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Double Down
by michelleann68
It's 7:16 pm on a Friday night. Here I am sitting in Greg's house flipping through old People Magazines. Dinner went well. The easy conversation returned as we swapped "clinic" duty stories. It was nice to see some light return to his eyes. For, too long, they only held darkness. I am still not sure why I am here, or if anything will ever really change our relationship. The battles rage on, he pushes but I never leave, What I do know is, that if given a choice to be anywhere in the world at this moment, I would chose here.
It's ironic that I would rather share awkward silence with my best friend, and no time at all with my wife, Julie. I am still not sure what went wrong. No, strike that. I know exactly what went wrong. Julie would say that I am married to my job and I keep Greg on the side as my mistress, which leaves her out in the cold. I guess from my perspective she does not get me - the person that I am. She wants to be married to Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology, not James the man, the human who is so much more then a figurehead that gets brought out to look good for the hospital luncheons and charity events. The first few months were great, but pretty soon she was trying to change me and sculpt me into her version of me.
At some point I stopped believing in her version of me and went on a quest to rediscover the person who got lost between the Breast Cancer awareness luncheon and the Eastern States Oncologists Convention. Julie did not take my rebellion well, and the distance between us grew. I started small, a green tie, but now, we exist as two strangers in the same household until I am summoned to appear somewhere. She doesn't want to lose her title and I guess in a way I just don't care enough to do anything about it. Which is why I am here at 7:22 on a Friday night with the one person who does not care about what events I have attended or what lives I have saved. He just wants my company.
I look up from the magazine; I am blindly flipping through and take a look at Greg. Beneath the scruff and the gruff is the man, the idealist really who does everything in his power- sometimes even borrowing power from others- to cure, treat and heal. But for all of his heroic or stupid actions, he has never been able to heal his most important patient, himself. I watch his long fingers tap a melody against his coffee cup and I see emotions play against his face. I remember the look in his eyes as we kissed today. That one, perfect moment. I was not head of Oncology, and he was not the angry misanthropic doctor. We were two people sharing an emotionally charged moment and since I am being really honest, an arousing kiss. I really wonder if he felt the same. I will assume, even knowing where assumptions lead, that it did affect him and pierce that mask that he wears everyday that covers a tender heart and a shattered soul. When he said my name there was enough desire in it to make be aware, but as I looked into his eyes that were heavy with lust I saw something else for a fleeting second. I saw peace. I did not expect that.
Eight years ago when Stacy left it was another rung on a ladder for Greg to fall down. Everything he believed in, everything that he saw as the truths of his life were lies. It nearly killed him, and in some ways it killed the best parts of him. As his friend, I have done my best to keep his soul on life support until a cure could be found. Many people have criticized me for standing by him for putting up with his pranks and games. I guess, I have always seen them as a broken, battered and bruised man's only way to make a human connection on some level. It is just not the level us mere mortals visit very often. I forgive, no that is not the right word. I accept him, as he is, no pretense, no games, and no requirements.
He moves and I glance up. I watch him slowly stand and stretch. I notice the strength in his good leg and compare it to his damaged one. He raises his hands above his head to stretch and I admire the sliver of taunt skin on his belly that his t-shit reveals as it raises. For a cripple he does have a nice body. His arms are lean with a graceful strength; you believe that they could pull you out of a burning building or cradle you and keep you safe when the world crashes around you. His face seems to hold all of the answers to the questions even though I am not sure of what those questions are. His eyes hold the wisdom of someone who has tasted the worst life can give but still keeps them open to see the miracles and maybe, I hope, find his own.
He grabs his cane and makes his way to the piano. Most therapists will tell you to find an outlet for your pain, your anger and your rage. You need to not let it consume you, but find an avenue to release it, to heal thyself. Nothing much helps Greg, because he hangs on the pain of betrayal too tightly. He wears it like some sort of badge He does dabble a little in distractions to keep it even. The piano is one of those vehicles. He still relies on the Vicodin too much to suppress all the lies he has been told, and the betrayals he has endured. But, the piano is a second, followed by his toys and games that litter his office. He moves to the bench and I wait for his cue. I need him to ask me, I need to know that he wants me because I am his friend, a person who loves him not just someone he can find comfort and escape for a night and then be disposed of. No more telepathy- no matter how good we are at it. He looks me dead in the eyes and he eyes seem a little sad but still lost in thought. Finally he looks down and back up to me. The bond between us is evident; we have been through so much not to have this connection. He finally speaks, "James, please join me." I set down the magazine and stand up. His eyes stay trained on me as I cross the room and make my way to the piano. I sit down, right where I belong, next to him.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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