Dr. Gregory House sat down gingerly on the toilet seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. His jeans were unfastened and unzipped, pulled down to his knees, and he sat quietly, his bare back pressed against the cool porcelain. He sighed, frustrated. Staring down at his feet, he contemplated the effort it would take to move.

He remembered when taking a bath required less effort on his part.

He glanced to his right; the bathtub was already filled with hot water, a light mist of steam filling the small room. Logic told him it was wiser to start out with scalding hot water in the beginning because by the time the process was over, it would be the correct temperature. Besides that, the heat felt good on his skin.

Turning back to the looming task at hand, House braced himself. He took the heel of his right foot and trapped the opposite pant leg to the floor, simultaneously pulling his left leg up. The effort was met with success, and with a small, satisfied smile, House reached down to pull his ankle through. "One down..." he murmured to no one in particular.

His blue eyes flickered over the scar running the length of his right thigh. It had already been a few weeks since the removal of the bandages - almost a month to the day since he'd been released from Princeton-Plainsboro with a relatively clean bill of health.

And a bum leg, he mused.

House sighed. His bath wasn't getting any warmer.

Bracing himself, he placed one palm against his thigh before bending at the waist, leaning toward his toes. He grunted, biting his lip just once before grasping the tip of the pant leg with his fingers. He chuckled slightly, hoping to create the illusion of triumph to himself.

Finally, squeezing his eyes shut, House bent his right leg slightly, inching it up as he inched the jeans down and over his heel. He could feel the tears prick behind his eyelids. He could feel the screaming pain that was rising. He could feel the fabric sliding over his bare feet.

God, it was worse than therapy.

When the jeans were in a pile next to him, House opened his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He felt perspiration prick at his skin, clinging to him in desperate droplets fueled by pain and ache and fever. Reaching over to the sink next to him, he carelessly pushed aside a couple of items to reach the prescription bottle that sat just beyond. A toothbrush clattered to the floor; the red cup which had held it beat out a plastic drumroll on the floor before rolling to a stop against the wall. House paid it no mind as he popped the lid of the bottle and dumped out a handful of white, oblong pills on the sink.

Just the sight of them caused his ragged breathing to turn a bit more regular, and he selected a pill, holding it between finger and thumb. For a moment, he just sat and stared at it. His right hand rubbed subconciously at the scar lining his right thigh, as though the motion would soothe away the pain. The first time he had tried this, it had been just as painful. Just as miserable.

It had hurt like hell.

*~*~*~*

"Damn it, Greg." Her voice was so perfect. So clear. He looked up from where he sat on the toilet. Stacy was standing in the doorway; his jeans were still around his knees.

"Just wanted...to take a bath," House explained. He sat back against the toilet, trying to ignore the pain. It was still too fresh. Too new. Finally he'd been able to take off the bandage, to allow the scar to breath, to heal fully. And now he just wanted to feel truly clean - cleaner than he'd felt in weeks. If he could just wash away the stench of the hospital, of the OR, of this half-life he'd been handed...

"You could have asked me," Stacy said. She moved into the bathroom, and House shifted a little.

"I can do it." His voice was thin and tight. He glanced up at her once, his eyes searching hers briefly before his gaze fell over to the sink. The Vicodin bottle was standing beside the red glass which held two toothbrushes.

Stacy knelt in front of him with no verbal answer to his defense. Instead, she grabbed the end of both pant legs and pulled. House didn't protest. Instead, he lifted his legs as best he could, allowing her to pull the jeans over his heels. She tossed them into a corner.

"I could have done it," he said. He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to see her dark hair framing her perfect face and those eyes just staring right into him, silently protesting that it's just a damn leg.

He still heard that voice - her voice - from the hospital. When she begged him to agree to amputation. When she pleaded for his life.

When she asked him why he thought he didn't deserve to be happy.

House closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he looked directly at Stacy. His expression had changed.

"Enough foreplay," he said with a huff. His voice was rougher now, the pain of everything veiled behind his tone. He gestured to his pants in the far corner. "Aren't you going to finish the job, or did you just plan on taking the 'middle-ground'?"

Stacy took in a small breath, holding it within her chest. House figured she shouldn't be surprised by the comment; she had always known him to be a jerk, one of those people who pulled things out when you least expected it and slapped you up against the side of the head with the logic of the situation.

Surely, this was nothing new. At least, he didn't see it that way.

When Stacy finally released her breath, she spoke. "That's not fair."

"No, it's not," House answered. He moved to take the Vicodin bottle from the sink; he had waited long enough. "But neither is making medical decisions for a highly-rated doctor who just happens to be in a coma of his own devising." House popped the lid of the bottle and punctuated his speech with a pop of his lips and a widening of his eyes.

"Greg," Stacy protested. She watched him dump out the pills on the sink. "You had your dose at dinner."

"It still hurts." House pushed the pills around with his index finger.

"The doctor's said..."

House interrpted her. "The doctor's said bed rest and antibiotics. No one ever mentioned muscle death. No one ever mentioned agonizing, unending pain in their diagnosis."

He tilted his head to the side as he regarded the pills. "Oh, but I'm grateful," he said. He selected a pill randomly. "I'm eternally grateful that my proxy made took matters into her own, capable, little hands..."

"Stop..."

"After all, I mean, she did what was best, right?" House rolled the Vicodin tablet between index finger and thumb. He shrugged and gave a cruel sort of chuckle. "Hey, she even went against my wishes because - you know - what's a distinguished medical career amount to when it comes to determining patient procedures..."

Stacy sighed. "We've been through this. I--"

"--made a...stupid medical decision."

He glared at her. Those invisible tears were building up within Stacy; House knew that much. They were cleverly hidden. They might stay cleverly hidden, but House knew they were there.

She spoke between his words; her hands clutched at her knees. "I've already said--"

House wasn't done. He wouldn't be satisfied. Not yet.

"Nothing!" he shouted. His hands were shaking. "You've said nothing - nothing that means anything. You had the answer! I gave it to you! I gave it to them! You had it, and you ignored it. You're useless." Even as he said it, he wanted to take it back. He felt it in his chest - remorse? - and his words were going to run the risk of becoming weak if he entertained the emotion.

House pushed it aside.

"You should have done nothing," he continued. "And then..." He inhaled sharply. His resolve was breaking. He knew it, and he turned away briefly.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to see those tears and make her admit she was wrong. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She shouldn't have made the decision - gone against his wishes. Dying would have been better than living in constant pain. He had been right.

Those were the things he wanted to hear her say.

House brought the pill to his lips. But a hand smaller than his clasped around his wrist. He looked from her hand to her eyes. There was only one tear; it was on her cheek. Where the others had gone, he wasn't sure. Part of him hoped they had disappeared.

Part of him hoped they were still to come.

"'And then' what, Greg?" Stacy whispered. Her voice was soft. Warm. He looked at her. House could tell that she didn't want to argue anymore. She didn't want to cause him anymore pain. She didn't want him to hurt himself more than she already had.

His blue gaze fell away from hers. She brought her other hand up to wrap around his other wrist tightly, pulling both of his hands closer to her. It forced his attention upon her again.

"'And then' what...?" she repeated. Her eyes shifted, searching him; he could feel it. He hated when she did that because whatever conjectures she made about what he was thinking were usually right. It was irritating. It was annoying.

He loved it.

He used to love it.

"Maybe..." House said softly. His hands shook slightly in her grasp, the Vicodin falling from between his fingers. It hit the floor with a soft tap. House bit his lip briefly, turned his head to the side and then tilted it back to look at the ceiling before whispering, "...maybe we'd both be better off."

It was quiet. There were no more shouted accusations or pleaded apologies. For the longest moment, there was absolutely nothing.

"You stubborn ass." Her voice was so quiet and so unexpected that it sounded far away. It hurt House to hear it. If she had been angry, the words wouldn't have mattered. It wouldn't have affected him. He could go on. He could carry on with the knowledge that they'd be all right tomorrow morning.

But she wasn't angry. She wasn't arguing. She wasn't bouncing off his rude, arrogant, smart-ass comments in a manner that would be dismissed as playful when they recounted the incident the next day.

She was hurt - in more ways than one.

He heard it.

And when House looked at Stacy, knealing on the floor in front of him - her lips parted slightly, her dark hair falling around her fair face, her brown eyes no longer searching his for an answer - he couldn't help but think that there would never be another tomorrow morning.

*~*~*~*

The throbbing in his leg was beginning to subside despite the fact that the Vicodin still warmed the space between House's finger and thumb as he turned it over. He looked at the red cup on the floor. It had rolled away from him - too far to reach by hand or by foot. He didn't feel like using the cane.

With a sigh, he brought the pill to his lips and swallowed it dry. His expression contorted slightly as he felt the Vicodin squeeze its way into his system without any water to ease its jagged path.

House leaned over to his right just slightly, dipping his hand into the bathwater and shaking it off roughly as he withdrew. It was warm. Slightly. Okay, not at all. But he would argue with her that it was.

If she were here.

Leaning his elbow against the sink, House pushed to his feet with a grunt. He hopped slightly on his left leg, gathering his balance before picking up his cane. He held it in both hands, letting it slap into his palm as he lifted it and let it fall a couple of times.

He blinked and shook his head slightly. It still hurt. The leg still hurt.

Everything still hurt.

Reaching out with the cane, House pulled the plug from the bathtub.

He turned away, placing his cane on the edge of the sink as he grabbed his robe from a hook on the wall. He shrugged into the garment, tying it off at the waist. In the background, he could hear the tub emptying slowly. It sounded far away.

He never looked at it.

As he took up the cane and limped from the bathroom, the last of the water drained away with a trickling echo from the pipes.