up his cane and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Kitty reached for his still half-full wine glass and drained it in one swallow. She felt strangely lighter, as if something she hadn't known was there had been lifted from her. There was only a trace of guilt in knowing that the weight had simply been transferred. Now it was his to carry.