(A/N: this is the end of Hurricane Season. Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed so faithfully, it means a lot. There is a sequel planned, I just need time to write it :) It's great fun to write for House and Dana, and still a source of pleased astonishment that you all like their story too. At any rate, hope you enjoy this chapter. -Brig)
(When the moment hits, he feels his body lift as kinetic energy is transferred from the object in motion to the objects at rest. He rises in silent weightless flight, but only for the space of half a breath; then the metal surrounding him groans and shudders, absorbs massive stress until it breaks its molecular bonds and warps the interior space into new and deadly shapes. He caromes around like a pinball, bouncing from place to place, sharp fresh agony exploding in his bad leg as he starts to realize what's happened. Fear fills him up, followed by sudden blackness—
yeah there's a storm on the loose, sirens in my head
wrapped up in silence, all circuits are dead
cannot decode, my whole life spins into a frenzy
When the dark lifts there's a stink of burnt rubber and hot metal with a familiar, elusive coppery chaser. But there's no noise . . . nothing except a song playing out somewhere—in his head? he can't tell; it's faint but clear.
I'm falling down the spiral, destination unknown
double-crossed messenger, all alone
can't get no connection, can't get through, where are you
He scrabbles to find a way out of his prison, despite the fact that movement causes overwhelming pain. He stops, fights to solve the problem, but only the music continues. Maybe there's no way to escape . . . the possibility paralyzes him with terror. He can't breathe now, his chest hurts—pneumothorax. The word comes out of nowhere. This is bad, really bad.
when the hitman comes
he knows damn well he has been cheated
A voice emerges from the murk—someone cursing in Farsi. For a moment he wonders if he's stuck on some backwater base with his parents, but that makes no sense—Dad retired long before the Iran and Iraqi actions . . . The coppery smell is stronger now, and he can't move his legs at all. 'Bad' has become 'catastrophic' and there's nothing he can do about it.
help, I'm steppin' into the twilight zone
place is a madhouse, feels like being cloned
my beacon's been moved under moon and star
where am I to go now that I've gone too far
Slowly his perception rights itself. This is a dream about a real event—the accident at JFK. He fights to hang onto the fading memory; even in the maelstrom of pain and confusion, he can still feel the sensation of two legs, if for just a moment. A bitter swell of rage, fear and despair fills his heart and mind, so painful he can't speak or even open his eyes. He curls in on himself, and lets the darkness take him.
so you will come to know
when the bullet hits the bone)
"Greg." Two small hands cradle his face gently. "Wake up now."
Gradually he drifts into consciousness, tries to open his eyes. They feel swollen for some reason. He squints a bit, makes out that he's in his bedroom. It's dark, with only the light from a lamp to illuminate things.
"What . . ." His throat is sore. "What time."
There's a moment's silence. "A little after eight p.m."
Evening . . . he frowns. Somehow that's not right, he knows it isn't. Slowly he tries to sit up. It's difficult because his center of gravity has changed, and occasionally he still has trouble adjusting. Those small hands help him, their touch light but firm. Once he's upright he turns his head a bit, surprised to discover he's stiff and achy; his mouth is dry, and he's thirsty. His belly rumbles, though he doesn't really want anything to eat.
"You've been here for a while." The quiet voice is close. "I'll get you some water. You must be hungry too."
Blindly he reaches out, in sudden need of confirmation: this has to be real. In response he's gathered close. "I'm here," Dana says, "I'm here, love," and he presses his face into her hair, shaking. Something inside loosens, falls away at long last in her embrace, and all he can do is hold her, astonished and humbled at her presence.
"Come with me," she says after a while. "Let's get something to eat."
They end up in the living room. It's empty, to Greg's distant surprise. "We moved everything over to Amos's apartment." Dana sets a tray on the coffee table. There are two plates, two forks and a knife, and two pies—one pumpkin, one apple. A container of whipped cream sits next to them. "I thought for today, you'd probably like to skip straight to dessert. I'll make coffee if you want some."
It's the best meal he's had in ages—sitting in the quiet, fire in the fireplace burning low and slow, a plateful of homemade pie and whipped cream . . . and Dana seated next to him, hair tied back in a ponytail, her face free of makeup. She takes a bite of apple pie and savors it, eyes closed.
"You . . . you didn't go over for dinner." He adds more cream to his slice of pumpkin.
"I stayed with you."
He puts down his fork and stares at her. "How long?"
She sips her coffee. "I'm not sure. Since about three this morning, more or less."
That can't be right. "Three a.m." Greg searches his memory, but nothing comes up. "What—I don't—"
Dana sets her cup on the tray and gives him a direct look. Her grey eyes hold nothing but honesty, clear and calm. "I think that in part, you finally felt safe enough to let yourself start to come to terms with the accident, and the amputation."
"I came to terms with it six months ago when I woke up and found my right leg missing."
She tilts her head just a bit. "Did you?"
"Don't do that!" he snaps. Now he feels cornered. "Explain."
"In my opinion, you panicked and found temporary escape from the truth by accusing me, rather than acknowledging it was random chance."
Her hypothesis makes sense. He wants to argue with her, but he's got nothing to use against her statement. So he just eats some pie and says nothing.
"It's understandable. None of us want to face the fact that we have no guarantees." Dana offers him a slight smile, though her gaze is sober. "You know that already from plenty of past experience. It's just taken you a while to work through it this time."
Silence falls once more, but this time it's companionable. Greg finishes off the pumpkin and takes some apple pie, suddenly hungry. Maybe he can convince Dreads to bring them some leftovers.
"I've decided to take a sabbatical," Dana says after a while. That gets his attention.
"You're quitting your job."
"Sabbaticals are not quitting. They're time off, as you well know." She sits back with her coffee.
"You're that stressed out because of me." He knows provocative behavior is not a good idea, but he has to say it.
"It's been a long six months for me too." She sighs softly. "I'm tired in every way, Greg. I need time off, to rest and heal."
"And I'm not included."
She looks at him, her expression calm. "Only if you don't wish to join me."
"But you said. . . you're going away." The thought makes his stomach clench.
"No, that's not it at all. I'd rather just stay at home with you. Maybe spend a week or two at the cottage now and then." She reaches out, takes his hand. "What do you think?"
He considers his options. He has no real desire to return to medicine; for some time now he's felt himself chafing at the restraints, even within the relative freedom of a consultancy. Travel has become increasingly difficult and exhausting as well. With the amputation, it'll be even worse.
"Quantum physics," he says aloud. It's something he's thought about for years. "A Ph.D."
Dana nods, unsurprised; clearly she's anticipated his answer. They've discussed it before, but mostly in passing. "Plenty of universities to choose from."
"School costs money," he reminds her.
"Advanced placement takes care of some expense. The rest . . ." She raises her brows a bit, a very Gallic expression. Greg lowers his, even as he feels a reluctant tug of amusement.
"So I'm to be a kept man."
Dana's smile widens. She sets aside her coffee, leans forward with care and kisses him. "Oh, I do hope so," she whispers against his lips.
Much to his surprise, so does he.
'Twilight Zone,' Golden Earring