FEBRUARY
House let out an exaggerated sigh and tapped the end of his cane against Wilson's desk.
"Aren't you finished yet?"
"I told you I need to get this write-up finished and ... " Wilson checked his watch. "And I've got patients due in another ten minutes."
"Live a little. Cancel the appointments. Tell them something came up."
Wilson held his breath and counted to ten before he looked at House. "You know, I've found that most patients actually feel like their doctor is treating them if he actually, you know, sees them and treats them. It generates this whole warm happy feeling they call 'trust.'"
"Then most patients are idiots."
"I'm sure a few of them are," Wilson said. "Like, oh, let's say someone like you, for instance. Someone who's supposed to be in PT, but is sitting here wasting the therapists' time, my time and your time. Just go, get it over with and when you're done, I'll give you a ride home, just like Stacy wanted."
"My leg hurts," House said. "And I'm pretty sure I once heard a doctor type say the best thing for a sore muscle was rest."
Wilson just shook his head. He really wasn't in the mood for House's crap today. He had a tight schedule as it was, then Stacy called -- again -- asking if he could give House a ride home -- again. As if he had nothing better to do then ferry House all over town.
She had begged him to help out, saying she would be stuck at the courthouse taking depositions all day, and Wilson had finally given in. It wouldn't be so bad if it were the first time, or even the fifth. But lately Stacy kept finding excuses to be elsewhere whenever House needed anything. If it wasn't something at the courthouse, it was some personnel report the board needed, or some vital piece of paperwork or even an emergency meeting with the contractors at her mother's place in Somers Point.
And she always called at the last minute, always claiming it was too late to call for a taxi or that House just missed the bus.
House wasn't making it any easier. He was so busy trying to piss off Stacy most days that he didn't seem to notice who else was caught in the crossfire.
Wilson heard the rattle of a pill bottle and glanced up as House shook out a Vicodin. "Want some water?" Wilson rolled his chair back, ready to get House a glass, but House shook his head.
"I've learned a new trick," he said, and swallowed the pill dry, shuddering and grimacing as it went down. "I'd like to see David Copperfield do that," he choked out, and then coughed.
Wilson leaned back and studied House. He had been more open about taking the Vicodin lately -- at least in front of him. He wondered if House was taking more or just felt like he no longer needed to hide it.
If he was taking more -- or if his pain was getting worse -- that might explain why it was he didn't seem to be paying attention to the fact that Stacy had been moving things out of the condo for the past few weeks.
First the large framed mirror near the front door went. Then the books and the framed prints of Paris street scenes. The Tiffany lamp she had found at a flea market disappeared the next weekend, along with the few CDs in the rack that were hers rather than House's. She kept claiming everything was just going to Somers Point temporarily, just to help stage her mother's house so it would sell faster.
"We've got to get the buyers' attention," she kept saying. "The only emotional reaction they'll have to my parents' things is loathing."
House banged his cane against Wilson's desk again and Wilson jerked at the sound, letting the sound of Stacy's claims fade into his memory.
"Come on," House said. "Cancel already and let's go catch a movie. I'll even buy the popcorn."
Wilson picked up his pen and studied the papers on the desk again. "I've got work to do, and so do you. Go to PT."
"Oh, come on. It's not like it's going to matter anyway. I'm married to this cane whether I suffer through their drills or not. Hell, even Stacy doesn't care if I go."
"I'm sure she does," Wilson said. He flipped the chart to the radiology report and looked over the imaging studies comparing the tumor to its size prior to chemo.
"Want to bet on that? I'll give you good odds."
"Pass," Wilson said, then looked up. "OK, wait. First off, I'm sure Stacy does care, but second -- how, exactly, would you propose to even establish the ground rules of this bet? Hire The Amazing Kreskin to read her mind?"
"Kreskin? Geez, all this time with Julie really is turning your brain to mush." House shook his head. "Much easier solution: see if she asks how PT went today."
"That's it? You think whether she asks a question will somehow tell you her innermost feelings?"
"Well no," House said. "Not her innermost ones. Just what's important to her."
Wilson shook his head again. "Well I'm still going to pass. She cares, House, whether she asks or not."
"Says the guy who believes in Kreskin."
Wilson still wanted to believe that House and Stacy could still make it. It was seeing them together -- even after the infarction -- that made him believe relationships were still possible, that made him believe that he and Julie could make it. Now he was wondering if he had just fooled himself into seeing something that was no longer there, and hadn't been for months.
Wilson put down his pen and the file and rolled his chair away from the desk, swiveling to face House. "House, come on. Don't be an idiot," he said.
"What's idiotic about a sure thing like this? Come on, twenty bucks says she doesn't say a thing."
"House, this isn't a game. Stacy's not playing around. She's been moving out, and you know it."
House sat back against the couch cushions. "Stop being so melodramatic, Wilson. She's not moving out. She's just ... moving a few things over to her Mom's place for a few weeks."
Wilson blinked and shook his head. "Right. All of her favorite things. Her favorite books, her favorite music, her favorite art work. You're all about observing the patient and ignoring what they say. Well take a look around when you get home. Stacy's moving out, one piece at a time, and you're just watching it happen.
"There's nothing happening," House pushed himself up from the couch and onto his feet. He walked over to the window and looked out at the gray sky. "And even if there was, what exactly am I supposed to do about it, lock her in her room?"
Wilson shook his head. "How about you start by talking to her. Maybe tell her you love her and ask her to stay."
House pivoted toward Wilson. "What, you get these talking points from one of those marriage counselors you saw sometime before the last two divorces? That worked out really well for you, didn't it."
Wilson fought the urge to say anything for a moment, and instead watched House as he began to pace the few steps between the couch, the desk and the window. He was moving stiffly, leaning a little more on the cane than he had been a few days earlier.
"Save your psychobabble for Julie," House said. "Stacy's not going anywhere. I know her better than you ever will."
"Maybe you do," Wilson said. "Maybe you're right. But you're gambling a hell of a lot more here than I think you realize."
"Gambling is what I do best," House said.
The telephone rang before Wilson could say anything else. He let it ring a second time before he picked it up.
"Dr. Wilson, Mr. Rudolf is here to see you," the department assistant informed him.
"Thanks. I'll be right out." He hung up and looked up at House.
"Time's up," House said. "And I've been enjoying this little heart-to-heart oh so much."
Wilson stood and nodded toward the door. "Come on," he said. "Go to therapy like a good boy, and I'll see about picking you up some ice cream on the way home."
House sighed heavily, and followed Wilson to the door. "Fine. I'll get lost for a couple of hours, but no matter how much you beg, I won't tell you where I've been."
Wilson opened the door and waited while House walked out. "I'll see you after PT," he said. He watched House make his way through the outer office, then nodded to his patient. "Mr. Rudolf, come on in."
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House hadn't lied to Wilson. His leg did hurt -- well, it always hurt, but today it felt worse than normal. The last time he had gone to PT feeling like this the therapist had smiled and said something about how the pain was good.
"It lets you know your muscles are still alive and ready to go to work," she had said. "They're responding to the therapy. Listen to your pain."
House stepped into the elevator and considered the two parallel lines of buttons. He hit one on the bottom and headed toward the cafeteria.
The room was nearly deserted, just a few students and residents shoveling down a late lunch. He filled up a coffee cup and considered one of the last pieces of chocolate cake, but then he'd have to figure out how to carry both the cup and the plate. He could use a tray, but the trays were all back down at the start of the line.
"Anything else?" the cashier asked, and House shook his head.
He put down the cup so he could reach into his pocket for his wallet, and balanced himself carefully while he opened it and pulled out a ten dollar bill. He jammed the wallet and his change back into his pocket, then picked up the coffee again and made his way toward the tables.
He would have liked some sugar, but that would have meant another stop, manipulating the cane, the cup, the sugar packets, the stirrer and the lid. He decided he didn't want it that much.
He really didn't want to hang around the cafeteria either. Too public. But he was tired, and he just wanted to sit for a while. And he was so pissed -- at Stacy for dumping him off on Wilson again, at Wilson for lecturing him about useless crap, at himself for letting it all happen -- that he couldn't think of anyplace better to go.
Someone had tuned the TV in the corner of the room to the ABC soaps and he found a spot at an empty table. The volume was turned low and he had to strain to listen, the words from the TV hospital set and from the room around him blending into one.
"We're switching her over to Vancomycin," one person commented on his way past House's table.
"We've got an MRI set for tomorrow," said another.
"There's an infection," one of the TV doctors said. "We need to bring his fever down."
"He's ordered a lumbar puncture," came from a nearby table.
"I've scheduled surgery," was the TV.
"I just don't know if I love him anymore." House couldn't tell where that comment came from.
He took a sip of his coffee as it went into commercial.
House first saw "General Hospital" when he was in college and each afternoon the entire dorm seemed to crowd into the TV lounge to check in on Port Charles. He was in his first year of med school when Luke and Laura got married and even Elizabeth Taylor made an appearance on the soap.
He'd seen it off and on since then -- usually when he wandered into a patient's room -- occasionally catching the sight of familiar characters mixed in with new faces.
He had started watching it again last summer. This time he was the one stuck in a bed. He was surfing through the channels one afternoon when he saw Genie Francis' face again, still blonde, still short, still Laura.
He started watching "One Life to Live" a few weeks later, almost by accident when he had the TV tuned to Channel Seven, waiting for "GH."
"I don't know how you can watch that stuff," Stacy had said one afternoon soon after he'd returned home. "It's mindless drivel."
He had just shrugged. She didn't understand. Mindless drivel was exactly what he was after. It helped to pass the time, and he could just turn off his brain and float along with the story lines.
When he first got back home, he spent his days either doing rehab or recovering from rehab, mornings and afternoons zoned out on the bed or the couch.
Once he started feeling a little more normal, the empty days seemed almost like a luxury. He wasted away the hours watching movies, playing video games and reading. He devoured books, finishing novels in a day, textbooks in two. He caught up on old journals, marked up the articles that made sense, others that he wanted to check into further.
The novelty soon wore off.
Most days he woke up when Stacy's alarm went off at 6:30, and he lay there listening to her as she'd shower and get dressed, even as she tried so hard to be quiet. He could hear her footsteps as they moved across the floor, hear the door when she opened it to get the paper, hear the spoon clang against the side of the mug as she stirred her coffee, hear the water as she washed out her dishes, then finally the sound of the door as she closed it behind her on her way out an hour or so later.
On a good day, when his leg didn't beg for his attention, he could fall asleep again -- or at least doze off long enough to kill another 30 minutes or so.
Coffee and the paper might take up another 45 minutes. A shower took 15 to 20.
But from there the day stretched ahead of him, with nothing to do but think: think about how his leg felt today, think about what work they'd give him in therapy, about the way he'd screwed up at Hopkins, about how Weber had screwed him over, about how many cases he'd screwed up, about how he'd screwed up his own life by ignoring that voice in his head telling him something else was wrong, about how Stacy had screwed him over, about what he had left.
One day in the fall, he got up early in search of the Vicodin he'd left in the living room. He stood at the window and watched Stacy drive out of the garage and toward the hospital. There were neighbors on their way to the bus, kids pushing new scooters along the sidewalk on their way to school, their backpacks hanging loose from one shoulder.
Everyone was going someplace, and he was going nowhere.
Wilson showed up with some case notes a few days later. Paraneoplastic syndrome, he said, but the team was having a hard time finding the cause. He asked if House had the time to look over it with him.
"Right," House had said. "Nine oncologists on faculty, another six fellows, 12 residents and you bring it to me."
"Fresh eyes," Wilson said and handed him the file. "I was just hoping you could go over them with me. You're good at this."
House spent half of the night reading the reports and case history, barely acknowledging when Wilson left. He called Wilson's office five times the next day asking questions and suggesting further tests until they finally tracked down a soft tissue tumor hiding near the ankle, tough to spot in the mass of bones, nerves and connective tissues.
He slept solidly that night for the first time in weeks.
Wilson brought by another two oncology cases before the month was out. In November he answered the phone one day to hear the voice of his department head on the line, asking if he could bounce some ideas off of House.
"If you're not up to it, just say so," O'Neal said. "It's just that we were talking it over after grand rounds today and the best idea anyone came up with is that if House were here he would have called us all morons and figured it out within 20 minutes."
"As if I'd need 20 minutes," House said, and O'Neal chuckled.
Not long before Christmas Stacy asked if he and the therapists and doctors had discussed when he'd be ready to go back to work.
"What, are the neighbors complaining about the noise when you're gone? I'll make sure the strippers are quiet the next time I have a tea party," he had said.
As if Stacy had any say in what he'd do next, he thought to himself. But the fact was, he wasn't certain if he was ready, or when he would be.
He'd have to deal with patients again, idiots with idiotic questions, intent on wasting his time. The same idiots who had wasted his time since med school. At least the consults he'd done were worthwhile cases, not runny noses and hypochondriacs.
Dealing with them would also mean dealing with their stupid questions and making nice with "loved ones" who he was sure would be more curious about his leg than the diagnosis.
And even if he was ready to face patients, House wasn't completely sure he was ready to do it back at PPTH. Turn a corner and there was the ICU where he'd spent three days, or the nursing station he'd been able to see from his fourth floor room after the second surgery.
Head into the cafeteria and who knows who might see him: the orderly who had pushed his gurney, the med student who started his IV, the nurse who cleaned him up when the first pain meds they'd tried had left him vomiting up everything he'd eaten in the past 36 hours.
Turn around, and there was Cuddy.
Like now. House could hear her footsteps coming up behind him, the pace familiar from the hours he had been trapped in bed, and had learned to recognize the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor. He tried to concentrate on the television and hoped that Cuddy would pass him by.
No luck.
"House," she said. "I'm surprised to see you here."
"Cuddy," he said and glanced up at her. "I'm surprised you'd make the mistake of wearing a black bra with that white blouse. In a hurry this morning?"
He smiled when he saw Cuddy glance down at herself quickly before she stopped and shook her head.
"I hear you changed doctors again," she said. "Simpson's telling everyone that you couldn't handle taking advice from anyone but yourself."
"It'd be a whole lot easier if anyone else had any decent advice to give," House said. "Speaking of which, kill anymore of your patients lately?"
"Not since you checked out."
On the television, "One Life" came back on the screen, taking over from the commercial break. House turned away from Cuddy to watch the action.
"I thought you had PT today," Cuddy said.
"Shhh. We're not supposed to discuss patient information in common areas," House said and pointed to a nearby sign reminding the staff about confidentiality.
He shook his head as Cuddy pulled out a chair and sat at his table.
"I guess Stacy told you that Nelson decided to take a job back home in Nebraska," she said.
"Sure. Lets move on from patient confidentiality to personnel issues. Much better topic for the cafeteria," House said. He turned toward a table of interns and med students to his left. "Hey," he shouted. "Want to hear all about how Cuddy single-handedly ruined a guy's career?"
"Fine," Cuddy said and pushed her chair away from the table. "I just thought I'd let you know that when you come back to work, Nelson won't be here."
House shrugged and looked up at the TV again. "If," he said.
"When," Cuddy said and stood up. "I know you, House, and I know your ego won't let you stay away from all these cases for long -- because if you did, that might just mean that someone besides you is capable of solving them."
House turned back toward the TV as she smiled and walked away. He tried to watch a little longer, but overheard his name coming from the interns' table. He glanced over to see them all looking at him.
Forget it. He had the VCR recording the show anyway. He'd catch it once he got home.
He pushed himself up and grabbed his cane and the coffee and headed out the door.
He was thinking about where he could go when the elevator opened. Path of least resistance. He followed two other people into it.
He didn't pay any attention to which buttons had been pushed, just waited to see what would happen next.
Second floor -- two women got out and an orderly walked in pushing an empty wheelchair.
Third floor. The orderly left. Just as the doors started to close House saw a hand reach out to stop them. O'Neal stepped in, reading an open file, walking and reading like he always did.
House stepped back a little further, hoping O'Neal wouldn't notice him. No luck there either.
O'Neal glanced over at him as House's watch made contact with the metal handrail on the side of the elevator. "House," he said. "Good to see you. You're looking better."
House looked up at the numbers, willing the elevator to move faster. One of the nurses on the other side of the elevator was whispering something to the other two.
"Thanks," House said quietly. The elevator was moving too slowly. Now the nurses seemed to be looking his way.
O'Neal didn't seem to notice. Instead he tucked the file under his arm. "Say, do you have a minute to come by my office?" he asked. "I've got something I'd like to discuss with you."
The nurses were murmuring amongst themselves a little louder now, though House couldn't make out what exactly they were saying.
"Sure," House said. Anything that would get him away from the elevator quickly.
"Good." O'Neal smiled and hit the button for the fifth floor. He motioned for House to exit first, then walked with him down the hall and toward the ID department. House glanced up at the hallway clock. It was nearly 3 p.m. With luck most of the staff would be out seeing patients or running labs.
For the first time all day, luck was with him. Dreyfus was in her office, but on the phone. She blinked twice when House passed her door, but didn't have the opportunity to do anything more than give a halfhearted wave.
O'Neal grabbed his familiar stained mug from the desk when they walked into his office. "I was going to get some coffee. You need any more?" He motioned toward House's cup.
"Sure," House said and handed it over. "Two sugars." He settled himself in one of the empty chairs. Most of time he was in here, it was for a lecture about playing nice with the other faculty members or treating the patients with a little more respect.
This time O'Neal handed him the foam cup and then sat back in his own chair.
"It looks like you're getting around fairly well now," he said.
House just shrugged. O'Neal usually liked to start his little talks on neutral ground and House was waiting to see what the real topic would be.
The department head took a long sip of the coffee and leaned back. "You know I'm going to have to start putting some numbers together soon for the next fiscal year. I'm thinking it's time we have a serious talk about just what it's going to take to get you back in here," he said.
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Wilson kept the car idling until House entered the lobby before he pulled away. House knew Wilson had been waiting to make sure he could handle the heavy door, just as he always did. "One lousy time," he mumbled. Just once House had stumbled when a gust of wind hit at the same time he was handling the door. Now Wilson always waited, ready to leap into action like he was some kind of action hero.
The lobby was empty, as it always seemed to be whenever House came and went during the day. Everybody else was at work. The elevator door opened as soon as he hit the button, and he wondered briefly if anyone had used it since he had come down more than three hours earlier.
Upstairs and down the hall. House paused before the door, fished out his keys, then entered. He hung up his coat in the closet and shivered. It felt cold inside the empty rooms and he stopped at the thermostat to bump up the temperature before he walked back to the bedroom.
He hummed a little as he walked down the hall, trying to ignore the sound of his steps down the hallway, the thump of the cane, the soft shuffle of his right foot, the solid impact of his left foot. He pulled a sweatshirt from a drawer and put it on, and considered stretching out for a nap before Stacy got home -- whenever that would be.
He might not have many more opportunities for lazy afternoons if he took O'Neal up on the offer. Half days to start, the department head had said, see how it feels.
No regular caseload for now, and his own personal scut monkey to run errands for him for as long as he needed him. "Within reason," O'Neal had said.
House was sure he could come up with plenty of reasons to keep a med student running his feet off for the next several months.
Of course he could also think of plenty of reasons to turn O'Neal down. Give up the tenure and just consult. They would all have to come to him then, begging him to take their cases.
"And who, exactly, are 'they?'" he asked himself out loud.
A few friends? OK, Wilson then, throwing him a few odd cases out of charity and some misplaced sense of loyalty? A few desperate residents anxious for a sexy case that would win them acclaim? And what was he supposed to do with the rest of his time, go all J.D. Salinger?
Not too long ago, House would have headed out for a run to try and clear his mind, to give himself time to think. Not any more. He tapped his cane against the end of the bed once, twice, three times.
He went back into the living room and turned on the TV.
He rewound the tape and watched the end of "One Life to Live." "General Hospital" was next. It was heavy on the mob story line today, so he only half paid attention to it, instead scribbling away on the back of an old magazine, trying to work out the ideas flashing through his head.
"Tenure," he wrote on the left side. "No schedule" he wrote on the right. "Interesting cases," he wrote on the left. "Idiot patients," went on the right, followed by "idiot doctors." He considered the page. "Wilson," he wrote on the left. He thought about Stacy, and held his pen above the page, but wasn't certain which side her name should go onto.
Stacy. House looked out at the windows. The sun had set and what little light had been in the winter sky was gone. He saw his own reflection looking at him. Would she finally be happy once he went back to work? Would she even care? And why the hell should he care if she was happy? She did whatever she wanted to anyway, no matter what he said or did.
He shook his head and checked his watch as the videotape came to an end and automatically began to rewind itself. It was getting close to 7 o'clock. Stacy should have been home by now if she was planning on coming home at all. Maybe she'd just call again with some excuse about working late, about needing to head over to Somers Point.
House turned off the TV and listened to the familiar sounds of the neighborhood's nightly routine. He could hear a car horn honking and the sound of an idling truck outside. There was a familiar murmur of background noise coming from the condos around him as people made their way home from work.
He wondered if he should start dinner. He wondered when he should go back to work, if he was actually going to do it. He wondered if Stacy would bother to call if she wasn't going to be home for dinner. He wondered if she'd ask about PT.
Screw it. If she didn't care enough to call, then he wasn't about to care whether she'd eaten.
House looked around the room. Stacy's favorite afghan wasn't on her reading chair. He wondered if that had gone to her Mom's place as well. He wondered if Wilson was right. What if Stacy was leaving? Did he even care? Should he? She was the one who screwed up his life, so why was he the one who was supposed to do the begging to make her stay anyway?
He shook his head. Too much wondering. Too much thinking. Too much time.
He stood and headed toward the kitchen, still wondering what to eat. He opened the freezer and saw the bottle of Stoli Stacy had stashed there during the holidays. He grabbed the bottle and a glass from the cupboard.
He was only on his second glass when Stacy finally showed up. He found himself enjoying the slight buzz, the mild disconnect he was getting from his brain. Stacy breezed in, complaining about the cold. House looked up at her and noticed her ears had that bright pink tint to them they picked up when she drank red wine.
"I know, I know, I'm late. Did you get something to eat with James?"
House just shook his head, feeling the slightly muffled sensation from the alcohol in his bloodstream.
He picked up the glass. Stacy took it from him before he could take another drink.
"What are you drinking?" She took a sip herself, then slammed the glass down. "Greg, you know you're supposed to avoid alcohol. Am I going to have to be around you every minute just to keep you from doing something stupid?"
He could feel his stomach churn as he swallowed down his anger. He didn't feel like fighting tonight. He didn't feel like talking at all. He didn't even want to think. That's what the vodka was for.
"Oh, so it's going to be the silent treatment today. Am I supposed to just guess why it is you're pissed at me?"
House pushed himself up from the couch. He took the glass before Stacy could react and downed the rest of the vodka in a single gulp.
"Same reason," he said. "But it's not as if you listen to anything I say anyway." He pushed himself past her and across the room. He sat at the piano and put his hands on the keys. He tried to think of something to play that would quiet his brain. Anything. Something that would take his mind somewhere else, to some other time.
His fingers began moving, picking out the simple scales his mother had forced him to practice again and again on the small piano that had traveled with them from base to base, town to town. He could remember his father bitching if he tried to practice during the news and how he always checked the clock before he started -- at first to make sure it wouldn't interfere with Cronkite and later on to make sure he would.
"I'm not going to let you drown me out, Greg," Stacy said. House glanced up at her, but continued playing.
"You know, forget it," she said. "I'm tired of guessing what you're thinking, so for once why don't you just tell me -- what is it you expect me to do? You want me to wait you out a little longer? You need a little more time to adjust? Fine. I can handle that. But if this is all there's going to be ..."
House didn't need to look up to know she was crying. He slipped from the scales into Monk: all discord and drugged out rhythms.
"If this is all there's going to be," Stacy said again, "then I can't handle it. I don't want to live like this, Greg. I can't. I won't."
House stopped and put a hand on his cane. "But I'm supposed to live like this? Tell me, Stacy, how exactly am I supposed to live like this?" He threw the cane across the room. It landed on the hardwood and slid across the floor until it hit the wall. "You made me what I am, Stacy. You're the one who changed the rules, and now you expect me to just ignore it all? To be who I used to be?"
Stacy wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. "I can't go back in time and change things, Greg."
"Would you? If you could, would you change anything? Or would you still wait until the time was right for you to do exactly what you wanted?"
"No." Stacy's eyes were still filled with tears, but she looked him in the eye. "I'd still authorize the surgery, because I'd rather have you here, hating me, then lose you forever."
"Well then maybe its about time you figured out how to live with the choice you made," House said. He turned back to the piano. "That's what I have to do."
"So I guess we're still at that same question, Greg, and you always seem to think you're so good with answers, so tell me: How are we supposed to live with this?"
House didn't say anything, just started up the scales again. He heard Stacy walk out of the room and heard a door slam somewhere down the hallway.
He searched his memory again for a piece to play.
Something Russian, maybe.
Something dark.