Wilson's phone buzzed during dinner, indicating an incoming message. When he reached for it he caught a hard glare from Cuddy. She lifted an eyebrow in Rachel's direction. Oh yeah, role model and all that. He smiled apologetically as he picked up his fork and continued eating.

"Excellent manners," House commented.

It buzzed again. House leaned over and pulled it out of Wilson's jacket pocket before Wilson could stop him. "It's Amy," he said.

"And this is dinner," Cuddy said. "Give Wilson his phone back."

Wilson stretched his arm across the table to take the phone from House, but House predictably tipped his chair back so that he was well out of Wilson's reach while he read the message with a scowl on his face. Then he levelled a piercing stare at Wilson. "She wants to meet you tomorrow at her attorney's. What's up with her? Does she want the rugrat back?" He seemed put out at the notion.

If Wilson didn't know House better he might be inclined to believe that House had grown fond of the baby during the past three days, but House had studiously avoided being around whenever Joel was awake. Wilson couldn't blame him: Joel spent most of his waking hours screaming, eating or pooping. There was the occasional smile or chortle that made up for it in Wilson's eyes, but House was impervious to baby cuteness.

Cuddy put down her fork. "Do you think she's having second thoughts?" she asked House, looking decidedly worried.

Wilson shook his head slightly, wondering when and how he'd missed the mysterious transition that both House and Cuddy had made from, 'Amy has to be persuaded to take Joel back,' to, 'She can't seriously want Joel back, can she?' That Cuddy wouldn't want to return Joel after holding him in her arms (thus suffering a surfeit of bonding hormones) wasn't all that surprising; that she and House were discussing him, Wilson, behind his back was to be expected; that Cuddy considered House to be the expert on Amy's motives was, however, unsettling.

Oh, crap!

"You're having Amy observed," he said to House.

"That surprises you?" House asked with no sign of remorse.

"House, will you Stop. Invading. My. Privacy? There's no reason to observe her. She is not a criminal out to get me, she's simply the mother of my child."

House looked genuinely surprised. "There was every reason to observe her: she had your sprog. What astounds me is that you didn't have her observed."

Wilson rubbed his forehead. "This may come as a surprise to you, but relationships work via trust. I had to trust Amy to do the best for Joel, just as she's gonna have to trust me from now on."

House twirled his fork much as he formerly used to twirl his cane. "Yeah, and that's worked out so well," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Amy didn't need your trust, she needed help. And until I'm sure she's accepting that help by leaving the parasite with you permanently, I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Wilson leaned back, eyeing House suspiciously. "What's your stake in this? Since when do you care about Amy?"

House shrugged nonchalantly, never missing a twirl. "Who says I care about Amy? You were getting your panties all in a twist over that poop machine, so I was looking out for you, making sure you didn't get hurt. Can't I care for a friend's welfare? " He trained innocent blue eyes on Wilson, batting his eyelashes.

This was Not Good. "I'd rather you didn't," Wilson said, trying for gentle firmness. "I can look after myself." He ignored the glance that House and Cuddy exchanged. "Besides," he added, "Amy only wants to finalise the paperwork giving me primary physical custody for Joel. Since we aren't married, I have to sign a form acknowledging paternity, and then she has to sign the papers agreeing to grant me physical custody. So, I suggest you call off whichever hound you've set on her. What time does Amy want to meet up with me and the attorney?"

House tossed the phone to him. "Five p.m."

"You can leave Joel with me," Cuddy offered.

"And don't bother about me. I'll find my own way to the airport," House said theatrically, with a prima donna toss of his head.

Wilson ignored House - there were such things as cabs, even if House preferred not to spend his money on one whenever he could avoid it - and said to Cuddy, "Thanks, but I'll take him with me in case Amy has second thoughts about relinquishing him."

Cuddy and House exchanged glances again; so he hadn't imagined that they were colluding behind his back!

"Or you're having second thoughts," House said, his eyes gleaming.

"No, I'm not. But I don't want to take advantage of her, and it'll be worse for Joel if Amy changes her mind once he's used to having me around. I'm pretty sure that at this stage any judge will rule in her favour if she should claim him again, and I don't want matters to get to the point where I have to go to court in order to obtain visitation rights."

"Don't you think that seeing Joel again will just confuse Amy?" Cuddy asked gently.

"Maybe," he answered, "but on the other hand it might help her to make up her mind one way or another. If she can't stick to her decision when she sees him, then maybe it was the wrong decision." House rolled his eyes in disbelief. Wilson said defensively, "Look, Amy has been fair to me about this. I owe it to her to be fair to her."

Besides, this might well be Amy's last chance to see Joel for a long time. She had sent him a cryptic text yesterday, saying they needed to get everything finalised because she was moving away. Heaven only knew what had suddenly induced her to start a new life. It struck him that if House was having Amy observed he might know all about the whys and wherefores.

"Do you ... ?" he began, but was interrupted by an untimely squawk from Joel, amplified by the baby phone. He sighed, pushing back his chair.

"No," Cuddy said forcefully. "You finish your meal. You haven't eaten a single meal in peace since Joel got here. Pete can take care of this."

House's stare was as astounded as his. "Not happening," House said with equal determination. "His scream machine, his problem."

"He needs a break. You can do it for once," Cuddy reiterated, turning to House.

"If you're so eager for Wilson to have a break, you take care of it," House said.

"He's ... ," Cuddy said, and then hesitated. "Wilson is your friend. I'll chip in once you're gone, but there's no harm in you taking care of your ... friend's son just this once before you leave." There was a peculiar emphasis in her voice that Wilson didn't quite get.

House and Cuddy glared at each other. "Don't try to force me into something I don't want or need," House said, his features setting into hard lines.

"You can't keep shirking ... ," Cuddy began.

Wilson rose. "Both of you, stop it. He's my kid, and I can manage. I'm a grown man, I'm a doctor; looking after a baby isn't going to kill me."

"What are we looking for?" Pete asked, idly pulling the bottom item out from under a stack of baby onesies, causing the pile to topple over. "The apartment is cluttered up with baby stuff; you can't possibly need any more. You have a life supply of diapers and more onesies than there are days in the year."

A saleswoman, looking over at him, frowned. Pete smiled a fake apology at her and moved on to catch up with Wilson, who was striding purposefully through the store pushing Joel's stroller. When Wilson had said he needed a few things, Pete had been thinking more along the lines of steak, chips and soda. They'd been eating at Lisa's place ever since Wilson had been saddled with the parasite, and after three days of rabbit food he needed a break.

"I need something for Amy," Wilson said obscurely.

Pete tipped his head to the side. "Amy is a size 8, not a newborn. There's a 'Victoria's Secrets' further down the mall, though," he added hopefully.

"I mean something that'll remind her of Joel," Wilson said. "A framed picture would be nice, but I don't have the time to get a decent one made. Besides, she's probably got tons of those. I was thinking along the lines of one of those footprint sets." He found the shelf with mementos and picked up a kit.

"Perhaps she doesn't want to be reminded of Joel," Pete suggested.

Wilson, reading through the instructions on the box, ignored him.

Pete turned it up a notch. "You're sending mixed signals: Amy will end up believing you don't want the kid, and then she'll give it to a foster family."

"Him," Wilson corrected him. "He's not an 'it'. And there's nothing 'mixed' about a little farewell present. It's meant as a thoughtful gesture with which I can show Amy that she'll always be Joel's mother no matter what, and that I'd like her to remain in touch with us. Though I'm sure she will anyway, but still," he added unconvincingly.

"Why would you want her to stay in touch?" Pete asked curiously. Amy drifting in and out of Wilson's life would only add another layer of complication without providing any sort of practical help.

"She's his mother, for goodness sake!" Wilson said. "Never mind, you don't have to understand or approve. Just accept it as a mystery that parents share, while the uninitiated masses have to stay outside, locked in the ice of eternal ignorance."

"You mean, it's hormonal?" Pete rolled a derogatory hand.

"Call it whatever you will; it's real, okay? Now shut up or wait outside with that cute little terrier. Maybe someone will bring a bowl of water for you too."

The brute Wilson was referring to had been yapping outside the store for the past fifteen minutes while his owner browsed through the maternity clothes section with ear buds jammed in tight and music turned up loud. Clever strategy, Pete decided. Perhaps he should get Wilson a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Then Wilson would get more rest and be less grouchy. Grouchy!Wilson was no fun.

"The instructions say that the print will take thirty-six to forty-eight hours to set. That's too long. Maybe if I turn the hair dryer on it ... ," Wilson said.

Pete envisioned the evening at Wilson's apartment, with the hair dryer running and Joel bawling, and decided that he'd need the headphones for himself. "Take this one," he said, pointing at a sample footprint that hung from a hook next to the shelf.

"But ... that's not Joel's," Wilson said. "It's not even the right size," he added, preempting Pete's eye roll. "It looks like a newborn's footprint. Joel is almost nine weeks old now."

"Amy won't notice."

"Of course she will. She's not an idiot."

Actually, she was, but that was beside the point. "She won't notice because she doesn't care. She'll probably chuck it in the nearest trash can."

"You're equating her ability to estimate footprint sizes with her level of maternal caring?" Wilson asked, a quizzical expression on his face.

Pete had a feeling he wouldn't like whatever conclusion Wilson was reaching. "Yes," he said carefully. "Because people who are indifferent ..."

Wilson didn't give him a chance to complete his thought process. "Then that makes you a paragon of caring. I'm sure you can estimate Joel's foot size to a tenth of an inch."

He stared at Wilson. "I ...," he began. Then he looked away. "Forget it," he said abruptly. He grabbed a kit from the shelf and thrust it at Wilson. "We'll put it in the oven with the heat on low," he said. "By tomorrow afternoon it'll be hard as a rock."

He marched out of the shop and over to a display of watches in the jewellery store opposite Carter's. Wilson joined him a moment later. They stood side by side in silence, Wilson half leaning on the stroller.

"How do you like that one?" Wilson asked.

Pete followed his gaze. Wilson wasn't looking at the watches; he was examining rings. Pete mentally changed Wilson's marital threat level from yellow (elevated) to orange (high).

"Are you sure you want that one, honeybuns?" he said. "Sapphire really isn't your colour. Now, emeralds or rubies accentuate the golden flecks in your chocolate brown eyes."

"Oh, shut up!" Wilson said without any rancour.

Being nice and understanding wasn't getting them anywhere, it seemed. "You can't get her a ring," Pete said bluntly.

Wilson drew himself up defensively. "Why not?"

Sleep deprivation must have shrunk Wilson's brain. In his befuddled state he clearly needed the help of a neutral, clear-headed friend. "She's engaged to someone else, you dweeb! She can't accept a ring from you even if you disguise it as a present from Joel. If you want to entice her away from The-Love-Of-Her-Life into life-long bondage - for which, frankly, there is no reason whatsoever, now that you hold a hostage - you either split Amy and her fiancé up before you make a move on her, or you make a move on her in order to split them up, but: you do not pop the question until you have moved The Other Guy out of the picture. Otherwise there'll be a Wilson-shaped blood stain on the sidewalk outside the attorney's office."

"Okay," Wilson said.

"Okay?" Pete echoed, not quite believing that he'd managed to stop Wilson from committing matrimonial hara-kiri by the simple expedient of dropping a few choice words.

"You're right, this isn't the time for it," Wilson said, turning away from the display. His sideway glance at Pete was hooded.

Pete didn't like it, he didn't like it at all. But there wasn't much he could do other than catch up with a surprisingly sprightly Wilson as they returned to the car.

He was restless. It wasn't the upcoming conference; he'd done a few conferences now, tedious affairs admittedly, but no big drain on his mental resources. It wasn't the impending journey. His belongings were packed, as were some of Wilson's that he was 'borrowing': a tie in garish green with which he would dazzle all and sundry at the conference (especially hot, lonely women) and a pair of cuff links. Nor was it the case (or rather corpse) that he was dealing with as a consultant for forensic pathology back in London. He was nowhere near to resolving it - he had the faintest trace of a suspicion what the cause of death could have been - but that corpse wasn't going anywhere. It could wait.

He prowled uneasily around Wilson's apartment, not willing to depart but feeling out of place there. Other than the kiddy stuff that Wilson had unloaded rather haphazardly, there were few hints that Wilson was residing there and had been doing so for over half a year now. Everything was still pretty much the way it had been when Pete had first inspected the apartment before renting it from its absentee owners. Pete frowned at the Mark Rothko prints on the wall, the neat rows of books on oaken shelves, the Oriental rug on the wood-veneer floor. Wilson was a visitor here, an intruder; his sojourn here would leave less of a trace than a snake slithering over desert sand dunes. In a futile act of protest Pete moved the rug to the other end of the living room and then pushed the books haphazardly around on the shelves, ruining their alignment. It was too bad that he didn't have the time to switch the Rothko prints for something really trashy: a B movie poster or ... Rachel had a god-awful Harry Potter poster in her room. That would do.

He ran up the flights of stairs to the fourth floor and opened it with the spare under the doormat, but the moment he entered the hall he realised he wasn't alone. Lisa's head poked around the corner of the living room.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Lisa's eyebrows rose. "I live here."

"It's only four o'clock. What happened to the concept of a full working day and your daughter's physio appointment?"

"I left early and Rachel doesn't have physio on Mondays." She glanced at her watch. "Do you want to leave already? I thought we'd leave in fifteen minutes."

"'We'?"

"We're dropping you off at the airport," Lisa said, smiling sweetly. "Didn't Wilson tell you?"

"'We'?" Pete repeated with foreboding.

"I promised Wilson I'd take you. He said you made a big fuss about taking a cab - something about how Philadelphia cabbies cheat hapless disoriented sufferers of hippocampus injuries by driving around in circles before dropping them off at their destination." Her expression conveyed that her empathy was limited.

"Don't worry; I'll survive," Pete hastened to reassure her. They were on the same page; he'd only thrown a pity party to annoy Wilson, in which endeavour he'd succeeded admirably: Wilson had sworn revenge.

Lisa's expression was smug. "I'm sure you would, but unfortunately Rachel overheard Wilson's heartrending plea not to abandon you and is dead set on taking you there. I'll just call her and get Joel."

"The Howler?" This was a nightmare. "I thought Wilson was taking him to New York." Wilson had definitely left the apartment with Joel. Pete knew that because the little curtain climber had been bawling loud enough to rattle the window panes. The silence after they'd left had been blissful.

"I managed to convince Wilson that if he turns up at the attorney's stressed out because Joel cried all the way, then he'll not be particularly persuasive. He dropped him off at my office before leaving for New York."

Wilson hadn't mentioned any of this before leaving. Then again, the noise level had been such that normal conversation hadn't been possible. "He bought that?"

Lisa twirled a hand. "He bought it because it was the truth. Even if all Amy wants is a few papers signed, there are all kinds of custody arrangements. He needs his wits about him, not Joel screaming into one ear and the lawyer talking into the other, otherwise he'll end up giving Amy a mass of rights without establishing any boundaries."

So this was Wilson's perfidious revenge: saddling him not only with Lisa, but with two kids in addition. Nice - but not good enough. Maybe Wilson could con Lisa into participating in his vile machinations, but he couldn't force Pete to get into a car with Ms Know-It-All, the Chatterbox and the Scream Machine. Pete pulled out his cell. "I'll take a taxi," he said with finality.

"Sure," Lisa said. She went to the couch, sat down comfortably with one foot tucked under her and picked up a magazine. Flicking randomly through its pages, she said without looking up, "We'll meet you at the check-in counter."

"Oh, don't bother, please," Pete said, bowing ornately in his best Count Olaf impersonation. "I really don't want to impose on you. We can say our goodbyes here. Or even better, we can skip them altogether. You can give the kids lots of kisses and hugs from Uncle Pete."

"It's no bother at all to bring a good friend like you his passport, which Wilson unfortunately packed up along with the adoption paperwork," Lisa said, turning a page and perusing an article about skiing resorts with great interest. "He gave it to me when he dropped Joel off. I think I left it in the car."

He supposed he could break into her car - how difficult could it be? - but there were times when mature, morally superior adults had to accept that giving in and allowing an opponent to believe they'd won was a better strategy than getting involved in endless childish squabbles. He put on an air of long-suffering, saying, "Oh-kay, get your brats and let's go."

Lisa smiled as she tossed the magazine back on the coffee table and untangled her legs. "Get your baggage," she said. "We'll meet up at the car."

"Joel doesn't cry so much when he's with us," Rachel observed with a smidgen of pride as they pulled into the airport parking lot.

"He probably likes car rides," Lisa said, braking at the ticket machine.

"According to Wilson, he bawled all the way from New York to Philadelphia," Pete contradicted her, "and also on the drive to the shopping mall this morning."

"See?" Rachel crowed. "He's fallen asleep already. He likes us."

"He's tired now, that's all," Lisa said.

"No," Pete said slowly, making a quick mental comparison of Lisa and Wilson and their respective cars. "It's your car."

"Wilson's car is a lot quieter," Lisa pointed out.

Indeed, it was: Wilson's brand new, well-sprung Toyota Prius accelerated silently in electric mode and moved smoothly and quietly. "It's too quiet," Pete explained. "Your car chugs along; you can feel the strokes and every bump in the road. Same with how you carry the croaker: Wilson tries to move seamlessly, whereas you stride like you're late for a meeting. Some guys like it rough," he concluded, leering at her. "I guess this guy is one of them."

He got out and lifted his suitcase out of the trunk, then he took Rachel's wheelchair out while Lisa unbuckled Joel's car seat.

"So I should advise Wilson to bounce him more," she said, clipping the seat into the frame of the stroller.

Pete shrugged. "He needs a nanny, not a strategy." He pushed the wheelchair to the rear passenger door, opened it and bowed to Rachel. "Your carriage awaits, milady."

"You think he isn't up to this?" Lisa asked, watching as he helped Rachel to slide from the car into the wheelchair.

"Parenting isn't rocket science." He paused for effect. "It's a war against terrorism. One side has to stick to the Geneva convention while the other burns, loots and pillages. Parents don't win this war by deciding a battle or two in their favour, but by holding out the longest, regardless of losses. Wilson got a good pounding before the war even started, what with his thymic carcinoma and the liver transplant, while Li'l Bin Laden here has been chillaxing in his personal whirlpool for nine months. Wilson needs to call in the Blue Berets before he's annihilated."

"Don't call Joel ... that!" Lisa admonished him, looking around furtively. "We'll have the CIA and the NSA on our backs."

"What's terrorism?" Rachel asked loudly.

"Let's change the topic before we all end up interred in Guantanamo," Lisa said.

"Chicken!" Pete taunted her.

"Go on, make bomb jokes during the security control, but don't get me involved. Rachel, don't go ahead; stay with us. Drivers of cars reversing out of parking spaces won't see you."

They made it to the check-in counter without being apprehended by security, losing Rachel or waking the scream machine. Now if he could get Lisa to feed him, this whole family excursion thing might actually pay off. As if on cue Lisa said, "I have to get Rachel something to eat. Do you want anything?"

"Fries. A reuben." He wondered how far he could push this. "A mocha grande. And a candy bar."

"Rachel?"

"I'm not hungry. Can I go and watch the airplanes?"

Lisa sighed. "Okay, but don't complain later that you're hungry." While Rachel whirled off to the glass front overlooking the runway Lisa turned back to Pete. "Keep an eye on Joel, will you? There's a bottle in the diaper bag in case he gets hungry."

He cocked an eyebrow at her departing form, not so much because he wanted to check out her ass (although it was a very nice ass), but because Someone had a very obvious agenda. Sure enough, Lisa stayed away for so long that the grub got restless. And voluble. And generally pissy. Pete hitched a foot under the rear axle of the stroller and jiggled it to and fro, but the effect wasn't quite what he desired. A nosy old busybody sitting diagonally across from him glared at him over her reading glasses. The businessman two seats down closed his laptop, got up and moved to the furthest end of the row.

"Maybe he's hungry," a soft voice suggested. It belonged to a woman in her forties with myopic eyes and faded skin.

"Maybe I bite," Pete rejoined. The woman backed away.

Lisa returned with a tray which she hastily dumped on his lap, shaking her head at him as she snatched up Joel. The brat latched onto the bottle straightaway. "Can't you act your age for once and feed the boy? This isn't some kind of pissing contest, you know."

He noted that she was too clever to call the DNA carrier his son. "I did act my age. I wasn't the one screaming because I was hungry; he was," he protested, pointing an accusing finger at the infant, who was making little slurping noises.

Lisa fed and burped Joel while he munched meditatively on his fries, wondering what she'd try next to get him to bond with the kid.

"Where's Rachel?" she asked presently.

He shrugged; he hadn't seen her since she'd taken off for the panoramic windows overlooking the runway. Lisa craned her head, then she got up to look around, and finally she stood on tiptoe.

"She can't go far; she's in a wheelchair," Pete pointed out. Lisa glared at him. "And no one is going to kidnap a crippled kid," he added reassuringly. "It's too much of a hassle and too obvious. She'd show up on every surveillance tape. Besides, who wants a cripple?"

Lisa thrust Fartface at him. "Here, hold him while I find Rachel."

He waggled his index finger at her. "Oh, you!" he said, grinning appreciatively. "You never give up, do you?"

Her glare as she pulled Joel back towards herself was withering. She slung Joel over her shoulder and headed for the panoramic windows (granting him another excellent perspective on that swaying booty), muttering something that sounded like 'infantile' or 'denial'. Either fitted, he supposed. He wasn't exactly proud of his behaviour, but the situation was - what it was. Wilson would raise the kid painstakingly well, better than he ever could. What Lisa wanted was stupid and would just cause confusion. She of all people should know that biological ties were overrated.

His respite was over far too soon: Lisa returned with a chastened Rachel in tow, the boy drooling all over her shoulder, her stance combative. "You can choose," she said. "Do you want to change Joel's diaper or take Rachel to the book store?"

"He pooped," Rachel supplied. "Now he smells bad."

"Thank you, Rachel, but that was unnecessary," Lisa said.

"What a difficult choice!" Pete murmured. "Which of these pleasures shall I forgo? Can I decide before my flight leaves?"

Lisa grabbed the diaper bag and stalked off, leaving him with Rachel. "I guess that means you're supposed to take me to the book store," Rachel said.

"Lead the way," he said resignedly.

The book store was an easier deal than he'd reckoned. Rachel wheeled herself through the store, attracting quick furtive stares from other customers. Whenever she stretched out for something that was beyond her reach, someone nearby would discreetly hand it to her. She breezed through the store like a queen touring her empire, surrounded by minions whose ministrations she received as her due. Pete watched her progress for a while before he turned his attention to the bestsellers lined up near the store's entrance. Did the world really need another book on emotional intelligence? He browsed through the books on display, reading a back cover here and a few pages there. Then he went outside and sat down in front of the only entrance to the book store; there was no way Rachel could abscond without being spotted. A few minutes later Lisa joined him.

"She's in there," he volunteered. "And no, I don't want to hold him, but thanks for asking."

Lisa regarded him with exasperation. "Fine," she said. "Pretend that it makes no difference whether he's your son or Wilson's."

He knew it was hopeless, but he tried nevertheless. "Damn right, it makes no difference. Tons of kids grow up without their biological parents and ..."

She interrupted him mercilessly. "Do you know how often you came into my office ranting that you couldn't get a decent patient history because nothing was known about the patient's biological parents? Or because the alleged father wasn't the biological one, so that you couldn't get the information you needed about possible hereditary conditions?"

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "That isn't a problem in this case. Should a medical emergency ever arise, you know who the biological father is. In fact, you know more about my medical history than I do."

"Look what I've found." Rachel's wheelchair bumped into his shin. She held out a book which he took automatically, turning it over to read the back cover, grateful for the interruption to his rather one-sided conversation with Lisa.

"Serena is in her junior year at Dracul High, the top school for budding young vampires. She's pretty and she's popular; she's got the boys in her year twisted around her little finger. She could be having the time of her life if only there weren't Jacob, the mysterious loner whose face haunts her dreams, but whose girl she can never be. Because Jacob is a werewolf; at night, when Serena and her friends rise from their coffins, he turns into a marauding beast. Can he and Serena ever be united?" Beneath this gripping summary was the usual assortment of fake critiques: A mesmerizing read! said the Publisher's Weekly, while the Holtville Tribune thought the protagonists were a modern Romeo and Juliet. The Brawley Standard hailed Melanie Robbins as the next Stephenie Meyer.

Pete raised a disdainful eyebrow at Rachel. "Child," he intoned, "you have left the true faith of Potterdom and have allowed the base heresy of vampire tales to besmirch the purity of your heart. Renounce these false teachings ... ."

"No, no!" Rachel, used to ignoring whatever she couldn't understand, interrupted him. "Look at the picture on the front."

He turned the book over. The front depicted a pale girl with soulful violet eyes lying in the arms of a youth with shaggy black hair and eyebrows. The predominant hues were violet-blue and black with splotches of silver. "No Michelangelo, the artist," Pete remarked, still not getting what had attracted Rachel's attention. "And I doubt your mother wants you to read this. It's aimed at big girls who know all about unrequited love and sparkly vampires and S-E-X."

"Pete!" Lisa said.

"He looks like Wilson," Rachel said, still ignoring him and pointing at the figure who presumably represented the tragic Jacob. "Look at the eyebrows."

It was true; the male figure on the cover bore an uncanny resemblance to what Wilson must have looked like some twenty-five years ago, but then, thickening any dark-haired guy's eyebrows into a shaggy mess would probably have that effect.

"Do you think Wilson is a werewolf?" Rachel asked, grinning impishly.

Pete gave this more consideration than the question merited. Superficially Wilson was more of a cuddly puppy: eager to please, adaptable, a favourite of lonely old ladies (and young ones too). On Pete's two trips with Wilson he'd watched him treat waitresses, hotel staff and gas station attendants with unfailing courtesy. His mask, if it was one, hadn't slipped once, neither when drenched to his underwear on the banks of a cold English pond nor when receiving a shattering diagnosis in front of a roomful of medical hopefuls.

It wasn't a mask, Pete decided. People who wore masks did so of their own volition; they were free to discard them as they pleased. Wilson didn't have that choice; he was trapped in his public persona until uncontrollable forces caused him to break out. But what lay under Wilson's smooth surface: a deep dark pool or a mere shallow puddle? Pete was sure it was the former. Those flashes of quick intelligence, that sardonic sense of humour, the accurately placed jabs, all testified of a petroleum reservoir buried deep under layers of rock: compressed energy, volatile and highly inflammable. He'd love to witness Wilson in action, losing his cool and allowing the forces within him to break free.

Rachel was still waiting for an answer. "Not a werewolf," he said to her. "More of a werecorgi." He returned the book to her.

"Werecorgi? What's that?"

"Werewolf; werecorgi," Pete spelled out. "Same concept, different animal."

"Oh." Rachel digested that. "Do they really exist?"

Pete face-palmed. "Do werewolves exist?" he asked.

Rachel grinned. "No. But I've never heard of werecorgis. Why's he a werecorgi?"

"Because he'll snap at your ankles, but he won't go for your carotid." He tapped his throat so that he wouldn't have to explain 'carotid' next.

"Rachel, I think the salesperson would like you to take the book back into the store," Lisa said. "You haven't paid for it, after all. Why don't you look for a book about dogs so we can decide which breed to get?"

Rachel nodded obediently and put the book on her lap.

"Rottweiler," Pete mouthed. "Pit bull."

"Shut up, Pete," Lisa said.

Grinning, Rachel turned her wheelchair towards the store.

"Oh, Rachel," Lisa suddenly said. "Would you like to meet Simon this weekend?"

Rachel's smooth movements hitched. "No!"

Lisa smiled mirthlessly at her back. "Why not? You haven't seen him for ages," she said.

Rachel accelerated to reach the sanctuary of the book store. "I hate Simon!" she called back without turning around.

Lisa turned towards Pete, her expression yelling, See? "You know why she hates him?"

"Because he's a douche?" Pete surmised.

Lisa had this look that she got when she mentally counted till ten - or a hundred, depending on the level of provocation. He had no idea why she felt provoked, but there it was and he'd have to weather it.

"Because," Lisa enunciated slowly, "he doesn't care a hoot about her and he can't be bothered to pretend that he does."

Pete sighed. He didn't really hope that he could keep the boy's parentage a secret forever, not with Lisa in the know and Amy suspicious, but it would be helpful if neither of them played whistle blower in his absence. Amy was a minor hazard; as long as she had no DNA of his she had no proof, and there was a good chance that she'd prefer not to know for sure what an idiot she'd been. Lisa, however, was an entirely different proposition. He'd badly misjudged her stance on parentage. He'd assumed that she considered it a good thing that Rachel's cop-out of a dad didn't interfere in parenting issues; it hadn't occurred to him that she was taking Rachel's birth father's reluctance to come up to scratch as a personal insult to her precious baby.

"Trust me, this kid will blame me for screwing up his life regardless of whether I raise him or Wilson does. But here's the thing: I know he'll have a better life with Wilson than with me, so I can take his hate. I'm okay with it. I'll die happy knowing that my kid had the best childhood I could give him - with Wilson."

He leaned back, proud to have dealt with the issue impartially and logically, but Lisa's expression told him that he'd walked straight into some kind of trap. Her eyes were glinting and a smug little smile graced her lips.

"So ... you're okay if he hates you?" she asked.

"We'll be done quicker if you don't quote everything I say back at me," he said, squinting at the departure board. Oh goody, his gate was finally up. He stood up and grabbed his backpack. "Gotta go."

Lisa stood up too. "What if he isn't okay hating you?" she said.

He should have run for that gate five minutes ago. "Love, hate - they're both legit emotions. There's no reason to laud one and condemn the other. He'll be okay hating me if you don't talk him into believing that hating me is wrong."

Lisa poked a finger in his chest. "Her hate is eating Rachel up; she's miserable because she believes that there's something intrinsically wrong with her. Sometimes she thinks it's because her mother died when she was born, sometimes she blames her disability. Maybe, maybe, she knows on some level that it's all Simon and has nothing to do with her, but there's a huge part of her that believes that if she were different somehow, he'd care for her. I'm fine with her hating him; what is breaking me is that it's making her miserable. It's causing her to doubt her own worth, and I hate him for that!"

She turned away from him, biting her lower lip; he could see the slight tremor running along her upper one. "Rachel, come here please. Pete has to leave now."

While they waited for Rachel, Lisa put the rugrat back into the stroller. As they went to the security area, Pete said to Rachel in a stage whisper, "Don't make bomb jokes!"

"Rachel, let's say goodbye to Pete here before he gets into trouble," Lisa said.

"Bye, Pete," Rachel said dutifully. "Mom, will you buy me a book about dogs?"

Lisa rolled her eyes at Rachel. Then she fastened the brakes of the stroller; surely she didn't expect him to hold the kid or something? No, she reached up around his neck and gave him a quick hug. He returned it awkwardly. "When will you come again?" she said.

"Dunno." He scratched his eyebrow, going through a mental catalogue of his professional commitments. "Six weeks? Think you can keep your mouth shut in front of Wilson for that long?"

For the first time since Lisa had found out about how he'd scammed Amy, she gave him a genuine smile. "Yeah, that sounds great."

He gave her a fleeting nod and made for the security gate without giving her a chance to sneak in another hug.

He was putting his keys and his wallet back into the pockets of his jeans when his phone vibrated, indicating an incoming message. He opened it: it was a picture of Joel in his stroller, grinning toothlessly at the camera. Seriously? Did Lisa believe he'd show it round to his colleagues, saying, "Hey folks, this is my kid"?

He looked at the picture. There was nothing special about it, just your standard infant with no hair or teeth or any other defining feature. It left him indifferent. There was no way he'd use the picture as a screen saver or a background. Shouldn't he feel something? He was programmed to ensure the survival of his genes, the way Amy was, so maybe ... maybe his lack of feelings indicated that his son's well-being was best served by his not being involved in any way.

Nice try, House, he could practically hear Wilson say, but you're looking for an excuse not to get invested because you're scared. You're scared that you'll get hurt.

'And what's so great about getting hurt, huh? Been there, done that, don't need it again,' he answered the phantom in his head, remembering Gail with that sickening jolt that always moved right down his digestive tract whenever he thought about her.

Refusing to bond with people for fear of getting hurt is like not tasting a new dish because you mightn't enjoy it, his Wilson-voice said.

'Or like refusing chemo for thymoma because it mightn't work,' he muttered in reply, earning weird looks from the people around him. He supposed he deserved them: the guy to whom he was talking was a hundred miles away in New York. Correction: the guy to whom he was talking only existed in his head. Wilson, the real Wilson, luckily didn't have an inkling of his supposed child's convoluted parentage.

'Convoluted'? He was kidding himself; there was nothing convoluted about Joel's parentage. He, Pete, was the biological father, Amy the mother. The child would now grow up with Wilson and presumably Lisa. Simple, really. He slipped the phone into his jacket and looked around for his gate. There it was, the two green lights on the display blinking reassuringly next to the destination 'London-Heathrow', his Wardrobe into a safer, better world.

His phone buzzed again. If Lisa was going to swamp him with pictures, he'd have to put a stop to it. He pulled his phone out to send her a pesky message telling her to keep her snapshots to herself, but found himself staring at a message from Wilson instead.

Papers are signed. I'm Joel's legal parent and primary custodian!

Oh, okay ... Great ... Nice for Wilson.

He pulled up the picture of Joel again. The kid with those smooth, nondescript features was now officially Wilson's son.

"Good for you, kid," he said to the picture. His thumb moved to 'Options' and from there to 'Delete file'.

Are you sure you want to delete this file? his phone enquired.

His thumb hovered over the Yes button. He could delete the picture (and any further pictures that Lisa sent him), but that wouldn't change the facts.

He slowly moved his thumb over to No and pressed the button. After a moment's hesitation he typed 'thx', and sent the message to Lisa before he could change his mind. Then he switched off the phone and strode towards the gate.

A/N: Dear readers, this is the end of this tale. Special thanks to menolly_au, who nurtured this little cuckoo from the moment I dumped it into her nest until it was ready to fly. If you've enjoyed reading it even a little, then please leave a short comment. Of course we all write for our own enjoyment, but posting is all about getting positive reinforcement from others :)