August 20th
Greg doesn't know how long he's been here now, he's lost track of time. He can't hold onto the number in his head. It slides away, just beyond his grasp. But if he had to guess based on previous experience, he'd say three days. He's in padded restraints, one arm is tied to a board so he won't pull out his IV, he's been cathed, and there's a rubber sheet under him for accidents and the inevitable vomiting that comes and goes, along with the fever and the pain. He's been given Ativan and anti-nausea meds, and the IV offers hydration and some nutrition, so things aren't as bad as they could be, but he doesn't exactly enjoy the experience.
Still, he is not alone. It's not an hallucination; there's a flesh-and-blood woman who sits in a chair pushed up close to the bed. Dana has been with him the entire time—she puts cool compresses on his forehead during the worst of the sweats, holds the basin when he pukes, helps the CNA clean things up, gets him fresh ice chips. Even when he yells at her to get out or go fuck herself she stays by his side and offers wordless comfort, patient and gentle. She is his only strength in these hours of desperation and misery, and he clings to her even while he despises himself when he strikes out and tries to push her away.
"What . . . what are you reading?" he asks at one point, when he comes out of a feverish doze and finds Dana turns the pages of a battered paperback.
"Mistress of Spices," she says. "An old favorite." Her head rests near his, her cheek brushes his shoulder. He doesn't know how she can stand to do it; he reeks, and not just from shit and urine and sweat and vomit, but the alcohol and narcotic that come out of his pores, sour and sickening as hell.
"Tell me . . . tell me what it's about." He'll take any distraction at this point—anything to get him out of the pain, and the endless keening for opiates in every atom of his being.
For answer Dana turns back to the first page. "'I am a Mistress of Spices,'" she begins, and pauses. "Would you like me to read to you?" He manages a nod and closes his eyes as her soft, expressive voice takes him away from this hell he endures: a dingy, air-conditioned room, with cold, flickering fluorescent light over the bed and the clinical smell of disinfectant and alcohol wipes, the sound of distant voices and monitor alarms, crepe-soled shoes on worn linoleum and the click and beep of monitors and machines. Instead he enters a little shop in a poor neighborhood, where spices lie piled in tarnished bins, as their fragrance lingers in the dim, dusty air.
"'They do not know, of course. That I am not old, that this seeming-body I took on in Shampati's fire when I vowed to become a Mistress is not mine. I claim its creases and gnarls no more than water claims the ripples that wrinkle it. They do not see, under the hooded lids, the eyes which shine for a moment—I need no forbidden mirror (for mirrors are forbidden to Mistresses) to tell me this—like dark fire. The eyes which alone are my own.'"
"No more than water," he mutters hoarsely, struck by the phrase and its meaning. Dana strokes his hair as she continues with the story of the immortal woman who is able to read the desires and fears of others through the use of spices, a gift granted to her at great cost. Despite the involuntary muscle spasms, the pain in his thigh and the nausea, he finds himself drawn into the narrative. Dana's breath warms his skin occasionally as she speaks. He knows she must be exhausted at this point, but her voice holds only a steady calm and a deep affection that eases his anxiety even as it baffles him.
A little later he feels the tremors begin in his stomach. "Basin," he says hoarsely. In a moment the bowl is in place and she holds him while he brings up bile and a few traces of blood. When the dry heaves stop she cleans his mouth and gives him some ice chips to suck on. Then she calls the doctor. "Steven? He's still having trouble with the nausea. Yes . . . there's blood. Just traces . . . bright red, no coffee grounds. I understand. Okay, see you shortly." She ends the call. "He'll be here in a few minutes, he's finishing up rounds."
"Didn't need to call him," he mutters. Dana brushes a kiss over his temple, her lips soft; she smells so good, like the floral soap she uses and her own scent, a little musky, a little sweaty.
"He'll see if he can increase the anti-nausea meds. He'll also make sure the blood is just esophageal irritation," she says quietly. "Helping you feel better is well worth calling him a bit early."
He wants to yell at her, to thank her, to ask why she's doing this, but his throat is too raw and he's so tired from battling the withdrawal that he can barely keep his eyes open. She moistens his lips and wipes the sweat from his face for the thousandth time, her touch gentle.
Later, when the exam's done, when the night shift has started and everything's quieted down, he says "Go home." His words are a little slurred because they've upped the anti-nausea meds and also the muscle relaxer. Both are working but they also make him feel . . . not stoned, just kinda spacey. It's not a bad feeling though. He'll take it over lying knotted up in dread over the next bout of dry heaves.
Dana lies on the gurney they brought in for her, as she's done for the last couple of nights. She faces him, and he can see she is tired to the bone. "No," she says softly. "Not until you can go too."
"Smother mother," he growls. Her weary face brightens for a moment in genuine amusement.
"Oho, I'll make you pay for that," she says, and there's a little purr in her voice that catches his interest despite the hell he's going through.
"Like to see you try," he gets out. She chuckles.
"When we're home again I'll show you exactly what I can do, my beautiful man." She reaches out and takes his hand in hers, her small fingers cool and dry. Her touch feels like a blessing, unearned but welcome. "Try to sleep, love. You're worn out."
He rides a long, uneasy slide into the dark with the sure knowledge of her there beside him, her presence steady and strong.
August 24th
"The pain you're feeling is mainly physical. Undoubtedly there are some psychological and emotional elements as well, but Dana's more qualified than I am to address that area." Doctor Theodoropoulos sits back in his chair. He's about Greg's age, shorter and stockier but not fat, with salt and pepper hair and black eyes that gleam with amusement when he talks. He's actually something of a likeable guy, on the whole; he is honest and prompt with his replies to questions, and doesn't take umbrage or get mad when he's pushed a little. In fact he seems to enjoy a good barney, which makes him ideal as an ongoing-treatment specialist. "I'm surprised and pissed off that you haven't been given the chance to work with pain management before this. Your need is real. Anyway, it's counterproductive for you to endure the numbers you've told me. All that does is make everything much worse." His next words are surprising. "I don't blame you for seeking relief in any way you can. Now let's get you some real freedom from pain."
"You've already got a plan," Greg says, dreading what he'll hear.
"I think we'll start off with a TENS unit," Doctor T says. "A significant number of my patients have found results with electrical stimulation. It's not a cure-all, but it can help to reduce the continual noise you're getting from the damaged nerves in your quadriceps. And we'll start you on gabapentin and tizanidine. I'm also going to prescribe massage and hydrotherapy, both three times a week." He tilts his head. "We'll probably switch out meds or therapies for something else as we go along, which means you need to be completely honest with me about whether something's working or not. The main goal here is to get you out of as much chronic pain as possible without sacrificing your mental acuity or physical ability."
As Greg leaves Doctor T's office, he dares to feel just a spark of hope for the first time in years. Dana sits in the waiting room; she looks out the window at the sunny day beyond. When he approaches her she rises in her graceful way, her expression inquiring. "Have to go to PT to get fitted for a TENS unit," he says. Her face brightens.
"Oh, those are wonderful! I have several patients who use TENS, it's a great tool."
They walk together to the physiotherapy center. She takes his hand in hers as if it is the most natural thing in the world. A song pops into his head. "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do," he sings under his breath, and Dana chuckles. Her fingers tighten on his gently.
"You have no problem hanging out with a guy who wears electrodes on his leg," he says when they are in the elevator alone.
"You hang out with someone who uses wrist splints at night now and then," she points out. "TENS is just a tool to provide support and pain relief."
Her matter-of-fact acceptance reassures him as they reach their floor and the doors open. "Are you always this sickeningly cheerful or do you eat rainbows for breakfast, Shirley Temple?" he asks with considerable sarcasm. Her soft laugh fills the corridor and he closes his eyes for a moment, to bask in the sound. He never thought he'd enjoy someone's happiness the way he does hers.
"Well, would it please you better if I was a mean old governess?" she says. Her eyes sparkle with amusement. "I have this really great outfit and a big ruler . . ."
"Yeah yeah," he says, but he can't help smiling. They've arrived at the right door. "Hold that thought."
"I'd rather hold you," she says, and leans in to give him a kiss before they go into the PT area.
By the time they get back to her place he is exhausted. It's been a big day, and a long one; he climbs out of the car stiff and a little light-headed. But he is in much less pain, and that's from meds alone at this point—hydroxyzine and gabapentin, as Doctor T prescribed. The TENS unit will reduce it even further.
In their bedroom Dana shows him how to put on the electrodes. She kneels beside him to position the pads, two above and three below the big scar. "We'll try it this way," she says. "If you need more relief we can put the extra pad above or in the small of your back." She hands him the unit. "Go ahead. It takes some time to find the right settings, don't worry if it doesn't happen right away."
It doesn't take long before he feels something—a weird sort of tingle—and then a gradual damping-down of the incessant shrill keening of severed nerve endings. It happened in PT too when the therapist demonstrated the unit, but it still takes him by surprise, this reduction in agony. Slowly the feeling turns into something like a deep muscle ache, similar to a charlie horse or bruise; it definitely makes its presence known when he moves, but as soreness, not sharp, stabbing pain. He gets up and walks across the room, then comes back. The limp will never leave him, but now it isn't like he walks on razors to go from point A to point B. He almost feels like dancing when he returns to Dana. "Holy fuck," he says, unable to think of anything else to say. She reaches up to catch his hand and press a kiss to his palm, then puts her cheek there. He can feel wetness under his fingers but she doesn't say anything, just holds onto him.
They order in—Chinese, he's not quite ready for Indian food yet—and settle on the big couch to watch tv. Ten days ago he would never have believed he would be here, detoxed, nearly pain-free, and in the arms of a woman who stayed with him through an experience that would have had anyone else flee in utter disgust and terror. He picks a baby shrimp out of his fried rice and holds it up for Dana, who takes it off the chopsticks and munches with a blissful expression. She still looks tired but there's something else there, a sort of peacefulness he can't explain. He doesn't want to anyway, not tonight. It's enough that he's here with her. Tomorrow will take care of itself for once.
They are curled up in bed together and almost asleep when she says, "I'm going to suggest you take a medical leave of absence." Her tone is neutral, quiet. It truly is a suggestion, not a way to coerce him into doing what she wants. He considers it. After everything that's happened he feels drained, worn out; his ability to reason and deduce is practically non-existent, by his standards anyway. He could use some time off.
"How long?" He brings her closer and can't help but smile when she makes a noise of satisfaction, a little purr that always turns him on. He's not up for sex yet—literally-but he still likes having her snuggled in around him.
"Two months, maybe three. Any longer and you'll die of complete boredom." Humor glimmers in her soft voice. "But you need a little time to rest and heal, and get used to the meds and therapy."
"Yes ma'am," he says in mock humility, and chuckles when she tweaks his nipple gently. "I think I can wrangle thirty days out of the She-Wolf Biz-natch of Princeton-Plainsboro."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to talk with the Dean of Medicine myself," Dana says. There is an odd tone in her voice that makes him turn his head to look at her. Even in the soft semi-darkness, it's possible to see she wears an expression that does not bode well for Lisa Cuddy.
"Hey, all I ask is that I get to watch the two of you wrestle each other naked in a giant lime vodka jello shot," he says, and revels in her snort of amusement as she lightly smacks his chest before she caresses him.
"Go to sleep," she says, and kisses the spot she just swatted. He rests his cheek against her hair and closes his eyes, and allows the quiet darkness and Dana's warm presence to ease him into rest.
August 25th
"I understand what you're asking, Doctor Gardener. It's just not possible. House has already had nearly a month on sick leave. Six more months would put the Diagnostics department in danger of being closed permanently."
Dana fought to keep a neutral expression. "If Doctor House doesn't get the time he needs to recuperate and regain his strength, then the department truly will be closed because he won't be there to run it."
Wilson's eyes widened a bit before he looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Cuddy glanced down at her notes, unfazed.
"Doctor Nolan indicates the detox procedure was successful, as well as excellent initial results with the pain management specialist. There's no reason why House can't come back to work."
"Pain management is still in the early stages," Dana pointed out. "There will inevitably be adjustment of medications and techniques. Doctor House should really be asking for twelve months instead of just six."
Cuddy snorted. "As if he'd get it." She looked up from the file, her gaze intent, challenging. "Nolan doesn't indicate any recuperative time period here. You're the only one advocating for it. Since you're also involved personally with House, I have to question the validity of that advocacy."
Wilson passed a hand over his face. "Oh boy," he muttered. Dana sat up a little straighter.
"You're actually denying your tenured department head a brief sabbatical because he's spending personal time with his therapist?"
"So you don't deny you're having an affair?"
"An affair?" Dana struggled not to raise her voice.
"What else would you call it?" Cuddy rested her elbows on the desk and laced her fingers together. She offered Dana a slight smile, though her gaze held an inimical quality now. "I'm not granting a paid vacation so you can play with your boy toy."
Dana recognized the tactic even as her temper rose. To lose her cool now would be to cede all her high ground to Cuddy, and she wasn't about to do that, not when Greg needed the time off. She didn't answer right away. "I'll be sure to tell him your opinion," she said finally. "You understand of course that his only other option is to resign."
"What?" Wilson stared at her in shock, but Cuddy chuckled.
"He can't and he knows it. He's got nowhere else to go. No one would ever hire a nightmare like House. I have a lawyer on retainer and a large chunk of money in an escrow account just for his cases. Tell me how many other hospitals or clinics would be willing to do that."
"You really expect me to believe Doctor House is the only gifted physician on the Eastern seaboard who doesn't play well with others?" Dana sat back a bit. "You and I both know most if not all of the big guns would do whatever it took to hire and keep him."
"Until the first time he created a malpractice suit or civil action because of his behavior. God forbid he should destroy an MRI machine or attempt to burn down the morgue." Cuddy's smile widened a bit. "He likes to bring in hookers after hours, and he keeps a bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer. No one else would ever allow him that much freedom just to get the benefit of his gift."
Dana ignored the deliberate provocation; again, it was as much to disarm her as it was to poke her in the eye with a sharp stick. "Even if no one would hire him, and I doubt very much that's true, he would be much in demand as a consultant. He's had at least a dozen offers from every continent to sit in on cases, just over the last few weeks alone." She kept her gaze locked on Cuddy's. "If you're not willing to support his efforts in recovery, I will certainly counsel him to turn in his resignation and support him in whatever he chooses to do next." She raised one brow slightly. "Are you really willing to risk losing your star player and the department that's put this hospital on the map?"
Cuddy's smile faltered, disappeared. She lowered her hands. "My hospital does not depend on the Diagnostics department to keep it at the head of the list," she snapped. "Our Head of Oncology is one of the best-rated physicians in North America—"
"Why, thank you," Wilson said, heavy on the irony. Cuddy ignored him.
"—and we're on the cutting edge of teaching techniques, as well as advances in surgical methods and diag—" She stopped abruptly.
Dana set aside the little flicker of triumph she felt at Cuddy's gaffe. "I'm not a donor, you don't have to sell me on your good points. All I'm saying is that Doctor House needs to rest and recover his strength."
"I just went through the biggest scare of my life, not to mention surgery," Cuddy said. For a moment the mask slipped, and she looked every year of her age. "You don't see me taking three months off."
"Maybe you should." Dana got to her feet. "If that's your final decision, I'll let you know what Doctor House has to say by tomorrow morning."
Cuddy sat back. "You do that. I'll talk to Nolan and see what he says. I'll discuss this with House tomorrow."
"You'll discuss it with me," Dana said evenly. "Doctor House has authorized me to stand in for him, and if you need confirmation, he's indicated he'll be happy to leave a message on your voicemail."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say it sounds like you don't want me talking to him," Cuddy said, smiling slightly. Dana didn't return her smile.
"It wasn't my idea, it was Doctor House's," she said.
"We only have your word for that," Wilson said. Dana gave him a considering look.
"It's a mystery to me that Greg is still willing to call either one of you a friend," she said quietly. "He has his faults, but disloyalty isn't one of them." She turned away. "Doctor Cuddy, Doctor Wilson, I'll be in touch," and she left the office. She struggled to keep from slamming the door behind her.
[H]
It's early afternoon of the day after their bedtime discussion about the leave of absence. Greg watches tv, crashed out on the couch, still tired from the past couple of weeks but he feels pretty damn good all things considered—much of his pain is gone and he doesn't have a violent jones for Vicodin, two huge pluses in his book. As he flips through the channels to get to Prescription? Passion! he hears Dana come home, and knows immediately she is upset. She bangs the front door shut and dumps her coat on the chair, and all the while she mutters to herself. As she stalks by him he can hear what she's saying. He blinks. It's the first time he's heard her curse in any language. "What's wrong?" he calls.
She actually growls. "Cette femme est un idiot!"
Greg keeps a straight face, though it's difficult. "Is that so."
"Yes!" Dana comes back into the room to prowl back and forth before him. She is flushed with anger, her grey eyes bright and hard as diamonds, and the very slight accent in her words is more pronounced. "I expected a bit of respect from Doctor Cuddy, that—that-" She takes a deep breath. "I thought we would talk as one professional to another, both of us concerned about you and trying to do what's best—and she acted like—like-oooohhhhh!" Dana picks up a cushion and hurls it across the room.
"Calm down," he says, vastly entertained by this uncharacteristic display of fury. "Stop being dramatic and tell me what happened."
With a visible effort Dana takes a deep breath and steadies herself. "She insisted on speaking with Doctor Nolan because she didn't believe she could take me seriously as a therapist, since I'm sleeping with you." Her eyes flash. "That hypocrite, that-that cafard, sitting there as condescending as you please! She probably had an intern under the desk. And Wilson perched next to her like a maiden aunt, pretending to be shocked by the two of us fighting over you. He probably texted every word to his assistant to get it into the hospital grapevine that much faster." Greg can't help it, he has to chuckle. "I'm serious!" Dana glares at him. "It's going to take Darryl convincing your boss with HIS opinion that you need a medical leave for her to agree to it!"
"So what, you're mad she dissed you?" He shrugs. "We talked about this earlier. She likes to power-play people, that's all. She's administration, it's a genetic predisposition."
"No, that's not the main reason why I'm angry!" Dana snaps. "She closed off any avenue for me to help you except the ones she chose, and then she used them to try to make me feel inferior. Cochon! How dare she place her welfare above that of someone in need!"
"Administration," he points out once more. "Everything is grist for her mill, it's just how the process works. Enlightened self-interest, blah blah. You know that."
She folds her arms and glares out the window; she is actually upset on his behalf, aside from the insult to her own status. With anyone else he would suspect play-acting, but Dana isn't like that. "Come here," he says. She gives an impatient little bounce but obeys, to perch next to him. The color in her cheeks is becoming, as is the glitter of anger in her eyes. "You're wasting a lot of time and energy that could be spent on something else," he says, and bends down a little to kiss her. The snap and spark of her emotion blends into the exchange, heats it up, but also eases her distress. When the kiss ends she brushes her lips over his, then rests her cheek on his shoulder.
"You come first," she says. Greg feels a sort of odd shock at her words—not unpleasant, just unexpected, because he knows she means them. He doesn't know what to say, so he brings her close and enjoys the warmth of her there, in the moment with him.
Later that evening he calls Cuddy at her home. When she picks up he says "Three months, non-negotiable."
Cuddy doesn't answer right away. "Or?"
"Or I'm gone." He hadn't planned to say it, but it feels absolutely right.
"Gone where? You have nowhere else to go, House. You need this job."
"No," he says, and feels a huge weight lift off his heart and mind suddenly. "No, I don't."
"Your girlfriend told you that." She sighs softly. "Just because you want it to be true—"
"I'm not negotiating, so you can lay off the routine," he says. "Either you agree to my time off or you don't. If you don't, I'm done. It's that simple."
The two of them are silent for a while. Then Cuddy says "Three months, not a day longer." And she's gone. House ends the call and goes into the bedroom, where Dana lies sleeping. He watches her and thinks about what the future might hold. While he knows that at some point he'll fuck up this good thing he's got going, for now he's in a good place, and he thinks maybe Dana is too. And it's enough for now.