Chapter 26

House Confesses…

He woke up ninety minutes later to find Rainie finally finishing her breakfast, determined to master once again the delicate art of using utensils. She hadn't exactly been neat about it—there were flecks of egg scattered around the blanket—but she'd managed.

She looked over at him when she heard him move. "Feel better?" she asked, softly.

He nodded, a little astounded by how much she'd come to trust him. Very gently she laid her right hand on his left and patted it. Somehow, he wasn't comforted by her gesture, because he knew what he had to do.

Now's as good a time as any, he thought. I need to get this over with.

Ever since Wilson had told him about her, House hadn't been able to rid himself of a powerful, consuming guilt about what had happened to her on his account. He desperately wished… well, what did he wish? That she could have been spared, that no one else should have had to suffer because of him. First, do no harm.

Because of his own experiences, it wasn't difficult for him to picture the kind of treatment the petite woman next to him had undergone. He could hear the voices terrorizing her, laughing as they hurt her, as they threatened. He could see strong arms holding her down, hands using scalpels to slice into the most sensitive areas of her arms, the bottoms of her feet, her face, bringing about the maximum amount of pain without endangering her life. Pinioning her so she couldn't struggle as they raped her, as they beat her, as they broke her bones, and then leaving her cold and uncared for in her own filth.

The constant dread, the unbearable and unexpected pain—he knew it far too well. And it was his fault she'd suffered through it. It was his fault her husband was dead, and her child, that her life was ruined. His fault.

As his heart began to race, he grimly shook away the thoughts and the terror they conjured up, and girded himself.

"Rainie…" he began, uncertainly. "We need to talk."

Her eyelids flickered as she tried to prepare herself for what she clearly expected to be bad news. He saw the tension gather in her face and shoulders, and noticed that she'd begun to chew nervously on her lower lip.

Am I going to undo everything by telling her? Will she be able to trust me after this, knowing I'm the cause of her suffering and her loss? Will she be able to forgive me for what I've done to her life?

Probably not, he decided. But she needs to know.

With difficulty, he raised his head and stared at the ceiling. Okay, let's do it.

"I'm Greg House," he whispered, as if embarrassed. "I'm the reason you… you had to go through… all this."

She took in a quick breath, and her eyelids began to blink rapidly as she thought about it. Of course. Greg. How stupid of her. That's why he looked familiar, and yet not quite. She should have figured it out. Must be the drugs. No wonder he appeared to know just what she was feeling—it's because he'd had those same feelings himself. And those hands.

It seemed so obvious all of a sudden.

She said nothing for a long time.

He held his breath.

"I know," she said, finally, looking down. "I'm sorry."

Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry that I'm Greg House? Well, I'm sorry about that, too. What could she have to be sorry for? It's my fault she's here. I'm the one who's sorry. Bitterly, dreadfully, eternally sorry.

He glanced at her, unable to read her face.

"Why?" he whispered, now riveted on her eyes. "Why sorry?"

She drew a deep breath. Looking down at the bed, she couldn't meet his gaze.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't help you," she murmured at last. "You'll never know how incredibly hard I tried. I'm so very sorry I couldn't save you."

His throat constricted. He exhaled a long breath, and laid his head back on the pillow closing his eyes and feeling them sting as teardrops spilled onto his face. His right eye throbbed as he tried to squeeze back the tears, but he couldn't stop them. A rumbling, hiccupy sob escaped him, then another. And another.

She's sorry she couldn't help me, he thought, as emotion overtook his reason. She tried to save me—she's the only one who actually tried to save me—and all it got her was… what I got. And yet, she's sorry.

He leaned forward on the bed, bending way over, covering his mouth in an attempt to stifle himself. From somewhere far away inside him, a long, low wail burbled up to the surface and escaped into the room.

The security guard turned his head and looked through the glass door.

"Hey! Nurse!" he called, as he rose to his feet. "Something's wrong!"

Two nurses came running. Sliding open the door to 304, they ran in quickly, only then reminding themselves that their instructions were to move slowly and quietly.

They saw Rainie Adler leaning over, cradling Gregory House's head in her lap as she rubbed his back with her right hand. His shoulders heaved while muffled keening emerged into the room.

Unsure of what to do, the nurses looked at each other. Neither of them had ever heard noises like this before.

Finally, one of them came to her senses, remembering their instructions to call Jacey Liu if anything came up. Not wanting to create a disturbance, they stepped back outside and paged Jacey, who was in her office two floors above, and then they slipped back into the room.

Seemingly within seconds, Jacey entered the room, surveying the situation from the doorway.

At first, all she saw was a pile of blankets, but soon she made out Rainie, hunched very low over House's prone body, his face in her lap. Jacey could clearly hear muted howls of anguish coming from the center of the bed. Between breaths, she heard a crooning sound coming from Rainie, who was stroking his back.

Jacey considering grabbing a sedative, but decided to hold off. The two seemed oblivious to anyone else. She wanted to see how they handled it.

Gasping for breath, House tried to raise his head. Between the crying, the swelling and the bandages, he couldn't seem to lift it. He'd given himself a terrible headache and he felt intensely queasy. The throbbing was extreme. Using his left hand, he pushed off the bed and found himself sitting upright again.

Unable look at Rainie, he was too ashamed of having lost control. But he couldn't stop sobbing either. He let out another deep wail, trying desperately to swallow it but unable to. His chest pounded and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He thought he was going to throw up.

He was the doctor; she was the patient. He was supposed to help her, not the other way around.

Or maybe it hadn't helped at all. Maybe he'd just fallen apart.

Gulping in as much air as he could, he tried to calm himself.

Finally, after several long minutes, his crying and his breathing slowed. He stared vacantly toward his feet as he struggled to pull himself together. Something warm and damp dripped down the right side of his face.

After a long time, he spoke.

"You wanted to save me," he said, almost under his breath. "You're sorry you couldn't…" He looked over at her, not quite making eye contact. "You see… I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

The last sentence was said so quietly, Rainie had to strain to hear it. Her heart skipped a beat. No wonder this hit him so hard, she thought. He's felt as responsible for me as I've felt for him. He must have thought I'd resent him when I realized who he was, that I'd blame him. And yet, despite his concerns, he's stayed with me, even coming to be with me when he's been injured himself.

A moment of fear hit her suddenly. She still didn't know how he'd been hurt this time. And, besides, his head was bleeding.

Rainie looked up at him, her eyes moist. Not entirely sure why or how, it was apparent that she had affected House in a fundamental manner. And oddly, her ability to be strong for him had done something very positive for her. Up till now, she'd hated herself for being afraid, for the episodes of terror, for the very natural reaction to her own experiences. Being able to comfort him gave her back a little bit of the woman she used to be—the strong one, the clever one, the one who had that uncanny ability to see through artifice and grasp the truth underneath.

"It's all right," she said. "We'll get through this together."

He continued to stare toward his toes, but she thought she detected a slight, curt nod.

Then, in a very small voice, she whispered something Jacey couldn't hear.

But House heard it.

"No one will ever understand you as well as I do," she murmured. And no one will ever understand me like you do, she added to herself.

Biting back another sob, he nodded more boldly this time, reaching out toward her with his left arm. She tucked herself up next to him and wiped away his remaining tears with her left hand, noticing some blood mixed in with the tears. They leaned back against the pillows. He closed his eyes, and shortly thereafter she did the same.

Neither of them ever noticed Jacey standing there, syringe in hand.

Fascinating, she thought. Utterly fascinating.

As much as she hated to disturb them again, she knew he needed to be checked out. Even in the low light of the room, she could see blood on his face. Stopping at the nurses' station on her way out, she paged Karen Langley.