After that evening with Cuddy, House fell into bed, angry and ashamed of himself and, over the following days, his moods and emotions shifted unpredictably, as unstable as weather patterns. Harmless words and simple, well-meaning actions set him off, and he would feel rage spin inside his head like a tornado. Innocent conversations escalated into red-faced shouting matches. He would conclude most nights face-down on the couch, or his bed, drowning in darkness and muffling his own curses and screams into a pillow.
The following Saturday, House reclined comfortably on his couch, ear turned to a radio broadcast of the Phillies game, when Wilson let himself into the apartment. Wilson shuffled toward the couch, asking without a greeting, "What's the score? It was four to three when I left."
"Cubs are up, now, six to three. Soriano hit a two-run double down the right field line."
"Please tell me they pulled Moyer."
"You just missed it." House dipped his hand into a bag of pretzels and munched with his mouth full. "We're still on a commercial break." House felt the couch sink beside him with Wilson's weight.
"Oh, well, in that case, I just got your mail." Wilson paused. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
House's hand stopped en route to his mouth. He lowered the pretzel, setting his jaw, trying to swallow against the fury racing up his throat. Wilson apparently interpreted his silence as consent and tore open an envelope.
"Junk mail," he said casually. "Pre-approved for an American Express card." He ripped open another piece of mail. "Oh, this one looks like your electric bill. It's pretty low, only-"
House's hand shot out, gathering all of the envelopes he found and ripped them into pieces. "Of course it's low!" he shouted. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't been turning on a lot of lights lately!"
The weight lifted from the couch and suddenly Wilson's voice was farther away. "Well, I have. Some of us still need-"
With a hard flick of his wrist, House threw the torn bills and mail in Wilson's direction. "Here! You take it! You pay for it!" As fast as he could manage, he walked to the door, found the knob, and pulled it open. "And get the hell out of my house!" House refused to budge until he heard Wilson stalk past him and into the hall.
Later, House retaliated against the plaguing feeling of helplessness and attempted to reassert some of his independence. He dug through his toolbox, uncovering some wood glue-he had tested its consistency with his fingers-and a full sheet of sandpaper, which he carried to the bathroom. He urinated, mindful of where he stood to ensure a true aim, and marked the location of his feet on the floor with strips of sandpaper, gluing them into place. When he visited the bathroom in the middle of the night and heard the stream hit the water, he grinned.
His mood remained light until Wednesday. Cuddy arrived late in the evening to load his freezer with microwave dinners. He leaned against the kitchen counter as she told him about downloadable podcasts from the New England Journal of Medicine.
Her voice flitted around the room, following her as she walked from the counter to the refrigerator. "I forgot to write down the URL, but I'll bring it to you-"
House furrowed his brows when she paused. Before he realized she was standing in front of him, her hands were unbuttoning his shirt. His body stiffened. "What are you doing?"
"Your buttons aren't aligned right. You missed a buttonhole near the top."
House stepped away from her, backing hard into the stove. A burner knob dug painfully into his tailbone, but he ignored it. "I could button my own shirt."
"I know. You just missed a-"
"I'd appreciate it, Cuddy, if you didn't treat me as your stand-in kid. I'm not a fucking three-year-old!"
He knew the words would hurt her, but, at that moment, he didn't care. He stayed in the kitchen as she left, trying to hide a sniffle on her way to the door.
The day only got worse when he received a phone call from Cameron, her voice heavy with concern but forcing politeness, attempting pleasantries and small talk. He worked hard throughout the entire conversation to get her off the phone, and when she mentioned the benefits of a seeing-eye dog, he hung up on her. The nearest coffee mug, thankfully empty, flew from his hand and shattered inside his fireplace.
He brooded until the following morning when Cuddy returned, cleaned up the ceramic shards without comment, and brought him a fresh cup of coffee. He felt her wordlessly settle close to him on the couch and, calmed by the scent of her perfume and her nearby warmth, drew deep breaths between sips of coffee. She didn't leave until the coffee pot was empty, undoubtedly late for work.
His moodiness hardly improved as time passed. He had become aware of his dwindling sick leave and had started a countdown. Thirty-five days until I lose my job. Twenty days until I lose my job. As the number closed in on zero, a sinking, terrifying feeling settled in his gut that, despite his fleeting moments of contentment, he couldn't quite shake.