Pictures at an Exhibition

Chapter 5

"You knew about this." It was more a statement than a question. Of course she knew. House was furious and pacing agitatedly in front of Cuddy's desk, pausing only to glare at her. "How long? How fucking long?"

Cuddy was frozen behind her desk, understanding that if she spoke—actually answered him—it would set him off anew. In reality, she had only known for a day or two. She had noted to Wilson a slight change in House's mood: he seemed more relaxed; less intense. She had wrongly assumed that it had something to do with her (although she would never have said that to Wilson). "What the Hell do you think you're doing, Wilson?" she had asked him. "You have no idea what else he's taking besides the Vicodin. Anyway, you can't dose him against his wishes. It's not ethical."

Wilson had countered with a laugh and a comment about how little House cared about ethics. "I plan on telling him. As soon as I see that they're having an effect. Or not."

"Tell him, Wilson. Today. Or I will."

Cuddy knew that House had been more tired than usual; feeling not himself. He hadn't been able to quite put a label on it; and now he knew. And "pissed off" was too kind an adjective for how he was taking it. How could Wilson have been so stupid to not realize that House would put his own symptoms (or lack of them) together and figure it out.

"Wilson killed that girl--Lupe; not Foreman. Not me." House continued to pace punctuating dangerous silences with short rants. Cuddy wondered when –or if—he would eventually wear himself out.

House HAD figured it out on his own. His dying patient's observation that House was smiling while arguing with her about philosophy was the missing piece of the puzzle for him. The haziness he had felt; the sleepiness… House had felt distracted for nearly two weeks; his intensity draped in cotton batting and his thought process dulled by a sense of "que sera, sera," that was not part of his apparatus. He had felt "good" in a way, but in a way that made him uneasy; not himself. And now he knew.

"You've been 'happy,' " Wilson had argued.

"Hazy." House had countered. He had felt compelled to explain, although Wilson surely had not deserved the explanation, that nothing House used to control his pain (whatever its source) made him feel "hazy." "Why the hell do you think I've never considered anything stronger than Vicodin? I need to think. The way I need to think, or I'm useless..."

"You are not…"

"I need to control the pain. Enough to let me think without my whole existence being about just pain. Stronger meds; different meds—they might control the pain more effectively; anti depressants may make me feel 'good.' But they don't let me do my job. Don't fix what isn't broke, Wilson." But House knew his words wouldn't penetrate. Why would they, if they hadn't the last 150 times?

House had stilled his movements enough for Cuddy to approach without fear of being run-over. "House." She started simply, quietly: a hand on his elbow.

"Just so you know. I told the parents. My patient—it was an attempted suicide. It was against…"

"I heard." She had heard about House's breach: it was her job. One of the nurses had overheard him talking quietly to her, sitting on her bed; leaving her room—his eyes downcast and troubled. "You were right."

"I referred her to Silverman. The parents said they'll work through it. Take care of it." House's hollow laugh was tinged with bitterness and resignation.

"You don't think they will? Therapy, drugs will…"

"Yeah. Until the next time. It's not that simple and you know it." The roughness in his voice exposed a concern that went beyond his usual detached honesty. Cuddy nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words; remembered the despair in his eyes Christmas morning, only months earlier. He was pacing again.

"You'll get used to them." House glanced at her, confused. "The antidepressants. You do seem happier on them, maybe they can be adjusted…something. Try some other scrip." He stopped and wheeled, facing her. Frustration and defeat clouding his features. He glared at her a long moment before stalking out the door.

Fed up: it was a fair description, House thought, of just how he felt. He'd had it with people (or, more specifically, Cuddy and Wilson) trying to manipulate him, lie to him, betray him—all for "his own good." He wasn't a child in need of tough love; a teenager in need of reigning in. Wilson…well Wilson would always be Wilson. A Jiminy Cricket complex that would make Gepetto proud, but House was tiring of the act. Cuddy was a different story. Entirely. House could not even begin to articulate the disappointment he was feeling. He had thought…had believed…had felt. Felt for the first time in a long time…that maybe. But he was wrong; so very, very wrong.

House glanced at his watch as he entered his inner office. Realizing the time, he grabbed his backpack and headed off to Tony's Pub and Coffee Bar.

An hour and a half; three cups of mint tea (better than he expected—Nana tea, she had called it, reminding him, as he sipped it, tasting its familiarity, of the scent of it from a year spent in Egypt as an adolescent.) She was young, he had to admit. Too young. Younger than Cameron had been: a freshly minted fellow three years earlier—an nowhere as wise (which was saying a lot since "wise" was not an adjective he would use to describe Cameron—then or now). And Cameron was and is too young. In too many ways.

Honey would have been a great one-night stand, if House went in for that sort of thing. Which he didn't, although he would never quite admit that even to himself. "I'm on antidepressants; I don't like them—they make me feel hazy; I like drugs…" He kept trying to give her the reason to walk away from an impending disaster. But she wouldn't budge. She simply sat there—mindlessly grinning, telling him that his unique eyes were a sign of…something…he wasn't really listening that closely. He realized that he was going to have to be the one to bail; something he was not very good at—except with Cameron, who simply made it easy.

"Sorry, Honey, I just don't think you're quite right for the job." And, laying a $50 bill on the counter, he edged his way carefully to the door, his leg throbbing from sitting on the high stool for too long. He felt his age and his infirmity acutely as people moved aside to let him pass in the crowded college night-spot.

She was waiting for him, sitting on the stoop in front of his building. "You're going to get arrested for vagrancy, you know." House's ego had taken enough blows for one day. He reached into his jacket for his Vicodin, only to find an empty pill bottle. Great. He hadn't had any vicodin for hours and his leg felt on fire. He didn't need another lecture from Cuddy to add to his misery.

"House. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed…" House waited, saying nothing. Cuddy hadn't moved, still sitting on the step, effectively blocking his path.

"Excuse me, I'm not exactly able to leap over you, here," House spat out, impatiently tapping his cane on the pavement. Cuddy sighed, standing up to let him past, glowering at him briefly for his refusal to listen to her. She noticed his gait as he mounted the step with difficulty. He reached out with his left hand for the additional support of the doorpost, nearly toppling into it in the process. He was wobbly at best, and she briefly wondered if he was not a bit drunk. Or high. But Cuddy knew better.

Cuddy stayed close behind him: not hovering, but close enough to assist him as entered the building. House was silent as he unlocked the door to his apartment and entered, tossing his backpack into the corner before sagging, exhausted against the alcove wall. "Cuddy," he breathed. "On the nightstand in the bedroom…" Cuddy located the bedroom and retrieved the pill bottle, returning to him with two tablets and a glass of water.

House's anger at Cuddy dissipated as crouched beside him. "What can I do?" A simple request uttered as she sought and held his eyes. He shook his head slightly. There was nothing to be done; only to wait. She wanted to "do" something, slightly alarmed at his obvious distress. House's breathing steadied as the Vicodin began to work its magic. He continued kneading his right thigh, although somewhat less furiously. Cuddy sat on the floor to his left, taking his hand; allowing his to grip tightly hers as the spasms of pain subsided in his leg. He glanced sideways toward her, suddenly embarrassed.

Half an hour passed as they sat on his floor in silence. Finally he felt steady enough to stand and he walked to the sofa, leaving his cane on the floor by the door. Cuddy followed, sitting beside him, one leg tucked under her. She watched House manually lift his right leg to the coffee table, before settling himself back into the deep leather cushions. She simply waited. "This is what it's like, Cuddy. No guarantee that it won't happen in stands at Phillies Stadium on Sunday. You might be better off taking Wilson. Less hassle."

"What happened?" Cuddy ignored House's comment, refusing to indulge his wallowing.

"Stupid. Took my last Vicodin back at the hospital. Didn't have…I had a…I stopped for a drink at the pub. Forgot I was running on empty. I hate this." He sounded beaten down and tired.

"I know." Her voice was all compassion: a balm on his wounds. She wouldn't dare suggest that a wheelchair might be a sane option for the gargantuan ballpark; she knew his pride would never allow it. He glanced across the sofa towards her, understanding something about himself—about her—for the first time. "We'll manage; you're always a hassle, why should going to the Phillies Game be so different?"

House smiled, not the hazy anti-depressant fueled smile he'd seen reflected back at him in the co-ed's room that night, but something more genuine. They would manage. Somehow.