- Chapter 7 –

"Rez"

Nicole Asdza volunteered to stay behind to offer their early visitors the explanation they deserved on the unglamorous arrival of Dr. Gregory House.

When Jim Wilson, Rema Marks and Sonny Tse shifted House from the wheelchair to the gurney and disappeared down the corridor to the elevator, she gathered the rest of them in the dining room. "Get yourselves a cup of coffee and a donut and come over to the table."

There were five other staff members there, and she thought it best to let everyone know about House. He hadn't been on Sonny's original invitation list, and Sonny had never known him, nor had he known that Gregg was a close friend of James Wilson, who was on the original list. They had all heard of the man, of course. He was somewhat of a legend in East Coast medical circles as a brilliant Diagnostician and somewhat of a maverick. What most of them didn't know, however, were the details of his medical history, or even the fact that he lived every day of his life with a painful disability.

There were two other visiting medical people in the spacious dining room: Alan Tam, the slender young General Practitioner from Seattle, Washington, and Susan Carr, a forty-ish, high-energy Medical Management type from Boston. Nikki's three staff members, who lived locally in the town of Tuba City, were Oscar Ramirez, Chaz Kehoe and Nola VanDrokian, already dragging out the coffee urn and boxes of donuts: playing hosts and relishing it. They so seldom got to hobnob with outsiders; they were almost wallowing in the sea of opportunity.

Standing patiently beside the door to the corridor, the big Burmese Mountain dog, Amiga, waited for the reappearance of her master, but could not resist turning her attention periodically to the smell of donuts on the table. Nikki called her over with a smile and offered her a powdered cruller. Amiga took it from her fingers politely and retreated to her place by the door to eat it.

Susan Carr, tall, thin, dark-haired and pale-eyed, poured a cup of coffee and sat down with it. Her multiple bracelets, bead strands and sweeping metal earrings, Nikki decided, gave her a sound reminiscent of a horse pulling a sleigh.

"Poor Doctor House," Susan was saying with a sigh, "I feel so sorry for the poor man. I didn't know before that he was handicapped. Did any of the rest of you?" She didn't bother to wait for an answer, but gushed on, unobserving of the frowns already appearing on the faces of her colleagues. "A friend of my father's has rheumatoid arthritis, and has to walk with arm canes. He has to be helped in and out of chairs, in and out of cars; his family has to dress and undress him and give him his bath at night. I wonder if poor Doctor Wilson has to help Doctor House in the same manner? It must be very difficult to be his colleague. I know I'd be frightened to death even to touch him, for fear I might hurt him in some way …" She looked up from taking a sip of coffee and finally saw everyone's eyes upon her. "Have I said something wrong?"

Nikki shook her head before anyone else jumped in with a nasty comment. Was this woman for real? "Are you a medical doctor, Miz Carr?" Nikki asked politely.

"Oh no," Carr told her. "My skills are exclusively in the Medical Administrative field. My supervisor wanted me to attend this conference in the hopes that I would learn something valuable …"

"I'll bet he did!" Nikki said in a voice just below sarcasm. "But you're on the wrong track." She looked around the table and watched the others pour coffee and help themselves to donuts. She did the same, then sat back in her chair and studied the ring of faces.

"Dr. House," she began in a professional manner, "suffered a muscle infarction in his leg. He developed a blood clot in the vessels beneath the quadriceps muscle of his right thigh. The condition was misdiagnosed repeatedly, and he was left to lie in severe pain for three days. When the necrotic tissue was finally debrided from the site, he had suffered muscle death and extensive nerve damage. Not only is the leg's function badly compromised, but he suffers chronic pain. He will probably continue to do so for the rest of his life.

He is normally a strong and vital man, despite his limitations, Dr. Wilson tells me, but the leg is painful, and he had several small mishaps on the trip out here. Therefore, he is being checked out as we speak to make sure he has suffered no additional damage. Dr. Tse, Dr. Marks, and Dr. Wilson believe he may have a few bruises, but nothing worse than that. Dr. Wilson is a colleague and close friend, and has monitored his condition for years.

We should know very soon how he is and what treatment they are giving him, if any. The others will join us here when they finish. Dr. House will probably be sedated for the night and allowed to recuperate until morning.

"At any rate, this is a brilliant and respected doctor we have with us. Both of them are. We can learn a lot from them. Please … whatever you do, don't jump to assist Dr. House or wait on him, or do things for him that he is capable of doing for himself. He doesn't like it, and I can't blame him. If you're in doubt, follow the lead of Dr. Wilson, who's known Gregg a lot longer than we have."

Susan's eyes widened at the news, and she went on excitedly as though she had not heard a word Nikki said. "Oh, but what if he has to be in a wheelchair? How can he possibly be expected to maneuver one of those things in the narrow hallways of this hospital? Some of us will have to do things for him then, won't we?"

Nikki frowned over the lip of her coffee cup. "Are you volunteering, Susan?"

The woman's eyes widened. "Well no, not really," she said as though the very thought was distasteful. "But someone needs to be responsible for taking care of him!"

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Amiga raised her head. A snippet of polite laughter reached them from the doorway of the room as Dr. Wilson turned the corner and approached with a weary smile on his face.

He addressed his remarks to Susan Carr. "Don't you think that decision should be left up to Dr. House? He's asleep, by the way, and he wasn't hurt too seriously. He will join us in the morning … ambulatory or not." All at the same moment, six pairs of eyes darted to him, and Amiga scrambled to her feet with a whine of welcome. "I smell the delightful aroma of fresh coffee." His eyes traveled to Susan again as he introduced himself. "I'm Jim Wilson, Princeton, New Jersey. And … your name is?"

Susan peered up curiously. "I'm Susan Carr, Boston, Massachusetts. I was just saying that someone needs to look after Dr. House very closely while he's here, and …"

Wilson held up a hand, silencing her momentarily as Sonny Tse and Rema Marks entered through the door behind him. Jim's honey-auburn hair hung almost into his eyes, his necktie was gone and his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows. He pulled out the chair between Susan and Alan Tam and dropped into it. The tie landed across the back of the chair.

Nola VanDrokian, one of "Rez" Hospital's LPNs, set a large brimming cup of black coffee in front of him, and then pushed the tray of donuts, a sugar dispenser, bowl of creamers and a spoon close beside it. Wilson thanked her and she smiled in appreciation at his pretty brown eyes. Jim continued to focus on Susan, needing to stress the fact that any act of obsequious servitude on behalf of Gregory House, would not be greeted kindly.

Sonny and Rema sat down across the table and were treated to coffee and donuts also, as they focused their attention on what Jim Wilson had to say about his colleague. They had already been initiated into the eccentricities of House, and had been nothing, if not impressed, by his uniqueness and off-the-wall sense of humor.

Wilson took a sip of his coffee, added a single creamer and sighed deeply. "This is like a gift from the Great Spirit," he said appreciatively. I've been waiting for this for hours. Thank you." He took another sip, set the cup down, and began to talk in a low voice, almost conspiratorial. "Ah yes, Gregory House. My colleague and my friend; my intelligent, sarcastic, funny friend!

"I know his middle name, you see … but I have been sworn to secrecy about it for over ten years!" Wilson smiled to himself before continuing, and found other smiles around the table as well. An interesting story was in the offing.

"Gregg House is one of a kind … a 'different breed of cat', if you will. Please understand; he chose me to be his friend. I did not choose him. And he could just as easily 'un-choose' me at any time. So far, he has opted not to, and I am honored to be at his side. He keeps me focused; he tries my patience and pisses me off royally. He keeps me humble, and he is the most brilliant human being I have ever met in my entire life." Wilson sighed with weariness, took another sip of coffee, and looked around.

"That being said, I have to warn all of you … and I'd appreciate it if you could all pass this around to the others as they arrive … don't try to engage Dr. House in a verbal brawl of any kind … unless you want to come out of it bloody and battered. He can cut you down with a few well-chosen words. He's quick and deadly. His mind works twice as fast as anyone else I know, and he takes no prisoners. Once you're down, he will step on you, grind you into the dirt, wipe his feet on the middle of your back, walk away and never look back.

"Oh, but there's more! As a diagnostician, he has no equal. At least, no one I've ever met. He's relentless in tracking down the cause of an illness. Once he finds it and identifies the problem, he is again relentless in its resolution. He pushes his colleagues and his staff until they … I should say 'we' … are ready to drop, and then pushes us even more. I can't begin to tell you the number of lives he's been instrumental in saving just during the past year. And he does this even while in moderate-to-severe physical pain.

His leg is a problem to everyone who knows him, in more ways than one, but his pain is the catalyst that pushes him to greater heights. It rules his life, but not his dedication. Those who don't know Gregg, think he's a … pardon the expression … 'total asshole'. He's angry, bitter, misanthropic and sometimes downright mean. But underneath the pain, you will never find anyone more keenly centered on the patients he cares for. Nobody is supposed to know that though, so if anyone ever asks, you didn't hear it from me! He's a very private person. Don't try to get personal with him. You'll gain his respect a lot easier if you let him take the lead. I knew him a long time before the leg, and I know pretty much what's underneath the layers of pain he'll never let you see.

"Don't patronize him! Don't ask him how he's feeling, because you'll get a smart-ass answer. Don't even look at his leg, if you can help it. He hates pity. He hates that the only thing people see is the leg and the limp and the cane. His own focus is always on it unless he's working on something that distracts him, because as I said, it rules him. But he won't tolerate sympathy from anyone else.

If he wakes up tomorrow morning and it turns out he can't walk yet … because we did find a nasty bruise near the infarction site, so it's possible … and has to use crutches or the wheelchair, he is going to be mean as catshit! Just leave him alone. He has to handle it by himself and in his own good time, but he'll come around.

"So. That's about all I can tell you for now. Guess that's about enough for one night, huh? Anyhow, Gregg is sedated and asleep in his room. As far as I know, he's resting comfortably … at least as comfortable as he ever gets. I'm glad to be here and happy to meet everyone. And I'm so tired I'm ready to drop. Would anybody really mind if I go to bed?"

Wilson went silent and looked across to his hosts. They were nodding ascent, and so was everyone else. "I'm bunking in Gregg's room, right?"

Sonny smiled. "I was going to say yes, Jimmy … unless you think Gregg is going to hit you with his cane in the middle of the night! In that case, you can sleep in the stable if you want!"

"Because there's no room at the Inn, huh?" Wilson rolled his eyes and smiled tiredly. "That's me … the Jewish Messiah! Thanks pal … old college buddy. I'll remember that, Redskin!" He looked around shyly and waved a hand. He tossed the necktie over his shoulder and walked out. What remained of his coffee sat cold on the table.

Eight voices in unison: "Good night, Jim."

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Gregg House moaned in his sleep in the middle of the night, and it brought James Wilson to full wakefulness like a mother with a newborn infant. Jim sat straight up in bed and scrubbed the cobwebs from his brain with the swipe of a hand across his face. He froze in that position like a thief in the darkness, and listened, both eyes wide with residual alarm. House's body was only a sharp landscape of edges and angles on the other twin bed across the room. The fancy wheelchair was parked at an angle near the foot of the bed, nosed into the corner. Gregg's right leg, propped on a bed pillow, cast an eerie shadow across the floor, as did the raised right arm which lay positioned across his face, blocking the glow of the area light from the parking lot one floor down.

Wilson watched for a minute until his friend's breathing evened out again. Then he pressed the button that lighted the dial of his watch and stared at it with a frown. It was a little after three in the morning and he was wide awake. Wilson stood up, feeling the effects of a full bladder from too much coffee. He needed to find the head.

But first:

Wilson crossed the room cautiously and looked down at the man in the other bed. Gregg was a light sleeper, but James doubted he would awaken since being pumped full of that witches' brew of medication six hours before. Wilson stretched out his hand and touched Gregg's forehead with the backs of his fingers. His skin was cool to the touch, however, and he was definitely not running a temperature, a good sign. There was an ice sleeve tucked around the bad leg over the bruise near the infarction site, and when he touched the bag with the tip of a finger, he found that it had long since melted down. Quickly he loosened the slide catch that held it in place and withdrew it gently. House didn't move, but slept on in blissful oblivion, attesting to his utter exhaustion from the events of the day. Wilson knew all about that!

Now it was time to find a bathroom. High time! He stepped into his moccasins, opened the bedroom door and eased himself out into the hallway. It was hot out there. There were air conditioners in the individual rooms, but the building had no central plant, one more thing, which could be updated with the proper funding. Already he was forming an idea that might help with that, but it was only a tiny speck germinating in his mind, and there was no time for it now.

He had to go! He looked both ways, then turned right and walked toward the end of the hallway. The bathroom was there, last room on the right. Two urinals, four stalls and two showers. Unisex toilet. Probably. Sinks were lined across the opposite side, and it was hot in there! He relieved himself, washed his hands and left quickly.

A closed door loomed at the end of the hall, and there was no window in it, no sign announcing its purpose. Wilson wondered what might be beyond it. He tried the doorknob. It was not locked, and he peered in.

Whoa! It was an open bay. It looked like an Army barracks; beds lined both walls with a wide aisle down the middle. Each bed had a table, a lamp and a small locker beside it. About a third of the beds contained people! Women, from what he could tell in the semi-darkness. They were all sleeping; some had IV bags hanging from stanchions. One had a bandaged arm. One or two were restless, tossing in their sleep. At the other end of the room, a large desk stood in a corner with a dim light in the middle of it.

Behind the desk sat a very large woman in white scrubs. She looked familiar. He stared.

Oh yeah! It was … what's-her-name … the woman who had served him coffee, then paused a second to flirt. Nola! Nola VanDrokian, the LPN. She must be on night shift in this ward. The air in here was cool, but not cold. Wilson closed the door behind him and moved quietly toward her.

She had been writing in a notebook, transposing numbers from sheets of paper that lay in a stack at the edge of the desk. Wilson took note that she was a left-hander like him. He cleared his throat as he approached, trying not to startle her as he entered the small space of light. Nola looked up, wide-eyed for a moment, and then realized who it was and smiled. "Dr. Wilson? What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep," he said. No use going into detail. "This is a very, very old building, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Yes it is. They used to manufacture barbed wire in here a hundred years ago. They warehoused it in this wing. There are still depressions in the floor where they dragged the bales over to the central elevator to take it down for shipping. There was once a railroad siding that ran in here from Flagstaff, but that was removed a long time ago." She smiled again, and Wilson saw that she had pretty eyes and very deep dimples. Perhaps even deeper than Gregory House's!

"This place has quite a long history then," he noted. "Are all your patient wings located in open bays like this one?"

Nola shook her head and laid her pencil aside. "Come sit down, Doctor. You look so weary, and that bothers me." She cleared a stack of papers off a second chair behind the desk. "No, this is kind of an area for indigents. The men's bay is in the opposite wing from this one. Oscar is on over there tonight … he's the man who brought the wheelchair out for Dr. House when you arrived. There are private and semi-private rooms in the other two wings. The ORs, intensive care units and the maternity section are all located in the central part of the building. You were on the third floor this evening when you and Dr. Sonny treated Dr. House. How is he, by the way? Is he able to sleep? You're not really going out to sleep in the stable, are you?" She smiled at her own joke.

Wilson smiled back and decided he liked this lady. "Naw … I don't think so. Besides, I hid Gregg's cane, so he couldn't hit me with it even if he wanted to. As far as I know, he's sleeping just fine; best thing for him. I checked him just before I left … I was on a mission to hunt for a bathroom because your coffee went straight through me."

"Did you find it okay?"

"Oh sure … and when I came back out, I saw the door that leads to this place, and I wondered where it led … and here we are."

"It's really not that complicated. You can learn the whole layout of this place in a couple of hours. Everything branches off from the central elevator … or if you prefer, the flights of stairs that go up right beside it. Sometimes patients doing rehab will use the stairs for a place to exercise, and when they stomp up and down, it echoes through the whole building. It's weird. You can hear it in the dining room especially. But you'll find out about that soon enough. I think Sonny and Nikki are planning a walking tour around the grounds after everyone arrives tomorrow … probably in the evening after it cools down a little. Sunday starts the lectures and the workshops. You're giving an Oncology presentation, aren't you? And Dr. House will be giving a lecture on Diagnostics. I sincerely hope he will feel well enough by then."

"Yeah," Wilson said. "My talk is scheduled for Sunday evening, and House's, right after that.

Then we go over the workshop assignments that start on Monday. Oh … and don't worry whether Gregg is up to giving his lecture. If he doesn't feel well or is in pain, I assure you, no one will be aware of it but him! He's stubborn and proud and independent and has ways of letting everyone know it. Trust me!"

She laughed softly. "Oh I do, Dr. Wilson. I do."

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He left her pleasant company at 4:15 a.m. and wandered back to their shared room, letting himself in quietly.

House was awake, staring at the ceiling, in pain again and whiny. "Where the hell have you been, Wilson?"

"Over in one of the open bays, talking to Nola VanDrokian." He was purposely vague.

"What open bay? Who's Nola Van-Whatever-you-said? My leg is killing me. I need my meds, and it hurts to move. Get the bottle out of my jacket pocket, will you?"

Wilson eyed his friend with skepticism. Gregg had been fine when he'd left a little over an hour before. He'd probably awakened to find himself alone and looked across to see Wilson's rumpled bedcovers, but no Wilson. Now he was a little on the pissy side to get even. James glared at him. "You sound like a four-year-old," he said in his quiet manner.

"Yeah! A four-year-old in pain!"

Wilson could see House's left hand curled into a fist at his side. The sedatives had worn off and he really was hurting again. Wilson picked up the rumpled sports jacket and pulled the vial of Vicodin from its pocket. He popped the lid and tipped one into his hand, handed it across. House crunched down, breaking it up, then swallowed, speeding the medicine on its vital mission to his nerve endings. "Thanks …"

"Sure," Wilson said, and then knelt at his friend's side. "You should see the rest of this place!"

It's like something that came through a time warp, straight out of the Nineteenth Century. The beds look like Army cots lined along the walls, the lights hang from the ceilings in little wire cages, there are grooves in the floors from dragging bales of barbed wire across them a hundred years ago. Wow! I don't see how Sonny does it. This place is downright primitive!"

Cautiously he reached to House's hand, poking a finger into the tightly curled fist, inviting him to relax and open it.

House turned his focus from "holding-his-breath" mode to look down where Wilson's finger intruded into his hand. Slowly he unfolded his own fingers and opened up his grip to lay his palm upward. Four perfectly arced semi-circles were dug into the skin from long fingernails imbedded in the flesh. "Sorry."

"No you're not. Are the meds beginning to kick in yet?"

"It's been ten seconds, Wilson. You said we were in the Nineteenth Century, not the Twenty Third!"

"Yeah, I know. Try to relax. I'm going to check your leg, make sure you're not swelling." Wilson moved toward the foot of the bed on his knees.

"No! Don't!"

"Hush! You're such a baby! I'm not going to hurt you."

"You are so."

"Am not."

"Are."

"Shut up!" Wilson's hand was already on top of the bony knee. Just the fact that it was 'bony' told him the swelling they'd found earlier had receded. Further up, around the badly scarred thigh, even the angry purple bruise on the outside of House's leg was not hot or distended. "You can stop holding your breath now. You're fine."

"Am not! Hurts!"

"I think we've had this argument before. Your leg always hurts. You're going to be sore for a few days, but there's no swelling, and the area isn't hot. You're fine." Wilson climbed wearily to his feet and crossed to his own bed. Sat down heavily.

"Easy for you to say! Your leg isn't throwing off electric sparks!"

"Neither is yours. Shut-the-hell up and go back to sleep! It's only 5:00 a.m."

"You don't love me anymore!"

"Oh I do so. I'm just tired of your bellyaching. Go to sleep."

"I want my Mommy."

"House," Wilson was smiling now, and it came out in his voice. "Shut the fuck up!" He toppled over onto the bed and turned his back to the middle of the room.

Silence ensued.

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Wilson got up very quietly at 6:30 a.m. He pulled on jeans and tee shirt. Fished his western boots out of his luggage, and holding them in one hand, opened the door and tiptoed from the room. House was asleep. Snoring softly. Wilson went down the stairs rather than wait for the rumbling elevator, which would have awakened the dead. He sat on the bottom step and pulled on the boots. They were well broken in and pliable. They were red, white and blue with working heels and white eagles adorning the front risers. Roy Rogers specials from more than twenty years ago. They had been a birthday gift from his parents when he turned sixteen, and though he would have preferred his own car, these had done very nicely as a consolation prize. He'd always been very glad he'd hung onto them. Cars were a dime a dozen, but not commemorative Roy Rogers cowboy boots!

He stood up and turned the corner along the hallway that led toward the hospital's kitchen. He could hear voices and conversation and intermittent laughter up ahead, and he decided the coffee must already be on and new visitors arriving even as he thought about it. He moved through the kitchen with its coffee urns bubbling away enthusiastically, two men in white aprons who looked up and smiled as he passed by. He smiled a "good morning" in return and pushed past the double doors into the dining room. At 6:45 a.m. the place was filling with people.

Sonny, Nikki, Alan Tam, and Susan Carr were already there, welcoming the newcomers who came through the door, carrying luggage and conference materials, contributing to the general confusion. Amiga sat in the middle of the floor with a Meaty Bone in her mouth, watching the melee with shining eyes. Staff members Wilson hadn't met yet were sidestepping among the arrivals, calling out names, leading people away toward their week's accommodations and just being generally helpful in keeping the din of confused conversation to a minimum.

Wilson tapped Sonny Tse on a shoulder and stage-whispered into his ear: "What can I do to help?"

Sonny turned to his friend and threw his head in the air, silky black hair cascading in all directions. "Jimmy! How'd you sleep? How is Gregg?"

"I slept fine. Had to get up in the middle of the night to use the john and ended up shooting the breeze with Nola until almost 4:30. Gregg is still asleep. I left him alone, but I think he'll be all right. I hope."

"Thank God! Or thank the Great Spirit … or whatever. I was worried about him. He doesn't really always manage his pain that well, does he?"

Wilson turned a frown of puzzlement on the perceptive Navajo. "You're very good," he said. "Actually, no. Sometimes it overwhelms him, and it comes out in strange ways. I can usually tell, but I was beginning to think I had the inside track."

Sonny smiled tentatively, as though he were harboring a deep secret. "You do," he said. "Definitely. But you need to guard your own feelings a little more, Paleface Brother. I've found that I can tell how much pain Gregg is in, just by watching your face. Actually, he does hide it very well … but you don't!"

Wilson dipped his head. "Didn't realize it was that obvious."

"Only to me." Sonny placed a compassionate hand on James' shoulder. "Your secret is safe as long as you need it to be. Does he know?"

"Unhh … "

"Understood. You can help serve the coffee if you want something to do." Sonny grinned, winked, and turned back to his guests as though their words had never been exchanged.

Wilson trudged back to the kitchen, his mind whirling with thoughts of his own feelings. He'd always believed his deep regard for Gregory House was buried so deeply in his soul that they were inaccessible. Not so, he found. Sonny Tse had guessed the truth within hours.

He had work to do. He found himself unplugging the huge coffee urns and hossing them into the dining room, re-plugging them into ports behind tables set up at the side of the room. He lifted the lids of each urn and removed the grounds, hossing them, in turn, back to the kitchen. He picked up tray after tray of sugar dispensers, large bowls of the little creamers, and plastic cutlery and paper plates for the endless procession of bacon, scrambled eggs and home fries the kitchen workers were suddenly bringing into the dining room and placing on the tables.

People were returning from their assigned rooms, finding places among the others already there, and serving themselves from the coffee urns and mounds of breakfast food being liberally tossed about. By 8:00 a.m. people were still filing in the back door, being taken to their rooms, and returning to share the breakfast goodies. As fast as one coffee urn was emptied, Wilson took it to the kitchen and filled it with coffee and water again. By 8:15 a.m., Nola and Oscar Ramarez had been relieved at their posts and joined the throng of people in the dining room. Nola waved at James and shouted over the din: "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock!" He shouted back, and went on with his table bussing.

"Where's Gregg?"

"Still sleeping."

"Okay. Later!"

"Right."

There were about fifty people in the room now, and there was a lull in the milling around. James Wilson had some time to get himself a cup of coffee and a plate of goodies and sit down to enjoy it. He found himself a place, and as he sat, Rema joined him in a flurry of movement. For a woman nearing seventy years of age, she had the energy of a teen-ager. She placed her cup of black coffee on the table by his plate and ruffled his silky hair with her long brown fingers. "Good morning, Gorgeous!" She gushed. "You're looking especially handsome this morning."

James grinned, half embarrassed. "Ree-ma!"

She giggled and sat down beside him. "Can't help it," she declared. "Just can't help it! You are such a beautiful child!"

Wilson stared down at his plate, feeling the scarlet come upward from the tips of his toes. Nobody at Princeton-Plainsboro ever embarrassed him like this. He reached his right hand upward and scrubbed it across the back of his neck, scowling at her sideways. He simply did not know what to do, and so he did nothing. Across the room, Nikki and Nola were sitting together watching the exchange, and he suddenly heard them laughing in his direction. "I'll second that," one of them said quietly.

He wished he could just curl into a little ball and disappear. "Come on, guys!" He finally pleaded. "Please!"

"Where is Dr. House?" Another voice asked. The room suddenly quieted.

Wilson looked up. It was Susan Carr. She was sitting with Alan Tam, and the young man was trying to hush her up.

"He's sleeping."

"Oh. Doesn't he like our company?"

"That's not it at all."

"Susan, hush!" They were the first words Wilson had heard Tam speak since he'd arrived. He wanted to pat the young man on the back.

The din of conversation resumed.

Rema got up to refill her coffee cup. The urn was empty. "I'd better check on the other urn." She headed for the kitchen.

Wilson started to get to his feet. "I'll do it, Rema."

"Jimmy, sit down and finish your breakfast while it's hot. I'm just going to check on the other urn."

He sat down again. "Okay, but holler if you need help."

He heard the double doors flap with her passage. He took another bite of bacon. It was delicious.

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Gregory House sat on the edge of the bed and stretched his head back between his shoulder blades. He was stiff, but surprisingly no worse for wear from the intense pain of the day before. It was after 7:30 now, and things were going on downstairs without him. He was hungry! Wilson's bed was made and he was long gone. Jim's travel bag stood open on the chair against the wall. Gregg's own bag was lying open on the other chair against the other wall, and Wilson had placed his sneakers on top of it so he would not have to reach to the floor for them. How kind! He eyed it with disdain, but he supposed he would have to find something from it to wear today. Sweat pants or jeans? That was the question of the hour, the decision of the day. He sighed. Even the small task of standing upright was a big decision. He had taken a Vicodin almost as soon as his head had left the pillow and he'd lifted his leg over the edge of the bed to settle his foot on the floor. Pain flared immediately, but he had waited as he always did when getting up in the morning, and it settled down again. His cane, however, was across the room, hanging from the door handle where he couldn't possibly reach it. For all his caring and doting, Wilson had slipped up on a biggie, and House was annoyed. He knew he was not being fair, but the space between his bed and the hallway looked as large as the expanse of the entire Sonoran Desert. He cursed under his breath.

Hobson's choice! He must get it for himself or not at all, and sit here until Wilson returned looking for him, wondering why he had not appeared. Anything but that! James might be worried and bring some of the others with him.

Gregg gathered himself to settle most of his weight onto the left side and pushed up with both fists on the mattress. He was standing and the pain was spiking like running lights on a theater marquee. He pressed his right foot onto the floor, seeking balance, but it overwhelmed him and he fell backward onto the bed again, growling deep in his throat, feeling his face reddening and his pulse quickening with pent-up anger.

He sat with his head down and forced himself to accept his body's limitations. The wheelchair stood to his right and he eyed it with bright red hatred. No! Not that! He would walk! He pushed himself upright again and put his toes back on the floor. Some of the pain backed off, but the bruise on his hip and the other one so near the infarction site, was incapacitating him. Even if he made it all the way over to the cane, he was not sure how much use it would be to him. Determined, he held his arms away from his body for balance and took a step. The leg screamed and he gasped with pain. He took another step and balanced. Another. Balance. He made it to the door and unhooked the cane from the doorknob. Placed it on the floor in close proximity to his right foot and took another step. The leg would allow very little weight, but it would have to do. He went to his suitcase for his sneakers, clean socks, underwear. Jeans. Tee shirt. Tossed it all on the bed.

It took Gregg House fifteen minutes to get dressed, and by the time he finished, he was tired. He had to find the bathroom in the same manner as Wilson before him: hunt for it room by room. By the time he'd used a urinal and washed up, he felt light headed and nauseous. He leaned into one of the sinks and waited for it to pass.

The steep stair steps were a chore. He had to descend them one at a time with the cane hooked in his belt and both hands grabbing the banisters. Five minutes to go down one flight was as much a pain in the ass as it was the leg. At the bottom, he made the U-turn and planted the cane by his right foot once again.

Rema Marks was in the kitchen alone, making the last urn of coffee when she heard a sound behind her and turned to look. A tall, bewhiskered man was approaching with effort through the rear door. She frowned.

Dr. House!

He was barely ambulatory. His right hand gripped a heavy cane as though his fingers would break, and his opposite hand helped him steady himself by taking additional weight on the work counter as he limped painfully along.

She'd seen him only in the wheelchair last night, and then on the gurney when he'd been brought into the hospital. She remembered how he'd looked when they took him to the third floor to check his leg. He was a very private one. She'd stood at the head of the gurney on which he lay, steadying his head while the others took a look at the injury. He was very uncomfortable with his pants off and a woman in the room, but he'd held still and let them tend to him, fists clenched tightly by his sides.

She'd watched closely as he'd drawn in deep breaths and held them until he couldn't hold them any longer. That's when she'd let her fingers wander into the sweat-saturated tangles of his hair, letting him know that someone was there in support; someone who didn't give a tinker's damn if his private parts were sticking out, only that someone was helping him and trying to alleviate his discomfort.

It was then that she'd begun to think of him as the "Gray Fox". Gray because of the silver flecks in his hair. Fox, because in spite of the misery that contorted his face, he was!

And it was the first time she noticed how deeply Jimmy Wilson cared!

Now her heart went out to this man. He was obviously in difficulty and doing his best to minimize it. She wanted to go to his side and shore him up so he would hurt less. But no! Jimmy had said he hated to be patronized. They should not do for him what he could do for himself. And besides that, he hadn't seen her yet. He thought he was alone in the room. His breathing was coming in gasps and he couldn't hold out much longer. She needed to think of something quickly, something which wouldn't piss him off.

House came to the end of the work counter and paused to rest a moment. He raised his head from the concentration of movement, and looked around. Their eyes met and held; hers in quickly assumed curiosity, his in pain and suspicion.

"Well good morning …I'm Rema Marks," she said. "And you … are Gregory House. I can tell, because you do that 'East-Coasty', jeans-and-sport-coat thing they all do back there. You just happen to do it a little better. So! Now that we've introduced ourselves, I hope you slept well, and can I offer you some breakfast and a cup of coffee? You really don't want to go out in the dining room and get all tangled up in that madhouse. It's kind of like a Chinese fire drill out there, and they'd mow you down and never notice. So, we may be stuck with each other for awhile." She lifted an eyebrow, waiting for his response, if any.

He was frowning at her with his head tilted to the side. She could see the icicles forming in the blue eyes at first, but then they softened and he sighed.

"I'm not sure what-all it was you just said to me … my brain is still a little foggy this morning … but I think I heard the word 'coffee' in there somewhere. So, if you're offering, I'm accepting."

She was already pouring coffee into two very old stoneware restaurant mugs. She set one down in front of her and sent the second one spinning along the stainless steel work counter like an old bartender sends a glass of beer across a polished bar without spilling a drop. House caught it deftly between thumb and forefinger.

"How do you like it? Shoes and socks? Or bare-nekkid?" She asked with a grin.

"Haven't heard that one in awhile," he said, and she saw a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. "Nekkid does it for me, thanks."

She nodded. "Sure. I've got bacon, eggs and home fries. Want some? I'm on coffee duty, so I'm kind of stuck out here. Join me?"

He nodded. "Be obliged, ma'am."

"Comin' up."

He could see her looking around the kitchen, searching for something. He watched her closely, shifting his weight off his right side, leaning onto the counter, and she was afraid he was near collapse. Then she was pulling something from between two huge refrigerators. It was a padded chef's stool on casters. She walked it toward him until it was within arms reach of his legs. "Sit down before you fall down!" She demanded.

"You're too damned big for me to pick you up off the floor."

He scowled, but took the stool gratefully and settled onto it with a wince and a grunt of pain. "You certainly messed yourself up yesterday, didn't you, Doctor? What I'd like to know is … why you're not using the wheelchair. Sonny left it in your room for you. Your leg isn't stable enough for you to go back on the cane so soon … and you know it." At the same time she spoke, she had dished up a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, home fries and two slices of toast. She walked it over to him and set it on the counter for him, along with napkin and cutlery.

House glared into her face, but she was smiling back at him in unruffled annoyance at his idiocy, and he let the glare slink back where it had come from. Her smile was delightful in her small dark face, and he had silly visions of "Tinker Bell" flitting around in his head. What was it about this neck of the woods that took his brains and made mush of them? "I'm fine," he said, and took a mouthful of eggs as she turned her back on him and walked away.

"You're rather unskilled as a liar," she said around a gulp of coffee. "You hurt so badly right now that I can see it oozing out your ears. I'm an old trauma doc from way back, and you don't fool me for a second!"

"Really?" His back arched in denial. "And how is that?"

Rema winked at him and smiled again, lowering his defenses even more. "I'll give you fifteen minutes at the outside before you can't stand to have your leg down like that. You need to sit somewhere and get it up on a pillow or something before you go into spasm. I've seen it happen too often not to know. So hurry up and eat your breakfast. Like I said, I don't want to try to pick you up off the floor. We'd both end up in traction! I'll take you over to Sonny's office and put you in the big recliner. Nobody uses it anyway, and it'll be just what the doctor ordered. He's got a big Sony TV in there too. Sound like a plan?"

Gregg could not help himself. "TV?"

"Uh huh." Drawing him in. To her mind he was nothing but an overgrown teenager in grownups' clothing. "He's got Pay-per-View … and a satellite dish the size of Rhode Island!"

House scooped up the last of the food on his plate and set down the fork. "I may be able to live with that. Where is the office?"

She drained her coffee cup before answering. "I'll take you there in five minutes. But first I have to go grab something for you to take along. Okay?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Something you can use," she said cryptically. "Stay put! I'll be right back." She turned in the direction of the dining room, pushed her way through the double doors and disappeared into chaos. Gregg was more than happy to stay where he was. The pain in his leg was escalating as he sat there. He hoped she would hurry. He extracted a Vicodin from his jeans pocket and popped it.

Rema Marks was back in three minutes rather than five. She carried with her a pair of aluminum arm canes; new ones with grey vinyl cuffs, grey hand rests and grey rubber tips. The look on his face turned homicidal, but she ignored it, just as she had done with all his other over-rehearsed expressions.

"Oh, stuff it!" She growled. "Do you think you can scare me by making faces at me? I admit you do look a little scary, but not in the way you want." She held the canes in his face. "Here! I'm a doctor, I'm on the staff of this hospital and that makes me the boss. I'm prescribing these for you so you don't fall and break your neck and become a bigger pain in the ass than you already are."

House's frown deepened to full-blown anger. This woman did not have the right … He opened his mouth to shout, but she was laughing in delight. "Dr. House, if you only knew how silly you look …"

He sputtered, grabbing the crutches she thrust in his face before she hit him in the nose with them. "Silly?"

"Uh huh. Silly! You look as though you'd like to break my neck right now. But you'd have to catch me, and I don't think there's too much chance of that."

Gregg House came up short and stared at her. "Christ!" He grumbled. "You sound just like my boss!"

"Really? Well then, I guess he's another one who's got your number."

"She!"

"Oh Really?" Rema Marks threw back her head and laughed in delight. "Your boss is a woman? Gregory dear, I believe you have just given me the best compliment I've ever received in my whole life."

He slumped and pulled a face, and suddenly they were laughing. Finding the humor in the situation and letting it carry them wherever it would. They were still smiling when it finally wore itself out. "How tall are you? About six-feet-two, I'd say." She was already lengthening the shafts of the canes and handing them back to him.

She had him stand then, this renowned physician from the East Coast who she'd heard could be a real handful. Nonsense! He was a Teddy Bear! A Gray Fox! He balanced himself on the arm canes while she gauged the correct length. She had guessed very well, and knew they would give him the most support with the least pain.

When it was correct, she asked him to make an attempt to straighten his leg as far as he could while she ran her hands delicately from his knee, and down his calf to determine the amount of weight he might place on it. Not much. He could have told her that, but she'd wanted to see for herself. When she was finished, she stood up and moved close to his side. She was all business now. Lightly she touched his hands on the crutch handles. "Don't grip them so hard. It'll throw the tension right up into your shoulders. Relax. That's it."

House watched her closely. Her voice was so gentle that he was compelled to do as she asked. "When you take a step, try to do it as normally as possible. Don't attempt to hold your foot off the floor. That only puts more strain on what's left of the quadriceps muscle and gives the damaged nerves even more reason to torture you. If you can put your foot flat on the floor, go ahead and do it. If you can't, at least touch the floor with your toes and make the step seem as normal as possible."

House nodded, concentrating. He had heard all these things in rehab a long time ago, but life had intervened in the meantime and some of the things he had learned there simply faded with the passage of time and the necessary shifting away from his old habits.

Now he was hearing it again in a refreshingly new way, and from an unhurried instructor. Rema had the same inbred gentleness as James Wilson, and he could not help comparing the two of them. He did as she asked, and found the pain of movement to be vastly diminished. Could James and Rema be right? Would he benefit from using the arm canes permanently, rather than the single cane?

No! Oh no! No Goddamn way!

He could not use these things any longer than absolutely necessary. He did not need a limb that would atrophy from disuse. If he gave in, there would again be cause to amputate, and they would have to take it off at the hip. He would never walk normally again. It was not an option he could live with. The arm canes were only a stopgap. He would give it a few days and then go back to his cane. He had almost allowed himself to be lulled into taking the easier, softer way. Not gonna happen!

House gathered himself and stepped forward. The movement was very close to normal, and the limp had gone the way of the dinosaur. But it couldn't last. This way he was handless. He could carry nothing, except what he could stuff into his briefcase and sling over his shoulder. With these, he would first have to gage his balance before shaking a man's hand. He could not carry a cup of coffee from the lab to his office. He could not carry a case file or push a wheeled cart with a TV monitor on it. He would even have to prop one of the damned things somewhere just to take a pee. He sighed as they approached Sonny Tse's office.

Two days! No longer!

When Rema left him to return to the chaos in the dining room, he turned on the TV, popped another Vicodin and leaned back in the chair.

He wondered where Wilson was …

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