"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Thirty-Three -
"Following the Path of Least Resistance"
They accommodated him with suppressed grins as they provided him with the "pants" he'd requested: old-fangled "tighty whitey" Jockey shorts. He refused all their good-natured offers of assistance, for they knew his leg was "dead in the water" at that moment. They chuckled as they watched his contortions under the blanket while he grunted to himself and struggled unhappily to pull them on.
He emerged slowly after a minute or so, like a turtle coming out of its shell, and glared up at them menacingly. His hair was filled with static electricity and spiked on his head as though it had just survived a battle with a blender.
He scowled at each amused face. "WHAT?"
"Feel better?" Kip Bernoski wanted to know. He stood with fists planted on hips, and he was the only one able to keep a straight face. Wilson was the last to turn his back and cover his mouth with his hand.
"No!" Came the retort. "I can't feel my leg, and I can't move it. And you can't expect me to get out of this bed with a dead leg and muck around in nothing but a pair of jockey shorts …"
"What makes you think you're getting out of bed?" Kip asked calmly.
"Yeah, Dude …" Earl echoed. He swung his chair around with another grin plastered across his face.
"You said I could!" The six-year-old was back in full force, and the whine in his voice was House-typical.
"Gregg …" Earl's grin disappeared and his tone took on an air of no-nonsense. "Not yet. There's a good reason why you can't feel your leg … or move it."
House took a breath to launch a retort, but Earl maneuvered his wheelchair closer to the bedside. He reached out to the rumpled blanket and straightened its sagging contours across Gregg's body as a prelude to a lecture. His left hand rose to his lips, index and middle fingers held vertical in the universal signal for silence. House closed his mouth and stared, looking down at himself and the suddenly neat blanket that covered him.
"If you'll calm down and be quiet for a minute, I'll explain to you why not." Earl waited while House scowled impatiently, but schooled the snark from his face to listen grudgingly.
"The procedure we just performed on your leg was a major operation. Make no mistake about it. You're an expert at what you do, and we understand that. But this technology is brand new. There are guidelines we must follow if it is to succeed. In this respect, Gregg, it's we who are the experts here … not you. We need you to do exactly as we tell you, because we all want this to work. Will you trust us to do everything we can for you?"
House went silent for a few moments. Earl saw his focus dim while he sat still and considered the words. Then the blue eyes raised and met Earl's own with the realization that the man was asking for his trust and cooperation … not demanding it. He relented. "I trust you," he said quietly.
Earl nodded. "Thank you." He looked around the room at the others. He had their attention as well. He placed his hand for a moment on Gregg's bare shoulder. "Are you warm enough? If not, someone can get you a shirt."
"I'm fine," House answered. Stock reply.
"Okay. Now lie very still for a few moments, and concentrate on your leg. By this time, you should be experiencing something like a series of small tics beneath the skin of your thigh. Let me know when you can feel it …"
House quieted instantly, eyes wide, lips pursed in concentration. At first he said nothing, waiting for the sensations he'd been told to watch for. A silent interval passed while everyone froze in place as though to make a noise would frighten the phenomenon away.
Then House's brow furrowed. "Wow! Worms! … tiny worms crawling beneath my skin. It kind'a tickles. The way a pregnant woman feels when her fetus first begins to move within her womb …"
"Exactly," Earl said. "That's normal. It may accelerate for a time, but after awhile it will die down. Your 'nano-children' are doing their jobs."
House was still concentrating on the sensations. His eyes were open and staring into the distance, mouth still set and unmoving. From time to time he would wince, as though from pain, but the furrows that moved between his eyes were not the same. It was a delayed progression of a brand new sense of wonder. His hands lay upon his stomach, fingers curled, grasping the edge of the blanket, lifting it, peering down there again. The others could not tell whether he was simply fascinated or frightened out of his wits. The movement of his features made it a tossup.
Finally, Wilson grew restless with waiting. He closed in at the other side of the bed and stood looking down on Gregg's left shoulder. "Hey …"
The answer came back immediately. "Hey Wilson … you survivin' this okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Beginning to think I may have made the right choice here …"
The others were learning to interpret the way he expressed things. Learning about the way things worked with Gregory House. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that the man had, twice, handed them the highest compliment, the most profuse statement of gratitude of which he was capable. They all read the sincerity in the depths of his eyes, and they understood.
Rather than linger in the moment until it turned to discomfort for them all, those who were finished with their parts in the procedure turned to leave, and only Bill Bernard, Bart Kirkpatrick and James Wilson remained.
"Jim," Bill said, with a gleam in his eye, "would you like to help me with the cleanup in here?"
Wilson shot him a puzzled look. "Of course … but what?"
"First," Bill replied, "we have to get this shy child into some clothing he can live with!"
He grinned at House, who had at least the grace to look embarrassed.
"Still pickin' on the cripple …" he grumbled.
Bill laughed. "Play that card while you still can, Gregg. Don't know how much longer you can get away with it …"
House smiled. His body was more relaxed, finally. His hands were open at his sides and the original look of startled shock had gone from his features. He was still aware of the changes taking place in his thigh, but he was also becoming more comfortable with it.
"You'd be surprised," he said at last, "what a man with a limp and a cane can get away with …"
"Tell me about it!" Wilson muttered under his breath.
"First two things we have to take care of …" Bill Bernard said, effectively ignoring their teasing, "are placing a proper bandage on your leg, and doing another antibiotic flush and treatment to your foot. Just because the procedure is finished now, we don't dare neglect anything that can set back your recovery. Then we'll help you into some loose clothing and get you settled in your own room." He paused a moment, then turned and snapped his fingers. "One more thing … how is your hand? Still hurt?"
House had fixed his attention on the words, "your own room", and was momentarily distracted when asked how the laceration on his left hand was faring. He turned it around and stared at the heel of his hand as though he had forgotten it was there. He squinted at Bernard and shrugged blandly. "It's fine," he said. "Why?"
"Think it's ready for the stitches to be removed?"
"Sure … why not … while you're torturing me with the rest of it, you may as well torture me with that too." He stared at Bernard wide-eyed. Bill could not be sure whether he was serious or not.
Wilson shook his head and rolled his eyes. "House, he breathed, "you are a skunk!"
Bernard cut the stitches expertly with a pair of surgical scissors while Wilson steadied House's hand. He used tiny pinchers to jerk them loose and out of the skin in three deft strokes. Tiny droplets of blood appeared at the removal sites, which Bill daubed with antiseptic and then covered with a small bandage and taped it into place.
The bandage on House's thigh took a little longer. The area had bled slightly from the four small wounds, and the skin was darkened with angry bruising. They wiped away the red smudges gently and covered the site with a large sterile pad slathered with antiseptic cream. Wilson wrapped the leg carefully with a wide elastic bandage that reached from his knee to just below his hip.
"This stays on for a day or two!" Bernard said firmly as he took two large bed pillows from Bart who held them out to him. They raised his leg and quickly shoved them under, bending his knee slightly. "How's that? Feel anything pulling in there that shouldn't be pulling?"
"Nope," House told him. "I still have the creepy-crawlies a little, but that's normal, right?"
Bill nodded. "Uh huh. Are you ready for us to tend to your foot?"
"Yeah … no getting out of it, I guess. Earl said it was 'a mess' yesterday. How's it look now?"
Bernard grinned. "Looks like a colony of pissants got in there and set off a pissant-size atomic bomb!"
"Thanks for the graphic mind pictures," House grumped. "Get on with it, willya?"
They took it easy with him, knowing that the absence of pain in his thigh would certainly exacerbate the pain of the saline solution, the antiseptics and the flushing of the wound in his foot. Even after the Lidocaine treatment he held himself aloof, staring at the ceiling tiles with avid concentration. They knew they were hurting him.
When they finished, they padded the wound with care and bandaged the foot with wide adhesive tape. Wilson removed the spent supplies and disposed of them in the biohazard waste. Then, after sterilizing everything else, he walked back to join the others.
Bill Bernard had left to attend to other duties and check in with Earl Keirkgaard. Bart remained close to House's head, his palm cupped gently over House's shoulder. It was becoming a familiar stance for the old man. Wilson wondered just what manner of other strange things Bart could determine about someone with his laying on of hands.
House was tired. He had withstood the nanocite procedure well, but the strain had taken a lot out of him. His physical condition had not been the best even before he'd taken on his 600-mile odyssey, and the difficulties he had endured showed in the pallor of his skin and the gauntness of his grizzled face. It worried Wilson, who mentioned it to Bart.
Bart, in turn, suggested they help Gregg into comfortable bed attire and call Kip to assist in moving him to his own quarters where he could rest and take the time he needed to recover.
A set of much-worn, soft blue scrubs with woven collar and cuffs fit the bill perfectly, and they helped him put them on. Afterward, Bart stood close by Gregg's shoulder again and paused to squint speculatively into the distance.
"May I make a suggestion?" He asked at last.
They both looked at him, waiting. Bart heard the silence, felt their eyes upon him, and smiled. "I can feel your little wheels turning …" he said.
When they still made no comment, he decided to say what he was thinking. "You boys have been friends a long time, haven't you?"
"Yeah … we have," Wilson admitted. "Why?"
"Well … what if I told you I believe it would be a good idea to have Kip and Wilson and me put your bed in the same room as Wilson's? Neeka told me that all your stuff got delivered to Wilson's room anyway, so it would all be right there. As it stands now, it's sound reasoning that you not be left on your own …"
They were not talking, not confirming or denying the wisdom of his words. He was mildly amused with the fact that he could almost picture in his mind the eye conversation in which they were engaging at that moment. He smiled broadly, then spoke again. "No one would have to keep interrupting your rest to go in and check on you at all hours. Jimmy would already be there if you felt sick, or experienced pain or needed anything. He'd be right there to help you to the bathroom and assist with your other personal needs."
Bart hesitated a moment. "I don't want to butt in where I'm not wanted, but it makes sense to me, and the two of you would know better than anyone else when Gregg is ready to take the next step in his recovery."
He paused, waiting for them to say something. "What do you think?"
"Have you found something within him that you're not telling us about?" Wilson asked quietly.
Bart paused, giving nothing away. "I have found that he is still tired beyond measure. He is a stubborn idiot, and he is in dire need of more rest. You can make sure that he does. It's up to you not to allow him to manipulate you."
Wilson had no doubts Bart was speaking to him "Leave it to me," he said.
"Nobody bothered to ask me!" House complained.
"With good reason," Wilson told him. "You're bunking with me, like it or not."
00000000
That's where they took Gregory House. When Kip Bernoski arrived to assist, they rolled his gurney down the long corridor to Wilson's quarters. A bed had already been set up and supplied with fresh linens and pillows.
Shaniqua was waiting for them. It was easy for the four of them to assist him in getting comfortable with his new surroundings. They spoke to him softly as they helped him settle back against the pillows. He wasn't listening. His eyes had fastened briefly on the red necktie that hung haphazardly from the middle of the mirror on the dresser. He smiled to himself with slowly fading satisfaction.
House was drifting toward sleep. The ravenous hunger he had bitched loudly about that morning was the last thing on his mind. His foot still bothered him, and he wanted only to drift toward oblivion and get through the pain. He was used to that.
Shaniqua Tolliver shooed the men from the room, admonishing them to get out of there while the opportunity presented itself. "Go get some lunch. Have some coffee or iced tea, and relax while y'awl can. This baby boy will be a pain in the butt to look after for the next twenty-four hours or so. Y'awl will need reinforcements to cope with him while he gets used to the new and unfamiliar changes in his body. It should be interesting for all of us."
They did not argue with her. Not even Wilson. For the moment, House looked relaxed and comfortable. He would not stay that way long. Silently they trooped from the room.
Neeka pulled the only chair up to Gregg's bed and sat very near to his side. It was crowded in the room now, for they had positioned his bed as close to the entrance of the bathroom as they could get it. In addition, a high-tech black wheelchair had been brought in and was standing in the corner.
Neeka reached her hand across to grasp House's limp fingers with hers, holding it loosely, not disturbing the small bandage Bill had placed over the cut on his palm. She reached up and smoothed back his flyaway hair, and then drew her soft brown fingers very gently over his cheek and down past his chin.
"Y'awl're gonna be jus' fine, baby boy. Y'awl're gonna be jus' fine …"
A little "in" and a little "out" of consciousness, House squirmed mentally within his cobwebby mind:
I'm not a goddamned baby boy! I'll 'baby boy' you, old girl! Paybacks are gonna be So-o-o …
00000000
In the corridor just outside the room, a soft movement blurred against the silence and the neutral shadows of the long, empty space. The apparition leaned its head around the open doorframe …
Bobby stood patiently, panting and looking into the room, ears perked and watching in the direction of the silent man on the bed. When would any of the humans pay some attention to him? After a few moments he plopped down on the carpeting and rested his muzzle on his one remaining forepaw.
He was tired … the same kind of tired as the human who had inexplicably drawn his attention …
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