![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Seventeen: When Greg Got Better
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: After the Ketamine, House’s life may finally be getting better, but Wilson is worried about what comes next.
Warning: We’re moving toward the third season events here. (Not yet, but soon.)
Sample: Maybe, she thought, without pain Greg could finally find some peace. He hadn't known peace for so long that she'd begun to fear he'd never have it, would never be happy. Maybe, in some way, the shooting would somehow give him a fresh start – could even turn into something good.
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
The last time, Greg left the hospital on crutches. The last time, just crossing the room seemed to steal all of his energy. The last time, Stacy was waiting for him at home.
Now Blythe watched him argue with James, saying he didn't need his cane.
"I didn't need it yesterday," he said, "I don't need it today."
James sighed, but didn't budge. He stood in front of Greg, the cane held out between them. "Yesterday, you walked down the hall. Twice."
"And today I'm just walking down the hall once." Greg sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Blythe thought he looked better than he had in weeks. He was still pale and too thin, but she'd seen him too many times in the past week in a pale hospital gown, lying flat against the white sheets, rarely moving, never responding.
They'd limited visits to his room as he slept, worried that too much noise and activity would disturb him.
"He'll know we're there?" Blythe had asked.
"It's a different kind of anesthesia," James had told them. He and Dr. Cuddy had sat with them in her office before they gave Greg the medicine that would put him to sleep for five days. "He'll be prone to dreams, to visions." James seemed to search for the right words, the ones that would tell them what was happening, but without confusing the issue with too many medical terms. Dr. Cuddy added her thoughts a few times, but let James do most of the talking.
"And this is supposed to be a good thing?" John hadn't been happy with the plan, especially when he heard that there were risks.
"Why risk anything?" he'd asked. "Why can't he just live with the way things are now?"
"It's ... " James seemed to struggle for his answer. "There are more risks to him continuing to take the pain medication he needs now," he finally said.
Blythe could see Dr. Cuddy watching James carefully. She'd seen the way Dr. Cuddy spoke to James, even how she'd balance her words with Greg -- gentle one moment, chiding him the next. Blythe could tell she cared about both Greg and James, even if she didn't say it.
"The risks with the Ketamine are minimal," Dr. Cuddy said.
John hadn't argued with them any more, though at night, away from the hospital, he told Blythe he was still worried. "It's not even legal here," he'd said.
"It's not illegal," Blythe had reminded him. "It just hasn't been studied here."
He'd stayed out of the room as Greg slept. No one had told him that he should – he hadn't even discussed it with Blythe – but they all seemed to know it would be for the best. Instead he'd stood at the door when Blythe was allowed to go in and sit quietly, always watching, never making a sound.
Greg hadn't let anyone other than James in the room after he woke up and was ready to take his first steps. When James slid the door open fifteen minutes later, Greg was back in bed, but Blythe saw the smile on his face. His eyes seemed clearer and she thought he even looked younger -- as if he'd shaken free of his nightmares during the past five days and was now coming back to life, becoming himself again.
Blythe had watched Greg walking the hall yesterday, judging his movement by every hint that James had ever given her. He was weak -- she could see that -- and his right leg wasn't as strong as the left. But he moved with confidence, seeming to gain more trust in his leg with every step.
"This is better?" John’s words were halfway between a statement and a question, as if he didn't trust his own judgment, and she nodded.
"He should see more improvement," James had told them as he stood nearby. "Without the nerve pain, he may be able to get more use out of the remaining muscle."
"How much more?" John asked.
James shrugged. "We don't know." He took a few steps to join Greg and keep pace with him from the end of the hall back to his room. "I guess we're going to find out."
Blythe would have let Greg leave the hospital without the cane, but was sure that James knew best.
"Maybe you'd prefer the wheelchair," James told Greg. "I’ll go get one, and, while I’m at it, maybe I could let a few people know, just so you can get a proper sendoff.”
Greg took the cane from James' hand and stood. "Fine," he said. "Can we go now? I want to get out of here before Cameron shows up and gets all teary again."
James smiled. "Absolutely."
The halls were still quiet as Greg led the way, and most of the rooms were still dark. He'd insisted on leaving early, and Blythe suspected it was to avoid visits from Dr. Cameron and the others -- maybe so they wouldn't try to compare the way he moved now to how he'd moved before, just as she'd been doing, and John had been doing, and James, and even Dr. Cuddy, who she'd seen standing quietly in the hallway, never saying anything, but smiling as she watched.
John was waiting back at the hotel. He'd said that he wanted to be there for Greg, but James had quietly said that Greg wanted to keep things low key. "He doesn't want to make a scene," he'd said.
"He always wants to make a scene," John had argued. "He just wants to control it."
James picked his words carefully, trying to find some explanation that John would accept. None of them said what they knew was true, that Greg would be happier without John there. And they'd all agreed to it because they wanted Greg to be happy.
"Once he gets settled in at home," James had said, and John nodded.
"I'll bring lunch." Blythe saw the frustration in John's eyes, the sadness that hid behind his words every time he tried – and failed – to connect with Greg, ever since he was a boy, when Greg quit football, when Greg rejected the military career John had thought he'd have, when Greg didn't return John's phone calls.
But he did seem more relaxed now than he had around John, walking side-by-side with James, the two of them so close their shoulders brushed together every few steps.
“Pizza,” he said, “and a couple of beers.”
“Did you miss the part where you’re still on a restricted diet?” James asked.
“Cuddy’s being too cautious. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you wake up at 2 a.m. with severe abdominal cramps.”
Maybe things really could change now, she thought. Blythe watched as Greg came to a stop in front of the elevator door. He leaned on the cane, but it was a pose that seemed to be more out of habit than need. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be happier. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be willing to talk to John. Without pain, maybe they could finally come to some understanding.
Maybe, she thought, without pain Greg could finally find some peace. He hadn't known peace for so long that she'd begun to fear he'd never have it, would never be happy. Maybe, in some way, the shooting would somehow give him a fresh start – could even turn into something good.
The elevator door opened and they stepped inside, Greg leaning against the back wall. James put the bag down and hit the button for the lobby. Blythe saw him look over at Greg, quickly scanning him. She expected to see him him happy, his attitude reflecting the light tone he’d had all morning. He wasn't. She looked over at Greg again, but couldn't see whatever it was that worried James.
She reached a hand toward him, her fingers making brief contact with James’ hand. He looked up at her and smiled, but didn’t say anything, instead turning away to watch the numbers count down. He picked up the bag as the light showed the lobby level.
Maybe, Blythe thought as she stepped out of the elevator, if Greg wasn’t in so much pain, James could finally be happy too.
-------------
“It’s a beautiful day.” Blythe turned from the windows and walked the few feet over to her son. “Come and take a walk with me.”
Wilson looked over from the kitchen doorway. He saw a flash of emotions cross House’s face in just an instant: curiosity, concern, worry, determination. Blythe held out her hand and he studied it, as if she held some secret in her palm.
“We won’t go far,” she said.
House hadn’t been outside since he came home three days ago, except for a few brief steps to get the paper. He’d only walked the halls at the hospital after most of the staff had gone for the day. At home, he’d stayed inside to walk laps around the apartment as he built up his stamina, testing himself and his leg to see what he could do now that the pain was gone.
He hadn’t been as strong as he’d hoped. The atrophied muscles hadn’t improved just because there was no more pain. He’d been frustrated that first night at home, grumbling to Wilson that he wasn’t tired, and didn’t need to go to sleep even as he dozed off on the couch after eating some soup.
“Just humor me,” Wilson had said and stood next to House to give him support if he needed it. “If you go sleep in your own bed, then I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t need a baby sitter,” House said. “You can go find your own bed somewhere else.” He pushed himself up, then stood still for a minute to settle himself on his feet before taking a step.
“We agreed,” Wilson reminded him. “It’s just for a couple of nights. Just to make sure.”
“Just to make sure that the Ketamine doesn’t wear off and I fall on my ass in the middle of the night,” House said, and turned to the bedroom. “It’s not going to happen.”
He’d been right. Again. Nothing had happened, and Wilson went back to his hotel after the second night.
And House had stayed home. Walking, building up his strength -- testing himself, Wilson thought to himself -- where no one else would see if he failed.
“Just around the block,” Blythe said. She still held her hand out. She and John would be leaving in the morning, heading back home. She hadn’t wanted to leave, but seemed to accept it when Wilson pointed out that her son didn’t want an audience for his recovery.
“Maybe he just wants to surprise me,” she’d said.
Wilson thought that maybe he just didn’t want to disappoint her either, though he didn’t tell her that.
But now she stood there, waiting for her son to do just one thing for her. Wilson wasn’t sure if House would accept her offer, and he wasn’t certain if he should. On the one hand, it would be good for House to take a few steps outside his comfort zone, outside the walls where he was in control. And it would be good for him to show both himself and Blythe that he was getting better. Then maybe she’d be able to go home, feeling happy.
On the other hand ... Wilson looked over at House. He’d read the case studies of the times when the treatment failed. Of the person whose pain returned just from a minor bump. And there was a lot outside to bump into.
House reached out and took Blythe’s hand. He stood. “I’ll take it easy on you, and we’ll go slow,” he said.
House stepped forward. His limp wasn’t as pronounced as it had been two weeks ago, before the shooting. He still favored his leg. There was still muscle missing that would never return, and he hadn’t forgotten yet the habits he’d developed over more than five years to cope: the way he stepped off more strongly with his left leg, the way his hip tilted to one side, the way his spine seemed to curve, and even the way he carried his shoulders, as if still using his right arm to hold up half of his body.
But without the pain, he stepped more firmly on his right. His gait was beginning to lengthen on the right, and even the sole of his right shoe seemed to make even contact with the ground.
House rounded the couch. “Don’t eat everything while we’re gone,” he said.
Wilson nodded. “The timer goes off in thirty minutes,” he said. “If you’re not back by then, we’re starting without you.”
As they moved to the door, Wilson caught sight of John sitting in the armchair at the end of the room. Blythe rested one hand on John’s shoulder for a moment. He looked up and her and smiled for a moment, but didn’t get up. He seemed to know, as Wilson did, that she wanted time alone with her son before they left.
Blythe took her cell phone out of her purse and put it in her pocket. “Just in case,” she said.
House rolled his eyes, paused at the door for a moment, then drew a cane out of the umbrella stand. He opened the door and waited for Blythe then pulled it shut behind him.
Wilson looked over to see John looking at the closed door for a moment longer, then he turned back to the magazine spread across his lap. He’d brought them from home and had been working his way through each one: “Leatherneck,” “Military History,” “Marine Times.” As he’d finished, he’d tossed each one onto the coffee table, forming a small pile that that Wilson thought seemed to mark off his own territory.
Wilson glanced back into the kitchen. The roast that Blythe had insisted on cooking for her own farewell dinner was in the oven. There was nothing there for him to do. He tossed the towel he’d been carrying onto the butcher block and walked over to the windows.
Blythe was right. It was a nice day. He looked out the window. He could see House and his mother as they made their way down the block. Blythe was doing the talking, her hands moving as she spoke. She occasionally reached over to lightly touch House’s arm or hand. House looked over at her as she spoke, but otherwise Wilson could only see his back. They were moving slowly, but House didn’t lean hard on the cane.
House stopped for a moment, and Wilson fought the urge to rush out the door and down the sidewalk to check on him. After a few moments, he stepped forward again, leading Blythe down the street.
“You don’t think it’ll work, do you?” John’s voice seemed loud in the quiet of the room.
“What?” John hadn’t spoken much even after they left the hospital, and it took Wilson a moment to figure out what he’d meant. “You mean the Ketamine treatment?”
John nodded.
“It’ll work. It has worked. It’s already worked,” Wilson said. “He hasn’t had any pain since he woke up.”
“But you think it won’t stick,” John said. He put his magazine aside and stared at Wilson. “You’re afraid it’ll come back, and things will be just as bad -- maybe even worse.”
Wilson stepped away from the window and tried not to think about what could happen when he wasn’t watching, if he wasn’t paying attention. “There’s a good chance that won’t happen.”
“Chances are just as good that it will,” John pointed out.
Wilson shook his head, though he knew John was right.
John sighed. He got up and went to the window. He looked out, though House and Blythe had already rounded the corner. “I’m worried too,” he said, “but I haven’t told Blythe. She wouldn’t understand.” He nodded at Wilson. “I think you do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you know what it’s like to expect the worst, even when you hope for the best,” he said. “And once you start thinking about everything that can go wrong, you can’t think of anything else.”
Wilson turned away from John to look out the window, but in the other direction, waiting to see House when he’d make the turn toward home.
“When you expect the worst, everything looks bad,” John said, “everything sounds bad.” He shook his head and walked away from the window again. He picked up his magazine. “And no matter how good things may seem, you always know how much worse things can be.”
John sat and Wilson tried to tell himself that he was wrong -- that he believed that the Ketamine really would work. But he knew that even if he could find a way to convince himself of that, he’d never be able to convince John that he was wrong.
“It’s good that you think that way,” John said, and Wilson glanced over at him again. “He needs someone to be ready to pick up the pieces, in case he’s wrong, and Blythe’s wrong and you and I are right.”
Chapter Seventeen: When Greg Got Better
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: After the Ketamine, House’s life may finally be getting better, but Wilson is worried about what comes next.
Warning: We’re moving toward the third season events here. (Not yet, but soon.)
Sample: Maybe, she thought, without pain Greg could finally find some peace. He hadn't known peace for so long that she'd begun to fear he'd never have it, would never be happy. Maybe, in some way, the shooting would somehow give him a fresh start – could even turn into something good.
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
The last time, Greg left the hospital on crutches. The last time, just crossing the room seemed to steal all of his energy. The last time, Stacy was waiting for him at home.
Now Blythe watched him argue with James, saying he didn't need his cane.
"I didn't need it yesterday," he said, "I don't need it today."
James sighed, but didn't budge. He stood in front of Greg, the cane held out between them. "Yesterday, you walked down the hall. Twice."
"And today I'm just walking down the hall once." Greg sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Blythe thought he looked better than he had in weeks. He was still pale and too thin, but she'd seen him too many times in the past week in a pale hospital gown, lying flat against the white sheets, rarely moving, never responding.
They'd limited visits to his room as he slept, worried that too much noise and activity would disturb him.
"He'll know we're there?" Blythe had asked.
"It's a different kind of anesthesia," James had told them. He and Dr. Cuddy had sat with them in her office before they gave Greg the medicine that would put him to sleep for five days. "He'll be prone to dreams, to visions." James seemed to search for the right words, the ones that would tell them what was happening, but without confusing the issue with too many medical terms. Dr. Cuddy added her thoughts a few times, but let James do most of the talking.
"And this is supposed to be a good thing?" John hadn't been happy with the plan, especially when he heard that there were risks.
"Why risk anything?" he'd asked. "Why can't he just live with the way things are now?"
"It's ... " James seemed to struggle for his answer. "There are more risks to him continuing to take the pain medication he needs now," he finally said.
Blythe could see Dr. Cuddy watching James carefully. She'd seen the way Dr. Cuddy spoke to James, even how she'd balance her words with Greg -- gentle one moment, chiding him the next. Blythe could tell she cared about both Greg and James, even if she didn't say it.
"The risks with the Ketamine are minimal," Dr. Cuddy said.
John hadn't argued with them any more, though at night, away from the hospital, he told Blythe he was still worried. "It's not even legal here," he'd said.
"It's not illegal," Blythe had reminded him. "It just hasn't been studied here."
He'd stayed out of the room as Greg slept. No one had told him that he should – he hadn't even discussed it with Blythe – but they all seemed to know it would be for the best. Instead he'd stood at the door when Blythe was allowed to go in and sit quietly, always watching, never making a sound.
Greg hadn't let anyone other than James in the room after he woke up and was ready to take his first steps. When James slid the door open fifteen minutes later, Greg was back in bed, but Blythe saw the smile on his face. His eyes seemed clearer and she thought he even looked younger -- as if he'd shaken free of his nightmares during the past five days and was now coming back to life, becoming himself again.
Blythe had watched Greg walking the hall yesterday, judging his movement by every hint that James had ever given her. He was weak -- she could see that -- and his right leg wasn't as strong as the left. But he moved with confidence, seeming to gain more trust in his leg with every step.
"This is better?" John’s words were halfway between a statement and a question, as if he didn't trust his own judgment, and she nodded.
"He should see more improvement," James had told them as he stood nearby. "Without the nerve pain, he may be able to get more use out of the remaining muscle."
"How much more?" John asked.
James shrugged. "We don't know." He took a few steps to join Greg and keep pace with him from the end of the hall back to his room. "I guess we're going to find out."
Blythe would have let Greg leave the hospital without the cane, but was sure that James knew best.
"Maybe you'd prefer the wheelchair," James told Greg. "I’ll go get one, and, while I’m at it, maybe I could let a few people know, just so you can get a proper sendoff.”
Greg took the cane from James' hand and stood. "Fine," he said. "Can we go now? I want to get out of here before Cameron shows up and gets all teary again."
James smiled. "Absolutely."
The halls were still quiet as Greg led the way, and most of the rooms were still dark. He'd insisted on leaving early, and Blythe suspected it was to avoid visits from Dr. Cameron and the others -- maybe so they wouldn't try to compare the way he moved now to how he'd moved before, just as she'd been doing, and John had been doing, and James, and even Dr. Cuddy, who she'd seen standing quietly in the hallway, never saying anything, but smiling as she watched.
John was waiting back at the hotel. He'd said that he wanted to be there for Greg, but James had quietly said that Greg wanted to keep things low key. "He doesn't want to make a scene," he'd said.
"He always wants to make a scene," John had argued. "He just wants to control it."
James picked his words carefully, trying to find some explanation that John would accept. None of them said what they knew was true, that Greg would be happier without John there. And they'd all agreed to it because they wanted Greg to be happy.
"Once he gets settled in at home," James had said, and John nodded.
"I'll bring lunch." Blythe saw the frustration in John's eyes, the sadness that hid behind his words every time he tried – and failed – to connect with Greg, ever since he was a boy, when Greg quit football, when Greg rejected the military career John had thought he'd have, when Greg didn't return John's phone calls.
But he did seem more relaxed now than he had around John, walking side-by-side with James, the two of them so close their shoulders brushed together every few steps.
“Pizza,” he said, “and a couple of beers.”
“Did you miss the part where you’re still on a restricted diet?” James asked.
“Cuddy’s being too cautious. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you wake up at 2 a.m. with severe abdominal cramps.”
Maybe things really could change now, she thought. Blythe watched as Greg came to a stop in front of the elevator door. He leaned on the cane, but it was a pose that seemed to be more out of habit than need. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be happier. If he wasn't in pain, maybe he'd be willing to talk to John. Without pain, maybe they could finally come to some understanding.
Maybe, she thought, without pain Greg could finally find some peace. He hadn't known peace for so long that she'd begun to fear he'd never have it, would never be happy. Maybe, in some way, the shooting would somehow give him a fresh start – could even turn into something good.
The elevator door opened and they stepped inside, Greg leaning against the back wall. James put the bag down and hit the button for the lobby. Blythe saw him look over at Greg, quickly scanning him. She expected to see him him happy, his attitude reflecting the light tone he’d had all morning. He wasn't. She looked over at Greg again, but couldn't see whatever it was that worried James.
She reached a hand toward him, her fingers making brief contact with James’ hand. He looked up at her and smiled, but didn’t say anything, instead turning away to watch the numbers count down. He picked up the bag as the light showed the lobby level.
Maybe, Blythe thought as she stepped out of the elevator, if Greg wasn’t in so much pain, James could finally be happy too.
-------------
“It’s a beautiful day.” Blythe turned from the windows and walked the few feet over to her son. “Come and take a walk with me.”
Wilson looked over from the kitchen doorway. He saw a flash of emotions cross House’s face in just an instant: curiosity, concern, worry, determination. Blythe held out her hand and he studied it, as if she held some secret in her palm.
“We won’t go far,” she said.
House hadn’t been outside since he came home three days ago, except for a few brief steps to get the paper. He’d only walked the halls at the hospital after most of the staff had gone for the day. At home, he’d stayed inside to walk laps around the apartment as he built up his stamina, testing himself and his leg to see what he could do now that the pain was gone.
He hadn’t been as strong as he’d hoped. The atrophied muscles hadn’t improved just because there was no more pain. He’d been frustrated that first night at home, grumbling to Wilson that he wasn’t tired, and didn’t need to go to sleep even as he dozed off on the couch after eating some soup.
“Just humor me,” Wilson had said and stood next to House to give him support if he needed it. “If you go sleep in your own bed, then I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t need a baby sitter,” House said. “You can go find your own bed somewhere else.” He pushed himself up, then stood still for a minute to settle himself on his feet before taking a step.
“We agreed,” Wilson reminded him. “It’s just for a couple of nights. Just to make sure.”
“Just to make sure that the Ketamine doesn’t wear off and I fall on my ass in the middle of the night,” House said, and turned to the bedroom. “It’s not going to happen.”
He’d been right. Again. Nothing had happened, and Wilson went back to his hotel after the second night.
And House had stayed home. Walking, building up his strength -- testing himself, Wilson thought to himself -- where no one else would see if he failed.
“Just around the block,” Blythe said. She still held her hand out. She and John would be leaving in the morning, heading back home. She hadn’t wanted to leave, but seemed to accept it when Wilson pointed out that her son didn’t want an audience for his recovery.
“Maybe he just wants to surprise me,” she’d said.
Wilson thought that maybe he just didn’t want to disappoint her either, though he didn’t tell her that.
But now she stood there, waiting for her son to do just one thing for her. Wilson wasn’t sure if House would accept her offer, and he wasn’t certain if he should. On the one hand, it would be good for House to take a few steps outside his comfort zone, outside the walls where he was in control. And it would be good for him to show both himself and Blythe that he was getting better. Then maybe she’d be able to go home, feeling happy.
On the other hand ... Wilson looked over at House. He’d read the case studies of the times when the treatment failed. Of the person whose pain returned just from a minor bump. And there was a lot outside to bump into.
House reached out and took Blythe’s hand. He stood. “I’ll take it easy on you, and we’ll go slow,” he said.
House stepped forward. His limp wasn’t as pronounced as it had been two weeks ago, before the shooting. He still favored his leg. There was still muscle missing that would never return, and he hadn’t forgotten yet the habits he’d developed over more than five years to cope: the way he stepped off more strongly with his left leg, the way his hip tilted to one side, the way his spine seemed to curve, and even the way he carried his shoulders, as if still using his right arm to hold up half of his body.
But without the pain, he stepped more firmly on his right. His gait was beginning to lengthen on the right, and even the sole of his right shoe seemed to make even contact with the ground.
House rounded the couch. “Don’t eat everything while we’re gone,” he said.
Wilson nodded. “The timer goes off in thirty minutes,” he said. “If you’re not back by then, we’re starting without you.”
As they moved to the door, Wilson caught sight of John sitting in the armchair at the end of the room. Blythe rested one hand on John’s shoulder for a moment. He looked up and her and smiled for a moment, but didn’t get up. He seemed to know, as Wilson did, that she wanted time alone with her son before they left.
Blythe took her cell phone out of her purse and put it in her pocket. “Just in case,” she said.
House rolled his eyes, paused at the door for a moment, then drew a cane out of the umbrella stand. He opened the door and waited for Blythe then pulled it shut behind him.
Wilson looked over to see John looking at the closed door for a moment longer, then he turned back to the magazine spread across his lap. He’d brought them from home and had been working his way through each one: “Leatherneck,” “Military History,” “Marine Times.” As he’d finished, he’d tossed each one onto the coffee table, forming a small pile that that Wilson thought seemed to mark off his own territory.
Wilson glanced back into the kitchen. The roast that Blythe had insisted on cooking for her own farewell dinner was in the oven. There was nothing there for him to do. He tossed the towel he’d been carrying onto the butcher block and walked over to the windows.
Blythe was right. It was a nice day. He looked out the window. He could see House and his mother as they made their way down the block. Blythe was doing the talking, her hands moving as she spoke. She occasionally reached over to lightly touch House’s arm or hand. House looked over at her as she spoke, but otherwise Wilson could only see his back. They were moving slowly, but House didn’t lean hard on the cane.
House stopped for a moment, and Wilson fought the urge to rush out the door and down the sidewalk to check on him. After a few moments, he stepped forward again, leading Blythe down the street.
“You don’t think it’ll work, do you?” John’s voice seemed loud in the quiet of the room.
“What?” John hadn’t spoken much even after they left the hospital, and it took Wilson a moment to figure out what he’d meant. “You mean the Ketamine treatment?”
John nodded.
“It’ll work. It has worked. It’s already worked,” Wilson said. “He hasn’t had any pain since he woke up.”
“But you think it won’t stick,” John said. He put his magazine aside and stared at Wilson. “You’re afraid it’ll come back, and things will be just as bad -- maybe even worse.”
Wilson stepped away from the window and tried not to think about what could happen when he wasn’t watching, if he wasn’t paying attention. “There’s a good chance that won’t happen.”
“Chances are just as good that it will,” John pointed out.
Wilson shook his head, though he knew John was right.
John sighed. He got up and went to the window. He looked out, though House and Blythe had already rounded the corner. “I’m worried too,” he said, “but I haven’t told Blythe. She wouldn’t understand.” He nodded at Wilson. “I think you do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you know what it’s like to expect the worst, even when you hope for the best,” he said. “And once you start thinking about everything that can go wrong, you can’t think of anything else.”
Wilson turned away from John to look out the window, but in the other direction, waiting to see House when he’d make the turn toward home.
“When you expect the worst, everything looks bad,” John said, “everything sounds bad.” He shook his head and walked away from the window again. He picked up his magazine. “And no matter how good things may seem, you always know how much worse things can be.”
John sat and Wilson tried to tell himself that he was wrong -- that he believed that the Ketamine really would work. But he knew that even if he could find a way to convince himself of that, he’d never be able to convince John that he was wrong.
“It’s good that you think that way,” John said, and Wilson glanced over at him again. “He needs someone to be ready to pick up the pieces, in case he’s wrong, and Blythe’s wrong and you and I are right.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-09 12:03 pm (UTC)