Renaissance

Memories of old man Yaccobucci haunted Greg throughout the month and into the next. 'Get up and walk' was the mantra that stuck in House's head. It's not like he could just jump up and put one foot in front of the missing other…god he missed his right foot at the moment. And then his mind drifted to an absurd thought: buying sneakers. What in the hell was he supposed to do with the right shoes? Maybe some poor left-legged amputee could use a size twelve.

He shook the thought from his head before maneuvering himself out of bed and into the wheelchair. Greg had managed to master the technique relatively quickly once he set his mind to it. He hadn't quite made the decision to wear a prosthetic; the fact was he still abhorred the idea, and at the same time he couldn't envision himself as a creepy old man selling candy to kids. Besides, if he was ever going to get up the nerve to play the old upright in the rec room, he wanted to look semi-acceptable – and make a hasty escape if he needed to.

Added to his new ambition was a desire to contact Wilson. It had been quite a while since they spoke – well Wilson spoke, House pretended to listen; let alone saw each other. Since he hardly spoke to anyone in his current 'stumping' grounds, the need to vent his random observations was reaching critical mass. This just might be the day he made the call.

Sarah knocked on his door announcing breakfast was ready in the dining hall. Since Greg had made great strides in mobility, he was encouraged to leave his suite as much as possible. The staff had noticed a change in mood and encouraged him to explore his surroundings.

A few times Greg had to be verbally reprimanded for going into unauthorized areas, but was generally allowed access to information that was usually reserved for the medical staff. They hadn't forgotten he was a world famous diagnostician, even if he did. A couple of times he had stumbled upon a situation that required his expertise. His sharp eye for detail and keen knowledge of physiology contributed to a few of his fellow patients achieving a higher level of comfort with their own prosthetics. The technicians were wowed by his syncratic mind; the doctors proud to have him as adjunct staff pro bono. Now all they needed was for Greg House to take an interest in his toughest case yet: his own well-being.

After breakfast Greg made his usual rounds ending in the rec room. Today he approached the double doors cautiously as his hearing was assaulted by what he could only assume was a tone deaf, hearing impaired prodigy of Animal the Muppet. Fingers, perhaps ensconced in mittens, fumbled on the keys searching out a pattern, or the lack of one as the cacophony stabbed at his ear drums, musical sensibility and his last nerve.

He burst through the doors in a huff. "Are you playing what's written or what's rotten!" His voice bellowed, reverberating over the din.

The figure at the piano stopped playing abruptly. She turned slowly to face the voice, remembering the man. "Hello, Greg." Lydia smiled, but it soon faded. The man she had once made love to was a former shadow of himself.

"Hell, it seems like I lost my right leg and yours got twice as heavy on the pedals." Greg's statement was devoid of any emotion. Her faded smile shot through him like an arrow to the heart.

Lydia just stared, unsure why. He was the same person she had known at Mayfield, albeit a little thinner; a little more haunted.

"What's the matter, ain't you never seen an amputee before? The whole place is full of them." He gestured to the room with both arms wide.

"I'm just a little—"

"Repulsed?"

She felt herself blush. "No, surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Well, of course! I expected to find you at least standing." She left the bench to approach him. "It's my turn to have to lean down to kiss you."

He pulled away. "In case you haven't noticed, standing requires to legs…last time I checked."

"Or crutches—"

"Or titanium, screws and springs, but I'm not as good looking as that Edward Scissorhands guy."

Lydia smiled as she pushed a lock of his hair away from his eyes. "You need a haircut and a shave."

"I need a lot of things."

"I brought Dvorjak for four hands…we never did get to play it last time."

"Why are you here?" His ever suspicious mind started whirring. Who told her? Wilson knew very little. Had to be Nolan.

"I got a call from someone who said you needed a friend." She grabbed his hands, reoffering the smile she initially met him with.

"So much for HIPPA," he tried to pull away.

"Come, play the piano with me – for me."

"I don't appreciate the mercy visit." Greg started to roll away.

"Don't walk away from this. You need it."

Greg scoffed. "Yeah, sure, I'll 'walk' away."

"Go ahead, roll on out, but someone who cares for you enough went to the trouble of finding me and asking me to stop in to see you."

"'Cause you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

She headed him off. They dodged each other a few times before she leaned over him, hand on his armrests, impeding his progress.

"I have no idea who the woman was that called. She just said that you had a major setback and could use an unbiased friend." Lydia looked deeply into Greg's eyes.

He was thinking. Upon first hearing it was a woman, he thought it might have been Cuddy. But she wouldn't bother with the unbiased friend bit. And unless Wilson found out from Nolan and told Cuddy – he didn't believe Cuddy had a clue about Lydia.

Who else could it have been? Thirteen? Nah, she respected her privacy and his too much to go that distance. For a second Allison Cameron flashed in his mind, only to be quashed by the fact that she'd come herself.

"I like the way you look when you're working on a puzzle," Lydia cooed seductively.

"Who really sent you?"

"I don't know. Does it really matter? I'm here. Let's play the piano and not worry about motives and conspiracies. It's just us and the music." She rolled him to the upright.

"I don't want to play it," he lied.

"For God sakes, Greg, you lost your leg, not your hands," she scolded before sitting down and opening the sheet music.

In that moment, something clicked for Greg. He looked at his hands, holding them up, inspecting every aspect of them. For months he had neglected a part of himself to mourn the loss of a leg. For over a decade he had mourned the loss of its use and continued to seek solace by playing piano. Why should now be any different?

Lydia slid over the bench making room for him. He did what he had been preparing to do for a few weeks now. In one smooth move, he was out of his chair and on the piano bench. The one thing he hadn't accounted for was the smooth surface. He had to adjust his weight on his butt cheeks to keep his right side from sliding forward.

"Who knew I'd need a seat belt," House joked at the awkwardness. He kept himself balanced on the bench with each hand.

Lydia waited patiently for him to cock his wrists and place his fingers over the keys. It didn't happen.

"Is something wrong?"

"Um, I … nevermind."

And still he didn't move.

"Greg?" Lydia was deeply concerned by the look in his eyes.

"I'm afraid."

"Don't worry, I won't be as harsh with you as you are with me if you play a wrong note."

"I'm about to fall off the seat," he said softly.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't realize that my balance would be off if I wasn't in a cushioned chair."

A small 'oh' came to her lips. "What can I do to help?"

{H}

Back in his suite House gave Lydia the grand tour from his bed as she cuddled on his left side.

"It's nice, but it's not home," she looked around at the decidedly sterile room. "When will you get back to your place?"

Greg didn't answer right away. He kept rubbing his thumb on her left triceps. He hadn't thought about leaving this place. Here he felt more helpless than at Mayfield. At least with his body working he could function around the apartment and at work. At Kessler he was physically helpless; more so than he wanted to admit since the piano fiasco.

Lydia was gazing up into his thoughtful face. "Don't herniate your brain. It was meant to be a benign question."

Greg sighed, returning his attention to her. "Be that as it may, I've got a lot of work to do before I get out of here."

"I did some research on the internet," she stated matter-of-factly, "and most amputees are back home and functioning long before now."

"Contrary to popular cyber beliefs, I am NOT a Wikipedia statistic." Greg couldn't be crass with her; somewhere there was still a soft spot in his heart reserved for her. In a way she was his Jiminy Cricket at times.

"Then what has kept you from making the most of this situation?" Her hurt eyes pleaded with his.

"Have you met me?" He teased.

She wasn't fooled. "I know no one can imag—"

"Please don't go there," he cautioned as she felt his body stiffen.

Lydia rearranged herself more comfortably. "Fine. You don't want to deal with this right now. I guess I can't fault you."

"Don't patronize me either," he warned.

She pulled away. "Stop being so stubborn! There are patients who need you, your friends miss you and you're missing out on life."

"What life?" He scoffed.

"With a prosthetic you'll be able to do so much more than before. Walk, maybe even run. Definitely work. Enjoy a life a little since the pain is gone."

"I won't be pretty."

"We can't all be gifted with good looks."

"I'll look like half of the Terminator."

"That guy went on to be the Governor of California."

"I'd rather be the Bionic Man."

"He had a hard time not wearing out shoes."

"Maybe I can get a Nike endorsement."

Lydia sat up. "That's a great idea! You could be the role model for the average guy. Who needs athletes to sell shoes?"

"Yea, sure. I'm just what every kid aspires to grow up to be."

"Well, maybe they could air the commercials on HBO or Showtime."

{H}

After Lydia had said her good-byes and parted, House returned to the rec room. He sat across the room from the piano staring it down as if it was a bucking bronco that needed breaking. Almost immediately that became his second to next goal. He rolled back to his room with one more plan to be enacted.

{H}

"James Wilson," the oncologist answered his personal phone as if it was his work line.

"He lives!" House was surprised by how much joy was actually reflected in his tone.

Wilson stared at the iphone's screen but didn't recognize the number.

"And who might this be?"

"God, Jimmy, you think you'd remember your BFF. It's only been—"Greg scoffed.

"House. House!" Wilson seemed to reanimate like Rip van Winkle. "What's up? What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong? Why can't something be right?"

"Wait a minute. You're not Greg House."

"It's me, Wilson."

"You sound…"

"Don't say 'happy'."

"Better."

"I'm getting my will to live back."

"What brought that on?"

"Your gift."

"I didn't send you anything," Wilson became concerned. Maybe House has somehow managed to overmedicate himself.

"Whatever. I just called to set up a play date."

"Who are you?" Wilson was really starting to doubt the caller, even though it did sound like House.

"Ha ha. Just bring your butt over when you get a chance." Greg hung up, wondering how long he'd have to wait.