April 22nd
"Thanks for coming out on such short notice, Doctor Gardener. We're swamped in the ER, but there are a few people ready for you to evaluate. If you'd come with me please?"
Dana hefted her backpack and followed the coordinator. She hoped the double-espresso latte she'd grabbed at Starbucks on the way in would wake her up; she'd just finished her last session when the call came to ask for her help with patient evaluations from the crane disaster in Trenton. She'd probably work the rest of the day and most if not all of the night, and back at work tomorrow too, to make up canceled appointments. Caffeine would give her a measure of alertness, at least for a time.
For several hours she checked one patient after the other. She hate the sight of the physical injuries while she kept a calm and steady outward demeanor, and did her best to ignore the occasional clamor and rush of called codes and gurneys rushed to emergency surgery. She could feel the weight of accumulated pain and misery slowly creep into her tired brain, combined with her own exhaustion to slow her down. It grew more difficult to stay reassuring and upbeat, but she did the best she could. She knew the wounded minds she worked with would perceive her emotions, if not her words.
It was in the small hours of the morning when she finished with the last patient and walked by an open bay on her way out. She paused, then took a few steps back. Greg sat on a gurney, head bowed, barely recognizable under the thick coat of dust and grime all over him. His tee shirt was stained with dried and fresh blood; bruises and scrapes showed through the dirt. A nurse fussed over a deep gouge on his shoulder. "You have to let me take care of that wound or you'll get an infection!"
Dana walked over to the gurney. Greg did not acknowledge her. She looked at the nurse. "Is there a problem?"
"I need to get him cleaned up and on his way but he's—" The nurse waved a hand at the silent figure. Dana felt a surge of irritation.
"He's in shock." She did her best to be polite and thought Idiot, it's your job to know how to handle this kind of reaction! "Let me take a look at him." Very carefully she stepped closer. He flinched and she stopped, aware he would panic if she touched him. "Greg," she said softly. At first he didn't respond, but after a few moments his head lifted just a little. Red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes focused on her with difficulty. Then he looked down again. Dana had a flash of him bound to the cross and blindfolded, his lean body rising to meet the gentle swat of a flogger . . . She set the memory aside. "Does he have anything wrong other than the shoulder injury?" she asked. The nurse consulted his chart.
"No, his BP and heart rate's up a bit and he's got some bruises and scrapes, but that's about it."
Dana nodded. "So he's okay to leave."
"I don't know . . ." The nurse looked doubtful.
"It's just a gouge, isn't it? I'll make sure he takes care of it," Dana said, and offered the other woman a warm smile. "That frees up a bay for someone else." Before the nurse could object, Dana grabbed a handful of antibiotic ointment packets and butterfly closures off the prep tray, stuffed them in her pocket and turned to Greg. She knew this was a decision that might cost her a great deal down the road; for right now however, she saw someone in need, and she had the means to help. "Come on, Doctor House," she said in a matter-of-fact style she knew worked to get people on their feet. "Let's get you home."
At first he made no response. Then he eased off the gurney, his hand on his bad thigh. As he stood Dana saw him flinch hard. He said nothing however, just took his cane and jacket from the gurney and moved toward the door. He followed her to the parking lot and leaned hard on his cane, his limp worse than ever. Once he was settled in the passenger seat of her car she got in, started the engine and headed out into the street. Thank god for GPS, she thought as she programmed House's address as she recalled it from his case file. "We can make arrangements to pick up your car later. Do you have your apartment keys?" she asked aloud. There was no response. "Greg," she said slowly in a quiet, firm tone. "Do you have your keys?" Slowly his hand crept to his jacket pocket, withdrew a ring with several keys on it. "Okay," Dana said. "You keep them until we get to your place."
His head turned. His gaze traveled over her features; he stared at her as if she was a stranger. Dana felt a chill of worry. Had he sustained some kind of head injury as well as the laceration? "Do you know who I am?" she said. He looked away, his gaze fixed on the window.
"Yes." His voice was rough with exhaustion.
"Good." She didn't speak again until they reached his place, a well-kept older building on a side street in downtown Princeton. "Nice digs," she said as she opened the passenger side door. "Bet you bought in. I would have. This is a great location." He didn't answer, but her words seemed to calm him a bit. At least he made no protest as she helped him out of the car and into the building.
His apartment was dark and chill. Dana turned on a lamp and took a quick look around. There was a distinct air of neglect to the place; she wondered if he did anything more than sleep here. House moved away from her down a hallway. He shed his jacket and dumped it into a chair as he entered what was probably a bathroom. Dana began to explore, intent on finding the kitchen. Maybe after he was cleaned up she could get him to eat something and then—
A loud crash made her jump. She ran down the hallway and skidded into the bathroom to find House in front of a wall with a ragged hole in the plaster and lathe construction. "What happened?" she gasped. He didn't answer, just stared down at his hand. She looked too and felt a jolt of pure dread shoot down her spine. Two prescription bottles half-filled with pills lay in his bloodied palm. Dana could just make out the word 'hydrocodone' on one of the labels. Oh my god, she thought, and fought real fear for the first time. "Doctor House," she said aloud. A shudder ran through him. His fingers closed over the bottles. For what seemed an eternity he held them; it was clear he fought some sort of battle in his mind. Finally he extended his hand.
"Here," he said hoarsely. "Get rid of them." He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. His fingers shook so much she wondered how he could hold anything. "Hurry."
Dana took the bottles and suppressed a shudder when she saw they had little smears of blood on them. She pried off the caps and moved to the toilet, dumped the pills into the bowl and flushed. House watched the swirling water, his eyes fever-bright. When the last pill disappeared he slumped a little, reached behind him to grip the edge of the sink. Dana realized he was close to falling down with exhaustion.
"Come on," she said, "let me draw you a bath—" She stopped when she saw the broken mirror in the tub, shards of glass and wood splinters everywhere. "Damn," she hissed, and Greg cringed. "I'm sorry," she said softly. He watched her. Slowly his wary apprehension gave way to a sort of dull acceptance of her presence.
Dana settled him on the couch and made sure he was comfortable, then went in search of basic first aid. A few minutes later she returned with a basin of warm water, a roll of paper towels, a couple of soft hand towels stacked atop a bath sheet, some liquid antibacterial hand soap, and paper tape and gauze from her own backpack as well as the packets of ointment and closures she'd filched from the ER. She put everything on the coffee table and sat down next to Greg. "You're in shock," she said quietly. "I'm going to get you cleaned up a little. After that you need to lie down and rest."
He stared at the floor. "I killed my patient," he said, his voice ragged with exhaustion. Dana closed her eyes for a moment.
"Wait," she said, and got up to return to the kitchen. She discovered one lone can of Coke at the back of the bottom shelf next to some Indian takeout, ossified with age. She pitched the food into the trash and brought the soda with her to the living room. When she opened the can and offered it to Greg, he made no move to take it. "You're dehydrated and you need something a little more substantial than water," she said. "This stuff is less than ideal, but it's got some calories in with the liquid and that's all that matters right now."
He took it finally and managed a few swallows before he handed the can back to her. Dana set it on the table and put her hand out, a gesture he ignored. "Tell me what happened."
"There was a woman trapped under . . . under a concrete beam. Her leg . . ." He trailed off.
"You had to amputate?" She made it a neutral question. He nodded.
"I waited too long, she was too stressed from the trauma. On the way in, she threw a fat embolism . . . there was nothing . . . nothing I could do." He drew in a shuddering breath. "She's dead."
"You tried to save her."
"Don't! Don't make it all right that I killed her!"
"I'm not. You did the best—"
"No I didn't!" He was agitated now, close to panic. "I didn't want her to lose her leg because I didn't want to lose mine after the damn blood clot destroyed the muscle! I wouldn't let them cut—and I thought—I thought if I could somehow get her out of there before . . ." Dana said nothing. After a moment he reached out to clasp her hand in a hold so tight she bit back a gasp of pain. "This is real, isn't it? You're real?" His agonized whisper made her heart ache for him. "I'm not—I didn't take the Vicodin?"
"No, you didn't," she said. He gave her fingers a convulsive squeeze but said nothing else.
She got him to drink a little more Coke and persuaded him to remove the tee shirt. He was covered with bruises and scrapes under the dirt and grime; the gouge on his shoulder looked nasty. "I'm going to clean you up a bit before I work on your injuries," she said. "You'll need pain meds and something to help you relax."
"Ibuprofen," he said. "By my bed."
Dana blinked. "That's all?"
He nodded. She got up and retrieved the bottle. It was prescription strength, but even so . . . She'd never imagined this was all he had to rely on; she thought he used it for breakthrough pain, not a main source of relief. This is totally inadequate. I've got to get him into decent pain management, she thought as she shook out two tabs and gave them to him. He finished the Coke in several large swallows and simply sat there. Dana tested the water in the bowl. It had cooled off a bit but was still tepid. She soaked a paper towel and wrung it out, then faced him.
"I'll start from the top down," she said. "Tell me if I'm hurting you-"
"Just do it!" he growled. Dana gritted her teeth against a snarl. Her entire body was sodden with tiredness and repressed emotion, but she pushed her irritation away and began to wipe his hair. At her touch he jumped, but calmed down as she continued. She ditched the blackened paper towel on the floor, took a new square, soaked it and repeated the action. Slowly she moved down, added a little soap as she stroked his forehead, careful to catch drips. When she began to wash his face Greg swallowed. He closed his eyes as she gently removed dried blood and grime from his skin. Eventually he relaxed somewhat as she did thorough but careful work.
It took two basins of water to get him clean down to his hands; there was a sizeable pile of used paper towels on the floor by the time she was done. Dana wrapped the bath sheet around him while she examined the gouge. She worked quickly now, as she sensed he was near the end of his strength. "How long has this been open?" she asked him. He tried to focus on her, his eyes glazed with weariness.
"Don't know," he said. "Nurse Idiot gave me antibiotics." Dana nodded.
"All right. I'm not going to close it up, the chance of infection would be too strong. We'll just keep it protected with a gauze pad and some ointment."
When the wound was clean, salved with Neosporin and covered with a gauze pad, she tucked the towel around him to keep him warm. "I'm going to find you a clean shirt," she said, but he was already barely able to sit upright. She helped him lie down, made sure his damaged leg was propped and a soft cushion put behind his head before she draped the throw over him.
While Greg slept, Dana cleaned up the mess from her first aid care, then prowled through the silent apartment to get the lay of the land and make a priority list. No food in the kitchen meant a trip to the nearest all-night grocery, if she could find one close enough. Eventually he would need to rest in a real bed, but it looked like the sheets on his hadn't been changed in some time. And the bathtub needed to be cleared of broken glass and wood so he could wash properly.
She pulled her tablet out of her backpack, did a quick online search and found a twenty-four hour Acme a couple of blocks away. She stripped the bed, remade it, put the soiled sheets in the washer and discovered there was no laundry soap. She added it to her list along with softener, bar soap, shampoo and basic first aid supplies. He really does just come here to eat takeout and sleep, she thought, and felt sorrow wash through her at the idea of him reduced to mere existence. She shook it off and got to work.
Three hours later Dana rinsed the tub one final time and got to her feet. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, but almost everything on the list was done—bathroom cleaned, kitchen stocked with basics and some treats as well; the washer chugged away on a second load of laundry, made up mostly of the dirty clothes she'd found piled on the floor and in the overcrowded hamper. Only breakfast was left to be cooked, but that could wait. I need a power nap, she thought, and trudged down the hall to check on Greg. He was deep in sleep. Dana watched him for a while, made sure his pulse and respiration were normal. If there was an infection, the antibiotics should take care of it; if he needed help, she'd take him to the ER herself, but she doubted that would be necessary. On a yawn she went to his bedroom, clambered onto the bed, set her watch for two hours, and sank into oblivion before she could turn out the light.
The quiet beep of the watch's alarm woke her out of a vivid dream of fire and noise and people running. Dana sat up. Slowly, confusion gave way to remembrance. A weak bar of grey light filtered into the quiet room; it was morning, and she was at Greg's place to take care of him. She glanced at her watch—seven a.m. She'd have to call her secretary in couple of hours and reschedule appointments and sessions for the rest of the week. There was no way she would leave Greg alone; he hadn't taken care of himself as it was, even under better conditions . . . She rubbed tired eyes and stretched, and set aside her longing for another hour of sleep.
On that thought she went to the living room to check on Greg. He was still out, but he had pulled the throw to the top of his body so that his feet and legs were uncovered. Dana padded back to the bedroom, poked into the recesses of a closet, and unearthed a spare blanket—still wrapped in a plastic zippered bag with a store tag on it, it was plainly something he'd never bothered to use—shook it out, and took it with her to the couch. She removed the throw with care and floated the blanket over him. It was made of thick cotton with a soft weave, warm and light. She tucked it in under his feet and adjusted it to cover his shoulders. At her touch he murmured and shifted a little on a grimace. His eyes fluttered open for a moment.
"It's all right," Dana said quietly, "go back to sleep," but he was already gone once more. She studied him. He was pale, the lines of pain more obvious, with a sort of weary sadness in his strong features that she'd noticed before. Without conscious thought she leaned down and gave him a kiss, just a brush of her lips over his cheek, then left him to rest.
Two hours later she was curled up in a chair with her tablet. She took another croissant and a sip of coffee while she worked her way down a list of referrals, as a knock sounded at the door. Dana saved her current reply and went to answer it. A woman stood outside. She was attractive in a striking way, dark-haired and on the short side, curvy without being plump; in her summer-weight linen suit, silk blouse and pearls she was every inch the administrator. A sexy admin too; the blouse was open to reveal cleavage, her skirt tight enough to show off her shapely hips. "Good morning," Dana said, acutely aware of her own somewhat wilted appearance. "Can I help you?"
"You . . . you're Dana Gardener," the woman said.
"Doctor Gardener, yes."
"What are you doing here?" Dana hid a smile at her peremptory tone.
"Taking care of a patient."
"I thought you were working with the crane disaster patients and their families," the woman said. She eyed Dana with suspicion. "House doesn't qualify as either one."
"Actually he is my patient, so my presence here is justified. May I ask who you are?" Dana inquired, and made her tone pure politeness.
"Doctor Lisa Cuddy." The woman sounded a bit terse now. "I'm Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro. How did you end up here?"
"Ah, Doctor Cuddy. How nice to meet you." Dana paused. "Apparently Doctor House was called in to work at the site in Trenton last night. I was asked to counsel anyone who needed help, and that includes first responders and medical personnel. I'll be going back in a few days for follow-up evaluations." She moved aside and opened the door a little wider. "Would you care for a cup of coffee?"
Doctor Cuddy shook her head. "No, I'm on my way in to work. I just wanted to make sure House got home all right." She peered into the apartment and caught sight of him on the couch. "He should be in bed!" She glared at Dana.
"He was exhausted and in too much pain to make it that far last night," Dana said quietly. Cuddy gave her a direct look, but Dana didn't back down. They stared at each other in silence.
"How—how is he?" Cuddy asked after an awkward moment or two. Her voice was a little softer now, and she looked worried. "He—he wasn't hurt?"
"He's bruised and sore and there's a deep gouge on his shoulder, but it's clean and bandaged. If it looks like it's infected I'll make sure he gets another round of antibiotics. He'll be down for a couple of days, his blood pressure and heart rate were elevated."
Cuddy gave her an odd look. "Good thing you told me. It'll save a phone call and a lot of aggravation."
"Ah, of course. You're his boss. Silly of me not to have realized that," Dana said. Interesting. There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye.
"Most days I'm more like a nanny than a boss." Cuddy turned to go. "By the way, don't let him play you."
Dana narrowed her eyes. She didn't like the cynical tone of that last remark. "Excuse me?"
"He's an addict. In situations like this he tends to lie about his pain to score more meds. I'm sure you recognize drug-seeking behavior. He's been clean for a year, but that could change at any time." Cuddy gave Dana a brisk nod. "Let me know if he needs anything."
Dana watched her stride down the hall to the front entrance, then closed the door without a sound and locked it. She went back to the chair, prey to a number of feelings about Doctor Cuddy, none of them kind or polite.
"You handled her pretty well." Greg was awake. In the soft morning light he looked a little less beaten down, a bit of color in his cheeks now. Dana came over to him and perched on the coffee table.
"I'm used to dealing with authority figures," she said. "How about some breakfast, a bath and a leisurely two days of rest?"
"Can't do any of that." He winced as he struggled to sit up. Dana gave him a slight smile.
"You'd be surprised."
She made him scrambled eggs with a croissant and a cup of coffee. Greg accepted the food without comment and demolished everything on his plate, then opted for a second croissant spread thick with raspberry jam. While he ate she drew a bath for him and piled clean towels in a stack by the tub along with his bathrobe. On the way back she put the second load of clothes into the dryer and filled the washer again, then got herself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down.
"I didn't realize you were so domesticated," Greg said. "It doesn't really fit with the whips and chains routine."
"I know my way around a household chore or two. Your bath water's getting cold," she said. "I suggest we tape some plastic over the bandage on your shoulder."
He allowed her to put a small sandwich bag over the gauze, his head turned away. He was ripe with the stink of sweat, dirt and dried blood, despite her attempt to clean him up. "Will you need help getting in and out of the tub?" she asked. For answer he stood and limped away without a word.
An hour or so later she heard him emerge from the bathroom. He came slowly down the hall, the thump-step of his compromised gait familiar to her by now.
"You can leave." Dana looked up from the netbook screen. Greg hovered at the edge of the living room. He was bundled into his robe over a freshly laundered pair of sweats and a tee shirt; his hair stuck up in all directions, but at least he looked cleaner and a little less drawn.
"No," she said, and went back to a reply to an email from her secretary.
"Yes," he said. "I don't need a nanny."
The bitterness in his voice alerted her. So he heard that. "I'm not a nanny," she said quietly. "I'm someone who cares about you."
He snorted in derision. "Uh, yeah, because a handful of paid sessions tying me up and having hot sex is all about giving a flying rat's ass."
Dana sent off the email. "After that visit from your boss, I can understand now why you're surprised someone you've only known a short time is concerned for your welfare."
Greg looked away. "Cuddy's . . . Cuddy."
Dana checked her email a final time. "And I'm me. You need someone to help out a little over the next day or two. I plan to do it." She yawned as weariness caught up with her.
"You—you were up all night." He glowered at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"A lot by your standards, apparently." She smiled at him. "Your bed's got clean sheets."
"Is that an invitation?"
Dana chuckled softly. "It's me saying your bed's got clean sheets. I plan to wash up and crash on the couch. If you want to take in some tv that won't bother me." She shut down the tablet and got to her feet.
"There's no hot water," Greg informed her as she went past, backpack in hand.
"I don't care," she said, and meant it.
She cleaned her face, brushed her teeth, wrestled her hair into a braid and pulled on a fresh tee shirt. A bit refreshed, she returned to the living room to find Greg hunched over the coffee table, as he looked through her tablet. She didn't even bother to glance at the screen.
"If you're searching for your case notes they're not on there," she said. "Move over a bit, please."
"You have the most boring computer in existence," he said. "I thought there'd be some decent bondage porn in your cloud. All you've got is Alchemy and a bubblewrap popper, which would have been so cutting edge twenty years ago."
"I'm not into busman's holidays." Dana yawned again and brought her legs up, then curled on her side. She pulled the throw over her and pushed the cushion under her head, closed her eyes and gave a quiet sigh of pleasure at how truly delicious it felt to sink . . . into . . .