A/N – this is the third short story in my Jail series. If you haven't read the first two, Jail and Solitary, you probably should because each story picks up right where the previous one left off. Also be aware there are spoilers for Season 8 episode 1 so if you haven't seen the premiere yet, consider yourself warned. From everything I've heard (and it hasn't been much) about the next few episodes, I think this story will be even more AU than Solitary was. It's intended to be a little bit of canon mixed in with a whole lot of AU.
Wilson had that "stewing" look in his eyes. That look that told House Wilson really wanted to talk about something, but didn't know how to do it. Both men were in Wilson's car and House knew this time he couldn't get away.
"House, now that you're on house arrest, we have to talk about living arrangements."
"I know. I'm not a moron. We talked about this before. I thought you were moving in with me."
"If you want me to, I will. I'm not sure that you want me to."
"I want you to move in with me." House said it without much emotion, as if all he really wanted to do was shut Wilson up, and he thought this might be the most efficacious way to do that.
"I can't spend every waking moment worrying about you," Wilson said.
"I never asked you to."
"I need to know that when I leave to run little errands and stuff, that you're not going to bolt the first chance you get."
"I can't. They'll re-arrest me," House replied.
"Potential consequences never stopped you from doing anything before," Wilson said, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment and fixing House with a stare.
"What do you mean by that?" House fired back angrily.
"House, I need to know that you care about yourself and me enough not to bolt the first chance you get."
"If I could bolt, I'd have done it before I got in your car. I can't even walk, let alone run."
"That's not what I mean and you know it. And just telling me that you're not going to bolt doesn't mean shit. You lie all the time. I need to know that you're not going to bolt." Wilson was looking at the road, so House couldn't see his face, but emotion was just dripping from every word.
House replied softly and pensively, "I know what you mean. I'm not going to escape, Wilson."
Wilson waited a few moments, and then answered softly, "Ok. I think I believe you. Don't prove me wrong. Let's get home and call in like they said, so we can both get some rest."
Arriving at 221B Baker Street, House opened the car door and silently took in all the sunlight and fresh air. It hadn't taken long for the stench of jail to permeate every fiber of his clothing, every hair follicle on his head, every skin cell, every little nose hair. Everything smelled like jail stink. Showers never got it all off. Jail stink is everyone else's urine, vomit, stool, foul food, bad breath and body odor all rolled up into one giant smell. Even though House had showered that morning before being released, it wasn't enough to get the stink out of his nostrils. He was embarrassed to think that Wilson's car would now smell like jail. Leather seats tend to soak up da stank pretty quickly.
Wilson got out of the car, walked around to his trunk and got House's cane out for him. House was still sitting on the passenger seat, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and testing his leg out before trying to stand on it.
"I'm not gonna stand here and wait for you to ask for help," Wilson said drolly, handing the cane to House and holding out his arm anyway knowing House would not accept the help.
"Of course you are," House said, reaching for Wilson's arm and accepting Wilson's unspoken offer of help anyway.
House stood up, gingerly putting a little weight on his right leg and the cane, and then proceeded independently but at a slower than normal pace up to and through his front door. The first thing he did, after entering his home, was pull out his cell phone to call the monitor number. Of course the cell phone battery was dead.
Limping over to his couch, he found his other phone and called the monitor number. It was an automated recording. The recording instructed him to key in his social security number and press the # Pound key. Then he got a message stating the date, the time of day, and that the monitor had been activated. The recording stated that he was approved to be at three addresses. Each address was numbered one, two, or three. The recording asked him to press the number corresponding to whatever address he was at now. He pressed the number one for his home address. He got another recording stating what he'd already been told, that he was approved to be at three addresses, that he was not allowed to leave Mercer County, and to call this number any time he had to go to an address in Mercer County that had not already been approved. It gave him the option to speak to a live operator when he needed to report to an address in Mercer County not previously approved.
"Ok, Mr. Mom. I called the leg monitor people. You can rest easy," House called out to Wilson.
"I wish it were that easy. I'm sure this is a stupid question but I'll ask it anyway. Do you have any Vicodin to tide you over until we get to the pain clinic?" Wilson asked from the kitchen.
"You must be kidding," was House's only answer.
"Take some now, since I can tell you missed your second Methadone dose at the jail. I'm flushing the rest of it down the toilet. You can't take Vicodin and Methadone together."
"And you can't recite the alphabet backwards. Tell me something else I don't know."
Ignoring the barb, Wilson continued. "Where's your written referral to the pain clinic? We have to do that today."
Ok, so he says he doesn't want to continuously worry about me, but he does it anyway, House thought.
"Don't you have sick cancer kids to cry over? I'll call the pain clinic now but I doubt they can get me in today. If I can't get in until tomorrow I'm fine for today with the Vicodin I have here."
"I'm sure you'd be fine until this time next year with all the Vicodin you have here. That's not the point. The point is, shut up and call the clinic now or else I will," Wilson spouted back.
Wordlessly, House picked up the phone and began forcefully pounding on the phone's numeric keypad like a little kid playing with a toy.
An overly polite, saccharine-sweet female voice answered.
"Mercer County Pain Clinic, my name is Janelle. May I help you please?"
"I doubt it," House replied. "I'm calling because I'm required to call. My name is Gregory House and I have a written referral from Dr. Sykes at the Mercer County Jail. I'm required to call you."
"Oh yes, Mr. House. I have you on my list to call. We received your referral through the computer. We were expecting your call. Thank you. What time today can you come in?"
"Today?" House asked incredulously. "You have time to see me today?"
"We sure do! Can you come in at 4 pm? We'd rather see you today if possible, and 4 pm is the earliest appointment time we have available today."
"Yep. See you at 4."
"Ok, we got you penciled in at 4 pm. Please bring your referral, your insurance information and a photo ID. Thank you," she replied, sugar practically dripping from her voice on the other end of the phone.
House guessed the receptionist to be about 19 years old from the sound of her voice, probably blonde, buxom, and perky. Either she'd been very well trained in how to handle calls from people in pain, or more likely, she was just new and naïve. Nobody could be that sweet and nice answering the phone when the caller was as grouchy as he was today.
"They can get me in at 4 pm," House called out to Wilson, who was still in the kitchen pottering around. House had stretched out on the couch, his left knee bent and his right leg resting flat on the couch. He'd already taken two Vicodin. He had hundreds more stashed in various places in his apartment. He assumed from the softly clattering noises coming from the kitchen that Wilson was searching the drawers and cupboards for more pills.
"Did you tell them you've already taken some Vicodin?"
"What do you think?" House replied.
"Yeah, considering you're you, I guess that was a stupid question. I'm cleaning out the rest of your Vicodin. After I get done, I'm going back to the loft to get some clothes and other stuff. I'll be back in time to take you to the pain clinic, and then I'll fix dinner."
"I'm not completely helpless," House called from the couch.
Wilson appeared in the living room. "I never said you were. You said you weren't sure if the ankle monitor thingy meant you couldn't drive. I assume 'drive' means 'ride the motorcycle' since you don't have a car anymore. You must have forgotten that they revoke drivers' licenses for offenses like deliberately crashing into a house. The pain clinic is not on a bus route. Unless you're planning on spending a fortune on cab rides, or sprouting wings, I'll have to drive you."
"You futz and fuss and worry over me like I was helpless."
"Believe me, I don't enjoy worrying about you. The things you do MAKE me worry about you. I still never said you were helpless. And actually, it's not the things you do that make me worry. It's the consequences for the things you do that make me worry."
House had no comeback for that. He knew Wilson was right.
"Anyway, I'm hard-wired to worry. You know that. You're you, I'm me and we're not going to change. Might as well accept that and move on," Wilson said.
"I'm leaving for now. I'm just going to pick up my stuff. Don't go anywhere. I got my boys watching you," Wilson said with a smile.
