All the soaps, CSI reruns and A&E documentaries began to run together. Patchy memories of being led back to the spare bedroom. I was beginning to despise that room. I was sick of being sick, sick of feeling useless, but too drained to really think about it at any length. So I curled up and slept.

Woke up in the dark again, starving and thirsty. At least there was a pleasant surprise when I stumbled to the kitchen–I could actually stand up straight. The pain was dwindling down to something that was livable and would hopefully be history in the next few days.

I made quick work of a glass of orange juice and set a refill on the table. Then I made a dent in the Cheerios. It was quick, it was easy, it was food, and I wasn't feeling too picky at the moment. Halfway through the second bowl I heard the floorboards creak and the all-too-familiar tap of the cane.

He peered around the doorway, eyes still puffy from sleep, almost like he was expecting to see someone or something else. I braced for a tongue-lashing that never came.

"Mind if I join you?" Greg asked quietly, as if I was really going to tell him that he wasn't allowed to sit at his own table. He slid into a chair and gave me the once-over. "You're obviously feeling better."

"I am." I tried to sound nonchalant for fear of jinxing myself.

"You'll be okay by yourself tomorrow." More of a statement than a question.

"I'll be fine. You might want to get some more ibuprofen. I probably took half the bottle over the past three days."

"Will do. Back to work soon?"

"In the next two or three days," I said, chasing a few stubborn Cheerios around the bowl.

"The nurses will be glad to hear that," he smirked. "I'm sure they miss flirting with you."

I didn't respond and he smirked at that, too.

"Gonna tell them about your special friend, Jimmy?"

"I'm surprised you didn't."

"They won't believe me, so I'll leave that up to you. They might not believe you, either, but still, I want to be there to see the looks on their faces."

"Thanks."

"I think Foreman and Chase have been dying to ask about it, too. They're too afraid to ask me, so they're waiting patiently for you. If you don't hurry up and get better soon they're going to explode and I'm going to have to hire some new doctors."

"Again, thanks."

"You're welcome. How's the rash?"

"A mess." It was still oozing, I could feel it. I was almost afraid to look at it.

"I'll get some Calamine lotion. You're going to need it," he said stoically.

"Great. Is this ever going to end?"

"Eventually," Greg said. "Don't you like the spare bedroom anymore?"

"I never liked it to begin with," I reminded him, then closed up the cereal box.

"Hmmm...true. Just can't compare to the master suite, huh?"

"Nope," I answered with a laugh.

"Of course not." The smirk was back.

"Miss me, Greg?"

"Yes," he responded without hesitation. That was the Greg House equivalent of spilling his guts. He took two days off to look after me. Bringing a cool washcloth into the mix. Fixing my meals and making sure I ate them. Would he do that for anyone else? I seriously doubt it. Not to that extent, anyway.

You're not my patient, Jimmy.

He reached over and took my hand, rubbing the palm with his thumb. "A couple more days. Just take it easy."

"I will."

"Okay. Rinse out your dishes."

"Yes, dear."

He smiled. "Don't stay up too late. I need my beauty sleep."

"I won't," I said.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, standing up, then limping toward his bedroom.

"Greg..." I called after him.

"Hmm?"

"I really do hate that spare bedroom."

"I know," he grinned.