"I hope this doesn't kill your 'enjoying of the moment'," I said.
"Depends on which moment you're talking about," Greg responded absently, though there was a trace of a smile.
"I'm not talking about your leg, Greg."
"You're a lot of things, Jimmy, but stupid enough to ask me if I'm enjoying the throbbing in my leg isn't one of them," he said, then clasped a hand over mine as if to prove his point. If he thought for a second I really was referring to his pain I'd be kneecapped with the cane and tossed out the nearest window without the benefit of said window being opened first.
"You want some more coffee?"
"No." Another small spasm. "Goddammit, I knew this would happen."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Well, I guess I was a little too carried away to think about it. Ow, fuck!" More spasms. Sweat began to bead along his hairline.
Carefully pushing my friend up, I said, "Hold on, I've got a heating pad somewhere."
The heating pad was for after particularly long days at the hospital when it felt like someone had tied all the muscles between my neck and shoulder blades into intricate knots. I'll be damned if the thing didn't pay for itself the first night I used it. After a few minutes of digging I found it buried under some tee shirts in the dresser. Two pillows came along with the pad.
A lamp had to be unplugged to accommodate the heating pad, but I'm sure seventy-five extra watts of light were on the bottom of Greg's priority list at the moment. I set it on high, and while waiting for it to warm up I took one of the pillows. "This is probably going to hurt, Greg." I held up his leg as gently as I would hold a kitten and set the pillow under his knee. It hurt, he gritted his teeth. The heating pad gingerly went over his scarred thigh.
"Do you need another pill?" I asked, picking up the second pillow.
He shook his head. "I've already had two. Sometimes it just takes a while when it's bad."
The only thing worse than seeing Greg depressed was seeing him in pain and knowing there wasn't a damned thing I could about it. I resumed my place on the sofa, putting the second pillow under his head. If he was going to be suffering for a while the least I could do was make it little more comfortable for him.
His hand found mine again.
"Damn, that heating pad feels nice," he said.
"Is it helping?"
"I didn't say it was helping, I said it felt nice," Greg answered with a pained chuckle as his leg twitched again.
"Why did you do this to yourself?"
"There's only one chance for a first time, Jimmy. Like I said, I got carried away." I felt his hand squeeze mine with affection.
"Was it worth it, Greg?"
"What are you talking about, you or the pain?"
"The pain."
"Ask me again later when the pills kick in and I'm too stoned to care." He glanced up and met my eyes. "But if it makes you feel any better, I still respect you."
"Gee, thanks," I deadpanned over his laugh. "Despite the leg spasms you can still find just the right thing to say."
"Never let it be said that I can't get the job done under difficult circumstances," he remarked, rubbing his thigh and adjusting the heating pad. The Vicodin must finally be finding its mark. "It's too bad my leg can't keep up with the rest of me."
"You can't keep doing this to yourself or your leg," I curtly told him.
"Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Wilson, but I think I've already figured that one out."
"Just thought you'd want a second opinion, Dr. House."
"I couldn't pass up the opportunity."
I looked down at his blue eyes. "Is that you or the Vicodin talking?"
"Both," he grinned. "And maybe the heating pad." As I rolled my eyes, he added, "Hey, you asked."
"I know," I sighed, wondering if I was ever going to learn, and what the hell Greg would do if I did. Several minutes passed in silence. "How's the leg?"
"Feeling better, actually. The spasms have died down."
"You should go back to bed."
"Give me a few more minutes. I hope you don't mind but this heating pad is coming to bed with us."
