After reading a few fics in which House's only lines were gasping sobs and apologies to Wilson, I decided it was my duty to write a Mayfield fic. I'd forgotten that it'd require time, effort, and maybe a plot. Forgive me, but I've never been to medical school. I didn't even pay attention in Biology. I also don't own nor make any claims to House MD. As always, please review!
His room was tiny and completely impersonal. The walls were a blue-tinted white, the linoleum had a speckled eggshell pattern, and both his window and bathroom were absurdly small. The furniture consisted of an armchair and a bed, but it was suggested he could get a nightstand in the future. The sheets on the bed were cool and fresh-scented as a result of being washed regularly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd washed his sheets at home, but he missed sleeping on sheets that smelled familiar. He also missed his piano, his cane, Cuddy's ass, playing pranks on Wilson, and having more than three changes of clothes. The only thing familiar to him was Amber and he'd give her up in a heartbeat.
Now that he knew she would never leave, she was usually by his side; the faithful rabid rottweiler of his subconscious. He was laying on his bed, arms behind his head, trying not to think of anything important. Amber, he knew, was sitting cross-legged on the floor playing with her hair.
"There's a bird outside," she commented, turning her head to squint out the bright window. House could hear it but did not reply. He knew the only reason she knew there was a bird outside was because he could hear it. She stood up and walked to the window, shielding her eyes and peering through the netting in the glass. "I can't see what kind of bird." House heard the bird give a definitive cry. "Just a Blue Jay," Amber sighed, leaning against the wall and beginning to pick at a split end. House continued to stare unwaveringly at the ceiling.
"Dr. House," called Ryan, his black nurse, through the gap in the propped open door. There was very little privacy here. Doors were always open and everybody was encouraged to share themselves. House elbowed himself upright and hefted his bad leg to slide it off the edge of the bed. Ryan walked in holding a paper cup of pills. His eyes looked tired, his face was moist, and his hands were shaking from too much caffeine. The edge of House's mouth lifted.
"Did you touch them?" House asked, leaning on the edge of the bed frame for support.
"What?"
"Did you touch my pills?" House asked again, drawing out each word. Nurse Ryan looked confused, probably expecting a racist comment. House sighed dramatically. "You obviously spent breakfast huddled over the porcelain express and you had that ink on your hand yesterday, which means you don't wash your hands." The nurse's eyes flicked to an ink mark on his index finger. "In my medical opinion, I recommend hair of the dog," House advised, snatching the pills and throwing them down expertly. "We can share a few shots on your lunch break. You bring the vodka."
The nurse shot House a sheepish smile as he handed back his paper cup, a smile that reminded House of Kutner. "Have a good afternoon, House," he said as he walked out, veering toward the staff bathroom. House frowned and climbed back onto the bed, putting his arms behind his head again and closing his eyes.
"I'm bored," Amber complained. House heard her lab coat rustle as she moved away from the wall. "When are you going to give up and go home, House? I miss our own bed." She knew that if he gave up, he'd never practice medicine again. She was just broadcasting doubts that had accumulated since he'd arrived here.
"Stop rationalizing, House. Wilson does it much better," she scoffed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Speaking of Wilson, do you think he's married again yet? The psych nurse was looking promising, wasn't she?" Amber faced him with a look of concern. "Do you think they'd let us out to be best man?"
House pushed his arm under the pillow and turned on his side, away from Amber. He closed his eyes and fished for a mental distraction. Grave Digger was revving up to obliterate five cars when he heard Amber lay down behind him. He opened his eyes and looked down at her arm draped over his ribcage, her delicate fingertips brushing against his blue T-shirt. An image of Amber and Wilson laying like this flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes again and forced his mind back to Grave Digger, mentally watching as windshields popped and glass sprayed. Grave Digger was only making his way around the stadium again before House dozed off, the sound of Amber's breath in his ear.
House slowly woke, feeling as if he was being watched. Since it wasn't night, the doors were still open. He cracked open his eyes and looked toward the doorway, where a blurry form confirmed his suspicion. It wasn't uncommon for patients to occassionally wander into other rooms, though it wasn't encouraged. It was felt that the space of each patient should be respected, despite the no closed doors policy. House turned his head away from the door, groggily hoping the intruder would piss off if they realized he was asleep. He was drifting off when he heard the shuffling of slippers across the floor. His head still aimed away from the door, he opened his eyes. And found himself staring right into Amber's.
"What?" he mumbled at both of them, frowning. Amber only smiled sadly and propped her head on her hand. House pushed himself into a sitting position and turned toward the intruder.
"Uh," began the intruder, who turned out to be a middle-aged woman wearing a sundress. "You're awake?"
"Do I look awake?" snapped House, reaching forward to massage his leg.
The woman chuckled nervously. "Well, I... I noticed you watch Prescription: Passion. I just... wanted to see if you knew it was on." She tugged on the sash of her dress as House looked her up and down. Approximately fifty years old, salt and pepper hair. Sundress, farm animal slippers, and unshaven legs with visible varicose veins. Probably admitted for bipolar disorder, based on the pink thunderbolt tattoo by her left ankle and the self-mutilation scars on her left arm. The silence grew longer and she turned away, obviously unnerved by House's piercing gaze.
"Okay," House said, grabbing his leg.
"I think the baby is David's," Amber said musingly, perched on the arm of the green couch House was slowly limping toward. House narrowed his eyes and grabbed the back of the couch as pain glanced down his thigh.
"Ruin the surprise," he muttered, flinging himself onto the cushion beside his intruder.
"What?" asked the middle-aged woman. House dragged his eyes from Amber's self-satisfied smirk.
"My hallucination thinks the baby is David's," he informed her, putting his feet up on the plastic table in front of the couch and monitoring her reaction from the corner of his eye.
She looked stunned. "David? I thought Dr. Warren was the father." House was just opening his mouth when she said, "Oh, but he was in jail when Melissa conceived, wasn't he? He didn't get out until two months after."
"A month and a half," Amber piped up, stretching out on another couch. House unconsciously angled his head to listen. "Tell her Melissa's having quadruplets. She was on fertility meds, remember?"
House raised his eyebrows and glanced at his soap companion, who was sitting on the other side of the couch with her legs tucked under her. "Melissa's having quadruplets."
Suddenly, the woman looked annoyed. "Stop that," she snapped, surprisingly not making eye contact with House, but looking at Amber's couch instead. House glanced at Amber, whose mouth was hanging open.
"What?"
"You're ruining things for me," she said, flipping the channel to the end credits of the soap before Prescription: Passion. "Part of the fun is figuring out the ties."
"I am over here. You were facing over there." If House had his cane, he'd have pointed it at the neighboring sofa.
"That's where your hallucination is, isn't it?" The woman was now acting as if this didn't require explanation. "You tilted your head to listen." House had, but just barely.
"Perceptive," Amber said, a hint of admiration in her tone. "I like her."
"And you decided to talk to my hallucination?" House monitored the woman carefully, but she still didn't seem the least bit disturbed. She must have been here a while, he deduced, so she was probably crazier than she seemed. "Interesting." The theme began and a busty brunette in scrubs appeared onscreen.
"So, Greg, how was your day?" asked his blonde psychologist, Dr. Sheila Browning, beginning their ritual.
House stretched his legs in front of him and shrugged. "The food here sucks." House remembered the first day he'd said that, shaking from the tail end of detox.
"You say that every day."
"The food always sucks."
The shrink smiled and leaned forward, her suit coat gaping open to reveal a blue V-neck and a hint of cleavage. "You've been here for a week and a half and you've undergone rapid detox. Do you feel there has been any improvement in your condition?"
"If I say yes, do I get phone calls?"
"You may have visitors and telephone privileges after you've been here for two weeks," recited Dr. Browning for approximately the fiftieth time.
"Something has definitely improved," he said, massaging his leg. He glanced up and saw the eagerness in Browning's posture.
"Yes?"
"Your breasts. Are you pregnant or just wearing an underwire?"
"Cuddy wears an underwire," Amber chimed in, sapping every ounce of fun from the conversation. She smiled angelically, knowing it.
"Greg," began the exasperated shrink, "you have to be aware that unless you let us help you, you won't be able to lead a normal life. Genius and a disregard for societal norms aren't going save you here. You have to let us do our jobs so you can go back to doing yours."
"She has a point, House," said Amber. "You want to go back to Princeton-Plainsboro, don't you?"
"I've already tried whining on somebody's couch and that was before I was seeing dead people. You want to figure me out to validate the article that was rejected from Psychology Today."
Browning remained firm. "No. I want to figure you out because it's my job and I do my job well."
"She can talk the talk, but can she walk the walk?" Amber asked, sitting down in a chair in the corner of the room and crossing her mile-long legs.
"Most of your patients never permanently leave the psychiatric circuit. You call that doing your job well?" House searched for any sign that his jibes affected her.
"All of the patients here, yourself included, have serious mental illnesses which prevent them from functioning normally in everyday life. If a patient of mine is able to hold a job and have positive social interaction for a year or two before being re-admitted then yes, I consider that doing my job well."
House tilted his head. She cared about what she was doing. "Okay," he said anti-climatically.
Browning didn't seem to have expected agreement. She tugged on an earring, apparently collecting her thoughts. "So," she finally said, "do you feel there has been any improvement?"
"I'm off Vicodin, but I'm still hallucinating. Everything on the list has been ruled out." A pause. "And I'm in pain."
"We'll get to the pain in a moment. You had a list?"
"Yeah."
"What was on it?" Browning leaned forward, jotting something down and looking at him with clinical interest. House stood up and began pacing to take his mind off of his leg.
"Sleep apnea," House said, watching her write it down, "crossed off after a night in the sleep lab. Infection, ruled out by a blood test. A lumbar puncture took MS off the table. Insulin shock ruled out mental illness."
"Insulin shock? You injected yourself with insulin?"
"Duh," he said, using the backs of the chairs in lieu of his cane, "I would've injected myself with bourbon, but I haven't heard of that being an effective treatment for schizophrenia."
Browning's mask of professionalism didn't waver. "Were there any side effects?"
"Couldn't remember how to do up my pants." House stopped pacing and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I could forget again. Do you have a storage closet around here?"
"I'm married," she said dismissively, flipping through his file. "As for the pain, I'll have to consult your doctor, but methadone seems like a good choice." She looked up.
House looked at her for a moment before glancing at Amber, noting that Browning followed his gaze. Amber sat in the antique chair with a half-smile, the setting sun coming through the windows behind Browning giving her a warm look. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
"I'll stick to my Asprin." He turned and left.