"Good to see you." Even though Jensen said it each week, the line still always gave House a moment's mental pause. The words obviously weren't just a formula, and the warmth in Jensen's eyes backed it up. The psychiatrist really was glad to see him.

House entered the large office that was so familiar to him by now: The mismatched chair assortment, not clashing but geared toward patient comfort and choice rather than obsession over appearances. No interior decorator's touch lay anywhere on this office, which set it apart from that of many doctors House knew. The bookcases, just a bit uncomfortably full with volumes that looked read, not merely displayed as props. The large, venerable, heavy wooden desk that had belonged to Jensen's grandfather. Its surface today as always was functional, not approaching messy but not anal, either. The guitar hanging on the wall. Not a speck of dust anywhere, but you also weren't afraid of leaving one. A place that, like its occupant, invited confidences and offered safety.

Jensen finished pouring them both coffee and turned with a cup in each hand. House limped the short distance to his usual chair with ottoman and sat down, lifting his leg into place. He normally was already seated by the time Jensen finished getting coffee; today, he had hesitated in the doorway. The psychiatrist noted it and plugged that in. There wasn't reluctance in House's body language, no more than usual, at least. Talking about his feelings and issues would always be an effort for him. But the hesitation today didn't seem to be stalling. Rather, he had been soaking up the familiar atmosphere, appreciating it and finding it reassuring with other areas in his life in the process of changing.

The psychiatrist offered House his cup and then pulled the neighboring chair a little closer, sitting down. "We've had a lot of miles in here," he agreed, boarding his patient's current train of thought.

House nodded automatically. "Over three years' worth now." In the next moment, he startled, looking at the other man. "How did . . ."

"Work it out," Jensen challenged. He sat back and took a sip of the coffee.

"I guess I was looking around more than usual, but you were getting coffee, and you don't have eyes in the back of your head. But that delayed me," he realized. "How do you rule out that I just don't want to talk to you and was thinking about running - limping - for the hills instead?" There was his usual slight twist of tone as he corrected the verb to reflect his disability, sarcasm trying to conceal a pain that went well beyond physical.

Jensen left that mine unexplored. This wasn't the time yet, and they had too much else acute going on right now. He smiled at House. "You actually do want to talk to me. There's not any particular reluctance between us today."

"All right then, Super Shrink, why don't you just provide a summary of the upcoming session up front? Save time for both of us, and I could beat rush hour getting out of the city."

"You know it doesn't work like that, Dr. House. There's plenty I can't fill in, and even if I could, the journey is the point, not the destination."

House stalled for a moment, taking a drink of his own coffee. Jensen waited, letting him pick the opening subject, and House deliberately went for a secondary one. "The new fellowship candidates haven't sorted themselves out yet, but we haven't had a really good case to throw at them, either. By the way, do you know what killed Franklin Roosevelt?"

"Nobody does for certain," Jensen replied, obligingly chasing the rabbit just for a moment, though House knew he couldn't shake him off topic. They would wind up talking about the old man for most of this session; no way out of that. "There wasn't an autopsy performed."

There was a spark of respect in the blue eyes. "You're not just going to throw the history book answer at me?"

"History books can be wrong. I'm interested in history because it's a wonderful window on people's behavior and a challenge to fill in their personalities and thoughts from that. Roosevelt had disability issues - psychologically, not just physically, though he was also a consummate politician, so there was a pragmatic component, too. Politically, it behooved him to appear in public like a victor against the odds instead of still handicapped, especially in that era. But I don't think he ever fully accepted losing use of his legs. His maneuvers there do prove that he was excellent at smokescreens. There's a quote from one of his closest friends that I remember reading in a biography once. Stuck with me because my grandfather liked boats. 'He certainly is a water man. He looks one direction and rows the other with utmost skill.' And that's from a friend, a close friend, not a political critic. Given that root personality, and I think it was a root personality, maybe sharpened by his disability but there anyway, I can certainly believe he was hiding other physical facts from the public. His decline in photos across the last year of his life is obvious. I've never had time to really dig into alternative theories, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if his cause of death involved more than the official story."

House had relaxed into his chair and become more intense at the same time, his mind in full stride. Nobody seeing him like this would ever describe him as disabled, Jensen thought. "Is it still relevant to anything?"

"Definitely could be. Behavior is repeated; understanding more about him might help understand someone else who is raising smokescreens. There is also the political relevance; world leaders before him have hidden health problems, and history has been impacted by it. Who's to say when it will happen again? Seeing what he did might help in seeing the truth with this President or the next one in time to prevent mistakes. Unfortunately, there are only 24 hours in a day. Took me a while to learn that, but it's true. Roosevelt is interesting, and I wish I had more time to explore that and many other subjects, but I simply don't. I have a full-time job plus a family, have to prioritize. But that doesn't mean that I think what happened 60 or 70 or 200 years ago doesn't matter anymore; it just means I haven't got time myself to work on it except very limited recreational reading here and there. If others have the time and interest to ferret out a greater understanding of the past, more power to them."

House gave the psychiatrist a half smile. "Want to apply for a fellowship in diagnostics? You're doing better than the egglings to this point. They don't really think it matters at all yet; they just want the job, so they're trying to impress me."

Jensen raised an eyebrow slightly at the term egglings but didn't follow up, and House knew that the trail of this rabbit chase was about to be cut short. He prepared for the double back to more immediate subjects. Jensen, like Roosevelt, was very talented at appearing to focus on something else while never losing sight of his actual main goal. Sure enough, the psychiatrist called time. "No, thanks. I'm happy with my job. James must have failed your history quiz; you were remembering that when you asked me why it mattered. He probably told you it didn't have any relevance at all that he could see. On the other hand, Thornton likes history, doesn't he?" He thought from watching the other man's expressions that Thornton somehow had started House currently on the subject of FDR in the first place.

House sighed. Jensen was more than merely good at his specialty; that was why House had kept working with him for three years. The other man had ample intelligence and perception but also that odd consideration balancing it, respecting his patients while pushing them, and talking to him about the past was easier than to anybody else House had ever met. Jensen also was willing to let him play a little. Even so, sessions always wound up spending most of their time in the meat of topics, not just in an opening dance around them. House really did want to talk about the old man with him today, as Jensen had guessed, and the reminder about the constraints of time hadn't been lost, either. "I went over to see him at lunch Wednesday. His stuff had just arrived, and we started to unpack books. He has a whole bookcase devoted to history."

Jensen hid his inner smile at that we. Emphasize it too much, and House would retreat, but it was good to see him start building "we" moments with his father. "I'm sure he was glad to see you." No doubt testing that had been one of House's motives for stopping by in the middle of a work day when he couldn't have been expected. "So he's getting settled all right?"

House nodded. "He really gave it all up. His old friends, his old place, a lot of his stuff, even though he's still got too much. He'd lived there for decades. He left all that to move up here." His tone held shielded, almost fearful wonder.

"He's got family up here now. That's worth giving things up for."

"That's what he said Saturday at one point on the trip when we were checking in. That what he was going to was more than what he was leaving. Still. . ."

House's cell phone rang, Cuddy's ring tone, and he froze. She knew he was in session; in fact, she ought to be tied up in session herself right now. The last time she had called him in the middle of a session had been a year and a half ago to tell him that Patrick had spread the papers around the hospital and that Hadley had killed herself. For just a moment, his fingers were paralyzed, but his mind bolted, potential crises flashing by in a blur like road signs, each barely glimpsed before the next took its place. An acute problem with her. Or their daughters. Or the old man. Was it sudden illness or death? And who?

The phone kept ringing, and time lurched back into motion. He reached for his cell, his eyes fleeing to Jensen. The psychiatrist was tense himself, obviously joining House in the flashback to that interrupted session a year and a half ago, but he was there, ready, waiting. Whatever the call contained, House knew Jensen would still be there. Anxiety crashed over him like waves as he hit the button, and his voice was tight. "Lisa? What's wrong?"

"I'm okay. We're okay. Everybody's okay." She sounded utterly wired, and the triple-fire rapid reassurance fell flat. "I didn't mean to remind you of everything."

"What's wrong?" he demanded. Even without the memories of a year ago, there was no way this was a casual call.

"The sitter just called. She's got a family emergency, and she's on her way to the hospital instead of to our place, and Marina's supposed to leave in 15 minutes for the dentist, and I'm clear in Trenton, and even if I left now, I'd never make it in time, so I thought maybe Thomas could help us out." That poured out like a waterfall, with her obviously determined to get through it as soon as possible. As fast as she spoke, his mind was faster. He knew well before the end where she was heading, and the knot in his stomach tightened up. His breathing was accelerating.

"You want him to . . ." He paused on the edge of the words, spooking at their largeness.

"He's only two miles away, Greg. If he's home. I haven't called him yet, but if he can't, Marina's going to have to miss her appointment. Nobody else we know this well could cut loose fast enough."

He was silent for a moment, his thoughts racing. Too much, too soon. Eventually, of course, it would have happened, but to date, Thomas had never been alone with them while the others were gone. Slow steps, everybody had told him. It's okay to take slow steps; nobody's pushing you. But they shouldn't have arrived at this step yet. "You trust him?" he asked, though he knew the answer already.

"Yes." No doubts in her voice. She was worried over his own reaction but not about using the old man as a babysitter. She had a point on the timing, and Marina had to get that tooth fixed. It was starting to hurt her. Thomas was the closest babysitter in a pinch that they had, and she'd be home herself by 5:40 or so.

"All right." He heard the words almost at a distance.

She let out a deep breath. "Thank you, Greg. I'll call him now. Please, be careful driving once you leave later." There was the faintest emphasis on the last word, wanting to urge him to stay through the rest of his session and talk things out with Jensen, yet not wanting to get his back up by outright suggesting it. "See you when you get home." She ended the call, and he sat there numb.

Jensen reached out and put a hand on his arm, the warmth of his fingers reaching through the chill of the past. "What is it?"

"Babysitter cancelled with an emergency. Marina has to leave early. Lisa's in Trenton and can't get home in time."

Jensen filled in the rest. "Thornton would never hurt those girls. He loves them. He's perfectly safe as a babysitter."

"I . . ." Part of him knew that Thomas loved them, but the other part was still recoiling at the size of that step. His daughters.

The psychiatrist took over, his voice calm and steady, spelling it out. "He is not John. This isn't going to repeat the past, and you aren't giving him an opportunity for something he wouldn't do in front of you. Think back to two months ago at the racetrack. He tackled you to the floor. He put his life on the line to try to protect you. You said he was absolutely spread eagled over you when you woke up. He has that kind of love for you and for your daughters, too. I'd hate to be anybody who tried to hurt them while he was around."

House thought back to that moment at the track. Just a split second available, but Thomas had seized it, both actions equally swift and decisive, throwing his cane and then jumping on his son. The response had been instinctive. He really could have died; as much blood as he lost and as much trouble as House had had getting the bleeding stopped once he woke up, if House had been unconscious himself for much longer, Thomas would have bled to death.

Jensen's voice broke into his thoughts. "Something else you told me a few sessions ago. Remember his first words when he woke up?" He stopped and waited, trying to pull House back into the conversation, to get him to start thinking again about the present instead of the past. At least House wasn't trying to bolt out back to Princeton this time. "What did he say, Dr. House?"

"He asked if I was all right," House said softly.

"Yes. You were his first concern, even though he had other ones. Remember?"

"He thought he'd gone blind." He'd often thought of that since, what it must have been like waking up in inky blackness if blindness was a lifelong background fear you'd had. He was glad he hadn't strung the old man along just because he could and had reassured him that everything inside that exploded room was dark.

"His concern for you was even stronger than personal fear. Another thing. How often did John ever admit to you that he was afraid of something?"

House scoffed. "Take a guess. That one doesn't even take somebody like you to fill it in." He felt like he was slowly coming back to life.

"Exactly. They are nothing alike. Nothing at all. Did Thornton sound reluctant or ashamed when he said that?"

"No. He just said going blind was an old recurring dream he'd had."

"Have you wondered about that dream since? Why do you think he might dream that?"

Jensen was glad to hear the sarcasm in House's voice. "You shrinks just love dreams, don't you?"

"Guilty. Especially recurring dreams, which are seldom random. Why would he be afraid subconsciously of going blind?"

House paused to think through it. To date, he'd still been stuck on processing the novelty of having his father admit without shame that he was afraid of something. "You'd probably say it means that he's had a lot happen to him suddenly. Everybody around him dying. Except his wife, and she still died, just had the long, drawn-out version instead of the bad news phone call." He wondered how the old man would have been told of his parents' death. Surely that hadn't been delivered via phone call. Most likely a neighbor. He could almost see the scene, the three kids, 15, 13, and 11, standing there facing the messenger, waiting, knowing something was badly wrong, probably already trying to fill in scenarios before the words came to define it. Much like he had done a little while ago when the cell phone rang. Thomas at least was quick enough mentally that he would have been already imagining things, trying to fill in the gap. Even so, House wondered if he had ever conceived something as drastic as losing both of them at one blow. From a happy childhood home to being an orphan all at once.

Jensen nodded. "That's probably it. I'd be interested to know if he ever had that dream before age 11."

House grinned faintly. "I'll ask him sometime for you. Tell him my shrink wants to analyze him long distance. No guarantees he'd tell me, though."

"Oh, he'd tell you. He'd tell you that, at least. He has a very private streak, but it's not based on saving face. He admitted the old fear to you without hesitation once the subject came up; he wouldn't mind a few supplemental details. In fact, I'm sure he has tried to work out the reason for the dream and probably arrived at the same answer."

Private streak. "He has a painting," House said. "Pretty large painting, the best one I've seen by him. Oil, not just colored pencil sketching. It's a mountain scene in the Rockies, and he said that was where he proposed to Emily. But that meant something else to him, something beyond that memory, and he refused to tell me."

Jensen was fascinated himself. The psychiatrist understood insatiable curiosity, even if he also respected privacy. "You saw this Wednesday at his new house?"

"Yes. He had it all wrapped up in blankets for the trip; it obviously mattered to him. So I unwrapped it for a look. There was something there. I asked him why that was a bad memory, and he said it wasn't, but he drew the line after that."

"Probably moving into his new house reminded him of her loss. I'm not saying there's not more there, but whatever more there is was probably amplified by the current move."

"Could be. He also wanted to have some kind of memory vigil Tuesday night." House went on to explain the sleeping bag plans, as well as Cuddy's reaction to them. The session continued, working through the old man's week and somehow, of course, winding up back on House's own feelings, Jensen not hammering at them but not letting him avoid them, either. House hadn't forgotten that Thomas was alone with his girls by now, but talking about his father's move with Jensen helped steady him a little. Nobody would go to that lengths, uprooting life completely, just to get a future opportunity for a "private conversation," as John had called them. Well, he knew Thomas wasn't John. Still, it was a big step.

When they stood at the end, Jensen reached over to give his arm a squeeze again. "You're really making progress," he said. "You can split the present from the past, even when something comes up that recalls the past strongly and wakes up old fears. And you didn't try to get out of the rest of the session to race back."

"Wouldn't do much good if I had," House pointed out. "Lisa will be there a long time before I possibly could. Besides, you probably wouldn't have let me race out."

Jensen shook his head. "If you'd tried it in the spur of the moment, I wouldn't have stopped you, but I would have raced with you." Like that other time, House recalled. He knew that he hadn't been in any shape to drive a year and a half ago. But it warmed him to think that Jensen would have dropped his life again if needed to help his friend, even after as much trouble as House had caused him over the years. The psychiatrist smiled at him now. "It's perfectly understandable that you're tense about this. But I'm proud of the way you're dealing with it." He headed for the office door.

"Not going to tell me to drive carefully?" House asked as Jensen reached for the door knob.

"I'm sure Dr. Cuddy already did," Jensen responded. "It will be all right, Dr. House. I trust Thornton, too. And what's more, you do yourself. Not blindly but because he's earned it. Nothing's going to happen tonight."

House held onto those words as he drove home, hoping, analyzing, reassuring himself, making himself not speed. The prophecy helped steady him.

Unfortunately, it would prove to be wrong.