A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-3-
Yes, he pushes the door open...but just a crack, giving himself one last chance to back out and call it a day.
Naw, silly, you've come this far...besides, for your olfactory pleasure, there's a new aroma available. Curiouser and curiouser...
He pokes his nose in, takes a whiff. The room reeks of orchids, dust and decay, which, from House's experience, is not the way a hospital room should smell. He thinks of funerals, Aunt Barb's head propped up in her casket, her mouth too red, her steel colored hair pulled back too tight, eyes open just a slit. I am watching you-ooo--ooo. He could clearly see the whites; the irises had rolled way far back into her head. The mortician did a shoddy job; even at twelve years old he knew things like that.
Ahh, but now there is another more familiar smell. This time it's a double dose of that cloying dime store cologne stink.
After two false starts, he steps inside, his anxiety merging with cautiousness as he pulls the door shut behind him. The culprit (or victim of a terribly misguided aromatic gift) is most likely the tall blond dude drifting from one side of the bed to the other. House can sense a cock-suredness about him; maybe it's the way his shoulders shift catlike as he moves, so cool, easy and assured. In his black blazer, silver gray shirt, skin tight black jeans and snakeskin boots, he could be a professional poker player or manager of a band the stature of say...U2 or the Rolling Stones.
The dude's attention is on the IV tube inserted in flatliner's thin arm and the wires flowing from the man's chest to the machine monitoring his vital signs. With great care, Dude's fingers light on each tube, each wire. He is gentle but there is something unsettling about his attentions. Beneath the calm House senses a skein of impatience, an edginess, as if the guy is waiting for something momentous to happen.
Very soon.
It almost seems that Dude is floating. But no, how ridiculous is that? It's obvious he's a graceful guy, but he does still have both feet on the ground. House is truly fascinated. There is a certain elegance to Dude's movements as he flows along, tilting his head this way and that. Brushing a proprietary finger from the flatliner's nasal canula down to the limp hand on the blanket, Dude's lips curl in contentment; he hums-Gershwin's Someone To Watch Over Me. But now, oh, wow, now, see? Now those boot heels have wings. Dude is really floating. He glides up and back, then hovers in low over the man
like an angel
and breathes something in his ear. And though flatliner is well out of it, he grins, babbles and moans his ecstatic response.
The part of House that lords over the tiny sane district of Gregland is urging him to get the hell out of this room. Yet...he really wants to stay. This is interesting, a lot more intriguing than some of the snore inducing cases he's had to plow through recently. He shuffles back a step, situating himself that much closer to the door. Just in case. Besides, scooting off would be like giving in, saying okay, you win. I'm nuts. Bring on the plastic cuffs, the ol' straitjacket. Take me away.
Dude drifts over the bed now, putting words to the Gershwin tune in a voice like Lennon meets Sinatra meets Elvis meets every damn pop singer who ever died and went to-
You know, this dude looks awfully familiar.
Sometimes the mind plays tricks.
House pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath, figuring if he doesn't pay too much attention to the strangeness, it might just kind of blend into the background. Besides, his thigh is in the process of gathering its arsenal of pain, preparing to protest this longer than usual wait for its Vicodin. He should go renew his scrip. But before he does it would be nice to get to the bottom of what is going on in here and perhaps gain some info on the flatliner at the same time.
And why are you so damn calm? The guy is floating. FLOATING!
He looks up, scowls at Dude, who is hovering close to the ceiling.
"Hey." House calls. "Dude."
"Won't you tell her please to put on some speed..." Dude croons.
"Yo, David Copperfield."
Dude's head whips round. His lips part, his brows shoot up . His surprised, delighted laughter is so infectious, House finds himself joining in. Well, hells bells, looks like you done good.
Those gold green eyes flash their pleasure. With a flick of his tail, Dude spins a one eighty and bows deeply to his guest.
Tail? Dude's got a tail? Oh, you are so done for.
"Ah, Dr. House, please forgive me for being so preoccupied." He eases himself to a soft landing, runs his hands through his hair, over the front of his blazer. "I'm sure you know what it's like to get so involved in your work you block everything else out."
Work?
Despite a sudden nagging sense of unease, House tries to think of a cracking response, something to really set the guy on his ear. But then something occurs to him, something that makes a hell of a lot of sense and puts everything right. With a great sense of relief, he sighs, shakes his head and chuckles. "Damn. You really had me going."
"Mmm?"
"I should have known. This is some kind of psych experiment. Cuddy probably needed a guinea pig and I volunteered." He places a finger against his chin. Thinks. "I would do something like that."
Dude cocks his head. "Oh, I believe you would." Those eyes sparkle with amusement.
"Yeah, she probably didn't want me to do it. But I'm a persistent bastard. I'm sure I insisted. And she caves for me all the time. Plus," He smiles a genuine smile, the scenario making a whole helluva lotta sense. "it's a brilliant way of getting out of clinic duty" House pauses, letting his revelation sink in. "I'm lying in a dimly lit room, wires attached to my temples, my chest, imagining I'm talking to you."
"I see." The tail flicks.
"The horrible smells, those are all part of it too."
"Yes?"
"You stink, by the way." Surprised to find himself out of breath, House shuts his eyes, waits for his composure to return. "You're stinking up the whole floor, the entire hospital..."
"Oh, well, if you don't like it, you can change it." Those green eyes darken to a muddy hazel. "If...it's a dream."
"It is...a dream."
Dude drifts closer. "If you say so."
House shivers, considers the distance to the door. All he needs to do is spin around, pull the handle and he's out. But...this is still so interesting.
If you say so. Dude's eyes appraise him, little gold flecks dancing, dancing.
"It's been happening all day. First the smell, then somehow I found myself on this floor when I meant to go...somewhere else."
"Oooh, cue the nightmare music."
House's eyes widen, his gaze holding steady. "Your lips don't move when you talk."
"Neither do yours." Dude throws House a quick salute and winks.
A nurse enters the room, moves between House and the dude. She checks flatliner's chart, the IV, the monitor, writes some stats on her clipboard, then leaves.
"She didn't see me...or you."
Dude shrugs. "No, she wouldn't see me, not today anyway. She will in about twenty seven years. But you? Maybe she was ignoring you. You're not exactly the nurses' favorite blue eyed boy."
House leans forward, putting pressure on his right leg, which, for some reason, hardly aches at all. "No. I know the difference between being ignored and not being seen. What I don't know is the why and how of what's going on."
"Sometimes," the dude replies slowly and with great care, "the mind plays tricks."
They stare at each other. Certain that at any moment he will awaken, wired up in that dimly lit room, House decides he might as well go for anything he can get.
"You do this to him?" He tilts his chin at flatliner. "And the three who died?"
"What do you think?"
"In this odd place I'm in, I'd say yes."
"Then you'd be right." Dude throws him a proud smile. But the pride is directed at House, not himself. "You're a very resourceful thinker."
"It's what I do."
"You're going to be a great help to me." Dude bites his lip, presses his palms together. "I am looking forward to it."
"I never said I'd help you with anything." Scratching his stubble, he winces. "Did I?"
"Of course not." Shaking his head, Dude waves his hands in a 'no, no, no' gesture. "I am sorry. I am getting way ahead of myself."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, you know me." Dude gave him a shy little pshaw grin. "We've met before."
Familiar...
"I wouldn't expect you to remember off the bat. But we'll get to the 'why and how', as you say, in good time."
This doesn't seem unreasonable. Oddly, nothing does. "So we have a history," House is pacing now, his right hand languidly twirling his cane.
"Indeed." Dude crosses his arms.
The attempt to remember pushes him up against a virtual brick wall. It also makes his head ache. House ceases his cane twirling, leans against the door and massages his temple. "You don't want me to know."
"To everything there is a season, so I've heard." Dude quirks a brow and smiles. We'll have lots of time to chat."
"And what am I supposed to call you?"
"Hey, you're an imaginative fellow. Why don't you pick a name? It couldn't be any worse than some of the colorful monikers I've been given."
"Gotta call you something." Narrowing his eyes, he tapped one finger against his lower lip, thinking, thinking.
"Dude's no good?"
House cocked his head.
"Hmm, picky, I see." Dude sighed. You might as well call me Mortimer. It's what you used last time."
"That name sucks," House told him. "I would never choose a name like that."
"You called me Mort."
Mort, Morte, Muerte.
Death.
Aaah, the light goes on.
Mort extends his hand. House stares at the pale fingers, the manicured nails, the slim gold chain that glimmers off the wrist. Despite another shiver, House clasps those fingers and is immediately filled with warmth and a powerful sense of well being.
"Woah." He sways and stumbles back from the intensity...from the beauty of the feeling. But Mort's grip is strong enough to steady him.
"How's your leg?"
House rubs his right thigh, waiting for the return of the twinge, the searing ache that would signal it was time for the Downing Of The Vicodin. But it doesn't come. Slowly, very slowly, he raises his head, his eyes wide, mouth agape. "What did you do?"
Mort throws him a wry grin. "I killed the pain. For a little while anyway. Gotta have some leverage to get what I want."
"What do you want?"
With a beatific grin, he releases House's hand, floats back toward the bed. "Go to your office, fix that squeaky chair, have a chat with Wilson-he's such a worrier. Tell him to calm down."
The warmth of Mort's grip burns into House's right palm like a brand. He holds the hand out in front of him, flexing the fingers, yearning to re-experience that extraordinary feeling-that nothing will ever be wrong or bad or painful again.
Now you really got trouble.
"You like that, huh?" Mort's voice is like deep blue velvet in his head. "That's just one of the perks. There are many more."
They stare at each other again but this time there is no challenge, only a thousand unanswered questions.
"Go. Do what you have to do. Then meet me back here. We'll talk some more."
House realizes he is gaping again. He closes his mouth, turns toward the door.
"Oh, don't forget."
House pauses in mid stride to look over his shoulder. His gaze lights on the WD40, which sits atop a table next to a water pitcher and cups. The yellow can seems somehow brighter than before. Glowing.
"Go fix that squeaky chair, Dr. House."
His heart pounding, House grabs the can and hurries out the door without looking back.
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Exiting Room 27 is a shocker-like being plunged deep into a tub of ice after spending an hour in a sauna. That eerie calm has abandoned him. Now he trembles, shakes as if in the throes of a fever dream. His left hand clutches his chest as he hitches his cane under his arm, his right hand is wrapped tightly around the yellow can. He careens down the corridor, mulling over the fact that is leg is just a leg now, not a burden to be hauled around, to be cursed at and fretted over.
But he soon slows his pace, realizing that eyes are on him, curious, probing eyes of his fellow health professionals. The place is teeming with the curious buggers. They know all about him and are well aware that he can't possibly be making this speedy trek down the hallway. Not with that mangled thigh. Pretty soon someone's going to start getting nosy...asking stuff. And there is no way in hell he's going to admit to what he saw or what he thought he saw.
He knows how to play the game. With some reluctance, he bows his head, switches the can to his left hand. He puts his weight on the cane, stands off to one side of the corridor, letting them all see that, yes, he is still the gimp they all know and dislike. No miraculous recovery here. No, sorry, there will be no articles published in the Journal of the American Medical Association about the Miraculous Healing at Plainsboro.
What he needs is a moment-to sort, to speculate, to stew before he has to do the difficult stuff , like face his team...and Wilson.
He pushes through the door to the stairwell; his even footfalls echo in the emptiness as he makes a beeline to the top step. After surveying his surroundings and listening hard to confirm he is alone, he settles himself on the first stair, placing his cane and the can of lubricant by his side. It is only then he allows himself to fall apart-a little bit. Clenching his fists against his eyes, he shudders, sobs.
Shut up! You're too loud. They're gonna hear you out there...
After one more torso shaking cry, he swallows, wipes his tears on his sleeves and stares at his sneakers.
What are you going to do, kiddo?
He needs a plan, a course of action. His palms press against his knees, fingers traveling up, lighting on his thigh that is still very much ruined but no longer, for some reason, a source of pain. He wishes he had his ball, his yoyo or hell, even his slinky to keep his hands busy, his thoughts rolling. Taking a look around, he finds nothing but the WD40 can and decides this will have to do. Passing it from one palm to the other, his mind eases into what it does best, turning unusual events over and over, allowing him to 'see' them, put them in some sort of warped perspective.
What to do? What to do?
First he will agree to let Foreman schedule an MRI, since there is undoubtedly some organic problem in his noggin causing those looney thoughts of Death ala Mort. He discards the psychological testing notion he had come up with earlier. Cuddy would never let a test like that go on for this long.
Maybe...
House presses the cool metal can against his forehead and closes his eyes. It's obvious that the same kind of black, foreign thing that ruined his leg has now taken residence in his brain, causing the visions and the phantom smells. The evil thingy could go by any number of names...
...Brain Stem Glioma...Pineal Astrocytic Tumor...
The thought of a brain tumor frightens him, sure, but not as much as it makes his stomach clench with anger. He just can't seem to get a break.
...Diffuse Astrocytoma...Anaplastic Astrocytoma...Glioblastoma...
He will then head to his office, pump the joints of his chair full of WD40. Later, for his own peace of mind, he will return to Room 27 just to prove to himself that there is no Death guy there waiting to gab with him and offer him 'perks'. He will then fill his scrip. And then he will go home.
Easy.
There is one more thing he is inclined to do before he sets off on his tasks. One very simple thing. He sets the WD40 next to his cane, reaches up for the handrail. Standing now, he gives a furtive glance over one shoulder, then the other.
No one's around. Go for it.
With a whoop, he bounds down the stairs to the first floor landing, then races back up again. Breathless from the effort and the undeniable pleasure of it, he does it again.
You're not supposed to be enjoying this.
His heart races, the blood thrums against his temples as he bends to squeeze his thigh. Nothing-no twinge, no shadow of pain, nothing to indicate that any sort of torment is on its way.
Somewhere, someone laughs. It's all in your mind, son.
And sometimes the mind plays tricks.