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His Coy Mistress
by Maineac
TITLE: His Coy Mistress
PAIRING: H/W strong friendship
WARNINGS: Spoiler for No Reason and for the beginning of Season 3 (the trailers)
SUMMARY: Pain is a strange bedfellow, and it had been his bedfellow and mistress for nearly eight years.
A/N :post No Reason.
Part I His Coy Mistress
House swallowed the last of his beer and leaned against the balcony wall, watching the color drain from the sky and enjoying the extra wallop the beer packed. He'd been out of the hospital for only a week, and in his still-weakened state, everything he did, or ate, or drank, felt more intense, more concentrated. A few bites of food satisfied his hunger. A single beer provided the same buzz as three usually did. And as for Vicodin...
He fished the bottle from his pocket and shook it. It was an old bottle. It had been in a pocket for ten days, part of which time he had lain in a PPTH hospital bed, immobilized by high doses of Ketamine while he recovered from two bullet wounds. And, incidentally, went cold turkey on Vicodin. He popped off the lid. Six pills remained.
Since his release from the hospital he hadn't swallowed a single Vicodin. The Ketamine had worked, beyond his highest hopes. The escalating breakthrough pain that had driven him to the brink of self-destruction had stopped, and Cuddy had put him on Neurontin, a drug that she hoped would be easier on his liver, to manage the residual pain. Vicodin was a thing of the past.
House looked again at the vial, the amber vial glowing in the amber light of dusk, and poured the pills onto the balcony wall. He could almost feel them on his tongue, almost taste the familiar bitterness that was a constant reminder that what he was about to swallow had a price. How many of them had he swallowed? He did some quick mental math, and the result staggered him a bit. Like a smoker who's forced to add up the dollar cost of his habit, or to imagine the cigarettes laid out in a line that would reach to the moon, he had a vision of thousands of bottles of Vicodin, a small mountain of pills, each one mildly toxic, each one part pain-killer, part give-a-damn killer, and he was amazed.
And yet...and yet there was something so comforting in the shape of the bottle in his pocket, the curve of it in his palm. The lid he could snap off with a practiced move of one thumb. The feel of the thick pill at the back of his mouth, or rolling lazily on his tongue. The predictable, numbing, easy flow of hydrocodone to the brain. The remission of pain. The forgiveness of sins.
Pain is a strange bedfellow, and it had been his bedfellow and mistress for nearly eight years. Like any chronic pain sufferer, he had developed an intimate relationship with his pain. He had learned to read her moods, to anticipate her needs and demands as one would a lover's. It sometimes seemed to him that, like some jealous lover keeping tabs, she exacted from him a price for every moment of pleasure he experienced. For each moment of pleasure, an equal and opposite moment of pain: an exhilarating ride on his bike; making love; getting absorbed in a long medical procedure that required him to stand without his cane; climbing to the roof for a cigar or a few moments' peace. All these he paid for. All these left him, at the end of the day, or more often in the middle of the night, in the grip of intractable pain. The intricate three-way dance between pleasure, pain, and Vicodin was one that had ruled his life.
People thought he loved the pills, loved getting high. They had no idea.
Finished with the beer, House put the empty can, upside down, on the outer balcony wall, and returned the vial to his pocket. Facing the section of wall that divided his balcony from Wilson's, he tossed his cane onto the brick surface, and planted his palms on it.
"What's House doing?" asked Chase, gazing out the conference room window. The others were putting on their coats to go home, but the alarm in his voice stopped them. Next door, Wilson bolted from his desk. He reached the door just as House boosted himself onto the wall-the dividing wall-and crouched there, on his hands and one foot, with his right leg stuck out straight behind him. House then grabbed his cane and as Wilson dashed onto the balcony, slowly pushed himself upright until he was balanced precariously on the narrow bricks. Both his legs and cane arm were shaking with the effort.
"House! Are you crazy?" They could hear Wilson all the way through the thick glass. House smiled and turned his back on Wilson, edging toward the intersection of the divider and the outer wall.
"Should we rush him?" asked Chase.
Cameron looked terrified as she made for the door. "He could be having a hallucination. Ketamine causes all sorts of crazy-"
Foreman raised a restraining hand and shook his head slowly, riveted by the scene outside the window. "Let Wilson handle this. Whatever it is, we'll just make it worse."
"Get down!" shouted Wilson. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" And he sounded truly scared, for now House was only inches, or one little stumble, away from a fall that would kill him. House looked none too stable, either. He held the cane in a vice grip as he sidestepped closer to the edge. Wilson vaulted over the wall, in order to face House. He put a gentle hand on his pant leg, as if to hold onto him.
"Oh, God," breathed Cameron.
"Watch out, Jimmy," said House, and then, as Wilson clutched onto the fabric of his jeans, he pulled the pill bottle from his pocket, bent double, his left leg taking all the weight, his right acting as a counter-balance, and carefully placed the vial of Vicodin on top of the overturned beer can on the ledge.
"Stand back," he commanded. Wilson hesitated. "Stand back, because I'd hate to hurt you."
"What are you doing?" asked Wilson, somehow managing to control his voice as he stepped away.
"Playing golf. Isn't it obvious?"
In one swift, terrifying movement, he tipped his cane upside down, grasped it in both hands by the shaft, raised it high behind him, and swung. As golf swings go, it was an awkward swing, because of House's inability to shift weight from leg to leg properly. But what it lacked in form it made up for in ferocity. The curved cane head connected with the perfectly teed-up Vicodin bottle, lofting it far out into the sunset. As he followed through, his back leg buckled briefly, and Wilson's heart leapt into his throat. But House recovered quickly with a small hop. He watched the pill bottle soar through the air and come to rest in a nearby treetop. Later-a long time later, it seemed--there was a faint noise of the beer can hitting the pavement below them. Then and only then did he allow Wilson to hand him down from the wall.
They stood there a moment, hand in hand, both breathing heavily, till Wilson remembered to release his hand. The younger doctor opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it. He turned away, and then turned back. He made a gesture of futility, his hands scissoring in front of him. At last he found speech.
"Couldn't you have used a seven iron?" he snapped.
"Nah," said House with a grin. "Not with my handicap."
Part II: Breaking Up is So Hard To Do
House came back to work ten days after he was shot, looking haggard and thin. He moved slowly and claimed he tired quickly, even though with each passing day he looked less and less haggard. In fact, he began to look almost healthy. But each day he quit early, leaving promptly at 3 or 4.
"I've got a note from my doctor and everything," he would say to Cuddy, if she accosted him on his way out.
His mood was strange, hard to judge. Neither Cuddy nor Wilson could get a handle on it. All Wilson knew was that he wasn't renewing his pain scrips with anything like the frequency he had before. There was a kind of subdued happiness that he seemed to be doing his best to keep from showing. He didn't want to talk about what had happened to him: he did his job, and he went home. Period.
The thing is, he didn't actually go home. Wilson figured this out one day when he left at a time that was unusually early, for him, because he had a 4:30 appointment with his lawyer. House had left long ago, but when Wilson got to the parking lot, there was House's bike in its usual spot.
Wilson spent the next three days trying to figure out what House was up to, and how he could find a way to tail him after he left his office. But no matter how he tried he couldn't think of a way to follow House-especially into the elevator-without House cottoning on to what he was doing. It was driving him crazy.
One day, several weeks after House had been back, Wilson was lining up for dinner at the cafeteria. He had a difficult case and was working late, as he often did. It was always easier to grab a bite in the hospital than to go home and come back. As he slid his tray along the cafeteria line, he suddenly found himself listening to a conversation taking place behind him. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out who the two women were talking about.
"He smiled at you? Are we talking about the same guy? The guy who once called you a, what was it, a Nazi something?"
"A 'sadistic Nazi slave-driving power-hungry tyrant,' if I remember correctly.' Yes. The one and the same. But that was a couple of years ago."
"The guy's always been an arrogant prick, everyone knows it. What happened-they do a personality transplant on him when he was under?'
"I don't know. All I know is, he's been coming in every day for a couple hours ever since he got discharged. Doesn't talk much. When I work with him, he's just focused on what he's doing, but he did actually once smile at me."
"Who'd have thought getting shot could do that for a guy?" continued the second woman.
Wilson pretended to hesitate over what salad to select, stalling for time, causing the line to back up behind him. "Hey, maybe I should arrange for my boyfriend to get shot in the gut."
The other woman laughed. "Well, I'll say this much for him. He works like a maniac on the weight machines and on the bars."
"Why's he there? For the gunshot wound?"
"No. I think he thinks he's going to walk again. He's lost a lot of the femoris rectis but he thinks that if he can build up the remaining quadriceps, and pronate the foot so that the weight is distributed more to the muscles on the other side, he can walk more or less normally. He's got Simpson making him some sort of orthotic insert for his shoe."
"What are the odds of that happening? Him walking?"
Wilson, who had reached the cash register, fumbled for his wallet, buying time to try to hear the answer to this question. But whatever the answer was, it was non-verbal. A shrug? A thumbs-down? As he walked away he glanced over his shoulder at the two women, recognizing the older one as a physical therapist. She laughed and said something to her friend that he only caught a snatch of: "...never noticed it before but he has the bluest eyes, for a guy."
*****
The next morning Wilson showed up at the Diagnostics room early. He had a case he wanted to talk over with the team, but mostly he wanted to find an excuse to talk to House about what he was up to. He'd been worried all along that House had unrealistic expectations following the ketamine experiment. The overheard discussion had confirmed his worst fears.
At 8:30 promptly House walked in on them as the team sat discussing the latest Diagnostics case. He slung his backpack and helmet on the conference table and walked over to the coffee machine.
"Well, look who's turned into the early bird," said Wilson. House generally didn't show up till nearly 10 most mornings. The pain in his leg prevented him from sleeping well, with the result that it often required ten hours of tossing and turning to achieve four hours of real sleep. This morning, however, he looked rested and chipper. He looked, in fact, as Wilson studied his expression, somewhat like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the proverbvial canary. Something was definitely up with House. But what?
'It's a vicious worm-eat-worm world out there," replied House with that strange smug look.
It wasn't until House sauntered over to the white board, coffee in one hand, the marker in the other, that anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. Before anyone could find speech, he turned around, an expression of mock surprise on his face as he surveyed the four, all of whom were looking completely gobsmacked.
"Where's your cane?" asked Cameron finally, breaking the stunned silence.
"That's why I hired you," said House triumphantly, pointing to her with the marker. "For your brilliant powers of observation. It only took you--" he glanced at his watch-"five minutes."
"No, seriously," said Wilson, rising to his feet. "Where's the cane?"
House held his arms out in a broad shrug. "You know what they say: no pain, no cane. Now, can we get on with the differential diagnosis? Or do you need more time for staring and stupid questions?"
Part III: Independence Day
"So, where's the fire?" Wilson poked his head into House's office. The page had read "Fire. Come quick." Wilson had known enough not to rush. He stopped by the Diagnostics conference room on his way home, just as House's team was leaving for the day.
"My place. I'm having a July Fourth party. Beer. Hot dogs. Bonfire," said House, capping the marker and gazing at the whiteboard for a few moments. "You're invited."
"House, it's the fourth of June, not the Fourth of July."
"Potayto potahto. Be there in"-he checked his watch-" thirty minutes." He grabbed files off the table and headed into his private office. Wilson watched him go, shaking his head. It had been a month since the shooting-a week since House had come back to work--and he still couldn't get used to the sight of House walking without a cane, and almost without a limp. He smiled as House opened the door to his office: House clearly hadn't adjusted to the change completely either. As Wilson watched, he transferred the files to his right hand and pulled the door open with his left. In fact, he still opened all doors with his left hand and behaved-when on his feet at least--as if his right hand didn't exist. He had, Wilson realized for the first time, become nearly ambidextrous in many things since the infarction, having to rely, as he did, on his left hand to do simple tasks such as pushing elevator buttons, carrying coffee mugs, or answering phones. It would take more than a few days of being cane-free for those habits to change. Just yesterday Wilson had even seen him tear open a bag of coffee for the coffee machine using only his left hand and his teeth. Halfway through making one-handed coffee, he had stopped, and laughed out loud. Turning around he'd found his whole team, and Wilson, trying to smother smiles. It was a scene Wilson didn't think he'd ever witnessed before-everyone in that room, laughing.
****
House greeted him at the door with an open bottle of beer and a bag of chips. "Come on in. The fun is about to begin. Hot dogs are in the microwave." Moments later he extracted the hot dogs from the microwave, thrust them into buns, and smeared them with bright yellow mustard.
"Boy, you've gone all out," said Wilson, feeling mystified. He looked around. Apparently he was the only guest at the Fourth of July party.
"No expense spared." House took a huge bite of the hot dog and led the way into the living room.
"So what's the occasion? And where's this bonfire?" Wilson looked out the kitchen window into the small back yard that went with House's apartment. There was nothing resembling a bonfire in sight.
"Like I said, it's Independence Day. We're celebrating freedom from tyranny. And the bonfire's right here." He gestured to the fireplace in the sitting room.
Wilson's heart sank. There, arranged like a funeral pyre in the center of the fireplace, were all of House's many canes, as well as a pair of wooden crutches House had somehow managed to shove, upright, part way up the chimney. In addition to the spare canes he kept in an umbrella stand by the door, there was the round-topped cane he had most recently used. There was the simple old black cane House had for some reason tired of. There was the elegant brown one that Wilson had sawed in half, the tape still around the middle of it. There was even the silver-headed 'pimp' cane that House reserved for formal wear occasions.
And those crutches. Wilson had long suspected that House kept a pair around, strictly for use at home when the pain from his leg and back got so bad he couldn't get around on the cane, but he'd hidden them so carefully that even during the weeks Wilson had spent with House, he'd never come across them. And he'd never seen House use them-he was much too proud ever to let even his closest friend see him that hurting, and that impaired.
House grinned at him and knelt by the fireplace-it was still hard for him to kneel, some part of Wilson's brain registered-and held out a cigarette lighter to the crumpled newspaper at the base of the canes.
"House," stuttered Wilson, wanting desperately to share his friend's joy and miserable that he couldn't. "House, don't you think you're being a little--"
"No, I do not," House replied, standing back as the flames licked the base of the funeral pyre. "I'm not being premature or rash or whatever you're thinking. I'm being happy. You're always telling me to be happy."
"But, you just got past needing a cane a few days ago. And you could still...You know that there's a good chance the pain-"
"Yes, there's a 50 percent chance the pain will return." He was impatient and angry. "I have read the journals, you know. But in 95 percent of those cases, the pain returned within two weeks. It's been three weeks now. Three weeks without pain. Or Vicodin. So don't rain on my parade. Be happy for me." He turned on Wilson a gaze that did not look happy at all. It looked desperate.
Wilson pressed his lips together and met House's gaze. He nodded his head the smallest bit, and then he raised his bottle of beer.
"Death to tyrants," he said.
"Death to tyrants," said House, and they drank on it.
Part IV Carpe Diem
She had worked late, eaten dinner in the cafeteria, and when she came back to lock up for the day, he was in her office, on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, more from habit than need, she guessed.
This time it didn't surprise her. Not particularly liking nasty shocks, she'd gotten into the habit of checking the couch when she walked in.
"What is it now, House? I'm out of here. Long day."
He pulled a piece of paper out of his inner jacket pocket and pretended to study it. "Need a favor. Hope you're in a giving mood this time."
"What-"
"Can you dance?" He raised his eyebrows at her and slid the paper back into his jacket. "I mean really dance. Not that crap kids do today."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've got this To Do list. You know, lots of catching up, from the last six years."
"What is this, your own version of My Name Is Earl?"
"Sort of. So, can you dance or not?"
"Of course I can dance. But why don't you ask Cameron, or-"
"You know why I can't ask Cameron-"
"Wilson, then."
"Wilson can't samba for shit. And besides, he never wants to be the girl. Come on, Cuddy. You know you want to." He rose to his feet, and she was aware once again how tall he was. Surely he was never this tall when he used a cane.
She bent over to gather files off her desk, and House used his height advantage to peer down her cleavage. "Takes two to tango," he persisted, "and the twins say they're rarin' to go."
"Well, everybody lies."
He said nothing, just gave her that puppy dog look. She sighed, as if acknowledging a losing battle. "Oh, all right." She looked at her watch. "But just for an hour."
"Don't worry. You'll be home in time for E.R."
"You so owe me one," she said, gathering up her things and fighting the sensation that she had made a terrible mistake. "And I want to see that To Do list."
"Not a chance," he smirked. And then he actually held the door for her.
***
The dance club was dark and not crowded at this early hour, but House wouldn't let her onto the dance floor until they'd sat at the bar. Before she could open her mouth he ordered her a Mojito. "Just one," he pronounced as the bartender produced it.
"And why is that?" she asked, taking a sip.
"One is just enough to take away your inhibitions, so you won't be all nervous dancing with me. Two would make you clumsy, and we can't have that."
"And you?"
"Fred Astaire does not need alcohol in order to dance." But he ordered a beer anyway, and as he held out his hand, palm up, waiting for the change from the bartender, Cuddy noticed with a start how different his hand looked from the last time she'd had a good look at it. That had been two months ago, as House lay in the ICU recovering from gunshot wounds. Unlike her previous bedside visit that awful day, this one had been official and grim, precipitated by a visit from a very agitated Chase to her office.
The young doctor had paced around her room for a full minute before he was able to bring himself to talk, to tell her what had brought him. Knowing what he'd been through that day-his clothes were still spattered with House's blood-she had held her tongue and waited patiently for him to find his.
At last he spat it out. "He has track marks on his arms."
"What?" Cuddy said, rising from her chair.
"Track marks, fresh ones, on both arms. I was in the ER with him, trying to find a vein to get some blood started, because, you know, he was bleeding out in front of our damn eyes. And there were track marks. I didn't make a note in the chart, but I thought, I thought I had to tell you."
"You did the right thing," she said gently as she showed him to the door, but she could tell from the miserable expression on his face that she had done little to convince Chase that he was not in fact the worst kind of traitor.
Cuddy had returned to the ICU to see for herself what Chase had been talking about. House was lying there, stable but unconscious, and still deathly pale. She turned his right arm over. There they were, three track marks of differing degrees of newness. She bowed her head as a fresh wave of dismay and guilt washed over her. Had she been responsible for this, too? For driving his need for pain relief underground?
"House," she said sadly. "God, House. Why didn't you say?" And something made her reach for his hand. She wrapped her fingers around his and for the first time she noticed the thick, hard callous on his palm. Starting at the base of the palm, it ran up the center of the hand and down his index finger. From the cane of course.
She stared at his hand now, as it waited for the change to come from the bartender. It looked completely different. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped, unsure of what exactly she would say.
House followed her gaze, just as the bartender stuck the bills into his hand. He guessed what she was looking at. The "mark of cane," as he always thought of it. The brand of a jealous and possessive mistress. It was gone. He was a free man. He smiled.
"Come on, Cuddy. Chug-a-lug. Time to samba." She finished her drink and he led her to the dance floor while the DJ launched into Jumpin' Jack Flash.
As it turned out, House didn't know how to samba, or tango. "You need to be Brazilian to do that shit," he proclaimed. "Or gay." What he did know was ballroom dancing, and Cuddy was silently thankful for the lessons she'd taken several years back when Swing had suddenly gotten hot again. He pulled her in beside him and started a jive dance to the music, and when he pushed her out into an inside underarm twirl she was ready (he was right, one Mojito was just right), and then reeled her back into his arms to a hip step. There was an economy and languid grace to his movements, as he stood, moving his hips to the music, letting his arms do much of the work. This did not surprise Cuddy--there had always been a strange grace in the way House moved; no, what amazed Cuddy was the look on his face. He had his eyes half closed. She knew he was dancing with her, but the look of pleasure on his face had, she was certain, nothing to do with who he was dancing with, and everything to do with the simple fact that he was dancing. He guided her deftly, and as the set wore on and he realized she knew the steps, they got increasingly daring. She was even prepared when he suddenly dipped down, grabbed her around the hips and rolled her around his back. But she wasn't prepared when the next dance turned into "Black Magic Woman" and, figuring they would sit out the slow stuff, she started back to the bar; House, however, grabbed her wrist, pulled her back to him, wrapped one hand around the small of her back, and moved her slowly and langorously to the center of the dance floor.
"Sorry," he said in her ear. "But in for a tango, in for a two-step. That's the deal."
Just as she was thinking nothing more astonishing was going to happen tonight, just as she was settling into this gentle new rhythm and this new sensation of House pressed up against her, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She looked up in surprise, and he leaned down just that much further and kissed her lightly on the lips. She had barely enough time to register the way the feel of his lips contrasted with the rasp of his stubble, to take in the smell and the taste of him-soap, beer, peanuts-before the music ended and he had was leading her back to the bar. They were both breathing hard, and he shucked off his jacket and slung it on the bar stool while he ordered them each a beer.
"House," said Cuddy at last, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "Do me a favor." He raised his eyebrows at her again, not in his habitual, lascivious mocking way, but in that much rarer way that always threatened to melt her because it did something sad to his eyes. "Say something crude," she continued. "Or slap me. I'm feeling disoriented."
He laughed. "I gotta take a leak," he said. "Is that crude enough?"
She took advantage of his absence to do the very thing that he would have done to her, had the shoe been on the other foot. She reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the piece of paper he'd tucked into it. He hadn't been joking. It was, in fact, a To Do list. It was titled "Carpe Diem", and this is what was on it.
Sweat
Beat Aylesman's ass at golf
Stairs at PPTH
Walk on beach
Shovel snow
HP plates
Sex
Pizza
Rake leaves
Dance
Shake hands
Carry groceries
Lacrosse?
He caught her in the act of tucking the paper back inside the jacket, but she was unrepentant. "So," she said, raising her eyebrows at him, much as he had raised his at her a moment ago. "Were you going for a two-fer tonight?"
"That depends," he said, leaning in.
"On what?"
"On how good you are at lacrosse."
Part V Three-fer
"Home? Or the hospital?" Cuddy asked as she did up her seat belt. They'd driven straight from the hospital to the dance club in Cuddy's car. If she drove him home, he'd presumably have to take a bus or taxi to work the next day.
"Home," said House. "That's where the bike is-I ran to work today, remember?"
"Right," she said with a smile. How could she have forgotten the spectacle of him in her office, dripping wet? "So you do get to check two things off your list after all. Sweating and dancing. You don't think you're overdoing it?"
"Well, maybe a little," he said with a rueful grimace, running his hand along his right thigh-a familiar gesture she hadn't seen him do for months. "Might have to put off lacrosse for a few days. Unless you're up for a little one-on-one tonight?" He gave her a wolfish grin.
"Grow up, House."
He leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and smiled tiredly. "But seriously," he said, "you have no idea how good it feels to actually sweat again."
She gave him a sidelong look. He was still clad in his T-shirt, the jacket folded in his lap. The man had huge arms-he must do something to work out. But lifting weights wasn't aerobic. There were rumors he used the hydrotherapy pool, too. But that still wouldn't produce a sweat. She'd never really thought about it that way. Of course there were other ways to work up a healthy sweat...Sex, for one.
She thought back to the To Do list. Some items on it were perfectly self-explanatory, like "lacrosse." Or "beating Aylesman's ass at golf." Dr. Ayslesman was a complete prick, hated House's guts, and had been in the middle of being trounced by House during the hospital charity golf tournament six years ago when House had had to withdraw because of a mysterious pain in his leg that ended up with him in the ER. When House had returned to work, after the infarction, Aylesman had gone out of his way to accommodate (read: draw attention to) his "handicap" in a hundred small ways, such as ostentatiously opening doors for him. Once, during a crowded department heads meeting, he'd even stood up and offered House his chair. Cuddy knew it was both humiliating and infuriating for House.
And "shake hands"? It took her a moment to work that one out. She remembered again House's first day back at work after his surgery. Aylesman once more starred in the scenario. A few people had gathered in the lobby to welcome House back. It was a scene he clearly found excruciatingly painful. He was horribly self-conscious about the cane and the limp, and when he first walked in and saw the group there, he froze, and she could tell he would have beaten a retreat if he could have managed it without being seen. Aylesman made that impossible by striding up and saying in a loud voice Welcome back and You look just great. And then he stuck out his right hand. House, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand, and holding his briefcase in his left hand, just stared at the out-thrust hand until Aylesman withdrew it. After that, Cuddy noticed that he regularly ignored the reflexive handshake, unless the person was quick-witted enough to extend a left hand. Even well intended people were shunned, and for a simple reason. Shaking hands required an elaborately choreographed shifting of his weight, his cane, and whatever he was carrying in order to free up his right hand. Yet few people understood the refusal to shake for what it was-House not wanting to draw attention to his handicap. Instead it added to the legend of House as curmudgeon, and was one of the first outward signs of his withdrawal from any kind of human contact.
Okay. So those things she got. But "sex"? And "pizza"? She turned to House. "I know for a fact that you've had both sex and pizza in the last six years," she said. "Why are they on the To Do list?"
"Pizza," House repeated, without opening his eyes. "You know how you usually eat pizza- standing up around the conference table, doing a late-night differential? But you need two hands to eat pizza standing up. Seems stupid to miss something like that, I guess."
Actually it didn't seem at all stupid. Any more stupid than missing raking leaves and shoveling snow and carrying groceries. She said nothing, though, until she had pulled into his street. "I guess I get that, " she said. "But the sex thing? You want to have sex standing up, too?"
He smiled a little and opened his eyes to look at her, although he didn't move his head. "You're a doctor," he said closing his eyes again as the smile faded from his lips. "You should know that Vicodin takes the edge off pain-and also takes the edge off pleasure. Of course I've had sex. But I've always had to choose between great sex that also hurts like hell, or some very unsatisfying middle ground. I've never been a masochist, and I've never been one for middle ground, either, so..." he trailed off. "Talk about your Hobson's choice."
Cuddy pulled up outside his apartment and he got out wordlessly, but as he crossed in front of the car, he seemed to think of something, and came back to the driver's window. Cuddy scrolled it down, and he bent to her level. His eyes were a luminous blue in the street light, and she was pleased to see he was smiling again.
"We could go for a three-fer. Are you sure you don't play lacrosse?" he asked.
"Quite sure." She held out her hand. "Good night, House," she said. And he took her small hand in his warm right hand and shook it.
Part VI: Hell Hath No Fury
Okay, maybe he had overdone it. Eight miles had really been pushing it--it would have been pushing it in the pre-infarction days--and then followed by a night of dancing. The throbbing in his leg that kept him up that night was nothing more than strained muscles. He debated taking an extra Neurontin, but knew that he would feel foggy all the next day if he did, so he settled for some Ibuprofen --well, actually quite a lot of Ibuprofen--and that seemed to help.
Nonetheless he called Wilson the next morning at 6:30 to tell him he wouldn't be meeting him in the park for their run.
"What's up?" said Wilson, and House could tell he was doing his best to sound nonchalant. But Wilson, who could lie about a lot of things, could never manage to lie in this one way, and House moved to nip this one in the bud.
"Not a damn thing. Had a night of wild, crazy sex with Cuddy and need to sleep in. See you at work." He hung up before Wilson could respond, swallowed some more Ibuprofen and tried to actually go back to sleep. Three hours later he gave up the battle and forced himself to get up and dressed.
Wilson was waiting for him at work when he finally straggled in. He'd left the door to his office open, and the moment House stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor, he turned up at his side.
"Wow. Do you have some sort of surveillance camera set up in there?" House asked acidly.
"Excuse me for caring. I can't help noticing that you're limping this morning. What's going on?"
"I'm not limping. It's just that Cuddy, she's into these really weird positions, and you know she's like the Energizer Bunny, she just keeps--"
"House."
"I'm fine. I just overdid it yesterday. Anybody's leg would hurt after running eight miles."
"It's not the pain returning?"
"Not a chance. Garden variety muscle strain. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check in with my posse. There's this thing called work that I do. You might want to look into doing some of it yourself."
He pushed his way into the conference room, where the team was already deep into a differential diagnosis for a new patient. They barely glanced at him as House grabbed a coffee, downed another Ibuprofen, and tried to concentrate on the recap Chase was providing.
"...or anything else that might cause her white blood cell count to drop? House?" With a start he realized they were all staring at him, waiting for some sort of answer, and he got slowly to his feet.
"You all carry on without me," he said and started for his office, aware of three sets of eyes glued to his back. He tried hard not to limp, but with little success.
"House?" It was Chase. House paused but didn't turn around. "Everything okay?"
"Peachy. Just got to make a phone call." Once in his office, he sank into the Eames chair in the corner, glad that he had left the blinds closed, and gripped his thigh with both hands. From deep inside his leg, from what felt like the very marrow of his bone, came a hard, insistent throbbing, a throbbing that was becoming jagged around the edges. This was no muscle strain. He knew this pain, and knew it intimately. She was back, his coy mistress, his bedfellow of so many years, his shunned lover. And she was back with a vengeance. Hell, it seemed, had no fury like a woman scorned.
All right, it would be okay. He would head her off at the pass, do whatever it would take to get her to shut up and leave him alone again. It was a temporary setback and he knew how to deal with it. He rose slowly and hobbled over to his desk. Somewhere he had some emergency Vicodin stashed, he just couldn't remember where. He needed to get his brain to slow down from the panicky spin it was in and let him think. He found the Vicodin at last--two pills--and tried to remember how many Ibuprofen he'd taken so far today, and what would happen if he stacked Vicodin on top of Neurontin. What the hell--he threw his head back and tossed the Vicodin into the back of his mouth. Nearly gagged on them going down. He'd practically forgotten how to do this.
The Vicodin was just kicking in--and wow, he'd forgotten to calculate that he'd been off Vicodin for two months and he'd lost his resistance to the drug--when the door to his office opened and the fellows trooped in. Chase started telling him that they'd decided to MRI the patient's head or chest, and Cameron chimed in something about blood tests. It took all his concentration to tell them to run along and do whatever they'd decided to do. And it took all his strength not to tear the arm rest off the desk chair, he was squeezing it so hard. But at long last they started to leave.
"Oh, one other thing. I'll be going home," he added, stopping them in their tracks. "Family emergency. Call me if you need me." They looked uncertain, Chase in particular, but House shooed them out before they could object or ask questions.
He was certain he could handle this at home. Rest, a hot bath, something to distract him. He'd be fine. He just needed to find a way to get home. Riding the bike was impossible-he'd had a very near thing, riding in this morning, trying to hold the bike upright at a stop light. Asking Wilson to drive was out of the question. At last he picked up the phone and called a taxi, told it to be in front of PPTH in fifteen minutes. Grabbing a file off his desk at random, he headed for the door.
He limped toward the elevator, and now it was so bad he needed to brace himself against the wall with each step. Whenever someone walked down the corridor, he leaned his back against the wall and pretended to be reading the file in his hand. Wilson's door was closed, thank god for small mercies. At last he was across from the elevator. He pushed off from the wall and tried to walk the few steps to the doors. Halfway there, the leg buckled on him, releasing an electric shock of pain that encompassed his whole body, and he nearly fell. Stumbling to the far wall, he righted himself, pushed the elevator button and prayed for an empty car. Moments later the doors opened and his prayer was answered. It was empty. What with that and Wilson's door being closed, he might have to start believing in God. He made it into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby.
When the door opened again, he pushed himself out into the lobby and stopped. He was covered in a film of sweat, his leg was trembling, and he had a vast expanse of open lobby to cross. His head was swimming from all the Vicodin he'd taken, but Christ it was doing nothing for the pain, and he was starting to feel nauseous as well. There was no way he could do this, no way to get to the exit. He moved to the wall beside the bank of elevators and pretended to study the file in his hands.
The Clinic, he decided at last. He could make it as far as the Clinic.
*****
Wilson pushed open the door of the Clinic and approached the desk.
"Which room is Dr. House in?" he asked, half-reading the file in his hand.
"Dr. House?" asked Nurse Brenda. "He doesn't have clinic duty today."
"He paged me for a consult," said Wilson.
"Well, maybe he's hiding from Dr. Cuddy somewhere, but I know he's not with a patient."
"Are any of the exam rooms empty?" asked Wilson.
Brenda consulted her clipboard. "There's no one in Two right now," she said. "Though come to think of it, I heard some noise coming from there a moment ago."
Wilson felt thoroughly pissed. He didn't have time for House's hijinks right now. He'd been with a patient when the page came, and for a moment he considered just heading back up to his office. But the page had said "Clinic consult urgent," so with an angry sigh he pushed open the door to Exam Room Two.
What he saw froze him in his tracks. The room was a mess-the floor covered in medical paraphernalia and shattered glass--and House was on one knee picking, or trying to pick, stuff up off the floor. The face he turned to Wilson was pale and sweaty and distorted by a mixture of anguish and embarrassment. It chilled Wilson's soul. He wanted to look away but couldn't.
"Uh, hi," said House, pulling himself slowly to his feet using cupboard handles and swaying as he tried to replace a box of latex gloves onto the counter. "Listen, you just missed him. The patient consult. Cancer Guy. Got a little violent and stormed out. Guess he didn't like the diagnosis."
Wilson bent over wordlessly and began helping to sweep up the glass and collect the boxes of tissues, the supplies, and medical equipment from the floor. "You're bleeding," he said quietly, looking at House's arm, where a trickle of blood was flowing from a gash on his forearm
"I'm wondering," said House, holding himself upright with one hand and stuffing some tongue depressors into a random container and not looking at Wilson, "since you're here, I'm wondering if you could, uh, go to the pharmacy and find me a...find me a cane. Because I can't fucking walk. Okay? Can you do that? Wilson?" He wouldn't meet Wilson's eye but stood, hands braced on the counter, his back to Wilson, his head hanging. Wilson could see both arms shaking.
"Sure," said Wilson quietly.
*****
When Wilson returned, House was sitting on the exam room table, staring at the floor. Wilson said nothing but proffered the cane until it was in his sightline. When House made no move to reach for it, he propped it against the table.
"Let me look at that cut," he said finally.
"It's nothing, just some glass." He didn't move, but Wilson grabbed a piece of gauze, picked up House's arm and wiped the blood away until he could see the gash clearly. "Hold the gauze there," he commanded, and House did as he was told while Wilson searched the debris for a bandaid.
"The good news is you don't need stitches," he said, holding up two bandaids. "Fred Flintstone or Scooby Do?"
No response, so Wilson applied both bandaids. Then he went and stood directly in front of House. He should know what to say, he told himself. He should know how to do this, he'd done this kind of thing so many times before. He put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"House--" he began, his voice unexpectedly husky.
"You had to get the ugliest cane they had, didn't you?" House interrupted, and his attempt at a smile just succeeded in tightening the knot in Wilson's throat. House reached for the cane. It was a metal one, and Wilson had already adjusted it to its longest length. House held it lightly, as if it might poison him.
"I aim to please," said Wilson.
Then he held out the other thing he'd brought with him. A bottle of Vicodin. House turned his head away. "Take it. There are only six. Just in case. Maybe you won't need any. Better to have some on hand." When House didn't respond, Wilson tucked the bottle into the pocket of the jacket that was lying on the exam table. Then he scooped up the jacket so House wouldn't have to carry it. "Come on. I'm through for the day. I'll drive you home. We can stop at Cripples R Us and get you a better cane. Something sexy."
The expression on House's face caused Wilson to mentally kick himself. He'd said exactly the wrong thing. He'd violated the unspoken agreement to pretend that the cane was just temporary. Idiot.
"Or we can stop at a bar and get a head start--"
"Your cancer patients," said House, staring at the cane in his hands. "Are they usually happy they had a remission? Do they think it was worth it? Or is it too hard when the cancer comes back?"
"Most of them are happy for the extra time they had."
"I knew it would come back," said House. "So it's not like I wasn't prepared for it." Remission of pain. Forgiveness of sins. He finally raised his head and looked at Wilson.
"I know," said Wilson gently.
House slid off the table, put the cane in his right hand, and took a step. He swayed a bit, and Wilson steadied him with a hand on his upper arm. "Are you ready for this?" he asked.
House hesitated. "Is it crowded out there?"
"No. It's July. It's Friday. Most people have taken off for the weekend and the rest are at lunch. I know for a fact that Aylesman is out playing golf."
House nodded, took a deep breath, reached for the door with his left hand, and opened it.
****
When he came back to work the following Monday, the first thing Cuddy noticed was the cane, the hunch of House's shoulders, the defiant set of his jaw. The second thing she noticed was the gauze bandage on the palm of his right hand.
It takes a long time for a callous to disappear. And it takes a long time to form a new one.
*****
Epilogue: The Thing with Feathers
"Hope," said Emily Dickinson, "is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul."
House had marshaled all his forces, his considerable rational, logical forces, against the thing with feathers. But he never stood a chance.
There are those who think that love is the most powerful of human emotions, but they are wrong. You can keep yourself from loving. You can put up walls and moats and spikes, and if you work hard enough at it, as House had, you can keep the defenses from being breached.
But the thing with feathers can fly. And it's relentless. It "sings the tunes without the words and never stops at all." You can stop your ears with logic, but it won't work.
Ten million to one odds? You will still listen with bated breath when they announce the Powerball winner. Never published anything, anywhere? You will still feel that small flutter in your chest, there beneath the breastbone, where the soul resides, when you open the letter from the fiction editor at the New Yorker.
It's the reason why, year after year, you keep a bottle of champagne hidden at the back of the fridge in your research lab and always manage to be near a phone on October 19 when the Nobel Committee calls the winners. It's why, when you leave the oncologist's office, you can believe they might have read the x-ray wrong and the spot is just TB.
And it's why, even though it is as weightless and insignificant as a feather, hope can crush even the most well-defended soul.
-end-
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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