AN: once again, I don't know everything about MS or steroids so if I get medical stuff wrong I'm sorry but I really wanted to do this the way I did. Hopefully, it won't detract from the story too much.
"I know I got a bad reputation
and it isn't just talk, talk, talk
If I could only give you everything
You know I haven't got
I couldn't have one conversation
If it wasn't for the lies, lies, lies
And still I ought to tell you everything
'till I close my eyes," Freedy Johnston
Our first day back to work was incredible, not because anything good or bad happened, but because—with the exception of Cuddy, who apologized about the phone call and tried to hug him—everybody treated him the same as always. In fact, unless he asked them for something, not much changed at all over the next few months. The team members did eventually (after about a week) act as if they knew what was wrong. I was expecting Thirteen to be the first one to crack but I was wrong.
On the first day of our second week, we were sitting in the cafeteria, eating lunch, when Foreman entered, grabbed a plate, paid for it, and circled the room twice before sitting at our table. Greg growled.
"Leave this second, and I won't be forced to fire you," he said in a fairly calm voice. Of course, after five years and countless incidents, the duckling knew that this particular threat was an empty one. It was obvious to me, just how uncomfortable he was, but Eric didn't see it or didn't care. I tried on my own to stop it.
"Look, I know you want to help him, but Greg already has a neurologist, and he is doing fine, physically. Plus, even if he needed help, I can't imagine him being comfortable being treated by any doctor from this hospital," I explained, trying to sound polite but harsh.
"He lets you treat him." No, technically he doesn't, I thought, as Greg's knee bounced nervously under the table. I let my hand slide away from my plate and drop onto his knee.
"Actually he doesn't, but that's not the issue here," I managed to get out, before Greg finally regained control over his body, enough control to say something to Foreman, anyway.
"Look, I know you get all warm and fuzzy inside from taking care of Thirteen and you probably think that being my—whatever is going to boost your ego and stuff, but I'm not going to be your little Guinea pig. I'd prefer to not spontaneously develop brain tumors if I can avoid it. And I may not be able to fire you, but Cuddy can't keep me from giving all my clinic duty and scut work to my employees." Eric laughed to himself, but left anyway. "You're not gonna tell me to be nice to him, are you?" He didn't seem mad, just a little worried.
"Ordinarily," I said, unable to keep myself from laughing. "I' d probably lecture you, but his face—he went from looking like he actually cared about you to looking hurt, to looking scared, to mad so fast…and that was funny. I don't think I can reprimand you since I'm laughing this hard." He smiled, squeezing my hand, unafraid with a public display of affection. Probably because it wasn't really public.
After that, nobody tried to bother us again, although Cameron would show up at his office from time to time.
He said, "She's always got an excuse, like there's a paitent who needs my help, or she has a "medical question," but I know what she's really there for. I know what that girl wants," he mocked, pretending to yawn, and stretching out his arms so that he could point towards his lap.
"She's married to Chase, man. I think you missed the boat on that one." He shrugged, smiling. "Okay, what's the joke? You might as well tell me, I'm going to figure it out eventually." We were in my office, him on the couch, sitting up, me behind the desk, looking over files.
"You were married when we met, even if it was pretty much over. You were married to the psycho first time we did it, and you were married to Julie when Cuddy made me go to that medical conference in New York, and the two of us went away for the weekend." I couldn't help but laugh, thinking that while he had a point, Cameron and Chase were nothing like me and my exes. I tried to explain it, but by that point Greg was only half listening. So, I let him think whatever he wanted.
XX
Then, one night (about two months after we started working again) the two of us laid down to watch TV together, and he fell asleep in my arms. I stayed up watching him. Between being cramped on the sofa and the sounds of the television, he didn't stay out very long. He came out of his sleep, calmly, which was rare. Seemed like he'd just had a pleasant dream.
"I think we should get married," I said, and instantly clamped my hand over his mouth to prevent the uncontrollable obnoxious comment. "I know what you're going to say, that I'm only interested because you're sick, or that I haven't really gotten over losing Amber and am jumping on the nearest warm body, or both but you're wrong. I was going to ask you right before Foreman quit. But you got all depressed, then you started the whole Survivor thing, and were obsessed with finding new ducklings. I'm going to take my hand off your mouth now, because I know you're fighting a cold and are too stuffed up to be able to breathe through your nose, but I'm not done. You aren't gonna say anything until I am. Amber liked me more than I liked her, which wasn't all that much for either of us, and she liked that our being together was messing with your head more than she liked me. You need to hear these things because you've been stressing out and blaming yourself and I've been blaming you a little, which is insane because I love you, Greg. It's always been you. It was always supposed to be you," I explained, quickly and moved my hand.
House sighed but didn't say anything. I touched his hair, and continued with my speech. "But you weren't ready, and I—I knew that if I tried to do what you needed, you'd freak out, or get scared, and you would of left. Maybe you'd go away up here," I whispered, kissing the side of his head. I was close to tears. I knew I was going to cry. So, I hurried through the rest, faster than I would have liked. "But I also knew that there was a chance I could get you back from that, even if it meant you having to go to a hospital for a while. I hated the idea but that wasn't the worst case scenario. I was scared I might lose all of you, that you might leave, like Danny did and—" I broke off, sobbing.
"Whoa, Jimmy," he said, but I couldn't stop myself. "Jimmy," he pressed, lifting his head and looking me right in the eyes. "I'm okay. Come here; let me—yeah, there. It's okay. I don't think—you would have to rape me to get me upset enough to run away and live on the streets and—even if you had done that, me running off—well…see, that's just it. I can't imagine myself ever—oomph, I'm so stiff I can barely move—doing that. It's just not me." I nodded, sniveling. "But you didn't know that eighteen years ago, right?"
I nodded again, and the two of us stayed close, while Greg told me every stupid joke he could think of, smiling, trying to show me how strong and happy he was. "This is because of you, Jimmy. I'm already a lot better than I was when we met, better than I was fifteen, or ten, or even five years ago. The fact that you can even tell me this stuff…means—you've already helped me more than I ever thought was possible. And if you're saying that getting married to you is gonna make me feel safer and that I might be able to be happy one day, then, it sounds like the best idea ever. Just can't divorce me, dunno what I'd do."
"We gotta wait a little while. I want you to have everything and—of course—we need time for you to throw one of your patented bachelor parties. And one other thing. I feel like I have to explain to you about me marrying Bonnie and Julie even though I was in love with you," I started to say but he interrupted me.
"I was your number one but I wasn't ready to be—well you said it already. And the little things I let you do for me didn't satisfy your needs. They needed somebody, and they let you throw as much attention as you had to at them. But marrying them was like eating a packet of saltines, to tide you over until your dinner is ready. I mean, who takes 3:00 AM phone calls on their honeymoons, unless the caller is more important than their spouse?"
"Good, you get it. Then this isn't gonna take nearly as long as I thought," I told him, kissing his hair, and smiling. "Are you sure this is okay, because your life is changing rapidly, every aspect of it and I don't wanna push you too far too fast—what the Hell are you doing?" Greg's ace was the picture of intense, frustrated concentration. He had gone from being calm, to looking happy, to looking a little uncomfortable, to seeming really happy, to completely terrified. Something was wrong; I knew it. I just didn't know what. "Greg?"
"My legs…they won't—I've been trying to roll from my stomach onto my side ever since you first said you want to marry me, and I can't do it. I'm a little stiff, but they aren't sore. It doesn't hurt. I can't—I can't feel…Jimmy," he sobbed, pressing his entire face into my shirt. I rubbed his back and started to reach for the phone. "It's too fast. This shouldn't be happening so soon. I'm not that sick yet. I'm not—it's not supposed to progress from nothing to full on paralysis. Not this quick." I kissed his head again, trying to think of a way to calm him down. He started to cry. "I thought I had more time." My arm instantly moved back to his body, rubbing his arms, and shoulders, and neck, as I tried to remember if paralysis was a side effect of any of his medications.
"Look, Greg, I know you're terrified, but you need to calm down. There's dozens of things that could be wrong. I can only think of three but it might not be what you're worried about. This could be permanent, or a drug side effect, or a temporary flair up of the MS that will go away, and until we figure out what this is and how long it might last for, you have to stay calm and assume—I know—that it's just one of the medications, maybe the new one. Now, I have to call an ambulance. Don't make that face, if I did somehow manage to carry you to the car, and drove you to a far off hospital, where nobody knows us—just to give you a little privacy—I could make you much worse. Then, I'm gonna call Dr. White, and he'll meet us at the hospital." He groaned but didn't fight me. Of course, his being completely powerless made it easy for me.
Two rather large paramedics nearly broke down the door trying to get in and then knocked a bunch of books off his shelves. Idiots all but dropped him, and yet he was so freaked out that the guy didn't complain once. They let me ride in the back of the ambulance with him. I had to sit in a seat, but he was able to squeeze my right hand, while I stroked his hair with the left. Cameron examined him when we first arrived. Greg figured (and I agreed) that she lost the coin toss over who had to take him. She scratched his feet and legs with a safety pin, and rubbed a Q-tip against them, one at a time. She asked if he could feel any of it, at which point the sensation came in.
"Of course I feel that. You just stuck me with a pin," he grumbled after the first test." We both looked at him, doubtfully. I sat beside my fiancé, wrapping my arms around his body, and holding my palms over his eyes.
"Try it again," I suggested, and then mouthed the word, wait. She didn't move. He said he still felt it. I mouthed now, once he'd quit whining. She tested him again.
"Now be honest," Cameron demanded. "Do you really feel what I'm doing or are you trying to be brave?" He finally told the truth. He had no sensation in either leg, below the hips. And while he had the same rang of motion—with somebody moving them—he couldn't lift, wiggle, or move on his own. "I think Wilson's right," she said, which—without real tests or time to observe his reactions—didn't mean squat.
White arrived a little less than an hour after we did, preformed the same examination, and then suggested Greg stop taking the new steroid, claiming that once it was out of his system, we'd be able to see more. House was admitted, and taken to a private room, upstairs. I curled up in a tiny hospital bed with him, carefully massaging the area around, but not too close to his IV, because it was one of the few things I could do to keep him calm, to make the pain stop. Dr. White had started him on a new—in every sense of the word—steroid because his stomach had been bothering him so much, and this one was supposed to have better results in patients with intestinal issues.
"At least you're not hallucinating anymore," I teased, kissing him on the mouth. He smiled, weakly. "You wanna switch positions?" He shrugged. "Not even a little laugh?"
"Wasn't funny," he explained. Greg stared into space some more. "Wish you would of stepped in, been my doctor, instead of the scared life partner crying in the corner." I sighed, and kissed him again. "I know its' a conflict of interest, but you can—I mean, can you...please? Talk to me like you're—you know what I want, don't you?"
"Okay, Greg," I whispered, holding his head on my shoulder. "It's like I told you earlier, there are three very likely possibilities. You might be getting worse, and this could last…forever. You might be having an episode, and the problem could go away. Once it does, just about everything else will go back to normal. And last but not least, it could be the new steroids. If it is, we just have to transition you from this stuff to another drug, and you'll be fine." He nodded, exhaustedly. I squeezed him tighter.
"Thanks Jimmy. That was almost exactly what I needed. Now—can you…would you just talk about something else, something that's got nothing to do with me being a poor, dying cripple?"
"Shh," I said, in an attempt to sound soothing, simultaneously rubbing his arms. "Stop trying to shock me. If I'm still willing to marry a guy whose diapers I might have to change, do you really think that he can say anything to make me change my mind?" He smiled, deviously and I was grateful to get a few minutes of him acting like the jerk I'd fallen in love with.
"No, of course not. I know you love me forever or—whatever, but when I complain about how bad it hurts, and how crappy my life is, you give me more Vicodin." I laughed; we both did.
"You're on Morphine, do you really need Vicodin too," I asked, patting his shoulder some more. He shrugged again, looking way a little, and then—finally—leaning back against me. "I know you're gonna laugh at me, but I want you and me to have a real wedding. It doesn't have to be religious. Hell, if you want, we can have a little trip to City Hall, just you, me, and whoever you want as our witnesses." He smirked. "But I'd prefer a big fancy thing, with all our family members, cute, matching tuxedos, you finally smiling, and enjoying yourself at one of my weddings, a nice big cake, and the two of us actually getting to be what we're supposed to be." House rolled his eyes, and gave me a elbowed my stomach, sharply. "What, you don't like it?" He made a soft sound that was almost like a cry. "I am hurting you?" He shook his head. "Okay," I said, sighing a little. "Oh, hey, we need to have a little chat—about the wedding, or rather—afterwards. Do you—we need to decide if you want to keep your job or if you're gonna stay home, cook, clean, and take care of our kids," I mocked, reaching under the covers to tickle him. He laughed a little, but seemed like he was trying to pull away. So, I let him go.
"If anybody is going to be the woman, it's you. We—I…you're the cook. You're the one who cares about doing the dishes too. I used to eat off of paper plates and from takeout containers before you moved in and made me change." I smiled, blushed, and shrugged. I tried to get Greg to sleep, but he was too scared, or too nervous, or too uncomfortable to do so. He grumbled a lot, coming close to tears a few times, talking, and occasionally closing his eyes and "resting" for a few minutes. A few hours later, I needed something.
"I know that everybody's been bugging you ever since you got here, but I want you to do something for me. I mean, I would like you to. Please, try and wiggle your toes—for me?" He nodded, grunted, and the top half of his body got extremely tense. He struggled for a long time and eventually collapsed, exhausted. "I shouldn't have done that," I realized, like a moron. "I'm the only one who doesn't push you. Or I was, and now you can't trust me."
"Don't be an idiot, Jimmy. I did that because I desperately want to go home, but I know I can't do that until I either get better or until we find out that I'm never gonna walk or move anything below my waist again." I sighed, wishing I had an actual answer for him. "Don't bother trying to cheer me up. I know what you're gonna say. You're sure it's temporary, but you'll still love, standby, and take care of me if it isn't." I nodded, rubbing his shoulders. Greg let out another long sigh. "You really gonna let me throw one of my bachelor parties?"
"Maybe you can scale it back a little. I mean, uh—the last one was great, but if I hadn't moved in with you, I'd still be cleaning up my apartment. And I wasn't even the one getting married!"
"There's a reason for that," he explained, while he lifted, moved, and lowered his arm. "I was having some problems, and I think, subconsciously, I wanted you to notice, and…or maybe not. Didn't really think it was a seriously problem back then. None of that really matters now. Although, at Chase's all I did was hide in the bathroom by 'myself.'"
"I know. I was pretty drunk, but I do remember not being able to find you before everything gets all fuzzy. Wait a second I just remembered something—didn't you hide somewhere during the party you threw when Bonnie and I were getting married?" He blushed a little, and scrunched up his nose. "That one must have been tough for you."
"I thought…I was scared—I didn't realize it was gonna be such a disaster. Thought you liked her more than me. Thought you were like everybody else—that's why I kept telling you to dump her."
"I was miserable with Bonnie, and with Julie. You make me happy. How about we have the party and the two of us can hide in the bathroom together. Or, we save the money, buy a keg of beer, or a really expensive bottle of champagne, or whatever you want, and we hunker down some place quiet, and just—enjoy the pleasure of each other's company." I smiled, pressed the back of my hand against his cheek.
"You're such a pussy. I can't believe I agreed to this. Maybe we shouldn't get married." He was just messing with me, but I pretended to be afraid because I figured he wanted that reaction. "Well, maybe if you buy me a 72" flat screen…might consider—and stop tickling me!"
"No way," I teased, but let go of his stomach. "On the flat screen."
"Aw, come on. It's not that expensive. Probably cheaper than a diamond ring, and since there is no way in Hell that I might let you buy me an engagement ring—I just thought…" I laughed a little, patting him on the back. "What's the difference?"
"Well, if you were talking about engagement rings, you'd probably say that they are basically a way for a husband to be to let everyone know that he basically owns the wife to be. And to let them know she's officially off the market." He smiled which made me feel much better about his situation. If he could still smile, and laugh, and act like himself, then even the worst possible outcome wasn't as horrible as I had previously imagined.
"I promise you're gonna be alright. I can't promise that you'll get better but if you don't we're still going to find ways to make sure that nothing really changes between us. And we will find ways to—be intimate."
"I can't even sits up," he reminded me, as if I could forget. "Do you really think you can get me off?" I slid out from under his body, climbed off of the bed, and started to walk away. "Where are you going?" He sounded desperate.
"I gotta pee. Didn't think I needed to ask for permission." He made the saddest, most pathetic face I had ever seen, on him or anybody else. "I really need to go. What should I do, use your bedpan? Oh come on, Greg. 30 seconds, tops." He smiled, just the tiniest bit. I went to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth, soaked it with warm water, and came back with it. "We're gonna try a little something, okay," I suggested.
"A sponge bath?" House rolled his eyes. I ignored him, gently removing his gown, and pulled the privacy curtain around his bed. "Jimmy, don't—I…what are you doing? What are you gonna do?"
"Just relax" I whispered, "and tell me if I do anything that hurts, scares, or makes you uncomfortable." He nodded, but kept staring up at the TV at first. "Now I'm just gonna start by wrapping my hand around your—alright, alright I won't narrate, just stop making that face, might get stuck. Do you feel that or is this a complete waste of—oh, hello there. Looks like not every inch of you is paralyzed after all."
"Shut up," he groaned, leaning his shoulders and head back against me. I continued to rub, and twist, with the washcloth wrapped around but not completely covering the top of his cock, while my thumb reached up, rolling over the head, making small, deep circles. He moaned softly. "Can—can you do that thing with your tongue?" I smiled, but shook my head.
"Not right now. I wanna be able to hold you right now, okay?" He shrugged but closed his eyes, smiling huge, and he came, hard. "So what you think," I asked, and started to towel him clean. Then, I dried him off, helped him get dressed, and moved the curtain away.
"Jimmy, I know it's a really stupid question, but um—I think I might be able to sleep better if I had something besides this flimsy piece of crap on." I smiled, and reached under the bed, pulling out a small suitcase.
"I packed some PJs and clean underpants for you and a couple changes of clothes for myself, while the paramedics were wrecking your apartment. Here let me help you with that too." I pushed his feet into the legs of a pair of pajama bottoms, and then slid them up over the lower half of his body. "Much better, right?" He nodded, and drifted off within less than fifteen minutes. He stayed out from 1:00 until almost 10:00.
XX
On his first full day in the hospital, Greg had an MRI done, and it showed a small amount of swelling near part of his spine that controlled his legs. I thought the news would make him ecstatic. He was going to be alright. This was not one more horrible change he was going to need to learn how to deal with. Everything was going to be just fine. Instead, the news made him sad. It almost seemed like he was disappointed by it. "What is the matter with you," I asked, finally, around 2:00 PM. "I thought you'd be dancing on the ceiling by now."
"That one wasn't funny either," he pointed out. I apologized. "Eh, I'm used to it." He needs more time, I realized, suddenly. Let him talk it out. He'll get to the real reason eventually. Greg did exactly what I expected him to do. He told me all sorts of things none of it useful, only about half of it true. A little later, he came to the truth. "My leg doesn't hurt. I'm not used that, but…I—it's sort of nice. Not worth all the trouble, but I was starting to think I might be able to deal with this being permanent. Now, I know that the pain's coming back. Probably soon."
"I know. I understand just how much it's gotta suck to know that you have got to go back to that, but look on the bright side. At least you'll be able to walk again."
"Yeah," he spat, reaching for the TV remote. "But only if I'm going less than fifty feet at a time." He had a point. "Some great life to go back to." Greg shifted as best he could, dropping his head and closing his eyes, pretending to sleep.
"I'm here if and when you need to talk. Otherwise you're free to sulk and I'll do whatever you need or want." This caused his eyes to snap open and jaw to drop. "Didn't think I'd do that did you?" He shook his head. "I like to think I can tell the difference between when you need to be—pushed, I guess is the right word—and when I should pull back. Now's one of the latter. Am I right?" He nodded again, even relaxed a little, tilting his head back to look up at me. "Just say something, anything. Just a couple of words so I know you're still in there someplace," I begged after a while.
"Get bent," he growled. I made myself smile, so he'd relax. I said that was good enough. "Are you gonna let me get away with all kinds of crap now?" I smiled. "What?"
"Maybe—if something terrible happens, and you end up in more pain or you go blind from this or—when it starts to get really bad, then yeah. A few things probably are going to change when we get there. For now—you just haven't been through very much. You're no more pathetic now than you were before. If you want me to feel bad for you, tell me you're scared, or—uh…act pathetic. Make the pouty face—there. That look; that will make Cuddy promise you'll never have to do clinic duty again, and she'll keep her promise. Maybe try...crying always works, um…huh. I dunno. Can't think of anything else. There's probably other stuff, I'm just distracted." House pouted at me a few times but stayed quiet for most of the rest of the day. He finally got some more sleep, and while he was out, I rubbed his back and shoulders, over and over, whispering how much I loved him. He seemed a little more comfortable through the day, as if accepting the return of both his pain and the use off his legs. I kept him busy, telling him about the different things he could do for our wedding.
"You know what sucks? I can meet a woman today, got to any city in the world, and the two of us can get married, like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "But you and me. We can…we'll only be able to get a legally binding marrage in Massachusets, and even then all the other states still won't recognize it. Might as well have it done in Canada. Just as worthless."
"You're right. It's not fair. But that kind of stuff happens sometimes. You and I will be together forever, no matter what. A marriage is just a symbol of that. I'm not planning to marry you for insurance purposes, or to get a couple blenders and a new iPhone. I love you, and I want everyone to know it. Aside from getting a billboard in Times Square, this is the best way I can think of to do that." I tightened my hug. "That doesn't bother you, does it?" Greg shook his head. "Are you sure you actually wanna go ahead with this? You never really—I didn't think I would ever get you to agree to it." He shrugged. "Don't do that. This is important. If I push too hard, make you do this when you aren't ready, I will lose you, like we talked about last night."
"I never would have said yes I you had asked me before. Never would of done—I'm getting better at talking to you, starting to realize I can actually tell you stuff and not hafta worry that you're gonna tell everyone, or uh—whatever stupid stuff I used to think would happen." Of course he knew exactly how he used to believe I'd react to his secrets, but he wasn't ready for me to know it just yet. So, I let him slide. "You really wanna do this stuff?"
"Of course I do. I don't take marriage lightly, as difficult as that may be to believe." He laughed, like I knew he would. Then, his eyes looked back up at mine. I stared into those icy blue depths for what felt like hours. Finally, he broke the gaze and the silence.
"Okay," he said at last. "You're not lying. Not about wanting to stick with me. Although, you probably wanted to stay with all your wives. Speaking of which, if we get married, I'm the man."
"First of, we're both men, and second, I already told you. I only married Bonnie and Julie because I knew they were short term projects, people I could take care of while I waited for you to be ready to be my main—my main love."
"You almost called me a project," he smirked, mostly to cover up his fear, discomfort, and concern. He wasn't sure if he should be bothered by that, if it was a horrible, terrifying thing or not.
"I think of a person as a skyscraper. You need a strong foundation—the ability to trust and love, stuff like that. I know that face. I'm terrible at this. I get it, but don't interrupt. Then there's the frame—uh...I dunno where exactly all the emotional stuff fits, but uh—um. After that, we put up walls, then a roof, then carpeting, wall papers, fancy stuff. Then—and this part I do know—you furnish it, friends, family, a job, hobbies, skills…relationships, you get the point don't you?" I braced myself for another verbal assault, followed by his real response. Insulting anything that came out of anyone's mouth was a reflex. He couldn't control it anymore than he could stop himself from vomiting if someone had shoved their finger down his throat. I prided myself on being the only person who knew and understood this. I tried hard not to judge, yell at, or lecture him for it, because it was like yelling an infant for crying.
"That was the worst metaphor I ever heard, and I used to be Chase's and Cameron's boss!" Then, he took a moment, sighed, and looked at me oddly, almost like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how. I kissed the top of his head. "You really think I could be a solid skyscraper?" I smiled, ready with the exact sort of comeback he would love.
"Well, maybe not a skyscraper, but a duplex, or a small apartment building isn't out of the question." He only smiled because he knew he was supposed to. "You'll never be able to be perfect. We're only shooting for normal, but you should know…we might fall short. I won't let you get too far off. You'll be fine, healthy enough to be alone overnight when I need to work, and not feel the need to call me and insist I come home to talk about your latest let down, nightmare, flashback, or whatever, okay? I mean, uh—how does that sound?" He shrugged. "Would you like to not need to take ten Vicodin at the end of the day just to be able to sleep for an hour or two a night?"
"Oh please, I don't take ten Vicodin at once! At the very most, on my worst night ever, I only take eight, maybe nine." He cracked another tiny smile, but once again, he didn't mean it. I carefully hugged him, pulling his body back a little so I could look him in the eyes. Greg shrugged uncomfortably. "You still okay—I mean, do you still wanna marry me?" I smiled, huge and nodded. "And people think I'm crazy!"
"Do you think you could maybe try and wiggle your toes or me again?" House looked at me intensely for a little more than a minute and then shook his head. "No you can't try or you're trying and it isn't working?" No response. "Does your leg hurt? At least there's that right." He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. "Sorry, I suck at this, but you're sick and you need me to be better. So I'll get better. I love you, and I'm willing to do anything for you. But you're still pretending to be asleep, which means I gotta try something else," I explained. House pretended to snore. "I will marry you and you are the last one. Got it?" This tiny, little—real—smile appeared on his face, and shortly after that he really did sleep.
XX
Dr. White came by the next morning, to discuss 'the situation,' as he called it. He said this, "We put you on a different steroid because of the GI issues you were having with the Solu-Medrol." He said we as if anyone other than him were responsible for our current situation. "I think you're experiencing one off the less common side effects. Shouldn't be too much of a problem though. We'll get this cleared up real quick though." Even I wanted to beat the crap out of him. He hadn't even bothered to mention this when he'd told us about the great new steroid. He talked to us like we were a couple of morons, and to top everything off he was making this seem like it wasn't a big deal. Usually, House would have been furious but he was stunned. So, I yelled at the doctor for him.
"You think? He can't walk! He can't walk! We're both doctors; don't you think we could figure that one out on our own? I'm not sure if he'll continue being your patient after this but if he does, and you somehow manage to make a mistake with his meds again, we'll not only stop coming to see you, but we will go on every message board, and to every conference, and tell every one and anyone who will listen just how big of a screw up you really are. Got that, you incompetent quack?" I couldn't tell which of them was more surprised by my reaction. White looked like he was going to wet himself. Greg almost seemed happy or grateful, like I had done him a favor. "I'm sorry for the outburst, but you're supposed to be helping him and you're just making everything worse!" House put his right hand on my elbow and his left on my thigh, in an attempt to calm me down. "I could do this better than you." Dr. White stared at us for a long time, making certain that we didn't want to insult or threaten him anymore. Then, he raced out of the room nervously.
"Jimmy, you're an oncologist," Greg said firmly. "When I get cancer, you can be my primary doctor. But you are not a neurologist. Which means you can't be my neurologist. Although, that doesn't mean we hafta keep going back to Dr. Moron; just that it can't be you."
"You're right. I'm sorry, that was... nevermind. I' gonna—I'll…that—how are you feeling today?" He smiled weakly, moving his hands to my face and turning my head so I was looking at his feet instead of his eyes. He moved his toes back and forth, and then rotated each ankle in little circles for a good thirty seconds. After that, he collapsed in my arms, tired and sweaty. He was getting better but it was slow going. The steroids weren't completely out of his system but the swelling was going down. He might have been able to move his whole leg had he wanted too, but at this point any movement at all seemed like a miracle.
"Wow," I whispered, kissing his temples. "I think we need a new neurologist. Do you?" He shrugged. The rest of that day was pretty slow. We talked, watched TV, ate, and went to bed around midnight.
The next day was spent watching TV, talking about everything from monster trucks—there was a show in less than a week, and he wanted to go but was afraid that he might not make it—to the weddings, to paitents, to food, to Cuddy, to hospital gossip, and playing video games. I managed to keep him from spending all his time on the Internet researching MS but he was getting more and more bored by the minute. I decided to create a distraction for him. Half way through General Hospital, I paged his team, current and former, to his office and told him I had some paperwork to do. He shushed me.
Once I explained that there was no case, Taub left and Chase and Foreman only stayed because their girls were doing the same. "It's House," I told them. 'He's fine…well nothing too bad is happening. He's starting to get better. Turns out he had a bad reaction to a new medication. But he's going to be here a few more days, and he's really bored."
"He's always bored," Chase whined, like a five-year-old.
"If you're not going to be helpful, why did you volunteer," Alison retorted. He shrugged, and made the puppy dog face. She didn't react, and he gave up on trying to get sympathy. "So, what did you want us to do?"
"Has anyone had any interesting cases, lately or not lately? Even an idea for a really good case, one he'd like to see would work. We can't share people's personal information with him, but I had this idea for a game. We'll fill out forms with some background information, and the symptoms. He's allowed to choose a handful of tests and we give him the results. It's like any other case only there's no actual person. You don't have to play it with him; I'll take care of that. Just make up intake forms, "lab results" and stuff. Even if they're written on printer paper and don't look completely real…it doesn't have to be painstakingly complicated. Tox results could say "Paitent A tox screen: negative for all drugs." Or whatever. And the more cases we can put together, the longer he'll be entertained."
"He's going to know this is a game, right? Because if he thinks this is real, and we—he won't be—he'll get mad." That seemed to be the only concern for Robert. Eric was already intrigued, and went right to work, thinking carefully.
"Yeah, of course," I said, chuckling. "And—obviously, we shouldn't use patients whose cases he worked on because he'll probably remember. Playing Clue when you've peaked in the envelope is pretty much pointless." I couldn't really think of anything, and I watched from the doorway. I wanted to stay and watch, make sure everything was working, but I was also worried about leaving Greg alone for too long. After whispering something to Chase, Cameron got up, walked over, and gave me a little hug.
"Do you want me to go and sit with him for a while so you can take a nap? It's not like you can help us with this." I nodded, and started down the hall. "You need to get some rest," she called after me, "or you'll need to be hospitalized yourself. What's going to happen to him then?" I gave her the finger and returned to Greg's room where he was making his way back to the bed, on his own, but leaning heavily against the IV pole, pretty much dragging himself along, as if on crutches.
"Where'd you go," he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. I told him about the game, figuring there was no point in lying, or hiding it. "That's a stupid idea," he moaned, falling onto the bed, in almost the exact right way. "These aren't cases I worked on are they?" I told him the whole story. "Maybe it'll help kill some time." I smiled, and gently brought his hand to my lips, kissing it softly. "I wanna go home."
"I'm working on it, Buddy." I tried to kiss his arm again, but he pulled away. I let him. "I'm also looking into a new doctor, doing a lot of research. Uh, would you mind driving all the way to New York, if I could find someone really good?" He shrugged, closing his eyes, and trying to cuddle with me. "Do you want me to not be involved in the search? You can pick somebody—do the research yourself, find the best neurologist on your own, if that's what you want to, you know," I stammered.
"We're still getting married, right?" I nodded, and gave him a soft kiss on the temple. "Then we're a real couple, or whatever people in our situation are. We are supposed to work together, make decisions with each other, stuff like that, right?" I smiled. Attaboy, I thought."You do the hard, boring work. Narrow it down to five, or two, or three, or four, or a couple of choices. Tell me about them. Help me pick. I don't care if we hafta move to California. I need the best doctor for me, and White isn't it. I wanna—I would like or us to have a good, long, healthy life together."
"That is exactly what I want." Greg gave me a gentle shove, chuckling, and the two of us had a little play fight. We were still laughing when the ducklings showed up with his new game. House was laughing. House was smiling. He was still sick, but he was getting better.
