Disclaimer: They belong to David Shore. I worship, I grovel.
Feedback: is a girl's best friend. Constructive criticism is, as always, actively encouraged.
Spoilers: Vague ones for 'Control.'
Notes: An old-school challenge, a new-fangled fic. Originally posted to housefic on livejournel.
Rating: PG-13 for language and adult situations
FIVE THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED TO GREGORY HOUSE
i.
He thinks about his father. Not often, but sometimes. His father wanted him to take the job at Princeton.
"Good, steady pay, Greg, and a prestigious position. What's holding you back?"
Nothing, except his father but dear, old Dad didn't need to know that. At least the interview had gone well until the dean had mentioned the particulars.
"And, of course, there are required clinic hours."
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I thought I wouldn't have to deal directly with patients."
"Patient care is part of what makes us good physicians, Dr. House."
And then the explanations and the dictations and Greg had smiled in a polite, strained way before walking out.
Fuck clinic hours and fuck the old man to boot.
The CDC had been more than happy to take him in. It wasn't everyday that a rising star of the infectious disease world wanted to live on a government salary.
And now, as he looks at the torn sleeve of his biohazard suit, he wonders if maybe listening to his father wouldn't have been the worse thing to do after all.
ii.
James shows up at his apartment with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bag of pot in the other.
"What-"
"Not right now. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, sure."
It's after the first joint but before the whiskey that James finally spills.
"She left me."
And Greg, who knows it's almost always the woman who does the dumping when it comes to James, sighs. "Well, that wasn't exactly unpredictable."
"Yeah." James won't meet his eyes. Instead, he pours a tumbler of fine whiskey and cradles it against his chest. A grown man's security blanket.
An hour slides by in an alcoholic and smoky haze. Greg entertains James with stories of the more idiotic patients he's seen and gets stiff smiles in response. James had always been a morose drunk.
"She didn't love me anymore," he abruptly announces.
Greg searches heavenward for a sign of relief but none comes. He's familiar with this part of the ritual but that doesn't make it any less taxing. "Did she mention why or did she just get it tattooed on her forehead?"
James chuckles in a sore sort of way. "No tattoos. Just a note. 'Don't love you anymore, sorry if that sucks, bye.' "
"Your taste in women never ceases to amaze me."
James's eyes slide toward him. He has to tilt his head slightly; even slouching on the couch together, Greg sits taller than he does. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"I didn't love her anymore, either."
James has a hand on his leg, sliding up, up, up and when he opens his mouth to protest, James cuts him off with lips and tongue. James feels heavier than a woman against him, all angles and planes, and now it's Greg with his hand moving between James's legs. It's not sweet or tender and Greg is now sure the pot had been as much about courage as forgetting.
But, then, he supposes this situation had been predictable, too.
iii.
Stacey walks back into the hospital room. No, not walks. Stalks back in, heels going clickity-clack against the tile floor. She leans over him, inches from his face, and suddenly it's not the pain in his leg he's worried about.
"You. Are. A. Fucking. Moron," she says. "And the next time you try to pull that jackass routine to get rid of me, I'll personally make sure that Wilson tapes your mouth shut. You got that?"
"Got it." His voice still sounds raspy.
"Good." She sits angrily in the chair next to him. He didn't think you could sit angrily but then Stacey had always surprised him. "Now, what the hell was up with Timmy on Passions anyway?"
He can't be sure if she's actually watching the television or just glaring at it, with those arms crossed and the rage practically radiating off of her.
For the first time in a very long time, a genuine smile graces his face.
iv.
He has the Vicodin.
He can't believe he didn't think of it before.
He hobbles toward the medicine cabinet, opens it up and stares at the small prescription bottle. He remains that way for some time.
Could he?
Yes, yes he could. He'd never been into deluding himself about what he was capable of and now is about the worst time to start doing so.
He grabs the bottle, rattles it. Nearly full. Nice.
He hobbles back to the kitchen because he doesn't walk anywhere anymore and finds a bottle of wine. Good year, too. He pauses momentarily, unsure where to sit but then decides he likes the piano bench. No significance there – although he can imagine future speculation – other than the fact that he just likes his piano.
His leg feels stiff and painful as he sits but he's okay with that. After all, he'll only have to live with it for the rest of his life.
The pills spill out onto the ebony wood, little candies from the Easter Bunny just for him. He opens the wine, wonders if he should go back and get a glass, then decides against it. Formality has never been his thing anyway. He takes a drink directly from the bottle, lets it burn a little before beginning in earnest.
One potato, two potato…
Another drink of wine.
Three potato, four…
He feels a little fuzzy and can't be sure if that's actually the drugs kicking in or if it's this entire surreal situation.
Five potato, six potato…
His pile of candies dwindles.
Seven potato, more.
He doesn't feel his leg. Then again, he's not feeling much of anything. It's all rather pleasant actually and he gives a slurred laugh. A little tired, though. Maybe he should rest his head on his arms.
He realizes belatedly that he didn't leave a note.
v.
"Everyone likes you."
"Do you?"
Oh, good Christ, what the hell does she want from him? Has he suddenly become host to the litany of Cameron's insecurities? Is she somehow under the impression that he wants to hold her hand? Sure, he thinks, hire the pretty, broken girl to find out what makes her tick because it might be interesting. That's the bestest idea ever.
What the fuck had been in the meds that day?
"I have to know."
She's way too close to him now and he can't tell if this is more not-so-subtle manipulation or genuine anxiety. It could be, in fact, just about any damn thing that he really and truly doesn't care about. But at this point she's got her bottom lip stuck out and her eyes wide in that just-about-to-cry way and she couldn't look more like a kicked puppy if she tried. So, before he even has time to think up an appropriately cutting remark, the truth tumbles out all on its lonesome.
"Yes."
They stay standing there, the rest of world spinning away into the abyss. And he knows that everything, everything changes now.
Even him.
FIN