Author's Note: Sorry it took a while to get this chapter up, busy week. I'm hoping for the rest of the story to go a little faster.

"How's the surgery going?"

Remy tore her gaze from the scene below to glance at Stephen, who had joined her in the observation room. "Slowly, but it's going. They're done with his face, which went pretty well, and the arms will be okay, but his leg..."

Stephen saw the way she bit her lip. Over the last couple years, she had become one of his best friends. They usually worked similar shifts, and it was nice to have someone to share the occasional quiet moment with. Since she was in the ER and he was a paramedic, pauses in their hectic days usually came at the same time. As she finished up with the patient he brought in, he'd grab them both coffees and wait for her in the nook of the third floor stairwell, their hangout. Of course they'd gotten some teasing about spending time in a stairwell, but it didn't bother her, so he didn't let it bother him. No matter what everyone thought, they were just friends. Remy didn't seem at all interested in a relationship, and he was happy with the way things were - it'd taken time and patience to get this far with her. She had always been polite and professional, but it was almost a year after she arrived at Faulkner before she began to speak more than was absolutely required to do her job. Intrigued by her half-concealed personality from the beginning, Stephen looked for reasons to spend time with her and tried to draw her out of herself. Slowly, he'd felt her becoming more comfortable with him, and letting him peer into parts of her life she kept hidden by default.

Just like everything in her past, this man she was so concerned about now was mostly a mystery to him. She'd spoken of House before, but only once or twice. He knew she used to work for him, that he was more or less a Vicodin addict, and that most people thought he was an ass. Unspoken but barely visible to Stephen was the fact that she felt differently; she didn't hate him as much as she apparently should. Stephen placed a hand on her lower back to let her know he was there, and waited until she was ready to speak.

"He made a choice after his infarction - he would live with the never ending, unbearable pain if it meant he could still walk. If that's taken away from him now...he won't have any reason to live."

"We don't know he won't be able to walk. It might take time, but with rehab he could get back to using his cane like before."

"You don't get it." Her voice shook. "He won't go through rehab if it's that bad. He's endured so much pain for so long, and for what? People make it through months of rehab because they want to go back to their jobs, homes, families...they want to live their lives. He doesn't."

He drew her into his arms and held her, because she needed comfort and this was the only way he knew how. "Rem, things might have changed. That was years ago."

She stiffened in his arms, unaccustomed to this kind of contact and not wanting him to get the wrong idea. He's just a friend, and you need one right now. Slowly she relaxed and let herself feel the warmth of his arms. She even tried to convince herself Stephen was right; that he could have taken the advice in her final note to him. House's voice, though, echoed hauntingly in her head. People never change.

**********

Blinding pain. Debilitating, mind-crippling, indescribable pain was the first thing he realized. Where the hell...is my...damn VICODIN? The thought took effort to complete, and just the idea of opening his eyes to investigate wore him out. Then another wave of pain hit and he sat up quickly, nauseous. As he leaned over and gagged, in the corner of his eye he caught someone jumping up from a plastic hospital chair pulled up close to the bed and reaching for a basin. Thirteen? And it all came rushing back to him. Too sick to care that he was puking his guts up in front of her - which he would usually consider showing weakness - he grabbed the bowl, but she stepped closer and held it up for him.

When he was finished, he gasped heavily and leaned back awkwardly, not laying all the way down to his pillow. Thirteen hit the button to move the bed into a reclining position, and he relaxed gratefully. Not meeting her eyes, he muttered, "Morphine. Now."

"You're already on a drip. Your bag change is in fifteen minutes."

He scowled but made no argument. There was a sympathy in her voice he wasn't sure if he liked, but didn't actually hate. It wasn't quite like pity. It occurred to him that she had been sitting in the chair by his bed, but before he could ponder the fact, she spoke again. "Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital in Boston, probably Faulkner. How long was I out?"

"It's two a.m. Thursday, so about five hours from the accident."

He shifted, then grimaced and swore. "What'd I break?"

"Your own doctor will be in as soon as I tell him you're awake to fill you in on your injuries - which aren't minor. What happened, House? Why were you in Boston going too fast on your bike at 10:00 at night in a storm?"

He dropped his gaze, and she could almost see the defensive barrier slide over his face. "Why the hell are you in Boston in some second-rate hospital, playing Attending Doctor in the ER?" he shot back.

She drew in a breath. Sarcasm and insults were the norm for him, but this was unlike what she remembered. Instead of a quick spark in his eye, now there was acid bitterness. "You know perfectly well Faulkner's not second-rate, but fine. Dodge the question. Let me know when you're ready to give me some answers." She turned and left, and House felt an immediate and unsettling loss. Damn her, poking into my personal life. She's a doctor, not even my doctor, and definitely not my fucking shrink. The irony of the thought hit him, but he wasn't in the mood to consider it. Thankfully, at that moment a rushed and flustered nurse popped in to replace his morphine bag. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he prayed that Thirteen wouldn't take it upon herself to try to notify Wilson or Cuddy of his current condition.

**********

"Whoa," he said, catching her as she literally ran into him outside the locker rooms. She tried to brush him off, but he held onto her. "How is he?"

Resigning herself to letting him see how much this was affecting her, she looked up and said, "It's not good, Stephen."

"I thought the surgeons saved most of the healthy muscle in his leg." She nodded, but the tears threatening to spill over startled him. "Hey, talk to me here. What's wrong?"

After a deep, shuddering breath, she said, "He's not better than when I left. He hasn't found a reason to live, he's gotten worse."

"What did he say to you?"

"It's not what he said," she tried to explain. "It's how he said it. He's always been an asshole, but it's usually a game for him. See how far he can antagonize someone until they reach their limit, and what will happen when they finally do. But now...there's no game in it. It's like his sarcasm is on autopilot, just because it's what everyone expects from him. He sounds the same, but he looks so fucking angry - not at me in particular, I don't think, but at the world."

Stephen was silent for a moment. "Do you think something happened to make him this way?"

"It must be. But with all he's been through, it has to be horrible to change him like this."

"It would help the rehab therapists if they knew what was going on in his life," Stephen reminded her gently.

She scoffed. "I pity any therapist who has to work with him." Biting her lip again, she said, "I don't know how to find out what it is. He's not exactly ready to spill his guts."

"Is there anyone at your old hospital who would know that you could call?" As she considered this, he interrupted, "We can talk about it on the way home."

"Home?"

"Definitely. I'm heading out, and I'll drop you by your place on the way. It's too late for you to ride the bus. You need to get some sleep."

"Stephen, I ride the bus every night," she complained, but only halfheartedly. It would be nice to have a warm ride home, and someone to bounce ideas off.

"No arguments." He was firm. "Grab your stuff and let's go."

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