Chapter 11

"Man of the Hour"

Sunlight was streaming in the windows to his far left when next he opened his eyes. He looked around himself, reorienting his position in the room and frowning for a moment, testing his memory of events from the past eight hours or so.

The dog was gone, if indeed there actually had been a dog, and not just another aspect of a drug-induced hallucination. Wilson was gone also, along with the nurses and doctors he vaguely remembered from the day before. He also remembered the flurry of intense activity when his pain had accelerated into the bone-jarring leg spasms and he'd found himself ready to scream.

Had he? Were those memories real, or were they figments of still other wildly fictitious goings-on inside his head?

His injured hand ached dully and he cradled it close to his chest. His leg called out to him a little more than that. And he had to piss like a race horse! At least these things were very real … and not part of some horrible dream. Reality was horrible enough!

He remembered having some half-assed dream conversation with a very large brown dog. The mutt had seemed so real that the illusion of its doggie odor still remained in his nostrils. He looked to his left and frowned. A few small fuzzballs of brown dog hair adhered to the sheet by his left side. The corner of his pillow still smelled of an animal that had recently been bathed in Hi-Lo Dip!

The damned dog was real!

He turned his head toward the door and yelled. "WIL-SON!"

A nurse he didn't know stuck her head around the corner into his room. "Dr. House? Are you all right?"

"Hell no, I'm not all right! Go find somebody and get Dr. Wilson in here … and a couple of orderlies! Make it quick! I have to go!"

"Yes, doctor," and she was gone.

Ten minutes passed. No one showed up. He rang for the nurse. Another young female he didn't recognize poked her head around the corner. "Can I help you, doctor?"

"Where's Dr. Wilson?"

"They're finding him."

"I really wish somebody would get their shit together around here … before my shit gets away from me! My leg hurts! And I need to use the head!"

"Can I help you until they find him?"

"You gonna lift me into a wheelchair? And then wheel me to the head? Stand me on my feet … foot? Get me on the toilet and hold my damn leg while I take a pee and a dump?"

"Uh … no … sorry. I'll find somebody right away!"

"Better hurry!"

She fled.

He didn't even know what time it was. He hadn't seen his watch for days. He waited while intercom pages for Dr. James Wilson: "Please call the third floor nurse's station! Dr. James Wilson, please call the …" went unanswered.

He was getting desperate. He worried at his left thumbnail with his front teeth and watched the door like a badger lying in wait for a groundhog.

The space was suddenly filled with the sturdy body of Blackjack House, looking pissed off and put out. "Gregg? Son?" The look had been misleading. The old man sounded worried.

What gives? What the hell is he doing here?

He almost groaned in consternation. Not only hadn't they sent Wilson, or a couple of strong orderlies to handle his rumbling-gut emergency, but the page had reached the ears of his hard-assed ex-Marine-Colonel father! Blackjack House had arrived in his doorway with a scowl on his face and what looked like a bellyful of attitude. "What's going on in here? Gregory? Are you all right? You really had us worried yesterday …"

"I need Wilson … and somebody to get me to the head! Now! Will you find somebody? Please?"

"Dr. Wilson went home to try to get some sleep. His ass was dragging his tracks shut. He and Dr. Foreman took Baxter and dropped him off at Dr. Cuddy's, so Foreman won't be back right away either. Will I do? I may not pass as one of your orderlies, but I think I can still handle your sorry ass!" There was a look of wry amusement on his Dad's face that House wasn't sure he knew how to interpret.

He looked the gray haired man up and down.

They took Baxter where? Who the hell is Baxter? That mutt?

Gregg weighed his options quickly and realized there weren't any.

"Dad … dammit … I'm too heavy for you! You can't do it alone. And I have no balance. I'm clumsy, I'm hurt badly … and I'm in pain. Please … go find someone. I have no fucking intentions of getting you hurt too!"

It came out harsher than he'd intended, and his father just stood and stared at him helplessly for a long moment. Was there nothing the man wouldn't do to humiliate him?

Blackjack squared his jaw and walked up to his son's bedside. He reached out tentatively to settle his palm on a bony shoulder, and as he did so, he spoke softly. The blue eyes were moist as he looked at his son's bruised face. "I know the two of us don't have much to talk about anymore, Gregg, and I'm sure-as-hell sorry about that. But I'd like to help you, if you'll let me. If we go slow and easy, I think we can handle this together."

The old man's voice was cracking a little, and gentler than Gregg had ever heard it before. He stared, a tad nonplussed, contemplating.

"Dad … dammit …"

"C'mon, Gregg! Slow and easy. I'd never do anything to hurt you. I'll bring the damn wheelchair over and put the brakes on. You slide across to me. Put your right arm around my neck … that shouldn't hurt your hand, right? When you slide down from the bed, I'll hold your leg straight till you can lower yourself into the chair. Then we'll go. We can figure out the rest once we get you into the head. Will you let me do this for you, Gregg?"

House glared, half exasperated. The old man talked a good line, but he could picture himself slipping, because he hadn't the strength not to … and throwing them both on the floor, to no one's best interests.

"Dad …"

"Let's go! Hut two!"

"Aww … ferchrissake …"

Blackjack grinned. "That's my boy!" He said. "Please try to trust me."

Gregg almost laughed in his face, but choked it off. Very slowly he leaned down and placed his arm gingerly about his father's thick neck. The old man held steady. He was like a rock.

"Easy now! Easy … let me get your leg. I'm going to be as careful as I can. Tell me if I hurt you, okay?"

He inched his way to the edge of the bed, biting his lip nervously, and began to slide down. "If you hear me scream my head off, you'll know you hurt me. Okay?" Blackjack was bent slightly at the waist, supporting his arm and cradling his injured leg with a tenderness his son had no idea he possessed.

His Dad was busy and did not answer, except for a surprised accenting grunt.

Blackjack eased across in front of the wheelchair and lowered Gregg's leg gently onto the raised footrest. He straightened easily as Gregg settled into the seat, and unwrapped the slender arm from around his shoulder. Gregg was still grimacing when he placed his hand carefully in his lap. His eyes darted from his father's face, to the side, and back again. Somehow they'd made it.

How did you say thanks to someone you thought you had hated for years?

"You all right?" The old man asked. There was naked concern in his bright blue eyes, and Gregg could not meet them head-on.

"Yeah … give me a minute …"

Blackjack stooped at the front of the wheelchair and arranged the flimsy hospital gown discreetly around Gregg's lower body. "Gotta cover your Six here …"

"What?"

Blackjack grinned. "Well … there are still parts of a man's anatomy he wants to keep secret from the general public, right? You good to go, son?"

"Ahhh … yeah. Could you get a fucking move on?" He felt the sudden urge to laugh maniacally. He suppressed it.

John chuckled. "Yes sir!"

They trundled slowly across the room, and his Dad propped open the wide door to the handicapped rest room.

Blackjack made no pissy remarks about the accommodations, or the built-in bars and straps for physical assistance. He only reversed his careful operations from the bedside and eased Gregg across onto the toilet. He stood in front of him, turned sideways, affording his son the privacy he needed, while effectively blocking the view from the corridor. He held the crippled leg straight out with loving and tender hands.

"You still have the little scar on your foot from the time you stepped on the rusty nail when you were ten," Blackjack observed softly. "I had forgotten that. And you still have the mark on your ankle bone from the time you jumped off the merry-go-round horse on the mall in D. C. and caught your foot on the stirrup."

"I didn't know you remembered any of that stuff …"

"I remember a lot more than you think." The admission was subdued; a little reluctant and a tad apologetic.

Gregg had no words that could adequately express what he felt at that moment. He bit back the pain in his leg and in his heart, and concentrated on taking a crap, along with a good healthy piss. When he announced that he was ready to return to bed, his injuries were hurting. He did his best not to let it show. He watched his father with wildly mixed emotions.

By the time an attending finally appeared in his doorway with a pair of orderlies, Gregg was already back in bed with his leg propped on the pillow and his hand cradled gingerly against his chest. He had taken his meds and his pain had receded a little. Blackjack House was in the visitor's chair by his side. They were watching Wheel of Fortune, shouting out the answers in competition with each other as soon as a few letters began to show up on the board. They came up with some silly-ass answers.

"Didn't you need to …?" The attending asked.

"Too late," Gregg snapped. "I already crapped myself! You guys better get some mops and a bucket."

The orderlies blanched and Gregg and his Dad laughed raucously.

The attending threw his hands up in the air and said something under his breath. He did an "about face" and stomped out. Gregg thought he heard his name being taken in vain. The orderlies filed out behind him.

"Mmmm …" Blackjack mused, watching the almost-perfect military 180. "I hear that the Marines are still looking for a few good men …"

The two of them laughed together.

oooooooooooo

Lisa Cuddy and Blythe House both arrived in his room at noon. Cuddy was on her lunch hour and Blythe had been to a department store to select some appropriate clothing for her son to wear in place of the uncomfortable hospital gowns.

The two women paused in the doorway and stared in astonishment at the men inside. Laughing and talking together like a pair of old friends, Gregg and John were doing their best to deal with old wounds and deep misunderstandings they had both been harboring for years.

Gregg's lunch arrived while they were there, and Blythe had brought sodas and sandwiches from a local deli. When Gregg saw the dry Reuben and Mountain Dew laid out before him, his eyes widened like a little boy in a candy store. He pushed his baked fish aside in favor of the heartier fare. With his disabled hand, he could not maneuver the sandwich. They took turns helping him. He put up with it in an annoyed manner, but wisely, did not complain.

"Thanks, Mom … best Reuben I ever ate!"

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

Cuddy leered at him when his mother called him 'sweetheart', and winked with a sly smile on her face. He bristled, but again, wisely, said nothing.

John and Blythe laughingly shared a huge hoagie and cans of diet Pepsi. Lisa Cuddy had a Sprite and a jar of mixed fruit she'd brought up from her office fridge. The four of them sat and visited for the whole hour.

Lisa watched House's face silently, relieved that some of the deep marks of pain had finally lifted from his brow. At least temporarily!

From time to time, Blythe House simply sat back and smiled through happy tears as she watched her husband and son working very hard at patching up old wounds. Maybe some day they would come to respect one another, and maybe even rekindle the fires of love they had once enjoyed as father and son when Gregg was very small.

After Cuddy returned to her office, John closed the vertical blinds and they brought out the sweat pants and shirts Blythe had purchased downtown. She took scissors from her purse and cut off the right leg of the gray pants to a spot above the knee. John cut the right wristband off the shirt not quite to the elbow. Carefully, they helped Gregg into the sweats and took note that when they had finished, he finally looked more comfortable.

He did not tell them he was mortified that they had seen his crippled, pitifully thin body. He'd heard them hitch their breaths in dismay, but he ignored it. There were no words …

ooooooooooooooo

James Wilson returned close to the end of first shift. By that time, Blythe and John House had gone back to Gregg's apartment to snag some well-earned sleep. Foreman still had not put in an appearance. Chase and Cameron, however, he'd noticed, were both in the conference room next to House's office.

Wilson did a few minutes' catch-up work in his own office and then went down to check on Gregg. He had something very important to tell his friend.

Pausing in the doorway, he stood for a moment and just watched House in repose. There was something deliberately appealing about the man when he appeared in sweat suits, Wilson thought. The loose and comfortable leisure attire hid some of the stark, hollow gauntness, and brought out the bright blue of his beautiful eyes. James could not seem to keep himself from staring

He held a paper bag in his hand, and it was necessary that he give it to his friend very soon. It was already beginning to melt …

House looked, at first, to be asleep, but James knew it was not so. Gregg's head was pressed back against the pillow, his broken hand once again cradled in the crook of his opposite elbow. He was staring at the ceiling.

When Wilson walked in and approached the bed, House rolled his eyes at him and almost smiled. Wilson nearly fainted.

"Well!" He exclaimed. "To what do we owe the 'happy'?"

"I was thinking …"

"Uh oh! No, don't say anymore! I don't think I can stand it! Here!" He held out the paper bag.

House eyed it curiously. "Sexy underwear? Drywall screws? A dead squirrel? What?"

"Take it and see." Smiling, he held it across House's body so he could grasp it with his left hand.

Gingerly, House repositioned his injured hand onto the pillow and reached up. The bag was cold. "Ice cream! You remembered my ice cream!" He was positively giddy.

Wilson rolled his eyes. He guessed it was as close to a 'thank you' as he'd ever get. He grinned. "You're welcome." He waggled his fingers impatiently. "Here … gimmie it back! You can't get it by yourself." He grabbed the bag and opened it up to pull out the Styrofoam cup inside. It held two scoops of chocolate marshmallow ice cream.

House eyed the prize appreciatively. "Wow! Cool! I guess I should keep you around awhile."

Wilson spooned over the gooey stuff with a plastic spoon, bite by bite, until they were gone and House sighed with contentment. "So what were you thinking about?"

"Huh?"

"You said you were thinking …"

"And you said I shouldn't say anymore …"

"That was before you ate your ice cream …"

"Oh. Yeah. So … who says the mutt's name is Baxter?"

"What?"

"That dog you guys dumped off in my room last night. My old man says his name is Baxter … and that he's over at Cuddy's."

"Yeah … so?"

"Who gave him that name?"

"How the hell would I know? The kid at the vet's office said they took an old collar off him that had it engraved there. If you don't want to call him Baxter, then just call him something else! He's your dog, you know."

"'Something-Else' sounds like a good dog-name to you?" House's nose was wrinkled in a familiar manner.

"Don't push it, House! Call him whatever you want to call him! He's a nice dog. He's a gentleman, which is more than I can possibly say for you … even stretching it. Do you want to keep him?"

"How?" He looked down at his hand and his leg. "It wouldn't be fair to him, even after this mess is healed. A big dog like that needs to run. He won't be running much if he has to live with me."

"I'm just saying …" Wilson said awkwardly. "It's all up to you. He did have a part in saving your miserable life, you know. If you'd have lain there much longer, you might be worm food by now."

"Eww …"

"Joking." Wilson pulled out the visitor's chair and sat down. "How would you like to go home on Monday?"

House jerked his head around to meet his friend's eyes. "How is that possible? God, yes! But …"

Wilson's face scrunched up with secrets untold. "I seems that Dr. Cuddy has jumped through a few hoops for you."

"Hoops? For me? Is she ill?"

"House! Shut up and listen!"

"I'm listening … trust me!"

"She found a wheelchair for you … portable … motorized. Has a lift that will keep your leg straight. The same company makes a walker you can use that will get you on your feet right away."

"Ali-Medic Walker," House said. "I've read about them … built high, with wheels. All my body weight goes on my elbows. I can begin to walk again without any pressure on my hand. Or on the screwed-up leg."

"Yeah. She ordered them both for you. They'll be here by Monday. They'll deliver them to your apartment. When you don't need them anymore, they'll both go down to rehab. You'll be on parole, so to speak."

House bent his head a moment, but then looked up and met Wilson's gaze with chagrin. "I never thought I'd be eager to get into a wheelchair, but I guess when you find yourself at the bottom of a barrel, even the bunghole looks good."

"House …"

"I'm okay Jimmy. Just tell Cuddy I said … thanks."

"Tell her yourself! That'll kind of make you the man of the hour!"

"Oh, peachy!"

oooooooooooooooooooo

92