RETROSPECT
Part II
By GeeLady
Summary: A last case, a last breath, a last redemption. Wilson looks back and sets things right. (This is not a House's Head/Wilson's Heart related fic', it's something else altogether). Set POST Season 5 or 6 or 7 (or whatever number proves to be the final season).
Pairing: H/W slash implied.
Rating: Mature. Language.
WARNING! Primary character death - that means, yes, Gregory House! But please try it out anyway.
Note: Some of the medical terminology and situations are made up. Some of this story is set five years from now and some forty years from now, so I'm allowing myself the space to be creative in what I think might someday be.
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"They put on a wonderful lunch here." Old Doctor Wilson said, happily chewing on some very soft french fries. He wore dentures but they were loose and his upper plate kept falling down to his lower, exposing paper-thin, pale gums.
Maria had declined the lunch the volunteer orderly in pink had offered when she saw Doctor Wilson had a visitor. Maria did accept a cup of coffee.
"You're too thin." James told her. "Men don't like that. Gotta have some meat on you." He gestured to her bemused smiled. "Can't get a grip when a woman's that thin. Cut themselves or something." He chuckled, pleased with his own humor.
Marias' only thought was: Men never change. "Can we talk about Doctor House while you eat?"
He nodded, cutting into his crumb-coated pork chop. "House loved fast food. Chinese mostly."
Hoping to steer the conversation back to more relevant and story-worthy details "What did they feed him in prison?"
"Don't know. He never let me visit him there." Wilson dropped his fork, a trifle irked that she had reminded him of the year and a half he had not seen his friend while he was serving time. "He got out early for good behavior." He remarked, letting his mind go back again to those lost days and away from the cooling food on his plate.
"Only place a man like Gregory House could be controlled was a prison. A cage wall-papered with rules. So many rules it was like a second prison inside the first one. It must have been very hard on him." Doctor Wilson pushed his tray away and Maria helped him move the tea-table on wheels to one side. "But Greg must have done what they told him and said Yes, sir enough because he was out in a year and a half.
"There was only one rule they couldn't make him obey."
"What was that?"
"Rehabilitate. Get clean. Become an upstanding citizen again. Believe in Christmas and salute the flag." He spat out the bitter words. "Funny damn philosophy to stick an innocent man in with a bunch of hardened criminals where the guards hated him and the only ones who treated him as one of their own were the damn criminals so they were all he had to learn from."
He took a few revitalizing deep breaths after such a long sentence. "Now it's Two strikes and you're out with the prisons more crowded than ever."
"What else can we do? Times are hard, people fall into crime . . ." Maria shrugged her shoulders. She was just one woman.
"I know, I know. Tough times. This is the fifth "tough times" I've lived through since I learned to add."
Maria wanted to keep him from getting too emotional over his opinions of the criminal justice system and more how it affected Doctor House. "How did Greg fare in prison?"
"As I expected he would - badly. Oh he followed the rules as I said, but somewhere along the line, I guess when his leg got to be too painful or he got too lonely, someone in there introduced him to "Gun" and he took it."
"Heroin?"
Wilson nodded. "Um huh. But not you run-of-the-mill variety. This was the type that no amount of chemical rehab' could touch. This, . . .this kind of heroin was a thing you didn't come back from."
"I've heard of it. We took it in school as part of Social Studies of the Street Class."
"Street Class?? Is that what they call people who sleep in cardboard boxes now? Must be a college word coined to make it sound like they prefer them. Soft mattresses too unhealthy for their everyday man backs."
Doctor Wilson was a man of strong opinions. She seemed to have offended him.
He saw her look. "Don't worry, I'm not mad at you. Where was I? The Gun, yes." He looked at her sharply. "You said you've heard of it but do you know what it does?"
"No. It's illegal as hell. I've only read of it. Anyone caught possessing, selling, carrying or manufacturing it gets a life term. No parole. Most of the United National Council adopted the Substances of Extreme Health Hazard Bill in 2017. Gun was banned."
"Not soon enough."
"Did he die of it?"
"No. You can't die of Gun -well - not really. It kills you just the same though."
"What happened to Gregory after he got out?" She used the dead man's full first name in hopes of getting Doctor Wilson to lighten up a bit and talk more about the man himself.
"He called me. One day he just called me up from jail and asked for a ride from the penitentiary back to New Jersey."
"How did he seem?"
"Like a man beaten up from the inside-out."
XXX
"House. Come stay with me." Wilson tried to keep his eyes on the highway before him but he wanted to look at his friend.
And he didn't want to look.
House looked terrible. Greyer, thinner, blank of face. No spark in his eyes or manner. He was a man with his head down from too many blows.
House shook his head no. Wilson noted Houses' left hand clenched in a tight fist in his lap while his right constantly massaged his thigh.
Wilson felt desperate. He wanted to help him somehow, keep him safe, show him everything was going to be okay and introduce him to the world again. Wilson wanted House to spring back to life and hoped to arrange that he get back some part of his old existence.
"I've got plenty of room. Roxanne knows you're coming. We've got a second master bedroom. It's yours. You'll have your own bathroom. All the privacy you need."
But House just looked out the passenger window and shook his head again.
Wilson approached the center of town. Princeton was dark. It was after ten PM and the weather was chilly. Late October had brought wet daytime rain and frozen streets at night.
"You can just drop me here." House said.
Wilson was shocked. It was the worst area of town with just a few involved downtown streets but those crowded with crime, drugs and violence. "Here?"
House nodded and grabbed the car door handle, actually cracking it open a bit as thought to leap out while the car was still moving. Wilson was afraid in fact that he might fall out and get run over by his back tires so he reluctantly but rapidly pulled up to a curb. "House. Please don't go?"
Wilson reached out his hand and placed it gently on Houses' left forearm. "Please."
For the first time since getting in the car, House looked straight at him. "I can't."
Wilson thought he might stop breathing. His chest felt tight with fear that he might never see him again. Just like his brother. "I don't want to lose you again. I don't want to watch you disappear. - Why won't you stay?"
House sighed.
Wilson was left with the feeling that House had so much to tell him but nothing he would be proud to say. "I'm already gone Jimmy."House eased himself to his feet in his untied sneakers, preparing to walk away. "I'm sorry."
"House!" Wilson fumbled in his wallet, his eyes watering. "Here." He gave him all the cash he had along with his business card. On the back he scribbled his cellular number. "With that number you can reached me anytime, anywhere. It'll connect you tomy home, cell', computer or car. If you need anything at all - anything - please call me."
House stared for a few seconds. Wilson couldn't place the expression on his face. He was like a man presented with something potentially poisonous but too hungry not to accept. House took the bills, stuffing them into his overcoat pocket and slid the business card into his threadbare prison issue blue pants. The seam down the side was ripped and the weave had begun to fray.
Wilson wanted to jump out of his car, throw his arms around him and make him stay. Somehow help him see it was the better choice. Wilson wanted to plead, beg, - promise him anything at all if he would just stay.
House nodded. "Thanks." His tired eyes were gentle for Wilson - thankful for his old friend who had missed him.
XXX
"Then he was gone." Old Doc Wilson said.
"You must have seen him again?"
"Yes. Not for a long time though. I went looking for him. I couldn't leave it like that." He looked at her, his eyes suddenly alight with determination as though it was today - this day that was then and he was about to embark on his quest to find Gregory House and help him. Save him. Bring him home.
"I had to find him. I had to."
XXX
Wilson had no idea where to start looking for House but one lost soul in a city of forty thousand people - it shouldn't be that hard. At least it wasn't New York. But he hadn't seen his brother in eighteen years either. If a person didn't want to be found . . .
Wilson began simply by driving a different route to and from work each day. Sometimes he would take a long detour, often through the area where he had last seen House limp away from his car the day after his parole.
On most weekends he would cruise through that area watching for a tall man with a decided limp. Anyone with a dark overcoat or cane would cause him to look twice, three times, often circle the block again, in the hope that it might be House.
It never was.
Wilson called up everyone he had ever done a favor for and recruited their eyes with the same short speech. "Just please keep an eye open. If you see him, call me right away. It's important."
He also asked every friend or professional acquaintance who worked Emergency or Clinic Admittance at every hospital in the greater area to call him if Gregory House walked in, either on a stretcher or on a cane, seeking medical help or a pain prescription.
No one called.
Months went by and House, though ever on his mind, took a back seat to his increasing workload and his own neglected personal life. He was now four times divorced and the echo in his two bedroom apartment was getting louder every day.
One day, a miracle day where House had not been on his mind all morning, a batch of beaten up bloody locals were hauled in, some in hand cuffs, to have their wounds treated before being taken to the Remand Center where the recently arrested were incarcerated to await charges, to make arrangements for bail, or to await their arraignment.
Local Narcotics had made one of their frequent raids on a well-known drug den. A group of sixty or so men and women, all users or abusers, had gotten into a scuffle with some unwelcome party crashers and the resulting brawl had left many with facial cuts, head wounds, general contusions and a few slightly more serious injuries. One man had been stabbed.
Half the arrested, those with minor cuts or bruises, were escorted to a nearby medical clinic, the more seriously injured were sent to Plainsborough Hospital's free clinic where Wilson had volunteered to temporarily ease the unexpected load on the already overcrowded clinic.
After a fifteen hour shift herself, Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, had left the small emergency in Doctor Wilsons' good hands and gone home for the day.
Wilson entered the small exam room without even glancing at this next faceless junkie whose chart said simple "G.H." and that he had facial cuts and a possibly cracked mandible.
"Okay, Mister G.H." Wilson said, hooking the little ear pieces of his stethoscope into his ears and turning to his nineteenth patient in three hours. "Let's see that jaw of yo-"
Wilson stopped. The man was looking at him. Nestled in the haggard whites shot through with red stared strikingly blue irises. The face was thin and pasty. The hair unkempt and the cheeks shadowed with a weeks growth of salt and pepper.
Wilson almost stopped breathing. "House." He said, so quietly he hardly heard it himself. "My God . . ."
Perched on the exam table, Gregory House stared without answering. He knew who he was, Wilson was sure of that. But . . .
Wilson stepped closer. Houses' pupils were dilated. He was high or had recently been. And he was just out of it enough to not have noticed what hospital he had been brought to. Wilson swallowed at the handcuffs around Houses' wrists.
After nearly a year of searching for him, now that House was not three feet from him, he had no idea what to say or do. Wilson had memorized a "please come home" speech for the day he would find House. Now that House had found him, he had nothing to say but, "Let's see that jaw."
Wilsons' hands shook a little as he very gently manipulated Houses rough jaw, moving it up and down, and back and forth as it would go, checking for unusual swelling or deep purple bleeding under the skin. It was swollen but nothing to indicate a break.
But Wilson did not want House to be taken away just yet. "Hmm." He said. "That could be a hairline fracture. We'll need an x-ray."
House just nodded. Wilson knew by how House kept his eyes focused on Wilsons that he knew Wilson was lying. House had been a doctor once, too. He would know whether his jaw was broken or just bruised. House didn't say anything though as Wilson asked the night nurse to arrange a time, but also reported to the officer waiting to haul House to overnight lock-up that House would have to stay here the night.
"We have an infirmary downtown." The officer said, bored and tired. His shift was over and he wanted to get these last few junkies to lockup and go home.
"Does it have an MRI?" Wilson asked, using his educated physicians voice so there would be no argument. "Because I think this mans jaw is broken and if the x-ray doesn't show it clearly enough for the attending, we'll need to do an MR image." Wilson was the attending and an MRI would be a waste of time and money. X-rays are the standard for diagnosing broken bones, but he wasn't going to tell the cop that. Counting on the officer having limited knowledge about medicine, Wilson looked at him with an impatient face.
"Well, there has to be a guard on the door."
"We have security here. Tell the nurse who it is he has to call in the morning - is that you? - when, or if, the guy's ready to be discharged." Wilson rattled off and returned to the exam room.
House had not moved an inch.
Wilson hurried to the supply drawer and pulled out a vacutainer needle and holder, a tourniquet, a pre-moistened sterile alcohol swab and rubber gloves. "I'll need a blood sample." He said and House rolled up his sleeve without being asked.
Wilson almost fainted when he saw the marks. The inside of Houses left arm was covered in needle tracks. Long use tracks. There were enough old injection sites and enough newer ones to indicate he was not a lifer but he was more than a novice. Dozens upon dozens of tiny footprints telling Wilson exactly where House had been traveling. At least two years worth of bad mileage. "Jesus." Wilson sat in the stool next to him. "Jesus, House."
It was not said in accusation or righteous repugnance. It was said because Wilson discovering this about his friend was almost too much to comprehend. His heart broke for House. Broke and came back together again and then broke again.
How could he help him? What steps does one take to repair this much damage to a ruined life? Wilson looked at him, his face crumpled with the terrible revelation that House was not just a junkie but a needle junkie. A hype'.
Wilson made himself perform the blood aspiration and labeled the sample to be sent to the lab. On the form he wrote that the results be returned only and specifically to the Oncology Department Head.
Wilson sat quietly with House. He had no idea what to say or what to do next. "You can stay here tonight. I'll be sure to get you a private room." He scratched his forehead with his still gloved thumb. "And we'll, uh, we'll get that jaw x-rayed." Wilson cleared his throat.
House only nodded. If he felt shame over the marks, exhaustion had obviously stymied it.
Wilson saw House rub at his thigh. "Are you? - do you need Vicodin? Are you o-on something stronger now?"
"I'm okay." It was the first word he had said and it came out tired and flat. Emotions were in short order for House and overflowing for Wilson. "All right." Wilson stood. "Um. I'll go arrange a room and . . . tell security-" He hated like hell that he had to inform a rent-a-cop to keep his eye and gun trained on House for the night. It wasn't right. "-um, tell security that-" Wilson knew his voice was high and tight with anger and sorrow about it. About everything.
"Wilson - "
It was the first time he had heard his name from Houses' mouth for two years.
A tiny glow had remained his far away eyes for his friend. " - It's okay."
XXX
Maria found herself sinking deeper and deeper into Doctor Wilson's narrative about the man he called best friend. The story was a sad one. Doctor Wilson brought his thoughts back to the present.
"Did he go back to jail?"
"No, no. I sat with him in his room all night and made sure he slept. He didn't eat the meal I ordered up for him but went right to sleep. He slept like the dead, like he hadn't closed his eyes for weeks. Maybe he hadn't." Old Doc' sighed heavily. "Next morning I woke up in the chair and his bed was empty. He was gone. I made a few calls and finally got a hold of the arresting officer. He gave the name of a pool attorney who handled Houses' case. He was charged with a misdemeanor, spent a night in jail and was fined. The Judge also ordered him to perform fifty hours of community service which naturally, House did not perform."
"How long before you saw him again?"
"Six, seven months."
Maria wanted to know something. "We've gotten off track a little. My fault. Um, . . you said that House never killed the kid. That you did, or you and the hospital did. How do you mean?"
Doc' Wilson rubbed the wisps of hair on his head and blew out a hard breath. "We'd better order some more coffee."
-
-
Doc' Wilson smacked his lips at the steaming beverage. Roma, his favorite volunteer, a round pretty twenty-something with long dark hair, always made sure he had lots of sugar for his coffee. It wasn't on his designated diet allowance, but she had a soft spot for James and did what she could to make his time left on earth more pleasant.
Doc' gestured to Roma when she came in with a tray with coffee and even a few cake donuts. "There's my girl."
Maria was tickled to see the wide smile on Doc's face. And shocked to see the leer it turned into. Doc' was a masher! In his younger days, he must have been quite a ladies man.
"Roma's my angel in disguise." Doc' said as Roma smiled at him and then left them alone. Roma liked doing things for the old Doc'. He was ninety. She wasn't going to deny him the few pleasures he had left in life, like sugar and donuts, for the ridiculous goal of extending his life by a few months. If really old people earned anything, it was the right to eat whatever-the-hell they liked.
Doc' stirred his tongue-curling sweet beverage. "So. The kid. Name was Jason Park. House suspected something beyond the leukemia, maybe not underlying it, but preceding it. Something that had been missed. But there was no medical evidence for that. All House had was his instinct. He did have an uncanny knack for seeing symptoms beyond the obvious. Once he suspected someone of having a brain tumor simply because of the way they were walking."
"Was he right?"
Doc' nodded. "I told him he was just looking for a mystery to solve. But it was hard to dispute his reasoning. The person was young, appeared flushed and healthy - energy was good. Blood clean. House insisted on an MRI but Cuddy refused. The guy hadn't even come in as a patient, he was delivering a package to Doctor . .uh . .Bettie? Barley? Something like that."
"Was the guy okay?"
"House convinced the guy to check himself into the hospital. Convinced him he was sick. Even instructed the poor guy on what symptoms to fake so House would have something to take back to Cuddy so he could get the MRI on his brain." Doc' sipped his coffee. Smiled. "Ha! House had the guy so damn scared he went along with it. Anyway, House got his MRI. Guy had a small centimeter sized benign tumor between his frontal lobes. Surgeon went in, took it out. Guy was fine."
"All that from a walk?"
Doc' shook his head. "Nope. House later confessed to me it wasn't the guys walk at all. It was the way the fellow was holding his head. He kept his head back a little. Like this." Doc' tilted his head slightly back, so his chin was raised just a fraction beyond what would be a natural carriage.
"Then why did he tell Cuddy it was his walk?"
"Because House knew she wouldn't believe him if he told her it was the way the fellow held his head. A weird walk was something a skeptic at least might believe."
"And the lies."
"Yeah. And the lies."
"How do you think he figured it out? Was it really the way the man held his head? I mean the guy could have simply had a migraine or a sore neck."
"True. But you didn't know House. When he finally explained it to me, it made perfect sense. Most people might take one look and see a person with a headache, or maybe see nothing but a person looking thoughtful like he was walking through a park on a sunny day. Except it was a workday and a Monday. Who's happy on a Monday??
"Anyway. When House first saw the guy, he was eating cheese sticks. Cheese is a common migraine trigger. Anyone who suffers them tries to stay away from it. Also the guy was in a hurry - flustered - like he was behind in his schedule. Rushing around raises blood pressure, making the likelihood of developing a headache greater, but there was no flush to his face so no high BP.
"Lastly the fellow was having a little trouble articulating, like he was really tired and his mind sleepy, though he was smiling, seemed happy and it was only nine AM. A tumor - the kind House described - would account for all those symptoms. So after scaring the guy to death, admitting him and then coaching him on what to lie about if asked, House went behind Cuddy's back and conducted an MRI on his brain."
"All that from a tilt?"
"Yup. The back tilt indicated that when he tilted his head forward, like to read the name plates on peoples' desks or a name on a door, his head hurt. I mean - who looks at the sky when they're looking for someone? Especially from inside a building!? It wasn't a migraine but, because of the fluid pressure change in his head at his frontal lobes where the tumor was taking up needed space, he did get headaches when ever he tilted his head forward."
Maria was astonished but a little skeptical. "Are you exaggerating? Maybe trying to give me a better story?"
"Did you look for me for months because you thought I was a liar?"
She conceded the point.
"I'm telling you, House was a maestro. He was like . . . Leopold, but in medicine. House was a genius."
"What about the kid? Houses' last case?"
"Jason Parks. Rich parents. Big contributors to the hospital and pretty near everything else in town that smelled of social conscience and a tax cut." Doc' sipped his by now cold coffee and made a face. "He came in with rectal bleeding. Weak, losing weight. House kept him on fluids and began the differential . . . You know what that is?"
Maria nodded. She'd done her research on Gregory Houses' methods and department. Department of Diagnostics. The only one in the country run by a cantankerous, non-conforming crank. Indisputably a genius but with a personality so obnoxious and professional conduct so bizarre his practice was rumored to be bordering quackery.
Yet his cure rate hovered near one hundred percent. People from all over the western world and Europe sought his help. When all others failed, House delivered. Doctor House saved somewhere between forty to sixty-five people per year on average at a departmental cost floating above three million dollars. He earned the hospital near zero profits. As far as Maria could see, House must have had a fairy god-administrator.
"The differential laid out a few ideas . . ."
XXX
"House, everything points to a bleeding disorder prompted by tainted blood." Foreman said. "The kid picked something up from one of the dozens, maybe hundreds of transfusions he's had to treat his leukemia."
House spread his hands. "Fine. Which one?" House pointed to his white-board. "Either tell us which "taint" or which pint of blood so we can test it."
Foreman gave House an exasperated look. "We ask the parents."
House nodded his head once. "Right. Ask the parents who spend their days counting money. They oughta' know all about doctor stuff."
"I think he means we ask the parents if any of the other attendings noted something-" Taub started.
"-Noted what?" House said, turning back to his white board. "That they screwed up? Didn't notice when their son suddenly started bleeding a whole lot more and from an orifice that's not supposed to? You think they'd admit it? That's why doctors carry malpractice insurance and hospitals have high priced lawyers. No doctor admits to not knowing something, especially to freaked out, well dressed parents."
Chase frowned. "I've heard you admit a mistake."
"But I fix my mistakes. If I ever did anything really stupid, I'd blame one of you guys."
Foreman sighed. "Fine. He got blood tainted with a missing protein factor."
"Hemophilia?" Chase said. "You're saying this kid was transfused with blood that was missing a protein and therefore his marrow stopped producing that protein? You inherit hemophilia, you can't give it away."
Foreman knew it was ludicrous, which is why he said it. "I'm saying this kid has leukemia with an inability to clot. He's received multiple transfusions which does not make no clotting a mystery. The body reacts in different ways to transfusions. Not uncommon, Chase." Foreman looked from Chase to House. "House." Foreman crossed his arms, a sure sign to all he was done with the differential. "I'm saying this case should be on Wilsons' desk, not yours."
House ignored Foreman. "But right now it's on my desk." He turned back to the white board, his mind searching there, not caring what Foreman did or did not do. "I don't care where it should be."
Foreman wasn't done chastising his boss. "Cuddy only let you take this case because she lets you do almost anything if it'll make the hospital look good."
"Cuddy is an Administrator. She fills in forms and looks good in champagne heels and she knows I'm the medicine man and that I'll turn out to be right. That's why she gave this case." House answered with near automation. His eyes, and his mind, were turned to the board, narrowed with thought.
Foreman shook his head, smiling around the table at his colleagues to bring them into his self contained circle of frustration at House. No one said a word. "Cuddy" Foreman continued unabated. "indulges you. It's always been a balancing act between you two. You do something nuts, she makes it go away-"
House spun on him. "Great!" He shouted. "You've discovered our secret. Run to Cuddy for a bone. Go tell her I'm wrong. Tell her I'm crazy. Go be a lawyer or an accountant or a pigeon trainer, because unless you want to practice medicine, I can't use you here." House, face flushed with anger, tapped his marker on the board and looked at the rest of them, ignoring Foreman all together. "As for the rest of you doctors, what else?"
Kutner said "Maybe it's him, not a transfusion. Polycythemia Vera. His body is making too many red cells, white cells and platelets. Because despite the bleeding, his blood volume stays relatively static. The disease is masked. He's bleeding abnormally but no doctor checked for the disease because otherwise his blood volume stays the same and appears normal."
Taub shook his head emphatically. "Two genetic disorders in one body? Astronomical odds."
House raised his eyebrows and turned around. Foreman had left. He was disappointed, but Kutner was a sharp kid, which is why he hired him. "His blood would be thickening, but the bleeding off would be keeping it in the range or normal viscosity . . ."
As much of a doubter as Taub was, he was sharp too. "But the kid's in pain. Maybe the parents are slipping him aspirin."
House nodded. "And it doesn't explain why he's bleeding to begin with, but . . ." House wrote it on the board the nodded to the remaining members of his team. "Go draw some blood. He hasn't had any transfusions since he's been here, so it should be all his own juice in there. Check histamine levels, get a red, white and platelet cell count and a bone marrow biopsy. And check if the kids been scratching himself. I'm going to snoop in Mommy's purse."
XXX
"Was he right? And did he really do things like conduct illegal searches?"
Doc' Wilson laughed quietly for a moment, his thin shoulders shaking a bit beneath the coffee stained blue pajama top. "Greg was a pip. He didn't hold with convention, honey. He loved a challenge. I think he wanted to be a thief when he was a kid. To him, pulling the wool over someone's eyes was like eating Mo-Jo's. He could chew on the taste of it for days."
He stopped laughing and turned his thoughts back again. "But he actually asked permission this time and not very politely so, naturally, the mother said no. "Go straight to hell." I think she said. So, well, House asked again, but this time the House-normal version of ask. He had Cuddy have her lawyer have a judge write a court order for Mommy to open her purse."
"Had she been giving her son aspirin?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Unfortunately?"
"If Mom had been, she'd thrown the evidence away after House asked her the first time. But she probably hadn't been anyway. The problem was now the parents didn't think too much of House and wanted him off the case." Doc' screwed up his eyes. ""Keep that crazy bastard away from our son!" The kids Dad said."
"But House didn't stay away, did he?"
Doc' Wilson sighed and set thin lips of regret. "Nope."
XXX
Part III ASAP