The thirty-first time Remy spoke to Megan, it was in a hospital room and Megan was silent, not responding to any of Remy's questions. She had regained consciousness mid-afternoon on Sunday, hours after Remy had come back to the hospital, showered and slightly more rested than when she had left. Spencer had drifted off to sleep in her chair, using her coat as a blanket and scarf as a pillow; Remy had tried unsuccessfully to convince her to go home the night before, but the brunette had shut her down repeatedly, insisting that Remy needed to rest. Remy had returned the next morning to find Spencer asleep and Megan still unconscious.
When Megan did wake, she stayed silent. Remy tried asking, pleading, begging, bartering, even a half-hearted attempt at appealing to some sense of guilt in Megan; she could barely get Megan to look at her, much less speak to her. Fear and guilt eventually gave way to frustration and annoyance, and Remy slumped back in her own chair, stewing. Megan remained curled up on her bed, her bandaged left arm hidden ashamedly under the blankets; she moved only when a nurse came in to check her IV and change the bandages.
An hour after Megan woke up, Spencer did as well. She yawned and stretched and looked from Megan to Remy, questions in her sleepy eyes. Remy shrugged frustratedly and sighed, throwing her hands up in surrender. Spencer looked awkwardly back and forth between the two of them a few more times, before she, too, shrugged; she quietly gathered her paperwork and her laptop back into the bag she had brought with her.
Remy paused before she and Spencer left, looking sadly back at Megan. Megan met her eyes briefly, and Remy wished fervently that the redhead would just talk to her; instead, Megan blinked once and turned her gaze down to a spot on the blanket. Remy sighed and said she'd be back later, and tightened her grip on Spencer's hand, letting herself be lead out of the room.
The next time Remy spoke to Megan, Megan stayed silent. The time after that, and the time after that, and the five times after that, she stayed silent. Every day, three times a day, she came to Megan's room and tried to convince Megan to speak to her at all. Megan wasn't mute after waking up—she spoke to the nurses, albeit quietly and only on occasion, as they told Remy—but she refused to meet Remy's eyes, and remained stubbornly resistant to every question, every frustrated barb, every defeated shrug and sigh and wistful good-bye Remy offered.
The fortieth time Remy spoke to Megan, it was six days after the redhead had sent herself to the hospital in the wake of her mysterious panic-inducing encounter, and Megan finally spoke back. Remy was so startled by the sudden sound of a voice besides her own in the silence of the room that she almost dropped the mug of lukewarm coffee from her hands.
"What?" she sputtered out, transferring the coffee from her untrustworthy hands to the security of the table beside her chair. "What did you say?"
Megan avoided her eyes yet again, focusing her gaze on a spot on the wall in front of her feet. She picked at a loose thread in the embroidered blanket that Remy had brought from Megan's apartment two days earlier, a desperate attempt at bribery. Her left arm remained folded over her legs, cradled unconsciously; her forearm, where it peeked out from under the oversized sleeves of her hospital gown and the fresh bandaging, was peppered with fresh bruises (purpura, Remy corrected herself again). Her narrow shoulders were slumped, her spine curved uncharacteristically. The slump in her posture bothered Remy endlessly—Megan's obsessive yoga practice and years of musical training had left her with impeccable posture, her back always effortlessly straight and shoulders back. Whether it was physical weakness in the aftermath of trauma or apathy, Remy wasn't sure, but the slouch dragging down her shoulders fueled the simmering rage in Remy's chest.
"Megan," Remy said. Her voice was sharper than she intended, and both of them winced visibly. "Megan," she said again, actively trying to temper the bite in her voice. "I know you just said something."
Megan shook her head minutely. She continued to play with the loose thread on her blanket, looking anywhere in the room but at Remy. Her lips pursed, her jaw clenching visibly.
"Megan, come on," Remy said tiredly. "This is getting ridiculous. We're not children. I get that you're clearly dealing with something here, and I know I might not be able to do anything to help but dammit, I still want to try, but I can't do that if you won't just tell me what the hell you just said!" By the time she finished her sentence, her anger was pushing through to the surface, unavoidable and undisguised. She shoved herself to her feet, pushing her hair out of her face and starting to pace the short distance to the door and back.
She could feel Megan's eyes tracing her path rhythmically, and it only encouraged her anger. Clinging to what she could of calmness and rationality, she crossed her arms over her stomach and came to a halt at the foot of Megan's bed. She stared at Megan, feeling her expression shift slowly from angry to thoughtful.
"Look," she said finally. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, weighted with a week of concern and paranoia and frustration and confusion, of almost-sleepless nights and eating nothing but hospital cafeteria food or whatever she picked up on the drives between the hospital and Spencer's apartment in the city because as little as she slept when she was there (she had spent many an evening ranting to Spencer for what felt like hours) she couldn't sleep at all at home. "I don't know what you want me to do here. I don't know what you wanted me to do differently. Maybe you're angry that I didn't get there soon enough to stop you, or maybe you're angry that I got there as soon as I did. Maybe you're mad about the naltrexone treatment. Maybe you're not mad at me at all and you're just tired of me being around. It could be anything, I guess, but I wouldn't know, because you won't tell me.
"I want to be there for you, Megan," Remy said softly. "I really do. I know that I'm not the kind of person anyone should look to for support, but frankly, at this point in time? I think that I'm all that you've got. I don't want that to be the case, because you're a pretty amazing girl and anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, but we both know that me and Spence are the only people who've been her to see you." She refrained from bringing up the four times that House had stopped in and tried to cajole Megan into admitting to a sex-and-heroin relationship with Remy, or the kind but stern warning from Cuddy.
"I'd do whatever I could, if you'd let me," Remy whispered. "I really would. You're my best friend, and I know that I haven't been much of a friend to you, but things are different now."
"Why?" Megan said after a long pause. Her voice came out just barely above a whisper. Remy stared at her dully, biting down on the inside of her cheek at staying silent, determined to make Megan complete the question. "Why is anything different?"
"Because," Remy said. She shook her hair back from her eyes tiredly. "Because you showed me how much of a shitty friend I had been, without even trying. Because I'm learning to live with who I am and what I have to deal with. Because I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone who gave a damn about me, or who I cared about so much. Because you trusted me enough to tell me the truth about your family." She hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Because I watched you crash, and crash hard. Because I couldn't stop it. Because you almost die and I should have been able to prevent it."
She finally caught Megan's eyes, staring tiredly and impassively at her friend until Megan blinked, looking down at her lap again.
"It's not your fault," Megan said softly. "You should know that much. Six months ago, if this had happened, I guess I'd be dead now. No one else would have followed me." She pulled at the loose thread once more. "So, don't blame yourself for any of this. It wasn't your fault.
"And I know that you have questions. But, you know, I had questions for a long time, too, and you never answered them. You just drank at my bar and passed out in my car and kissed me and refused to answer any questions about anything.
"So, what then?" Remy said. She laughed humorlessly. "You're going to give me a taste of my own medicine? See if the melodramatic bitch likes how it feels to be shut out?"
"No," Megan said, her answer coming far too slowly for comfort. Remy barked out another short laugh, shaking her head.
"That's nice, Megan," she said. "Really nice."
"That's not what I meant," Megan protested weakly. She stared at Remy with wide eyes, cloudy grey dark against the alabaster of her skin; after only a few seconds, she broke the gaze, flushing delicately and returning her stare to her lap.
"Yeah," Remy said. "That's convincing." Pressure grew in Remy's chest, pressing against her heart; she felt like choking on Megan's explanation. It may be exactly what she deserved in an eye-for-an-eye world, but it felt like far worse, as if she had been suckerpunched in the chest with a jackhammer.
"Remy," Megan said. "That's not what I meant."
"Oh, it isn't?" Remy shot back. "Come on, Megan. You've never been any good at lying, we both know that. Just admit it to yourself and call this what it is." She strode over to the chair she had sat in all week, grabbing up her coat and purse with more anger than she really had energy for. "You're mad at me still. Which I get. I totally get that, and I know I deserve it, because I was an ass like no other. But really, I always thought you were a bigger person than that. Better than me, at least."
"I'm not any better or worse than you," Megan said quietly.
"Guess not," Remy said. She felt her cheeks flush at how evident the hurt was in her voice, far too strong to be masked by her frustration. "Right down here in the gutter with all of us emotional screw-ups and jerks."
"You're not a jerk!" Megan said, her voice stronger than it had been the entire time.
"Doesn't matter," Remy said softly. Her anger was quickly evaporating, leaving her little more than tired and frustrated and hurt; she felt it slipping out of her body and felt like her skeleton was deflating without the heat of anger to keep her upright.
"You're not a jerk," Megan said firmly. "You're really not. And I'm not trying to punish you in some weird payback kind of way, either."
"Yeah," Remy said. Her sarcasm fell flat, her voice dull.
"Really," Megan said. "You aren't a jerk. I'm not trying to punish you. I'm just…" she cut herself off, turning her eyes away and sighing angrily. She pulled absently at the bandages on her arm, and winced when the tape pulled away from her skin, the bandage flopping uselessly from her arm.
Blowing air out through her lips, Remy dropped her purse and coat back onto the chair and crossed to the cabinet on the other side of the room. Briskly, sinking into her doctor mode, she retrieved a fresh dressing and tossed it onto Megan's bed, taking a seat by her leg and pulling Megan's arm into her lap. Silently, she removed the old bandage and inspected the inside of Megan's arm, staring critically at the four holes where the needles had ripped through skin when Megan desperately shoved the drugs into her body, the dark bruising spreading up and down her arm from the burst blood vessels, the purpura dotting the skin of her forearm. Biting down on her lip, she picked up the fresh bandage with her free hand, not releasing the gentle hold her fingers had on Megan's arm, and tore it open with her teeth.
"I'm not trying to punish you," Megan repeated, voice soft, as Remy set the new bandage in place and double checked to make sure it was properly secured, gentle fingers contrasting sharply with the crease in her brow. "I'm just… I don't know. Trying to avoid having to talk about things, I guess."
"You have to talk about it sometime," Remy said, surprising even herself with her calm words.
"Do not," Megan said childishly.
"Bull," Remy shot back. She still hadn't let go of Megan's arm, long fingers gripping above her elbow softly. "Not talking about shit, not dealing with it, is why you went all emo teenager freakout and wound up in here."
"I'm not emo," Megan muttered.
"Please," Remy laughed. It sounded and felt genuine, to Remy's surprise. "You're totally emo. We both are. We just have better hair and wear less make-up."
"I'm not emo," Megan repeated. "I listen to Fanfarlo and the Who, not Fallout Boy."
Remy snorted. "Doesn't matter," she said. "We're emo kids. It's just a fact of the matter."
Megan sighed. "Fine," she conceded. "But that's not the point."
"No," Remy said quietly, the laughter fading from her eyes. "Guess not."
Megan took a deep breath. "I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it all right now," she said, speaking slowly. "There's just… a lot there, you know? And I'm not sure that you—" She cut herself off, biting down on her lip. Remy looked down, her hand slipping away from Megan's arm to rest in her own lap.
"It's okay, I get it," she said wryly. "I'm a train wreck. Not the best choice for big important talks and playing confidant or counselor."
Megan looked away guiltily, gnawing incessantly on her lower lip, hands twisting in her lap.
"It's okay," Remy said again. She was proud at how well she masked the hurt welling in her throat, but as pained as she was to admit it, Megan was justified in not wanting to depend on someone like her to confide in.
"I do want to tell you," Megan said quietly. "I do. I just want to sort it out first, I guess?"
"You need to talk to someone," Remy said, standing from the bed and pushing her hands into her pockets awkwardly.
"I know," Megan whispered.
Remy nodded slowly, eyes drifting thoughtfully to where her coat lay hanging half-off of the chair she had tossed it onto. "If you want," she said slowly. "Spencer doubled in marketing and psych at Columbia. She might know some people from school who practice around here, could maybe recommend someone. I could ask her, if you wanted."
She felt a twinge in her stomach as Megan stared at her curiously, and wished fervently that she could rescind the suggestion. As supportive as Megan had been of Remy seeing Spencer, the two of them had still technically not met, and Megan seemed to feel uncomfortable with the fact that Spencer had been the person Remy was confiding in the entire week about Megan's situation; Remy should have realized that, given Megan's obvious discomfort with Spencer having been a part of any of the preceding week at all, she would be unlikely to want any of Spencer's friends playing Freud with her.
"Just a thought," Remy said uncomfortably, after a long and awkward silence. She sighed, glancing at her watch. It was almost nine, and she was exhausted. The vacation time Cuddy had granted her was over at midnight; after that, she was back to work and on call starting at eight the next morning. As much as she wanted to stay all night with Megan and push and prod and nag until Megan laid it all out in the open, she wanted even more to just sleep. Spencer had told her in no uncertain terms that Remy was not to drive into the city that night and that she would come to Remy's place instead, so that Remy could get as much sleep as possible before going back on call.
"I should go," Remy said eventually. "It's kind of late, and I'm on call tomorrow. I need to crash."
Megan remained silent as Remy waited, counting out ten seconds in her head, before sighing and gathering her things from where they rested haphazardly on the chair. "I'm on call all weekend, and I told Dr. Cameron I would cover for one of her ER doctors Sunday afternoon, so I'll be around. I'll come up whenever I can." She moved to the door slowly.
"Remy," Megan said, her voice drawing Remy's head around. Her eyes were dull, her voice soft. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Remy said. She sounded only halfway convincing. "I get it." She slid the door open. "Call me if you need anything, or tell Laura to page me."
"Okay," Megan said quietly. She offered a small smile, far quieter than even her normal smile, but it brought a half-smile of her own to Remy's lips.
"Good night," she said. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay," Megan whispered.
Nodding once more, Remy stepped out of the room and slid the door shut behind her. She waved half-heartedly to Laura and the other nurses and shuffled down the hallway, shoulders slumped. By the time she made it home, Spencer was standing outside of her building, arms and legs crossed and an unreadable look in her eyes. She wrapped an arm around Remy's waist tightly, pressing a kiss to her temple and letting Remy lean on her the whole way up to her apartment.
Remy lay awake long after Spencer had drifted off next to her. Unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling above her bed, and she shivered in spite of the sweatshirt she wore and the blanket draped over the bed and the warmth radiating from Spencer's form, her conversation with Megan anchoring a chill in her stomach that refused to leave. Light from the sunrise was filtering through her bedroom window when she finally drifted off to a sleep plagued with quiet nightmares of a disappointed Megan shaking her head and simply walking away, her form shrinking from Remy's sight until the redhead was naught more than a dark spot on the horizon.