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October 2001

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The rain that House knew was on its way began while he slept. He woke in the darkness -- dark inside, smudgy gray dawn outside -- to the sound of water pinging off the glass. The last gasp of the Vicodin he'd downed at 3 a.m. provided a barely adequate mask to the pain radiating up from his leg.

He rubbed at his face and turned to look at the clock. Still a half-hour to go until the alarm. He was surprised he'd slept this long. He threw his left arm over his eyes, and fumbled for the bedside lamp with the right. Once, he would have rolled over, grateful for the 30 minutes still available to him, and grateful for the clouds dimming the sun. No such pleasure now. Now pain set the clock. Putting off the morning routine meant putting off his meds, and he'd learned in the past few months that pain was not a patient passenger in his body. Soothe it before it reached full steam, and he could keep it under control, if not completely quiet.

Mornings it always made its presence known. Always. As soon as he shifted the leg, it would wake up, pissed off that House had disturbed it. His first few stuttering steps -- hand on cane, cane firmly set down against the hardwood floor -- let him know what kind of mood the pain was in for the day.

His damaged nerves sparked out a warning as he sat up and moved his leg over and off the bed. He shook out a Vicodin from the bedside table bottle and downed it quickly before beginning to push himself onto his feet. The muscles trembled in tune with the thunder rumbling outside and he stood. Rainy days were always bad, he'd learned. Autumn storms, with their promise of falling temperatures and bone-chilling dampness even worse.

He moved slowly, bringing the right leg forward in shorter steps than normal, trying to ease it into action. It was always a tradeoff. Short steps meant there was less pressure on the leg for a shorter time. But shorter steps also meant it took longer to reach any destination. The bathroom was 12 steps away on a decent morning. House stopped counting after 15 this morning.

He turned on the shower, knowing the hot moisture would help relax the tightened muscles. He considered his options, took measure of his leg's responses so far and lifted the small plastic step stool inside the tub. He'd hated when he first got home and saw it there, waiting for him. But he'd needed it then. Now it still came in handy when his leg was particularly grouchy or he simply wanted a longer soak. He still hated it, but at least it wasn't as ugly as the grab bar Stacy had installed in his absence.

Twenty minutes later, hot water beginning to cool, House turned off the shower, dried off and made his way back to the bedroom. His leg was doing better now, but was still worse than most days, and began the process of dressing -- jeans, t-shirt, button-down shirt --- all within reach from one spot at the edge of the closet. Then he hobbled back for socks and sneakers, sitting on an old kitchen chair Wilson had moved into the bedroom for him, its hard surface easier to push up off of than the bed.

The coffee maker had dutifully started up at 5:45 a.m. and House poured himself a mug. He opted to add sugar this time, wanting the extra buzz along with the caffeine and topped it all off with a Pop-Tart. Strawberry. With icing. Just so he wouldn't have to lie if Wilson asked if he'd had breakfast.

The wind blasted the side of the building, sending sheets of rain with it, ticking against the glass with a fresh gust. House carefully balanced the coffee and pastry in his left hand and made his way into the living room, preferring the low lights there to the bright ones of the kitchen. Lightning flashed again and he swore he could feel his damaged nerves flicker, the electrical pulse traveling through the atmosphere and into his own body where it echoed out a response.

He stood before the window, looking down at the pavement. Someone was running down in the street, dodging puddles. House took in the dress shoes, the gray pants and long raincoat, a briefcase serving as an inadequate umbrella and looked down to the end of the block where a bus was just pulling up to the stop. He took another sip of the sweet coffee as the man waved to the driver and the doors swung open.

Another flash of lightning, a warning shudder from his tiring muscles and House shifted away from the window as the thunder rumbled again. He took another sip of the hot coffee, remembering the training runs the coach used to send them out on back in college, ignoring the weather and conditions. Cross-country runs in a cold fall rain with his shoes soaked through and mud splattered on his legs -- then the wonderful heat seeping through the coffee cup when he'd finished, his fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

For just a moment, he forgot himself and took too big of a step, turning too quickly for his damaged leg to handle. Pain screamed along the length of his leg and up his back. His knee threatened to buckle and House dropped the coffee to grab the windowsill instead for support. The mug hit the hardwood floor with a heavy klunk, and he felt hot liquid splash onto his left ankle.

"Fuck!" House held himself there, willing his knee to hold, hoping the pain would subside quickly. He knew better than that. He knew he wasn't that person any more, that he never would be again. Stupid mistakes pissed him off, and there were so many to choose from. He wanted to hit something, hear something smash, but that would have meant giving up the support under either hand, and he wasn't sure he could stay upright. "Fuck!"

He could feel the coffee soaking now through the mesh outer layer of his sneaker. Another flash of lightning, another shock of pain. The muscles beginning to tremble so hard he could feel his entire leg beginning to shake, the knee still quaking, ready to give in. He knew he couldn't stay where he was.

House braced his left hand on the sill, moved the cane a few inches to the right as quickly as possible, careful to set it down on a dry spot. He pivoted his right leg on his heel, hissing at the renewed pain, then spun on the left foot, fearing what would happen if he took all of his weight off the left. He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead, repeated the procedure again and again until he was finally facing the living room.

The chair was maybe five steps away. Five of his normal steps. House took a breath. The pain hadn't eased, and it was about to get worse.

Hand on the cane, cane on the hardwood. He shifted his weight onto his right side, stepped forward with the left. Nerves and muscles screamed on the right. Not as bad as it could have been, House mused, but not as good as he'd hoped. He considered the distance. Maybe a quarter of his normal step. Nineteen more steps to go.

Maybe less, he thought. Maybe more, an inner voice responded.

Ten steps down. Right leg nearly in full revolt and House could feel sweat running down the side of his face. He was nearly close enough now to touch the arm of the chair. House tightened his grip on the cane, ready to move forward again. He jerked to a stop as the ring of the telephone cut through the room. The phone was in the charger on the far side of the room. Nothing to do for it now.

Hand tight around the cane. Cane on the hardwood. He heard the machine click on.

"House, it's me." Wilson. Of course.

"Just checking if you wanted a ride in this morning. Give me a call. I'll try your cell if I don't hear back."

Two more steps. Two more and he could ease down into the chair. He bribed his leg with the promise of the footstool if it could get him there. One more step. House could hear the faint tones of his cell phone ringing from the side pocket of his bag, near the front door. He reached down. Left hand on leather. He dropped down to the cushion, finally allowing his right hand to ease its grip on the cane. He leaned back and allowed his head to drop back between his shoulders, onto the overstuffed surface.

He wanted to breathe, to just be. The pain wouldn't let him go. Muscles newly released from service let him know just how pissed they were. Hamstring cramping. The remaining quad screaming for his attention. House used both hands to lift his leg onto the stool and tried to massage the muscles into surrender. He registered the sound of the phone again.

"You there House? Seriously, pick up." A pause, maybe 20 seconds. "Come on, man, I'm serious. Pick up."

House glared at the handset and the blinking red light. "Got my hands full," he grumbled.

"Ten minutes," Wilson's voice continued. "You've got 10 minutes, then I'm coming over there, got it?"

House wasn't certain if he was more pissed that Wilson was on his way, relieved that he was, or pissed at himself for feeling relieved. Then the muscles spasmed again and he couldn't concentrate on anything but the pain.

House heard the knock at the door, and heard Wilson call out as the key turned in the lock, but didn't bother answering, he didn't even bother to look up. He concentrated on his leg, working his hands along the length of it, feeling the muscle fibers tense and tremble. The door opened and light from the condo hallway spilled into the dim living room.

"House?" Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw House's shape, hunched over on the chair.

"You're early," House grunted out in greeting.

"So sue me." Wilson crossed the room, turning on a lamp as he did, his attention on House. He could see House's leg propped up awkwardly on a corner of the stool, cane haphazardly dropped on the floor. Sweat was visible on his pale skin, and it had soaked the collar of his t-shirt.

Wilson shed his coat on the couch and grabbed two pillows. He carefully lifted House's leg and pushed the stool in closer, adding the pillows for extra support before gently lowering his leg back down. He kneeled down next to the chair and moved his hands up to where House's had been, taking over the massage, and allowing House to lean back, and try to relax.

"This OK?" he asked.

House nodded. "It helps."

Wilson didn't say anything else, just concentrated on working the muscle groups, trying to break their grip. He glanced around the room, and tried to put together what happened. He saw the mug on the floor, the coffee, the pastry.

He kept at the massage until he felt the trembling begin to subside, and could see House begin to relax. He slowed, but let his hands rest on House's leg for a moment. He could feel the deformation of the leg through the denim. He could feel where the muscle was missing and where the nearby muscle had been worked into steel bands to try and compensate.

"Better?"

"That's all relative, isn't it?" House said, but then nodded. "Thanks."

Wilson stood up, walked over to the window and picked up the mug.

"It's not broken, at least."

"Well thank God. I was so worried."

Wilson didn't bother responding, just took it into the kitchen, returned with a handful of paper towels and mopped up the coffee, swept up the chunks of Pop-Tart.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

He went back into the kitchen and House could hear him puttering around. Cabinet doors opening. Drawers closing. He stared off at the window, his own reflection looking back at him. Older. Thinner. Pale. Gaunt. Unhealthy.

When he'd first let his beard begin to grow out, it was because he was too busy to shave. Then someone told him it made him look older. Stacy said she loved the feel of the rough texture against her own flawless skin. Now it hid the lines that seemed to appear from nowhere. That seemed to deepen with every step he took. With every wince.

He closed his eyes and listened to Wilson, hearing cabinet doors closing.

A moment later, and Wilson was next to him. House opened his eyes to see him with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a plate in the other. He held the plate out.

"Eat this." Wheat toast. Strawberry jam.

House didn't take it. "I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were." Wilson still held the plate above House's lap, waiting, expecting him to give in. "How many did you take this morning?"

"One."

"Eat this and I'll get you another one."

House knew the pills were still in the bedroom. He took the plate. "Cheese at the end of the maze," he said. "I'm just a lab rat."

Wilson set the coffee mug down on the table next to House, then settled himself on the couch, picking up his own mug from the table. "Better a maze than a dissection."

"That depends on your point of view," House bit into the toast, crumbs falling onto his shirt. He brushed them off. "You gonna want to clean that up too?"

"Nah, I specialize in liquid spills only." He took a sip of his coffee. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"Not particularly." House set the plate with the half-eaten toast on his lap. Picked up his coffee. "You forgot sugar."

"If you'd just settle on one way to take your coffee, this wouldn't come up." Wilson didn't bother getting any sweetener. He knew House would drink it either way.

House stared at the toast for a moment before picking it up again, taking another bite. He listened to the rain against the window. His leg was still a mass of angry nerve endings and raw muscles, but the worst should be over. He still didn't want to move though. He knew the pain was just in hiding. It would be back at the slightest opportunity. At any opportunity. His stomach clenched at the thought and he put the toast back down. He used the cuff of his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"Thought you might want a ride in, but now I'm guessing I can just tell O'Neal you'll be taking the day off."

"That's not what I mean," House grumbled.

"Y'know, I really haven't had enough coffee to get into an existential discussion on the meaning of life."

"You've got a beautiful wife back home, I'm sure you'd rather be getting in a quickie with her than be here."

"Who says I didn't? Besides, Julie knows why I came. She's cool with it. And if I wasn't here, I'd probably just be getting some work done at the hospital before rounds."

"And doing better for yourself there than when you're here." House pulled the toast apart into smaller pieces. "They already hate me, you're not doing yourself any good."

"Now you sound like them."

"You've got better things to do with your life than play nursemaid to a cripple."

"You're not a cri..."

"Yes. I am. I'm fucking useless. I don't know why they haven't given my office away to someone else. I've been on leave more than I've been in. O'Neal doesn't even bother scheduling me on the rotation anymore."

"They probably keep you around because you still have this habit of saving lives," Wilson pointed out.

"If it weren't for the tenure, they'd have kicked me out on my ass a year ago," House said, ignoring him. "Hell, Stacy would have kicked me out if it weren't just easier to move herself out instead."

"Ah, there's that mournful refrain I've missed so much." Wilson snatched the coffee mug out of House's hand. "You want more coffee, or should we go straight to the scotch?"

House knew this look. It was the one that most people never saw, the one they assumed Wilson didn't possess because all they saw was the smile, the affability, and the gentle manner and believed he was a pushover.

"Don't give me any shit, Wilson. I'm not in the mood."

"Neither am I," Wilson stood over him. He didn't bother to raise his voice. "You're having a lousy day? Yeah, looks like you are. You've had a lousy year or so? You'll get no argument from me."

"This where you're going to give some inspiring cancer patient story? Because I love those," House said, trying to stare Wilson down despite the fact that he was still seated. "Can't get enough of them."

"I'm not here to give you a lecture House, and I'm not your whipping boy. I'm your friend. I hate seeing you like this -- and I don't mean just your leg. You don't deserve this, any of this. No one does. So you want to have a pity party? Fine. Go ahead. But here's the deal. You're only allowed one every six months, so you better make it count."

"What if I want to have more than one?"

"Then you'll have to fetch your own damn coffee," Wilson said. "And you'll drink it the way I make it." He headed back into the kitchen, leaving House in the suddenly quiet living room.

House looked back at the window. The rain was beginning to lessen, the skies growing a bit lighter. He heard another bus on the corner.

In the kitchen, he heard Wilson running water, moving something on the counter. He heard a cabinet door slam. Heard something hit the wall. Something heavy. Heard it break. Then quiet. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the coffee pot gurgling to life.

Ten minutes later and Wilson was back at his side, a cup of coffee in each hand. "Don't bitch and say you didn't want sugar this time," he warned.

House took the cup, the heat radiating out to warm his hand. He rested it on his right knee, and let the heat soak in there too.

"Seems I was wrong about that mug," Wilson said as he settled into the couch again. "Guess it was broken after all."

"And you're always here to pick up the pieces." House took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Sweet. Two sugars.

It was quiet now. The lightning had passed on. There was just an occasional rumble, and House wasn't certain if that was the distant thunder or the delivery trucks in the alley.

"I was serious about that you know," Wilson nodded at the remains of the toast. "If you don't finish, you won't get any dessert."

"But it's cold," House whined. "And Mom said I only had to take three bites. I had at least four."

"All of it," Wilson said. "Or I'll hide the remote."

"Now that's just cruel."

"I'll leave it on Lifetime and lock out the other channels."

House shoved the last pieces into his mouth. "You've got a mean streak," he said as he chewed.

"You're the only one who can bring it out in me." Wilson pushed himself to his feet and headed back into the kitchen, taking the empty plate with him.

House heard the dishes clink into the sink. Wilson passed back through the living room and into the hall. He saw the light go on in the bedroom, then Wilson was there with the familiar amber pill bottle, handing it over.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Wilson waited while House shook out one pill and downed it with a gulp of the coffee. "I should head in for rounds," he said. "You good there, or would you prefer the couch?"

House considered the options, leaned forward and lifted his leg up off the pillows and the stool. He set it carefully on the floor, biting back a curse with the movement. "Couch."

Wilson waited at House's right side until he was ready, then reached his arm around and under House's shoulder. House took the cane in his left hand, leaning onto Wilson on his right side. House's foot barely touching the floor as he hobbled the few feet over to the couch. Only four steps with Wilson's help. Then Wilson was back with the pillows, propping his leg up again.

House could feel the extra dose of Vicodin beginning to hit as he lay back, a narcotic buzz that had become all too familiar.

"I'll stop back later," Wilson was saying. "Call me if you need anything."

House nodded. "Thanks."

"You already said that."

"Thought I'd say it again. Now I'll be one up next time I need something,"

"I'll try to remember that." Wilson collected his jacket from the couch, his keys jangling as he took them out of his pocket. "See you later."

House watched the door swing shut and heard the sound of the dead bolt clicking into place before Wilson's steps faded down the hall. He turned on the TV. The weather report was up. Lines of thunderstorms and dropping temperatures.

"Coming up next, sports," the blonde anchor was saying. House turned the volume down and listened to the rain.