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namasteNew Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Two: When Greg Got Sick
Author: Namaste
Rating:Gen
There was no discussion about validation, about parking, about what was fair, the next time they flew to New Jersey.
John picked up the rental car at the reservation counter in Newark and they drove in near silence to Princeton. Blythe couldn’t remember if it was sunny or gray that morning. She passed the miles the same way she’d spent the night on the plane, saying silent prayers.
James met them outside the doors to the intensive care unit.
“He’s sleeping,” James said. He motioned toward the waiting room. “Why don’t we step in there, I can ...”
“No.” Blythe was surprised to hear the word come out of her mouth. “I need to see him. Please. Just for a minute.”
She felt John’s hand encircle hers. She felt him squeeze her hand. “Please,” John said.
James looked at them both, then nodded. He led the way through the double doors into the ICU, then paused outside the glass doors at a room across from the nurse’s station.
“Just for a minute,” he said, and slid open the door.
Blythe stepped in slowly, not sure what to expect. Greg didn’t react to the sound of the door, and James mentioned something about the amount of medication he was on. He looked thin, and Blythe was surprised at how much older he looked lying there. She reminded herself that Greg’s hair started getting some gray in it a few years ago, but he’d always been in motion before, his body trying to keep up with the speed of his brain. Now, unmoving, there was nothing to distract her attention. No smile or wink or even an exaggerated rolling of his eyes in frustration to hide the lines that she now saw beginning to appear around his eyes. She suddenly felt older herself, feeling the weight of her years for the first time.
John stopped at the foot of the bed, and she let go of his hand, placing it instead on Greg’s still hand, taking comfort in feeling the warmth of his fingers beneath her own. He reacted slightly to the touch, his thumb moving to brush against her hand, though he didn’t wake. She was reminded of when he was a baby, and would grip tight to her finger.
She stepped up against the mattress and leaned down toward him. “Greg, honey, I’m here,” she whispered in his ear. She placed her other hand against his cheek, kissed him softly on the forehead. He took a deep breath. Blythe thought she heard him mumble the word “Mom,” but it might have been moan. He took another breath, then sank back into deep sleep.
Blythe felt a touch on her sleeve, and looked up to see James standing there. He didn’t say anything, but she could read the look on his face. She stepped away again, back toward the door.
She paused at the entrance to the room. John still stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes focused on Greg’s face. Finally James stepped next to him, nodded, and John turned away, followed Blythe to the doorway. James took one last look into the room, then slid the door shut behind them.
James led them to his office. “We’ll have more privacy,” he said. He offered them coffee and Blythe sat quietly. John ignored the chairs, instead he stood at the window. He hadn’t said anything since he first saw Greg, but Blythe could sense the emotions rolling off him: worry, anger, fear.
James returned with their coffee and put it on the desk. Blythe picked hers up, feeling the heat through the paper cup as she listened to James explain what had happened. A clot, muscle damage, surgery. He looked down at his own desk at one point, seemed to gather his thoughts in silence for a moment before moving on in the story. He was holding something back, Blythe thought. She guessed it had been worse than he was telling them, had been worse than she had imagined even.
She watched his face as he spoke, saw the way he watched her, watched John’s reactions. Blythe knew he wasn’t telling them everything, but decided to trust him.
“But, he’ll be all right now, won’t he?” she asked.
James paused, and she felt the fear build again. “For the most part, yes,” he finally said. “He’ll live, he’ll go home, he’ll complain about his patients.” He leaned forward toward her. “But you need to understand. There was a lot of damage to his leg. It’s too soon to say yet how extensive that damage was.”
“Will he...” Blythe closed her eyes, tried to picture Greg as he used to be, tried to will a snatch of memory of him running down the hall in some anonymous base housing, sliding along the linoleum floor in his socks. All she could see was him in that bed upstairs. “Will he walk again?”
James looked down at his own hands. Blythe thought she could almost see her question roaming through his brain as he considered what could happen -- the good and the bad. She wondered if she would have been happier if he’d just smiled and given her an empty promise. She was glad he hadn’t. Finally James looked up. He didn’t seem as tired as he’d been just a few moments earlier, and Blythe felt hope rise in her, even as he said there were no guarantees.
“But,” James said, “I wouldn’t bet against him.”
John headed back to California the day after they moved Greg out of intensive care. He made excuses that his men needed him, that he couldn’t trust his XO on his own for more than a few days.
“The man’s an idiot,” John said and Blythe saw Greg nod slightly.
“I know the type,” Greg said.
John held out his hand and Greg stared at it for a moment before he took it. John put his other hand on the top of their clasped hands, the closest Blythe knew he’d ever get to giving a hug. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” he said.
James stood at the far end of the room, dressed casually this time in jeans and a t-shirt. He had the night off and insisted on driving John to the airport, so Blythe could keep using the rental. Blythe could see him take in the awkward handshake, saw him wince when John stepped away from the bed and Greg allowed his hand to drop back down onto the mattress.
-----------------
“You probably think I’m an ass,” John House said. It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the hospital thirty minutes earlier.
Wilson glanced over at him. “Why would I ...”
“For leaving,” the Colonel said. “My son almost dies, and I leave after paying a quick social call.”
“I don’t think that,” Wilson said. “He’s stable, and you need to get back.”
“No, I don’t,” the Colonel said. “At least not right now. I could stay longer.”
Wilson looked at him again. The Colonel stared straight out the window, not bothering to look his way. “You probably hate me, just like he does,” John said.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Wilson said, but the Colonel didn’t answer.
Wilson flicked the blinker, pulled into the left lane and passed a sedan going five miles under the speed limit. It was quiet in the car for a minute, two minutes, three.
“I’m not like you, Wilson,” the Colonel finally said. “The Corps is good at teaching men how to kick ass. It’s not so good at telling them how to hold someone’s hand and tell them they’re going to be all right. Maybe that’s the one thing my son and I have in common.”
Wilson wasn’t sure if he wanted to make the Colonel feel better. He thought about telling him that it wasn’t too late, that they could still head back to Princeton, book a later flight. He thought about telling him it might mean something to House if his father stayed, but he didn’t. House needed support, and Wilson wasn’t sure if his father was willing to actually provide that -- or if House would be willing to take it from him.
“I don’t think your son would want a lot of people hovering over him anyway,” he finally said, knowing that at least that much was true. “Maybe he’ll do better without an audience.”
Wilson saw the Colonel nod, then he fell back into silence. Another ten minutes, and he took the exit for the airport, followed the stream of traffic to the terminal. He stopped the car, popped open the trunk and the Colonel pulled out his bag.
“Thank you Wilson,” he said, and held out his hand. Wilson took it, felt the strong grip. “And not just for the ride.”
“Anytime,” he said.
The Colonel turned and walked into the building without looking back.
Chapter Two: When Greg Got Sick
Author: Namaste
Rating:Gen
There was no discussion about validation, about parking, about what was fair, the next time they flew to New Jersey.
John picked up the rental car at the reservation counter in Newark and they drove in near silence to Princeton. Blythe couldn’t remember if it was sunny or gray that morning. She passed the miles the same way she’d spent the night on the plane, saying silent prayers.
James met them outside the doors to the intensive care unit.
“He’s sleeping,” James said. He motioned toward the waiting room. “Why don’t we step in there, I can ...”
“No.” Blythe was surprised to hear the word come out of her mouth. “I need to see him. Please. Just for a minute.”
She felt John’s hand encircle hers. She felt him squeeze her hand. “Please,” John said.
James looked at them both, then nodded. He led the way through the double doors into the ICU, then paused outside the glass doors at a room across from the nurse’s station.
“Just for a minute,” he said, and slid open the door.
Blythe stepped in slowly, not sure what to expect. Greg didn’t react to the sound of the door, and James mentioned something about the amount of medication he was on. He looked thin, and Blythe was surprised at how much older he looked lying there. She reminded herself that Greg’s hair started getting some gray in it a few years ago, but he’d always been in motion before, his body trying to keep up with the speed of his brain. Now, unmoving, there was nothing to distract her attention. No smile or wink or even an exaggerated rolling of his eyes in frustration to hide the lines that she now saw beginning to appear around his eyes. She suddenly felt older herself, feeling the weight of her years for the first time.
John stopped at the foot of the bed, and she let go of his hand, placing it instead on Greg’s still hand, taking comfort in feeling the warmth of his fingers beneath her own. He reacted slightly to the touch, his thumb moving to brush against her hand, though he didn’t wake. She was reminded of when he was a baby, and would grip tight to her finger.
She stepped up against the mattress and leaned down toward him. “Greg, honey, I’m here,” she whispered in his ear. She placed her other hand against his cheek, kissed him softly on the forehead. He took a deep breath. Blythe thought she heard him mumble the word “Mom,” but it might have been moan. He took another breath, then sank back into deep sleep.
Blythe felt a touch on her sleeve, and looked up to see James standing there. He didn’t say anything, but she could read the look on his face. She stepped away again, back toward the door.
She paused at the entrance to the room. John still stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes focused on Greg’s face. Finally James stepped next to him, nodded, and John turned away, followed Blythe to the doorway. James took one last look into the room, then slid the door shut behind them.
James led them to his office. “We’ll have more privacy,” he said. He offered them coffee and Blythe sat quietly. John ignored the chairs, instead he stood at the window. He hadn’t said anything since he first saw Greg, but Blythe could sense the emotions rolling off him: worry, anger, fear.
James returned with their coffee and put it on the desk. Blythe picked hers up, feeling the heat through the paper cup as she listened to James explain what had happened. A clot, muscle damage, surgery. He looked down at his own desk at one point, seemed to gather his thoughts in silence for a moment before moving on in the story. He was holding something back, Blythe thought. She guessed it had been worse than he was telling them, had been worse than she had imagined even.
She watched his face as he spoke, saw the way he watched her, watched John’s reactions. Blythe knew he wasn’t telling them everything, but decided to trust him.
“But, he’ll be all right now, won’t he?” she asked.
James paused, and she felt the fear build again. “For the most part, yes,” he finally said. “He’ll live, he’ll go home, he’ll complain about his patients.” He leaned forward toward her. “But you need to understand. There was a lot of damage to his leg. It’s too soon to say yet how extensive that damage was.”
“Will he...” Blythe closed her eyes, tried to picture Greg as he used to be, tried to will a snatch of memory of him running down the hall in some anonymous base housing, sliding along the linoleum floor in his socks. All she could see was him in that bed upstairs. “Will he walk again?”
James looked down at his own hands. Blythe thought she could almost see her question roaming through his brain as he considered what could happen -- the good and the bad. She wondered if she would have been happier if he’d just smiled and given her an empty promise. She was glad he hadn’t. Finally James looked up. He didn’t seem as tired as he’d been just a few moments earlier, and Blythe felt hope rise in her, even as he said there were no guarantees.
“But,” James said, “I wouldn’t bet against him.”
John headed back to California the day after they moved Greg out of intensive care. He made excuses that his men needed him, that he couldn’t trust his XO on his own for more than a few days.
“The man’s an idiot,” John said and Blythe saw Greg nod slightly.
“I know the type,” Greg said.
John held out his hand and Greg stared at it for a moment before he took it. John put his other hand on the top of their clasped hands, the closest Blythe knew he’d ever get to giving a hug. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” he said.
James stood at the far end of the room, dressed casually this time in jeans and a t-shirt. He had the night off and insisted on driving John to the airport, so Blythe could keep using the rental. Blythe could see him take in the awkward handshake, saw him wince when John stepped away from the bed and Greg allowed his hand to drop back down onto the mattress.
-----------------
“You probably think I’m an ass,” John House said. It was the first time he’d spoken since they left the hospital thirty minutes earlier.
Wilson glanced over at him. “Why would I ...”
“For leaving,” the Colonel said. “My son almost dies, and I leave after paying a quick social call.”
“I don’t think that,” Wilson said. “He’s stable, and you need to get back.”
“No, I don’t,” the Colonel said. “At least not right now. I could stay longer.”
Wilson looked at him again. The Colonel stared straight out the window, not bothering to look his way. “You probably hate me, just like he does,” John said.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Wilson said, but the Colonel didn’t answer.
Wilson flicked the blinker, pulled into the left lane and passed a sedan going five miles under the speed limit. It was quiet in the car for a minute, two minutes, three.
“I’m not like you, Wilson,” the Colonel finally said. “The Corps is good at teaching men how to kick ass. It’s not so good at telling them how to hold someone’s hand and tell them they’re going to be all right. Maybe that’s the one thing my son and I have in common.”
Wilson wasn’t sure if he wanted to make the Colonel feel better. He thought about telling him that it wasn’t too late, that they could still head back to Princeton, book a later flight. He thought about telling him it might mean something to House if his father stayed, but he didn’t. House needed support, and Wilson wasn’t sure if his father was willing to actually provide that -- or if House would be willing to take it from him.
“I don’t think your son would want a lot of people hovering over him anyway,” he finally said, knowing that at least that much was true. “Maybe he’ll do better without an audience.”
Wilson saw the Colonel nod, then he fell back into silence. Another ten minutes, and he took the exit for the airport, followed the stream of traffic to the terminal. He stopped the car, popped open the trunk and the Colonel pulled out his bag.
“Thank you Wilson,” he said, and held out his hand. Wilson took it, felt the strong grip. “And not just for the ride.”
“Anytime,” he said.
The Colonel turned and walked into the building without looking back.