A/N: Thanks to all who've been reading and/or reading and reviewing. So glad you're enjoying the story!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Beta: Thank you , NaiveEve.
-15-
House was tired.
As much as he'd enjoyed giving Frannie a good portion of her own back, the effort and the mind play drained him. She was a hard case. She was also certifiable. He saw it in her eyes. It was pretty obvious that whatever doubt and fear he had ingrained in her over lunch wouldn't last.
When he dropped her off at her hotel, he sensed her air of self importance returning. It was the way she raised her nose to offer a haughty sniff , the way she glared at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Her conceit and arrogance were living things, made up of cells that regenerated at the speed of a lightning strike. By tomorrow, hell, by tonight, the intimidation factor would have said sayonara, and the old Frannie would be back in full swing.
He would hate for Myrna's day to be ruined because Frannie felt she had to prove herself. If Frannie pulled a stunt, if she even looked at him the wrong way tomorrow, how would he react?
Who the hell are you kidding? You know how you'd react. It would be 'the party's over, it's time to call it a day', pardner.
To cut her down in front of a crowd would give him a lovely, warm feeling--really make his spirit sing. But Myrna? On the outside, she would be fine with it. Inside? Yeah, that would be the key now wouldn't it?
He knew her pretty well. She had a great capacity for keeping her feelings bottled up. The times she didn't want to talk he didn't press. There was nothing worse than being goaded into spilling your guts when you just didn't want to. But sadness? Some...thing tugged at him when she was sad; its tiny persistent fingers plucked at his innards, making him ache.
It's not the Gregory House Show anymore, is it, old man?
Sometimes caring was overrated.
Second thoughts had begun to assault him. Not often, but enough to give him pause. He might be reading or involved in a differential with his team or stealing Wilson's chips when, out of the blue, an attack would blindside him.
What are you doing? The thought would hit him and he would have to retire to his office to seriously think it over.
It was simple. He was doing something he wanted to do. Marriage seemed... interesting. Different. Yeah, love was mixed up in that stew somewhere.
House pulled into his parking space, turned off the ignition and scrutinized his suit. It was hanging over the passenger window, all pressed and wrapped up like a shroud in its dry cleaning bag. The suit was gray, it fit him well. Myrna picked it out. She told him it went with his eyes, which was probably the 'girliest' thing she'd ever said. It made him laugh, made the second thoughts go away for a while.
He emerged from the car, toting his suit over his shoulder and checking his watch. Three o'clock. In four hours it would be dinner with the folks, which he refused to obsess over. Myrna seemed comfortable with it, even though House had given her the lowdown, leaving very few things out. Yes, they would seem like nice people. His mother would probably take Myrna under her wing and be thrilled with the fact that she was nothing like Stacy. Where Stacy was all sharp edges and abrasive wit, Myrna was softer, quieter, a listener. His father? Well, he would have a hard enough time believing someone like Myrna would agree to marry his son. According to him, Stacy was a slut and therefore a perfect match for the disappointing product of his loins. John still wondered aloud in House's presence how any other man could have wanted her, much less made her an 'honest' woman.
One more day.
He yawned as he entered his building and considered getting a couple hours of sleep. He was beat. Of course, naptime with Myrna would invariably turn into sex, which would last the length of the proposed nap.
You'd be even more tired at the end but a lot less tense. Decent tradeoff.
Stepping into the silent apartment, his lips curled slightly at the thought of Myrna riding him, her breasts swaying to the rhythm of their combined moans. But reality wrenched the rousing thoughts from his head. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks and requisition some additional support from his cane.
Should have realized the place was too quiet. Nevermind that now. Take deep breaths, deep and calming. In with the good, out with the bad...
His motions were underwater slow as he move to place the crook of the suit hanger over the bedroom doorframe. All the while, he wondered what the hell happened here.
He turned toward the sofa, preparing himself for the worst.
Georgie sat beside Myrna, whose cheeks shone with tears yet to be dabbed dry. She twisted a limp tissue in her lap. Snowflake-like pieces of it dotted the thighs of her jeans. She was sobbing...almost silently, as if this sadness was a secret too painful and pathetic to reveal.
George? He looked scared. Like a felon caught with the goods, he stared straight ahead, his jaw working. It didn't seem likely he would meet House's scrutiny anytime soon, which didn't matter. House caught the guilt in the kid's body language, the flare of his nostrils.
Half your day has been wasted with idiocy already, let's go for broke...
House took one step toward the sofa...then stopped.
"Alright," He thumped his cane against the floor. "What the hell happened?"
Myrna sobbed again and raised her eyes to meet his...and it was like he'd been...
...gut punched. Her sadness overwhelmed him. The ache was like a poison flowing through his veins, capillaries, muscle tissue, making pit stops at one vital organ after another, wearing him down.
"I...don't want to have to play twenty questions here," he managed to say.
Myrna turned to her brother, pressing her lips together so hard, they looked like a slim, bloodless wound. "Show him," she hissed.
George's hands trembled. He clasped his fingers around his thighs and bit his lip.
"SHOW HIM!" Myrna jabbed a fist into Georgie's arm, causing him to cower and whine.
House took another step forward, giving them both a bemused look. He had never heard Myrna lose it, never witnessed this blatant display of temper. It was...interesting.
"Show me...what?"
George tears finally broke free; his hiccupping sobs were juvenile, like those of a boy half his age.
"Cut the crap, George, "House's brow furrowed as his fingers clasped and unclasped the head of his cane.
"Okay." George's tears stopped immediately. It was...amazing how those waterworks had so quickly gone dry.
"Show him." Myrna's voice shook.
For the first time since they'd been together, House couldn't seem to meet her eyes. Coping with that pain, her pain was too daunting a task. Again he was stymied. No one had ever affected him this way. His own pain had always been it--the main concern-for himself and anyone who cared to deal with his crap. It was just the way things were in Gregland, the way he figured life would be forever and ever and always...
But Myrna was sad...
House inhaled sharply and blinked as George reached into the deep pocket of his Cargo shorts to retrieve...something.
"Stand up, big man." Myrna punched her brother's arm again. "Bi-ig man."
George pushed himself off the sofa, wobbling slightly as he got to his feet. He stood opposite House on the other side of the coffee table, slowly extending a closed hand.
"What's this?" An amber vial fell from Georgie's hand into House's waiting palm. The contents of the vial rattled in that deliciously familiar way.
House squinted at the vial as if it might just decide to explain itself. One long moment passed before the silence grew oppressive, beating down like a scorching summer sun. House raised his eyes, his gaze meeting the top of Georgie's backwards cap.
"Look at me."
George lifted his head. A fresh contingent of tears stood in his eyes, like a squad awaiting orders.
A waste. The boy was a total candy ass waste. House's gaze flicked to Myrna.
"It dropped out of his bag when he was showing me those CD's you bought him." She sat on the edge of the sofa, despair swimming in those green pools. That despair held him for another long moment before he wrenched his attention back to George.
"Did you find it...or steal it?"
"I-"
"You...what?"
"I'm...fuckin' sorry," George shouted.
"For WHAT?"
"For...stealing your meds."
A corner of House's mouth twitched. "How?" He flipped the cap off the vial with his thumb, tucked the cap into his front jeans pocket.
George sobbed and sniffed.
House raised his cane, pressed the tip against George's shoulder and shoved. The kid stumbled back while wheeling his arms, somehow managing to catch his balance. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Don't give me any of your sorry crap." House said. "Answer the question."
"I saw them...sticking out of your jacket...on the bike. I was...gonna push them in...you know...so they wouldn't fall out. But...I...kind of...took them...instead."
"You...kind of took them," House said.
"Yeah. I did."
Something played in George's eyes, some wisp of pride, a touch of conceit. He seemed to be the proud owner of a new revelation: this totally fresh caper he could relate to his boys when he got home. "Yeah."
House turned the vial upside down, the pills falling, tumbling and clattering onto the table.
"Can you count?"
"Yeah." George's wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve again. His tears had fled. Now he seemed almost...elated.
"Count those." House indicated the pills with a broad sweep of his hand.
Lips moving, Georgie's eyes lighted on each pill before moving on...
"Out loud, genius."
"One...two...three...four...five...six." George raised his head quickly. He wore a thin smile. His cheeks were pale, one quivering drop of sweat clung to his left temple.
"I count my meds before I leave the house," House said. "But you know that now, don't you, Einstein?"
"Uh..."
"Yeah...uh."
Myrna had stopped sobbing, her shoulders steady now, eyes wide as two saucers as she watched...
Sad...
"Can you add?"
Georgie shrugged. "Yeah," he croaked.
"Then riddle me this, Batman--if I start my night with eight pills and for some wacky reason end the night with six, how many pills have mysteriously..." House spread the fingers of one hand, as if exhibiting a feat of prestidigitation. "...vanished?"
"Uh..." Georgie's mouth fell open.
"Uh! Yes, I know. The math is sooo tough."
"Two," George lowered his head.
"Look at me!" House swatted Georgie's hat. The hat went flying, landing somewhere behind the couch.
George raised his eyes, fixing House with an expression of newfound bravado.
"Give me back my pills." House held out his hand.
Tossing out a smug grin, George flopped back onto the couch. "I already gave them to you."
"George."
Myrna was standing now, looming over her brother. When had she gotten to her feet? House couldn't recall. He'd been too intent on the boy.
"You did something wrong. Own up to it. Give Greg back his meds so I can take you back to the hotel."
"I-" His smile wavered, replaced quickly by a twisted frown of defeat. He jabbed one hand down deep into the pocket of his shorts and came up with the goods. "Here."
"Thank you, George." Myrna turned, then dropped the pills into House's waiting palm. "Now apologize."
"Sorry, Myrn."
"Apologize to Greg."
George bowed his head and shook it slowly. "Shit. No."
"That's alright, Myrna. The game is over. All bets are off. I get to keep the money, you get to deal with the dynamic duo." House popped the pills in his mouth, dry swallowed. "Get him home to mommy." He arched a brow. "My goodness, she must be frantic by now."
George threw him a glare. "Listen, man-"
But House was done listening to George and to Frannie. The only one he would give an ear to was Myrna, and she wasn't talking.
He grabbed his suit off the doorframe and stepped into the bedroom. After closing the door behind him, he tossed the suit onto the bed and headed for the dresser. Minutes passed. He didn't know how long he stood staring at the jars of Myrna's skin creams, his own two bottles of cologne, his Vicodin vials and the ten ten dollar bills he had set aside for the betting game. Yeah, he had to admit, the game idea had been a good one. Money was an excellent way of impressing your will on a kid.
It might have worked. It was fun for awhile. With any other kid the game might have stayed amusing. But Georgie was just...an ass. He had a lot to learn about life and he wasn't going to get those smarts from his mother...or his boys. The hard way, detention at school (or even suspension), and the inevitable stint in juvie might straighten him out. Or maybe not.
Either way, House couldn't wait for that phone call
The apartment door slammed and he was alone--for a little while. An easy grin spread across his face as he scooped up the ten tens and stuffed them in his pocket. Myrna had been right about the money. He didn't have to part with a cent.
Myrna was right about lots of things.
The bills crinkled in his pocket as he limped toward the closet to choose a dress shirt for tonight.
Yeah.
He pushed aside shirt after shirt, searching for one that always came through in a pinch. The Shirt That Never Wrinkled. Here it is. He pulled the shirt off its hanger, flung it on the bed, patted his jeans pocket and chuckled wickedly.
To the victor go the spoils.
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It had been a while since Greg had chosen the Cartoon Network for his viewing pleasure. But that's what Myrna found on the box when she arrived home. Bugs Bunny, clad in his fruit basket hat, was cavorting around Elmer Fudd like a deranged Carmen Miranda. A tinny Latin mambo beat accompanied the gyrations.
Greg snored.
Those long legs and arms were splayed to the west and the east, his head tilted back, mouth open wide enough to catch flies. His snores were impressive...rising up, up, up to rumble the rafters. He had changed his clothes, which was unexpected. Myrna figured he would wait until the last minute to drag some ancient dress shirt out of that closet. Invariably the cuffs would be frayed, the color faded; it was a shirt that should have gone to Goodwill ages ago. But amazingly, this was not the case. He actually chose the blue one--The Shirt That Never Wrinkled--put aside for rare occasions like this.
"Hey." She ran a hand through his hair, then settled into the crook of his arm.
"Mmm." His head was still tilted back, eyes closed. But he had definitely rejoined the living. He draped his hand over Myrna's shoulder and pulled her close.
"I'm really sorry about today."
"Mmm...why? 's been lotsa fun." He peered at her through one eye. "Kid steals my meds, Mom wants control of you. How much better can life get?"
"I really got an earful from Frannie about your lunch date."
His smile was wistful, as if he were recalling the date with much fondness. If he were a cat he might have purred.
"They both feel pretty bad about how things worked out, Greg " Myrna said.
"They didn't tell you that. You just assume."
"Yeah, well." She shrugged. "Wishful thinking, I guess."
He rubbed his face with his free hand and yawned. "And if you're wrong?"
"I honestly don't care, which is kind of a relief. I feel...emancipated." She touched his thigh. "They'll probably come to the ceremony. But my mother had me book them an earlier flight. They'll be gone before we cut the cake."
"I am weak with joy."
"I'm going to take a shower, put on some makeup, get looking spiffy for dinner." She rose from the sofa and gave him a small grin. "Gotta make an impression on the fiancé's folks."
"Your ass looks good in those jeans."
"Don't change the subject."
"Just imagine us naked and writhing under the blankets when my dad is telling you what a mistake you're making marrying me." He winked. "He'll wonder what's behind that mysterious little grin."
"Greg!"
"Don't worry," he said. "Only I know what's behind that smile." His eyes wandered over her. "And those jeans."
"I'm off," she switched round on her heel and strode toward the bathroom.
"So are those jeans," he shouted as she closed the door behind her. "Pretty soon."
When he heard the rush of the shower spray, he stripped down to his underwear and tossed his clothes onto the sofa. Sans cane, he lurched toward the bathroom, grinning like a mischievous imp as he shouldered open the door. Elmer Fudd was huntin' wabbits on the TV, explaining in a sotto tone how he had to be vew-wy, vew-wy quiet as House moved into the moist heat of the bathroom. Myrna was humming as the water pounded the rubber bath mat, her silhouette flowing behind the shower curtain. House inched closer, the herbal scented steam enveloping him...
...as the door clicked shut.
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Blythe House would not release her hands. Myrna imagined herself tethered to the woman forever, which would not do at all. Frannie was enough Mom baggage for anyone to deal with.
But Blythe's eyes were kind, her manner warm if somewhat fraught with disbelief. She shook her head slowly. The ambient lighting of Tutoni's Ristorante made her honey blonde hair look like soft spun gold. "Greg never told me how lovely you were."
"You're very kind, Mrs. House."
"Blythe, please. Mrs. House sounds like some old school marm who still uses a hickory stick as a pointer."
Blythe chuckled and Myrna joined in, attempting to allay the discomfort bearing down on her from all directions. John House hadn't stopped scrutinizing her since they'd been seated. His look was sour, caustic. He was creeping her out.
She sighed and smiled as Blythe finally let go of her hands. She was a pleasant woman. But John? She wasn't so sure about him. Greg warned her. Yes, he did.
Myrna met John's eyes and nodded, wishing he would ask her something. Anything. At least then maybe she could get a conversation going. Greg was no help, stewing in silence, staring into his Scotch and water as he tapped his fork against the white linen tablecloth.
"Um..." Myrna ran some possible topics through her head: the military (she knew nothing about it), world travel (the farthest she'd traveled was to Las Vegas with some drunken college friends, way back when...).
"How old are you?" John barked, causing Myrna to flinch and Greg to straighten in his chair. John polished off his drink, and Myrna saw that his eyes were a bit too bright. How many Scotch and waters had he'd downed before joining them at the restaurant?
John banged his glass on the table, punctuating the action with a satisfied smack of his lips. "Blythe, get me another when the guy comes back."
Clicking her tongue, Blythe threw her husband a despairing look, "John."
"It's alright, Blythe." Myrna touched her arm. "To answer your question, Captain House, I'm twenty eight."
"Twenty eight." He rubbed his jaw, his look of curiosity turning steely and suspicious. "What would a pretty young thing like you...want with a beat up piece of parchment like him?" He gestured at House with a tilt of his chin.
Myrna's mouth fell open.
"John, that was uncalled for." Blythe hissed.
"Having fun, Dad?" House's eyes narrowed, sending a hostile message across the table.
Their waiter, who had introduced himself earlier as Romero, returned to gather up their empty and nearly empty salad plates. Bowing, he offered them a toothy grin before heading off to check on their entrees.
"Fellow's going to have stop acting like a fag if he wants a tip." John's belly laugh caused the table to shake.
"Excuse me." Myrna grabbed her purse from where it hung over the back of her chair. She made a valiant attempt at a smile before scurrying off to the ladies room.
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As a rule, four star restaurants boasted four star restrooms. Tutoni's was no exception. Myrna sat on a cushy sofa in the actual 'rest' spot, an anteroom that opened into the essential stalls, sinks and hand dryer area. In the corner was a brass rack filled with magazines like Good Housekeeping and Cosmopolitan, opposite the sofa was a full length mirror; paintings of country villas lined the adjacent wall. Pastel colors were the rule: yellows, pinks, greens. Everything was light and airy, floral scented and pretty, which offset Myrna's steadily darkening mood nicely.
She closed her eyes, breathed in the soapy, sanitary air and wished she were home, under the blankets. Greg could be there too, if he wanted. If not, she would be just as happy hearing the murmur of the TV or the soft meanderings of his fingers on the Baldwin's keys...
Drifting...sleepy. Too much had gone on today. Too many things to think about for tomorrow. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of Captain House. He was every bit the ass Greg said he was. His mother was okay, nice, sweet. Living with John House for most of her life could not have been easy. But something did hold true for the two of them: they both couldn't believe this young chippy would fall for their damaged mess of a son.
They had a lot to learn about Nurse Myrna.
"Are you okay, dear?"
She didn't know how long her eyes had been closed. She felt logy, like someone had slipped something interesting in her drink. A gentle hand rubbed her shoulder and she opened her eyes.
"Sorry," she managed a small, embarrassed smile. Her cheeks were hot. She was certain her face was as red as a ripe tomato.
"We thought you might have slipped out the back way," Blythe said, seating herself beside Myrna. She placed her purse on her lap, then patted Myrna's hand. "To be honest, I wouldn't have blamed you if you did. You look so tired...like you've had a bellyful of this."
"It's...just been that kind of day. I'm...kind of stressed..."
"Who wouldn't be stressed?" Blythe nodded a greeting at two elderly women passing by. Arms linked, they appeared to be holding each other up as they shuffled toward the 'inner sanctum'. "You're getting married tomorrow."
"I didn't think it would be like this." Tears pricked her eyes, which was not good. One thing she didn't want was to turn her first conversation with this nice, sane woman into some dramatic scene. "I guess I thought it would be easy."
"Oh, my God. Nothing good comes easy, Myrna." Blythe laughed. "Look how long it took Greg to find you."
She felt shocked and strangely elated, like she had just won the Caribbean cruise on Wheel Of Fortune. "You're very, kind...Blythe. But you and I, we've only just met. You have no idea-"
"You don't think I know?" The corners of Blythe's eyes crinkled. Those eyes were a soft grey, nothing like the intense blue of Greg's, but their look of unwavering curiosity was identical to his. "I've traveled the world, met so many different kinds of people in all walks of life." She cocked her head and her eyes shone. "I know you, Myrna."
Myrna averted her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Those tears were pressing now.
"You're good for him, Myrna." Blythe touched her chin. The touch was light but it forced Myrna's head up. A tear slipped down Myrna's cheek and she silently cursed it. "Being with you is probably the best thing that's ever happened to him."
"Oh." Myrna sniffed. "I don't know. Stacy-"
"Stacy was a good woman. But she was too much like Greg in all the wrong ways." Smiling gently, Blythe dug into her purse. She retrieved a tissue and handed it to Myrna. "I just want you to know that I'm glad you're with him. Glad you're going to be part of this family."
"Well, thank you." The tissue smelled like perfume and soap. Myrna dabbed her eyes with it before crumpling it in her fist. "That...means a lot."
"And please don't worry about John. He was somewhat overwhelmed by the news and...needed some liquid courage today." Blythe's smile fled suddenly, like it had ducked around a corner. A moment later it returned, brighter than before. "I promise he'll be on his best behavior tomorrow."
"I-well.."
"Ssssh, dear. You don't have to say anything." Blythe smoothed her dress, clicked shut her purse and stood. "Come now, I'm sure dinner is on the table, and those two are probably involved in some ridiculous argument that needs refereeing."
Myrna stood and extended her hand. "Thank you, Blythe."
Blythe stepped closer and wrapped Myrna in a warm, maternal hug. "Thank you."
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He pushed deeper, deeper, until he heard her soft exhalation, telling him it was oh, so good. She tightened herself around him, causing his heartbeat to quicken. Slow, slow now. His hands drifted to her buttocks, cupping them in his palms as she hitched her hips upward and grinded slowly against him.
Their moans merged.
God, she was so incredibly wet.
She let her muscles relax, then clamped herself around him again, tighter than before.
He began to move inside her, hips rolling, matching her delicious circular motion.
"Easy," she breathed warm against his mouth.
"Want you," he closed his eyes, feeling them both begin to fly.
"Second thoughts?" she asked as their rhythm intensified.
He grunted, now staring into her eyes, which were fogged with passion and something else...
...sadness...?
"Yes."
"'s okay." She twitched her hips and ran her hands over his lower back, causing him to quicken his movements. They were high above the clouds, closing in on that upper stratosphere. "We...can...call it off. Stay...like we are."
"No."
Higher...higher...
"You sure?"
"Yessss!"
The bed creaked a multitude of complaints as they fell through the stars and the heavens, finally exploding as one into the sun.