Chapter 22

"The Search for Truth: You Can Get There From Here!"

As I look back on it now, I am enjoying all the benefits of twenty-twenty hindsight. I'm smiling to myself at some of the truths we uncovered about our friendship, and the many admissions that we didn't intend to make, but which came out anyway during the frank and revealing verbal sparring match we had awhile ago.

I sit here by myself at the keyboard of Greg's baby grand, wishing with all my heart that I could play this beautiful instrument. The apartment around me is quiet. Lisa is running errands and Greg is asleep again. He is still fragile, and it is the best thing for him.

The thoughts in my head right now are like revelations that would translate into some really nice music, if only I were talented enough to allow them freedom through my fingertips. But I'm not.

I'm not! And that's too bad, for if ever there was a piece of music begging to be written, it's this one that I can hear inside my head, but can't share with anyone else because I have not the means.

Still, the memories are fresh, and they swirl in my consciousness as I sit here with a foolish smile on my face. My clumsy fingers are poised over the keys, touching the whites in a light manner and imagining Gregory House's nimble fingers in their place, bringing forth the magic, played skillfully and in time.

They are both in my thoughts, these two people, and my foolish smile is reminiscent of these memories … of all of us … clumsily caring and shyly Bohemian in our stumbling honesty as we sidestepped around each other.

I am, after all, the proud owner of this reminiscence, and that gives me artistic license, right?

It was a little after eleven this morning, I think, and when I rose from the best sleep I'd had in a very long time. I could smell the tantalizing aroma of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling in the pan, and suddenly I was ravenous.

I got up, fully awake, and walked to the bathroom to do … you know … then stuck my head into House's room to check on him. He was deeply asleep, curled on his side with his face toward me, both hands tucked beneath his chin. The blanket was thrown off and tossed aside. Both his legs were splayed on the mattress, neither of them on the pillows that had supported them when he'd finally gone to sleep last night. The right one was straight, as he almost always keeps it, even when asleep. The left one was bent slightly at the knee, his PJ leg hitched up beyond his white, white calf.

I remember grinning at our salt-n-pepper-haired four-year-old, shaking my head like an indulgent father, and backing out of the room to keep from disturbing him.

Lisa Cuddy was in the kitchen, whacking at a bowl of pancake batter with a table fork, a curl of raven hair dangling in her eyes and humming some show tune or other I couldn't quite place. Surprise Number Two! First: House curled on the bed like a little kid. Now my boss in blue jeans and an old blouse, very little makeup, and no jewelry! She looked almost good enough to eat, but of course I kept that thought to myself.

"How can you possibly look that good with no sleep?" I asked her. I had my fists on my hips and I leaned forward as though I really expected an answer.

She looked up from her Suzy Homemaker efforts and smiled. "By my calculations, I managed to get about four hours … more than you've been getting some nights. And that reminds me …"

She fished an amber pill bottle from her purse on the butcher-block table. I was chagrined to see my name on the label.

Oh damn!

She held the bottle in front of my face with thumb and two fingers. No mistake about what she intended. "These are the 1mg Ativan I brought that first night. Next trip, I'll bring some 0.5 tabs, but in the meantime, cut one of these in half and get started!"

My eye roll and audible groan did absolutely no good in the protest department. She muttered something about me being just as much of a kid as Gregory House, and as is her habit, she thrust the thing under my nose until I had no choice but to take it. "I was … sort'a hoping you'd forget about that. Later, okay? I just got up. I'm rested."

This time I got the glare she so often used on House, and her small fists planted themselves on her hips, mirroring mine. Was she toying with me?

I gave my best "stage sigh", tipped the bottle and let one of the little beauties fall into the palm of my hand. I cut it in half with the paring knife on the table, crammed half of it back into the bottle, and crossed to the sink. I turned on the cold water, popped the crescent into my mouth, cupped both hands under the water and took the thing in the same manner as a prospector drinking from the stream near his claim. The sagging Ace bandage dribbled water onto the floor. "Happy now?"

Cuddy watched me to be sure I wasn't going to palm the thing, and then shook her head at me. "Aren't either of you two capable of taking pills the traditional way? You know … a cup … with water in it … that whole thing?"

"Real men swallow 'em dry!"

We straightened, startled. House stood in the doorway, leaning over the cane. He had the IV pole clasped tightly in his left hand, using it for further support.

I know my mouth was hanging open. Cuddy's also. But Greg appeared to be navigating pretty well.

"Ibuprofen?" The sharp blue eyes missed nothing. "That wrist still hurt?"

I was about to swallow my tongue. A glance to my left showed Cuddy slowly sidling back toward the kitchen counter, effectively blocking his view of the bottle of lorazepam.

"Just a little achy," I blurted, managing to stall him. I held up my bandaged hand and waved it in front of his eyes in a further effort to distract him. "It's fine. And where's your chair?"

"It's not my chair!" He grumbled. "And I suppose it's wherever you two left it last night when you conspired to get me to eat my supper in bed."

"It's in the living room," Cuddy interjected at that moment, and I was grateful for her further effort at distraction. "If you gentlemen would kindly go in there, I'll get our breakfast together and join you."

Fortunately for her, things were to the point where she could make good on the offer.

We both watched as House executed the turn without difficulty, and I watched his gait closely as I followed him back to the living room. "You're doing pretty well there," I said softly, and was a little worried about my tone of solicitousness. It couldn't be helped. He worried me. "How's the left leg feeling?"

"It was starting to tighten, and I think that's what woke me. Thought I'd try and walk it out." He didn't look at me, and I figured he didn't want to see any looks of disapproval that might show up on my face. I was careful to keep my expression schooled to neutral at first, but the more I thought about it, the more upset I became.

He lowered himself carefully onto the couch, released the cane and the IV stand.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't yell at him, but his last reply had floored me. I reacted in exactly the manner I'd promised myself I would not do. "You thought it might spasm? But you got up anyway? Damn it, House! We thought you were still sleeping. What if it had spasmed?"

I didn't know at that moment if I was really angry or just plain scared. Scared, mostly, I think. I just knew I was totally disconcerted. I found myself pacing and lecturing and gesturing like a Dad yelling at his kid. "Don't ever do that again! What the hell were you thinking?"

I knew I was over-reacting. Knew it! Some part of me was already sorry for losing it like that … but I just couldn't stop myself. My fear of Greg really injuring himself was taking over my reasoning, and I continued to rant.

"If you'd fallen, we might not have known. You enjoying this? A little game for you? 'Let's see what I can do today to freak 'em out!' That it?"

I could hear the panic in my own voice and was powerless to contain it at that moment. Oh God … what would I have done if he had actually fallen and hurt himself again? My mind could not assimilate the possibility.

"I said … is that it?"

He didn't answer me, just sat there on the couch, hunched and miserable. When I took a good look at his face, I was immediately ashamed of the desperate state my fear had thrown me into. He didn't look angry. Or hurt. Or even defensive. He only looked sad … maybe even concerned for me.

I bit down on my lip.

What's the matter with me? I blew up at Cuddy yesterday … now House?

Bitterly angry at my total lack of restraint, I whirled away from that characteristic puppy dog expression that tore at my soul, and came face to face with Cuddy, hanging silently in the doorway. She'd heard the commotion and come over to check.

I was battling the waterworks again for all I was worth, and feeling like a blatant coward. Except this time it wasn't just for House, but for Cuddy as well. I knew I had to do something before I lost it completely in front of both of them.

I said: "Excuse me …" and I fled past Cuddy, into the kitchen. "Give me a minute … please?" I had to pull myself together quickly. I must not throw away all the progress we'd been making up until now. I could not be responsible for acting like a total ass again!

They gave me the privacy I needed in order to collect my senses about me and pull back all the wild, rampaging emotions roiling inside my brain. I paced around the confined space of that small kitchen like a caged lion. I knew my uncontrolled actions were causing me to ruin a pleasant meal and making a shambles of an important interlude between the three of us.

They didn't need this. Neither of them! I could hear their voices in the living room, speaking in low tones, worried, but not intrusive. If I ruined breakfast, Lisa would probably even offer to make another one.

I picked the Ativan bottle off the counter where she had left it, and wrapped my hand around it. I had amends to make. I took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly and turned back toward the living room.

They stopped talking and turned to me as I entered. Cuddy was obviously surprised to see me with the Ativan bottle, but Greg only seemed a little curious. I raised the bottle in my hand as though making a toast.

"You were right," I told Cuddy. "You were right, and I apologize. I should never have doubted you. The one I took awhile ago seems to be kicking in right now … and I've gotta admit, it's making it a little easier to think … Unhhh … thanks for knowing what I needed when I … uh … didn't."

Cuddy smiled, shrugging one shoulder a tad, and I saw a tiny return of the Mother Hen with a tiny twinkle in her eyes. "Not a problem," she told me softly. "Believe it or not, I do understand. I just want to help." Her tone of voice was warm and accepting and forgiving.

I wasn't sure what she meant by that: understood what? Was she inferring something happening between House and me? I chose to ignore that part of it, and realized at the same time that it had been easier than I'd thought. And then the "House" thing came back again and hit me in the stomach. I knew I hadn't hurt her the way I'd hurt him … my Stubborn Hero. I owed him so much more than just an apology. I couldn't blame him if he didn't understand … didn't want to forgive me. And that was what Cuddy understood.

I turned to him, almost afraid of what I might see. "I … need to talk to you too … if you're willing to hear me out."

Cuddy rose, knowing something private needed to be ironed out between us. "I'm going to get back to breakfast … which is going to be lunch if we don't get to it soon …"

I appreciated her offer to leave, but I stopped her before she got to the doorway. "You have every right to stay. This is a family matter."

Cuddy shook her head. "No … this is between the two of you. You can handle it … and you both know where I am if you need me." She walked into the kitchen, effectively leaving Greg and me face to face with each other alone.

I walked over to the couch and handed the pill bottle to him. I watched him study the label a few moments, and then he handed it back. He said nothing, just studied my face in the same manner he'd studied the bottle: noncommittal.

He was making me nervous, and I found myself tossing the damned bottle hand to hand, much the same way I'd often seen him do with that fuzzy ball he keeps on his desk at work. "No snide comments?" I asked him. I stood there awkwardly, not meeting his eyes. He still said nothing, and I sighed heavily, setting the bottle on the coffee table.

"Sit down!" He finally said. His voice was low, but totally in command of the situation. I did as he asked. I took my place on the edge of the couch, well away from where he sat, then hunched sideways to look at him.

I pointed to the pill bottle as though it was a snake, sitting there ready to strike. "First … that nightmare I had last night … I called Dickinson, and he and Cuddy decided it would be a good idea for awhile if I took a few of these things. I … uh … disagreed. Then Cuddy threatened to tell you that I wasn't handling all this very well … and I … felt trapped. She knew I … wouldn't risk upsetting you … and even though I knew she was right … I didn't like being coerced."

And then came the real stickler: "Afterward, I realized that's what I've been doing to you all along. Like giving you the morphine last night … it wasn't fair."

I finally had the guts to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, House … I was wrong to do that to you."

He looked at me, finally, meeting my gaze for only a moment before looking away again. In that brief moment, I saw a softening in the blue eyes that assured me he wasn't angry with me. "Was Cuddy wrong to do it to you?"

I shook my head, knowing what he meant by his question, and giving him the credit I knew he was due. "No. I wouldn't have cooperated any other way, I guess." Like someone else we all know and love! Though I didn't say it aloud.

His tone lightened. "Yet, now you're telling me about it … so you're either over your fear of 'upsetting' me … or you decided I can handle it. Which?"

Damn his didactic bent!

I kept my voice earnest. "I really don't know. Guess I'm still afraid of upsetting you, but it's not right to expect you to just endow me with blind trust, and not be willing to do the same for you. So … I'm gonna have to believe that you'll still believe I'm capable of caring for you and making the right decisions about your treatment."

Uneasily, I watched him grasp each leg in turn and lift them both up onto the coffee table. He then laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the backrest of the couch. "Last night?" He began. "My nightmare was a rerun. Been seein' it a lot lately. You keep telling me I've got my identity wrapped up in the leg … the pain … that I've redefined everything by it. You keep hammering away about that … and by the end, I'm ready to punch you out."

He hesitated momentarily, and I saw the ghost of a smile appear. "Always manage to wake up before I smack you …" His eyes shifted to the ceiling, his ending remarks addressed to a crack that ran the length of the room. "Last night … just barely made it though!"

I didn't feel much like returning the smile. I wasn't quite sure whether or not I was being patronized, so I hesitated a fraction with my reply. "At least yours is understandable … you had to work pretty hard to convince me about your pain, and it stands to reason you'd still have some doubts. I do believe you though … sorry it took me so long … sorry there's still some question in your mind."

He shrugged. "I'm getting over it. I want to get over it. If I can't trust you, then who can I trust?"

He was still studying the crack in the ceiling. He didn't want to look at me. Didn't trust himself to look at me for fear that I might still be judging him. I wasn't, but neither was I all that certain he could swallow that fact whole yet.

I lowered my eyes from his face and continued cautiously, still watching for some physical reaction. "Anyway, I'm … unhhh … not ready to tell you about the rest of my little experience with the night demons. I know that's not fair … but I'm still not sure I've processed everything yet. When I'm ready, I'll let you know, okay?"

He nodded, finally let his gaze lower again from chandelier height. I thought for a second that he might actually leave it alone. Then he spoke again, softly. "Must'a been pretty bad if it made you call the shrink …"

He let the sentence trail off expectantly, and I felt his eyes on me again. There was a hint of fascinated curiosity in the "not-quite" question.

I got honest. I met his eyes and held them captive. It was the first he had actually looked me in the face for a long time. That was progress! "It was a frightening experience. Upsetting. And I'm asking you please … respect my word that I just can't go into it yet. But … part of it was … feeling like I was the only one available to help you … save you. That's not true, I know, but … well … Cuddy and Dickinson think I've … uh … been putting too much pressure on myself … and they think I could use a little chemical help for awhile."

"They're right!" He barked. He intensified his gaze, and this time it was he who pinned me in place with daggers of blue. "Trust your doctors, an' don't give 'em a rough time! Just makes it harder on them. Just look what I've done to my doctor!" A thrust of his chin indicated the bottle of tranquilizers. His hands came down from behind his head for emphasis.

"One more thing about those pills." His tone turned very serious. "You be careful with 'em! They're addictive … ya know? 'specially if you're just takin' 'em for fun!"

I know my mouth dropped open, and I knew he enjoyed that fact beyond all logical reason. I saw his wry smile … and the absolute forgiveness … and the emphatic folding of his arms across his chest, effectively putting a "period-paragraph" to any further argument.

Then I got the smirk and the follow-up crinkling of his scruffy face that told me the conversation … or whatever the hell it had been … was at an absolute and complete end.

I sighed and tipped my head sideways in a gesture that figuratively knocked over my king and gave him the checkmate. We both acknowledged our traversing of the treacherous waters we'd just crossed together.

And that was the moment Cuddy chose to bust through the kitchen doorway with a breakfast tray almost as big as she is! There was a smile on her face … triumphant and much relieved … and both of us knew her grand entrance was no coincidence.

House lifted his legs one by one onto the floor, and the tray landed on the coffee table in their place. Cuddy grabbed a pillow from the couch and plopped it down on the floor on the other side. I straightened and sat forward. I was really hungry, and this feast was fit for a king. (Maybe the one I'd theoretically knocked over in Greg's favor).

The three of us dug in and mopped it up in a very short time. Conversation, for the next fifteen minutes, became secondary to the munching.

Even the arrival of the courier, the resulting hurried blood-draw, a few snarky comments from House about the lack of macadamia nuts in the pancakes, were tossed aside as the three of us just enjoyed the quiet interlude of each other's company.

And now …

Here I sit at the keyboard of this elegant musical instrument … thinking back over the past few hours. The discarded breakfast dishes are still scattered on the coffee table, and I am pleasantly discombobulated. Thanks, no doubt, to my little corner of "Cloud Nine Out of a Bottle" …

I promised to take care of the dishes … and I will. But for now I am relaxed and content. I have a full belly, a calm mind, and my hand does not hurt. The best of all possible worlds!

I will be very happy when Gregory House is well enough to sit at this piano and play for me … us … again …

Oooo0oooO

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