(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.)
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being . . .
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! ~~Percy Bysshe Shelley
October 1st
The first thing Greg notices when he wakes is the familiar fragrance of fresh-brewed coffee. Roz always programs the maker before she leaves, because she knows the smell will be more efficacious than any alarm (though he does have one set and ready to go on the nightstand). He lies there for a few minutes and enjoys the comfort of his warm bed, the relative lack of discomfort in his thigh and joints. Progress since the surgery has been slow but steady; both sites have healed and the red scars have faded to pink. Eventually they'll be the same ivory color as the rest of his skin . . . He moves his hand lightly over the smooth expanse of thigh with something like wonder. He remembers it being like this before the blood clot wreaked its havoc but those memories are faded, dreamlike. Now he has almost everything returned to him that was taken away, a gift he'd never dared to even consider. Slowly he rolls over, savors the sense of completeness . . . and makes a second discovery: Roz hasn't left. Her clothes are still laid out at the foot of the bed, along with a clean jumpsuit.
It takes him some time to get to his feet, put on his bathrobe and go to the kitchen; he is fifty-three after all, and cold weather takes its toll this early in the morning, but he manages it. His wife sits at the table, hands clasped in front of her. There's a cup of coffee off to her right, but it's quite clearly been there for some time. There's no sign she's eaten any breakfast or made an attempt to cook for herself. She doesn't look up when he takes a seat next to her. Foreboding replaces contentment, but all he says is "What?"
Without a word she reaches into her pocket, takes out what he recognizes immediately as a testing stick. He doesn't even have to see the lines on the urinalysis pad to know what it means. Absolute shock floods through him. Still, he has enough presence of mind not to ask "How?" They made love some weeks ago and somehow, the birth control failed. That also answers "Why?" All contraception has a very small but quite possible risk of failure; only abstinence works one hundred per cent of the time.
Greg takes a breath, lets it out slowly. Roz keeps her gaze on the tabletop. "I didn't do it on purpose," she says. Her gaze lifts to his for a moment, slips back down quickly. "Greg, I wouldn't." The anxiety and apprehension he sees strikes at him. She's scared; her use of his name tells him that. That scares him in turn. What does she think he's going to do, yell at her? Smack her around? Kick her out of his life? Believe she's trying to trap him somehow? He knows this opens up old and painful memories for her—the knowledge that her mother deliberately got pregnant to hold onto her father, and then neglected her child while she chased other men. Most if not all of Roz's sense of inferiority and low self-esteem come from those early years, with the knowledge she was nothing more to her own mother than a ploy. But she has to understand he doesn't hold that against her—how could he? She had nothing to do with the games played by the adults in her life.
For answer he picks up the testing stick, sets it aside, and takes her hand in his. He doesn't say anything, he just clasps her fingers. They're cold, and tremble just a little. After a few moments Roz sighs softly. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Stop it," Greg says, and winces at the harshness in his tone. "Not your fault," he says with more gentleness, and gives her hand a squeeze, which she returns. "When did you know?"
"I-I didn't—it just didn't occur to me until yesterday after work." Her voice contains the faintest tremor. "I was looking up something on my appointment calendar and—and it just sort of hit me that I was a few days late. You . . . you know my periods are like clockwork . . ." She hesitated. "This just felt . . . different somehow, I don't know . . . so I bought a test on the way home. Just—just in case."
"You didn't say anything last night."
Her hold tightened. "I wasn't trying to keep this from you, Greg. I swear to you, I wasn't."
He has to point out the complete lack of logic in that statement. "But if you had a suspicion yesterday—"
"I . . . I didn't want to raise a false alarm." She won't look at him. "I didn't want you to think I was . . ."
"Attention-seeking," he finishes when she trails off. After a moment she nods slowly. "For god's sake," he says, torn between annoyance and a reluctant amusement. "When have you ever done anything like that? You're being ridiculous." He snorts and shakes his head, but is careful to keep his hold firm. "You are not your mother," he says softly, and feels her relax a little.
"What do we do now?" she asks after a brief silence. Greg scrubs his free hand over his face. He can answer that question fairly easily, but he knows his wife isn't ready to deal with what he'll say—not yet, maybe not ever, he doesn't know.
"I could use some caffeine," he says. "Definitely a hot shower. Care to join me?"
It's a sign of how upset she is that she doesn't give him a smart comeback or even crack a smile, but her fingers tighten on his before she lets go. "I'll start breakfast," she says, and rises to make good on her words.
The shower doesn't take long. Greg enters the kitchen with some trepidation, to stand by the table. "I called in sick," Roz says as he comes in. She sets eggs and butter on the counter, roots around in the fridge for something else. "But I know you have to go in today."
"I'm the boss," he points out. "I can take time off if I want to."
"Rob said you're choosing new patients," she says, closes the fridge door and puts the skillet on the burner. "That's important."
"And you think this isn't?" He's floored by that conclusion. Roz gives him a quick look. The apprehension is back.
"It can wait," she says quietly.
He goes to the living room, picks up the phone and dials the clinic. When McMurphy answers he says "I won't be in. Tell the team to have four candidates ready to present tomorrow. Once they get that done, they can go over to Wirth's and put in some hours."
"You okay?" McMurphy wants to know.
"I'll find out later," he says, and hangs up. When he returns to the kitchen Roz ready to crack eggs into the skillet, but her shoulders are hunched and her expression is impassive—that means her fear has grown. "Leave that," he says. She doesn't answer, but after a moment she sets the skillet aside and comes to him.
They end up in the living room, to half-face each other on the couch. Roz sits with her arms folded around her middle, a sure indicator of distress.
"What are you thinking?" he says.
"You want me to get rid of it," she says quietly. "Don't you?"
Greg pauses. There isn't any hostility in her voice, and she didn't say 'get rid of the baby', but she's agitated by the thought. "We've talked about this," he says. "We said no kids."
"Yeah, we did." She doesn't snap or yell at him. "But I don't know . . . don't know what to do." One hand touches her belly; he's pretty sure she isn't even aware of it. The sight makes his heart ache, a feeling he hates.
"It's just a clump of cells," he says, trying to reach her with logic—an approach that's worked in the past. He knows it's a dangerous course here, though. "It's not a person."
"It's yours," she says simply. "I was okay with no children, I didn't lie to you when we decided that before our marriage. Now things are different."
"No they're not," he says, impatient with her sentimentality. "Just because we didn't plan this—"
"That's just it. We didn't plan it. But it happened anyway." She falls silent a moment. "You know I'm not going to say anything about fate or what God wants because I don't think that way, but it just . . . just doesn't feel right to me to end this pregnancy."
"You understand the risks," he fights a sense of desperation. "You're forty-one and your eggs have degraded in quality. I'm in my fifties. I've done copious amounts of narcotics, not to mention alcohol. As a consequence there's a good chance the kid will have serious problems. I've seen more families with disabled offspring than you can count, and every single one of them had a hellacious—"
"Stop!" Greg stares at her, shocked by her sharp tone. "I know all that. Do you think I don't? I know it's best to terminate . . ." She struggles not to cry. Her emotional upheaval frightens him because he knows it's genuine. He wants to walk away—hell, he wants to run and not look back. This was nothing he ever bargained for. It has the potential to destroy everything they have together.
"Let's talk to Hazel," Roz says. "If we can't reach her, then Sarah. But we need help from someone right now."
That idea does not appeal to him in the slightest, but he also knows she's right. "We're not bringing a shrink into this," he says anyway.
Roz looks at him then. There's determination in her expression, and tears on her lashes. "Please, Greg." Her tone is quiet—not reproach, just a simple request. He is not proof against her respect for him, and the urgent plea for help in her voice.
"'kay," he says finally.
They have breakfast first. Roz doesn't seem to have any trouble with morning sickness, at least not yet. "I feel okay," she says when Greg quizzes her. "A little more hungry than usual, actually."
"Biological imperative," he says. "Survival of the species."
"Yeah, I know." Roz puts a small amount of coffee in her cup and loads it with steamed milk. "Have to buy decaf or something, I guess."
She eats a respectable amount of food, though Greg can tell she's pushes herself to do it. He watches her out of the corner of his eye while he dumps eggs and toast and coffee into his belly, and ignores the tight knot there.
After everything's washed up and put away, she makes the call. Apparently the doctor is in, and agrees to a Skype session. Five minutes later they're in front of the computer, and Hazel smiles at them from her sunny study. "What's up?" she asks quietly. Greg doesn't answer.
"I'm pregnant," Roz says. Hazel's eyes widen a bit.
"I see," she says. "When did you find out for sure?"
"This morning."
Hazel sits back. "All right," she says mildly. "So this is a source of contention between you, I take it."
"Before we got married we agreed, no children," Roz says. "I was fine with that, but this . . ." She looks down at her hands.
"I haven't told her what to do," Greg says. Hazel nods.
"I know that. You wouldn't, Greg." That surprises him. He blinks at her. Hazel gives him an impatient look but there's humor there too. "You wouldn't," she says, as if it's obvious. That tight knot in Greg's belly loosens.
"Okay," Hazel said. "All right. Talk to me."
"I . . . I don't know what to do," Roz says.
"We had an agreement," Greg says. "No kids."
"Why?" Hazel says. They both look at her. "It's a simple question. Why did you decide that?"
Roz glances at Greg, but he says nothing; damned if he'll be the one to start this mess on the boil. "Several reasons," she says at last.
"What are they?" Hazel asks. "Start with one and go from there."
"Well . . . I think the main reason is age," Roz says slowly. "We're both older . . . that complicates things."
"Sensible," Hazel says when Roz falls silent. "But that isn't all of it. Go on."
"I'm . . . I'm not exactly mom material." Roz doesn't add what she could have to that: her husband has no credentials for fatherhood either.
"Mom material . . . what does that mean?" Hazel asks gently, but Roz still flinches.
"You know about my childhood," she says.
"You've told me about your mother's neglect." Roz nods. "You believe that disqualifies you from raising a child?"
Roz clearly doesn't know what to say; there's more to it than that, but for her to mention it she'd have to speak for Greg and she won't do that. He's not about to join in the conversation, however.
"What aren't you telling me?" Hazel wants to know. Neither of them say anything. "I can't help if you don't talk to me."
Roz glances at Greg. He sit back and glares at Hazel. "This wasn't my idea," he says. "Don't ask me for particulars."
"Ah, so this involves your childhood as well," Hazel says. "Thought so."
"None of your business," Greg shoots back.
"That's a singularly silly thing to say to a psychologist." Hazel gives him a thoughtful look. "You two are convinced you'd be rotten parents because the ones you were stuck with were quite bad at the job, to say the least." She sits back and sips her coffee. "You know, for two vastly intelligent people you both believe the most ridiculous emotional untruths about yourselves, and with little or no reason to do so."
"So what's the truth?" Roz asks.
"Something you have to figure out for yourself," Hazel says gently. "If I just tell you, you won't believe me."
"I hadn't planned on becoming a mom," Roz says slowly in the silence that follows. "I like children . . . being a tutor is great, the kids are fun to work with. But I give them back at the end of their time with me. There's no real responsibility involved." Her hand drifts down to her belly once more. "Caring for a child all the time . . . I wouldn't know . . . my mother didn't take care of me, I don't—don't know how to do that. I could hurt . . ." She trails off. Her anguish is painful to watch. Greg can't stand it.
"You'd be a good mother," he says before he can stop himself. Roz turns her head to look at him, her astonishment plain.
"But if you think that, why do you want me to-"
"I don't want you to end the pregnancy because I think you'd be a bad parent," he snaps. His anxiety is back and climbs at a precipitous rate.
"Ah," Hazel says. "You believe you're the reason." She gives him a steady look. "Why?"
Greg says nothing. There's no point in a recital of the years of his childhood and youth spent with a father often absent but abusive when he was at home, and a mother who neglected him while her own pain consumed her.
"Greg," Roz says. She waits until he looks at her. "I've never had any doubt that you'd be a good dad. I've seen you with Chelsea Butterman, and Jason and Mandy. You don't talk down to them, you treat them with respect. You see them as people." She reaches out, puts her hand to his cheek for a moment. Her touch is sweet, sustaining. "You would love our child with everything in you, and even when you made mistakes it would be okay."
He swallows on a dry throat. "You can't know that," he says with more bitterness than he intends.
"Sure I can," she says simply. "You do something like that with me every day." She smiles at him, just a little upturn of the corners of her mouth, but it's there in her eyes too. He doesn't know what to say. Her faith in him is always bewildering and at the same time, life-giving.
"It's not that simple," he says, but it's more to convince himself than her.
"Take a few days," Hazel says quietly. "Talk about it, think about it. Make an informed decision based on the new situation you're in, that's my suggestion."
Greg rolls his eyes. "Using an approach that appeals to an empirical mindset, how original," he says. Hazel chuckles.
"I use what works." Her gaze softens as she looks at Roz. "Who else can you talk to about this? You need a confidante."
"Um," Roz says, obviously surprised. "Okay. Yeah, okay. I have someone."
"Who?" he asks, glad to be diverted from their crisis even if it's just for a few moments. It won't be Sarah; Roz knows that would cause all kinds of confidentiality problems for all of them.
"Kris," Roz says. She looks apprehensive, as if he won't approve. He shrugs.
"As long as she doesn't tell anything to that yenta known as James Wilson," he says.
"Hence the term 'confidante'," Hazel says dryly. "Kris is a good choice. How about you?" she says to Greg.
"How about me?" he says, to stall for time.
"Who can you talk to?"
"Don't need that," he says with more casualness than he feels.
"Yes you do," Hazel says quietly. "You need it just as much as your wife does."
"No point."
"There's every point." Her tone is firm. "Find someone. Then call me when you're both ready to talk. You can call me before then as well, I'm available anytime."
The rest of the day stretches out before them. Greg regrets staying home; he doesn't want to think about how they'll fill in the hours ahead. Roz doesn't seem to have the same problem though. "I could use some extra sleep," she says softly. In the morning sunlight he can see the tiredness in the lines of her face, the faint smudges under her eyes. "Care to join me?" She smiles a little as she gives him back his words, so there's no way he can say no.
Even under the circumstances there's a certain pleasant sense of decadence as they stretch out on the bed under the light quilt, his wife's slender body spooned against his. With a sigh she settles in. Greg slips his arm around her and lies there quietly as she drifts into sleep. It's not so easy for him though. He thinks of the life that grows inside her, as cells divide in the relentless progression toward birth. So much can go wrong . . . and even if it doesn't, there are possible complications with the birth, not to mention entry into a world teeming with danger at every turn. How can they bring a new life into a situation so precarious?
Slowly he lets his hand move down her body. His fingertips just barely brush her skin. Already he can see and feel a difference in her breast, even at this early state—there's a slight increase in the size and color of the aureole, and the curves feel a tiny bit fuller, as if the glands have begun to swell. It's incredibly subtle but it's there; he knows her body well enough by now to register any changes, no matter how minute. He wonders how much she'll show—it probably depends mostly on whose genetics will win out. From what his mother's told him about his real father, tall and lean runs through several generations. Paired with Roz's fast metabolism and thin frame, it's likely the child will follow that body type. Undoubtedly its coloring will be more like hers though, since his own chestnut curls and blue eyes are the result of two parents with recessive genes.
At last he reaches her abdomen. He puts his palm on her belly and draws in a startled breath when her hand covers his. She doesn't say or do anything else. Her slender, work-worn fingers stroke his skin, a caress that holds comfort and love as well as her own need for reassurance. In answer he leans in and brushes his lips over her cheek, buries his face in her soft fragrant hair. She makes a little sound of contentment, and then "Ti amo," she whispers, "ti amo," and the words fill him with a fragile, elusive wonder that she can still say those words and mean them despite what's happened. He nuzzles her and feels her relax, and doesn't dare admit it's a sign everything will be okay—he knows signs are for gullible fools and those with no skills in critical thinking. Still, he can't help himself. He hopes against hope it's a good omen.