AN: this was getting long so I cut it off before I got to the end of the honeymoon. More coming soon.
We decided to get married in the spring so—hopefully—there wouldn't be any snow, or ice, or anything else that might make it difficult for Greg to get around. He agreed to skip the bachelor party but it wasn't because he didn't want one. He was so sick he could barely get off the bathroom floor.
House had been having digestive issues on and off ever since he was diagnosed, but they got increasingly more (and occasionally decreasingly) severe about two months before the wedding. Our neurologist had him try doubling on his antacid first, and then asked him to try eating blander food (which I lovingly prepared for both of us) and finally—at my insistence—started him on a new medication for his stomach. I heard about it from somebody on one of the MS "support group" message boards I frequented. My first post about his intestinal difficulties was received well, but the suggestions were less than helpful. Several people swore that vegetarian or macrobiotic diets had cured their troubles. A few others gave tips on the best ways to take the medications, i.e. with food for some, empty stomach for others, morning for a few pills, this one will make you tired so take it before bed, stuff like that. A couple more suggested over the counter drugs, herbal supplements, and/ or prescription meds that helped them. House was willing to try all of it (eventually) but none of the posts had any information that helped him. Then we found DaBearsGuy84 post on the morning of an appointment with Dr. Stern. It was a rave review of some new prescription strength antacid. Unfortunately, when I told Greg about this, his reaction was less than enthusiastic.
"What do you mean by new," he asked.
"It's only been available in the US for about six months," I told him, truthfully.
"Did you research this wonder drug or are we taking he dopey jock's word for it?" It's been around in Canada and Europe for years, I thought.
"I was just about to do an Internet search but you woke up and I didn't know if you were crying because you were hungry, or scared, or if you needed your diaper changed, or just for the attention. Had I known taking care of you was gonna be this hard, I would of had an abortion." He laughed, hard.
Stern shared House's concerns. He told us he too needed to do more research before prescribing a drug he'd never heard of. I then proceeded to call him twice a day every day over the next three weeks. House wasn't getting any better and I couldn't stand to watch my baby suffer. I refused to go easy on the poor doctor—even though I knew he was probably twice as busy as me—until he finally agreed the drug was worth trying. He finally wrote Greg a prescription on the morning of the day before the wedding ceremony.
That night he seemed well enough to be able to eat something besides chicken soup or saltines and keep it down. He went to bed with me some time around 9:45—that's how sick he'd been feeling—and he slept well on and off until the alarm went off in the morning. I got out of bed before he did, shaved, showered, washed and blow dried my hair, and put my shirt, underpants and my pants. Then, I knelt beside him, and kissed his forehead, gently smoothing his hair back.
"Good morning," I whispered as he finally opened his eyes. "So, are we getting married today or are you gonna run away and leave me forever?" House wrinkled his forehead, as if thinking it over. "God, you're an ass!" He smiled huge, grabbing onto me, and stood up, heading towards the bathroom. He got ready, even shaving. Although, he only agreed to do that because I did buy him—us—the flat screen as an engagement present. We'd decided to go with a short visit to a courthouse this time, as I had had more than enough of the big, boring, over crowed wedding, and because House didn't want it either. Blythe agreed to be our witness at the ceremony. Then Greg and I would jet off to Honolulu for two weeks of "fun in the sun."
XX
I'd wanted to go to Hawaii on each of my previous honeymoons but it had never worked out. Sam had her heart set on a resort in Cancun, where we were assured that they purified the tap water in the hotel. "It's perfectly safe, no worry," the owner told us. She and I spent the whole trip sick as dogs and arguing over who got the toilet, when, and for how long. The loser—always me—had to use the public restroom in the lobby. My second wedding was followed by a trip to a spa where Bonnie and I were together only at dinner and in bed—and most of that tie she was sleeping thanks to the Valium she took every night—and my third…at least Julie tried to compromise. Neither of us liked the place the other wanted so we found this dude ranch, which was actually quite fun. We spent 9 days there, and I loved every minute of it. Until I fell off a horse on the 6th day, and broke my wrist. It wasn't as bad as it could have been though. She didn't abandon me to sit by myself and watch the other guests having fun. Julie agreed to stay away from the horses since I couldn't ride, and sort of took care of me; she even helped me cut and eat my food.
So, I was pretty excited when I told Greg I wanted to go to Hawaii, and he said it sounded great him. Okay, his exact words were, "I'll go anywhere as long as you don't try to get me pregnant; I am so not ready to be a mom yet." Then, he chuckled and kissed my forehead. "I like that idea, Baby," he did admit. "Oh, one more rule, no SCUBA diving or swimming with sharks or whatever." I allowed myself to smile. Glad to see I was all right with it, he went on to make fun of me for the next fifteen minutes, mostly because I was foolish enough to tell him about my bad honeymoon experiences.
XX
"House," I called from the bedroom. "Are you gonna want a little something to eat before we leave? Your mom is taking us out after but they might not get to us until 12:30—1:00. Later if things are busy." Blythe had been extremely supportive, once the initial shock of the gay thing wore off—which was quickly—but my parents were less wonderful. They didn't disown me, or scream, "you're going to Hell," or anything. They were glad to hear I was finally happy, however, they also said they would not go to House and my wedding. When Greg told his mother about this, I thought he was being mean but it actually turned out to be an extraordinary gesture of niceness. She was the best mother-in-law I'd ever had. By a lot. She was kind, and understating; she even offered to do anything we needed to help with the wedding. She also said she loved me for making Greg happy, and was beyond supportive, enough to more than make up for what my own mother and father's lack of interest and support.
"Jimmy," he sniffed, returning to the room and standing before me. "I think something is wrong." His eyes were huge, and filled with pain and anxiety. "It's my feet..." I grabbed his hand, gently pulling his body down onto the bed, and held him in my lap. My hand automatically reached for the phone to call Dr. Stern. "My feet, they feel like they're standing on a block of ice," he whimpered. I was dumbfounded. My mind went completely blank. I couldn't for the life of me remember what (if anything) caused a cold sensation in a person's feet. Wait, my anxiety-riddled brain realized. Cold feeling feet…cold feet! He saw the realization wash over my face, howled with laughter, and fell back on the mattress, knocking me over with him like a couple dominoes.
"I am going to strangle you," I swore, wrapping my arms across his chest and locking my legs around his hips. "Or duct tape your testicles to your leg." This only made him laugh more uproariously. "If you want or need to back out of this for some reason, now is pretty much your last chance." He shook his head. "Anything you need to do, or would like to do? Strip club, hooker, hot girl at a bar who might be in for a threesome?"
"The only reason I wanted a bachelor party was so I could have sex one last time as a free man. I mean, sex with somebody other than you. If it happened before the wedding it's just a mistake. After the wedding, it's an affair, which—even in your playbook—is a definite foul. But I realized, on one of the many nights when you were sitting at my side while I barfed everywhere, and washing my face and stuff, that I don't ever want to be with anyone else, not ever again."
"Wow," I exclaimed, kissing his neck softly. "I feel the same way, House," I whispered. "And I know it's hard for you to believe but that's the truth…now, if it were you and me and someone else," I let my voice trail off. He nodded in agreement. "I didn't feel this way about any of my wives. Even on the day of the wedding, I'd find myself looking at other women, wanting them…you understand right?"
"I understand that you're a perverted, horny bastard," he giggled. I tickled Greg mercilessly; continuing with my crappy, fake wrestling hold. "I hafta pee and if you don't stop that; there's no guarantee I won't do it in the bed and on your suit," he told me, and snickered when I let him up. "We should definitely get something to eat. This damn wedding thing could easily take all day."
"You know, I was gonna offer to help you get your rocks off this morning but if you're gonna be a little bitch about it, you're on your own, House." I giggled a little, hoping he'd be proud of my use of slang.
"I figured you'd like me more if I acted like a bitch," he retorted. "Sorry." I swore it was okay. A minute went by. He flushed the toilet, and came back to me. "I know it's stupid and pathetic and I shouldn't even ask, but I gotta know. If you could pick between Amber and me…"
"Hey, Greg," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his body, and swaying a little. "I love you. I have always loved you, and if I had to pick, it would be Gregory House. No contest. Now come on; this is our wedding day. Yours and mine. We're gonna be happy. It's gonna be great, and we are going to go on the best honeymoon ever. I got us a very nice suite, in a fancy, but not too prissy, hotel. So, if the MS flairs up, we can stay in our room and screw like rabbits, order room service, and prank call every room in the building. Alright?" He nodded, and let me help him get dressed, so we could get moving.
"I don't know what's wrong with me today. I just feel kind of sad, and a little nauseated. That's pretty normal though. It's not nerves 'cause of the wedding. I wanna get married to you. I trust you to be my husband and to take care of me but I…I don't know. My leg is a little more sore than usual," he finally admitted and begrudgingly took the extra pain pill I gave him.
We had a small breakfast (dry toast and coffee for him, herbal tea and a scone for me) in the hotel's coffee shop and then a taxi drove us to city hall. He was pretty well behaved all day. Of course, I kept him preoccupied with games and gossip. We were done with the ceremony around 4:00, and—after a shower and a change of clothes at the hotel—were just on time for an early dinner with my new mother in law.
Greg made fun of the other couples who were having their weddings, and everyone else, both gay and straight, pointing out the "Uggos" and betting with me over who would sire the most hideous children. Strangely though, this was all in whispers. House was always a boisterous person. Now, he was practically silent, while he sat on a bench and rubbed his leg and (rarely) stood up to pace a little. He was quiet at dinner too, as though he was expecting something to go wrong.
"Are we bothering you, dearest," I asked, gently poking him with the side of my arm. Greg elbowed me back, smiling just a tiny little bit. I chuckled, hugging him happily, without getting out of my seat.
"I'm not bored. I just don't know how to converse with humans. At least when it's just you and me there's some overlap, but I can't pretend to know what the right ting to say is in 90% of my conversations with anyone else." I sighed, kissing him on the temple.
"Is the food okay," I asked, looking down at his mostly untouched dinner. "Or should we stop for some fast food burgers and fries on the way back to the hotel?" He forced a tiny grin.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy. I'll eat more. It just—my stomach is getting better but I'm not a hundred percent yet. Plus I'm a little terrified we're gonna wake up in Hawaii, one morning, and I'll be blind or something," he whispered. He clearly didn't want to upset his mother who loved her son and hated that her child was sick.
"Isn't a worsening of your condition getting always going to be a possibility no matter where you go or what you do," Blythe asked, grabbing his plate and pulling it off to the side. "And don't force yourself to eat just because I'm watching. James told me you've been having tummy troubles."
"Sounds like something he'd say," he mocked. "Yeah but at least my doctor is close by when I'm at home and I know the hospitals are decent even in up here. Only reason I'm not refusing to go flat out is because Wilson needs to and I want him to be happy. I'm also looking forward to having some fun." Blythe stood up, walked around the table, and hugged her son.
"Are you going to be happy in Hawaii?" He nodded, looking up into her eyes. "Then, go. Have fun. If something is going to happen, it's better you have to experience it after a great day on the beach, than if you had sat around your apartment moping for the past 48 hours, right?" Greg smirked a little, said yes, and did all he could to be better company the rest of the night, although I think the bottle of champagne we shared had more to do with him opening up than anything I (or his mom) did. We went back to the hotel room, and he curled up in bed beside me in bed.
"We don't have to make love," I said, pulling away as he started to kiss me. "I want to, naturally. I'm a man. So, as you know, I'm pretty much always in the mood. But you seem a little…uneasy. I don't wanna hurt you in—don't look at me like that," I started to say but he cut me off with another kiss, climbing on top of me, and ripping my shirt open. "Say it Greg. Tell me out loud that you are okay with it, or one of us is sleeping on the couch."
He looked down at me nervously and said, "What happens if I tell you I can't…at least, not right now?" I touched his hair softly. "Because you've got a little problem that needs taking care of."
"Not that little," I whined pathetically. Greg looked away. "Relax. I'll go to the bathroom, make my "little problem" disappear, and then we can go to sleep and—well, we have a really early flight tomorrow—and I figured we'd sleep some more on the plane; so I got us seats up in first class…you know, the kind that recline all the way back, and come with free slippers—and I thought we could maybe join the mile high club or something. Hmm?"
"You're an idiot. Who talks like that?" I chuckled, kissing his head. Then, I got up. When I came back, he was taking his bedtime medications, already fully dressed in his pajamas, and warm fuzzy socks. "I might feel better after I get some sleep. We have a layover in California. Gotta at least try and make it live up to the name right?" I smiled, giving him a gentle tickle. "Can I get like a Ginger ale and maybe a candy bar or uh…cheese and peanut butter crackers," he almost begged. Eating right before bed seemed to help too. I nodded, and got him the snacks from the vending machines. He ate it. We made out a little more, and when Greg fell asleep beside me, smiling huge, I didn't even mind that we hadn't consummated the married just yet. I knew it was soon in coming and Greg House was on the road to happiness. What else could I ask for?
XX
When the alarm clock went off the next morning, House was far from happy. He groaned, rolled on to his side, and tried to push me out of bed. "Come on sweetie," I instructed. "The sooner we get up, the sooner we can get to the airport, and the less we need to rush once we're there. And we are going to need a lot of extra time. I'm checking through a couple of bags, mostly extra medical supplies. But you already know that."
"I don't suppose we have time to do it, do we," he asked, yawning.
"No, but if you're awake enough for sex, you're awake enough to get that fine ass of yours out of bed." He smiled, pretended to punch me, and climbed off of the mattress. "We might have time for a quickie in the shower if you are feeling—and please forgive me for speaking this way—up for it."
"That's the worst pun I have ever heard," he taunted, peeling his pajamas off, and throwing them at me. "Pack these and meet me in the bathroom." Our marriage was officially consummated a little more than 14 hours after we became husbands. Then we got to the airport boarded a plane, and took off, all without incident. House slept through the entire first flight. Then, he picked at some greasy airport food, and finished almost half of the box of chocolates I bought from an LAX gift shop and forced him to swallow. "You do realize there's food in Hawaii, right," he asked. "Good food. Fresh food, food that doesn't make my stomach do back flips."
"Touché. Only problem is that we don't land in Hawaii for another eight hours, and it'll most likely be another two or three before we get out of the airport, rent a car, check into our hotel check, and finally go find ourselves some of that food. So, let me have one of those mint ones—what are you doing? You don't even like mint—oh yeah, real mature," I muttered as he licked my chocolate. "Unfortunately, that's not going to stop me from eating it," I explained, grabbing the candy, and gobbling it up. He smiled, touching my arm.
"I gotta go to the bathroom, wanna come with? It'll add to your girlish personality. They do that in pairs you know."
"What's the matter, scared you can't reach the big boy potty on your own?" I think that couple at the table next to ours heard me, because the blond one gave us a dirty look. "And who exactly is going to watch our carry ons?"
"Have you ever been inside the cripple stall at one of these places? They're huge. Loads of room for you and me and my backpack and Dr. Jimmy's magical bag of medical wonders. Besides L.A. is famous for their bathrooms full of fags doing it." More angry glaring from our nearby tables. This time it was from the parents of a boy (approximately seven-years-old) who was most likely asking them what fags were. I grabbed my suitcase, slipped my arm around Greg's waist, as we walked to the restroom, pretending he needed to lean against me in order to walk. Once we got into the stall, we hung our bags over the hook on the door. I looked around, trying to decide what was the bigger threat, the possibility of getting caught (not that we were doing anything illegal or even-technically—wrong) or the millions of germs that might buffet on House's steroid-compromised immune system.
"This place is disgusting," I complained. "If you put your hand on the wall or the floor, or anything, it's like begging for a virus or a massive infection." His laser eyes bore into me, sadly. I sighed and stepped closer to the guy, ran hands through his hair, then pulled his face to mine, and kissing him deeply.
"I know," he said, sly-smiling, and popping a couple Vicodin. "That's why I'm not gonna touch anything except for you." I had a pretty good idea where he might be going with this.
"So I have to touch the wall?" Greg nodded, slipping his hands into the pockets of my jeans. "Oh, Greg—I—I can't." More neon sadness. Damn he's good. "I just wished I had some gloves with me." Luckily, or unfortunately (depending on who you ask) someone called our names over the loudspeaker at that exact moment, and we had to leave the bathroom. By the time we finished dealing with the gate agent, it was time to board the plane. "Don't worry, I have a really big fleece blanket in my bag of "medical wonders." After takeoff, you can lean your seat all the way back, curl up under the blanket, and wait for me to join you," I suggested, leaning close so I could blow in his ear, our bodies pressing against each other. House bucked ups hips a little, grinding into me. "I bet these seats are covered in almost as many bodily fluids as the bathroom walls. Your dream come true."
"I wanna have sex with my husband," he moaned, making the sad face at me. "Right now." So do I, I thought, squeezing his hand. As soon as we were in the air, I did exactly what I'd promised. We both crawled under the blanket, leaning down in his seat. Greg gently pulled my pants down, unzipped his, and slipped his cock inside of me. He rocked his hips back and forth, slamming into my body over and over, while one of his hands rubbed, squeezed, tugged, and rolled all across my throbbing manhood. We kissed. A lot. And after we both came, I put him back into his pants, and started moving to my own seat. "Wait, Jimmy," he said, grabbing my arm. "Didn't sleep well last night…stay close…'til I…fall…" And with one last yawn, he drifted off to dreamland, where he spent the majority of the flight.
The plane landed at 6:15 PM local time, but we had to wait for everyone else to deboard before the flight attendant brought this mini seat on wheels to us. They strapped him to it, and House was rolled off the plane, and onto the jet bridge, where a wheelchair was waiting. He didn't technically need the thing to get around, but I'd done some research and discovered that this particular airport was huge. He would have needed to walk close to a mile from our gate to the car rental place, which even in ideal conditions would take hours. I got the car, and drove to the hotel. We checked in and put our stuff in the room, without putting anything away. Then, we returned to the lobby where I asked the concierge where a good place to eat was, preferably somewhere nearby. He gave us a map of the area with three restaurants circled, and a few details on each.
"You wanna go to the romantic place, the fish place, or the sleazy looking bar and grill," I asked Greg, giving him a little nudge. "That last one might be more like what you're accustomed to." He laughed, trying to shove me back. House ended up picking the "romantic" spot, although it turned out to be not nearly as private as I had hoped. A girl with silky black hair kept coming by and refilling our water glasses, telling us what she would pick if she were eating here, and even sitting down at the table with us when she took our order. House thought she was coming on to one of us—he said me, most likely—but I insisted it was just friendliness. "Not that I blame you for misinterpreting. That shirt is quite risqué." I was called a fag yet again. "Takes one to know one." The woman was wearing a hand-tailored Hawaiian shirt, sleeveless and midriff bearing, with a plunging neckline.
"This place is like Hawaiian Hooters! That Chick is not wearing a bra—though I'm pretty sure those are implants. If you can get her to bounce up and down, or let you touch 'em we can know for sure," he giggled. My hand slid under the table, but my eyes stayed trained on his. I unbuttoned his jeans, sliding my palm around on the fabric, teasing him. "Jimmy," he whimpered. I pushed down on his hips.
"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you," I promised, taking a quick look around to make sure nobody could see, and slipped my fingers into his boxers. "She is a definite 10, though," I confessed, afterwards. Even post-coital, with eyes rolled back in his head, he had to argue.
"Nah—six and a half, seven tops," my husband corrected. I wiped my hand on my napkin, and—feeling like a total pervert—stuffed it in a hole in the padded booth.
"Yeah, well, you're a tough judge. I doubt you'd rank me a four." Our dinners arrived but House just smiled and tried to look down her shirt. "We've been married for less than 24 hours and you're already scoping out the competition?" House laughed and started to eat. "You even gonna try and reassure me, baby?" House wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed me deeply.
"For the record," he insisted, "You are no four. I'd say, 'oh Jimmy I think you're a ten,' but you'd know it was a lie. There are no tens...Mmm, hey try some of this. It's really good." He feed me a forkful of some coconut shrimp thing.
"Yummy," I moaned, squeezing his hand. "By the way; you're a seven and a half in my eyes Greg. If you were a tiny bit kinder and took better care of yourself, you know—shave, shower and brush your hair and teeth more regularly—you'd be an eight." House gave me the "who me"look and I smiled. "It's your eyes. You have the most amazingly beautiful eyes I have ever seen on anyone. Plus you've got a huge cock."
"Yours isn't as big but you really know how to use it and—I know I kind of tease you for it but I always liked your super smooth skin and pretty, girlie hair. Plus, the baby face. Girls and queers always love the baby face," he explained. "If I say nine will you still think I'm being patronizing?" I wanted to say no for him, but couldn't and he could tell. "Eight. Maybe 8.5 depending on how much primping you've done." We both laughed but seemed satisfied with each other's analyses, and shared some chocolate thing for dessert. Then, we went back to our hotel and did it. Twice.
"I think I'm turning into a bunny rabbit," I teased. He smiled blissfully and we fell asleep in each other's arms, on the first official night of our honeymoon
We spent the next two days screwing, lounging around on the beach, drinking, shopping (only a little and at my insistence), and eating. Each night, we'd curl up together and go to bed. He was actually sleeping pretty well, considering the climate change, all the flying, and the stress both of him being sick and all the planning and everything that led up to our wedding. He was doing great
…Or so I thought.
XX
On our fourth night in Honolulu, I woke up around 2:00 because I had to go to the bathroom, and realized my bed was empty. Greg was no longer beside me. Our suit was pretty big, so it wasn't as easy as looking across the room to find him. We had a bedroom, which was almost as big as the one in our apartment, a tiny kitchen with a stove, refrigerator, and microwave, a bathroom, and a combination living room/ dining room area with a giant plasma screen TV. I found my husband laying awake and watching a practically muted television in the last section of our "hotel room." He was rubbing his leg and repeating the words "damn it, move, stupid piece of shit," to himself over and over. "I can hear you crying from all the way over here, Wilson. Might as well do something."
"How long has this been going on," I asked, sitting beside him, wrapping my arms around his body, and holding him as tightly as I could. The guy made sad eyes at me once again. "Have you slept at all since we got married?"
"First two nights here it was fine. Before we left I was good too. Then, around 3:00 last night, I woke up and my knee was all stiff and aching. So, I got out of bed, paced, and stretched, and it went pretty away but I was still a little uncomfortable so I took some extra Vicodin—okay, four extra pills—and passed out. But it's not getting better now." I nodded and stood up to start pacing myself.
"And now you can't move your leg at all?" He shook his head. "The knee won't bend?" I thought he might actually cry. Please, I thought, he can't be getting worse. Not now. This is our honeymoon!
"I can move it a little bit but the more I bend or move, the more it hurts…aches. Maybe it's just the combo of the steroids and the humidity," he suggested but I could hear the doubt in his voice.
"I know you're trying to think positively, and I really hope that is what's wrong but it's hard for me to believe that you weren't sitting on the sofa, obsessing over the worst case scenarios." He shrugged. "Would it cheer you up a little if we played doctor?" A tiny nod. "Now I'm just checking, this is real 'doctor' not sexy doctor?" I think he knew I was just teasing but he still seemed upset by this joke, mad even. "When you're less freaked out we can go back to the fun games, right?"
"And people say I have a one track mind," he said, rubbing his head against my neck, the way I like. "Make me better. Then we can do it. Hopefully a lot of it."
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear, Husband." He smiled weakly. "You might wanna swallow a couple pills, this might hurt," I suggested but Greg refused. "You've already had what you think is a few too many?" He shook his head and I believed him. "I've already—and I can't believe I'm saying this—completed more sexual acts than on any one of my other individual honeymoons, but I would like to have the total be higher than all of the previous three put together."
"You calm me down about my leg being all stiff and swollen feeling, maybe even cure whatever's wrong with it, or start me on the meds I'll need, if the MS is getting worse, and I'll do whatever you want." I almost questioned this but added. "I want all the same things you do. Just figure this out first. Please?" I had planned for every possible contingency, and brought meds we probably wouldn't need to treat them if something should pop up.
I nodded, smiled, kissed his head, stretched him out on his back, and went to work on my examination. I looked at his leg, checking for obvious injuries, or a rash, or anything else that even he could have overlooked. Then, I massaged every one of his muscles, working from toe to hip, and finally lifted his leg up, bending it at the knee, and tested his range of motion, the whole time, asking him questions. "Does it hurt," "Can you describe the pain," "Are you experiencing any other symptoms, related to the stiffness or not?" etc. He just lay there and watched.
"Well, I don't see anything…nothing which could be symptomatic of the MS progressing, or the steroids causing serious inflammation and swelling. I don't think this is like last time and since it's not as bad as it was the then, I'm guessing that the reason your joints are stiff is because it's so humid and you're on steroids. That even explains why you were able to walk it off last night but not now. It was much more hot and muggy today than yesterday. Agreed?" Greg nodded.
"So what do you prescribe, Dr. Feelgood," he taunted. I kissed his forehead again, and helped him sit up so we could cuddle. "Stop procrastinating," he grumbled.
"First I'm gonna take some of the food from our fridge and make you and me a little snack. Next, you are going to eat it, and you are going to have a glass of warm milk." House made a gagging sound. "It's not that bad, especially with the extra Vicodin you're going to take now. Then, the two of us will to lie down in our bed, where I will hold you. If you sleep, I sleep. If not, I'm sure we can find something else to do." He relaxed a little in my arms. "I guess I'll have to cancel the 12 mile hike we have scheduled for this afternoon, huh?" He flashed me a weak smile. "We'll see where we are in a couple hours before we decide if we're leaving the room today, alright?" He nodded and I slid my arm around his back, letting the guy lean against me as we stood up together.
"It's probably what you said. I read about something like this on one of my message boards a while back." Even though he technically could bend his knee (a little) and walk, the guy was creeping along like a snail, and every movement of his leg seemed even more painful than usual.
"Do you wanna go back to the couch? It's far though… Can you stand here while I run and grab a chair?" Greg gave me a dirty look. "Okay, we'll get you to the kitchen," I said, and I couldn't help noticing how everything in him was invested in moving his body this tiny distance. 10 feet and it was killing him. Eventually it's going to be like that all the time. The thought flashed into my mind but I pushed it away to deal with later. He wasn't getting worse. Not right now. This was not the MS progressing and until it did, there was no reason for me to worry about what might or might not happen in the future.
When I finally got him sitting down, he held onto me, sort of crying softly. "I'm gonna get your pills before we eat or do anything else, okay?" He nodded, but refused to let me go. "How long have you been awake tonight? You can't walk. Like at all." House sat, silently rubbing his chin while I got his pills and then started on some sandwiches.
"It's been about an hour since I realized I wasn't gonna be able to get off the sofa unassisted. Before that, didn't seem so bad. I made it to the couch fine. So…" He took out five Vicodin, put two back, swallowed the remaining three, and stared at the bottle for a full minute, just contemplating. Then he grabbed a fourth pill, and popped it. "Can you heat up the sliced turkey in the microwave for a few seconds? Tastes really good that way." I did.
"And for future reference, husband of mine—your health and well being are far more important to me than anything else in the world, especially something as unimportant as where we are at any given moment. When I'm with you, I am happy. Even if I'm sitting on the bathroom floor holding you while you vomit. So, from now on, I don't care how insignificant it may seem; if you have a medical issue—if you so much as get constipated—tell me! As soon as you notice the problem." I inserted that bit about constipation in the vain hope that making a poop joke or two would cheer him up or calm him down a little. I knew he would recover faster if he didn't feel totally and completely freaked out.
"Do hard craps—tough craps—count as constipation? I mean is a tough crap a medical problem? Between the steroids, the pain meds, and my basically fiber-free diet, I'm the king of oversized, dried-up, lumps of shit." I fake laughed. "I didn't tell you, because I know it's nothing. My grandmother used to get aching, swollen joints in the summer sometimes. She could hardly move too—that was in her fingers and hands but it's pretty much the same basic idea."
"I hope your right," I whispered. I didn't have the energy to argue or worry that he might be wrong. "Okay, so I'm worried. I know you're scared but you have got to talk to me. We're married now. Part of marriage is sharing our problems and helping each other with them. Don't make that face I'm serious. You can rely on, trust, and lean on, or ask me for my love, my assistance, my anything. I know I can count on you when things get tough, when I'm hurt, scared, or upset. It's about the good stuff too, of course. When you are happy, share it with me; make me happy too. I'll do my best to do the same for you so we can feel good together, even when things aren't going so well." House made a loud farting noise. I grabbed his pill bottle and held it up over my head. "I'd like to see you sleep without this," I mocked.
"Fine. What you said wasn't completely moronic. Just warn me first when you need someone to lean on; so we don't topple over and get hurt." I kissed him softly. "If I complained about every little pain, every muscle spasm, bad dream, and all the other crap, there wouldn't be time for us to talk about anything else, let alone screw like rabbits or go see Gravedigger crush crap or do anything fun." He paused. "Maybe our being married means you have to trust me to admit when things are so horrible that I actually need help, as well as me trusting you to give it to me. The reason—I think—it hasn't worked for you before is because you think everything has to be perfect 100% of the time. You think you gotta fix all the bad stuff, so, the other person never ever hurts, but you forget that sometimes we all need a little of the bad, otherwise the good is pointless."
"If only we had been able to realize that without you having to have been struck down by this terrible disease." He rolled his eyes. " I love you, House, and I always will but…it's gonna be okay."
"I'm gonna, I—" he yawned. "I've been up for over 48 hours straight. Whether this is the MS progressing or not, the lack of sleep has got to be adding to whatever's going on," he explained. "If I don't get some sleep I'm not gonna be able to 'do it' for—I dunno. I'm too tired to calculate. Definitely no sex tomorrow unless I go to sleep now." I kissed his head.
"Oh no," I gasped in mock horror. "In that case I had better cart your ass off to bed posthaste. Think you can make it by foot or does my hubby need carrying?"
"I think I can walk—well limp, but um…I might need to lean on you a little." The warm milk, the Vicodin (maybe the talking too) or both, did the trick. He literally fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. And he stayed like that for a good long time.