Chapter 40

"Playin' With Sticks Does Not a Fire Make"

By the time Lisa Cuddy got to House's place after work that Friday, she was able to let herself in using her own key, which Greg had given her the day before. He'd been feeling pretty good with his bellyful of macadamia pancakes, and was enjoying a few odd moments of benevolence. He went to his bureau in the bedroom, rummaged around and came up with the extra key. He'd pressed it into her hand while she nearly keeled over in astonishment, telling her in an offhand manner that he wanted to thank her in some tangible way for everything she had done for him.

I kind of expected her to say something like: "Who are you, and what did you do with Dr. House?"

Lisa wasn't the only one to nearly die of surprise. I was quite willing to join her, and might have made some sentimental remark, had not Greg beseeched me with those puppy dog eyes in a silent plea not to make a Broadway Production of it.

So, on Friday, Cuddy was surprised again when she came in to find her eccentric patient lying quietly on the couch, intently perusing a medical journal. He had showered. His scruff was trimmed. He had shaved and dressed himself in jeans, running shoes and a decent shirt. I guess she expected to see him perched somewhere on top of one of the bookcases, painting the ceiling. When he simply glanced up at her grand entrance, he nodded seriously and politely and returned to his article. I think it was then that the alarms started going off in her head.

"What'd you do?" She asked him suspiciously.

He looked up quickly and caught my eye where I stood sentinel in the kitchen doorway. He glanced back at Cuddy and sighed in resignation. "How was I s'posed to know when he said 'take a nap', I was supposed to go to sleep? He should have been more exact."

Cuddy lowered herself onto a chair with a quick glance in my direction, and breathed deeply a couple of times. She smiled sweetly at House, and then asked him: "So … how did you translate it?"

"The only logical way, of course," he replied, and butter would not have melted in his mouth. "I figured he meant I was just supposed to entertain myself quietly for awhile. So I did. If I knew my post on the 'Life With Your Chihuahua' Board could be traced back to his laptop, I wouldn't've … uh … proposed the idea that offing dear little Toto would be a cool alternative. Guess they thought I was getting' ready to take me … and the dog out too."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open. "You threatened suicide on a public forum? On the Internet? Posing as James Wilson, M. D.?"

I thought her face would crack.

I watched Greg's dimples begin to deepen as he tried to suppress a grin. "Y'know, I think those weirdos were more upset about the dog biting the big one than me! But Wilson was really good when the cops showed up … convinced them that some idiot got unauthorized access to his laptop."

"Yeah …" Cuddy was shaking her head. "Sometimes the truth can be a hard sell. And how did Wilson make the nice officers go away?"

"Not real sure about that. Took awhile to get rid of 'em. It involved a hell of a lot of pointing over here at me … some whispering … and laughing."

"And then?" Her aura of patience was becoming a bit forced.

"Oh … they tore up their little Baker Act forms with his name all over 'em … and they told Wilson he needed to do a better job of supervising his kid … and they laughed some more. Except Wilson! If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was crying. Then they left."

"And Wilson? After they tore up the commitment papers, and you made Daddy cry, and the big, bad men went away, what did he do next?" Cuddy was probably picturing him curled up under the bed muttering gibberish, playing with tiny sharp objects … and whimpering!

"He got a little pissy with me. Can you believe that? He pointed to the couch and said 'COUCH! NOW! DON'T MOVE!' He's been hiding in the kitchen ever since. Figured I'd better do as he says, or he'd off the stinkin' pup … or something."

Cuddy looked across at me and rolled her eyes. She looked as though she'd like to smack the grin off his face. She stood and pointed a stern finger under his nose. "Don't. Move!"

I was back in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for a platter when she came out through the door. I didn't turn around. "House … I'm a doctor and I know right where the jugular is. You won't suffer. Much! If you don't get back on that couch right now, I'll arrange it so you'll never go near a computer again!"

"Relax, it's me," Cuddy said as she walked up behind me. "Hard day?" There was amused teasing in her voice.

"You don't know the half of it. I should have let them drag me away to a padded room, and make that …" I pointed to Greg in the other room … "a ward of the state!"

I offered her a tired smile. "Only bright thing is … I could have sworn he would have had leg trauma after leg trauma all day. But he hasn't had a twinge. His appetite's good, and no fever. Looks like he might actually be improving … if I don't kill 'im first!"

She smiled and stole a carrot off the plate I was working on. "Yeah … death might mess with the improvement curve a little, not that I'd blame you. Need any help getting ready for the game? What time is Dr. Dickinson supposed to get here?"

I handed her two bags of chips and a couple of large bowls from the cabinet. "Dump these in the bowls, will you? Dick should be here anytime now."

Cuddy took over while I went in to make certain the poker table was set up, the cards and chips were out, and everything was ready. I ignored House's apologetic looks, but warned him on no uncertain terms: "You'd do well to remember some things. You're still trapped here with me for at least a couple more weeks. GameBoys and DVDs and laptops can be made to disappear very easily."

I fixed him with my best glare. "And remotes fit very easily into the garbage disposal. They make a really cool sound as they die. You taught me that one. At my house! With my remote."

"Didja know the AMA is recommending federal regulation of the salt in processed foods?" He came back at me indignantly, eyes still fixed on the journal in his lap. "How's that for Big Brother?"

"House …" And my next threat was cut off by a knock at the door.

I opened it. "Hi, Dick. Glad you could make it." I called Cuddy out of the kitchen and introduced them. "Dick, this is Lisa Cuddy." Dick offered her his left hand, and they gripped each other's fingers warmly. They seemed to like each other right away.

I glanced over to the couch, where an exaggerated round of coughs and throat clearing increased steadily in volume. "And that … " I said dryly, "would be House!"

My sarcastic friend-cum-patient grinned widely, and I held my breath. "Well, if it isn't the Incred …"

"Now where did I write down that top secret cable code?" I wondered loudly.

"Good evening, Dr. Dickinson. Nice to meet you. Forgive me for not getting up, but Daddy grounded me to the couch until further notice. No sense of humor, I'm afraid." His formality was a direct jab at me as he smiled charmingly at Dickinson.

I ignored the challenge. "Okay, House … restriction's lifted for now. You can move over to the table."

We watched him grab his cane and stand up with energy and enthusiasm. "C'mon everyone … Wilson's been begging me for months to take his money off his hands, and I plan to oblige him tonight."

"At least when I lose it, I know it's gone," I retorted. "That would be different from when I loan it to you, and I'm forced to suffer under the delusion that I might someday see it again." I snarked back at him with equal enthusiasm.

Dick looked at both of us a little funny. Lisa shrugged.

"Delusion? That would be your area of expertise, wouldn't it Dick?" House asked heartily … and I noticed that his pronunciation of "Dick" was not without a little bit of unusual connotation. "Might wanna have a little chat with Jimmy about those delusions of his. They can get really tiresome."

Cuddy and I rolled our eyes. Dick and Greg smiled pleasantly at each other as we all moved to the table. It was gonna be a night!

For the first hour, things went very smoothly. House was charming, funny and manipulative, just as I'd expected him to be. Dick seemed taken with his wit and amused by his jokes.

House himself, was coming off incredibly well as the very picture of mental health. He was, by turns, self-deprecating and confident, serious and light-hearted, pensive and outspoken … and all at the appropriate times. Worse, Dick seemed to be buying into all of it. But he was saying very little, listening very closely, and watching every move.

When the sniping and laughter began to take a toll on House's lungs, and his breathing became shallow and rapid, Cuddy called a break for an aerosol treatment. House agreed immediately and our eyes widened. Dick remained contemplative, sitting quietly with his cards in his left hand, studying only the area in front of him, but I got the distinct impression that his nerve endings were on red alert, assessing everything he heard and sensed, and evaluating each moment.

When he laid his cards face down on the table to reach into his pocket and remove a small pill vial, we all saw House's eyes widen as Dick thumbed off the cap and dry-swallowed a Vicodin right there in front of us all. House, of course, had observed Dick's withered hand, but had said nothing. Things grew quiet for a moment.

House sat still, drawing on the nebulizer, watching Dick, who pretended not to notice. Cuddy and I went to the kitchen to ready the aerosols. "There's too much bluffing going on in this game," I told her quietly, "and none of it has to do with the card game. Time for Plan B."

Shortly after Greg finished his treatment and the game resumed, I mentioned that I was hungry and returned to the kitchen to "place a call to the deli to check on our order." I returned to the living room and made the announcement: "Deli's packed. Friday rush. Our order won't get here for at least another hour." I turned to Cuddy. "Let's just go out and buy what we want. We can make it up here."

She caught the clue. "Coming." She grabbed her purse and we were out the door with tiny apologies that both men recognized … hollow as a hot air balloon.

We slammed the door behind us.

Lisa and I hurried out to her car for the groceries she'd picked up on the way to Greg's, all a part of the contrived scheme to leave them alone together. We slammed the outer door on our way out, but we sneaked around like cat burglars when we brought everything inside. We tiptoed back to Greg's front door and took turns "listening at the keyhole."

House was narrating a long, loud litany of complaints about our departure being a huge ruse to get the two of them alone and trapped together in the same room. We had to admit he'd hit that one right on the nose.

Dick Dickinson's deep, quiet voice cut him off very effectively by refusing to speak in a loud or abrasive manner, and we figured House had to listen very closely in order to hear him. He wasn't the only one. We both had to bend low and press our ears to the door …

Dick was saying, "You know he's gone to very great lengths to help you."

There was a pause. Then: "Yeah, and I appreciate most of what he's done. What they've both done. All this stuff though, is completely unnecessary, as we both know."

Dick spoke again. There was a tone of light concern in his voice. "You seem a little tired, Dr. House. Would you like to move to the couch awhile?"

"What is it with you shrinks and couches, anyway? No thanks. I'm fine right here."

We heard the cards being shuffled loudly, and we knew it couldn't be Dick. House was using every stalling tactic in the book.

"I imagine that after all the trouble they've gone to in order to leave us alone, it would be a disservice were we not to discuss at least a little of the concerns of your diagnosis."

There was resentment in House's voice when he answered. "Yeah … well … James will just have to get over it. It's not my diagnosis anyway. As I recall, it's yours."

"Nope, not mine. The doctors who analyzed your test results were the ones who reached that conclusion. I simply concurred."

"Well, I read the transcript of the voice file, and it was you who planted the idea in Wilson's head." Greg's voice was starting to reveal a hint of tightly curtailed anger. I looked at Lisa, but she held a finger to her lips, and we knelt a little closer in order to hear more of the conversation.

Dick's concern seemed to be getting more stringent. "Leg bothering you, Doctor?"

"No!"

"It's okay, Dr. House. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Can I do anything to help?"

"You can leave me the-hell alone." The words are sharper, louder.

Things were beginning to happen. Dick was probably seeing the phenomenon of House's leg problem for himself. Cuddy and I hunched together in the hallway, hoping things would not come to blows. Neither of them could afford it.

After that, it got very quiet. Whatever had happened was probably over. Cuddy sneaked back to the outside door and slammed it dramatically. We retrieved the groceries from the floor of the entryway and proceeded loudly to Greg's front door.

When we walked in, his teeth were clenched and Dick was looking at him closely, like a bug under glass. House was pissed.

"Wanna help?" he hissed between his teeth as we walked inside with our load of grocery bags. "Keep your mouth shut!" He wrapped both hands as tightly as he could around his thigh, and looked up at us and smiled. "Hope you two had time for a steamy make-out session!" He said brightly. But it fell flat.

We made no comment, but continued to the kitchen with the food. This was still Dick's show. This was part of what he'd come here in hopes of witnessing.

I could hear Dick's stage whisper float into the kitchen as I stood with my back to the door. "At least let me tell them you're in pain. Please."

And the strident answer: "No!"

I peered over my shoulder and saw blood pop out on Greg's lip where he'd bitten through it, and blood on his fingertips where he'd reached up with the intention of wiping it away. He looked as though he might topple from the chair. I tensed, but did not move toward them. Lisa was unloading the grocery bags and could not see them there. I was hiding her view of the doorway.

Dick stood up to go to him just as Cuddy and I returned to the living room. House's face was ashen and Cuddy turned back to retrieve the morphine we had stashed in the lower part of the cupboard.

She moved quickly back to his side and knelt with her fingers around his wrist. Dick placed his good hand on House's shoulder and squeezed lightly. House, deep in pain, hardly realized they were there. I stood to the side, biting at my lip, stopping only as I remembered what Greg had done to his own by biting down too hard. I needed to straighten up and avoid becoming too emotionally involved. I wasn't needed in there. They had things under control. I returned to the kitchen and fumbled around with the packages of cold cuts and salads we had brought home.

When House was finally medicated and his pain treated, he might join the rest of us after all. Or he might not. It depended on Lisa's skills as a doctor.

I needed Greg's large stainless steel platter with the flowered engravings that he kept on the top shelf of the cupboard. His mother had given it to him one year, and the only time he ever used it was when she visited. The rest of the time, he kept it hidden out of sight. I grabbed the utility step stool and moved it in front of the row of drawers, climbed up onto the cabinet surface, and stretched to my limits to grasp the edge of the big platter.

My moccasin slipped in a smear of something on the counter. I tried to catch myself on the edge of the top shelf, to no avail. My balance fled immediately, and I went down like a dislodged boulder from the edge of a creek bed. In my panic to grab at something to stop my fall, I dislodged the platter from its perch, and it went end over end to land with a metallic crash on the floor. I hit every shelf with my elbows and arms on the way down, knocked over the step stool and landed on the kitchen floor on the middle of my back.

In the living room, it must have sounded like the proverbial bull in a China shop. Even Foley operators on a movie set couldn't have done it any better than that. It sounded like a roomful of glassware had been dumped out of a second story window onto a sidewalk.

The breath was knocked out of me, and the first sound out of my mouth was a heavy groan. I looked up to see three frightened faces hovering over me. The first one to drop by my side was House. House … whose leg had been going into spasm … and who should be knocked out with morphine right about now.

He tossed the cane and slammed down beside me on his knees. I was trying to kick the stool off me and sit up, but he pressed down hard on my shoulders and would not allow me to move. His face was a hard and twisted mask of fear. "Don't move!" He barked at me. He reached up to Cuddy and said sharply: "Penlight!" He kept one on the back of the counter and she thrust it into his hand like a scalpel.

He was pressing my head back again as I tried to get the leverage to sit up. My head hit the floor with a soft thud, because he would not allow me to attempt to do otherwise. "Don't!" He said. "Don't move your head!"

I stopped struggling and sighed in resignation. He wasn't going to give up until he'd finished making sure there was nothing serious wrong with me, and I knew enough not to try to tell him he was wasting his time. He was frightened for me, and trying to hide it, so I let him. I remained quiet while he asked a series of silly questions. But when he decided to stabilize my neck, I drew the line.

"House! I'm all right! I didn't hit my head … at least not until you hit it for me! And I didn't lose consciousness. Will you please let me up?"

He frowned, but removed his hands from my shoulders. He checked my pupils with the penlight and manipulated my neck yet again, then cautiously withdrew. "You were lucky," he grumbled.

He pulled himself upward with clumsy grace on the edge of the counter, while both Cuddy and Dickinson reached out their hands to assist me to my feet.

Greg was still staring at me, still not satisfied. He had that sad, worried look on his face that I'd always found so endearing. When he saw me smiling at him, he quickly sobered and pulled his normal scowl back over his features with effort. None of us must ever realize for a moment that he … cared!

"Will everyone just quit fussing please? I'm fine. Just feeling foolish." I smiled rather sheepishly and turned to Cuddy. "I was trying to reach the big platter. And I thought you were using the morphine because House was …" I stared at him, still standing there propped up by the counter. "Weren't you spasming?"

He looked down at his leg, and we watched him staring at it in puzzlement. "Medical instinct," he grumbled firmly. "Or adrenaline. Spasm must have been a false alarm." His last sentence seemed to hold a touch of desperation. He wiped his mouth again … and his fingers came back smeared with his own blood.

I stood slowly and straightened completely, reached out my hand and placed it on his rigid shoulder. He leaned into me for just a moment before he realized what he was doing and withdrew abruptly.

"Come on, people … you've still got money in your pockets. Until it's all in mine, this game isn't over!" He walked into the living room, leaving the rest of us looking at each other with sadness in our eyes.

Dick looked from one of us to the other. He pointed to Cuddy, then to me. Softly, he said: "One of you get that dose of morphine and keep it handy."

Before we could say anything else, Dick had turned on his heel, drew a smile of confidence across his face and followed House to the poker table.

His dark eyes met and held Greg's blue ones as Cuddy and I resumed our places.

"Your deal? Or mine?"

Oooo0oooO

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