Greg feels a sort of cold amusement as he watches the storm of activity initiated around him, now that he knows what really happened in the accident. The rational observer at his core sees anxious worry in the nurses expressions. There's no point in freaking out now, the deed is long since done; the beginnings go all the way back to the random blood clot that destroyed a sizable portion of his right quadriceps so many years ago. But another, larger part of him is filled with confusion, fear and rage, and at the moment that's the part in control.
"Get Wilson!" he growls once more, and struggles to sit. He wants to see, dammit. He needs to know.
A few moments later Wilson comes in. He looks exhausted and fearful. Greg feels a peculiar sense of déjà vu. "House—what's going on?"
"You tell me." He manages to pull himself up a bit and hears monitor alarms go off. "C'mon, Wilson. Tell me!"
"House—"Wilson begins, as Gardener enters the room and stops just past the door. She's lost weight, and her face is pale. Memories crowd in on him—Stacy seated by his bed, her guilt suffocating him . . . His mother—
He shies away from the shades of past pain, and then it all clicks into place. The rational core says something, but he's too filled with fury and the familiar agony of betrayal to listen. With a deliberate slowness he slides his hand over his hip, what's left of his thigh, down the blanket to the emptiness where his right leg should be. He pins his stare to Gardener. "You . . . you did this."
Her eyes widen; an expression of absolute shock moves over her features. No one speaks for a moment. Then she says in her quiet, steady way, "Greg . . . no."
"Get out." She stands there frozen, all the color gone now from her face. "Get out!" he hurls at her, and the nurses close in.
When he wakes up a bit later, Wilson sits by the bed. "You're an idiot," he snaps. He sounds fed up and weary, but under it there's that dark emotion again, the one Greg can't pin down. "The surgeon made the decision when you were brought in."
"Don't lie." He turns his head away and wishes that the darkness he's fought against for so long would come now to swallow him up. Of course it doesn't.
"I'm not! This—this isn't you and Stacy and that stupid decision!"
"Fuck off." He can't do this again, it'll kill him. Even the thought of it makes him clench up inside on a cold wave of terror, despite the Ativan. He hears Wilson exhale, a long, slow sigh.
"You're a stubborn ass, so I shouldn't be surprised by this. But you're wrong, House. Dana didn't have a hand in any of this."
Greg says nothing; there's nothing to say. After a while Wilson leaves, and the room is empty. But Greg sees Gardener's face, the way she goes still as his words slash at her, the shock and absolute anguish in her grey eyes. Greg . . . no.
He can hear that little voice deep inside now, there's no escape. It agrees with Wilson: he's a fool, he's jumped to a huge conclusion off the back of an illogical, emotional outburst of fear and pain. Hadn't he thought earlier that she wouldn't lie to him? But right now, he doesn't feel capable of any other response. He's backed into a corner fighting for his life—at least that's how he sees things. It's a ridiculous viewpoint, but again, it's where he lives at the moment.
The day crawls by. He drifts off now and then, when the morphine pump kicks in. The pain isn't that bad, but he can't relax enough to get into anything besides a light doze. Nurses come in to take vitals; they're silent for the most part, almost like ghosts in their flowery-pastel scrubs. They avoid his gaze and leave as quickly as they can. So the word's out about his meltdown, and everyone has decided to treat him at a distance, as it were. The knowledge makes him feel even more isolated and alone, so that he snarls at people and can't concentrate, unable to eat the jello and ginger ale they bring in. He's stuck in this bed, this room, this new reality, and there's no escape for the present. It brings back memories he's done his best to shove into the lockbox at the back of his brain; at times he feels as if he's been returned to that horrible extended moment, a sort of Groundhog Day repetition in penance for past wrongs he can never amend.
Sometime in the small hours, while Greg clicks through the available tv channels in a useless attempt at distraction, a man enters his room. He's just under six feet, broad shouldered with a bit of a belly in his plain blue scrubs, topped off with a color-striped cap and a big knot of dreads bundled into it. But he also wears a nice pair of Airpods; a sign of status, especially on graveyard shift. In the quiet it's just possible to hear the music—sounds like Wynton Marsalis. The guy comes over, takes his pulse even though it's displayed on the monitor. Greg recognizes that touch.
"Hey," he coughs because he hasn't said a word since this morning . . . this morning. The knowledge hits him again and he winces. "Good tunes," he pushes to get past the memory. "Lemme borrow 'em for a couple of hours."
The guy checks his IV, the morphine pump. He says nothing, but after a few moments he takes his phone out of his pocket, removes the buds and places everything on the adjustable table. His gaze meets Greg's; it's a mild look, but it holds a query.
"No calls. Promise." He coughs again. The guy produces a cup of ice chips from the insulated pitcher and offers them. Afterward he checks Greg over, a quick, professional procedure, then he nods and exits the room like a shadow, silent and oddly graceful for a man of his size.
Once he's gone Greg puts in the Airpods. The track has advanced in the intervening time. Now it's Miles Davis playing 'So What'. This is more like it: just him and the music, familiar, cool, brilliant. He closes his eyes and lets the sound flow through his tired mind.
He's wakened by a light touch on his shoulder. The nurse stands next to the bed. He looks weary now, but still calm. Greg glances at the clock. Almost four hours have gone by—the best sleep he's had since he entered this nightmare. With reluctance he hands over the phone and paraphernalia.
"Thanks." He gets a nod. "Uh—your name." He's already dubbed the guy Dreads, but knowing his real name is useful all the same.
The nurse puts the phone in his pocket. "Amos." Yup, it's the same voice that gave him all those bulletin updates. "You've got a visitor." Greg feels his gut clench. "It's Doctor Wilson."
At least it's not Gardener. "'kay."
A few minutes later Wilson comes in. He looks tired too. He says nothing though, just sits by the bed.
Greg speaks first. "Need my phone."
"It was trashed in the accident."
"Get me a new one. And Airpods."
"I live to obey." Wilson hesitates. "Dana would like—"
"No." He knows he sounds like a petulant five year old, but fuck it.
"House, for god's sake! She didn't-"
"I said no."
Wilson sighs. "Fine. But you'll regret this."
Part of Greg knows he's right; another part doesn't give two fucks. He's always been alone, he'll be alone again. So what.