This chapter wasn't planned at all, and I've been working on it this week. Thanks to my nice Guest for giving me the idea.
Sorry to hear that some of you are deeply stressed because of the Corona virus. Hang in there! Glad I can provide a bit of distraction.
Chapter 32: House Meets Ethan
The turn of the year is uneventful. House pretends to spend it at Foreman's place although he remains alone in his apartment, Rachel and John stay with friends, and Cuddy goes out with Ethan. The kids seem to have accepted Ethan as part of Cuddy's life, or at least they resigned from fighting his presence.
House, Cuddy and the kids go car shopping for Rachel in January. Rachel wants both House and Cuddy to help her pick—they are also the ones helping her finance it—so they make it a family event, checking out different car dealers one Saturday morning. Parts of the trip are still filled with awkward silences, but they do manage to have some fun together. The kids, at least, seem to be enjoying it, and by the afternoon, Rachel is the proud owner of a maroon Sedan.
House drives back to their house with Rachel where he parked his car in the morning; John rides with Cuddy. Rachel pulls into the driveway just as John and Cuddy are exiting her car. Rachel parks to the left of her, so when House opens the passenger door, he is immediately confronted with Cuddy.
"Ethan is coming over for dinner tonight," she tells him.
"And you informing me about it can only mean that either you thought I was hoping for an invite and this is your way of politely rebuffing me, or you're actually asking me to stay." He shuts the car door loudly.
The kids observe them for a moment, seem to nonverbally agree to leave House and Cuddy alone, and head for the entrance.
Cuddy takes in a measured breath. "The latter."
House squints his eyes at her. "Wish I could. Got a big supper planned. Eight course meal. And a mariachi band."
She briefly rolls her eyes towards the sky. "So you never wanna meet him?"
"Why rush it? Anticipation triumphs over realization. I'm sure I'll eventually have the pleasure," House says sarcastically.
"Just say hi, so you at least know what he looks like," she suggests. "You don't have to stay for dinner. It'll be less awkward than running into him incidentally."
"It'll be awkward either way," House replies. "I've always been a big fan of avoiding feelings of awkwardness." Cuddy tucks her chin. She seems disappointed, but he cannot muster up the sympathy to care. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna mistake him for a stalker and strike him with a shovel when I see a stranger roaming around the house. I'll apply my deductive reasoning skills and assume it's him." With that, he walks to his car.
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Of course, House is ultimately forced to face Ethan. On a Friday evening in February, shortly after Cuddy's birthday, Rachel is involved in a local district debate competition with her team, which is being held at her school. House has been practicing with her—arguing being one of the activities he enjoys the most—and she insist for him to come despite the fact that Cuddy announced she would show up with Ethan.
Rachel needs to be at the school early, so House arranges to meet with the rest of them in the hallway at the entrance to the auditorium.
He is running a little late, and hurries his way across the parking space, putting too much strain on his leg. Inside the building, he briefly stops in his tracks when he spots Cuddy and Ethan in wait for him. John is nowhere to be seen.
House considers walking the other direction again when Cuddy lays her eyes on him. Slowly, he weaves his way through the people, limping up to them.
"Hey," Cuddy offers tentatively.
House nods at her, then he faces Ethan.
Ethan extends his hand to House. "Hi. Nice to finally meet you." He seems to mean it, smiling politely at House.
"Nice to meet me?" House raises his eyebrows at him, but takes his hand and shakes it briefly. "Did she not warn you about me?" He juts his chin towards Cuddy.
"No." Ethan furrows his eyebrows. "Why would she?"
House glances at Cuddy who casts her eyes to the floor. "Meeting me is typically not pleasant business. At least not for most people."
Ethan seems mildly confused, but continues in a friendly manner. "Actually, she barely talks about you. I couldn't wait for an encounter. John's dad!" He nods approvingly, almost filled with apprehension. "He's a cool kid. He looks just like you."
House is taken aback. This is going far differently from what he expected. They are both being way too nice. Ethan would undoubtedly loose in a 'Who can be the bigger prick?' contest; he would not even make it to the second round. "You have any kids?" House asks although he already knows the answer. He is stalling for time in order to recover from his perplexity.
"Nope. My ex-wife and me tried for years. Turned out she couldn't conceive."
"Let me guess: You stayed with her although you always wanted kids, and now that it's kinda too late she dumped you for a younger stud," House tries to mess with him and provoke a reaction other than politeness.
Ethan nods and openly displays his hurt and embarrassment, looking down at the ground.
"Boy, did she screw with you," House offers.
"We had good times," Ethan states neutrally. "I don't regret it."
House looks from Ethan to Cuddy and back to Ethan. 'He's the opposite of me,' House thinks. For a brief moment, he is reminded of Wilson. He makes a last attempt to disconcert the guy. "Well, if you ever want to have a good time with her," he tilts his head towards Cuddy, "I'd be willing to give you advice. I know how to make her scream."
"House!" Cuddy gasps, her eyes wide with shock.
"Thanks for the spontaneous illustration," House quips. "That came close." Turning to Ethan, he adds: "Sorry, I have the tendency to overstep conventional boundaries."
Ethan cocks his head and processes House's words with slightly furrowed eyebrows. With a straight face, he says: "No problem. Thanks for the offer, I might get back to you on that."
House quickly shakes his head from side to side as if to rid himself from his confusion. "Wow." He looks at Cuddy. "And I always told Wilson he was too nice for you."
Cuddy stares at him blankly.
"Well, I'm gonna head inside. It was a long walk across the parking lot." He gestures towards his leg.
"We'll wait here for John," Ethan states. "He went to get waffles."
"All right," House turns to leave.
"Your ticket," Cuddy stops him, her voice sharp. She rummages through her purse and holds a small paper slip out to him.
He snatches it from her wordlessly, and heads to the wing doors of the auditorium. He takes a seat in an empty row, and places his cane over three chairs to the right of him. Only a short moment later, John comes skidding down the row, sliding to a halt in front of House.
"Hey Dad," he smiles.
House takes a piece of waffle from the paper bag John is holding. The kids always seem eager to share their food with him, which actually makes stealing from them less fun. "Hey champ." House turns his head to check if Cuddy and Ethan are at his heels, but cannot see them anywhere. "Your mom's waiting outside."
"I know," John mumbles, his mouth full of waffle. "Snuck around them." He takes House's cane and swivels it with his fingers in the way House usually does. "So, what do you think?"
House squints at him. "About your cane handling skills?" he says, deflecting. He knows what John is getting at.
"You hate him." John stops playing and looks pointedly at House.
"I just met him."
"I was watching you guys. You hate him."
"He seems nice," House sidesteps.
"He's boring."
House smirks. "He has several common traits with a puppy."
"Like a little lapdog." John grins.
"Maybe we can still teach him how to go 'rough'," House barks, and quickly leans forward to snatch his cane back.
John laughs and sits down next to House.
The bell rings to announce the approaching beginning, and the auditorium fills with more people. Cuddy and Ethan eventually spot them and make their way down the isle and into the row they are sitting.
"Hey, where have you been?" Cuddy asks John, one hand brushing lightly through his hair. "We were waiting."
John shrugs.
"How did you even get in here without a ticket?" She sits down next to John. Ethan takes the seat beside her.
"Rache let me in backstage," he says cockily.
"How nervous is she?" Cuddy asks.
"She's cool. I gave her a pep-talk."
One corner of Cuddy's mouth lifts up, and she gives John's arm a squeeze. "That's sweet of you."
The lights dim, and the moderator steps up onto the stage.
House is mostly bored by the event and the tedious lines of arguments, and only listens with one ear to what is happening on stage. At one point, he actually pulls out his cell phone and replies to his team, who has texted him the latest results regarding his current patient.
Shortly before Rachel's turn, he shoves the phone back into his coat pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ethan placing his hand on Cuddy's thigh, and suddenly House's mouth feels dry. Out of nowhere, a hot and burning anger rises up in him, and he feels his pulse climbing. He had not anticipated the extremity of the effect it would have on him—to see her being touched—and he swallows hard, trying to avert his eyes. Yet, he cannot help but notice Ethan's thumb slowly brushing over the fabric of Cuddy's skirt. It hurts him so much his instinct is to jump from his seat and leave, but Rachel is up next, and she would definitely witness him storming out.
He firmly takes a hold of the armrests to the left and right of him, his knuckles turning white. The worst part is that Cuddy senses his distress, and instead of basking in his jealousy, she takes Ethan's hand and gently removes it from her thigh. Settling their arms in between them, they are still holding hands, but at least further out of House's sight.
Distracted by all the movement, John also picks up on House's tension. He slowly peels House's fingers from the armrest, and places his small hand in his, giving House someone to hold onto as well.
House looks at his son in wonder and gratitude, takes a deep breath, and sets his focus back on stage.
After the debate, the four of them wait in the hallway for Rachel. Her team won, and she eventually comes running towards them, throwing her arms around House.
"Good job," he mumbles into her hair. He is, in fact, proud of her. "You grilled the guy."
Rachel pulls back and beams at him. "Years of practice."
House smirks.
"You did great, honey," Cuddy chimes in on the praise. "I'm so proud of you!"
"Thank you."
House notes that the kids seem to be on his side, after all. They are standing to the left and right of him, keeping a slight distance to Cuddy and Ethan. She registers it as well, and a sad expression crosses her face. He thinks it is not really fair to her, since he was the one who decided against a relationship.
"I'll go get our coats," Ethan announces, heading for the checkroom.
House had not bothered to give up his, and stays put.
Cuddy addresses House. "We were planning on getting dessert somewhere. Celebrate a little." She hesitates briefly. "You're welcome to join us."
He looks at her for a beat. His wit has left him, and he wants nothing more than to head home. "Got a case. I'm going in early," he says, which is only partly a lie: He does have a case, but his team will be busy with tests all morning.
Cuddy nods, pressing her lips together.
"Have fun," he tells this kids, squeezing each of them briefly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Bye Dad."
"Bye House. Thanks for coming."
"Of course," he nods at Rachel, and makes his way to the exit without giving Cuddy another glance. Arriving at the doors, he realizes that it is pouring outside. He had neglected checking the weather forecast. It had been sunny and light out when he drove here. Now it is dark and raining heavily.
He takes in an annoyed breath and looks around the entrance, searching for abandoned umbrellas or anything else he could use to shield him from the rain. His coat has no hood, and his car is parked so far out he will be soaked by the time he gets there. Not finding anything but also unwilling to wait any longer, he looks up at the black sky, heaves another sigh, and pushes the door open with his cane.
The temperatures are just above freezing, and the rain hits him cold in the face. Once again, his inability deprives him, forcing him to go slow. His leg hurts, and he is afraid he might slip on the wet and slick asphalt. For the hundredth time, he wishes he could run. Feeling some beads of rain trail down his neck, he pulls his collar shut more tightly.
He has made his way about 20 yards into the parking lot when he hears a familiar voice call his name, and he turns around.
Cuddy hurries towards him, holding a big black umbrella above her head. She comes to a halt in front of him, slightly out of breath and blinking rapidly. She raises her arm up to shield them both from the rain. "Here," she says, lifting the handle to him. "We brought two. Ethan is getting the car for us." She nods her head in the direction they must be parked.
House stares at her and gives himself a moment to take her in. She is standing close, and he smells her perfume. Her big watery eyes are holding onto his, her long lashes occasionally dropping and swiftly rising back up. Her face is so comfortingly familiar.
He feels a drop of water fall from his eyelashes and run down his cheek.
In this moment, everything fades away—it is just him and her under the umbrella—the dark and the cascading rain acting like a buffer, secluding them from the rest of the world. Their breaths turn into fog, intermingling in the air between them. He wants to kiss her.
Slowly, he lifts his hand to take over the wooden handle. His fingers briefly brush hers in the exchange.
Her expression is open, sad, and caring. "What else can I do?" she whispers, her gaze intense.
He pauses. Without breaking eye contact, he shakes his head.
She exhales and drops her chin. She takes a moment to compose herself, and then looks at him again. "Thank you. For the flowers." He had a bouquet sent to her office on her birthday—without a note.
He nods courtly. "You're welcome," he mumbles.
She turns away and rushes back to the school building.
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Back at his apartment, House's urge to get hammered is so strong he calls Foreman and asks him to come over and attach his electronic ankle bracelet. They have had this arrangement since after House's second imprisonment. Whenever House feels too unstable and is afraid of falling back into old habits, he uses the device as a form of protection. It is equipped with a GPS and, connected to Foreman's mobile phone, alerts him if House were to distance himself from his apartment more than 100 feet, thus providing outside control without constant watch.
An electronic bracelet had been a mandatory part of House's parole. Afterwards, House had bought one online and worn it voluntarily. Permanently at first, then only at the weekends, and even later just on bad days, for example, on Wilson's birthdays and the annual day of his death, when the pain in his leg was particularly cruel, or when he was upset about the loss of a patient. Foreman lives close, and never seemed to bother.
It has been a while since House felt the need for it, and Foreman is surprised by his request. "Everything all right?" he asks.
"Yup. Just precautions. Bad pain day," House replies into the receiver.
When Foreman arrives at his place to take the locking device with him and check the connection to his phone, he tries again to get House to talk. "I could stay for a while, beat you at the PS."
House shakes his head.
"You wanna crash on my couch for the night?"
"I'm a big boy. Plus, I've got my nanny right here." He points at the bracelet.
"What'd you do tonight?"
"Overdid it at basketball," House says sarcastically. "Caught too many rebounds."
Foreman surrenders, aware that House will not ask for his help again if he pushes him too far. "All right. I'll stop by on my way to the hospital in the morning. You going in as well?"
House nods.
"Okay."
After Foreman pulls the door shut behind him, House paces around his living room, trying to walk out some of the tension in his leg.
He takes a bath.
He massages his thigh.
Nothing seems to help.
Sitting on the edge of his bed in his briefs and a T-shirt, he stares at his scar. He hates the useless, mutilated limb. The anger he felt before rising back up in him, he starts to punch his leg. First only near his knee, below the damaged tissue, but then his hand wanders upward. Again and again, he knocks his fist down hard on his thigh, which increases the pain in his leg, and causes the muscle to cramp.
Yelping in suffering and frustration, he stands up, needing some sort of distraction and an outlet for his rage. Balancing his weight on his left leg, he takes his cane and, holding it in both hands like a baseball bat, he takes a swing and smashes it against the footrest of his bed. The wood cracks, which gives him a strange sense of satisfaction. He continues with the action, repeatedly smacking his cane against the bedframe until it breaks in two, and even then he keeps going, anger searing through his body. He is panting and starting to sweat. He screams while smashing the top part of his walking aid, busting it into pieces until only the handle is left in his hand. It reminds him of the umbrella he was holding about an hour ago, and he hurls the remaining piece against the door, producing a loud thud.
He stands in his bedroom breathlessly, his head hanging, his left fist clenched. There are splinters strewn all over the carpet and on his bed. His pain is so bad he sinks back down onto the mattress, bends forward, and picks up a sharp piece of wood. He pushes up his briefs on his left leg, inspecting the unscathed skin on his inner thigh. If he cut himself there, nobody would ever notice. He is desperate for the endorphins, needing any form relief.
Positioning the splinter on his thigh, he hesitates briefly, considering the irony of cutting his good leg with remnants of his cane. He thinks of Wilson and the promises he gave him: no suicide, no drugs. To not hurt himself was never part of the deal. House takes a deep breath. Then he hears Wilson's voice in his head: 'I don't know how many times I can watch you cut off pieces of yourself.'
He turns his head to look at the picture of Wilson and him, which is standing on his windowsill. To remind him of his promises, House had hung one of just Wilson on the wall of his living room, and placed this one in his bedroom.
Panting heavily and teardrops falling from his eyes, House struggles hard against the urge to inflict pain on himself in order to feel better. He grunts in agony, and drops the splinter back on the floor. He limps over to the picture, picks it up, and forcefully hurls it across the room. It crashes against the wall, breaking into pieces. "You left me!" House hollers at the shards.
His right leg buckles, and he sinks to the floor. Whimpering, he lies there as more tears run down his face. He is shaking, the pain becoming unbearable. He crawls over to the broken picture frame, reaching for a shard of glass.
Just as he is about to cut into his thigh, the door to his bedroom bursts open.
"House!" It is Foreman. He looks around the room in bewilderment. "Jesus, House!" He rushes over to him, and grabs the piece of glass out of his hand. "What are you doing?"
All House manages to get out is a grunt. He lies there gasping.
Foreman picks him up under the armpits and drags him over to the bed, pulling him into a sitting position on the mattress. "What can I do?" he asks, realizing the amount of pain House is in.
House shakes his head and covers his scar with his hand. He hates other people seeing it, let alone touch it. He tries to rub out some of the tension, but his entire arm is trembling badly.
Foreman pushes his hand away, and starts to massage his leg.
House cries out in agony, and although he feels pathetic and utterly humiliated, he lets Foreman proceed. House grabs a hold of the footrest with one hand, and leans back on his other arm, staring up at the ceiling. He breathes heavily, sweat trailing down his forehead. The pain becomes so bad he shoves a fist into his mouth and starts to scream.
After a seemingly endless amount of time, the cramping finally stops, and the throbbing in his leg ceases a little. When it ebbs down enough for him to form a coherent thought, he tells Foreman to stop, and crawls under the blankets to lie on his side, curling into a little ball. He feels exhausted.
Foreman brings him an Ibuprofen and water.
When the pill kicks in, House drifts off to sleep.
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The next morning, House wakes up in his bed, feeling beat but physically okay. He sits up carefully, using both hands to heave his right leg over the side of the mattress. Except for a few small splinters on his carpet, the evidence of his nocturnal acts of destruction has been removed. The photograph of him and Wilson is lying on top of several books stacked on his nightstand; one of his spare canes is leaning against the foot of his bed.
Slowly, House limps his way into the living room.
Foreman is sitting on the couch, talking to someone on the phone. He looks up when he sees House approaching. "He's up," he says into the receiver. "I'll call you back later."
House sits down at the opposite end of the couch. "Did you call Cuddy?"
"Not yet." Foreman looks at him probingly.
"It was a bad night. It's not gonna happen again," House reassures him, and actually means it. Cutting himself had been a horribly idiotic idea. He lifts his good leg onto the cushions, wordlessly asking Foreman to remove the electronic bracelet.
Foreman hesitates. "I won't tell Cuddy if you tell me what happened last night."
House thinks for a moment. "No," he says decisively, squinting his eyes. "I'm not telling you, and you won't say anything to Cuddy. Because if you do, I'm not letting you put that thing on me ever again." House nods at the bracelet. He knows that he is being a jerk and that Foreman has good intentions, but he needs some form of control over his life, some sort of dignity. "And given how much pleasure it brings you to have occasional power over me…" He eyes his boss challengingly.
Foreman caves, looking disgruntled about the backfire of his attempted blackmail. Heaving a heavy sigh, he frees House from the bracelet. Sitting on the edge of the couch, he hangs his head. "House…"
Realizing that Foreman's motives stem more from concern than from his strive for supremacy, House opens up to him. "I met Cuddy's boyfriend last night." His voice is low and vulnerable.
"Oh." Foreman looks at him with empathy. "Sorry, man." He rises from the couch.
House is grateful Foreman leaves it at that, sparing him any well-meant advice and further lecturing.
"Well, I'm gonna head out." He walks over to the entrance. "You wanna come over for dinner after work?"
House shakes his head. "I've got the kids tonight."
"Okay." Foreman opens the door. "See you at the hospital."
"Yeah." Sincerely, he adds: "Thank you."
Foreman nods curtly, and leaves.
