He took his time walking back home. There was no need to hurry, and the slower pace was easier on his legs. There were no patients to think about, no exotic diseases to diagnose, no angry messages from Cuddy about how another soccer mom bitched about his behavior. His only annoyance was having to switch the slushy from hand to hand because it froze his fingers.
He did miss having a mystery to solve. He liked that part of his job if nothing else. But he wasn't about to tell Cuddy that. She'd drag him back to work before he was ready. He wasn't ready, not yet. The mysteries could wait another week or two. Right now he just wanted to get used to walking without the damned cane. It was something he could get used to. Something he had been waiting for, waiting a long long time.
Back inside his apartment, House felt tired, sweaty and elated. It had been years since he had been able to take a simple walk up the street just for the sheer enjoyment of it. Since the infarction, walks had been reduced to simply getting him from one place to another or endless circles trying to relieve the pain in his leg. But now...now that door was open again and he intended to go through it, not caring what was on the other side.
The bright sunlight had given him a headache. He washed down some aspirin with the last of his slushy, drinking it too fast and giving himself a brain freeze. Cursing under his breath, he tossed the cup into the garbage, then chuckled. A brain freeze. It had been a long time since he had one of those. Then he remembered why he didn't gulp down frozen drinks like water.
He decided to take another walk tomorrow if he felt up to it and if the weather cooperated. The lack of exercise over the last few weeks didn't quite gel with the sudden onslaught of exercise and his calf muscles were knotted in protest. He flopped on the bed, still in his sweaty clothes and sneakers, intending to rest a bit before showering and changing into something clean before Cuddy arrived. It took all of five seconds to realize that laying down was a huge mistake and he wasn't getting up again anytime soon.
I need a shower. I need some coffee.
His eyelids drooped, and his mind felt like a snowy television screen. The bedroom began to drift away.
A short bolt of pain shot through his right leg, then faded.
It's from the walk. My leg is fine. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be just fine, the doctor thought as he fell asleep.
"You really were out walking today," Cuddy said, smiling down at him from the edge of the bed.
"Are you calling me a liar?" he muttered, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. His leg muscles were tight. He was going to be sore in the morning, and he scowled at the thought. At least it was the good kind of sore, the kind that let him know he had done something good to his body for a change.
"You can't sit there and tell me that you've never lied to me. Then you would be lying and, yes, I would be calling you a liar."
"What the hell are you babbling about?" House was still groggy and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Would you mind repeating that in English?"
"You've lied to me before, Greg, but you're not lying now." She looked him over, noting the sneakers still on his feet. "What brought this on?"
"What brought what on? English, please."
"Why the sudden urge to go outside?"
"I felt like it."
"Why now?"
"Why not?"
Cuddy sighed and rolled her eyes. He wasn't going to give her a straight answer because he probably didn't have one. I felt like it and why not? would have to do for now. That was House being deep and philosophical. An hour with House would make Plato's brain melt and send Nietzche swan-diving off the nearest overpass. "Did you enjoy your walk?" she inquired, trying to get a fix on his state of mind. His mood had been pretty good over the last few weeks, but she didn't want him anywhere near a patient until she was sure he was damn good and ready, and not one second sooner.
"Yes, I did. Thank you for asking," he answered, sitting up with a knowing grin.
"You're quite welcome. And your leg?"
"My leg is fine."
"Are you lying?" she asked and deliberately looked at the Vicodin bottle on the night table.
"No." He followed her gaze and his eyes turned frosty. "Shall I count them out here for you?" the diagnostician asked his boss stonily, feeling irritated at her less-than-subtle gesture. He wished she wouldn't ask him about the damn pills every other time she was over. That was starting to get old.
"I don't know. Should you?"
"I'm not going to, but knock yourself out." He leaned over, picked up the bottle and tossed it into her lap. "I believe you said there were fifteen pills left."
"Yes, I did," Cuddy said, matching his stony tone of voice. "Do either of us need to count these?"
"No."
"Are you telling me the truth?" She popped the lid and shook the pills around in the plastic container, the rattle was familiar yet strange. Neither had heard it in quite some time. Hearing it brought back more than a few memories to House, memories of desperately searching for his stash, needing that last pill to get through another pain-wracked night, needing that first pill to be able to get out of bed. He was surprised to find he didn't miss the sound. Well, maybe a little.
"There's fifteen pills, Lisa. Fifteen. You don't have to count them."
"All right." She reached over and set the bottle back down next to the alarm clock. "That's all I wanted to know."
