"Please remember how I feel about you; I could never really live without you
So come on back and see, just what you mean to me
I need you
Oh, yes you told me, you don't want my lovin' anymore
That's when it hurt me and feeling like this
I just can't go on anymore," George Harrison.

"Okay," Wilson said but I didn't believe him. He's lying, I thought to myself. Don't listen to him; he isn't better. Jimmy's just pretending, like those guys who go to A.A. meetings but still have bottles hidden all over their house, I told myself. Then, the other part of my mind, the meanest part, stepped in.

"Strange isn't it? That that's the first place your mind goes to."

"You okay over there," Wilson asked, after several more minutes of me going back and forth in my head like that, trying (and failing) to shut my mind up, trying to self-soothe. "When you get quiet like that, it usually means you're beating yourself up emotionally, yelling at yourself. Be nice to him," he ordered, not at me, not the real me anyhow. "A guy who hit and treated him like crap for eighteen years just died. Plus he's still not sure he believes that I'm really back. Of course, you never let him believe anything nice, good, or comforting. You want him to be miserable all the time; so you won't die." Jimmy wasn't patronizing or mocking me. He just knew how to get me out of my own twisted mind. He was the only one who could make me stop thinking like that, and I had been thinking like that quite a bit more than usual since the accident. "Is that good enough or does the voice need a really long lecture since it's been bossing you around all summer?"

"I don't have voices in my head," I pouted. Wilson nodded, and immediately started to apologize, but he must have seen the tiny smile on my face. He stopped, and let me finish the joke. "I've got multiple personality disorder, not schizophrenia, you moron."

"Oh, well that's so much better. My point was, should I say more or do you feel a tiny bit better?" I didn't. "Okay, let's see. Greg deserves to be treated well, to be happy. If you try and take that away from him, I'll rip your fucking head off. And now, onto you Mr. Grumpy Pants. I know why you're afraid to let me or anyone else in. I get it. But I am not the kind of person who—okay, I did leave once but I won't do it again. Besides, and perhaps more importantly, if you keep holding all of your feelings and thoughts in, you are going to explode. And then who will I hang out with? Everybody else is so weird around me ever since Amber died, but all you—you just keep trying to make me smile, and laugh, and I need that. I need you. Do I need to tell the other you more stuff?" I nodded, lowering my head onto his shoulder, and closing my eyes. "You always hurt him," he said, back to lecturing the voice. "Every time I get Greg to enjoy, look forward to, or hope for something, you take it away from him! You have to let this work; you have to let me make everything better for him. You have to let him, let me help him help himself. Got it?"

"Who does this pussy think he is," one half of my head thought.

That's Jimmy Wilson. He loves me, and he's gonna take really good care of me, I told it silently. Then, the thing went all quiet and I almost started to feel like I could deal with Jimmy being around, just as long as he went back to his old self, just as long as he got better. "Was that good," Wilson asked. I nodded again, and this time I was actually okay with what he'd told me.

XX

We were late. We were late and I was grateful because it meant the funeral was almost over. That's what I kept telling myself. I repeated it over and over like a mantra. I don't have to talk, because it's almost over. Wilson let me take a couple (I'm pretty sure he didn't see exactly how many, because he didn't give me the look) pills right before we went inside. From there, the funeral was about what I expected. Except for Mom holding up the service until we got there. We were late but it didn't matter because it hadn't even started yet!

"Greg," she said, loosing her grip, after having given me what felt like it had to officially be the 'world's longest hug.' "Your father is dead. I'm sure he doesn't mind." It took every ounce of strength (and Vicodin) in my system to not flinch when she said the f-word. Then, mom leaned in real close and whispered in my ear. "I need to talk to you, but it can wait until after the service. It's very important. So, please wait."

"I don't think I can get up in front of everybody and say…stuff. Sorry. Just—uh, I'm sorry," I repeated. I wanted to say it again but another hug stopped me. She said it was fine, and repeated the part about needing to talk to me. I was seated between her and Wilson, even though I had wanted to sit alone, with Jimmy, so we could talk...even though talking was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Which one is he," Wilson asked, as my mom got up to give her speech. I pointed to my real dad. "Want me to grab some hair off his shirt so we can do a DNA test?" I shook my head. "Wanna go get some from—him?" He nodded his chin towards the coffin. I shrugged, but we both knew it meant yes. Then, all of the sudden it got bad, I got bad. I hurt so bad I couldn't take it any longer. "Can you breathe?" I shrugged. I literally wasn't sure. It was so physically and emotionally painful that I couldn't tell."Can you talk? No, okay, let's go get some air, just stay quiet so nobody stares."

"They're gonna stare no matter what," I thought. I could barely manage to think. Saying this, or anything else, was out of the question but he either didn't notice or didn't care. He just helped me out of the room, and stood silently on the sidewalk, while I leaned against him. My leg didn't hurt that bad. I was just too anxious and exhausted to be able to hold myself up.

"It's okay," Wilson whispered, kissing my head. "You're alright. It's okay. I think you might—and I know what you're going to say so hold on—I think it would help if you cry." I didn't interrupt him but I really, really wanted to. "Don't make that face. It's important. I know you hated him, but hate is much more powerful than love, and losing someone who has—hurt you like that…it's gotta be even worse than if he had been your best buddy. Then, you'd just be sad because your dad died. But this…he never apologized for hitting you, starving you, or for treating a four-year-old like he was twenty. He was never nice and you never got justice, or closure, or revenge, or whatever you wanna call it. He got away with what he did to you, and you'll never be able to recover completely, because you can't confront him, because you can't get—sorry, I'll shut up now."

"You're doing it again," I said, letting him go, and shifting my weight to a more comfortable position. "You're an addict Jimmy. We both are; it's why we get along so well. We're the same. You're completely focused on me right now, because I'm in crisis mode. You're not thinking about yourself, or your grief, or pain…you're not—I know what you're feeling. I've been where you are." I had to take a really deep breath too keep from sobbing hysterically. It worked, but just barely. "You're turning into me. You're trying to make yourself numb, but it doesn't work. At first, the not feeling anything is good. You really are numb, you're great. Well actually you're not but you don't know any better so you think you are—but after a while, you forget how to be happy, really, truly happy. But then you think back and decide that maybe feeling good isn't worth it after all. You think, 'feeling 'good' was never that good to begin with, so it's not a big deal.' Then, the ordinary, everyday, average, so-so feelings go away and, eventually, there's nothing left but pain. A lot of pain. You think it's gonna go away too, like the other stuff, but it doesn't. That's how it happened to me. That's what's happening to you."

Wilson hugged me. I continued, "You are the only person who can pull me out of this. You can make it feel like I'm not all bad stuff. If you sink into the same hole, nobody will ever be able to pull us out, and I'm—I might not make it without you dragging me out of the water and breathing air into my lungs every once in a while. You know what, never mind. I don't care. If you don't care, I don't care." I had begun to talk with only the intention of telling him the first third of that but hadn't been able to stop. I couldn't even keep myself from crying. "Sorry, Jimmy. I didn't mean to do that to you, sorry."

"I'm fine, Greg. Just relax, please. Everything is going to be alright. I'm gonna continue to save you from drowning over and over until I can get you all the way out of the water and keep you out forever; I will find a way to make you happy. Got it?"

"But you know what I'm talking about, right? You've seen yourself tottering over the edge too, like right after Amber—and you pulled yourself back? That's what you're saying, isn't it?" I watched as Jimmy's eyes scanned the parking lot, desperately looking at the building, then me, and back a couple of times. "If you wanna go inside, I'm feeling much better now."

"No you're not," he replied, giving me a small, gentle squeeze. "You're not going anywhere until I know that you are actually okay. Do you understand—is it okay with you if we do things this way?"

"See, what you did right there? How you looked at me and saw not only what I show the world, the brave face for lack of a better term, and how you looked passed it, and saw the…real me? Well, I can do that too. Now, I want you to think about my ability a little before you tell me everything is just peachy." His hand rubbed his lips some more, actually a lot more. "Be careful, you're gonna wear a hole in those puppies."

"I want—you're not as good at this stuff as you think," he said, sounding like he did when CTB was dying and we didn't know why. I felt just as useless the as I did then. "Okay, so maybe I am a bit messed up in the head. Maybe I am standing over the edge of a giant cliff, in danger of falling, and crashing against the rocks and having my body tossed out into the sea, but I have you, and I have Cuddy, and I have my family, and friends, and the people in my support group. You guys are keeping my feet on the ground. And it's like—I'm not you. I'll be alright, and then we can make you alright, okay?" I wasn't sure whether I believed him, but I also knew there was only so much I could actually do for the guy, especially at my "father's" funeral. "Now, come on, we have to get you a DNA sample."

"I can't believe you just said that. I can't believe you're gonna let me do it…I, this is the sort of thing I suggest and you always say no to." He shrugged, but I was still confused, which was enough to make him say more. "And by the way if you mixed your metaphors anymore in that speech you might have actually killed me."

"I think you finally getting the truth will make it—will bring you a small amount of closure," he explained, gently. "Oh, and thanks or not making me completely lose it and through a bottle through one of the stained glass windows in there, or something." I sort of giggled, hugging him for one quick second. Then, my mom came walking out, looking for something. It turned out to be me. "Guess the ceremony is over," he said. I went over to Mom, stopped, and said hi.

"I'm going to ask you a question, Greg and I need you to answer honestly." I sighed, slipping my hand into my pocket, and feeling around for the pills. They should have been in my left pocket but after almost a minute of looking, I realized that Wilson still had them. "Right before he died your fath—John—told me he had a box of old "mementos" as he called them. He was worried it might be embarrassing if anyone saw them, and asked me to destroy it. I thought maybe the letters he wrote to me when he was—but it—" she started to talk, but her strength seemed to fade about halfway through what she had planned to say. I knew what she was talking about. I hated the thought of her going through a shoe box full of kiddy porn, featuring her only child, almost as much as I hated him for keeping it.

"Jimmy you can go inside. We'll be right there," I ordered, desperately. The only thing worse than being forced to have this conversation with my mother would have been being forced to do it in front of the only man who'd ever really given a crap about me. He didn't know and I didn't want him to know, yet. I wasn't ready to tell him I'd been molested on top of everything else.

"He told me he got rid of those. He swore! I'm so sorry, Mom." She stared at me with wet eyes. "Are you gonna make me say out loud what was in there—because we both know what those pictures showed, and I really don't see how it would help me to…sorry," I said. She hugged me again, and nodded.

"I know what he did. I was not going to ask you about what happened when you were a baby," she said, gently. Oh great. Now you're going to get all sad and pissy and give her all the horrible details that she has absolutely no desire to ever hear about, and which will hurt her more than finding those photos did. What a wonderful son you are. Okay, I mouthed. "I know I must be the last person in the world you want to talk about this with…"

"It started on—when I was four, but he didn't make me start posing for those pictures for—he didn't start to take them until about a year later," I said, but she touched my face softly, and shushed me.

"No, sweetie," she whispered. "I could tell—he wrote dates on the envelopes, and organized his Polaroid's in an almost obsessive manner. I don't want to drag the details out of you. Come here, let me—my poor, sweet, wonderful boy. I just want you—I just wish. Why didn't you ever say anything? Not when you were little. Back then, you were just—you couldn't tell me when you it was happening. But you grew up. You left home. I don't mean to upset you, and I know you're uncomfortable, but please; I need to know."

"I was going to but," I started to say, but I managed to stop myself before the rude part slipped out. "I didn't really see a point," I said, which wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't a lie either. She made the mommy face. "There wasn't. What good was it gonna do," I asked, pulling away just slightly. I hadn't wanted to ruin her happy marriage to bring myself the small amount of comfort I'd get from having her around. And people say I'm incapable of being anything but selfish.

"I would have left him, and you and I might have been able to be closer—to have a better relationship, sooner. I've always wanted to spend more time with you. I wanted to and I knew you didn't, but I never knew why. Now I know it wasn't me, and it makes me think about all those years we missed." At this point, I would have welcomed an annoying interruption, especially from Wilson but it didn't come. They never come when you need them. "It was true; so you had to have known I'd believe you. You knew I'd—oh, Greg," she sobbed, after pulling back and looking at my face. I was always observant, but I don't think I would have been half as good if I hadn't watched and learned from her for eighteen years. "You are a good man, and there is no reason for you to not have a relationship with me or anybody else," my mother insisted, holding my face in her palms.

"Wait," I said, as what she said sank in fully. "You found those pictures…what, like this afternoon? Last night? Did you know when you called to tell me he was dead?" My mother nodded, and then, as if anticipating my next question, spoke up before I could say 'then why the Hell did you ask me to do deliver a eulogy?'

"I'm not a brave person. I wanted everyone to know what a monster he really was, but I also knew I'd never be able to say anything. I was still in shock. I didn't have it in me to think about whether or not you were ready to tell the world. I couldn't think about what people would think of you for bringing that up here, now. I had no right to try and force you to tell everyone. I wasn't trying to hurt you, and I didn't expect—I'm sorry, sweetie." I didn't want to talk about what I may or may not have said, or her wanting me to tell total strangers and distant relatives something I couldn't even talk to Jimmy about. I didn't want to describe what he'd done to me—thankfully she wasn't asking for details—but I decided that there was one thing I could do.

"Mom, you're braver than anyone I have ever known. I can't count how many times you stepped in and stopped him from—punishing me, and I…you stood up for me, protected me, and I know how hard it was for you to do all those things." She sobbed a couple more times, hugged me again, and let go again.

"I'd better let you go," she said, touching my hair for a moment and then pulling her hand away. "Quick, it looks like your Uncle Henry has Dr. Wilson cornered. He's probably talking about that new fishing boat."

"Jimmy's my friend. He knows how to pretend like he's listening when someone's as boring as all—heck. Didn't seem to help with his ex-wives though." My mom smiled slightly but only because she knew I was making a joke. "Actually you might be right. Jimmy looks like a guppy trying to stare down a great white." That got a real laugh. "And Mom, you know that I—I mean, uh—you—we," I stammered, stupidly.

"I love you too, Greg," she told me in her usual, gentle tone of voice. Uncle Henry was untucking his shirt. Luckily I got there just in time to keep him from showing Wilson some rash on his stomach.

"What'd you, introduce yourself as Doctor Jimmy," I taunted as the two of us found some place where we could chat in private.

"I said I was your friend, and he said, 'so are you a doctor too,'" Wilson explained, trying not to laugh when he saw me roll my eyes. "What was I supposed to tell him?" I laughed even harder.

"You should have lied! You can't go around telling random strangers what you do. They think it's an offer of free medical advice. Especially in my family. My cousin Charlie's two and a half years younger than me and we were sort of close as kids. I was in medical school when he was just stating college. So, every time he got drunk or high or both, he just…finally I started answering my phone by saying, yes that's a normal reaction. Jimmy smiled a tiny bit. "I, um—I kinda…do you think we can leave? I don't think I'm pretty sure I'll kill someone if we stick around for more than five minutes." He nodded, pulling my head down onto his shoulder.

"Come one, I'll take you home." I bit down on my lip. "What's wrong? Look, it's gonna take us all night just to get to New Jersey. Do you really wanna go to work then?" I shrugged. "You thinking about your patient?" I nodded. "Okay, we'll go to the hospital then." I was much silent the whole ride home. Wilson knew how messed up I was and he gave me the space I needed. The only thing he said besides, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise," and "you're gonna be okay now," was "here, I got you a present." That's when he handed me a short, silvery hair. I thought about saying thanks, but could barely look at him, let alone speak to the guy.

About an hour before we got to the hospital I managed to think of something. I called my team, had them run some tests, and we saved the girl. He tried to talk me into going home after that, but I didn't—I couldn't. Not yet. I needed to know the truth, to see who my real father was. I wanted it to make a difference.

I convinced myself that had she chosen, she (we) could have left the evil bastard. We could have been given a chance at a better life. My mom and I might of been happy or safe, with somebody nice, somebody who loved us. I never would have been forced to sleep in the yard, like a dog, or been ordered to climb into a bathtub full of ice and freezing cold water. Who knows how normal or even happy I might have become! I could have had anything in the world, anything. Maybe my leg might even hurt less if the rest of me didn't hurt so much.

I think Wilson knew what I was thinking, because he didn't follow me into my office, and stayed outside until Kutner brought in my "clinic patient's" paternity test results. Jimmy walked right up to me, sat down on the edge of my desk, smiled, and reached out, stroking my face.

"I can't open it," I told him, pathetically. "If I'm wrong…" I couldn't even finish that sentence. He knew. He held out his hand. I took it, and squeezed with all my might.

"I'll look. Come here," he whispered. "And then, maybe, we can do something really good for me—for us. If it's positive, do you want me to lie? Would you believe me if I did?" I shook my head, and gave him a dirty look.

"Just get it over with, like a—like ripping of a Band-Aid. Band-Aid on my testicles but fast is probably still better." He nodded, peeling the envelope open, and looking inside. "I hafta see it." I grabbed the paper from him and read the two greatest words of my entire life. "She hated him too." Jimmy stood up, and hugged me. I ripped myself away. "But—why? Why did she stay with him?" I whimpered. Wilson sighed, rubbing my back and pulling me into a tight hug. "He hit her! He hurt her, and he hurt her child!" I was close to crying again. "I thought…"

"I know," he said, holding me even more tightly. "You thought this would change everything, but it doesn't. Right?" I nodded, amazed by his skill. "Wanna hear something that will change everything—sort of? Cuddy gave me my old job back So, uh—maybe if I get you drunk enough, we can trick your mind into thinking that the last month was just one, long, really bad dream. I didn't believe that, but also didn't really care. I had Wilson back. My fake father was dead, buried, and incapable of ever hurting me again. I got up, and followed Jimmy back out to his car.

So he was reaching to turn on the engine, I grabbed his hand, yanked it down, and said, "I—Jimmy, there is something I need to tell you." He nodded, looking me over, very carefully. "I um—he—you know which he I'm talking about, right? Good. Easier if I don't hafta explain everything—he hurt me, and I'm not talking about "spankings" and stuff anymore." Wilson nodded yet again.

"I know," he said. He knows? How could he know? Did somebody tell him? Did he tell somebody else? How did he figure it out? Does everybody know? I thought I was hiding it so well, how could I have been so wrong?

"Sometimes when you're stressed and I mean really, really, really stressed, you talk in your sleep. It doesn't happen a lot. I've only seen—heard—you do it about three times. And I didn't know before yesterday that we could carry on a conversation, while you were sleeping. You'd just say, "he's coming," or "he's gonna get me," but I never though to ask who he was."

"You thought of it yesterday," I said, still trying to figure out just how much he knew, and—perhaps more importantly—how his knowing would change the way he felt about me, how he treated me. I had always believed that not telling people gave me a small amount of power. I got to decide who knew and when. Then, suddenly, I discovered that two people had found out without me consciously telling them, and on the same day. It was ripping my heart in half.

"First I tried to tell you that it was alright. I said you were safe, and even offered to help you find a good hiding place. You said, 'He always finds me and gets even madder because he had to waste time searching.' That's when I asked who was looking for you," Wilson explained, and he looked at me like he was going to cry.

"And I told you everything?" Jimmy shrugged. He didn't know what everything was. I gave him the look again, and he shook his head. "But enough that I don't have to go into pornographic detail, right," I asked. That thought was making me really nervous. I didn't want to talk about the details like that. I had stuffed all of the really horrible stuff into a box, and the memories were threatening to pop out at any minute, so I had to create a miniature version of myself to stay in my mind and sit on the box. If I started telling Wilson about what happened when I was little the mini-me would be thrown off the box and shot up into outer space. The box would open up, and I'd never be able to get it closed again.

"Not unless s it will help you to tell me those things." Even though he told me this in his usual voice, I could tell—from the pain and sadness in his eyes, his hunched shoulders, and wrinkled forehead—that he wanted to hear those things as much I wanted to tell him. "You wanna just go home and finish whatever booze is left in your apartment?" I shrugged because I didn't want him to know I wouldn't be able to be near another person (except him) for at least two or three days. "I'm sorry, Greg. I know you didn't want to be there—God, when you muttered those words in your sleep, I actually did a U-turn across four lanes of traffic, like in the movies, and started heading home…"

"But you turned back around because you thought that seeing him dead would bring me closure or whatever, right?" Jimmy nodded, sadly. "You were right," I said, managing to make my voice sound stronger than the rest of me felt. "You did the right thing."

Then, he reached over the gear shift, hugged me again—with one arm—and said, "I love you." Part of me wanted to make fun of him. Another part wanted to call him a liar, but I just stayed quiet.

"Can we leave, before Cameron or Cuddy or worst of all Kutner walks by, sees us and wants to join in?" And with that, he turned on the car and started to drive of. I think we both knew that very little—if anything—would ever be the same between us again but I wasn't freaking out. I was glad to be with Jimmy again, mostly because he was the only person who had ever understood or liked me—my mother didn't really count because she was my mother. And even though he had no idea how or when, Wilson had promised that he would figure out ways to help me with the pain, with everything, and I was okay with that.

JWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJWJW

I'm still not sure exactly what happened, except that House—in his own weird way—had managed to save me, to bring me back to the land of the living again. It started in the car, with his little manipulation to get himself more pain pills. Then again, part of me thought he'd said what he said to get me to realize that he still needed me, and I still needed him and needed him to need me.

After we got home from work, I let him drink, and decided that he'd been through enough for one day, but he still wanted to talk, even though I said (insisted) he didn't have too. We discussed his childhood (a little) and the person he'd become because of his childhood (slightly more) and shared funny work stories. I think he just wanted to keep hearing my voice. Hearing me talk seemed to make him comfortable enough to fall asleep.

He slept, stretched out on the couch, his body on top of me, my arms crisscrossed over him, protectively. That night, I dreamt I was sitting in the kitchen of our old apartment, talking t o Amber.

"You like him, don't you," she asked smiling, and I knew that she was meant House. I almost started crying. "Aw, look at the widdle baby." I bit my lip, strengthening up. "I'm sorry James. But it's okay."

"The whole thing was so surreal, part of me almost thinks it might have been her—you know, reaching out to me," I told him later. I knew I was going to be made fun of. There was no question about it. Mention the afterlife to House, get mocked.

"What like form…up there?" He pointed, in mock awe. I tried to keep myself from looking hurt. He still saw it. "I—uh...what else did she say?? There is more, right? That's why you think she—I better stop there. If you flake out and leave again, I'll probably end up dating Cuddy, which could bring about the apocalypse."

"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" He smiled, seeming to relax, a lot—as if he had actually been worried about me leaving again. "She said—hey, are you alright? You don't still...okay, okay," I promised, wrapping my arms around him tightly. "I've got you. There's more than enough room in my heart for me to love you, and miss her, and do my job, and have a life. We're okay, okay?" He shrugged, looking away. "Do you need me to stop touching you? Is this—"

"I'm alight with this. I like it." We sat together for several minutes before he broke contact. "I really wasn't all that upset. I just need to get used to you being around for a while. Then, I'll know you're not going away." I was about to promise to give him whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, even if it meant taking some more time off of work, to focus on him. Then, he kissed me, quickly. "Tell me what she said. I'd love—well that might be a bit too strong of a word—I don't want to not hear it." I smiled, and tickled him just long enough to see him smile. He looked even more relaxed.

"She said—maybe you are right. It was probably all just stuff that my mind made up and turned into a dream that would make myself feel better because I miss her so much." Greg sighed.

"I didn't say that. You don't—there's no way to be sure…and I know what I usually say about religion and stuff, but that's always in regard to stupid people. You know about the holes, you think about them…worry about them. If anyone has this thing right—it's you." It was so uncharacteristic of him that I almost thought he was lying, or making fun of me. "Tell anybody I said that and I'll kill you." There you are, I thought. "I don't believe in God because I only believe in stuff that can be proven, or shown to me, but that doesn't mean that everybody else has to feel the same way. The only people I make fun of are the ones who don't even think about the proof thing. They don't care about it. Doesn't even occur to them that they might be wrong. And if anyone disagrees with them—well, you know. I'm gonna shut up now, and you're gonna tell me what she said."

"She said me she loved me, and that I should be good—nice—to you. And she said I should ask you to repeat yourself. Amber said you tried to say something when you came out of—after the seizure, you tried to say something, but Cuddy told you not to talk. She told me it was really important."

"Cuddy told you about that, right? She must have! It—it's the only way you could know." I didn't think Cuddy had mentioned it. She just called me up the next day and told me he looked pathetic and was asking for me. The only time I could remember hearing that exact information was in my dream.

"Is that—did you really try and say something?" He nodded. "Do you think you can maybe try and tell me what you wanted to say that night? It was meant for me, right?" Another nod. I let him decide whether or not he wanted to be close, and he chose to scoot closer to my side, and sit next to me, with his head on my shoulder.

"I was gonna say—I thought you were still there. So—I was really confused…I mean, I just had a seizure, a bad one and you'd stuck electrodes in my brain." He seemed more nervous than before. I told him it was alright, and added that I should have been there. "You maybe could of stayed, but there's no way you would have been able to come by so soon after—anyway that part is not important. I wanted you to hear…I wanted to say," Greg stammered.

I laid my hand on his arm, so that it was almost like I was holding him, but not quite. "Thanks," he whispered, and sat for a long while before opening his mouth again. "I love you. I wanted to say 'I love you,' and you know—I…I love you Jimmy. And I was sort of hoping you would hear it, and believe me, and then say it back. Even though you'd said it before, wanted to hear it again. I just—I realized that the two of us are really supposed to—whatever, and it seemed really important for me to tell you. I dunno, maybe I was being stupid."

"Greg," I told him, calmly and in as gentle a voice as I could manage. "You are not being stupid, and I am so proud of you—I don't think you can even really understand it. I know how big of a deal this is, and I love you too." I kissed the side of his head. "I love you too, House."