Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

June 11th

When Greg opens one eye, it is to find streams of sunlight as the day makes its presence known. Slowly he rolls over, stretches a little, and takes a few moments to savor the lack of pain upon awakening. He still appreciates the fact that there is no sharp stab, no cramp, no hard spasm when he shifts his leg into another position.

He lies in his comfortable bed, watches dust motes float in the still, bright beams. In the past three months he's had to re-learn his daily routine. For the most part it's been a good experience. He's more active now, less chained to meds; he feels better, sharper, more clear and focused than he has in ages. And yet he cannot escape the fear that all this is temporary. He has bad dreams where he finds the TENS unit unresponsive, turns up the settings until the electrodes burn him and he's in agony. When he wakes, covered in sweat, he discovers it isn't true—the pain hasn't conquered technology. But maybe someday it will, and he'll be forced into surgery; and if that doesn't work . . .

On a sigh he pushes himself up and swings his legs around, scrubs his face with his hand. With care he stands, flexes stiff muscles and joints, lets them warm up a bit, and puts on his old plaid bathrobe as his empty belly rumbles.

The kitchen is silent. On the table stand a dozen half-pints of homemade strawberry jam, placed atop a folded tea towel, put there the day before to cool after canning. Greg passes them by to check the stove. Sarah's attempted to get him to eat oat bran instead of his usual cold cereals. Secretly he kind of likes the stuff; with butter, toasted walnuts and a little brown sugar it's not too bad. Outwardly he gives her a hard time of course, and enjoys the snark they trade. But this morning he bypasses the pot of oats as it waits to be cooked. A half-loaf of bread sits on the cutting board face-down to keep the open end fresh. The fact that it's uncovered is a second testament to her recent presence.

Greg frowns as he looks around. After a few moments he limps to the mudroom and peers through the back door's small window. In the bubbled, wavy glass he sees Sarah. She sits in her garden, in the weathered old windsor chair she salvaged from someplace or other. Her back is to him, but the set of her shoulders, the downward tilt of her head, tells him she is in some kind of emotional distress. The knowledge makes him uneasy. His first impulse is to walk away; he doesn't do well with this sort of situation. There is nothing he can say, no action he can take that will make things better or change what is; what's more, his presence has never been considered beneficial in any way by anyone. Still, he opens the door and goes into the yard, his limp a bit more pronounced because of the uneven terrain. He advances slowly, enters Sarah's peripheral vision as he perches on the tree stump used to split firewood. She does not acknowledge him. He doesn't take offense at this; Sarah is the only other person he knows besides Gene who doesn't feel the need to fill silence with empty speech.

Finally however, Greg is compelled to say something. "Pretty day," he mumbles, and winces at the idiocy of the remark.

"It's a beautiful day." Her voice is thickened by tears, but she sounds calm, resigned. It makes him angry.

"She's not worth this," he says, more sharply than he'd intended. "Mourning her is pointless. It won't make anything different. It won't make what she did go away."

"I'm-I didn't mean . . ." She hesitates. "I had the radio on earlier, and they played 'Twilight Time'. It was a favorite of Mom's. She always seemed almost happy, singing that song."

In the perfect recall of his aural memory he hears the Platters; the melody unwinds, slow and sweet and tender. "So she had a few molecules of human decency in her after all."

For a long time Sarah doesn't speak. "My mother had a hard life," she says at last.

Again he feels a surge of annoyance, alloyed with reluctant sympathy. "So she didn't get a special toy for Christmas one year and it turned her into a druggie bitch who hated her kids."

"She was abused too." Sarah wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "There were times . . . we were never close in any way, but now and then she would get just drunk enough to loosen up, talk a little . . . she had to tell someone, I guess. Didn't really matter who it was." She says nothing for a few moments. "After she ran away from home and got pregnant at the age of sixteen she didn't have anyone else, no friends, not ever. Dad made sure of that."

Greg thinks of his own childhood, how other mothers at whatever base they were on at the time held birthday parties and bridge nights, garden club meetings and weekend barbecues. His mom never did any of that, nor did she attend more than a few gatherings. Dad had made it clear there was no point in friendships; his career came first, and that meant frequent moves. Now in retrospect it seems as though Mom simply gave up because it was easier than endless attempts to fight for something she knew she'd never have anyway.

Sarah looks at him. She is not overwrought, though her sadness is palpable. "She didn't get a chance to be someone else—someone different. No one ever gave her that. Later, when she would have changed, she couldn't. I feel grief for what she never had."

"One song started all this," he says. Sarah looks down at her hands. In the strong sunlight her curls shimmer with red and gold sparks of light.

"It got me to thinking of her . . . just wish we could have talked one last time before she died," she says. "I would have listened, if she'd let me."

There is nothing he can say that won't be cruel or meaningless. Instead he rises and turns away, goes back to the house.

When Greg returns later it is to find the chair empty and the garden deserted. He peels off his tee shirt, loosens up with some slow windmills, then picks up the ax he brought out with him and grabs a log from the big pile by the tree stump. He sets the log on the stump, takes careful aim and splits it cleanly in half. The halves are then split again and stacked. This is a chore he's been able to take on thanks to the TENS unit, though he still has to be careful not to put too much stress on his bad leg or stand too long in one position. At first he couldn't last past fifteen minutes, but now he can put in a solid hour and not get winded. His hands are callused, he's got a bit of muscle tone in his back, shoulders and arms at least, he's no longer fish-belly white from being inside all the time—but best of all, he can lose himself in the strong beat of his heart, the rush of blood through his body, the rhythmic swing and hard thump of the ax. He's missed the way strenuous physical activity allows him to not think if he so chooses. But he has to be honest with himself—he's out here to escape rather than work out. Roz is in the office and he doesn't want to be around her.

In the last month or so, something between them has changed. Well, to be fair, it's mainly his perception of her that's different, as far as he can tell. Prolonged and unavoidable close proximity has made them more familiar with each other, if not friendlier. They still trade acerbic, even cruel one-liners, but to his horror he finds he anticipates her quick, accurate wit and fearlessness. She says things to him no one else would dare to, not even Sarah. He finds it refreshing, but he'd never tell her so.

"Hey." The object of his thoughts stands in the doorway. "Sarah says come in and give it a rest, she has lunch ready."

Greg lowers the ax and wipes his arm across his forehead. "Yeah, okay."

Roz turns to go, then sneaks a glance at him. "Nice tan," she says, and gives him a cheeky grin before she disappears into the kitchen.

The local oldies station is on the radio when he come in. Greg sends Sarah a hard stare as she takes a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge. "You usually listen to NPR during lunch."

"It's all right," she says, and doesn't look at him. "They play good stuff."

A few minutes later he hears the first bars of 'Lollipop'. It's not the Chordettes, it's the original version of that remake, written and sung by a duo called Ronald and Ruby. It's not as smooth, more rockin' with a stronger hint of implied sex. Sarah brings a platter of sandwiches to the counter. She sings under her breath. Greg takes a roast beef on rye and catches Roz as she gives Sarah a sideways look full of some sly emotion he cannot fathom. Sarah glances at her, then at him, then back at Roz. She sings a little louder as she goes back to the fridge; her hips sway in time with the music. Greg frowns at her and Roz in turn. Roz only picks up her sandwich and takes a big bite, her eyes on her plate, but he can tell she's in a struggle not to laugh. He grabs his plate and heads into the living room, aware he is being teased but not able to figure out exactly how. After a moment he hears the two women giggle like a couple of schoolgirls. He hunches his shoulders and turns on the tv to drown them out. They can make fun of him all they like, he doesn't give a shit.

It is late afternoon, after Roz has gone home for the day, when the front door bangs open and Gene comes in, duffel slung over one shoulder. He looks tired, but he gives Greg a smile as he drops the duffel by the stairs.

"She's in the kitchen," Greg says. Gene nods and heads in the general direction indicated. As he passes the couch he pauses.

"How are your pain levels?" he asks. "Need any adjustments?"

"Oh, don't tempt me," Greg says. "Go find your wifey before my paper-thin resolve falls through." He grabs his leg. "Too late! Hand over the morphine and no one gets hurt!" Gene chuckles and goes into the kitchen. "I mean it!" Greg yells after him. "Take me seriously or millions will perish in a horrible plague of undiagnosed terminal hang-nail!"

"I'll bear it in mind," Gene says. A moment later Greg hears Sarah's voice, light with happiness, and then silence. Dinner's gonna be late tonight, he thinks. Wonder if they've done it on the table yet. Now's their big chance. That means I eat out here though, major ew factor in play, literally.

Much later, after the leftovers cleared away, when shadows slant across the lawn, he goes to the office to inspect Roz's progress. The room's still a mess of course, but he is impressed by how much has is finished. It is more than obvious Roz knows exactly what she's doing; the work is precise, painstaking and rock-solid. When everything is ready they'll have an office of which any CEO would be proud.

Music purls through the quiet house—a tune he knows well, soft and sweet. As quietly as he can Greg moves into the living room, stays close by the stairwell so he won't be noticed, and also to see into the kitchen. By the golden light of the pull-down lamp Gene and Sarah hold each other close; Sarah's head rests on Gene's shoulder, while Gene enfolds her in his long, strong arms. On first glance it's far too sentimental, this little domestic scene, but Greg knows what this is really about. They're at work on a moment to set beside the ones Sarah remembers when she hears this song, a memory she can use to ease remembered pain.

In silence he leaves them, and pushes away the old ache he always feels when he sees couples together. He can barely remember what it's like to hold someone close, to murmur quiet words together, to know the sweetness of mutual desire, but that's no reason to intrude on someone else's enjoyment. He goes to his empty room and closes the door, to leave the last of the light behind him.

'Lollipop,' Ronald and Ruby

'Twilight Time,' The Platters