It was twelve-thirty almost on the dot when the doorbell rang. Greg gave Dana a wry look, brows raised. "Delivery guy's here," he said. "You do the honors."
A man who stood in the hall as his London Fog trenchcoat dripped rainwater on the mat. He was the antithesis of Greg in almost every way—open-faced with boyish good looks, an engaging smile and warm brown eyes that took her measure in an instant. Dana couldn't help but admire the skill of his discreet but thorough once-over; he didn't linger over boobs or crotch. She opened the door wider. "Doctor Wilson, I presume," she said, and reached out to take the cut-down cardboard box full of grease-stained paper bags he carried.
"I've got it, thanks. I am indeed the infamous Wilson," he said, as he followed her into the apartment. "You're Doctor Gardener, of course."
"Yes. A pleasure to meet you." She moved out of the way as Wilson walked in, his head turned as he focused on Greg. Wilson's eyes narrowed, but all he said was
"How's the patient?"
Dana nodded at the couch. "Ask him yourself," she said with a smile, and took the box, this time without resistance. "I'll dish up while you get settled."
She could hear the two men talk as she put plates to warm in the oven and began to open containers. The easy give and take, the rise and fall in volume, told her the friendship was an old and intimate one. Still, she sensed a kind of tension between them, something unspoken but present in everything they said and did. Maybe Gregory will tell me later, she thought, and began to load a tray with food.
To her complete lack of surprise, Wilson took the tray from her when she came into the living room. He offered her a seat and waited until she had selected a modest lunch before he chose something for himself. Greg of course was oblivious to these niceties; he'd already demolished two pakoras and reached for more by the time Dana had taken her first bite of aloo gobhi.
"You gonna leave some for the rest of us?" Wilson asked dryly.
"You snooze you lose," House replied, and took the rest of the paneer pakoras onto his plate along with the lion's share of beef curry. Dana reached over and stole back two pakoras. He glared at her, but his gaze held a hint of humor. "Hey!"
"Possession's nine-tenths of the law," Dana said, and took a bite. Wilson chuckled.
"I think you've met your match." He gave her a speculative look. "Cuddy said Nolan suggested you work with this overgrown juvenile delinquent."
"I have my own practice but I do consultations," Dana said. She wasn't surprised by the gossip. "Most of them are specialty referrals."
"'Specialty'?" Wilson sounded puzzled.
"She's a dominatrix," House said. Wilson choked on his tandoori chicken.
"I—you-what?" he said when he could speak. His brown eyes were wide, but there was just a hint of speculation there too underneath the shock.
"I use a variety of methods to help people explore phobias and traumatic events or memories," Dana said, unfazed. She was well used to people's reactions about her choice of profession. "My work is mainly counseling survivors of various events with talk therapy, but I also help victims of abuse and those with phobias and post-traumatic stress disorder using bondage and other techniques. My patients vary in age and experience, so a wide range of tools is called for."
"You . . . you use bondage and domination," Wilson said. His gaze slid to Greg and back to her again; she could almost hear the synapses spark as his imagination powered into overdrive. "That's . . . effective?"
"More than you'd ever believe," Greg said, his tone deliberately provocative.
"The therapy is designed for the individual," Dana said. A sudden impulse of mischief provoked her to lean forward a bit and lock gazes with Wilson. "For instance, I think you think you're very good at controlling your environment and yourself as well. You work hard to make sure the outcome is what you believe you need, and you rarely let go of that iron grip of yours, even though you don't hesitate when self-sacrifice is required. But if you came to me, the first thing I'd do—after I made you strip off that very charming Brooks Brothers suit and everything under it, of course—would be to tie you to a nice comfy chair with some lovely black silk restraints I bought just the other day. Mmmm . . ." she sighed, "they're so soft, like cool water against your skin . . . and once I made sure you weren't able to move, I'd drop some chocolate in your lap—you know, Guittard or maybe a bit of Saint Dominique single source, something dark and just a little sweet-and let it melt while we talked about how obsessions and micro-managing keep you from finding real power and joy in your life. Then I'd . . ." She paused. A breathless hush had descended in the room. ". . . clean you up," she said in a throaty whisper.
Wilson stared at her in awed silence. The chicken fell off his fork unnoticed.
"Hot damn," Greg said in reverent tones. "Can I watch?"
Dana sat back. "All cases are confidential," she said demurely. Wilson swallowed.
"I'll just bet," he muttered. "My god." He glanced at her and then at Greg, as color rose in his cheeks. Greg looked a little smug.
It was a bit later, after Wilson had left (she had offered him her business card, which he'd accepted without a word or even a look in her direction) that Dana said, "I shouldn't have teased him."
"Are you kidding?" Greg shook his head. "You just gave him the biggest thrill of his life."
"Pretty sad life then," Dana said. She shook the logs down a bit in the grate and added another one, enjoying the resultant wave of warmth.
"You have no idea." Greg settled into the couch. "He's back with his first ex. That's so completely messed up it's beyond belief. Thinking about taking him on?"
"I doubt he'll call. He's too freaked out by the whole idea. Giving up control would mean losing a lot of other things he values more than freedom." She settled the blanket over him.
"You're not joining me?"
"I have a couple of patients to talk to via phone sessions and some emails that need replies." Dana picked up her netbook.
"Reschedule." Greg studied her, his gaze impassive. "I need you more."
"If you can say that I don't think you really do," Dana said wryly, but she relented and bent down to kiss him. "Get some rest," she said. "I'll make it worth your while later. For now I'm going to borrow your bedroom again."
"But I'm not in it!" he protested. Dana rolled her eyes and headed down the hall.
It was late afternoon when she finished the last session and sent off another email, then shut down the computer, set it aside and yawned. She lay back and folded the comforter over her, with the intent to take a brief nap; the grey day and her early morning made her sleepy.
When she woke a bit later, it was to a sense of someone next to her in the dark. She stirred and smiled as a hand touched her face. She moved closer, a wordless request for more. The hand slid behind her head, and lean fingers threaded through her hair as lips touched hers, tentative at first, then more insistent. She moved over a little and put her hand on her partner's hip, drew him to her, and slid her hold to the curve of his backside. That earned her a small chuckle.
"Are you actually copping a feel?" Greg's breath was soft and warm against her mouth. Dana gave him a gentle squeeze, mindful of bruises.
"How can I resist?" she said, and couldn't help but smile when he cupped her breast, and his thumb stroked her nipple.
They made love slow and easy, with plenty of touching and gentle exploration. Dana let Greg set the pace; he had improved in body, mind and spirit over the last twelve hours but he was still recovering, and she needed to be careful. His fear of contact had abated with her because she was now something of a known quantity, and that was a step forward, if a qualified one. Still, if she tried to protect him he would push her away; better to allow him the freedom to decide for himself how much he could do.
He kissed her, small, infinitely tender little caresses; he nibbled on her bottom lip as his hands stroked her skin and traveled over her sides, brought her close. Dana loved the feel of his lean body pressed to hers, the way he moved with her as they joined. She thoroughly appreciated the way he made sure she came with him, their soft cries and groans mingled there in the darkness as they shuddered and clung together at last. Their hurried breaths slowed as they basked in afterglow.
They lay quiet for some time afterward, content to enjoy their closeness. I've missed this, Dana thought as Greg trailed his fingers over her arm. Missed having someone next to me, someone I like . . .
"What are you thinking?" He rested his cheek against her hair. Dana smiled.
"That this is very nice," she said. He made a noise that could have been a laugh.
"Understatement of the year," he said. Dana liked the way his voice rumbled in that gravel-over-silk baritone she'd already come to associate exclusively with him.
"It's been a long time," she said softly. "I think neither of us exactly planned for this to happen, which makes it all the better." She snuggled in a little closer.
"You have sex on a regular basis," Greg said, his tone somewhere between derisive and tender.
"Yes, but that's work. It is," she said when he snorted. "I like it for the most part, but it isn't what this is."
"And what would that be?" He sounded guarded. Dana put her hand on his chest.
"Two people enjoying each other," she said. After a moment he nodded.
"Yeah," he said, quiet and low. There was a note of bewildered wonder in the single word that made Dana's heart ache for him. His fingers stroked her gently.
They opted for reheated leftovers and video games. Greg showed her how to play Pole Position and she surprised both of them when she won her first game. "Beginner's luck," Greg scoffed, but one corner of his mouth quirked upward. Dana kissed his cheek and handed the controls to him.
"Show me how it's done," she said, and rested her head on his good shoulder, content to watch.
Much later, as they lay together in the dark once more, Greg said "You know this changes everything."
Dana didn't pretend not to understand. "Yes, I know."
"So . . . will you refer me to someone else?" He sounded resigned.
"Why would I do that?" she asked, surprised by the question.
"Plenty of reasons." He was silent a moment. "Do I really have to list them for you?"
"I have no reason to discharge you as a patient simply because we've spent a day or two together outside your appointments."
"Then this was just some errand of mercy after all," Greg said finally.
"No," Dana said in mild exasperation at his unending stubbornness. "I'll admit to being concerned about you. Your health and well-being mean a great deal to me. But I could have left last night if that was all I cared about." She took his hand in hers. "What's more important is I'm finding that I like being with you, Gregory. I enjoy your company."
"No you don't," he said. Under the scorn was pain, old and ingrained; Dana caught her breath at the sound of it.
"Then why am I planning to stay until Monday morning?" she asked, and brought his hand to her lips for a kiss.
"You're worried about my mental state," he said, but this time he sounded more hesitant. Dana put his hand to her cheek.
"I think you need to talk about what happened, and if you want to do so with me I'd be happy to listen," she said. "But if not, I'd encourage you to talk to Darryl and leave it at that."
He snorted. "Huh. Some therapist you are."
"I'm being honest with you," she said, "and you're being obstinate, but I'd expect nothing less." She kissed his palm. "I do want to keep an eye on you, but I also want to be with you and I have the chance, if you'll allow it."
"What if I tell you to leave?" Greg said after a few moments frowning silence. "What happens to our sessions then? You're saying you wouldn't hold it against me." She felt him withdraw a bit physically as well as mentally. He's preparing himself for rejection, she thought.
"I'd be disappointed, but I wouldn't nurse a grudge," Dana said. "No matter what happens here I'd still be willing to help you." She took a chance. "Do you want me to leave?"
His hand tightened on hers, an echo of his grip when he'd asked if she was an hallucination. She could feel him wage a similar internal war of some sort, as he struggled to believe her. The intensity of the battle saddened her. "No," he said at long last, "no," and drew her close. "Don't go," he whispered.
Dana put her arms around him. "I'll stay," she said softly. He put his face in her hair, nuzzled her. A moment later she heard a muffled sigh. She said nothing, only held him.
After a while he began to tell her the events of that night prior to their meeting in the emergency bay. He didn't go into great detail, but what he said was enough to change her initial astonishment into indignation and then anger at the way he had been treated. To demand a disabled diagnostician, still in therapy after a fairly recent stay in a psychiatric hospital, treat disaster victims and crawl around in unstable piles of rubble, was her idea of complete obliviousness, and that was an understatement. I'm going to have a little talk with his boss soon, she thought.
"There's more," she said when he fell silent at last. "Before the disaster—something between you and Wilson, an argument or words."
"That's nothing new," he said, his tone dismissive.
"But whatever happened was bigger than usual, wasn't it?" She dared to push a little harder. "Tell me."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Well, I am your therapist," she said dryly. "Just because I don't have you tied up at the moment doesn't mean I'm not interested in anything that delays or compromises your healing."
"So everything I say is being analyzed." Greg sounded both offended and secretly amused.
"Of course it is. Professional hazard," Dana said. "But you knew that when you decided to let me stay."
"Touche. Or whatever it is you bondage freaks say when you're right." He was silent a moment. "He kicked me out."
Dana paused. "Wilson—you were living with him?"
"After Mayfield . . ." Greg sighed and eased a little closer. "Nolan wanted someone to keep an eye on me, help with the transition back to the world of the living. Wilson volunteered. He'd been indulging in his usual delusions by staying in his dead girlfriend's place, but decided it was time to move on and bought a loft." He hesitated. "I was there a few weeks when he started seeing his first ex-wife again. It was fairly clear they wanted me out, but Wilson couldn't handle any misunderstandings that might cause a delay, so he told me to leave. Well, he asked me, actually. He doesn't have the balls to tell anyone to do something, and make it stick." He was silent a moment. "I came back here since I still owned the apartment."
"You kept it just in case," Dana guessed, and felt Greg nod slowly. That explained the air of neglect she'd noticed when they'd first arrived. A surge of outrage shook her. With an effort she pushed it deep inside. Her first priority was Greg, not the people around him . . . but when she had the opportunity, she'd talk to both Cuddy and Wilson, and soon.
"I see," she said, and kept her tone neutral. "Okay, thanks for telling me."
Eventually Greg relaxed, though his breathing hitched now and then. When it became slow and even Dana brought the covers over them both and listened to the muted sound of rain. Her thoughts faded as sleep claimed her too.
Sunday morning turned up cool but bright and sunny. Dana eased out of bed, brushed her hair, got dressed, took the wallet from her backpack, shrugged into her jacket and let herself out of the apartment. There was a small convenience store half a block over; she enjoyed the walk as the spring day unfolded all around her. Yesterday's rains had washed away the last traces of winter's dullness, to leave new green grass and budding leaves in its wake.
She bought a New York Times, an Inquirer and a container of half and half. There's nothing like Sunday papers and breakfast, she thought. The breeze stirred her hair, soft and sweet. A little music, a little sunshine . . . we'll see how it goes.
When she returned to the apartment she put the papers on the coffee table and tucked her wallet in the backpack, then rummaged around and found her iPod. Greg's stereo had a docking station; she put the player in it and selected a JJ Cale playlist. With the volume on low she went into the kitchen, put on a blue apron she found folded up in the towel drawer, and set about to make breakfast, starting with coffee.
She was about to put a pan of bacon strips in the oven when a noise from the doorway caught her attention. Greg stood there. Dana waited for him to grouse about being wakened so early but he said nothing, just looked at her.
"Good morning. It's a beautiful day," she said at last, and winced at the trite statement. She closed the oven door and faced him.
"I thought you left," he said quietly. His gaze fell away from hers. Dana blinked.
"Left?" she said, confused. "Well yes—I went out to get the Sunday papers—"
"You weren't there when I woke up."
"I was just . . ." she said, and stopped as the enormity of what he meant registered. "Non," she said, deeply distressed by the pain she'd caused. "Greg, je ne voudrais pas—I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't lie just to make it easier for me to leave." She came forward and reached out to take his hands. He didn't pull away but his touch was passive, unresisting.
"Why not?" Other people have. She heard the unspoken thought as clearly as if he'd said it aloud.
"Because I want to be here with you," she said. After a long silence he swallowed. His fingers tightened on hers; they trembled just a little. Dana felt a little rush of admiration for his courage.
"Okay," he said quietly. His expression held wary hope. Dana stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
"Good," she whispered against his lips, and felt them curve upward just a little.
Breakfast was sweet and easy. She made him pain perdu. "One of my first memories of living in Paris is my maman teaching me this recipe," she said, as she soaked baguette slices in the half and half beaten with an egg and a little honey. "I like to add a split vanilla bean to the cream, but extract is good in a pinch."
"It's a heart attack on a plate," Greg said. He lowered his brows and glowered at her, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. "I see your sinister plan now. You're trying to kill me with a massive coronary."
"That's why you don't make it every day, just now and then for someone you know will appreciate the effort." Dana laughed when he shook his head. "You'll see."
She had her reward when Greg took his first bite. His expression was priceless. "I think you just found a way to put sex on a fork," he said after a substantial second mouthful. Dana chuckled and filched a piece of bacon.
"Worth waking up for," she said, and squeaked in surprise when he reached out and tugged on her apron, pulled her to him gently. His kiss tasted of maple syrup, honey and vanilla; his tongue stroked hers as his free hand slid over the small of her back.
"That's true," he said, and she knew he didn't mean breakfast. A glow of something suspiciously like happiness filled her.
"I'm glad," she said, and kissed him back, something he clearly enjoyed.
After breakfast they dealt with the shoulder dressing change, then crashed out on the couch and perused the papers, her iPod on shuffle now in the background. One window had the blinds open enough to allow in some sunlight. Dana was delighted to see Greg moved with less stiffness, his expression a little more relaxed; the gouge had started to heal, his bruises faded from purple and blue to mottled yellow and green. He settled in, and took the sports sections first. She selected the Op-Ed pages.
"Do you mind if I read out loud to you now and then?" she said after a few minutes. "It helps me process things."
"Like I want to hear some moron's opinion on politics," he growled.
"I did make breakfast," she said. He rolled his eyes.
"Extortionist. Don't expect an answer."
"You know you won't be able to resist," Dana said, amused at his teasing.
She read him letters to the editor and laughed when he mocked the faulty or non-existent logic, grammar and syntax. He grumbled over game scores and the lack of foresight and ability on the part of coaches and players. She moved on to the Book section to discuss new releases and reviews, and savored his perceptive insights disguised as sharp, lethal one-liners. They found they both relished a battle of wits, although Dana considered his trumping her point with a kiss to be a cheat on his part. "Not that I'm complaining," she said. Greg gave her a considering look, his blue eyes bright.
Eventually he turned on the tv and found a baseball game. Dana put a pillow against his good thigh and lay down with her head propped on it, reading. When his arm came around to hold her in a loose clasp, she smiled at the subtle sense of being cherished.
The afternoon slowly faded into the darkness of a chilly spring evening. They decided on pizza for dinner and debated toppings; Greg called it in and added a double order of onion rings, while Dana closed the blinds and put the last of the firewood into the grate. With the sun about to set, the fugitive warmth of the day had faded quickly.
"I'll have to bring you more," she said, as she watched the kindling do its work. "A friend of mine has an old apple orchard on his property. Every couple of years I get a nice stack of limbs and branches from him after the pruners do their work. I'd be happy to share."
"Sensualist," Greg sneered, but she heard the amusement inside the accusation. Dana tilted her head and offered him a sly smile.
"You make that sound like a bad thing."
That night they lay together. They didn't speak, just held each other close. Dana could not help a feeling of sadness. What had started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else, and now they both faced the reality of the return to their everyday lives and work. But we aren't at the end just yet. She turned her attention to the man next to her, the warmth of his flesh against hers, the pleasing male scent of him, as his breath ghosted over her cheek. It was all she needed for now. Tomorrow would come soon enough.