GREG
"That was exhilarating." The urologist beams, heart still racing from the thrill of the road. By her own admission, Greg's motorcycle was a vehicle unlike any she'd ever ridden before. The acceleration, the speed, the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her teensy blue hatchback only got up to 120mph. She never would have experienced it by herself, but with someone she trusts to take the wheel, or in this case, the handles, it was easy for her to let go.
Greg follows her into the elevator and presses the button for their floor. Standing just behind her, he leans back, eyeing her bum clad in the tight, gray pencil skirt. "You should ride with me more often. I like feeling you hold on to me."
"Not unless you get another helmet," she softly scolds, playfully smiling at him. She strokes his cheek, feeling his gray stubble. "I don't know what I'd do if that beautiful brain of yours painted the asphalt."
"I'm somewhat of a bad boy. Gotta keep up appearances, Sweety," he deflects, the chrome doors shutting silently. He breathes deep, his chest puffing up with air, readying for the topic he's about to bring up. On the drive here, his mind hadn't been able to leave the subject alone, so he just dives in headfirst. "You're due for your Haldol injection soon."
She looks at him in askance, knowing she hadn't told him that information. Her memory is almost too good sometimes and her doe eyes are as wide as dinner plates. "How do you know about that?"
"I have my ways." He'd rather deflect that tell her his methods in this instance. First, he'll show her how trustworthy he can be. Then she'll have to forgive him when she finds out about his meeting with Dr. Henderson. "I want to take over your prescriptions. Give you the LAI without putting you to sleep."
"What? I have to be put out. Otherwise I'd hurt myself and maybe others."
"I've got what you might call a plan for that."
She picks at her nail polish, focusing intently on them if only as an excuse not to look at his face. "What brought this on, Greg?"
"We've been dating for almost three months. I don't think it's crazy to be just a little bit protective of you." She raises her brow at him. Melina has a keen eye, one trained to his mannerisms.
She's always been straight with him, so he tries to do the same, but it's just not in his nature. He can say that he lies to her the least out of anyone, but she's used to the little ones he tends to tell her. The jokes, the wisecracks, that's all above board as long as he doesn't lie when it comes to their relationship.
And it isn't a lie. It's just a bit of a stretch. It's true that he's jealous, a tad protective, and doesn't want other men touching her, especially when she's unconscious, but those aren't his only reasons. He wants to cure her because he can't imagine his life without her anymore.
Having watched the CCTV footage of her first attempted LAI, he knows there's something deeper going on. Her reaction had been chaotic to say the least. They stuck the IV in the back of her hand while she was unconscious, but the LAI she was awake for. They didn't know what kind of reaction she'd have yet. It wasn't the one they were expecting.
At first, she was just hyperventilating. Her chest rose high and quick, her body beginning to tremble before all hell broke loose. She was clearly taken off guard by the episode and the needle, so maybe it was when she found out she had trypanophobia for the first time.
She slipped out of her restraints somehow and started ripping the IVs from her hands. Stumbling over surgical trays and machines, she sliced her feet and hands in her escape. Spewing blood and fluids, she slumped against the double doors looking like a horror movie character.
Two grown men carried her back to the center of the room, her limbs struggling and kicking, trying her hardest to wrest herself from their grasp. Pinned to the gurney, she writhed, avoiding the men's hands the best she could. The doctor put a nitrous mask over her face to knock her out. The men didn't let go until her veins had been sewn back up and the drug had been administered.
That wasn't a simple fear of needles. It wasn't a typical episode, the kind where a kid will break down because they can't stand the fact that they're being poked. It was the kind that was induced by trauma. Her fight-or-flight instinct had kicked in.
He watched that silent footage on repeat for hours, and all he got out of reading her lips was her begging to be let go, to not be touched, and it makes his heartstrings tinge bitterly. He hated seeing it, but couldn't stop watching, like a train wreck.
He's used to playing with people's lives, sure, but when it comes to his own, he's careful. This woman, with all her flaws, makes him happy, and that puts her life on the same level. To trust another doctor with her care would be foolish after what he's seen. He's usually the one cleaning up other doctor's messes and he isn't expecting any different now.
He's been carefully observing her in the time they've spent together, and she was right about managing her illness well. She manages it far better than any person with schizophrenia ever has or ever will, which begs the question: why? She's not special, not impervious to all other schizophrenic symptoms. How in the world does she manage it so perfectly? Could anyone with schizophrenia truly pull off such a feat?
For her hallucinations to come on so suddenly and be the only real symptom of her disorder, for her to be managing it all this well... He's left without a doubt.
Others might call it a hunch. House calls it reasoning. Whatever lazy idiot diagnosed her with Schizophrenia needed his license suspended. There was no test to confirm Schizophrenia, so they just guessed at what her affliction could be and hoped they were right. Those kind of people give doctors a bad name. The old Dr. Rosenbaum that gave her the diagnosis when she was 11 had died four years ago, otherwise Greg would have called and given him a piece of his mind.
He knows there's something missing from her prognosis because he's familiar with how schizophrenia should present. She may have hallucinations, may experience psychotic breaks and hear voices, but he's positive that she isn't schizophrenic because anyone else would be much more obvious.
How does she keep it hidden so well? Does Wilson know? Does Cuddy know?
According to her records, anti-psychotic drugs completely eliminated her hallucinations until her tolerance caught up. They upped her dose until it couldn't go any higher, then they started shortening the time between doses. Henderson had been doing that for years and never once suspected there was more at play. What a moron!
The non-hallucination during their date was what tipped him off. He kept looking for anomalies after that, and he found them. The question is, what parts of her behavior are caused by the drug and what parts are caused by the mystery illness?
She clearly had other disorders besides whatever caused her hallucinations. She's not lying to him, he knows that much from the time they've spent together. She believed that she had Schizophrenia. She probably attributed many symptoms to it that have other causes.
Unlike when he first met her, she sometimes looks people in the eye that aren't him. However, it's not often, and still falls so far below normal that it draws attention. She recognizes people by looking everywhere except their faces, which could speak to cognitive problems, visual problems, or regular old anxiety. There could be any number of things going on with her, medically. All he knows for sure is what it's not.
Some small part of him is afraid that she wont be interesting once he fixes her, but he silences the niggling worry. He can start by figuring out what's wrong and maybe nothing will change. He hadn't found her boring when his diagnosis of schizophrenia was confirmed by her, even if it was false.
"It's not just the injection." She shakes her head after the shock wears off, the mirror image of her in the door copying her motions. Greg watches the figure's copper hair fly up. "They do blood work, check my vitals... Is this just an excuse? A medical reason to feel me up?"
He blows a puff of air out. She thinks he'd really do that? "You got me," he gripes sarcastically. "That was my plan all along. Stress you out, maybe scare you so much you have an attack, then fondle you for the rest of the appointment." Though, maybe he does come off as the kind of man to put her through an embarrassing test and give her injections into her buttocks just to touch her butt. His past actions haven't exactly proven otherwise.
Her brows furrow and she avoids looking at him, even his feet. Screwing her eyes shut, she grinds out, "Okay, you're right. That was uncalled for." Breathing deeply, she keeps them shut and lets the breath out. She seems tense, like a tightly-coiled spring.
"Touching your butt is just an added bonus." He brings some levity to the elevator, checking her reaction in his peripheral vision. She lets out a chuckle, some of the stress along her spine fading away as her eyes flutter open. "You know I love you, right?"
"I love you, too." She looks at him so rawly, so openly, that he feels like he could fall into the depths of her gaze. He steels himself for something he has become more used to doing since he met her: Telling the truth.
"I don't think you have schizophrenia," he tells her, watching her reaction like a hawk but keeping his body facing straight ahead.
"You-" She turns to him, her hair whipping around her. She blinks at him a few times, looking back to the door's reflection while her mind races. "What makes you think that?"
"Your symptoms. They don't make sense. I think your old doctor was in a rush. Something else is causing your hallucinations." He doesn't want to ruin this thing they have just to prove himself right. But if he is right, if there is something else going on... He can't just leave it be. His hand rests on her arm, taking a step nearer to her side. He has to crane his neck to gaze down at her. "Just let me try."
He never asks patients nicely like this, but she's not a patient.
"What doesn't match up?"
"Have you ever heard of someone who managed their symptoms as well as yours?" She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off with the answer. "No, you haven't. Because there aren't any. What you've been doing is almost impossible with the disorder you supposedly have. I'm right about this."
"You always say that kind of thing." She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, chewing harshly on it. Her dainty, delicate hand cups his jaw and her thumb strokes across his stubble. She's quiet, her eyes storming over, turmoil playing in the green jewels, trying to decide if she should trust him.
"And I'm always right."
"You're almost always right." Her bright green eyes dart over his face, searching for any reason to say no. It seems she doesn't find one. She sighs and the tension fades from her shoulders. "You can do the injections, but that means blood work too. You test my blood and if you find evidence of anything, we'll keep doing it. If you don't find anything, I'm going back to Dr. Henderson."
"Okay, but you know I'll take good care of my Darling. I'd never do anything that could hurt these puppies." He cups her breasts, blowing a few playful kisses to them. His hands fall down just before the doors slide open.
She rolls her eyes, strolling down the hall at a pace slow enough for him to keep up with. He looks left and right when they stop at his door, where their paths diverge. He leans down, kissing her perfectly-lined pink lips, the mauve lipstick leaving a strange feeling on his lips when he pulls away.
He pushes inside the room and turns on the lights, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's not surprised at the mauve stain when he pulls it away.
The two of them were running late this morning, but it seems he's still ahead of the ducklings. When Melina eventually comes by to make herself, and by extension Greg, a latte, he'd let her know that he had everything ready. He'd probably be able to fit her in for a quick appointment after lunch. He wouldn't need her to take two days off work, just twenty minutes of her time.
He picks up the phone, dialing the pharmacy's phone number, waiting a moment for the attendant to pick up.
"Dr. Gregory House. Calling in a prescription." He looks down to his watch, checking the hands for the time. "Yeah. I'll be down before the hour."
Greg can't get his mind to focus on much besides the pain in his leg. He's pacing the hall while his team mingle inside the diagnostic conference room. His fellows go back and forth about something trivial, their voices too low for him to hear. His brain is busy, anyway.
He pokes his head into the conference room, asking, "What if it wasn't a hallucination? What if it was an atypical seizure?"
"Seizure?" Foreman parrots, affronted. He walks closer, leaning his hands on the back of a chair. "She saw her mother. Mother's dead. Ergo, hallucination."
Greg ducks back out, returning to his walk. He keeps going in circles physically to stop himself from going in circles mentally. He should call Melina. She'd distract him. Even better, getting his rocks off always helps ease the pain, though it doesn't eliminate it. Some days he only thinks about the pain in his leg when he needs to: tying his shoes, getting on the bike, propping his legs up on the ottoman. Days like today, every other moment the pain sends a brutal reminder that he's at it's mercy and always would be.
"Flashback," Greg tries again, sticking his head back in. "All that wind and rain from the hurricane. Post-traumatic stress syndrome."
"Why are you so bent on her not having a hallucination?"
Because I need it to be possible.
He doesn't say it aloud but his thoughts answer her anyway. Cameron's question bares his vulnerability to his own mind. He wants this to be anything besides a hallucination because maybe he can also prove that with Melina. He was coming up with theories for the wrong patient, so he puts a stop to it right then. Refocus and reset.
"If she did have a hallucination then the heart problem that we predicted, found, and fixed was just a gigantic coincidence. "
They have nothing to say. He returns to pacing. He tugs his mobile out of his front pocket, struggling to fit his fingers into his jeans while he's walking but unwilling to halt.
He selects the first number on his speed-dial list: Sweety.
Yelling through the glass walls, he ponders another theory. "What if the heart isn't a coincidence and isn't what caused the hallucination?" He holds the phone to his ear, waiting for the line to ring, and limps back to the door once again. "An arrhythmia hurts. What if her hallucinations are caused by pain? What if she has a disease that translates pain into a bizarre physiological response, like a hallucination? She needs a PET scan."
He can inflict pain, see how her brain responds to it. If he can cause a hallucination, that'll prove he's right. Melina finally picks up the phone after a few rings.
He can't help the roguish smile spurring on his lips when she says his name, sounding like a question. Does she really expect someone else on the line every time?
"The one and only. So, Sweety, I've got a job for you..." He paces the open area. His fellows lock eyes.
The boys look to Cameron, expecting her to have more information like what she shared last time. She shakes her head at them, shrugging while she returns to reading the paper in front of her. They look back to Greg who strolls, pretending he hadn't been looking at them.
The narrowed gazes not only express skepticism but also distrust. Nothing he isn't already aware of.
"Sweety?" Chase repeats under his breath, looking scandalized. The Aussie truly believed it was impossible for a woman to like him, let alone love him. The look on his face if he ever knew the truth... Greg had to hold it in, listening closely to his lover's chiming laugh over the phone.
"What is it, a blow job?" She scoffs. "Careful, Greg. You're becoming predictable."
"How'd you know?" he asks her, smiling into the phone while he imagines her beautiful face, doe eyes squinting at him suspiciously, her little dimple coming out when she smiles. "Meet me in my office in an hour and we'll discuss my treatment."
"Deal."
"Okay." He hangs up, returning to his carefully gruff exterior. His team stares at him, each of their young faces contorted in shock and/or horror. Rather than let them gawk, he yells, waving them up and out the door. "Come on people, move! We have a patient!"
There are more important things for them to focus on than his love life.
Piano notes fills his office, the tune carrying a jazzy melody.
He got the scan he wanted and verified that it was a pain response. He knows what's happening but what's causing it? He was just glad he could figure out the parameters of this disease now. It wasn't the heart, meaning it could be the same as whatever Melina had. He needs to fix this.
The bottom line was clear, almost soothingly simple. He'd rather do this to Leona now than Melina later. She may be his old friend's daughter, but he didn't care for her, not like he did for the urologist. It's a simple trade-off. He figures out how to make Leona better, and it helps them both. Nobody needs to know about his reasons.
Thinking of the urologist seems to summon her, her curvaceous figure parting his drawn blinds. The door closes behind her and they're alone, the rest of the world unable to see them through white acrylic.
"Hey, you okay?" She asks, eyes darting around the room, looking for a sign or anything that told her what was going on. "I came as soon as I could but I ran into Lisa on the way here."
He rolls his chair back, taking in her full figure. The shocking part is her skirt, the slip of fabric looking more like a tube top than a proper bottom, it's edges just barely reaching her mid thigh. He looks her up and down exaggeratedly. "Yeah, that explains everything, including the slutty strip of fabric covering your groin."
"It does explain my skirt and it's not slutty," Melina refutes, crossing her arms. The pinstripe pencil skirt screams 'fuck me' and shows off her smooth thighs. It's not in her size but Cuddy's, giving him a pretty good idea of who to thank. "I literally ran into her and she spilled coffee on me. Speaking of liquids... Still need your pipes cleared?"
"God, yes," he grunts throatily. "Vicodin's not enough today."
She approaches him, resting a delicate hand on his cheek. "It's okay, Greg. I'll take care of you." A mirror of what he said to her before. More potent than any 'I love you' they've ever shared. They share a deep gaze, drawing near.
She kisses him, leaning over his form in the rolling desk chair. Guiding her to the ground, their lips stayed locked until the last second when he lets her sink below the table. "Did you lock the door?"
"No," she says coyly. "So don't be too loud." She smirks, lowering herself beneath his desk. The glass top allows him to peek at her, but the multitude of papers and files obscures most of her face. The back of his desk is solid wood, preventing anyone from seeing her unless they stand right next to the desk and stare straight down at it, like he does.
He can only think that it's probably the hottest thing she's ever done. Neither of them have instigated anything more than using hands and mouths so of course he's had her on her knees several times already. However, hastily obscured by the mess of his office, knowing they're only a few moves away from being found out, he feels the anticipation more intensely than before.
He watches her extract his quickly stiffening member, her pink tongue lolling out and around his tip.
"Sweety..." he breathes, finding one of her bright eyes meeting his through the mess of file folders. He slips his hand below the desk, cupping her jaw and stroking her cheek with his thumb sensually. Before he starts to feel like he can't hold back his moans, he presses play on the last thing he put in his CD player. It plays from the beginning again, the dulcet notes of Jesse Baker, the grandfather of their current patient and famed pianist, streaming from the speakers.
The jazzy piano covers up the slick sounds of Melina's mouth on him, sucking and licking like a pro. She can't get enough of his dick. That's why she hadn't put up much of a fight earlier. She never does when it comes to this.
"I asked for this tuned. Did you get this instrument tuned?" Jesse's irate Louisiana twang comes across the stereo, the piano abruptly emitting a cacophony of notes.
She pumps him with her hand, the other stroking his balls and giving them a squeeze. "Mel," he groans deep in his throat, hand migrating to her ginger locks. His grip tightens when the door opens wide, his old friend forcing his way through it. Greg thought closing the blinds was enough of a sign, but apparently he has no privacy.
Seductive eyes give him a poignant look from below his desk, her full lips pursing around him. The message is clear.
Act natural.
The man takes two steps, then stops. He's perfectly placed to see only his myriad of files and papers stacked high upon his chaotic desktop.
"Greg," he says, sounding worn, upset. Crandall never calls him by his name, though his mental faculties are much too preoccupied to come up with a witty, off-the-cuff response.
"Crandall." Greg went for an exaggerated and equally pathetic whine. Mostly it's covering his moan. He let the piano continue, hopefully drowning out the quiet squelches from below. "Didn't you see the sock on the door?"
Crandall looks back as if double-checking the door. "There was no sock. Now, if my daughter needs bone marrow, why are you looking in the bone marrow registry?" He asks vulnerable and angry, his brown leather jacket like a softened shield unable to block any attack. It's the same way he always was. "I'm her father."
"It's a metaphorical sock. I'm in the middle of something right now."
Closing the blinds should've indicated well enough that he was seeking some modicum of privacy. He teeters on the edge of orgasm. He tries to slow her down with his hand on her head but it accomplishes nothing.
He holds her hair tighter. She fights his grip, pressing her nose into his pelvis. His hips buck up without his permission, thrusting deeper into Melina's tight throat. She moves her tongue on the underside of his penis, her throat spasming around his shaft and head. She swallows, working him until he comes directly down her esophagus. Hot and fresh, it streams down her throat as he silently tenses, his hand holding her flush against his groin.
Greg does an admirable job holding in the groan, but a low grunt escapes while he's breathing. He coughs to cover it.
She hasn't pulled off him yet, savoring the clean-up as always, her skilled tongue lapping up his spent seed. Her head, with his cock still in it, jerks at the sound of a pager going off. He peers down, watching her squirm, pulling her beeper off her belt and sending him a look. Finally she pulls off him, a string of saliva trailing between them.
Greg sighs, rolling back and stuffing himself into his jeans. Melina grabs his waiting hand, pulling herself off her knees. There are red marks on them from his carpet that will announce to everyone in her department what she spent her lunch break getting up to. She leans down next to him, licking his come off her lips, pink lipstick smeared to the side.
"Sorry, Greg," she coos close to his ear, pulling back into a standing position. "It's an emergency. Thanks for lunch."
"Go on, shoo. Tend to your pee pee emergency." He gives her a slap across her bum, making her start walking with a twinkle in her eye. Greg and his old friend gaze entranced as she hurries out, her round ass mesmerizing them in her short skirt. "That thing I was in the middle of? Well." He uses his hand to gesture at her body as she slips out the door.
After a long silence, Crandall speaks gently. "I've never heard of a hooker with a beeper before."
Greg barks a laugh, amused. "She's a urologist."
"With tits like that? What a waste." Crandall shakes his head, sliding into the chair across from him, elbows propped on the arm rests. "Hey, I'm happy for you. I really am. Surprised a girl like that would-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. She's pretty, I'm old and crusty. Find new material, or at least something I haven't heard before." Greg reclines, making sure there's not any spunk on his pants before he continues. That woman's going to be the death of him, he thinks as his eyes track her form disappearing down the hall.
"I will." Crandall leans back in his chair, looking upon his friend with a newfound respect. "And in return, you test me. Just my bone marrow. I'm not authorizing a paternity test."
He finds her in the exam room waiting for his arrival. It's just before lunch when faculty is getting ready to go to the cafeteria, leaving the exam rooms free and clear. Limping inside, he sees the nurse has laid out what he asked for on a rolling table.
She's tense, her shoulders unnaturally square and her chin down. She stands with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Leaning against the exam table, she rights herself when he enters.
They both already know how this goes. He gives her a shot, takes her blood, and they meet again later to discuss results. He still asks the obligatory question for her benefit. She hasn't had an injection while she was awake in eight years. She must be nervous. She doesn't ask his name this time, but she stares intently at his legs, watching the way he moves and limps to the counter.
"Any questions before we start?" he asks, pulling a stool under his butt as he sits down.
She shakes her head, oddly quiet while she takes off her lab coat. She lets it fall behind her on the table. Her face and arms are paler than ever, showing her fear in a way she can't prevent.
"Come here," Greg coos. He guides the woman into his lap, his hands on her soothing the feeling
He leads her down, her skirt riding up on its own when her legs spread around his hips. She's uncharacteristically quiet, her mouth barely opening to form the words. "I-I don't want to hurt you. Last time-" the redhead swallows thickly, cutting herself off.
He's smiling sadly. He can see the excuse for what it is: fear. He knows exactly what happened last time. "You're half my size. I think I can take you." He can tell by the look in her eyes that she doesn't believe him, that she needs more assurance. "That was a long time ago."
His hand on her thigh rubs softly, soothing her nerves slightly with his touch. Her muscles start to relax. He gently rubs the bottom half of her butt cheek, sliding up to the small of her back and taking her skirt with it.
"But-"
"Shut up, already. You'll be safe the entire time, just listen to my voice and breathe with me." His fingers play softly along the curve of her ass, then he moves for a small packet which he rips open with his teeth. "In, out." He times the words with his pace, making sure she can feel the rise and fall of his chest.
Even though she knows it's coming, the sudden coldness of the alcohol wipe makes her jerk. "Hey, hey," he whispers, caressing her cheek with his other hand. He tries to keep his voice gentle, but it doesn't come naturally. "You're fine." Her thighs stiffen around his legs and he pulls her closer, hugging her close and putting her nose in the crook of his neck. He doesn't let her see the needle.
"I love you." Melina's softy lips move against his collarbone, her voice only just reaching his ears.
"I love you, too." Both hands grab her ass, squeezing lightly before pulling back a smidge. He taps his fingers along her cheeks, like they're following along to Jesse Baker's jazz melody on the piano. She eventually settles into his lap, getting used to the sudden touches, and that's when he slips the syringe from the tray.
She can't see him with her eyes pressed against his shoulder and his arm cinched around her waist. He holds her tight, rubbing circles into her thigh.
Silently, the cap comes off and he sticks the needle in her buttocks before she can brace herself. The only sign she feels a thing is a small noise like a grunt mixed with a hum and her body going stiff. He presses a cotton ball onto the spot as he removes the empty syringe, covering the hole with an adhesive bandage.
"How long have you been taking Haldol?" He asks, hoping to busy her mind while he busies her body. His plan, which seems to be working so far, is simply to distract her as much as he can and not give her a chance to be afraid. Taking the IV tourniquet from the rolling tray, he slips it over her wrist to her upper arm. His left arm holds the redhead close while his right works.
"Two years," she discloses mousily. He ties the band tight, dilating her veins so he can get a clear shot. She's got an incredibly clean brachial artery in her left elbow, nice and plump, easy to stick. The scars she received on video were on the back of her hands. "I've been medicated since I was 11."
Kissing her temple, he squeezes her tight, fingers gripping the succulent flesh of her hip. He preps her elbow with another alcohol wipe. Before sticking her with the needle, he leans into her ear and sticks out his tongue.
Licking over the shell, the tip of his tongue traces down her lobe and leaves a trail of saliva on her skin, a groan floating out along with her shuddering breath. Breathing heavily, he flattens his wet muscle behind her ear, licking the juncture where the cartilage meets her skull. He kisses lower, just under her jaw, then on her external jugular vein, sloppy, moist marks left in his wake.
While she's keening his name and making it sound like a prayer, he uncaps the blood collection needle and pokes her brachial artery with it. She doesn't even flinch.
Blood sprays into the attached vial, a whimper leaking from her lips. For a long moment until the vial is full, Greg sucks deeply on her neck, tongue laving against the sensitive areas he'd just sucked and making her shiver, desperate to keep her mind occupied. He nips her and swirls his tongue on her tendon. Licking up to her earlobe, he leaves her with a kiss to her jawline
He can feel the sheen of sweat on his neck where her face presses tiredly. Holding the vial between two fingers, he replaces the needle top with a closed cap, setting it to the side and returning to the woman in his lap.
His hand, much bigger than hers, curls around her elbow, fingers overlapping and squeezing the cotton ball until the bleeding stops. Her extremities look fragile in his oversized metacarpi and he's careful not to grasp too tightly. His other hand smooths down the hair on her head, teeth clenching at her choked-off sob of relief. The serenity spreads through her body like a warm liquid, relaxing the sinew under Greg's palms.
Her body can tell the ordeal is finished. She melts into him, the resistance fading while her form turns to putty in his arms. A warm palm strokes up and down her back. Ten minutes pass without either of them moving, holding the other unbothered by the passage of time.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, lips pressed into her copper locks. He pulls away the cotton ball, revealing a red pinprick.
She turns her head, nuzzling into his hold. "Don't be. I think this is the easiest it's ever been."
Turning to the urologist, he adopts a curious expression. "Why?"
"Usually, the hardest part is getting myself in the door for my appointment. It wasn't so difficult today since it was just you."
"Gee, thanks," he deadpans. "You really know how to flatter a guy."
"You know what I mean. You're safe." She moves to stand, her black thong showing from under her bunched-up skirt. "And you were really distracting." She pulls down the garment, guarding the wet sheen on her inner thighs from view. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
"Henderson said you were ramping up doses." As the words leave his mouth, a curtailed ire bursts in her irises. He feels like he said something wrong, but he isn't sure how or why. As her doctor, it should be fine that Henderson shared his notes. He didn't tell her he found out before he ever took over her case.
"Bastard. I thought for sure he wouldn't tell," she curses under her breath, causing Greg to tilt his head at her, lips pursed. She catches his eyes and answers his unvoiced question. "He's having an affair and I do a little photography on the weekends. His wife attends a book club on Sundays while he has Debbie from accounting over. This was all supposed to be under the table, mind you."
She puts her lab coat back on, adjusting her clothes before she approaches him.
"Hold up." He stands, staring at her with newfound respect. The petite redhead doesn't look the type to pull such a cunning move. "You blackmailed Henderson?"
Rolling her eyes, she blows a huff of air between her full lips, almost like a laugh. "I had to be sure he wouldn't tell anyone. If it got back to Cuddy, I'd be out of a job. I like it here." Painted fingers brush coppery hair behind her ear, baring the darkening bruise on her neck. She'll notice it later in the day and put some concealer on, but he kind of hopes some people see it first. Even if their relationship isn't public, he wants to stake his claim in some way. "We can go over specifics later. Just promise me you won't tell anyone?" She stares pleadingly in his direction.
As ridiculous as he thinks promises are, he doesn't have the heart to refuse her. "I promise." She stands on her tip toes and stretches while he dips his head low and they meet in a chaste kiss.
Crandall leans against the waterfall decoration, blue ambient light spraying on his dark wispy hair. His expression is forlorn, his logic and emotion warring on his face.
Greg has just told him that his so-called daughter pooped out of her mouth and her liver is failing, that there's only so much he can predict. He tells him that they have to do a liver biopsy to figure out what it is and also how dangerous it is. The risk will be high for Leona.
His old friend looks to him for guidance, literally, seeming physically ill at the choice he has to make. "You need to tell me what to do."
"No inside information on this one." Greg doesn't know what he'd do if that was Melina and he was in the other man's shoes. He does know what he'd do if it was a stranger. "Crandall, three days ago, you didn't even know this girl. If she'd been hit by a bus, you wouldn't lose a moment's sleep. There are people all over this hospital in just as much trouble and just as not related to you."
But their situations were not the same. Melina hadn't lied to him and snuck her way into his life, building their relationship on a lie. No, Greg had done that himself, lying and scheming to get his way.
"You're telling me I shouldn't care? What about your cute little urologist?"
"Of course I would care. But she isn't some broad I just met," Greg says, unable to meet the other man's eyes. "She's my girlfriend, I know her. I care about her."
"She's my daughter!" The dark-haired man sparks with ire. "I care about her."
He sighs, knowing it's not something Crandall will ever give up on. He isn't being forced to take responsibility. He's choosing it.
Once he signs the release, Greg leaves the father to think. Limping down the corridor, he ruminates about what he'd do if he were in his shoes. Not with some lying girl, but with Melina. He doesn't like thinking that he may soon be in that position, so he pushes it to the back of his mind, continuing on to get started poking a needle in Leona's liver.
Having control of another person's medical decisions was tough enough as a civilian, let alone as a doctor. It's even more difficult when that person is your loved one. His thoughts are interrupted by the beautiful tenor of a young Michael Jackson.
"First I'll place my arms so gently around you, then whisper "Darling, I'm so glad I found you," Then your lips of wine a-softly touch with mine. A kiss we'll steal, darling dear."
Finding his mobile, he snaps it open quickly. The name staring up at him is just the one he expected: Sweety.
"Hello?" he says, his mind conjuring an image of the woman sick and pale, propped against a hospital bed. No, he can't think like that. He knows she's sick but that doesn't mean she'll end up like Leona. Whatever this thing is, Melina has been managing it for a long time and nothing has happened yet.
"Hey," she greets and he can hear the smile in her voice, making the previous image vanish from his thoughts. She is fine. She'll be fine. "You got a minute?"
"For you? Always."
"I've been thinking about the song you were playing. Jesse Baker, I think? Well, as it turns out, his granddaughter is in our hospital right now and she's selling that piano, which wasn't even out of tune by the way." She pauses and he can make out the sound of her nails tapping something on her keyboard. "I know it's not your typical collector's item, but I know how you are with guitars—"
It hits him that she's right. For all that Leona's grandfather griped and complained, the instrument was perfectly tuned. He was playing it masterfully before he had the outburst.
He cuts her off in his aha moment. "That's it. Sweety, I could kiss you right now. I gotta go," Fast as he can, he limps down the hall, pressing hurriedly on the call button by the elevator. He's about to let her go and page his team, but he purrs the last part into the receiver before snapping the flip phone shut. "Oh, and remind me to pay you back for lunch tonight."
He wonders what kind of blushing face she's making in front of her colleagues right now, staring enigmatically at her cell.
A few days have passed and Melina is getting impatient about the results. Greg didn't find anything in her blood, but he was still waiting on some lengthier test results. The genetic test will tell them whether or not it was even possible for her to have Schizophrenia. Better yet, the results may show another explanation for the hallucinations.
If she has the genetics to make it possible, they're back at square one. If she doesn't, it proves Greg right. She'll let him do other tests, which is what he needs to possibly save her life. Her old doctors hadn't thought it necessary since her mother had the affliction. That was before the scientific advancements of the 1990s.
He compartmentalizes as best as he can, but it's easiest when he's working. Having a patient to save has a way of honing his concentration.
With such serious things going on in his personal life, he has to find joy where he can, like his patients. The current one, who he'd taken to calling "Harpo" on account of his physical resemblance to the Gookie face. The man had a swollen tongue, providing Greg with endless entertainment while he gathered the patient's history. This is the best case he'd had in months.
He smirks while he recounts the story to his team, stirring sugar into his fresh coffee. "It's hilarious to watch him try and talk. I asked him anything I could think of. Favorite color: 'Bwoo.'"
He sets down his coffee on the communal table, hanging his cane on the whiteboard while he uncaps the expo marker. Greg writes "BIG WED TONGUE" at the top of the board. The neurologist puts his files back in his briefcase, shaking his head in a disapproving fashion.
"Where are you going?" Greg asks. Foreman's getting a big head if he thinks he can walk out because he's temporarily head of the department.
"You're an ass." Foreman rounds the table, only stopping at the head of it to tell House off. Before the black man can open his maw again and continue, the door makes a noise that cuts him off.
Swinging ajar, the glass door squeaks and lets Sweety through, her knee-length navy skirt floating through the air as she walks. Her fingers clench tightly to a creased file folder by her hip. The green cardstock under her hands, stressed from her grip, looks to be for a 34 year-old female in psychiatry. He knows someone that fits the description and right now he's noticing the wobbliness in her knees and the sweat on her face.
She looks up only once she's in the room, gaze swinging across the admittedly crowded area. "I need Greg," She announces to the room. Green jewels dart to his lower half, then Foreman's. She looks into the black mans eyes briefly and returns to his legs which happen to be in a nice pair of baggy charcoal jeans, no white coat over his shoulders yet. "You're... not Greg."
Confused, she peers around Foreman and examines the other fellows momentarily. Why is she acting like she can't see him? Is it him facing the board, away from her? Was it the fact that they were dressed so similarly? To be fair, Foreman was generally dressed sharper than that. It was probably the neurologist's first time participating in the Casual Friday dress code.
"Are you feeling alright?" The black man asks her, eyebrows lowering. His hands, previously clasped in his lap, lower to his sides as if he expects to need them at the ready.
"Sorry, we haven't met. You must be..." Hand resting on her chin, she doesn't seem sure of her answer. She's guessing. She hates guessing. "Chase?" She pulls a surprisingly confident voice for a guess, but it still sounds like a question.
Disbelievingly, Greg huffs a chuckle, putting a hand on his hip, the one with the dry-erase marker falling to his side. He shakes his head. "I told you Chase is the pretty one." He looks pointedly at the black man leaning on the table. "That is Foreman."
Relieved, she looks to him with familiarity and walks to his side. She seems considerably more at ease than when she entered, her gait smoother and more natural with her shoulders relaxed. Foreman's eyebrows go straight to his hairline as if on a string. He was intelligent and he definitely noticed her change in demeanor. "No, you said Cameron was the pretty one. And your physical descriptions were lacking."
It was like she needed something extra to figure out who he was. This was the second time she'd looked at him like that. Like she was looking at a stranger. Part of him is afraid it's not a symptom. Another part is afraid that it is, that all the symptoms that crop up will have no confirmation test and he'll have no diagnosis. He needs something he can fix, something he can make better. Otherwise...
He shakes off the thought. He'll need to experiment, see how hard it was for her to identify him in a crowd. It couldn't be that difficult for her. Not without spelling trouble.
"She's actually is his girlfriend?" Chase tries to whisper. Greg hears it because he's just that good.
"Jealous?" Greg looks at her appraisingly. "I would be if I were you."
"Greg, a moment?" she asks shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable in front of his fellows.
"Right." He's put on his back foot again by the tightness in her voice. "Give us a minute," he murmurs to the group, following her through the door to his office with a solemn face.
The way she grips the jungle green folder tips him off. She picked up the results before him. With the look on her face, he can only guess what they say. She flips it open, handing it to him. She points to the page, singling out the Z84 gene, the one responsible for carried Schizophrenic tendencies from the maternal genome. Hers is negative.
It proves him right, but he can't say it's the preferred outcome. There are no other marks for genetic diseases or predispositions that could cause symptoms like hers. It's a dead end.
Before her tears can fall, he swipes a thumb below her eye, shielding her from the others' view with his silhouette. Quietly, he tells her, "Hey, no crying. Not Schizophrenia isn't the worst diagnosis in the world." He'll try anything to get her to calm down and stop crying. He doesn't know how to handle blubbering women, but he knows what helps his mood. "I-I'll bring some Reubens up to your office and we can talk it out over lunch."
She gets hers with — House shudders — pickles, but the least he can do is bring her something. He knows how much she likes her privacy. Being able to let loose doesn't come naturally to her especially in public, but, God, when she does she's intoxicating. Witty, smart, funny, silly. He's grown to hate the mask she has to wear, wishes he never asked to keep their relationship secret.
Was he testing her? Trying to find out if she valued their relationship enough to jump through hoops? He's truly an asshole. Who cared if Cuddy knew who his girlfriend was when her life was on the line? Why had he ever been so childish?
She breathes deep, staring into his eyes like she's soaking him in, the ghost of a smile flitting over her lips. "You're right. I just panicked when I saw..." Swallowing nervously, her throat bobs up and down. "Yeah. Lunch. I'll see you then." She does a 180, taking a few steps before she went back.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, the door from the hall opens and a middle-aged man in a gray suit enters. His balding head and peppery goatee make him look older than he probably is.
The stranger stands just inside the door, his stance wide, staring down the two of them coldly. "Which one of you is House?"
A/N: There is no gene to test for Schizophrenia. That's me making shit up hahaha. I needed to simplify it because in reality they look at a bunch of different genes to find out whether someone is likely to have it, but it's not a 100% definitive.
Also just in case you forgot the file folder colors from the show, red is clinic, blue is diagnostics, purple is oncology. I made it so yellow is urology and green is psychiatry, too.