October 4th
It is just past 2 a.m. when Greg hears someone on the stairs. He sits in front of the fireplace, Gene's sweet honey of a dobro in his hands as he watches the embers of the fire. He's played for about half an hour now, and wondered if the bait he's offered will be taken. Now he sees Sarah claim the seat on his left, and hides his triumph. Shrinks are all predictable, he thinks. Can't resist the urge to fix things. It's the initial salvo in his battle for freedom. Maybe he's tipped his hand by an early start but then again, no time like the present.
"Having trouble sleeping?" Sarah says. Her quiet voice holds nothing but concern.
"Nope." He sits back, noodles a tune he's worked on in his head for a couple of weeks now. "Thought I'd give you a chance to follow up on the big breakthrough we had earlier. I know you're dying to help me find closure."
She says nothing for a few moments. He keeps his gaze focused on the fire. "You were faking?" Her voice is calm. He expects nothing less. She certainly won't freak out on him first thing. It wouldn't be professional.
"Well, yeah." He gives the words a slightly sarcastic edge, a certain tone of voice he knows pisses people off.
"So why bring me down here in the middle of the night? This couldn't wait until morning?" She sounds curious, not upset. He chances a sidelong look at her. She is bundled in a shabby red chenille bathrobe, her hands slipped into the sleeves. Her carroty curls run riot in a halo around her head. In the faint ripple of light she looks tired, but her expression is impassive.
"Avoiding the Christmas rush," he says. He has to impress upon her from the start that he is in control, which includes the ability to wake her in the small hours and inform her she's been duped.
"Ah," she says, and falls silent. He continues to fit chords to the melody, and waits for her to question him. After an awkward silence she gets up. "Okay. See you later on."
He stops. "That's it—you're not evening going to engage in reasonable discourse."
"There doesn't seem to be much point in my staying." She sounds reasonable, not angry. He decides to push a little harder.
"So you're not gonna give me one more try. Tough nut to crack and all that, so to speak." He picks up the tune again.
"I'll ask one question, if I may," she says. He makes a noncommittal noise and waits with inward glee for her to reveal the chink in her armor that will give him the advantage he needs to win. "Why do you think we asked you here this weekend?"
"Already told you twice," he says. "I stand by my facts and the conclusion drawn from them."
"You're entitled to your opinion," she says. "I hoped you would be more comfortable here, to feel like you could open up in a less regimented and rigid atmosphere-"
"You said 'rigid'." He snickers. To his chagrin Sarah flashes a smile at him. Of course she gets the reference and isn't annoyed; she's used to minor zingers. She has brothers.
"It is a word that suits you," she says, and he hears a hint of humor in her voice. "But that's neither here nor there. We also wanted you to see first-hand a life that offers a chance for renewal. As Gene said, we deal in-depth with people in misery every day. It takes a toll on us. We need time away. You can create that for yourself, if you want it."
"I have everything I need," he says. "Or I will, once the kid works on my leg."
Sarah sits on the arm of the chair. Now she looks concerned. "It's not that simple, you know."
"What I know is you can't resist the urge to fix me," he says, triumphant. She bows her head. He thinks it might be acknowledgment, but he's not sure.
"Some of the pain you feel is physical in origin," she says quietly. "Some of it isn't."
"Bullshit." He picks an intricate chord. "If you're going to indulge in psychobabble about repressed feelings manifesting-"
"It's not psychobabble," she says, and lifts her head. He avoids her gaze. "The human mind has an amazing number of coping mechanisms in the face of unrelenting distress, but you can only push the pain deep inside for so long before it has to come out somehow." She smiles a little. "Like overstuffin' a teddy bear. Eventually the seams give and cotton leaks all over the place."
Good metaphor, but I'm not some dorky little plush toy. "So now you're saying any attempt to repair damage won't stick unless I let you shrink my head?"
"If you don't find a doctor who can help you, corrections to the physical problem will be compromised." She keeps her gaze on him. "Remember what happened with the ketamine treatment. It should have worked."
"It did!" He shoots a glare at her.
"For a while, until the unresolved emotional injuries surfaced." She stands up. He prepares his ammunition and lets fly.
"I'm just loving all this talk about 'unresolved emotional injuries' because you're loaded with 'em," he says.
"What?" She looks genuinely confused. He feels a fleeting admiration for her ability to playact.
"During your kumbaya around the campfire earlier this evening, the songs you chose were a total copout," he says. He picks a harmonic, taps it gently. "You were the one who dictated the terms of the session at the start. You said the songs had to reveal the player's current emotional standing, but none of your own choices did. Naughty, naughty. You have to walk your walk, Doctor."
Sarah considers his words. He can almost see the wheels turn. He waits to see what her reaction will be. She doesn't disappoint. "You're right," she says after a few moments. "Thanks for pointing it out to me. Let's try this: you agree to one more session on Wednesday, and at the end of it I'll play you a song that truly reveals my emotional state as it stands that day. You have my promise. If you still feel I'm not satisfactory, I'll refer you to someone else."
He chuckles, secure now in his eventual victory. "Desperation rears its red-haired head."
She doesn't speak right away. "I don't give up easily," she says finally.
"Okay." He already has plans for their hour together. He might as well have a little fun while he destroys their relationship. Maybe it'll cover the guilt he's already worked hard to ignore. "If I don't like the song, not only do I get another doctor, you have to apologize for wasting my time."
To his delight, he's scored a direct hit. Her eyes narrow and a flush creeps into her cheeks. She looks annoyed and embarrassed at the same time.
"Done," she says after a few moments of obvious internal struggle. He can barely hear her above the soft chords he plays. Without further speech she walks away and climbs the stairs. Her shoulders are stiff under the soft, worn chenille. He finishes his song, does his best to be content with the results he's gained. All is right with the world; once again he's proven Gregory House can still come out on top of a beautiful woman, and that's the best place to be for all sorts of reasons.
He gets a few hours of sleep after that, but they're fitful and restless, and when he wakes he doesn't feel refreshed. But then that's nothing new. Eventually he shambles out into the kitchen in search of food and coffee. There's a pan of cinnamon rolls—so he hadn't imagined their fragrance, earlier that morning-and a note beside it.
Off to town, back after lunch. Coffee ready to brew, bacon keeping warm in the oven. We leave at four. Call me if you need anything. –S
There is indeed a pile of bacon on a plate where she said it would be. He munches a strip as he gets the coffeemaker started. Soon enough he has eggs in the pan too, and a big mug of joe with cream and sugar ready to go. It all tastes delicious, so good he can almost ignore that hollow feeling inside that no amount of food will ever fill.
It's a little past one when the back door opens and Greg hears the others come in. He's in the living room, settled in to peruse the first of the football lineup from the comfort of the easy chair he likes best. Reynard comes in first. He plops on the the couch, squints at the tv, and sits down to watch. A few moments later Gene enters. He sets a bowl of chips on the table, claims the opposite end of the couch. Sarah comes in after five minutes or so. She surveys the scene, rolls her eyes, and goes back into the kitchen. When she returns she has a bowl of dip. She sets it on the coffee table and leaves, but doesn't return.
They watch the game, and part of another, and then suddenly it's time to go. Greg has his duffle packed and ready to go, but he doesn't offer to help do anything else. The Goldmans don't really need him in their way, though; they put the house to rights faster than even Blythe could have managed at the peak of her efficiency as a military housewife. Soon enough they're outside to have a few last words with Reynard.
"I'll be in touch," he tells Gene and Greg. "We've got everything planned, we just need to take it one step at a time."
He drives off with a wave as the Goldmans and Greg climb into the van. Everything is set up as before—a cooler full of food in the back, blanket and pillows on the bench seat, good music on the stereo—but it feels different somehow, less light-hearted, more serious.
For a long time Greg watches the scenery flash by his window, as they move out of the countryside and back roads onto two-lane highways, and then the freeway at last. He is aware of an odd constriction in his chest, but he ignores it. He was only in that house for a couple of days, there's no way he could miss it; he's spent longer stays in motels. He stares at the view and tries to make his mind as blank and anonymous as the cars and trucks on either side.
They stop once for a hot meal at a diner. No one says much. Greg eats his burger and fries and watches the other two. They look tired and . . . not unhappy but resigned, that's the word.
It's near midnight when they arrive at Mayfield. Sarah hops out with Greg and goes to the back delivery door where an orderly waits. She'd called half an hour earlier to let them know their patient was on his way. Now she faces him and says quietly "I'll see you in the morning. Thanks for agreeing to come with us. We enjoyed your company—"
"Bullshit," Greg snaps. "You thought you and your hubby would pull a fast one and pretend I'm part of your adorable little setup. All I want is my damn leg fixed, everything else is a waste of time."
She looks up at him. There's such sadness in her eyes. Then she turns to the orderly. "Okay, he can go in now." She walks back to the van, climbs in, and she's gone.
Being returned to his room is like a walk into a giant ice cube—square, featureless blank walls, pale blankets on the bed, white tiles on the floor. Greg tosses his duffle on the bed and opens it, lets the orderly root around inside. Once he's left alone he sits on the bed and stares out the window into the blank darkness. His thigh hurts; he rubs it and thinks of a time when the pain will be gone. It's all he's got, so he hangs onto it and tries hard not to wish he was back home. No, he thinks. No, not my home. He sits in the chill, stuffy dark and tries not to mind the knowledge that he is truly alone.