Change
House wakes suddenly with a gasp of pain. He curls reflexively to protect the part of him that hurts; he knows what's happened.
He didn't get Cuddy out of his head as he'd planned.
He's been here too often—the sharp, grating feel of sandpaper in his urethra, the potentially embarrassing dream fading—and he uncurls as the pain changes from acute stabbing to less acute throbbing.
He remembers dreaming that he'd run to Cuddy's house—reliving the memory from nearly two years ago—and she'd been happy to see him. He can still see her curves silhouetted by back-lighting and a nearly-transparent nightgown.
This is all Cuddy's fault, this throbbing in his groin. If she wasn't bugging him all the time, wearing that beer shirt…
He rolls onto his left side, expecting to see her.
No Cuddy. Open-mouthed, sleeping Kutner instead.
"You drew the short straw?" House says loudly.
Kutner jumps and House waits with an evil smile for the moment of recognition. Sees Kutner realize there's no emergency and hide his chagrin at the rude awakening.
House's motives aren't clear to him yet, except that he wants to disrupt Kutner's sleep. Because he can.
Kutner's still waking up. "What'd you need?" he asks sleepily.
House is ready to say that he needs nothing, just wanted to mess with him, but his throat's dry and he feels…good…mischievous…
"Water," he says, though he's so accustomed to cotton mouth he could just as well go without.
But he feels better and wants to cause trouble, even if the trouble is only troubling Kutner for water.
He rolls onto his back again to track Kutner's movement. He feels good. Wants to get up and stretch. Maybe take a walk.
"Feeling better?" Kutner asks as he delivers the water.
House ignores him. "I want to see my chart," he says between sips.
He knows already the prazosin's regulating his sleep. He wants to see now if it's also doing what the FDA approved it to do to his blood pressure so that he can get out of bed without causing another bleed or more edema.
Kutner gives him a funny look but does what he's asked to do. Fetches.
The water's good. The first few sips remind House that he's thirsty—remind him what being thirsty feels like. Awoken by an erection, ready to get out of bed, thirsty—his appetites are coming back. Means he'll be ready to get out of here soon.
He smiles at that and drains the cup.
Kutner returns with the chart. House scans the vitals and meds records. His blood pressure's at the high end of normal with two antihypertensives and he's still showing a slight fever despite acetaminophen. Autonomic system's still off.
"You hungry?" Kutner asks.
House looks up from the chart. Kutner's refilling the cup.
"Because I can get you some food…"
"Not right now," House says briskly. "I want to move around. Take a quick walk."
He hands Kutner the chart, noticing Kutner's not totally on board with the idea.
"If you have another seizure, or pass out—" Kutner begins.
"If I pass out—you're a doctor, right?" House interrupts in his best insulting manner.
Kutner grudgingly accepts the logic, shrugging and nodding.
House sits up, using his hands to push himself into position, and blinks away the dizziness. Probably caused by the fact that he hasn't eaten more than a cup of applesauce in two days rather than the crack in his skull, he reasons. That must be it.
"Bring me the supplies I need to yank the Foley," he says breathily, squeezing his eyes shut. Damn. Still dizzy.
When he opens them again, Kutner's still there. Slack-jawed with disbelief: you wanna do what?
"Even if I don't get up," House says, "I want it out."
Kutner begins, "I'll get a nurse—"
"No, I don't want a nurse," House corrects, quickly becoming annoyed. "Just bring me the supplies. I'll do it."
"Okay," Kutner mumbles and turns to leave.
House wants to pace. Even if he doesn't last long on his feet, he must move. He's been in bed too long. Makes him feel more crippled than he is.
He needs a destination. The smell of dried sweat provides him with one. A shower. That's what he'll do. Walk to the lounge and take a shower.
Yes.
Kutner's taking his time. House detubes and unwires himself.
When Kutner returns, House is ready with an order.
"Get me a pizza," he demands. "Everything on it. Large."
Kutner's mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish's.
"I thought you weren't hungry," he begins.
House shoos him with a look: just do it. House has his doubts about how trainable Kutner really is, but Kutner leaves without objecting again.
House takes his time pulling the Foley. He's determined not to encounter one of these again for at least a year. The nurses can put him back in a diaper; it's better than extending the week of soreness that'll plague him from this round. He has enough trouble walking as it is.
Walking. He's ready. No matter how painful.
He never does anything small when he can do it big, so he doesn't go slowly. Stands as soon as his feet touch the floor.
And just manages to find the generous leather chair behind him before he gets too dizzy and disoriented. Collapses there, heart pounding, the rush of blood to his head drowning out all other sound. Gasps—more blood intensifies his headache, mild panic at losing his bearings—then tries not to gasp.
Sound returns slowly. The sense that he's being whirled out of himself, blurred into two bodies by an out of control carnival ride begins to pass.
He calms. This has nothing to do with the crack in his skull. His blood pressure shot up when he stood rather than dropping. It's low blood sugar. He needs to eat.
But he wants to walk. Wants a shower.
He feels normal again when Kutner returns. Kutner has his cane. Well, not his cane. A cane. He doesn't imagine what's happened to his cane, the cane she followed him on to the bus to deliver. Files it away instead. Later he'll think about the fate of that particular cane.
"Forty-five minutes to an hour," Kutner says, handing the unfamiliar cane over.
"I have ordered pizza before," House quips.
He lifts an arm to indicate he wants Kutner's help. Knows he's too shaky to do this by himself, doesn't want to risk passing out and hitting his head again.
He leans on Kutner more than he wants to, but it can't be helped. His head swims. Like he's underwater. Like the air is pushing against him.
"House?" he hears Kutner say, "you okay?"
He forces himself to breathe calmly. His leg hurts, and that helps. Keeps him focused on something.
"Yeah," he manages.
"Let's sit down," Kutner says and tries to push him back toward the chair.
"No." He stands his ground, albeit shakily. Shifts more of his weight to the cane.
Feels better now. The air is air again.
"Sure you're okay?"
He answers with a step forward. Hurts. Off-balance. The muscles squeeze, protest. He tightens his hold and Kutner and feels Kutner do the same. Head pounds. Vision's a little blurry.
He's not shaking this off as easily as he'd thought. Must be the result of more than a day of bedrest and improper nutrition.
But he keeps moving forward. If he's going down, he's taking Kutner with him. He wants to go to the longue, take a shower, and eat pizza in front of the TV there, and that's what he's going to do.
Kutner whines. Thinks this is unsafe. House ignores him. One foot in front of the other.
They reach the door. He calculates the steps between here and the longue. Doesn't look good. And who knows if Kutner had the presence of mind to grab his Vicodin. He's going to need it soon.
So he stops and leans against the wall outside the room. He's sweating, shaking. He's not going to make it on his feet. The glass under his palm tastes like blue ice.
"Get my Vicodin," he tells Kutner. The sentence smells like purple. He hears the words like he's listening through a backwards telescope. Or a kaleidoscope.
Synaesthesia, he realizes. He's hearing colors. Tasting sounds. He's not all right, but he's not about to admit it. Not while he's got Kutner in a drunk's version of a headlock and he can hear the squeak of his palm sliding down the glass wall.
Kutner tells one of the nurses to get a wheelchair. But he sounds normal now—not like the taste of mahogany or the texture of cheese. House concentrates—realizes he can concentrate—on breathing and keeping his knees from collapsing. He's dizzy and wobbly and hypoglycemic, but the synaesthesia's gone and so is the panic that accompanied it.
He feels Kutner trying to lower him more than he hears Kutner tell him to sit. Complies with the movement. Feels better sitting.
Pills rattle and appear next to his left hand. He snatches and deftly swallows two; his muscles remember what to do. Then Kutner's pulling him backward rather than pushing him forward. Taking him back to the room.
"Wait," House says. "I wanna go to the longue." His system's still not back to normal and the words come out in a rush as he exhales.
Kutner appears before him, squatting. Troubled look on his face. He's assessing the situation.
"Can't have pizza without TV," House adds. The fact that the image of Kutner stops moving in front of him helps his case.
"You're flushed," Kutner says, suddenly doctorly and serious. "Let me check your BP."
House nods tiredly. Kutner reminds him of Chase and Wilson. Willing to do what he says with minimal huffing and puffing, usually follows his lead, but sometimes insists on taking the lead. House doesn't respect that position—merely finds it convenient.
Chase is still Chase when he thinks about Chase. But Wilson is different.
By the time that thought has come and gone, Kutner's squatting in front of him again.
"150 over 94," Kutner says. Disapproves.
"Because I was standing," House argues, hearing how tired he sounds and ignoring it. "I'm okay now."
He's gotten enough control back that he can match Kutner's disagreeing expression. And that he can balance the cane on the armrests and wheel himself forward.
Kutner jumps up and out of the way, and House feels him take over.
"I'm gonna check your BP every five minutes until it's in a safer range," Kutner grumbles.
House just smiles. He always gets what he wants.
Showing takes everything he has left even with a chair. First Kutner has to be convinced. Then there's the negotiation of slippery surfaces going in and coming out. He lets Kutner drape a clean gown over him and plops into the wheelchair. Exhausted.
But it's worth it, he thinks, once he's settled on the couch with his feet up. The new dose of Vicodin kicks in around the same time. Elevates his mood. So does having a television in front of him.
Kutner inflates the BP cuff while House channel surfs. He doesn't care if nothing's on. He'll watch the Home Shopping Network right now. He'll even watch the news.
"144 over 86," Kutner announces.
House doesn't care. He's not sick when he's watching TV. He's in control. And he can think without having to pace.
He doesn't want to think. Not now. But he needs to.
It bothers him, just a little, that Wilson found out about the fact that Amber wasn't merely another pair of legs to him. She was ruthless. Exacting. And he still believes Wilson was really dating him through her. Sort of. But she was more than a proxy. Not much more, but just enough that she interested him. Because she exercised her own will.
At first, he'd wanted to sleep with her the way he wants to sleep with all attractive women. Just sex. Nothing beyond that. But then she'd gone after Wilson. Complicated everything. And around that time he realized she was more than just a potential sex partner to him. How much more, he doesn't know and doesn't want to think about.
He knows where this train of thought is taking him and he wants to jump off right now, roll away from the tracks, and let the train reach its destination without him.
But he can't. Because he never forgets his cane. Not even when he's wasted.
He wanted to get away from her. He's sure of that. But he wanted her to follow him too. He's equally sure of that.
The sensations, sounds, sights, thoughts—everything—that he did to Crandall years ago rush up from a recess in his memory. She was bad for Crandall, the woman Crandall wanted. She was bad for him because she was just promiscuous enough to trade one band member for another.
Sometimes he tells himself he was protecting Crandall from committing to her and finding out later, in some more damaging manner, that she would betray his trust. But he's not naïve enough to believe that he didn't betray Crandall's trust as well.
He knows he'd do it again. People don't change.
He'd dreamt about her coming over—Amber—saying she'd never tell Wilson about it, that just one time—
He'd dreamt too that Wilson had found out and punched him, given him the stink eye for a few weeks, and gotten over it. She always disappeared in those dreams; gone after their one night. No explanation.
But only actions matter, and he hadn't done anything with her. Nothing overt. He'd tried to leave.
Except that he left his cane.
He doesn't remember getting on the bus. He assumes it was a short, crooked, painful walk that he didn't feel at all. He doesn't remember her calling his name, trying to catch up with him. Just her appearing next to him, handing him his cane.
Those were her actions. Not his.
His thoughts shift abruptly. Chase is the same but Wilson is different.
He remembers waking up from electrocuting himself. Wilson's angry, worried face. Wilson enabling him with a sweet dose of pain meds.
The wives and divorces hadn't changed him. But she did. And fast.
Because this time Wilson wouldn't speak to him. Wouldn't even get close to him.
That's fine, he tells himself, he doesn't need Wilson. He didn't need Crandall either.
He'll find someone else to drink with. Watch games with. Abuse and prank. He's got Cuddy wrapped around his little finger right now. He doesn't want to watch games with her and he already abuses her; she's a stopgap measure, but right now she'll do.
He'll find someone else.
Because this isn't his fault. Not entirely. Not enough that he feels guilty.
"House?"
He blinks. Pizza box. Kutner.
"Pizza's here."
Kutner sits beside him and offers a soda.
House takes it wordlessly. He'd been ignoring Kutner so successfully that he hadn't noticed Kutner had left.
He grabs a slice of pizza and focuses intently on the television so Kutner will know to shut up.
Kutner. It's not lost on him, the nexus of his thoughts and Kutner's appearance. But Kutner's too naïve and slavish. Chase has become too independent. Foreman, Cameron, Taub, Thirteen—all too serious to have fun with.
He wonders where Bosley ended up. Bosley would make a good replacement, although he forgives with just a little too much condescending wisdom. Too grandfatherly. Bosley would rather agree than argue. That was part of the problem with Crandall. Too willing to go along. Wilson understood arguing for the sake of arguing.
Cuddy does too. But Cuddy's a special case. And his best friend can't be a woman. Too distracting.
"So what happened on the bus?"
House grunts. Even Kutner's voice sounds stupid.
He bites into a pizza slice, communicating with his eyes that his mouth is too full to answer. He exaggerates. Wants Kutner to know he's not going to answer that question.
But Kutner rides the short bus sometimes, and this is one of those times. Keeps glancing at House, reiterating the question.
House sniffs and takes another bite. "It crashed," he says through a mouthful.
Kutner snorts, but has the sense to appear contrite as well.
"You don't want to talk about it," Kutner says dully as if repeating a mantra, eyes rolled to the ceiling. He tears into his own slice, dividing his attention between it and House.
House ignores him. He doesn't take in the images on the television screen; too busy with food and how good it tastes and feels. He's halfway through a second slice when his stomach tells him to stop eating. Limitations. He hates limitations. So he clings stubbornly to the half-eaten slice and tries to will himself to feel like finishing it.
"Wilson's taking it pretty hard."
Kutner's voice surprises him again. He keeps forgetting Kutner's there. And Kutner keeps reminding him.
Beyond annoyance at how obvious it is, House feels almost nothing about the statement. He barely even sniffs in reply.
"What did you expect?" he mumbles, staring over the pizza at the television. Vicodin grants him patience if not hunger.
Kutner shrugs. "I don't know. He's just always here." He chews and looks over at House. "I mean, I thought he'd at least come by to see you by now."
House shrugs back. "He knows I'm no fun with a head injury."
Kutner acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. "But still," he persists, "when you zapped yourself, he barely left your room till you woke up."
"So his social life changed," House mutters. He doesn't like this conversation—or any conversation with Kutner—and he has no idea why he isn't giving Kutner the silent treatment. Much as he hates to do it, he blames the Vicodin for making him talkative.
And for killing his appetite. He sighs and tosses the unfinished slice into the box.
"Hey," Kutner protests with a full mouth, "this cost twenty-five bucks."
"Pizza without beer is like cheese without wine," House covers, leaning back with a hand on his stomach.
Kutner shrugs, conceding the point. He takes notice of House's posture.
"Give it time," he advises, as though House had asked for his opinion, "it'll come back."
Now House does ignore him. Doesn't care at all what Kutner thinks about his appetite. He glares when Kutner produces a BP cuff and snarls as he offers his arm. He wants to eat more, to ditch Kutner, to go home, to drink until he can't remember.
Abruptly, his hand starts shaking while Kutner's measuring. He tries to steady it with the other hand. Kutner looks at him quizzically, but House has no answer to offer. Not when they both know what's going on.
When Kutner removes the cuff, he shakes his hand, trying to shake out the shakes, and places it in his lap.
"152 over 90," Kutner reports, still with a questioning expression on his face.
The numbers are skewed by the mild panic over the tremor in his hand, House thinks, but he isn't going to tell Kutner about any panic, no matter how mild. Tremors after head trauma aren't abnormal. He's not going to worry because there's nothing he can do about it.
"I have to tell Foreman," Kutner says, almost apologetically.
House shrugs a shoulder. He's done with this. Done with Kutner's company, done showering and eating, done talking about things he doesn't want to talk about. His stomach has settled and the combination of Vicodin, food, and the shower has made him sleepy as well as tired. Kutner can tell Foreman whatever he wants.
"I'm ready to go back," House mumbles, taking in the flickering images on the TV, wishing he could bring the TV with him. Wishing he could just go home to his own TV.
"Okay."
House waits for Kutner to get the chair. He's not going very far on his own. Not when he's this tired.
He lets Kutner help him move and struggles to stay awake as they roll down the brilliantly lit halls.
He hates this. Hates Kutner for bringing Wilson up. Hates Wilson for sulking, being ungrateful, grieving—for whatever it is that's kept him away and that made Kutner mention his absence. Because although he knows he agreed to having a hole drilled in his brain because he needed to solve the mystery, he also knows that if Wilson hadn't asked him to do it, he probably wouldn't have done it. Wilson hasn't even said a proper thank you yet. If what Cuddy said is true, that his action had given Wilson time to say goodbye, then Wilson owes him at least a thank you.
And yet he knows by Wilson's absence that Wilson blames him. Wilson has to blame someone. He's not going to blame the dead girl. House realizes he's an easy target. But it was an accident. It was not preventable. It was not his fault.
He doesn't blame himself, not even a little. Because to allow himself to take some of the blame would be to invite more of it than he deserves. It's his dad's moral universe he's inhabiting, black and white. He hates that he shares anything with his dad, but he can't change his response.
But what he hates most is the sense he has that something big has changed. He doesn't want any change. He wants to maintain his normal. And right now he doesn't think he's got much chance of doing that. Not until he can get home and get himself a drink.
He lets Kutner help him onto the bed and plug him back in.
Now he's tired but no longer sleepy. He stares at nothing while Kutner settles in beside him. He thinks about things that have changed and things that haven't changed. And things that he can't change.
A long time passes before he falls asleep.
