56 – "Well I ain't seen my baby since I don't know when. I've been drinking bourbon, whiskey, scotch and gin. Gonna get high man I'm gonna get loose, need me a triple shot of that juice. Gonna get drunk don't you have no fear. I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer." – "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" – John Lee Hooker
House rubbed his eyes, tilting his head slowly to ease the stiffness in his neck as a result of sleeping all night in the chair. It felt as if a pressure hose had been placed against his ear, filling his head to overflowing with molten wax. His brain seemed to be sloshing about in his head and there was a hot ache behind his still closed eyes.
He knew opening them right now would be foolhardy, judging from the way the light was doggedly trying to infiltrate his eyelids.
Two hangovers in as many days were in no way judicious, not at his age. Though the reasons for them differed, one was celebratory and insomnia driven and the other, tormented and self-destructive, the results were the same. And while House may have been able to keep up that kind of pace in his younger days, he was hell and gone from that once robust young man at this point in time. His overall health would most likely be paying a hefty price for his recklessness, sooner rather than later.
Though his eyes were still closed, the heady scent of coffee floated on the air and he flared his nostrils to inhale more of the rich, smoky fragrance.
"Coffee?" Thirteen's voice wafted above him, blending itself with the smell of the coffee as if it were cream and sugar.
"Hmmm," House grunted.
"Is that a yes or a no? How 'bout you nod your head if it's yes?"
"Because I don't want to have to chase it once it comes off and rolls across the floor."
House felt the smooth handle of his coffee mug being pressed into his right hand. He opened his eyes and his gaze fell upon Thirteen's bright, almond-shaped eyes looking intently at him.
"How do you feel?" she said.
"Don't ask." He exhaled in measured breaths trying to quiet the drumbeat in his head and the throbbing that had begun to strum the muscles in his right thigh.
"Don't you have something better to do?" he said. He wanted to get rid of her. He wanted to continue to wallow in his self pity. He particularly wanted her to leave before his leg pain really came on full bore.
"I'm going down to the clinic but I wouldn't call that better."
House cleared his throat and opened his eyes. He lightly shook his head.
"Ow! Bad idea," he groaned. "Don't just stand there, help me reattach my skull."
"Nope. You're the one who drank enough for it to separate from your neck so now you'll have to perform the reattachment surgery yourself. Unless you wanna ask your neurologist?"
"No thank you. Foreman enjoys the sound of that drill just a little too much."
Thirteen smiled. "Drink your coffee. It'll help."
House obeyed. The warm, pungent liquid ran down his throat reviving his senses and unfortunately, his memories.
"Here all night?" he asked trying to force his own mind to change the subject.
"Chase and I, yeah."
House squinted up at her, a mischievous grin playing about his lips.
"Aren't you moving through my staff a little too quickly? Is Taub next? Or are you not into midget wrestling? Damn, I really need to hire another female fellow. I will you know, as long as you promise to film that girl-on-girl action."
Thirteen stepped closer, an enigmatic smile on her face. She was not one to be put off by his attempts at deflection.
"Who says I'm only going through your fellows? After all, the only reason to sleep with the roadies is to get to Mick." She leaned forward and slid her hand onto his shoulder.
House spilled his coffee on his jeans. He threw his head back in a desperate attempt not to scream as a clenching spasm gripped his right leg.
"Pills?" she asked.
"Top drawer," he managed to hiss through clenched teeth.
Thirteen hurried over to the desk and grabbed an unopened bottle of ibuprofen. Unwrapping it and popping the top quickly, she stepped back to his chair and handed him two tablets.
"More!"
"But House . . ."
"More, dammit to hell!"
She handed him the bottle. He tilted it back, pressing it to his lips and dry swallowed about six tablets. He sat there breathing hard, furiously rubbing his leg as he waited for the pills to take effect.
"Didn't you say you had clinic?" he yelled at her. "Why don't you go do that?"
"House, between the bourbon and the ibuprofen, you're really NOT being kind to your liver."
"Go!"
"Okay."
Thirteen understood all too well House's abrupt dismissal, his need for there to be no witness to his tortured physical distress. The man wanted neither pity nor assistance, not that any help was available to him.
But what he did want had been what, not long before, she had desired as well, a speedy end to the misery by self-implosion. Thirteen had somehow thought that if she caused her own downward spiral and hastened it, then she had retained some measure of control over her disease and over her life.
It had been the man before her now who had somehow pulled her back from the brink. He'd angered and frustrated her, taunted and tempted her to want more, to leave a legacy of something important behind her after she was no longer here.
House's method of psychoanalysis had been unorthodox, as all his methods generally were, but it had been the most successful. No handholding and patronizing statements would ever have gotten her to want to walk away from her own bent toward self-destruction.
His technique had worked, not that he'd ever admit to trying to save her. Her decision to save herself would certainly be written off by him as 'collateral damage' from some other, more involved manipulation on his part.
Yet she knew the truth. Thirteen understood that there existed behind House's roughhewn and misanthropic façade, a truly caring heart. And she felt honor-bound to both defend the man and help him if it was at all within her power to do so.
Thirteen started to go but turned back to him when she reached the door.
"By the way, Wilson brought you a change of clothes. Which is a good thing since even before you spilled coffee on yourself, you didn't need to stand upwind of anyone."
House tilted his head forward. "Wilson? When did he get in? What time is it?"
"After nine."
"Why are you still here?" House said as he continued massaging his thigh. "Didn't you say you were going to the clinic?"
Thirteen smiled again, looking not unlike the Mona Lisa. "You're welcome," she said as she moved toward the door once more. "Oh and House?"
He raised his gaze to meet hers, a guarded expression on his face. But Thirteen saw past his defenses and his pain to the gratitude, reflected in the depths of his bloodshot eyes; for House saw no pity in the look she bestowed upon him.
It was because she recognized a kindred spirit inside the pain he was experiencing. She too desperately hoped that when she had succumbed to her own disease that she could avoid the wretched pity in another person's eyes.
"Your mother's on the third floor. Wilson said they're just waiting for some test results."
"How can I miss you if you won't go away?"
She nodded and still smiling, turned and left his office.
The fact that his mother was coming in for tests this morning had completely slipped his memory. House's mind began making connections and drawing conclusions. His mother's presence and recent illness, along with her refusal to seek treatment so far, had set in motion all the turmoil with Cuddy that he now had to undergo.
His hurt and rejection with one woman had been transferred to another. House rose from his chair, collected his clothes and limped heavily toward the door. After a shower in the locker room and a change of clothes, House decided that perhaps it was high time he transferred those feelings back to where they belonged.
