Chapter 10

"The Other Leg"

Friday night:

Well … I was waiting for the crap to hit the cooler again … and it did. All week!

This morning, House finally told me he's been having severe pain in his left thigh.

Oh God! What has he done to himself this time?

I'm a nervous wreck. I feel as though I've been drug through a knothole backwards, and I jump out of my skin at the slightest noise. The voice file arrived this morning and I listened to it by myself, locked in the bathroom. The damn file made me sound like a hen-pecked husband and a spoiled teen-ager by the halves. It was not a pleasant experience.

I can't help wondering if Cuddy has read her copy yet … Dick said he'd send her one. If she did, I cringe inside when I picture the frown on her face as she hears me hemming and hawing around, and stammering and looking for excuses to avoid Dick's questions.

She'll think I'm an indecisive fool, insisting on calling Dick in the first place, and then talking in circles and evading everything he asked about. Oh man!

And then Greg …

I took him to Princeton General tonight for a battery of tests that would choke a mule. He is fatigued and experiencing more pain … even after I administered morphine through the PICC line.

We've been home about half an hour, and I'm still edgy.

What the hell is wrong with me?

There must have been something in my voice that Dick picked up on when I called him. I tried like hell not to sound like some idiot who was ready to step off a ledge, but every time I looked at House, from Tuesday night on, the waterworks threatened to start up all over again. I'm still hanging around in the kitchen so he won't see me acting like a frightened two-year-old.

The pain in his right leg has diminished, but the left one is causing him problems that rival the way the crippled one was before, and there were any number of things that could be causing it. We're reduced to waiting for test results from another hospital!

Every time he looks at me, I can feel his tension, though surprisingly he does not complain. Those piercing blue eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, and the former fiery glint reminds me of the final embers of a star about to go nova.

It hurts to think about it.

Even gathering the stamina to finally tell me about it must have cost him dearly. He still wasn't sure how I was going to take it, and he could not meet my eyes with his own. He always did have problems with that, but recently the reluctance has doubled. His newfound trust had been hard won, and I was afraid he expected me to cut and run at any moment. I figured the best way to reassure him that that was not the case, was to not tell him he could still trust me, but to put my money where my mouth was.

Dick did not seem overly surprised that I had called him back so soon after the first consultation. His deep, calming voice reassured me that he understood perfectly that I'd been second guessing myself, and was getting ready to push the panic button after I'd had a chance to think it over. He'd seemed surprised I'd waited even this long to call him back with a load of doubts and fears and stupid insecurities. I really hated admitting he was right!

He asked me what I had going on for Saturday … tomorrow … about noon. I told him I'd taken leave from my duties to see this thing though with House, and then he wanted to know if I was familiar with the downtown Philly, and would I like to meet him there at a little restaurant called "Murano's" …

Of course I'd heard of Murano's … who hadn't? It was legendary for ribs and seafood and pastas, and it had been years since I'd eaten there. I said "sure …" and we agreed to meet there tomorrow at noon, each of us traveling about halfway between Princeton and Lancaster … well, almost.

We rang off and I heaved half a sigh of relief. Moving closer to the kitchen doorway, I hid around the corner and stole a look into the living room. Greg was, of course, still on the couch, right where he'd landed when we came in from Princeton General.

I saw a skitter of movement beneath the old tan blanket he'd thrown over his legs, and realized that House was moving around, almost the same way a dog turns in circles before finally plopping down. Probably trying to find a comfortable position to settle his left thigh, which was probably still feeling tight, and bothering the hell out of him.

He must suddenly have gotten one of those niggling, tickling sensations at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. The serpentine slither of movement stilled abruptly and a wide-eyed, scruffy face appeared like a startled rodent from behind the blanket. House and I were eyeball to eyeball in that instant, and a flash of startled guilt passed equally between the two of us, giving both of us pause for a heartbeat.

Oh damn!

For an instant I thought to bring him ice from the freezer to ice down the nasty buzz that had to be causing more problems in that sore thigh. The corners of House's mouth turned downward and he shot me a scowl of half unguarded discomfort and half anger.

I had caught him at a vulnerable moment giving in to pain. To him, the sympathy in my eyes before I caught myself and looked away, must have been intolerable. He was ready to hand me some kind of sarcastic crack to distract me from whatever was still going on with his leg, but he silenced abruptly, before any sound escaped, when I lifted two fingers to my lips …

"Shhh …"

He glared.

So typical!

I continued to hold my fingers to my lips and just looked at him, and he continued to glare back. But I could see his features begin to soften by degrees, until a hint of the old twinkle returned to the depths of those fathomless eyes, and a vestige of trust returned.

And that quickly, my old reliable waterworks were back. I could feel the tears threatening, and I knew they would not be good for either of us. I held my breath and blinked fiercely.

"Hey, House …"

"Hey, Wilson …"

"There's coffee and English muffins out here! How would you like some?"

I could almost hear the little wheels grinding. He was still trying to distract me from the pain he knew I'd seen, and I guess he figured if he kept me busy with my hands, then my brain would be less apt to process what I'd witnessed.

"Yeah … sounds great. Got any honey for the muffin?"

I grinned at him. Leave it to House to expect preferential service for the cripple. But the "cripple" designation had to be his own!

That quickly the waterworks were banished for the moment, and he was probably correct in assuming he'd diverted me. At any rate, we'd both won a round, and that wasn't a bad thing.

I should have remembered to bring him the ice then … but I didn't. As it turned out, my forgetfulness was a big mistake.

"Comin' up," I told him, and turned back to the kitchen. Give him a chance to do whatever he was trying to do with the leg …

The English muffin took three minutes. The coffee, thirty seconds. He was getting Turkey Syrup in lieu of honey, but he might not notice …

I poured myself a second cup of coffee as well, and set it beside his on a wooden cutting board, placed two syrup-soaked muffins beside them and carried it to the living room. I set everything on the coffee table and lowered myself carefully at the end of the couch near House's feet.

He had dragged about four bed pillows behind his back and was in pretty much of a sitting position when I got out there. His painful left leg was cocked against the side of the couch, his crippled one stretched out along the edge at the other side. I was extremely careful when I sat down, and he took note of it immediately.

"I'm not gonna break, y'know," he grumbled. "You can sit back if you want to. Aren't you tired?"

"It's okay," I said. "I'm fine."

He shot me a dirty look at that one, as though I'd dared steal a coveted line of his private dialogue. "In case you weren't aware," he said, "I've got a copyright on those last two words! Just so you know."

I ignored him.

He raised an eyebrow at me, rolled his eyes and inclined his head. He took one bite of English muffin and then shifted his eyes to me with a knowing squint. "Interesting brand of 'honey'," he observed. "Made from insectoid maple trees, right?"

I sighed. "Eat your damned muffin!"

That made him smile. He ate half of it, drank half his coffee and started on the other half.

Suddenly he gasped and his left hand flew to the middle of his left thigh. I took the muffin from his right hand and returned it to the cutting board. His coffee cup hit the floor and doused us both. He gasped and his face contorted into a grimace of pain that startled us both. His right hand groped blindly in the air for a moment, and I grabbed it instinctively, leaning over him. The low dose of morphine was wearing off.

I knew he was holding his breath to keep from crying out, and my thoughts groped blindly … like his hand in midair … ashamed all over again at my years of blindness to this man's pain and suffering. Where had my mind been? Where had my brain been hiding? Where had my heart been hiding?

The fingers of Greg's right hand were around my left wrist like a pipe wrench. For someone as ill as he was, his grip was like iron, and I could almost feel my bones beginning to part beneath the pressure. This on top of the way he'd grabbed me at the hospital when they administered the painful electromyogram. My wrist was going to be black and blue in the morning!

I moved over beside him and pried his fingers away; shifted the positions of our hands until I was the one exerting the grip of my dominant hand gently upon his scrawny forearm. His jaw leaned into my shoulder and I reached around his back, drawing his body against me.

He was shaking like a two-cycle engine, and his respirations came in breathless gasps. I held him tightly, astounded that my arm reached all the way around his narrow back and my hand cupped over his right shoulder blade.

"Easy, House. Let me help you … relax into me and let's ride it out together." Taken completely by surprise and feeling a deep regret that I hadn't had the presence of mind to offer this simple act of support years ago, I rocked him in my arms and let my breath warm his neck and cool his pain.

As we sat there locked in awkward embrace, the painful contractions gradually eased off. We drew apart and sat frozen, staring wide-eyed like two people who have tripped over one another at an airport and ended up embarrassed in each other's arms. I had never seen such stark and naked panic in his eyes before. Maybe I hadn't looked!

I released him and sat back, uncertain whether I had helped or harmed. He said nothing for long moments, and I began to wonder if I had indeed undone every small stride forward we had accomplished during past days. I watched him wince slightly and move his left hand back toward the leg. It wasn't over yet.

I leaned across with him and placed the warm palm of my hand beside his between the junction of knee and hip. He watched me with a guarded expression: brows knit and lips slightly parted. He was wondering what I was getting out of this. I met the gaze without a word, just nodded my head slowly and touched the fingers of his hand with my own. He was still hurting, but it was less now, and he did not question me. I could see the indecision in his expression, but so far he had given me the honor of allowing the contact.

The spasm, or whatever it was, finally eased off. Greg leaned back against his pile of pillows and sighed loudly. He looked over at me as I withdrew from his personal space. He was angry, but not with me, and his eyes remained locked with mine. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't know what the hell that was … but thanks. It helped. Just like you did at the hospital earlier … having another body to hang onto for a minute made a difference."

"You're welcome. Whatever you need … whenever you need it. It's what friends are for."

I took a deep breath and pulled away from him the rest of the way.

When I looked up, his face was open, and there was no anger, no snark in his eyes.

"I'm fine," he said, and the tone of voice was low and reassuring. He may have been using a tad of, unusual for him, honesty.

Reluctantly he allowed me to examine his leg. I found nothing to get excited about. No bruising, no excessive redness, no apparent swelling or streaking of the surrounding tissue, other than tautness in the muscle at the site of all those damned needle insertions. I was concerned that the super-Vic had not touched the pain, and I was worried that the injury might, indeed, be acute.

What would happen when Cuddy and I finally told him that he might have to use a wheelchair until we got to the bottom of this? Trying to walk while his good leg seemed to be out of commission as much as the crippled one would be not only intolerable, but impossible as well.

House would not be a happy camper. But he probably had some idea what would follow, just as well as I did.

I went to the kitchen and filled two Zip-Loc bags with ice, wrapped each one in a towel and walked with them past the couch and back to the bedroom. I could feel those piercing eyes on my back.

It was very late. Cuddy would be here early, and we both needed to sleep.

"You're hogging my damn bed!" I told him when I returned to the living room. I handed him three ibuprofen and a glass of water. "Take 'em!"

He did, without protest.

I helped him back to his bedroom, taking most of his weight with an arm about his waist. I settled him with the ice bags against his leg, removed his shoes and assisted him to lean comfortably into the giant pillow mountain. He was exhausted. Reminded me of an abandoned puppy.

"Go to sleep!" I grumbled. "Some of us need our beauty sleep as much as you do!"

He grinned.

I held off the water works until I got back to the living room …

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