November 1st

"So what are you gonna do?" Wilson watched House as he settled into the couch with a container of mu shu pork—and all the pancakes, including the extras. House shot him a look.

"About what?" He grabbed a pancake, loaded it with pork and shoveled it in.

"About your—whatever she is now," Wilson waved his chopsticks. "Your ex."

House chewed noisily, swallowed, took a long swig of beer and belched. "She's not my ex."

"Ex-therapist, ex-lover . . . I think she qualifies." Wilson stuck the chopsticks in his container and brought up a wad of lo mein. He fitted most of it into his mouth and took an enormous bite, eyes closed in bliss at the explosion of flavors—no doubt from lethal amounts of MSG and salt, but what the hell, it tasted good. And someone else cooked it, which made it even better.

"She doesn't qualify as an ex-anything." There was a warning note in House's voice now. Wilson glanced over at him as he poked around for some sprouts.

"Oho," he said as comprehension dawned. "I get it, I get it completely now. Of course she's not an ex."

"Shut up."

"You, the ever-infallible Gregory House, have realized you're in the wrong and-low it be spoken—"

"Wilson."

"—for you to return to paying someone to spank you, an apology is required." He began to smile as the full import of this plot disclosed itself. "You're planning to grovel."

"You know, I could get you drunk, take pictures of your pathetic excuse for a dick and post the shots to the 'Oncology In Action' section of the PPTH website."

"You wouldn't bother with any of this if you didn't feel something for her." Wilson set down the container, stunned by a sudden insight. "You love her. Oh my . . . oh my god, House."

House sighed. "Don't make me stuff you in the fridge again."

"You've never done this for anyone else, never even considered it . . ." Wilson picked up his beer. "Why her? Is it just the sex? I mean, she is smart. And gorgeous, with those big—" He caught House's glare. "I was going to say 'eyes'."

"Of course you were." House picked up a pancake, set it down again. He stirred the pork with a chopstick. "Maybe I like someone cooking and picking up after me."

"Get a housekeeper. Cheaper and no emotional turmoil."

"The one I want is easy on the eyes and in this country legally." He set the container aside, picked up his beer. "She doesn't trust me," he said, more to himself than Wilson.

"Ah." Wilson nodded. House cast a baleful squint his way.

"Don't bother to explain."

"While that might be true—"

"Jesus, Wilson. I told you not to explain."

"-and if it is, I congratulate Doctor Gardener on her wisdom—it's more the case that you don't trust her, therefore . . ." He made a slow, graceful arc with the chopsticks, "she doesn't trust you. Typical Houseian projection."

"Everybody lies," House said. The bitterness in the words gave Wilson pause.

"Yes—yes, they do. But not all the time, however. And in this particular case, not much at all." He watched House as he said it and was rewarded with a grunt and another belch. "Have you—"

"Drop it," House said, and it was clear he meant it. Wilson took the hint—well, command, more like—but later, as they watched a rerun of the original Die Hard, he said quietly,

"If she gave you a chance to come back, you'd be a fool not to take it."

House lowered his beer. "You keep giving me your opinion."

"I'm entitled. It's the main reason why I'm here tonight." Wilson glanced at his friend. "Seriously, don't let this one go. She's good for you."

House didn't answer right away. "The fuck she is," he said finally. Wilson smiled a little.

"Great. Now that we have that settled, shut up and watch the damn movie."

November 3rd

"Market East! Market East, next stop!"

Dana looked up from her paperback as the conductor walked past. She glanced out the window at the tiled walls as they slid by, then tucked her book in her purse. Some of the other passengers stood, ready to head out. She observed them, but didn't feel any of her usual interest in doing so; it was as if a thin sheet of clear glass existed between her and them. In the flat fluorescent light everyone looked cold and tired, a little sinister; just another workday in the city, bleak and grey.

The walk to Reading Terminal was short, if chilly. She huddled in her coat as a chill, damp wind blew her hair around and tugged at her shopping basket, but that made her entry into the Market more welcome than usual. It was warm and fragrant in the big building. The smell of fresh bread and grilled meat made her stomach rumble, though she didn't feel hungry—just empty in a way food would never resolve, except in temporary fashion.

She had coffee at the Market Bakery and exchanged idle chit-chat with the server while she reviewed her shopping list. "You really should have a treat to go with the coffee," the younger woman said. "How about a slice of pumpkin nut bread? It's fresh, I took it out of the oven an hour ago."

Dana smiled a little. "I'm all right, thanks. Just getting over something." Not something, someone, she thought, and endured the immense pain that thought caused, just as she'd endured it from the moment Greg had left three days ago. She wanted him there beside her, to wolf down an enormous breakfast she would pay for of course, tease her about the length of her list, cop a feel and whisper outrageous remarks in her ear. But he doesn't belong to me anymore, nor I to him, she thought, and closed her eyes for a moment. She willed back an aching sorrow she knew would stay with her for a long time.

She bought chocolate croissants and a baguette, contemplated a brioche but decided against it, and moved on to Fair Food to pick up some cheese and perhaps produce. She'd moved on to fresh salad ingredients when something, some tingle of awareness, told her she was being watched. Slowly she turned her head as if she scanned the stalls for another item, and jumped when someone spoke behind her. "Hmm, checking out the cucumbers. You must really miss me."

Greg stood a few feet away. He wore sunglasses along with his usual combination of jeans, layered shirts, pea coat and ornate trainers, a new cane polished and gleaming at his side. But his hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb since Sunday, and his hand trembled a little as it rested on the cane grip.

"Doctor House," she said quietly. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Doctor Gardener." He came a little closer. Dana didn't move.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you're as predictable as an alarm clock. You always shop here on alternate Wednesday mornings." He hesitated. "Haven't heard from you. Thought I'd see how you're doing."

"I'm fine." It was easy to lie, she'd done it for three days now. "And-and you?"

"Nothing a session being tied up and smacked around wouldn't cure." He reached up, eased his sunglasses down to reveal those blue, blue eyes. "Let's go to your place and get out the leather."

His mockery hurt. "I don't think so," she said, and heard the distance in her voice. So did Greg. He lowered his gaze, but not before she saw something like fear flicker over his features.

"I am a referral, remember."

"Not anymore." She abandoned the produce section and went over to the cheese case. Greg followed her.

"I'm still wearing everything you gave me," he said. Now he sounded defensive. "Doesn't sound much like a closed file to me."

Dana wouldn't look at him. She turned to the clerk. "I'll take a container of the herbed brie, please."

"Add a pound of the farmhouse cheddar," Greg said. "That stuff's great with sausage." He gave the clerk a broad wink. Dana felt pain spear her heart. She faced him.

"What do you really want?" she said, and now the politeness was gone. "I'd appreciate an honest answer."

"You back with me." He stared at her, a challenge in those vivid eyes now. "You want it too, or you wouldn't look like you haven't slept in the last three days."

"For the record, I was never with you, you made that very plain. Anyway—" She stopped, pushed away the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, went on. "Anyway, what I want and what's good for me are two different things." She turned and addressed the clerk once more. "Some of the Camembert as well, please."

"So that's it. You're just giving up because I hurt you." His voice was harsh with disgust. "If that's all it takes—"

"No, that isn't all!" she snapped. "I've had people hurt me before this." She stared down at the case full of colorful waxed rounds and wrapped slices, unable to focus. "Trust," she said finally. The rest of the words caught in her throat.

"You don't trust cheese? Me neither."

Dana closed her eyes for a moment, caught between laughter and longing. "That's all, thank you," she said to the clerk, who listened avidly to their conversation. Now she glanced at Greg. "Say what you have to say, and then just—just go."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Keep everything all tidy and neat and under your control by sending me away." Greg came closer. "Fine. Here it is, then. I was wrong to ask you to give up therapeutic sex in your practice."

His capitulation was too neat, too perfect. Dana looked down her nose at him. "Dites-vous que pour obtenir ce que vous voulez?" [Are you saying that to get what you want?] She made her skepticism plain. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Of course, but that doesn't mean I'm not being truthful. I'm not saying I like it. I'm just saying . . . I can live with it."

"Until you decide to make an issue of it again." She sucked in her breath at remembered hurt. "You called me a whore."

"I won't ever play nice. Don't expect me to," he said sharply.

"I don't expect anything from you," Dana said on a sigh. "Go to work, Greg."

"Still on sick leave." He followed her to the register. "If you're gonna fill up that basket you'll need a ride home or risk getting mugged on the train."

"I'll be fine." She added two dozen eggs to her purchase, paid for the items, stowed them with care and headed off to the next stop.

"Where to now?" Greg sounded cheerful. Dana turned on him.

"Stop it." She hated how her voice trembled, but suddenly she'd had enough. To have him so close and yet utterly unreachable was too much to bear. "Just—just stop pretending. You'll never trust me, you think I—I would—oh, just go!"

"Hey lady." A man with a hand truck stacked with boxes stopped and frowned at Greg. "This guy botherin' you?"

"No, this guy isn't," Greg snapped. "Mind your own business, dickwad."

"Watch it, mook," the guy said in a warning tone. Dana almost stamped her foot.

"That's enough, both of you!" she snapped. "C'est des conneries!" [this is bullshit] Fed up, she took off down the walkway, stormed into the Herbiary and paused to collect her thoughts.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Greg wanted to know as he limped in behind her. "Herbal tinctures? What century are you from again?" He moved in and picked up a bottle of arnica oil. "Ah, I see. Voodoo," he said in a deep tone of utter doom. Dana took the bottle from his hand. Their fingers touched; it felt like a jolt off a live wire. She pulled away and set the bottle back on the shelf.

"You felt that too," Greg said softly. "I saw you jump."

"Static electricity," Dana said, and avoided his gaze.

"Uh uh. You know what it is. We have something between us." He was close enough now for her to smell him. The familiar scent of tobacco, coffee and male musk brought her longing for him into focus.

"What do you want me to say?" She could barely get the words out. "That having you gone is like having my heart missing? That I wake up alone and feel like the only person left on the entire planet? That I wish I could do what you want me to and give up my work? There, I said it. Now you know." She couldn't keep the bitterness at bay; it spilled over. "You've accomplished your mission. For the first time in my life, I feel guilty about what I do. Gloat all you like over that, I hope you enjoy it—"

"Dana!" Greg took the basket from her, set it down, started to reach for her and stopped. He swallowed, stood there a moment, then spoke. "What you do—you bring healing to people. Even to me. More healing than I . . . than I realized."

She shook her head. "Just words."

"Okay—then let's go back to your place and I'll show you." Dana hesitated, torn between wariness and desire, longing for him to come closer. "Come on, Gardener. You said yourself the door was always open. Let me in so I can show you," he said again softly.

[H]

It feels like it's been a lifetime since he stood on this platform naked, his wrists and ankles bound with leather cuffs, the smooth wood of the Saint Andrew's cross pressed against his body. He's blindfolded at his insistence—well, all of this is at his insistence, when it comes down to that. She's even made him pay her fee out of pocket, the little cheapskate.

"For this to mean anything to either of us, there must be an equal exchange," she'd said, as cool and reserved as you please. But he'd seen the pain there, the sorrow she keeps so carefully stored away, and known it was the right thing to do, even if it did cost him three c-notes.

"So . . . do you think you need to be punished, Gregory?" Her soft voice holds a silky purr with an edge of menace in it.

"I . . . don't know, m'lady," he says.

"Ah, but I think you do." The edge is stronger now, darker. She comes a little closer; he hears the rustle of the silk robe she wears and wants her so badly the desire almost makes him gasp. "Part of you believes you've gained the upper hand with me, and that's something you've wanted all along. Your genius is your tool for picking the lock of other peoples motivations, their weaknesses and flaws. And you found one of mine, didn't you?"

"Did I?" he dares to ask, and flinches as a hand cups his right buttock.

"You know you did. Betrayal," she draws the word out. Her thumb strokes the underside of his cheek. "The night I let you tie my wrists and offered myself to you, you learned one of my worst fears. And you tucked that knowledge away to use against me later, when your ego rose up and demanded a tribute as a sign of your gaining the upper hand. Still, if we set aside the power games and focus on the issue you chose to find objectionable, we both know what happens if I give in. If I allow you to dictate how I conduct my practice in one area, it won't be enough. And you'll start to feel contempt for me, because I capitulated. You'll know that you can ignore my safe word."

He is silent, because she's right. The comparison to the master who hurt her galls him, but he's earned it. Her fingers caress him, give him a little pat. Somehow that simple gesture fills him with apprehension. "Now, let's see . . ." He hears her sort through the instruments on the tray next to him. He caught a glimpse of the selection before she blindfolded him, so he knows they're all straps. Dread makes his stomach sink in an all-too-familiar sensation of sudden dread. She wouldn't . . . would she?

No, he tells himself. No, she won't. Come on, you know you have to prove you trust her. She won't hurt you.

"You're wondering . . . will she use it?" He flinches and can't help a tug at his bonds, but he's fastened too securely—he can't escape. "Will she decide that ten good ones with the buckle end are what you need to teach you who's really in charge?" He swallows on a throat gone dry. "Because in this place, and in this moment, when I work with a patient, and that most definitely includes you, I hold the power. And I will use whatever methods I see fit, whether you approve of them or not. That will never change." Her voice has gone cold, flat. "Either you accept it or I won't see you again, Gregory. Not here, not in public or private, not anywhere. Do you understand?"

She means it. He still can't help but push her on this. "Princeton isn't that far away," he says. "We're bound to bump into each other."

"I have no ties here. If necessary I'll move." The absolute truth in her words terrifies him almost as much as the knowledge of the strap in her hand. "Yes or no. Make up your mind. I won't remind you again to give me my title when you address me."

"You're using intimidation to get the answer you want, m'lady," he snarls at her.

"Am I? Or is it your unwillingness to truly trust me that has you frightened of what I might do? You still have my promise, one I have never broken. And if you don't believe in that, as a last resort you have a safe word, Gregory. Say the word, and all this ends. You already know I will honor that agreement between us."

Dammit, busted. He tugs at his wrist bonds and tenses as she draws close. He freezes, and his heart starts to hammer despite her words. After a moment Dana stands next to him. Her face is mere inches from his, he can feel it.

"Listen to me." Her voice is barely more than a breath. "My tools are not instruments of abuse or injury. They will never strike you in anger or contempt or hatred. They will never, never harm you or make bruises or leave bloody welts. They won't do any of those things because I-I won't ever do any of those things. You have my promise. Now, for the last time . . . do I continue, or do we stop here?"

It takes every single molecule of willpower he has left, but after a moment he nods. "Go ahead, m'lady," he whispers finally. "I . . . I trust you."

There's a long pause, and then her fingers work the knot at the back of the blindfold, lift away the folds of silk. He blinks, turns his head to focus on her. She raises her hand, and shows it to him; it's empty. When her arms slip around him he lets go a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It sounds almost like a sob. Her small hands caress him, stroke his pectorals and diaphragm and belly as she presses gently against his back.

How long they stay that way, he doesn't know. Eventually he feels Dana move away and he wants to protest, but when she releases his ankles and wrists, he stumbles as he turns around, gropes for her, feels her come to him. He pulls her into his embrace and she comes to him without resistance. Her cheeks are wet, and her kiss tastes like salt and copper; she bit her lip so hard at some point she broke the skin. When the kiss ends she buries her face in his chest.

"I would never hurt you," she whispers, "never," and he knows now beyond all doubt that it's the truth.

"I'm sorry," he says against her soft hair, "Dana, I'm sorry," and feels her arms tighten gently. After a moment she nods.

Eventually they go down the hall to their bedroom, her arm around his waist as he limps beside her. When she opens the door, the room is in darkness and rain falls past the window, but it's warm here, and welcoming. Dana moves ahead to switch on the lamp. It reveals everything as he remembers it, nothing changed. She turns to him, but he stays where he is.

"You won't hurt me, but I'll hurt you again," he says harshly. He has one last chance to say it before they have sex—no, before they make love; he has to make sure she understands before they go forward. "You know I will."

"Yes, I know," she says softly. He stares at her.

"Then why—"

"Because I love you. Because it's part of who you are, and I understand why you do it." She stands by the bed. In the soft mellow light she looks like an idol carved from ivory, her thick hair a cloud of burnished, ancient gold around her face. "That doesn't mean I won't challenge you, or get angry sometimes. But in the end it doesn't matter, Gregory." She lifts her chin a bit. "I will continue to use sex therapy to help my patients." Then her stern expression relents just a little. "But only in special cases."

"That sucks, but I can live with it as long as you give me pertinent details afterwards." She rolls her eyes but makes no comment. "Why didn't you tell me about your father's death anniversary? That wasn't trust."

"No, it was my wanting to protect you from my own pain. It was wrong of me, and I'm sorry." Her gaze is steady, unwavering. "But you've already endured so much pain . . . I didn't want to add to it."

It's exactly what she said on Sunday, and he knows it's the truth. He lowers his head, both annoyed and profoundly humbled by the depth of her compassion, and embarrassed too; he's not worth any of it. "I don't know how you can say you love me," he mutters, and looks up in surprise when she comes to him.

"How could I not?" she says, and kisses him. "My beautiful man," she puts her hand to his face. He turns his head and kisses her palm the way she does with him sometimes, the only way he knows how to show her he loves her too, and she draws in her breath softly. When she looks at him he sees that she understands what he's just said without words.

They topple to the bed together, forced to go slow and careful because of his leg, but once they lie side by side they can't get enough of each other. They stroke and caress, sigh and moan as he enters her, move together to a hard, urgent rhythm until release spills out of them and they end up in each other's arms, spent, exhausted and sodden with afterglow. Outside the cold rain falls, but here, in this warm and golden moment, they have each other.

"Still gonna move?" he asks eventually, after she's brought the old quilt over both of them.

"Don't think I can," she says, and rests her cheek on his shoulder as he chuckles in rueful but pleased agreement. Slowly they settle in, and listen to the raindrops on the windowpanes. Just when he thinks she's asleep she says softly, "What happens next?"

"Well . . ." He moves a lock of her hair from her forehead, and loves the feel of her smooth skin under his touch. "We should probably go to the kitchen and put away the groceries."

Dana smiles, he feels her lips curve against his skin. "Okay. In a while. For now . . . let's just stay here."

"Yeah," he nuzzles her hair, closes his eyes and lets go a quiet sigh of profound relief, as close to a prayer of thanks as he'll ever get. "Right here."

A few hours later, while they're in the kitchen to make supper, he says "Tell me about your father's dying."

Dana puts down the spoon she uses to taste the boeuf bourgignon. She turns to look at him. She has a flower-patterned apron tied over her sweater and jeans, and her soft cloud of hair is pulled back in a ponytail; she looks about seventeen, and for a moment he sees her as she would have been at that age, a devastating combination of innocence and seductive potential, all the more powerful because she's unaware of it. "Sit down with me," she says, puts the lid on her treasured Le Creuset braising pot and closes the oven door before she takes a seat at the table. Greg sits next to her. She clasps his hand in both of hers, a gesture so artless and natural it makes him smile a little.

"It took him a long time to die," she says finally. "He hated the pain and the treatments, how it kept him from his music, because he thought that was all he had, even with me there. Finally he gave in, because he had no choice. But it was bit by bit, because he was afraid." She looks away. "I wanted him to die. It felt like the worst kind of betrayal of him and of me too, wishing him dead. And it went on for many months." She sighs softly. "He suffered greatly, and he made everyone around him suffer too."

"You're still angry with him for it," Greg says.

"Yes, a little. Not as much as before." She tilts her head, looks at him. "You think I'm comparing you with him."

"The thought did cross my mind," he says with considerable sarcasm, but strokes the back of her hand with his thumb to take the sting out of his words.

"First of all, you're not dying. You're faced with chronic pain, but you're willing to take care of yourself if you have some support and encouragement." Her fingers tighten on his gently.

"Don't whitewash it," he says sharply. "I've always made things worse whenever possible."

"You tried to stop hurting any way you could," she says. There is no pity, just truth, and sadness. "Desperation can make you do stupid things, things you'd never consider if you were in your right mind and not on fire with hurting." She looks down at their hands and doesn't speak for a few moments. "What's more important to me is that you're able to see outside the circle of what makes you who you are. You care about people, though you don't like to admit it. I love you for that."

"More important than dying?" He wants further explanation. She smiles a little, that slight curve of the lips he's grown to treasure.

"We're all dying, Gregory. But before death takes us away we can make full lives, if we want to." She looks so sad for a moment. "I loved my father because he was mon pere, the man who helped create me. I choose to love you."

"Not much of a choice," Greg says.

"Ah, now there you're wrong," Dana says, and the sadness is gone. Her grey eyes hold so much love he blinks, astonished. She smiles at him and it's as if his music has come to him in human form, radiant and astonishing in its endless beauty. "It's the best choice I've ever made."

After a lengthy and delicious supper, consumed with what's left of the burgundy used for the main dish, they sit with their easy chairs side by side in soft light of the glassed-in terrace for a long time, content just to be together, and watch the nor'easter blow and bluster outside. They talk now and then, a desultory conversation that's important all the same.

"Got plans for Thanksgiving?" Dana gives his right shoulder a gentle massage. He leans into her touch, feels the knots in his overstrained muscles pop and loosen.

"Not unless you do."

"Just a quiet day here." She lets her hand slide down his arm. "We could roast a turkey."

"Pie," he says. "It's not a holiday without pumpkin pie. And whipped cream."

"Well you'll have to make it then," she says. "I don't have a clue."

"And the turkey?"

"It's just a big chicken. Isn't it?"

He chuckles and realizes he's missed her sense of humor along with everything else. "You've never made Thanksgiving dinner?"

"No, never. But you could teach me." Her fingers tighten on his.

"No way. I'm not wasting the whole day in the kitchen when we could be making mad monkey love in between watching football games." He brings her hand to his lips, brushes a kiss over the knuckles. "We'll order dinner. Wilson knows all the good places—well, in Princeton anyway." He glances at her. "So we'll go to my place." She nods, but that brings up a question. "What do we do about separate living spaces?"

Dana tilts her head a bit. "I think you should keep your apartment," she says, to surprise him. He looks at her, assesses her expression.

"You'll need time off from me," he says.

"More like you'll need time alone." Her soft voice holds understanding. "You're a fellow introvert, but I think I'm a bit more extraverted than you are—you know what that means," she gives him a mock-stern look when he leers at her. "After you've been around people all day you need time to yourself, to recharge, think about things. You can have that here, but I know sometimes you'll want to be alone."

"And you're okay with that," he says, skeptical. She shrugs a bit.

"Yes, of course. That's part of who you are too."

"What if I get the temptation to call up some smokin' hot babe in my little black book to share my loneliness?" He expects her to pull away. Instead her grey eyes fill with what can only be labeled mischief. Slowly she leans in and whispers against his lips,

"I'd be very disappointed if you didn't ask me to join the two of you."

"Wha . . . whoa," he stutters, mind blown, and she laughs—the first time he's ever heard her let loose with a real belly laugh, merry and infectious.

"Ha, the look on your face!" she says, grinning, and his love for her wells up within his heart like living water, a pure source he can drink from time and again, and never grow tired of the sweet, clean taste.

"What do you want to do about work?" she asks later, as they lie in bed together. Greg winds a lock of her hair around his finger, and enjoys the feel of the silky threads against his skin.

"Don't want to go back," he says. He's thought about this for a while now. "Consulting . . . I'd like to try that."

"You'd find plenty of opportunities right here in the Northeast Corridor," Dana says softly. "And some farther afield, if you feel like traveling."

"Travel's a pain in every sense of the word," he grumbles.

"Not if you go first class. Or charter flights."

He turns his head to look at her. "No way you make enough to afford that."

"Mon pere was many things, but unlike most of the musicians I've met, he was never stupid about money. I work because I like working, but if I quit my practice tomorrow things wouldn't change too much. He left me a pile, and some very nice investments too."

Greg absorbs this pleasant information as he strokes her neck absently. After a few moments he says "So I get my three hundred bucks back, right?"

Dana leans in to kiss him. "Non," she says against his lips. He widens his eyes and tries to sound pathetic.

"Je suis raide!" [I'm broke]

She laughs. "Tu es un radin." [You're a cheapskate]

"Look who's talking." He brings her close. "Just for that you're buying Thanksgiving dinner."

"I never thought otherwise." She snuggles in against him. "Do you trust me to take Wilson's advice and get all the right things?"

He hears the bigger question inside the small one. "I trust you to make your own decisions and have dinner ready early, so we can leave it out buffet style and gorge all day long."

She chuckles softly and rests her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest as they fall asleep together.