August 18th
Greg looks down at his cell phone. He holds it in his hand, weighs options, consequences, his relative lack of courage. Then he takes a breath and dials Wilson's number. It's answered within two rings; some things haven't changed, then. "House?" Wilson sounds surprised. "What's up? Is something wrong?"
Leave it to Wilson to assume disaster is on the horizon. "Everything's off. Jersey's fallen into the ocean," Greg says, and props his feet on the coffee table. Roz is away for the evening on a girl's night out with Kris and Sarah.
"Funny, I'm not talking to you under a thousand feet of salt water," Wilson says in a tone of mock astonishment.
"It hasn't reached your condo yet. Give it time," Greg says, and sips his Coke—a poor substitute for beer, it's cold, sweet and fizzy when he wants cold, clean and malty, but one out of three, that's life.
"Here's hoping it takes out everything immediately south of New York as well as the Parkway." Greg snorts at the comment. He's missed Wilson's sense of humor. "Seriously, what's up?"
"So I need a reason to call you."
"Considering I haven't heard a peep from you in months, I'd say yes," Wilson says dryly. "Label it intuition, but I think I'm right."
"A few weeks, big deal." Greg burps loud and long. "I can hang up if you want."
"You've clearly made a gigantic effort here, I wouldn't want you to waste it. So let me ask yet again—what's going on?"
Greg takes another long swallow of Coke. "Got something I need to tell you."
Wilson sighs. "So I gathered."
"Sarah doesn't want me to spring this on you after we show up in Cape May." Greg ignores the tightening in his gut. "Personally I wouldn't mention it at all—"
"House." Wilson sounds firm now. "Quit stalling. You're—you're starting to scare me, to be honest."
"Well . . . okay." Greg lowers his voice. "I woke up the other night and it was the damndest thing . . . my left shoulder started to itch and a big red bump came up, and then the skin split and this—this tiny head popped out—"
"House—"
"—it had long dark hair and blue eyes and a screechy little voice, and it started nagging me about clinic hours—"
"House, dammit!" Wilson can't keep his laughter in check. Greg pauses, surprised and rather pleased. In days of yore he'd have gotten a scolding or a lecture.
"What?" he says, and does his best to sound both innocent and injured. "You have some insane prejudice against people with two heads, no doubt."
"I have a hard time with people who yank me around just because they can," Wilson says, but Greg can tell he doesn't mean it. In fact, he knows the other man enjoys this. "So could you please tell me why you called?"
"Yeah, okay." Greg sighs. "Might as well just say it." He pauses for dramatic effect. "I'm gay."
Dead silence for two heartbeats. "Lame. And you are so full of it."
"Queer as a three-dollar bill," Greg says. "Found out just before I got married."
"Oh really. So why did you go ahead with the wedding?"
"Camouflage." Greg finishes his Coke. "Pretty clever, don't you think? I get to bang my wife and troll for rough trade at the bar downtown, and no one suspects a thing."
"You twat!" Wilson laughs, and Greg can't help but smile himself. "Now for the last time, why the hell did you call?"
"My . . . my leg," Greg says, down at last to the truth. Another silence falls.
"Okay, well . . . what? Are you . . . do you need surgery?" The genuine concern in Wilson's voice eases a little of the apprehension.
"Already had it." He tucks the empty bottle in the corner of the couch cushions and thinks about a trip to the kitchen for a fresh soda. "I'm participating in a trial run by a clinic in Pittsburgh."
"A trial—you mean a human trial, right?"
"No, lab rats," Greg says, torn between amusement and annoyance. "What the hell else would it be? That remark is just further proof you should be practicing in a back room clinic in the Pine Barrens."
"When it comes to you I never assume," Wilson says. "What's the protocol?"
"A matrix made from my stem cells and pig intestine is inserted into the area of missing muscle and it—it stimulates new growth."
"New growth." Wilson draws in a slow breath. "How . . . how much new growth?"
"Everything that's missing," Greg says. "At least that's what I'm hoping for."
"Stats?"
"Close to one hundred per cent success rate in the animal studies. With humans . . ." He swallows down his anxiety. "There are only five of us so far, but we've all experienced positive results to some degree. The trial is ongoing so we can't draw any conclusions yet, but—" He stops.
"All of you? You've all had regrowth?" Wilson sounds stunned. "House, this . . . this is—my god!" He is silent a moment. "How much?"
"Not sure yet," Greg admits. "Goldman thinks there's palpable evidence." He decides to go a step further. "I've been experiencing something like restless leg. Have to get up and walk or move around. I can feel something, Wilson. It's like a bone break knitting, that weird itchy ache you get."
"Holy shit," Wilson says in a near-whisper. He doesn't speak for a moment. "Why did Sarah want you to talk to me about this?"
Greg says nothing, knowing any reply could set off a firestorm, which is exactly what he's been dreading.
"It's about the neediness thing, isn't it?" Wilson sighs. "Yeah, I get it. Okay." He falls silent again. Greg lets him take his time. He hopes against hope he won't be about to receive a tirade. So far the signs have been propitious, but there's always the unexpected freakout to consider. "I'd expect her to be concerned. I still . . . it's tough going against everything you've been brought up to know as the truth about yourself."
That's too close to home for him to answer. "So you've tossed all your baggage overboard. Instant tidal wave." Greg can't resist a sarcastic poke.
"Says you," Wilson says. There's a glimmer of humor in his retort. "It's a wonder the Adirondacks weren't inundated with everything you dumped over the side."
"Hah. So is this gonna cause a ruckus or what?" Greg snaps, and tries not to be amused. "Tell me now so I can bring my hired goons to protect me."
"No, it's—it's all good. I'm . . . I'm glad for you, House." There's a smile in Wilson's voice. "This is fantastic news."
"You could sound a little more enthused," Greg growls, secretly relieved.
"I'm doing cartwheels, okay?" Wilson laughs and Greg relaxes finally. He's not entirely sure there won't be some kind of showdown or grudge match, but it doesn't seem as likely now as it did before the phone call.
"So tell me what's up with you," he says. "Wife number five on the horizon, no doubt."
"God no," Wilson says. "Don't even wish that on me. I'm still recovering from the last disaster."
"How much did the bitch soak you for?"
"Nothing. She just wanted to walk away." Wilson sounded resigned. "I don't know whether to be grateful or insulted."
"Insulted's cheaper," Greg said. "Her loss, anyway."
"Thanks."
"Nah, don't thank me. That means you'll be paying for the pizza and beer." Greg smiled at the other man's groan. "Come on, you didn't think that would change. No way."
"Being a cheapskate is so unenlightened of you," Wilson complains.
"If I wasn't picking Canadian bacon off your side of the pie you'd think Armageddon was on the way."
"Right. How's it going with you and Roz?"
Typical, Greg thinks, to slip in a personal question right after a humorous exchange. "You're thinking of stealing her."
"Jeez, what a great idea!" Wilson says. His words drip with sarcasm. Greg feels an absurd sense of ruffled pride.
"So she's not good enough for you."
"Number one, she's your wife, number two, I'm not in the market for anyone, single, married or otherwise occupied, and number three, she's your wife."
"You'd hit on her otherwise, that's what you're saying."
"What do you want me to say? If I say yes, you'll guard her like a watchdog the whole time we're together. If I say no, you'll be insulted." Wilson says, clearly aggrieved. "She's nice, she's cute, she's yours and I'm happy for you both. Okay?"
That has the ring of truth to it. "Bullshit," Greg says.
"Look, if you don't want me to go—"
"I didn't say that. You're projecting emotional overtones where none exist. Typical, but I digress. It's of no consequence to me whether you show up or not." Okay, that might be a little over the top. "Of course you'll upset Sarah no end—"
"Yeah, okay." And once more, Wilson is amused—another unexpected reaction. In the past there would have been hurt or indignant rebuttals laced with venom. "Can't disappoint Sarah."
"Smart man." Greg won't acknowledge even to himself that he feels a distinct sense of relief. "Don't forget your boogie board."
"You'll need water wings. Ah, forgot-you already have love handles." Wilson hesitates. "It's—it's okay for you to swim, right?"
"Yes, it's been established I won't dissolve or come apart at the seams when immersed in salt water. Not so sure about you though."
"After the last six months I'm pretty certain salt water won't give me problems." The wry tone in Wilson's voice tells its own story. "House . . . I really am glad for you. This is tremendous news. No one deserves this chance more than you do."
That's a tough one to answer. "Thanks," Greg says finally. "See you at the rendezvous point. Don't forget the explosives and the detonator."
"Everything's packed and ready, agent UltraDeathWeasel," Wilson says in an ominous undertone.
"Hey, I was UltraDeathWeasel last time! We're supposed to trade off! I want to be FluffyUnicornLove! You always get the best names."
Wilson chuckles. "Good night, House. See you on Sunday."
When the call is ended Greg tips his head back and closes his eyes. He thinks over the conversation. Some unexpected replies, but Wilson is still Wilson, just . . . better. That feeling of frantic despair is gone at long last, replaced by something like calm, with an edge of resigned peacefulness that tells him his friend still has more to work on. But it's a good start, and preferable to the way things were before Wilson's stay at Mayfield.
Greg settles himself into the couch, picks up the remote and turns on the tv, ready to immerse his attention in a game.
[H]
Roz came in through the back kitchen door, Hellboy at her feet. "You greedy old thing," she said with affection as the cat rubbed against her leg and looked up at her expectantly. She set her purse on the table and went to the fridge to get out some cat food. As she filled the Heebster's bowl she noticed the tv was on in the living room—so Greg was still up.
When she ventured in, it was to find her husband out cold with the eleven p.m. news just ended. She studied him for a moment. In the soft flicker of the tv's screen light, he looked drawn. He'd had trouble sleeping through the night for the last week in particular, and while it seemed to be in a good cause—the development of the muscle in his right thigh—it had taken its toll on him.
She sat down next to him, gently took the remote from his hand, turned off the tv and felt him wake up. "Hey," she said quietly, and leaned in to kiss him. When it was done he leaned closer, clearly ready to fall back into sleep.
"Uh uh," she said with a smile. "Come on, off to bed with you, buster." She got him to his feet, wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him to the bedroom. "Have a good talk with Wilson?"
"How did you know I called him?"
"I didn't." She smiled at his snort of laughter. "How did it go?"
"Same old Wilson." Greg pushed the door open, disentangled himself from her and sat down on his side of the bed as she went into the bathroom. He tugged his shirt over his head, then unzipped his jeans and pulled them off, to leave his clothes in their usual haphazard pile on the floor.
"He seems like a good person," Roz said, as she rubbed in a thick layer of removal cream.
"He's not." By the sound of his voice Greg was already half-sunk back into sleep. "But he's okay anyway."
Roz splashed her face and reached blindly for a towel. "I'll take your word for it."
"You'll see. Make sure you get all that gunk off your skin, it smells like the inside of an old lady's purse."
Roz rolled her eyes. "Yes, Master."
"Ah, she finally gets it."
When she emerged from the bathroom Greg was asleep. Hellboy was curled up against the small of his back. He lifted his head as Roz approached, his golden eyes wide. She stroked his cheek, then got into bed as quietly as she could. She turned out the light and brought the covers up as a long arm reached out and clasped her waist. She moved a little closer, and couldn't help a smile.
"Go to sleep," she whispered. "Lots to do tomorrow."
"Mmmm . . ." Greg nuzzled her hair, his breath warm on her skin. Roz moved so she was cuddled next to him spoon-fashion and put a hand on his thigh. After a moment his hand covered hers. She fell asleep with the warmth of his hand on hers.