May 2nd
It's a quiet night at Lou's now, the bustle and noise of the early evening transmuted into peacefulness. Their little party of four is the only group left in the place. They've shared dinner and stories about their respective vacations; everyone looks well-rested and happy. The change in Sarah is most noticeable. She actually has something of a tan, her pale skin tinted with a bit of golden glow, her carroty curls highlighted with copper and blonde streaks; little gilt-edged seashells dangle from her earlobes, to match the necklace Roz gave her. When she'd seen Greg earlier she'd hugged both him and Roz, her delight plain. It gave him a strange feeling deep inside, something he's never experienced. No one's ever really welcomed him home before. It's an odd sensation. He's still not quite sure how he feels about it.
"Time to get down to why we're here tonight," Greg says when the conversation falls silent finally. "I have a non-sexual proposition for the Doctors Goldman." He's anxious about this whole venture and hopes it doesn't show. When Roz's hand comes to rest on his knee he welcomes the contact. Without further hesitation he plunges in. "I want you both to work with me at the clinic."
This is the make or break moment. He can hardly bring himself to watch their reactions, but he shouldn't have worried in the first place, just as his wife told him.
"We thought you'd never ask," Gene says. Greg glances at Sarah. She nods and reaches out to take his hand in hers.
"We'd be honored," she says quietly.
"I don't know if this is gonna work," he warns as Lou comes over to join them. He carries a tray with a bottle of wine and some glasses, which he places on the table. Then he pulls over an extra chair and sits down next to Roz.
"You'll never know until you try," he says. "When I bought this place forty years ago they were making pizza with frozen dough and fake cheese. Now I've got customers bringing their grandkids here so they know what good Italian food tastes like."
Greg turns the bottle label toward him. "Pio Cesare Barolo Ornato 2003," he reads. "From the Piedmont region. This is hundred dollar wine."
Lou nods. "If you're gonna start a new venture, you need a great sendoff," he says, and pulls the cork to let the wine breathe. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile as he glances at his granddaughter, who smiles back at him.
"Speaking of new ventures . . ." Sarah pick up her purse, rummages for a moment and removes two pieces of paper. "We thought you could use these." She places them in front of Greg, who makes no move to take them because he realizes they're checks, both for the same amount—two grand.
"What the hell," he says, shocked.
"It's the rent you paid over the last few months," Sarah says. There's a gleam of mischief in her sea-green eyes. "A nice little nest egg for you to start with, but we felt it wasn't enough. So we decided to ask some people for matching funds. The second check is from Diane Wirth."
Without a word Lou gives Greg another check for the same amount. Gene pushes two more toward him as well; one is from him, another from Will Reynard. The check from Will has a handwritten note clipped to it that says simply 'I want in, call me for consults.' Greg stares at the money. There's ten grand sitting there. When Roz puts her passbook on top of them, open to the last entry—around fifteen thousand dollars—it's too much, too overwhelming. He has to object.
"You're all putting a hell of a lot of money in something that could go belly up in a matter of days," he says.
"Knew you'd be thinking that," Sarah says. Now she takes a sheaf of papers from her purse, moves the checks to one side and puts the papers in front of him.
"What the fuck is this," Greg snaps. His heart races; his hands are clammy. "You went to Big Vinnie and took out a loan."
"I went online and asked a hypothetical question," Sarah says. "I wanted to know if anyone would be interested in a clinic run by Gregory House."
Greg looks down at the thick stack of printouts. Slowly he scans the first page. It's a fax from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, the official letterhead set above a brief note: 'We would be honored to extend open-door privileges to and consult with Doctor Gregory House and his staff.' Cuddy's signed it along with the head of every department in the hospital, as well as Wilson's stand-in for Oncology and Foreman for Diagnostics. Greg wonders briefly how much intimidation it took to get them to sign. He sets the page aside and skims the rest. There are similar documents from all over the eastern seaboard and points west as well as abroad, along with requests for help, resumes from would-be fellows, invitations for lectures and conference key-note speaker gigs . . . everything he used to receive on a regular basis during his tenure at PPTH, only doubled. He looks at this largesse, unable to believe it's real.
"If you build it they will come," Gene intones, and that makes everyone laugh, Greg included.
"Okay," he says, when the room is quiet again. He touches the stack with his finger, glances at the pile of money, takes a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do it."
They toast the start of the clinic with glasses of wine. The color is so deep it's almost black, and the taste is just as intense: raspberry, truffle and dried flowers, ripe fruit with hints of tobacco, chocolate, vanilla and pepper, the tannins quite obviously there but balanced enough to offset the softer flavor notes and not drown them out.
"I presume you'll provide food for the staff and patients," Greg says to Lou after they've all tapped glasses and had a long, appreciative sip of this magnificent quaff.
"You can call in and pick up like everyone else," Lou says, but he offers a smile with it.
They toss ideas back and forth for another hour or so; when it's clear they're talked out they help Lou close up the restaurant and go their separate ways. Before Sarah departs she gives Greg a fierce hug. "So proud of you, son," she whispers, and that means more to him than everything else, even the money. He'd never tell her of course, but he pushes away the knowledge of where he'd be by now if she hadn't decided he was worth her time and effort.
"Let's go by the clinic," Roz says when they climb into Barbarella. Greg looks at her.
"It's not a clinic yet," he says.
"Sure it is," she says, and flashes him a smile. "We christened it tonight with a great bottle of wine and a slush fund."
He chuckles and starts the engine. When they move down the street he turns out of town at the light, and heads for the Widmeyer place—my place, he thinks.
The building is dark; there's no electricity of course. Roz pulls an LED flashlight out of the glovebox. "Where the hell did that come from?" Greg asks, intrigued.
"You married an electrician and you ask that?" Roz laughs, turns on the flashlight and takes his hand. "Come on, let's look things over."
They've both explored the building extensively during daylight hours, so even with the lights off they know their way around well enough. They end up in the main room.
"I can see how it's going to be," Roz says after a brief silence. "Once everything's renovated, I mean." She moves in close and slips an arm around his waist.
"Tell me how it's going to be," he says, intrigued.
"Busy. A lot of puzzles to be solved, all coming through your doors," she says. Greg half-smiles. Anyone else would have said So many people for you to help. His wife knows him well.
"You just love me for my brain," he says. Roz laughs softly and pinches his butt.
"Among other things," she says slyly.
They take a tour of the place, glance into rooms, and don't say much. "This wiring was old when god was a baby," is Roz's sole comment. "Everything has to be replaced and upgraded. Lucky for you you've got an electrician working for cost of materials."
There's a hell of a lot of work to do. That's been obvious from the start, he thinks.
"Yeah, there is," Roz says. She seems to know exactly what's going through his mind at times, a disconcerting trait of hers Greg's not sure he'll ever get used to; only Wilson had pulled it off on rare occasions in the past. "We'll get it done, amante. You'll see."
May 3rd
It was deep in the small hours of the morning when Roz woke, alerted by some small noise or movement. She lifted her head to find Greg awake. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his thigh, shoulders hunched. Slowly he reached out to take a bottle from the nightstand—anti-anxiety meds, she'd seen him use them before once. He shook so hard he could barely get the cap off, but he managed to dry-swallow two tabs. He ran a hand over his face and exhaled, head bowed.
She knew better than to ask questions, offer platitudes or reassurances during an anxiety attack. She just slipped her arms around him and drew him to her spoon-fashion when he lay down again. He didn't object or push her away; she could feel him struggle to breathe normally. So this was a bad one. It was rare, but every now and then he would do this, and she had to leave him alone until he was ready to talk.
"I can't do this," he said at last. "It won't work."
Roz put her hands on his chest and stroked him slow and gentle. "Tell me," she said after a few moments.
"I'm a fuckup," he said. His voice was low and rough. "I should never have asked anyone to work with me. This whole thing is doomed from the start because I'm the one doing it." He swallowed once, twice. Roz knew he was hard put not to bolt.
"Why?" Roz pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck.
"Because I always screw things up." He relaxed a little when she brushed her lips over his skin, a lingering caress. She could feel his pulse start to settle, still fast but a bit steadier now. "If I do this and it fails . . ."
"Then you start again," Roz said. "But I don't think it will fail, Greg. You're not alone. You have people standing with you, willing to help." She trailed her fingers in a circle above his heart, felt him give a shuddering sort of sigh. "I'm one of them. Now close your eyes and go back to sleep. Things will look better in the morning."
"You and those damn rose-colored glasses," he muttered, but she heard a faint reluctant amusement in his voice. She leaned into and across him to kiss the corner of his mouth. He turned his head and made it a proper kiss, opened to her so their tongues could touch.
"Love you," she said against his lips when the kiss ended, and slipped in one last little buss before she snuggled in behind him, to hold him close.
"I can't sleep with you all squinched up against me like that," he said after a brief silence. "Your nipples are drilling holes in my back. Put another blanket on."
Roz struggled not to laugh. "There is another way to get warm," she said, and slid her hand over his hip. He caught it before she reached her destination.
"Horndog," he accused. Roz propped up on one elbow and stared down at him, though he refused to look at her.
"Hey, I'm the one who has to get up in a couple of hours and go to work," she said. "Not to mention listen to everyone teasing the hell out of me for the circles under my eyes."
"Aw, poor widdle Rosie," Greg mocked. "Better call the waaaaambulance—hey!" He squirmed away from her as she lightly tickled his ribs, his most vulnerable spot.
They tussled and laughed and made love, just as she'd hoped. He took her fast and hard, nipped her neck and drove up into her so that she clutched his back and wrapped one leg around him. When they came it was noisy and messy and delightfully sweet, both of them spent and sodden with afterglow.
"Think you're so smart," Greg said when he could speak. Roz smirked at him.
"I know I am, but what are you?" she said, and squealed when he pinned her arms to take a long, tender kiss.
"Smart enough to shack up with someone who knows how to handle a panic attack," he said, and let go long enough to cup her butt-cheek. When he settled her in the same position they'd started out in, her behind him spoon-style, she brought the covers up over them.
"You just wait and see. I'm right," she said, kissed his bald spot, and turned out the light.