Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications, Part 18
Title: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Eighteen: When Greg Got Worse
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Blythe and John miss their chance at seeing the changes in their son’s life.
Warning: Spoilers through “Cane & Able.”
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
When Greg Went For A Visit
When They Weren’t Together
When John Took Blythe to Paris
When Wilson Lived With House
When Greg Was Shot
When Blythe Met Steve McQueen
When Greg Got Better
When Greg Got Worse
Blythe didn’t worry when Greg didn’t answer her call.
She didn’t worry when he didn’t return her call for two days.
When she called again, she got his answering machine again.
“Hi Honey, it’s me,” she said. “I was just calling to ...”
“Hi Mom.”
“Oh, you’re home.” Blythe smiled at the sound of his voice. She tried to imagine his face as he spoke. During the past month, his voice had sounded lighter and she’d pictured him as a younger version of himself -- maybe as the man he’d been seven years ago, when he’d first gotten together with Stacy, when he was strong -- or maybe as he’d been on the day that she’d first met James.
James had been the one to tell her how Greg had been doing, how he was walking further, how he’d put away the cane.
“I just got in,” Greg said. “I was out for a run.”
Blythe sighed and shook her head. She got up and walked a few steps toward the kitchen when she stopped. Greg didn’t have the mocking tone in his voice that she’d heard so many times. She turned around and stepped back.
“You’re serious aren’t you?” Blythe felt her heart leap. “You ran.”
“Technically, I don’t think you could call it running,” he said. “More of a jog -- a fast limp, maybe.”
“You ran,” Blythe repeated. She wished John was home so she could call him. She wanted to tell someone, to run out into the street and shout the news to the first person she saw. “You ran.”
Blythe suddenly found herself remembering the day Greg was born, the first time his eyes met hers and the way she had felt then that she would never be so happy again in her life. Now she was.
“You ran.”
“You keep saying that like it was some kind of a miracle,” Greg said. “It’s not a miracle, it’s science.”
“I know,” Blythe said, “but sometimes science gives us miracles, and maybe God gave us the science.”
“Actually the Germans gave us the science, and I’m pretty sure biology and sex gave us the Germans.”
Blythe laughed. “I’m not going to argue with you,” she said.
She heard his soft chuckle on the other end of the phone. She wished she was there to see him -- to see him run, to see him smile, to see him happy. “Maybe we could come for another visit,” she said.
Greg went silent.
“Not right now, but soon,” she added.
Greg still didn’t say anything. She wondered if he was trying to decide if a visit would be a good idea, or if he’d already decided against it, and just didn’t know how to tell her that.
“Maybe I’ll just come,” she said. “Your father has signed up for a golf tournament. He might be too busy.”
He hadn’t, but Blythe knew she could explain it to John later, if Greg would just agree.
“I don’t ... I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Greg said finally. “You just got home.”
“That’s all right.”
Greg was silent for a moment longer, then she heard him sigh. “Maybe sometime,” he said. “Just not yet. I need time.”
Time for what, Blythe wanted to ask him, but didn’t. Instead she asked James.
“I think,” James said, “I think he’s testing himself right now, and he doesn’t want anyone to see him until he has all the answers.”
“But I’ve seen him before,” Blythe said. “We both have.”
John wasn’t home yet. He still didn’t know what Greg had done -- how well he was doing. Blythe still felt the joy, the excitement, but it was all tinged now with something that seemed to dull the emotions, like clouds that had streamed in off the Gulf and blocked the sun. Everything was still bright -- but not as bright as it had been. As it could be.
“John will be so happy for him,” Blythe said. “He’ll be so proud.”
Blythe knew that James would understand just how important that could be for both John and Greg.
“You can talk him into it, can’t you?”
She heard the squeak of James’ desk chair on the other end of the line, and she could see him leaning back. Maybe he was staring at the ceiling or out the window as he tried to think of what to say.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You could try.”
Blythe heard the squeak again and she could picture him leaning forward now, his elbows on his desk.
“I don’t ...” She heard James take a deep breath. “I don’t think I should.”
They were both silent for a moment. Blythe felt a tear roll down her cheek and she wiped it away. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” James said.
“You’re sure?” Blythe hated the fact that her voice trembled when she spoke. She hated feeling as if she was begging.
“Maybe he needs time to figure all this out, on his own,” James said. His voice was quiet and Blythe wondered how often he’d had to run interference for Greg lately. How often he’d had to explain what was happening to other people who wanted to see him. She wondered if he’d allowed anyone from his team to visit.
“He lived with pain for a long time,” James said. “He knows how to handle people seeing him like that. Maybe he has to learn what it’s like to live without pain now for himself, before he’s ready to let other people see him again”
“But maybe he’ll be ready to see us again soon.” Blythe hoped James agreed with her, and she smiled when he said yes.
“A few weeks,” he said, “maybe a month, two months at the most.”
“Good,” Blythe said. “Good.” She nodded, and realized she’d stopped crying -- just as quickly as she’d seemed to have started. “I’m sure you’re right, James.”
“I’ll let you know, as soon as he’s ready.”
“Thank you,” Blythe said. She looked out the window and smiled as she saw John’s car pull into the parking lot. “I’m glad you’re there, James. I can always trust you.”
--------------
Wilson stood on the balcony and watched House walk down the sidewalk and across the parking lot. He was limping worse that had been that morning, worse than that afternoon, worse than even an hour ago when House had come into his office and laid Wilson’s guilt out before him.
Wilson had been wrong about everything. He’d been wrong to tell Cuddy to lie. He’d been wrong to hope that every twinge had been temporary. He’d been wrong to think he could somehow cure House of his misery by making him humble, when it was clear now that the hubris was his.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been wrong to tell Blythe and John to wait. They should have seen House then, as he was -- even if it was just for a few weeks. He’d been wrong not to push House to see them.
He wondered what John would have thought if he’d seen his son just a few weeks ago: running, pushing himself harder and harder, testing every muscle. Maybe John would have understood then just how much House had been through. Maybe he’d finally find something to praise him about -- and even tell House himself.
Then he shook his head. Their problems had nothing to do with House’s leg or his pain. It began long before the surgery or the drugs. John knew what he was like before the infarction, and had never found reason to praise him then, had never even tried. There was no reason to believe anything would have changed now.
Wilson heard the sound of House’s motorcycle and looked across the parking lot to see him take off and speed out and onto the road. He’d been wrong to believe that the Ketamine really had worked -- that everything could be good again.
He shivered a little and rubbed his arms. It was getting chilly now that the sun had gone down. Sometime in the past few days, the seasons had somehow slipped from summer to fall without his seeming to notice it, and he missed the heat. He missed the sunny afternoons when House called him to brag about how far he’d gone, and the humid mornings when House woke him up to go golfing at some new spot.
One day they’d been halfway through the back nine when a thunderstorm blew in from the west without warning. Wilson had told him they needed to go back to the clubhouse, but House had laughed and he ran out onto the green, splashing through puddles.
“Don’t be such a wuss,” he’d said. “This won’t last for long.”
Wilson wondered now if he’d meant the storm, or if House had guessed then that the pain would return -- that all he’d have were a few weeks, just one short summer -- and he didn’t want to waste any time.
He shivered again and told himself that he was just being melancholy. There was no way House could have known. Not for certain. There was no way anyone could have known that it would all go bad, so fast.
But Blythe and John should have seen him then.
Two days later, he tried not to stare at House’s cane when House walked into his office. He’d noticed how easily House had picked up all his habits again when he had the cane in his hand: tapping it against furniture and the floor, twirling it, using it to emphasize every point. It was like it had never been gone -- as if it had been there the whole time, just waiting at the side of his desk for him to pick it up again.
“I need a favor,” House said.
“Are you asking me for a favor or demanding one?”
“Does it matter?”
Wilson shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Depends on what it is.”
House didn’t sit, just walked over to the balcony door and stared out. “I need you to call her,” he said. “You need to tell her.”
“House, no.” Wilson knew who House meant without saying her name. “I can’t.”
“Are you saying my mother doesn’t need to know?”
“Of course she should,” Wilson said. “Just ... she should hear it from you.”
“But you’re so good at giving people bad news.” House turned away from the window and took two steps toward Wilson. He planted his cane between his legs. He placed both hands on the handle and leaned forward -- another old habit that had returned, Wilson thought. “This should be second nature for you.”
“House ...”
“I’ll give you ten bucks, even if she doesn’t thank you.”
“Don’t make me do this.”
“Why not? You owe me.”
Wilson shook his head. “Because,” he said, “because I’ve screwed up everything else lately.”
House raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you owe me.”
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. He had no idea what he’d say, no idea what he could tell Blythe that wouldn’t make things worse. She’d only worry if she heard the news from him, worry that her son was too angry, too scared, too upset to call himself. He didn’t know if there was anything he could say that would assure her that wasn’t true. Maybe it was true.
“Why don’t you want to tell her yourself?”
House turned away from Wilson. He went back to the window and looked out. It was clear and warm outside, a reminder of the summer that had just passed.
“I just don’t want to,” House said.
“Why not?”
House shook his head slightly. His left hand out reached out to play with the blinds, idling flipping them open and closed. “I don’t want to disappoint her again,” he said softly.
“House, you’re not going to disappoint her. You never have.”
House shook his head slightly. He pushed open the door to the balcony. “Just make the call,” he said, and walked out.
Wilson waited until the end of the day to call Pensacola, hoping that some idea of what to say would somehow announce itself. When he finally called, the answering machine picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
He tried again an hour later, and heard Blythe’s voice.
“Hello, Blythe,” he said. “It’s James.”
She was quiet on the other end of the line, and he took a breath, finally deciding he’d just give her the news straight out, but she spoke first.
“His pain is back, isn’t it?” Blythe waited for his answer, but she sounded as if she was sure of what he’d say.
Wilson leaned forward. He thought that he should be ashamed of himself for being grateful he didn’t have to tell her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “How did you know?”
He could hear the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor, and he pictured her pulling out a kitchen chair to sit. “You’ll think it’s silly,” she said.
“No I won’t.”
“I had a dream,” she said. “It was nothing special. I think it was when we were living in California the second time. I don’t even remember all the details, but Greg was using his cane.” Wilson heard her take a deep breath. “He’s never had a cane in any of my dreams before, even after he got sick, even after he’d used one for years.”
Wilson never remembered his dreams. Maybe that was for the best. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Blythe said.
Wilson tried not to think about everything that was his fault. “I wish you’d seen him.”
“So do I, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” she said. “Can’t he try it again? It worked last time, maybe ...”
“He doesn’t want to.” Wilson had gone over all the options with House even before the treatment failed, including the possibility of another dose. House insisted he hadn’t changed his mind in the last few days. “He says that if it didn’t stick the first time, there’s no reason to expect it’ll work the second time.”
Blythe was quiet, and Wilson gave her time to think. He’d learned that whenever she went silent, it was because she was working something out in her mind, trying to put it into words. If she was there, in the room with him, maybe he could have read her thoughts just from her expression.
“Did he ask you to call me?”
Wilson nodded. “Yes.”
“Then he knows I’ll be calling,” she said.
Wilson knew she was right. House would probably be expecting her call. He was probably wondering why she hadn’t called yet. “He should be home by now,” he said.
“Good.”
She was quiet again, and Wilson waited.
“James,” she finally said, “just tell me something. Was he happy?”
Wilson pictured House out in the rainstorm, running up stairs, balancing on a skateboard. He tried not to remind himself of House sitting alone, in his office, thinking that he’d been wrong -- not knowing he’d been right, not knowing then what Wilson had done.
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “I think he was.”
Blythe sighed. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Chapter Eighteen: When Greg Got Worse
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Blythe and John miss their chance at seeing the changes in their son’s life.
Warning: Spoilers through “Cane & Able.”
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
When Greg Went For A Visit
When They Weren’t Together
When John Took Blythe to Paris
When Wilson Lived With House
When Greg Was Shot
When Blythe Met Steve McQueen
When Greg Got Better
When Greg Got Worse
Blythe didn’t worry when Greg didn’t answer her call.
She didn’t worry when he didn’t return her call for two days.
When she called again, she got his answering machine again.
“Hi Honey, it’s me,” she said. “I was just calling to ...”
“Hi Mom.”
“Oh, you’re home.” Blythe smiled at the sound of his voice. She tried to imagine his face as he spoke. During the past month, his voice had sounded lighter and she’d pictured him as a younger version of himself -- maybe as the man he’d been seven years ago, when he’d first gotten together with Stacy, when he was strong -- or maybe as he’d been on the day that she’d first met James.
James had been the one to tell her how Greg had been doing, how he was walking further, how he’d put away the cane.
“I just got in,” Greg said. “I was out for a run.”
Blythe sighed and shook her head. She got up and walked a few steps toward the kitchen when she stopped. Greg didn’t have the mocking tone in his voice that she’d heard so many times. She turned around and stepped back.
“You’re serious aren’t you?” Blythe felt her heart leap. “You ran.”
“Technically, I don’t think you could call it running,” he said. “More of a jog -- a fast limp, maybe.”
“You ran,” Blythe repeated. She wished John was home so she could call him. She wanted to tell someone, to run out into the street and shout the news to the first person she saw. “You ran.”
Blythe suddenly found herself remembering the day Greg was born, the first time his eyes met hers and the way she had felt then that she would never be so happy again in her life. Now she was.
“You ran.”
“You keep saying that like it was some kind of a miracle,” Greg said. “It’s not a miracle, it’s science.”
“I know,” Blythe said, “but sometimes science gives us miracles, and maybe God gave us the science.”
“Actually the Germans gave us the science, and I’m pretty sure biology and sex gave us the Germans.”
Blythe laughed. “I’m not going to argue with you,” she said.
She heard his soft chuckle on the other end of the phone. She wished she was there to see him -- to see him run, to see him smile, to see him happy. “Maybe we could come for another visit,” she said.
Greg went silent.
“Not right now, but soon,” she added.
Greg still didn’t say anything. She wondered if he was trying to decide if a visit would be a good idea, or if he’d already decided against it, and just didn’t know how to tell her that.
“Maybe I’ll just come,” she said. “Your father has signed up for a golf tournament. He might be too busy.”
He hadn’t, but Blythe knew she could explain it to John later, if Greg would just agree.
“I don’t ... I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Greg said finally. “You just got home.”
“That’s all right.”
Greg was silent for a moment longer, then she heard him sigh. “Maybe sometime,” he said. “Just not yet. I need time.”
Time for what, Blythe wanted to ask him, but didn’t. Instead she asked James.
“I think,” James said, “I think he’s testing himself right now, and he doesn’t want anyone to see him until he has all the answers.”
“But I’ve seen him before,” Blythe said. “We both have.”
John wasn’t home yet. He still didn’t know what Greg had done -- how well he was doing. Blythe still felt the joy, the excitement, but it was all tinged now with something that seemed to dull the emotions, like clouds that had streamed in off the Gulf and blocked the sun. Everything was still bright -- but not as bright as it had been. As it could be.
“John will be so happy for him,” Blythe said. “He’ll be so proud.”
Blythe knew that James would understand just how important that could be for both John and Greg.
“You can talk him into it, can’t you?”
She heard the squeak of James’ desk chair on the other end of the line, and she could see him leaning back. Maybe he was staring at the ceiling or out the window as he tried to think of what to say.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You could try.”
Blythe heard the squeak again and she could picture him leaning forward now, his elbows on his desk.
“I don’t ...” She heard James take a deep breath. “I don’t think I should.”
They were both silent for a moment. Blythe felt a tear roll down her cheek and she wiped it away. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” James said.
“You’re sure?” Blythe hated the fact that her voice trembled when she spoke. She hated feeling as if she was begging.
“Maybe he needs time to figure all this out, on his own,” James said. His voice was quiet and Blythe wondered how often he’d had to run interference for Greg lately. How often he’d had to explain what was happening to other people who wanted to see him. She wondered if he’d allowed anyone from his team to visit.
“He lived with pain for a long time,” James said. “He knows how to handle people seeing him like that. Maybe he has to learn what it’s like to live without pain now for himself, before he’s ready to let other people see him again”
“But maybe he’ll be ready to see us again soon.” Blythe hoped James agreed with her, and she smiled when he said yes.
“A few weeks,” he said, “maybe a month, two months at the most.”
“Good,” Blythe said. “Good.” She nodded, and realized she’d stopped crying -- just as quickly as she’d seemed to have started. “I’m sure you’re right, James.”
“I’ll let you know, as soon as he’s ready.”
“Thank you,” Blythe said. She looked out the window and smiled as she saw John’s car pull into the parking lot. “I’m glad you’re there, James. I can always trust you.”
--------------
Wilson stood on the balcony and watched House walk down the sidewalk and across the parking lot. He was limping worse that had been that morning, worse than that afternoon, worse than even an hour ago when House had come into his office and laid Wilson’s guilt out before him.
Wilson had been wrong about everything. He’d been wrong to tell Cuddy to lie. He’d been wrong to hope that every twinge had been temporary. He’d been wrong to think he could somehow cure House of his misery by making him humble, when it was clear now that the hubris was his.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d been wrong to tell Blythe and John to wait. They should have seen House then, as he was -- even if it was just for a few weeks. He’d been wrong not to push House to see them.
He wondered what John would have thought if he’d seen his son just a few weeks ago: running, pushing himself harder and harder, testing every muscle. Maybe John would have understood then just how much House had been through. Maybe he’d finally find something to praise him about -- and even tell House himself.
Then he shook his head. Their problems had nothing to do with House’s leg or his pain. It began long before the surgery or the drugs. John knew what he was like before the infarction, and had never found reason to praise him then, had never even tried. There was no reason to believe anything would have changed now.
Wilson heard the sound of House’s motorcycle and looked across the parking lot to see him take off and speed out and onto the road. He’d been wrong to believe that the Ketamine really had worked -- that everything could be good again.
He shivered a little and rubbed his arms. It was getting chilly now that the sun had gone down. Sometime in the past few days, the seasons had somehow slipped from summer to fall without his seeming to notice it, and he missed the heat. He missed the sunny afternoons when House called him to brag about how far he’d gone, and the humid mornings when House woke him up to go golfing at some new spot.
One day they’d been halfway through the back nine when a thunderstorm blew in from the west without warning. Wilson had told him they needed to go back to the clubhouse, but House had laughed and he ran out onto the green, splashing through puddles.
“Don’t be such a wuss,” he’d said. “This won’t last for long.”
Wilson wondered now if he’d meant the storm, or if House had guessed then that the pain would return -- that all he’d have were a few weeks, just one short summer -- and he didn’t want to waste any time.
He shivered again and told himself that he was just being melancholy. There was no way House could have known. Not for certain. There was no way anyone could have known that it would all go bad, so fast.
But Blythe and John should have seen him then.
Two days later, he tried not to stare at House’s cane when House walked into his office. He’d noticed how easily House had picked up all his habits again when he had the cane in his hand: tapping it against furniture and the floor, twirling it, using it to emphasize every point. It was like it had never been gone -- as if it had been there the whole time, just waiting at the side of his desk for him to pick it up again.
“I need a favor,” House said.
“Are you asking me for a favor or demanding one?”
“Does it matter?”
Wilson shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Depends on what it is.”
House didn’t sit, just walked over to the balcony door and stared out. “I need you to call her,” he said. “You need to tell her.”
“House, no.” Wilson knew who House meant without saying her name. “I can’t.”
“Are you saying my mother doesn’t need to know?”
“Of course she should,” Wilson said. “Just ... she should hear it from you.”
“But you’re so good at giving people bad news.” House turned away from the window and took two steps toward Wilson. He planted his cane between his legs. He placed both hands on the handle and leaned forward -- another old habit that had returned, Wilson thought. “This should be second nature for you.”
“House ...”
“I’ll give you ten bucks, even if she doesn’t thank you.”
“Don’t make me do this.”
“Why not? You owe me.”
Wilson shook his head. “Because,” he said, “because I’ve screwed up everything else lately.”
House raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you owe me.”
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. He had no idea what he’d say, no idea what he could tell Blythe that wouldn’t make things worse. She’d only worry if she heard the news from him, worry that her son was too angry, too scared, too upset to call himself. He didn’t know if there was anything he could say that would assure her that wasn’t true. Maybe it was true.
“Why don’t you want to tell her yourself?”
House turned away from Wilson. He went back to the window and looked out. It was clear and warm outside, a reminder of the summer that had just passed.
“I just don’t want to,” House said.
“Why not?”
House shook his head slightly. His left hand out reached out to play with the blinds, idling flipping them open and closed. “I don’t want to disappoint her again,” he said softly.
“House, you’re not going to disappoint her. You never have.”
House shook his head slightly. He pushed open the door to the balcony. “Just make the call,” he said, and walked out.
Wilson waited until the end of the day to call Pensacola, hoping that some idea of what to say would somehow announce itself. When he finally called, the answering machine picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
He tried again an hour later, and heard Blythe’s voice.
“Hello, Blythe,” he said. “It’s James.”
She was quiet on the other end of the line, and he took a breath, finally deciding he’d just give her the news straight out, but she spoke first.
“His pain is back, isn’t it?” Blythe waited for his answer, but she sounded as if she was sure of what he’d say.
Wilson leaned forward. He thought that he should be ashamed of himself for being grateful he didn’t have to tell her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “How did you know?”
He could hear the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor, and he pictured her pulling out a kitchen chair to sit. “You’ll think it’s silly,” she said.
“No I won’t.”
“I had a dream,” she said. “It was nothing special. I think it was when we were living in California the second time. I don’t even remember all the details, but Greg was using his cane.” Wilson heard her take a deep breath. “He’s never had a cane in any of my dreams before, even after he got sick, even after he’d used one for years.”
Wilson never remembered his dreams. Maybe that was for the best. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Blythe said.
Wilson tried not to think about everything that was his fault. “I wish you’d seen him.”
“So do I, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” she said. “Can’t he try it again? It worked last time, maybe ...”
“He doesn’t want to.” Wilson had gone over all the options with House even before the treatment failed, including the possibility of another dose. House insisted he hadn’t changed his mind in the last few days. “He says that if it didn’t stick the first time, there’s no reason to expect it’ll work the second time.”
Blythe was quiet, and Wilson gave her time to think. He’d learned that whenever she went silent, it was because she was working something out in her mind, trying to put it into words. If she was there, in the room with him, maybe he could have read her thoughts just from her expression.
“Did he ask you to call me?”
Wilson nodded. “Yes.”
“Then he knows I’ll be calling,” she said.
Wilson knew she was right. House would probably be expecting her call. He was probably wondering why she hadn’t called yet. “He should be home by now,” he said.
“Good.”
She was quiet again, and Wilson waited.
“James,” she finally said, “just tell me something. Was he happy?”
Wilson pictured House out in the rainstorm, running up stairs, balancing on a skateboard. He tried not to remind himself of House sitting alone, in his office, thinking that he’d been wrong -- not knowing he’d been right, not knowing then what Wilson had done.
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “I think he was.”
Blythe sighed. “Then that’s all that matters.”