House awoke several hours later, and screamed. I was instantly conscious, terrified that I'd done something in my sleep and accidentally hurt him, but it didn't take long for me to figure it out. He wasn't reacting to anything in the real world. Bad dream, I thought, quickly, and reached over to the bedside table for his emergency, middle of the night, pills. He knocked them out of my hands, looking at me furiously.
"Okay, the last time you did that, I woke up with a pill stuck to my cheek, and I didn't notice it until after I had covered it with shaving cream and my razor knocked it into the sink." He didn't say a word. Shit, I thought. He was back to not talking. "Sorry, I shouldn't yell at you. Um—but we gotta have a code for when you can't talk so I can know if want me to stop doing something, without throwing a bunch of pills on the floor, okay?" Greg sighed, looking down and away. "You wanna tell me about the nightmare?" Nothing. I switched a light on, and picked through the covers for the lost pills. I watched him carefully, and touched his hair softly, as a quick test to see if he was alright for physical contact. He let me hold him, and we lay in the half-lit room, him watching the shadows on the wall across from him, me watching his chest rise and fall.
I wanted to tell him I loved him. I wanted to tell him it was going to be okay. I wanted to tell him that the monster was gone, forever and ever and ever, and could no longer hurt him. I wanted to order him to tell me about the dream, the way I would have before all of this started. I wanted to break down and cry and cry and cry, and have someone hold, love, and protect me for once. I wanted to take all of the pain and the fear out of his body and put it into somebody who deserved to suffer, like the bastard who did this to us. I wanted to do a million different things but was physically or psychologically incapable o some and wouldn't put him through the rest. An hour passed, two, maybe even three or four. We could have been lying there for two years and the only way I would of known was because I'd have a beard down to my belly button. Finally he turned himself around, part way and traced my jaw line with his finger.
"I think I'm ready to talk about the dream," he explained, and then quickly added, "I don't know why this is bothering me so much. It's stupid. I had—it's not even possible. Tri—Tri—he's dead, and buried, and rotting to nothing, albeit slowly 'cuz of all the chemicals the mortician probably pumped into his dead, bloated corpse, but anyway, he can't hurt me anymore. I know we've had this conversation a million times, but it doesn't help. I shouldn't be this scared. Not now, not after seven years have passed. I had to accept my physical limitations, again, but I did it. I came to terms with never being able to walk or drive a car, or play guitar or piano again, but I can't get over the—I don't even know what's wrong with me!" He sighed, pressed his face into my shoulder and paused.
"Fear doesn't work like that. Logically speaking, your—okay the pain analogy is a bad one. Um…I don't know how to explain it, but emotions don't just go away because some time has passed," I told him. "You can't make that fear go away, you can't cure it, or yell at it, or lecture it, or pump it full of antibiotics or steroids, or anything else. Sorry, Pal." He rolled his eyes, and I pressed my lips against his forehead. "You can talk to me, or a therapist—okay, okay, forget I mentioned that one, just stop looking at me like I'm—or I can try to help you to combine soothing sounds, imagines, and …you think this is complete crap, don't you?"
"I always have, not really sure what's changed to make you think otherwise, but…yeah, I do. You stupid, moron," he spat, tiredly. A few more minutes passed. I sighed, and told myself to stop. You can't get mad at him, I thought. He won't respond well. "In the dream, you were taking me to this movie theater, and I was okay. I could walk. I was—well you know, like I was before that night. I went to find us seats, while you got popcorn or something. Someone called out, 'Hey, look, it's Dr. House.' Only, I didn't recognize their voice. So I turned around, and there he was, right in the front row. I practically jumped out of my skin, and that bastard just sat there, smiling. I looked at him, like a terrified little boy, and he said, 'It's a good thing I didn't run into you last night, when you were carrying those loose pills in the pockets of that gorgeous grey sweatshirt.' 'You've been following me,' I realized slowly, stupidly, but by then it was too late. I could of run away before, but not anymore. Still, even though I knew I was never gonna get away, I raced out to the lobby, grab your arm, and you look at me all sweet, and nice, and you said, 'what's wrong.' I begged you to get me out of there, and you did but then… When we were in the parking lot, he reached out, and pulled me into this dark alley and Tri-Tri—Damnit why can't I say his fucking name? The cop ripped off my clothes and knocked me to the ground. I tried to call out for help, but my voice just came out like a little mouse squeak. He climbed on top of me, and I was cry, and I kept trying to scream for help, 'Jimmy,' I pleaded, but you couldn't find me. I heard you looking for me, calling out my name, but you couldn't—you didn't—nobody came to rescue me." By the end of the story, he was sobbing into my shoulder, and I could barely hear what he was saying. I rubbed his back, and whispered, it's okay; you're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore, but—as always—it didn't seem to help. I sighed, patting him some more, and reached for the pills again. House shook his head.
"I want you to take at least one. It's your choice, which you want, but they'll help you calm down, and—if you want—get back to sleep. If you wanna stay up all night I'm fine with that too. God knows I'm not getting back to sleep."
"Do you stay up all night every night when I'm not doing so good," he asked, touching my face again, and then running his fingers through my hair. "I think you look better with longer hair, never really noticed it before."
"Well, you have been kind of busy, what with spending four years as a vegetable, and all. But I'm glad I finally fit into your hectic schedule," I taunted, and for a fraction of a second worried I'd done something unforgivable.
"Deflecting, huh? And here I thought that was my specialty," he snarked back. I was still smiling, still grateful to have him back, smiling, (occasionally) telling jokes, (rarely) and looking at me like he knew I was actually there.
"Yes, I do," I told him, and then felt the need to defend my actions. "You don't sleep very well, and if I don't…I've woken up and found you lying completely still, too scared to wake me up, too scared to ask for your meds, too scared to tell me you had a bad dream. There's nothing wrong with being like that, but until you're a lot stronger, I don't see myself relaxing enough to leave you alone when things aren't going so well. I'm barely okay to sleep when you're having a good day." He laughed.
"You're pathetic." House pressed his mouth against mine. "But pretty. Sort of." He touched my hair, brushing a shock of it out of my eyes. I think he was looking for an excuse to disappear. He wanted me to yell at, or smack him, or do something else he wasn't fully prepared for so that he could have an excuse to escape.
"If you wanna pop a couple more pills and stare into space all by yourself then you can just tell me so, but I will not, repeat, not hit, scream at, or rape you. I know you wanna believe that every man in the Universe is an abusive monster, who will take advantage of you if they're given the opportunity, but I am not like that. I'm sorry," I whispered, already reaching for the extra pills.
"I think I just need some time to think about…to be honest, everything," he explained, looking at the wall, and sighing. I scooted away a little, giving him some physical space.
"Alright, I'm gonna get you an extra pain pill or two, okay?" House shrugged, but held his hand out and back as if expecting them. I gave him three; he took two, forking the last one back over. "Can I lay next to you, or do you need me to...back off a little?" This time he grabbed my hand, and pulled it around is shoulders, signaling me to hold on tightly, which I did. Then, he got quiet again, and stayed that way for nearly two weeks. I wasn't entirely sure what was happening to him, but understood that sometimes his moods just came on like that, suddenly, and often for no reason. He told me he'd needed to think about something, but didn't explain exactly what. I was worried about him, of course, and apparently, with good reason.
The first day of his silence Greg seemed alright—except for the not talking part—but about midway through the second day I started to realize that he'd gotten sick again, mainly because he pretty much stopped eating, and wouldn't get out of bed, even when he had to use the bathroom. I knew it had to be really bad if he wouldn't try to signal me somehow, and that I'd probably have to take him to the hospital. "I have to take your temperature," I explained, cautiously, knowing full well that he was going to struggle, even though it was an ear thermometer, which is painless and not in the least bit embarrassing. House bit down on his lip, and made a soft whimpering sound, but remained relatively calm. "It goes in your ear, remember?" Despite my expectations, he didn't struggle at all, which told me he didn't have the strength, not that he was okay with what I was doing to him. "100.1 degrees. We gotta go to the hospital and get some meds." He made a soft sound, which could have been a muffled cry or attempted protest, but in the end, went willingly. At least this time it wasn't pneumonia, which would have required hospitalization and IV antibiotics, but rather a mild case of strep throat—no wonder he wasn't talking—which meant I could take him home, and set him up on the couch with a couple of his books, a glass of water, the remote control, and an open bottle of each of his usual meds. He was pretty exhausted, and mostly just lay there staring at the TV set, and ignoring me whenever I tried to talk to (or usually at) him. After three days on the antibiotics, he seemed slightly better, but for the most part, still didn't react.
A few days later I watched as he woke up, looked at me, sort of smiled, and said, "I think I'm being a baby. And you're infantilizing and enabling me." I sighed, and rubbed his shoulders, and stroked his hair gently, pulling his body closer to mine in bed. "See, you never would of done that before. You'd—I dunno. But you wouldn't just let me get away with not talking to you for weeks at a time."
"No, of course not, it's just that, before…you were a barely functioning adult, but you were functioning. Now, you're lucky if you can get through a day without having more than three anxiety attacks. If I treated you exactly the same now as I did then, you'd either kill yourself, or just drop dead of a heart attack. Or is this—you're talking about the pills, aren't you?" He shrugged again. "I know, I was all over you about them before, and now…things are different. Do you feel like you could handle switching to weaker painkillers or anxiety meds? I'm not going to take you off either one completely, or—but if your pain isn't as bad as it was, then maybe you could go back to Vicodin, or maybe we could eliminate a dose of either or both pills from whatever part of the day when you feel the strongest, and…why are you looking at me like that?"
"How come you give me so much?" We'd had this conversation before, many, many times. When House was having a really good day, he felt like I was making his life too easy, I was too gentle with him, treating him like he was made of glass. It was almost like he didn't realize just how bad he was on some of the other days. I sighed again, sitting up, but still holding on to him. "I don't need every little thing to be wonderful and perfect and lovely."
"You don't actually believe that I'm making everything—House, you're in constant, physical pain, ten or twenty times more than you were ten years ago. You're constantly getting sick, pneumonia, strep, ear infections, the stomach flu, you can't walk. Most days you can't talk, or can hardly say more than two words to me, and you have panic attacks. I treat you like you're made of glass because for years you were, literally. And even now, you continue to be incredibly fragile on and off, and I don't always know what you are and aren't capable of handling, and I—" I stopped myself, just short of finishing my sentence, but it didn't make any difference. Greg already knew what I would have said. I won't risk screwing up and hurting you, or turning you back into that same, terrified little boy who can't even look at me.
"You don't have to change anything, except... Some days, I can. Some days I'm okay to be more than just a little boy in a big boy's body. You kiss me, you make out with me. And we—I've been thinking about some stuff a lot the last couple of days, since I had that nightmare, it was like a week ago right?" I was a little worried that he had lost time, even though I knew that it was normal for him when he got like that. "The thing is, I don't think that's what the dream was. Honestly, I've been thinking about this for a long time," he confessed.
"What the cop did to you," I asked, carefully, and watched his face. You idiot, I thought, and so did he. "No, sorry, something else. You wanna tell me about it, or should I just guess?" He smiled, his eyes all bright and excited like how the used to get sometimes, before we'd ever heard of Detective Michael Tritter.
"Sex," he said, simply, sweetly. "I've been thinking I might be ready to try doing something more than extended make out sessions and snuggling." I was positive he was testing me—if I said okay, or tried to go for it I'd lose him forever—and so I began to prepare one of my speeches, carefully thinking out my response. "Oh, go to Hell," he snapped. "I'm not messing with your head. I want to try—something. Heavy petting, blow jobs, hand jobs, I dunno."
"But you're not sure which one you're ready for," I asked, touching his unshaven cheek. "House, I know you're tired of hearing this, but I've gotta say it again. I don't want to risk making everything worse. I don't want to hurt you more than you already have been."
"Weren't we just having this conversation? I'm not made of glass. Anymore. I'm not going to break. I can tell you to stop. I've done it before. I'm good at saying no to you. Actually, you're the only person who's ever had power over me that I could say no to." That surprised me, and Greg saw it on my face. "Before all of this, I wasn't so good at, when it came to having relationships with men." You've slept with other men than me, I almost shrieked.
"Wait, I thought you told me that I was—I mean, you said I wasn't the first guy you had done that with, but you also told me our relationship, or—our um, you said, you usually went for one night stands with guys, and were sort of afraid of doing more than that," I told him. He chuckled, and patted me on the arm gently.
"And you believed me," he asked, sounding positively amazed. "Gee, wiz, Jimmy, I knew you were gullible, but I still can't believe you bought that line. Maybe I should have told you I hadn't been with any other guys, asked you to be gentle. Of course, that probably wouldn't have worked too well, especially since I was the one who did you." He smiled, and started playing with my hair, softly. "Look, I know you think that I'm just this pathetic little—child, and maybe some of the time I am, but right now, I want this. I need is to feel your hands on my skin, our bodies—I'm not ready for real sex. I know that much. I understand that I might not ever be there, but I think I am ready for more than we've been doing. Please," he begged.
"I'm going to need some time to think about this for myself, okay?" Now it was his turn to sigh, and then he pressed his face against my chest, and closed his eyes. "Is that a yes or a no?" He nodded slowly. "Atta boy," I told him, patting the guy on the back. It was amazing. I couldn't count the number of times that I'd wished things could go back to how they had been before. I loved both the before and post Tritter House. He had an incredible body and was the most amazing lover I had ever had. He was also kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart, and I was terrified that he wasn't ready. At the same time, I desperately wanted this and, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't been so confused since this whole mess began. At every step along the way, I had known exactly what to do, 100% of the time.
House had needed me to take care of him because I was the only person who didn't scare the crap out of the poor guy. Okay, no problem. I didn't even have to think about it. Every time he got sick, and needed to go back to the hospital, I took care of everything. I didn't care that it was annoying. I didn't care that there were nurses who probably could do the little tings like take his BP and temperature; it had to be me. When he had nightmares and needed me to hold him, I was there. When he started talking, I didn't push him, but it was amazing, like a gift from God—not that I ever told him I thought so. When Tritter was killed, I was there for him. Every time he had a little breakthrough, or a big one; he needed me, and I love him, so I was there. I did what needed to be done because I loved him, and I couldn't imagine any other solution. If I had put him in some sort of "facility," he would never have survived, or thrived, and I wouldn't have made it much longer than he did. So, that just wasn't a possibility.
When we first started kissing and making out, I had nightmares for months. In the dreams, I kissed him and did a reverse Sleeping Beauty on the guy. E went back to how he was in the hospital right after he was attacked only worse. So, naturally, I was terrified, and part of me believed that I'd lose him again, only this time it would be forever. But I got over it, especially because he was okay, with everything. He seemed to enjoy it, and he could tell me to stop. He still had all the problems he'd had before, but sometimes he was so much better than others. But now…this was different. I had no idea what I was doing, or how to help him, or where to go next. When we went to bed that night, I still didn't know anything. I loved Greg, and I told him this much, "I'm sorry. We'll get there eventually. I promise. I will not leave you hanging on this. Give me a couple more days, and I'll figure this out." He rolled his eyes some more, and soon fell asleep, but I knew I wouldn't be able to do the same until I got an answer for him.
