A/N: I'll be winding down this story over the next few chapters. Thanks again everyone and special thanks to Purridot!
I got up a little early and had a big stack of blueberry pancakes and a pot of hot coffee ready by the time Greg came stumbling to the table. He even thanked me for such a nice breakfast. Well, that was tad bit unexpected. Maybe next the sky will fall in. Before joining him with my own mountainous breakfast I stuck the post roast into the crock pot. The damn thing was getting cooked today one way or the other.
I sat down and was reaching for the syrup when he said, "I can see right through you."
I glanced over at him, then back to my breakfast. "I know." He would have to blind to not see what I was doing, but I kept that to myself. No reason to argue over his ability to read me. It would be like arguing over the fact that he has blue eyes. In other words–a pointless argument. I didn't want that this morning. I just wanted a decent breakfast and so did he.
"You're really going out of your way here," he said.
"I wanted to do something nice for you this morning. So what? I thought you liked my cooking."
"I do like your cooking, but that's not what I'm talking about. First there was you all but screwing me on the piano, and now this grand meal. I have to say bravo for all the effort you've put forth over the past week. Especially the piano thing. You must have been a porn star in another life."
That was one off-the-wall compliment I hoped he wouldn't repeat in public.
"You don't seem to mind all my effort," I noted. "I take very good care of you, if I do say so myself. And you certainly didn't seem to mind the piano thing."
"Can't say that I did."
"I never heard anyone could scream my name that loud. I'm surprised the paint didn't crack."
"I can scream it again if you want, just let me finish my pancakes. I don't want any paint getting into them."
"I can only wonder what the neighbors thought."
"They probably thought that there are two men in 221B fucking each other's brains out."
"You just have to be really crude about it, don't you?" I grumbled over my demolished breakfast. That was Greg for you. Always able to find the vulgar even in the nicest of situations. If Mother Theresa had come to the hospital he would have cracked a joke about it. But he would have been polite and waited until she was out of earshot. I hope.
"Were you expecting flowers and love letters, Dr. Scream-My-Name? You should really know better," he smirked. "You do all that romantic crap, I do crude. You're the Ying to my Yang. The pork to my beans. The milk to my cookies."
"I feel so honored."
"You should."
"You going to rehab today, Greg?" I looked over and waited for his response.
"We'll see." Cool as a cucumber. He didn't even flinch. "How will you remind me again if I don't? Screw me in your office?"
"Are you–"
"Screw me in Cuddy's office? Now that would be something–"
"Do you want me to leave again? Is that what you want?" I let those questions hang in the air like feathers on a breeze, then they fluttered to the floor.
He paused, then muttered, "No."
"You said you were going to."
"I know."
"Are you going to rehab?"
"We'll see. All right?"
"I want a straight answer, a yes or a no. Is that asking too much? I just want a straight answer."
"You're not getting one."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have a straight answer to give you right now." His gaze locked with mine and he grinned. "But you have to admit that the idea of you and I screwing in Cuddy's office is kind of hot."
Several hours later he got the court summons and made a mad dash to the rehab clinic.
I wanted to believe that he would gone anyway, not to just make a last ditch effort to stay out of prison.
There was only one way to find out. I was going to have to ask him point blank. But I would have to wait and see if he was going to serve any time.