Depression still had him in its grip. He was morose and taciturn for the rest of the evening, though he did insist that sit with him on the couch and he put an arm around my shoulder. That simple act brought a smile to his face and seemed to fill his pleasantry quota for the night. If it made it him happy then I can't complain.

For a while he clung to me like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. Eventually, after much tossing and turning and murmuring at whatever dream was projecting on his mind, Greg migrated to the other side of the bed and lightly snored away in a fitful sleep. The rain ended and moonlight filtered through the shades and bleached out any color left in the room.

But I got what wanted, an invitation to the master suite, even if Greg invited me just for the sake having me there. Like I said, I can't complain. Like Greg, I know the chapters of life don't always have a perfect ending.


"Human intelligence is overrated," Greg told me while shaking pepper over his scrambled eggs.

"How so?" I asked, genuinely intrigued about what he was going to say. He was a little more animated this morning which I thought was a good sign.

"Just take a look around you, Jimmy. For every undeniably brilliant mind like Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking there's a hundred yahoos who write hold-up notes on the back of their personal checks or sue Burger King after they ate five Double Whoppers every day for twenty years and got fat. This planet is a veritable quagmire of stupidity."

"So where do you and I fit into all this?"

Greg smirked and raised his coffee mug as if in a toast. "You and I are the lucky fellows who get to wander knee-deep in that quagmire every day."

"You have clinic duty today, don't you?" I gulped down my orange juice and poured another glass.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Knee-deep in all of it," I said. "Does that make us brilliant or stupid."

"Neither," Greg answered, finishing his breakfast. "We aren't smart enough to grace the history books and we're not dumb enough to try and sneak through customs with five kilos of heroin in our shorts."

"That's a rather unique way of viewing the world, Greg."

He looked over at me and chuckled. "If you're going to live under my roof and share my bed you better get used to my views real damn quick."


"He won't," I told Cuddy after she ambushed me in the cafeteria line.

"Maybe he'll listen to you."

"If Carmen Electra came to him in a g-string and begged him, he still wouldn't. You know that. Why are we having this conversation?"

"Can you at least try to talk to him, see if he'll at least consider getting some help?" Cuddy asked while keeping pace with me in line.

Handing a few crumpled bills to cashier I answered, "For what, the Vicodin or the depression? 'Try' is the operative word. I can talk to him until the stars fall out the sky, Dr. Cuddy, that doesn't mean he'll listen to a word of it."

She blocked my way to the tables. "You're his friend. You know him and his moods."

"Yeah, I know his moods, but I can't change them," I said, walking around the Dean of Medicine. "I'll pass along your message. If House wants help he'll ask for it. Until then we're both wasting our time."

She didn't pursue it any further and I listened to the sound of her heels clicking towards the exit.

I had just sat down when a hand materialized from nowhere and snatched the potato chips from my tray.

"Help yourself," I said as Greg sat across from me.

"I did," he replied dryly. "Clinic duty went from a quagmire to a cesspool."

"That good, huh?"

"Mmm...hmmm," he muttered between chips. "I must have wronged Cuddy in a past life. I'm being punished."

I munched on a bit of my sandwich and said, "Cuddy wants me to pass along a message to you."

"Let me guess, she wants me to seek some professional help."

"How'd you know?"

"Cuddy and I have this conversation at least twice a year. I think she wants me to try the Prozac again even if it does make me all drowsy and loopy and could interact with the Vicodin. But as long as I'm happy about it why should she care? I see she got you to do her dirty work this time."

"I'm not doing anyone's dirty work," I pointed out. "Don't kill the messenger."

"I'm not," he said. "Tell Cuddy the answer is no, again, and tell her she should wear that black push-up bra."

"You can tell her yourself," I said, then changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks," Greg rested his chin in his hand. "So...Dr. Wilson...have you figured out what to do with me yet?"

Grinning, I said, "I might have a few ideas."

"Good," he smiled. "But there's an O.C. marathon on tonight so I'm afraid they might have to wait."