A/N: Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing and/or reading and just enjoying. Your continued interest is much appreciated.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Beta: Hey la, hey la, my beta's back. After taking a short break, my brilliant beta NaiveEve has returned. Thank you, E.
-13-
A stumble, a few backward stutter steps sent him colliding with the bricks and...he...was...
...up against the wall, motherfucker!
Oh, very good. Very funny. That damn well hurt.
His breathing was ragged. A thin sheen of sweat coated his brow and the back of his neck. But the evening was cool; the night breeze riffled his hair. He shouldn't be mopping perspiration from his forehead on his jacket sleeve.
Hurt.
He moaned, favoring his left side, then his right, which did nothing to alleviate his discomfort; his shoulders continued to ache from the force of his collision with the brick wall. But the ache in his shoulders was nothing compared to the agony that was his right leg. It screamed, cried, pleaded to him in its own inimitable fashion. The shoulder-leg pain combo made him want to jump back on his Honda and slam himself into the side of a building. At least then sweet oblivion would take hold. He wouldn't have to feel.
But Myrna...she'd be kind of upset, don't you think?
Yeah, well...
His leg. Damn, it hurt.
Move, idiot, move!
Trembling fingers rooted through his jacket pocket, forefinger and middle finger working in tandem to clasp his keys. In a perfect world his Vicodin would have been in that pocket too..
In a perfect world you wouldn't need that Vicodin. Moron.
He should have been dry swallowing three of those suckers right now. At this moment he would have traded his keys for them, his Honda, the Petie Wheatstraw LP he had unearthed at Zog's (a treasure he discovered lying forgotten and alone beneath an empty cardboard box and three dust caked Saturday Night Fever cassettes). But his precious cargo had been lost. It must have fallen out of his pocket somewhere on the dark roads of Princeton.
His right leg was burning like a chunk of meat on a spit. He'd been too long on the bike, too long without his pills. Goddamn, he couldn't remember the last time he had been in this much pain.
Serves you right, you stubborn ass. Always waiting until the last minute to pop a few. Now look at you: a hurting heap of dung. If you took those pills when you were supposed to, before you even picked up the kid, you wouldn't be in such agony.
Wilson's always on you about this. Yeah, he's good at tossing out that annoying doctorspeak: 'prevention is the key', and 'stick with a routine, take your meds at regular intervals.' Blah, blah, blah. You'll never tell him he's right, never give him the satisfaction...
Lucky he'd been able to hold on long enough to drop Georgie at the hotel. The kid gave him an odd look before booking through the swank revolving door of the place, leaving House to deal with the irrepressible Messrs. Honda and Hurt.
House groaned, lumbering into his building and ramming the key into the lock of his apartment door. He could have knocked. Myrna was home. Her SUV was out front. But it was late. She was probably asleep. Didn't want to alarm her. In the shape he was in, he would have started out knocking and ended up practically banging down the door.
His groans changed into a series of labored grunts, his cane steadying him as he lurched into the living room. Myrna, ever loving, ever considerate, had left the lamp on by the sofa. The soft light did an admirable job of illuminating the room.
The hidey holes he'd devised flashed through his head like vacation slides. His pills were everywhere: in drawers, light fixtures, rolled up in winter socks, on the top rear shelf of the bedroom closet-inside a shoe box (lots of vials in there). Even the old standby, the medicine cabinet, boasted a few vials. But the easiest place to grab a fix was the bedroom. Managing a tip-toe sort of hobble, he made his tremulous way there. Only peripherally did he notice Myrna's sleeping form huddled beneath the comforter. Right now he only had eyes for his meds. Through the shadows he saw them, on top of the dresser, nestled next to Myrna's perfumes. Waiting for him.
"Greg?"
"Unh?"
He heard the rustle of bed sheets behind him as he lurched closer to what he needed.
"You okay?"
"Need...my pills." He dropped his cane and half fell, half leaned against the sturdy oak dresser. The little bottles of perfumes and colognes tinkled a merry welcome. How many times had he drunkenly stumbled into this damned dresser? It had been his since Methuselah's age. Stacy threatened to burn it for firewood one time but he'd managed to talk her out of it...
A gentle light filled the room. Long grey shadows stretched along the carpet and the walls, like a group of spectral eavesdroppers. Myrna had turned on the nightstand lamp and now rested on her knees, watching him. She wore a see-through pink t-shirt and bikini panties. The comforter was bunched beneath her legs. Her hair was tousled, her lips a concerned 'o'. House's eyes grazed on her for one long moment before he bowed to his pain again.
"Didn't you bring them with you?"
He grabbed an amber vial, and winced as he popped the cap with his thumb. In a second three pills were in his shaky hand. One second more and they were down his gullet, on their way to joining forces with nervous system and bloodstream to make things all better.
Easy now. Eaaa-sy.
"Lost them. They must have fallen out of my pocket. Somewhere."
"Mmm. Let's get you comfortable."
Always ready and waiting.
He managed a weak grin and sat on the edge of the mattress, then winced slightly as Myrna helped him out of out of his jeans.
Bowing his head, he savored the warmth that flowed lazily along, like thick sweet syrup through his veins. He let out a long breath. Pain was packing its duffel, leaving town. He pictured it cold, alone and abandoned, way, way out in the boondocks.
Myrna propped up his pillows, motioning him to shift his body around and ease one leg at a time up onto the bed.
"Lie down," she said.
His eyes conducted a brief tour of her. "Join me." He leered.
Placing her hands gently on his chest, she pushed him back against the headboard. "There." Grinning, she clambered over him to get to her side of the bed.
He greeted her with his hands, caressing the tops of her thighs, the sides of her breasts. "Sooo," he crooned, his body feeling safe, secure and warm in all the right places, "I'm game if you are."
She grasped his hands and placed them on his chest, her mouth set in a mock school marm scowl. "Is that all you ever think about?"
He lifted a brow. "Isn't that all you ever think about?"
"Nooo," she proclaimed, giggling. "Keep those hands where I can see them. For now."
He felt good, comfortable; he snuggled his head deeper into his pillows as he met her concerned look. "You're keeping secrets from me." His tone was light yet his smile was dissolving like watercolors in the rain.
She ran her hands over his ruined right thigh, caressed the raw, pinkish crevice. "What?"
"Georgie told me."
"What kind of garbage has my brother been spewing now?"
He watched her caress his surgical scar. The skin along its edges shone like the smoothness of a boiled hot dog. Detestable. Disgusting...
"He said you knew how to ride a cycle." He cocked his head, clicked his tongue. "I don't remember you putting that on your employment application."
...but her touch made that scar as close to okay as it would ever be--like it wasn't really a repellent reminder of the supreme gimp he was.
"Riding a cycle." Raising her eyes, she emitted an exasperated groan. "Sometimes Georgie doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."
"So you used to like riding. Now for some reason you don't."
"My biking days are ancient history. Been there, done that."
"Aha! Thomas, the boyfriend, and Myrna, the eager young nymph, riding bikes, side by side, their hair blowing in the breeze..."
"We wore helmets."
"Oooh, more secrets revealed." He stroked his chin, narrowed his eyes. "What kind of bike?"
"A Shadow, if you have to know."
"Oooh, sooo-weet."
"Another time, another place. It's done." She told him, immersing herself in her work. Those supple hands moved over, under, around the hurt, massaging it, kneading it.
"Let me get this straight." His chatter started slowly before gradually picking up speed. "You won't ride now because you used to ride with Thomas and you feel like you can't do it anymore because it's ancient history and not part of your life with me."
"Right."
"Thomas." House lifted a forefinger and jabbed it at her. "Kinky Sex guy, right?"
"Yeah."
"So I guess the handcuffs are out from now on too."
"Uh...no. That's different," she said quickly, continuing her intense, incredible massage. "Any other brilliant observations, Doctor?"
"I'm thinking..." A low gurgle of contentment rose from his throat.
"Relax," she whispered.
House blinked, once, twice, wanting just to watch her. Her face was a mask of concentration and something else. Quiet delight? She was enjoying this as much as he was. He blinked again and made the dreamy realization his head was nodding in rhythm with Myrna's ministrations.
"Where did you go with George?" she asked.
"Ohhh, you know...all the places the kids like to hang out these days. Elmer's...Zog's."
"My God, Greg." She shook her head as she applied more pressure to his thigh. She pushed up and pulled back, again and again with slow, delicious ease. "He must have been an absolute joy."
House lifted a brow, allowing his grin to break free but still putting up some mental resistance. He didn't want to fall completely under her spell, no matter how good she was making him feel. He wanted to talk not sink into a muzzy stupor. "He was...fine. I...intimidate him so he was easy to deal with. Plus he was all caught up in the little game I'd devised." He explained about the swearing, the money and the gradual, inevitable reduction of George's bounty.
"Don't worry," Myrna told him. "You probably won't have to pay out a dime."
"I know. Cool game, huh?"
He closed his eyes. Yeah, he was weakening. It was inevitable, he supposed.
Can't you just relax and enjoy it, old man? You really are hopeless...
But he wanted to stay awake, talk awhile...
It had been some time since Myrna had the opportunity to work this particular brand of wizardry on him. The daily grind, stress...life generally got in the way.
His mouth went slack. The massage-meds combo were doing their best to drag him to sleep. Not yet. He didn't want to...just yet. House licked his lips. "Crying," he managed to say.
"Who's crying?"
"You."
"I'm not crying."
"You... were."
She stopped the massage. "How could you know that?"
"Don' stop." One of his hands effected a limp wave.
Her fingers went back to work.
"You got gooood hands."
"How did you know I was crying?" she asked after a beat.
"There's that itty bitty streak near the tear duct of your left eye. Did your best to wash away the evidence, huh? Guess you missed a spot." With some effort, he opened his eyes, one hand drifting toward her face. "Eyelids are pinkish...a little puffy."
She pressed her lips together, her fingers kneading and kneading that damaged flesh. House half grimaced, half grinned at the pain dappled pleasure. "Why?" he croaked.
"Don't you ever give it a break?"
"No."
Her sigh was a mix of exasperation and resignation. "My mother drove me nuts, tonight, Greg. That's all, same old complaint."
"Ice her."
"Huh?"
"Smash her head in...stuff her in a trunk...throw her in the Hudson." He smiled beatifically as his eyelids fluttered closed. "I'll supply...blunt instrument...be the lookout."
"Sounds good but I think I'll pass." Myrna said. "I don't want to be a fugitive on my honeymoon."
"Awww...why not?"
He could feel the softness of her fingers against his shoulders and neck, the brush of cotton as she drew the blanket over his arms and torso.
Floating...drifting away with the tide, too far now to hear her response.
"Bonnie and Clyde," he muttered. Images of himself and Myrna as the notorious couple filled his dreams. They were cool: wielding shotguns, clad in fedoras and berets, barrelling down the highway in that Model T.
An announcer's voice, deep and rich, rolled from those dream skies like thunder. They were the daring lovers, living life their own way, not taking any crap from anyone...
And, oh, yeah...they were sexy as hell.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes they played a game called "Temptation".
Myrna would be in the kitchen, cooking up the morning eggs, brewing coffee, humming along softly to the song in her head. She hadn't bothered getting dressed or wrapping herself in her robe. Panties and t-shirt were good enough for breakfast time.
The TV was on. CNN. Every so often, Greg would shoot out a comment, a complaint, a sharp barb directed at the commentator. She flipped the eggs, poured the juice. That's when she felt the warmth closing in behind her, long fingers tracing the waistband of her panties, a slow caress of her butt-outside the fabric. Outside. This was the rule.
She hadn't noticed when he'd risen from the couch, hadn't heard the step-thump of his uneven gait. The sneak factor was part of his particular magic...and the game.
That's when she shut the gas on the stove and turned, not caring that her panties twisted around his fingers and her hips in the process. An important part of the game was that he straighten those panties and not touch her belly or hips or dip his fingers into her...
She backed him into the counter. The dishes rattled, a pot clattered to the floor. His hands tangled in her hair as their mouths met, lips parted, their tongues swirled around each other in a rousing dance. He tasted like toothpaste, smelled like the Aramis she had bought him...just because. Teeth clicked against teeth as she pressed closer. She would have stubble burns on her chin if she kept this up. But that was oookay.
They would spend the day touching, caressing, kissing at odd moments when no one was around. Their long day of foreplay would culminate with an intense session of lovemaking at midnight...
Bad luck doing this on the day before your wedding. Cameron's warning played in her head. Bad luck.
"Ignore it," Myrna told herself as the phone rang.
"Ignore it," Greg moaned. He nibbled Myrna's earlobe while waving a dismissive hand at the phone.
It rang until the machine picked up.
"House?"
James.
"Pick up, House."
There was silence, then a beleaguered sigh. "This...is a call to remind you that you are getting married tomorrow.
Myrna was seated on the kitchen table, her legs wrapped around Greg's hips, pulling him close.
I assume you remembered but then I never like to assume anything when it comes to you.
Something in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw told her he wasn't going to make it until midnight. Hell, he wasn't going to make it through the next five minutes.
The rings? I have them. Your suit? In the cleaners. Go pick it up today, this morning, whenever you're finished...doing whatever it is you're doing.
His hands were kneading her nipples. She grunted, released him from her leg hold, then eased off the table. After tossing him a wicked little smirk, she pressed against him then reached up on tiptoes to nip his neck...
...which caused him to throw back his head and growl like a bear in heat.
Her breathing quickened right along with his. It wouldn't be much longer before they both caved...
WAITING UNTIL IT'S TOO LATE AND THEY CLOSE IS NOT AN OPTION!
House had her by the hand, hobbling now, sans cane, dragging her toward the bedroom. Wilson continued his rant for another moment before clicking off.
"Greg..."
His fingers tightened around hers.
"...someone's knocking..."
He slowed his step, his shoulders rising and falling as he hung his head and closed his eyes. One hand cupped the protuberance pressing against the crotch of his jeans. "Don't answer it."
"We have to. Our cars are out there. They know we're here."
"Fuck 'em," he grumbled.
The knocking began again-now with a bit more urgency.
"Get the door," she told him.
"You get it."
"You're dressed. I'm not."
He opened his eyes and gave her one last appreciative look before heading for the door. "You'd better get dressed really fast if you want to stop me from murdering whoever this is."
In the time it took Myrna to change her panties, throw on a bra, t-shirt and jeans, she realized there was definitely trouble in paradise. Greg was yelling. A few choice words and a barrage of snide salvos exploded from his lips. Myrna was surprised to hear a woman respond, spouting out a roll call of icy barbs. Who was this ice queen adversary? She really was doing an admirable job of keeping her cool, probably well aware that arguing with Greg House was like fanning an open flame. Myrna smiled, gaining an odd respect for this unknown entity.
The moment she stepped into the living room, the 'discussion' flagged and died. All eyes were on her. Greg was irate, a vein throbbed in his temple, his chin jutting out as he threw her a 'don't get involved' look. Then there was Dr. Cuddy, folding her arms across her chest as her gaze touched Myrna's. Her look was sorrowful, apologetic...
...and then there was Cameron.
"And by the way," Greg snapped at Cuddy, "Who the fuck is minding the store?"
Cameron stood by the door. Her lips parted as her gaze hopped like a restless sparrow from Cuddy to Greg, before lighting on Myrna and nesting there. She offered a tentative smile, which Myrna hesitantly returned. Myrna thought about bed, her mind drifting to that delightful protuberance in Greg's jeans--now just a pleasant memory. She wished they hadn't answered the door.
"House, Cameron really wants to apologize," Cuddy said, her voice gentle, almost pleading.
"Then why are you here?"
"You would have slammed the door in my face if I came alone," Cameron said.
Myrna had the notion this was Cameron's first foray into the conversation.
"So you're paying for protection from the big, bad boss?" One side of House's mouth quirked up. "I guess the stories about Cuddy packing a piece are true. Where is it?" His head whipped toward Cuddy again. "Down your blouse? Up your sleeve?"
"House," Cameron lifted her hands in an entreaty. "I'm sorry."
He indicated her bandaged hand with a flip of his fingers. "You got it wrong."
"What?"
"If you're going to slit your wrist it's about two inches down and on the other side of your arm." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "You could have at least done us all a favor and gotten it right."
"Jesus Chrrrist, House," Cuddy hissed.
Cameron threw Cuddy a helpless look.
"Get...out." House sneered at both of them.
"Let me talk to her, Greg." Myrna touched his shoulder. She sensed it tense, as if he were preparing to shrug her away. But as he met her eyes the muscles in his shoulder relaxed. He gave her his silent, reluctant assent before turning his back on all of them and sauntering into the kitchen.
"Come on," Myrna said to Cam, indicating the door with a tilt of her head. "Let's take a walk."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today would have been a perfect day for the wedding: cloudless blue skies, the New Jersey air smelling less tainted than usual. The forecast for tomorrow was for scattered showers, high in the 70's. Not too shabby. Not great either. But at some point over the last twenty eight years, Myrna had been told that rain meant luck. Okay. She could take that, pocket it, let it be her talisman, a virtual good luck charm.
Tucking her hands in her pockets, she ambled down the sidewalk next to Cameron.
"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me," Cameron said.
"It's not a problem."
They turned the corner, spying a group of teenaged boys languishing outside the newsstand at the end of the block. Myrna wheeled around and motioned to Cameron to follow her back the way they came.
"What?"
"With your looks, trying to get past those kids could be more trouble than its worth." She smiled. "Come on. There's a bench by that bus stop."
Their heels scritched against the asphalt as they hurried across the road. They reached the bench, breathless, and flopped onto the hard seat. A moment passed. Then another. Finally Cameron fixed Myrna with a bemused look.
"What?" Myrna asked.
"You know, you're being awfully civil to someone who ruined your night out."
Myrna steepled her fingers under her chin. "Yeah, well. You...just seemed to have issues with me and, really, I'm not very confrontational. I figured the best thing for everyone would be if I went home."
Silence reigned again, only now it had become uncomfortable, pervasive. It made Myrna's teeth itch (a Toby expression Myrna used on rare occasions). A bus slowed and Myrna waved it on. She really had better things to do than sit here and wait for whatever self serving drivel Cameron was about to impart. Infuriation struck like a stick on a snare, causing Myrna to finally snap, "What's on your mind, Doctor?"
Cameron sighed seemingly oblivious to Myrna's annoyance. She kicked at a pebble then leaned back and spoke to the heavens. "When I first started working for him, I...developed a sort of, well...I liked him. He was different, obviously damaged goods. I thought, here's a guy who hiding his depth and character under all that brain power and anger. It both disturbed and intrigued me." She offered up a sad smile. "There was an attraction there. Stronger on my part, I guess." Her palms rubbed against the knees of her dress pants. "I thought, well, maybe someday something would happen to close the gap between us. There was always a gap, small but just enough to prevent us from..." She took a breath, ran her fingers through her hair.
"I know." Myrna stretched her legs out as another bus roared by.
"So when he told us he was getting married, I think I was more shocked than anyone." Cameron tapped her foot. "It was like I'd put in all the time and energy to impress him and got nothing for it. I got depressed, then angry and couldn't believe anyone besides Stacy and myself would want him. He's...infuriating.."
"That he is."
"You're so mellow." Cameron shifted to face her. "You'll be good for him. You'll calm him down. Make him easier to work wi-"
"No, I won't." Myrna turned to give Cameron a measured look. "He is who he is. I have no compunction to change him."
"But...he will change. It's inevitable."
Cameron's regret was almost palpable. Her face fell and she resembled a pretty little seven year old who'd just learned the truth about Santa Claus.
"No. He won't," Myrna assured her.
It was a lie, of course. Greg would change. Only recently had Myrna sensed him inching closer to contentment. But he wasn't within shouting distance yet, not nearly ready to surrender. Myrna wasn't certain he ever would be. He was consumed by restlessness, a disdain for most humans and possessed a childishness that, at times, bordered on the infantile. Would all this one day put an end to The Myrna and Greg Show'? Maybe. But what the hell?. For now things were good. More than good, actually.
Cameron didn't have to know the truth. It wasn't any of her business.
"Don't be disappointed." Myrna shrugged. "He is who he is."
She was a broken record, repeating the same stupid lines over and over...
"I love him. It feels right being with him. We get along. I guess he likes me being around." Myrna lifted her shoulders slightly. "That's it."
"There...has to be more than that." Cameron's gaze touched the sky again, which made her comment seem more like an entreaty to some unseen deity than part of the conversation. "How can a person get married, share their life with someone without changing?"
Myrna sighed, shrugged, not the least bit perturbed. "I couldn't tell you, Doctor."
"Listen. Would you...just please tell him I apologize? If I say it, he won't-"
Myrna's cell vibrated in her pocket. "Sorry. Excuse me." She pulled the phone out of her jeans, flicked it open and pressed it to her ear. The unmistakable voice of Frannie pummeled her from the other end. Myrna grunted a few monosyllabic responses before clicking off. "I really should be getting back."
Cameron nodded and rose from the bench. "You'll do it then?"
"What?"
"Tell him I'm sorry?"
Myrna's first inclination was to walk away. She wanted to be rid of this silly woman, who was still fixated on the unattainable. Cameron wore that guilt of hers like a party dress.
"Sure." Myrna gave her a thin smile. "I'll tell him."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Cameron's sorry."
Greg glowered at her.
"That's...what I thought you'd say."
"Great." His brow furrowed. "Any more news flashes?"
"My mother wants me to take her to lunch."
A plate of cold scrambled eggs rested on the coffee table. Greg pressed his fork into them, moving his face in close, seeming to scrutinize how resolutely they clung to the tines.
"And, just to remind you: tonight we have to go to dinner with your parents."
Greg popped a forkful of the eggs into his mouth, grimacing. "Cold scrambled eggs suck," he announced as he chewed.
A few moments earlier, Myrna had returned to the apartment, a morose Cameron shuffling behind her. Affecting a nauseating cheeriness, Myrna presented Cameron to Cuddy like she was returning a library book. The women said their farewells without lingering, and Myrna was never so happy to see two people go away.
"We don't have to do anything."
"Yes, we do, Greg."
He gave her a hard look. "We're free, solvent and over twenty-one. That means we can do what we want without asking the grownups. You know why?"
"Because we are the grownups," she said.
"Pretty neat, huh?" He pushed the plate away. "Call your mother. Tell her you came down with the galloping trots. Pre-wedding jitters."
"No." Myrna said. "That would just present a whole new set of problems."
"Hmm. Okay, here's an idea." He licked yellow remnants off the fork, then tossed it onto the plate. "Spend lunchtime with your brother. You can bond, exchange recipes."
"Yeah, right. And who's going to be in charge of the care and feeding of the beast?"
It never failed to amaze her how vibrantly Greg's eyes twinkled when he donned his most conniving grin.