Season Three- Stool
When House had walked into his office after recovering enough from his wounds to go back to work, the smell of carpet glue had slammed into him like a semi. He'd stumbled back, away from the offending stench, his stomach churning with sudden nausea.
Thank goodness the ducklings, Wilson, or Cuddy weren't around. If they were, they would pester him about what was wrong-which was something House didn't want to talk about. House clenched his teeth together, breathing deeply to try to stop the contents of his stomach from making a second appearance.
House stared at the closed glass door in his office for several silent moments, his brain thinking of ways that would keep him away from the room until the smell disappeared. Then, the office would be safe for him to enter. Until then, he had to convince Cuddy he really wanted his blood-stained carpet back, and in trying to 'convince' her to put it back, he would move his differentials to places that would directly, or indirectly, interfere with her day.
House smiled weakly, taking a deep breath, and holding it long enough to deposit his bag and jacket on the floor near the door before leaving once more, intending to go to Cuddy's office to complain about the carpet.
(LINE BREAK)
House stood outside his office, watching as the carpet man laid down the old, bloodstained carpet. House hadn't thought Cuddy would actually listen to him, despite his griping and meddling. Now, he had to figure out a way to avoid his office until the newly added carpet glue smell dissipated… again.
House sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Damn it, he really hadn't thought this through. Turning, he limped away from his stinking office, down the elevator, and out into the parking lot. He got into his car, recently modified to allow him to use hand controls instead of relying on his notoriously unreliable right leg to control the pedals. He hated using them, but his leg had cramped the night before, and he hadn't felt like risking the bike.
House got home, dumped his things unceremoniously on the floor, and collapsed onto his couch, stripping off his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the back of a nearby recliner. House forced the small resurgence of self-hate about the uncleanliness of the apartment into the back of his head. Things like sweeping and mopping he could usually manage, but standing still in one spot long enough to do the dishes or iron his shirts were practically impossibilities. Bending down and picking things off the floor was up there with ironing his shirts: possible, but the pain that would come from doing it would far outweigh any reward.
So, House put a pillow under his bad knee, hoping that the elevation would bring down the common swelling that built up over a normal day, and turned on the TV, hoping to catch something stupid so he could think. He chose some stupid reality show, and allowed himself a few minutes to wonder about how far the cumulative IQ of the United States had dropped before tuning out the show, and thinking about what had happened over the last few weeks.
The ketamine hadn't worked, despite his best efforts. House knew everyone thought him a failure, thought that he had simply given up so he could rely on Vicodin once more. They hadn't been there when he'd run himself to almost passing out, they hadn't been there when he'd almost killed himself using a stair climber. They hadn't seen the muscles spasm and weaken of their own violation again. They hadn't been there when he was jolted awake one night, the pain in his leg returning with such a vengeance that he'd curled into the fetal position, and hadn't slept for two days afterwards, slowly keeping time of the regression of the treatment.
House hadn't thought of Stacy, or his recent patients. He hadn't had the time to fully catalogue everything and deal with things on his own. Well, he'd had, but he hadn't used the time he had been given. Instead, he'd driven everything away, out of sight and out of mind. Boy, was he beginning to regret that decision now. His mind was brimming with unresolved love, hatred, curiosity, and disgust at all the things that had happened.
The tenant that lived above him dropped something heavy on the floor, producing a thump loud enough to jolt House from his thoughts. He glared up at the ceiling balefully, then sighed. He sighed, then leveraged himself into a sitting position. Squinting at his watch through bleary eyes told House that it was almost midnight. If he tried to go to bed now, it was possible that he could get actually get to sleep before three in the morning. No promises, but it was a possibility.
House levered himself to his feet, and limped into his bedroom. He leaned his cane against the nightstand, and stripped the day's rumpled clothing from his body. He had to sit down to remove his pants, shoes, and socks, but that was every day for him.
Collapsing on top of the blankets, House spent a long time staring at his ceiling before sleep finally overtook him.
(LINE BREAK)
House awoke to his leg held tight in the process of a spasm. It took all of House's self-control to stop himself from crying out in pain. His hands grasped at the tight muscle, trying to see if he could stop the contraction with touch. He knew he couldn't.
Looking over at his ancient electric clock, the bright red numbers told him that it was four in the morning. House growled, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Fumbling to find the Vicodin on the nightstand, he managed to find the pills and swallowed two dry.
He waited to make his next move until the pills kicked in. Once the pain had the edge taken off, House grabbed his cane, and limped into the living room. He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one go.
House looked around. What would get him away from the office for a few days? He'd accumulated enough vacation time that he could spend the next week at home and have some left over. House didn't even need a week; three days should dilute the smell enough that he could stand to be in the room again.
He couldn't fake sick. If he called in sick, everyone from Cameron to Wilson would practically break the door down and threaten to smother him in their kindness. That wouldn't do. Thinking of driving down to his parent's house made his stomach twist itself into knots. He didn't have any friends, and it was too late to try to sign up for any conferences.
House sat on his couch, tapping his cane rhythmically on the floor, his brain picking and discarding options left, right, and center. Then, his leg cramped. House hadn't been expecting that, and a groan escaped from his mouth.
House stared at his leg through the darkness. Already, he could feel his knee and foot swelling, and he hadn't even done anything. That was bad, meant that a bad pain day in general, or a sudden shift in weather, was imminent. Either would not be pleasant.
House turned on the TV, and switched to the little used weather channel. At the sight, he winced, rubbing the abused limb with his free hand. That would explain it: a sudden shift in weather that resulted in cold weather, massive amounts of rain, and an increase in air pressure. That would be why his leg was acting up already.
House suddenly realized his decision was made for him: his leg would be why he stayed away. It wouldn't be a lie, and it would be easy to fake if his leg did feel marginally better before three days. It would be easy to believe, and if he called Cuddy and the office now, it would be more believable than if he waited.
House picked up his phone, and dialed the PPTH number, and in a clipped voice, told the automated system that he wasn't coming in because of his leg. Then, he called Cuddy, got the answering machine and told her the same thing. As an afterthought, he called Wilson, still trying to rub some of the pain away. He told Wilson the same, with the difference that he demanded to be left alone. That done, House hung up, then took the phone from the cradle. That way, no calls except to his cell phone or pager. Those he could deal with at his own discretion.
House fell back against the couch cushions, trying to make his tense leg as comfortable as possible. It was an almost impossible task, House knew, but he could at least say he tried. House stared at the massive bookshelf looming in front of him, his gaze eventually drifting to the top of the shelves, where he hid his morphine stash.
House licked his lips, then glanced at the clock on the TV. Almost five in the morning. Making up his mind, House struggled to his feet, and limped across the semi-carpeted floor. He found the footstool, and using the cane and bookshelf as leverage, pulled himself up onto the steps so he could actually reach the box of supplies.
He was okay until he overbalanced. The stool fell to the left, and he fell to the right. He managed not to fall on the cane, and he didn't tip the bookcase over, but the box of supplies spilled its contents everywhere, one vial of morphine rolling under the couch.
House fell on his right side hard, and surprised himself when his legs didn't connect to the hard edges of the shelf or the stool. However, he felt the carpet rumple underneath of him, tearing from the force of the fall. Part trapped under the bookshelf, part curling up uncomfortably underneath his hip.
The smell reached him before he caught his breath. It was faint and stale, but the smell of carpet glue was something House knew well. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wriggle away from the offending stench. He didn't see or hear the heavy medical journal slide from the shelf, and he didn't even feel it smash him on the side of the head. One moment he was aware of the outside world, the next he was out.
Gregory House was on his hands and knees, breathing through his nose as little as possible. After several hours of replacing the entire carpet after one tiny spill, the smell of carpet glue had sunk into his clothes, hair, and brain. Greg knew he would probably dislike the smell for quite a while after this, but he also knew he had no choice: his father would be home soon to appraise the work Greg had done during his absence.
Using the staple gun, Greg secured the last of the carpet securely to the floor. Looking around, he felt a sort of pride. Now, he could do his own carpet work. Normally, the job would have required several men, but John House had insisted Greg do it alone.
The carpet fit the living room like a glove, and Greg had triple checked to make sure it lay flat against the floor. Surely, even his father couldn't find fault with this. It had been done well, even though Greg hadn't known the first thing about carpeting until a few days ago. John had showed him sternly, once, then helped Greg move the furniture out of the way. He had then taken his wife, Blythe, to a fellow soldier's house, and told Greg to be done under his breath before he came back.
That had sent Greg into a near frenzy of movement. Some pieces had been cut away for being too large, but overall, there was enough there that Blythe could make a welcome mat or some such thing when she came home.
The door opening brought Greg out of his reverie. He stood up, at military attention, "It's all done!"
"I can see that, Greg," His father said dryly, appraising his son's work with a critical eye, "But I don't think you've learned your lesson yet."
Greg's heart skipped a beat, hoping that his father wouldn't punish him as cruelly as he'd had in the past. The days of ice baths were long gone, Greg was too tall for that now, but that didn't mean that his father wouldn't do something else to him. Greg didn't let his father see his fear, though. That would mean an extra punishment.
John House picked up the bucket of carpet glue from the floor, then smiled, "I want you to put this on your fingers. Glue one hand into an open palm. I don't want you to be able to move your fingers separately. You will not get the glue off, and I will tell you when you can take it off. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" Greg took the bucket, and began applying a thick layer of glue to the fingers of his right hand. He held his hand rigidly until the glue dried, then allowed his fingers to relax. They were stuck together, for an indeterminate amount of time.
"There you go. Now, I want you to think about what you did. When I think the message has sunk in enough, I will tell you to remove the glue. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good. Now, not a word to your mother. She'll be home soon. Get something to eat now or you'll have no supper. I want you to stay in your room," With that last order, John House left, the door snapping shut behind him.
"House!"
House jerked awake, noting the pains and aches in his body had increased tenfold since this morning. For a brief moment, he wondered why he was on the floor, but then he remembered the fall. Looking over revealed the heavy book that had fallen on his head.
Looking up, House saw Wilson, face clouded in anger and concern.
"Don't you have bald kids to look after?" House croaked, trying to get his arms underneath him so he could sit up.
"I decided to check on you first, just to see if you'd changed your mind about coming into work. What the hell were you doing?"
House sat himself up, arms shaking a little with the strain, "Trying to get a book from the top shelf," House mumbled sarcastically. As if Wilson hadn't noticed the spilled contents of his morphine stash.
"House, why don't you keep your damn morphine somewhere a little easier to get to? You're going to kill yourself on that step stool!"
House bit his tongue. The real reason why he didn't keep it in an easier spot, was because he would weigh all his options before taking it. It was why he wasn't hooked on Vicodin and morphine. If morphine was readily available, House knew he would take it too much. Instead, House rolled his eyes, "The fuzz, obviously."
Wilson rolled his eyes, "Right. Did you hurt your leg? Can you stand?"
"No more than usual, and maybe," House grunted in reply. Grabbing the cane beside him and ignoring the proffered hand, House managed to get to his feet, swaying slightly, "See, dad? I'm fine. Leave me alone."
"You're not alright, House! You were willing to get morphine this morning, and almost killed yourself doing it!"
"I was fine until the book fell on me," House replied, "I'm fine now."
"Clearly you're perfectly fine," Wilson was talking with his body again. Not a good sign coupled with the large dose of sarcasm, "Nothing wrong at all here!"
"Yes, I'm fine. Go see to the sick people," House gestured to the door, "I called in, and I'm staying here. I pumpkin promise to be good, really!"
Wilson rolled his eyes, "House, this can't go on. One of these days, you really are going to kill yourself-"
House limped, his knee locked and unbending, heavily toward the door. He opened it, and gestured with his cane, "Go."
"Not until you tell me what's going on! What caused the leg pain?" Wilson crossed his arms over his chest, face stern.
House gestured to the open kitchen window, where the pounding rain could be seen, "Why do you think? My damn leg hates this weather almost as much as it hates the cold! I know you know I have enough vacation time, so leave!"
"Dammit, House!" Wilson growled, "It's very rarely just the weather. You've had a hard time of it recently-"
"Let it go, Wilson!"
"What do you tell your mother when she calls?" Wilson was caving, House could tell.
"Nothing," House replied steadily, trying to rid himself from the unpleasant reminder of his father's words, "I don't want her to worry."
"She's your mother, she always worries."
House could feel his leg begin to revolt again, "Wilson, please," It was very rarely House used those words, and it was understood that Wilson would do House's bidding.
Wilson looked at House with critical brown eyes, "House."
"Wilson," House copied in a mockery of Wilson's caring tone.
Wilson slumped, "I don't want you killing yourself."
"I won't Wilson, I'm too tired."
"That's reassuring."
"I'll have half a dose of morphine, then I'll crash in my bed and catch up on some missed sleep. If I wake up, I'll even eat a balanced meal of takeout. That a good enough answer?"
"I'll call you after work," Wilson relented, "And you better answer. If you don't, I'll come with the cavalry."
"I promise," House replied quietly.
Then, Wilson was gone. House shut the door, and leaned against the door. He very nearly slid down to the floor, but he stopped himself to limp toward the couch. From there, he could reach the morphine supplies on the floor. He did, and almost injected himself with a full dose before remembering his promise.
House injected himself with half of what was in the syringe. From there, he limped back to bed, and fell into it. Before he fell asleep, he made sure his ringtone was at full volume, and the phone was plugged in and charging. Hopefully the phone would wake him up from the morphine induced sleep if he didn't wake up before then.
With that done, House fell asleep.
(LINE BREAK)
Author's Note: There we go, another one shot finished! I'm very happy with how this turned out.
Anyway, still hoping to hear some suggestions. I liked hearing from the people that reviewed, so thank you guys. I'm open to hearing from you guys by PM or review, so if you feel up to it, go for it!